toward the garden. ‘Without the English we would not have had a garden.’
The man smelt of sweat and onion, the bushy eyebrows partly concealed his eyes, and his hands were large with swollen bluish purple veins. Even though he was confined to the wheelchair he emanated strength.
‘Guide?’
Jan Svensk chuckled but shook his head.
‘No, I am looking for a Swede. I am not interested in flowers.’
He considered offering some money for information, but the man beat him to it by telling him that there was a white man who had worked in the horticulture division for many years.
Jan Svensk took out his wallet and fished out several notes.
‘I don’t know his name,’ the man said.
He took no notice of the money.
‘But I do,’ Svensk said.
‘Are you a relative?’
‘No, not at all.’
He put the money in his hand.
‘Where can I find him?’
‘Go to the little nursery.’ He pointed in the right direction.
‘It is strange,’ the guide said. ‘I greeted that man when he came here the first time. I remember it so well, he did not look happy.’
‘When was this?’
‘Many years ago.’
‘Is he happier now?’
‘Are you going to make him unhappy?’
Jan Svensk smiled and assured the man he did not wish him ill.
‘His name is John.’
‘John?’
The guide grabbed at Svensk. ‘Don’t tell him that I …’
Jan Svensk was suddenly infuriated by the man in the wheelchair. He wanted to get away from his stinking breath, the overly intimate hands, and the professional greed that could not be concealed. He was prepared to betray a man for a couple of hundred rupees.
‘Goodbye,’ said Jan Svensk, and set off at a pace that he did not think the guide could match.
He found the nursery immediately and walked in after a moment of hesitation. Masses of potted plants were placed around both sides of a wide gravel path, shaded by large trees. Even though Svensk was not the least bit interested in plants he found it a convivial sight. There was something peaceful in the arrangements. People moved more calmly. Here there was nothing of the noise and stress of the street, quite the opposite. There was something static about it.
Perhaps it was the collection of everything green that was so refreshing, that caused everyone to move so slowly. A couple of men helped to load earthenware pots on a large cart. Between loads they paused and talked with each other, joking. A woman in a green sari spoke with a man who Svensk believed to be a staff member. He walked closer. They glanced briefly at him. The woman in green smiled.
He walked around for a couple of minutes, following the paths in the various areas, reading the signs, and to his astonishment he recognised many of the plants from his childhood home. No one addressed him or wanted to sell him anything. To him it was a moment of freedom and he temporarily forgot why he had come to the garden.
Sven-Arne Persson worked here, in this oasis in the middle of a clamouring metropolis? Well, why not, Jan Svensk thought. If one is interested in plants this must be a paradise. No rush and a calm, green colour that was soothing for the eyes, for the entire body.
After a couple of circles he walked over to a woman and asked for ‘John.’
‘You mean John Mailer? I thought I just saw him. Check with Lester,’ she said, and pointed to one of the men who was loading pots.
‘I mean the Swede.’
‘There is only one European here, and that is John. I did not know he was from Sweden. I thought he was English.’
The man with the pots – Lester – took on a stressed expression as Jan Svensk approached. He said something to his companion, who immediately left them alone. Svensk had the impression that Lester was preparing himself. He turned and looked back at the shop that lay at one end of the nursery. Svensk followed his gaze.
‘May I help you?’
‘I am looking for a mutual acquaintance: John.’
‘He is not here.’
Lester bent down and
The man smelt of sweat and onion, the bushy eyebrows partly concealed his eyes, and his hands were large with swollen bluish purple veins. Even though he was confined to the wheelchair he emanated strength.
‘Guide?’
Jan Svensk chuckled but shook his head.
‘No, I am looking for a Swede. I am not interested in flowers.’
He considered offering some money for information, but the man beat him to it by telling him that there was a white man who had worked in the horticulture division for many years.
Jan Svensk took out his wallet and fished out several notes.
‘I don’t know his name,’ the man said.
He took no notice of the money.
‘But I do,’ Svensk said.
‘Are you a relative?’
‘No, not at all.’
He put the money in his hand.
‘Where can I find him?’
‘Go to the little nursery.’ He pointed in the right direction.
‘It is strange,’ the guide said. ‘I greeted that man when he came here the first time. I remember it so well, he did not look happy.’
‘When was this?’
‘Many years ago.’
‘Is he happier now?’
‘Are you going to make him unhappy?’
Jan Svensk smiled and assured the man he did not wish him ill.
‘His name is John.’
‘John?’
The guide grabbed at Svensk. ‘Don’t tell him that I …’
Jan Svensk was suddenly infuriated by the man in the wheelchair. He wanted to get away from his stinking breath, the overly intimate hands, and the professional greed that could not be concealed. He was prepared to betray a man for a couple of hundred rupees.
‘Goodbye,’ said Jan Svensk, and set off at a pace that he did not think the guide could match.
He found the nursery immediately and walked in after a moment of hesitation. Masses of potted plants were placed around both sides of a wide gravel path, shaded by large trees. Even though Svensk was not the least bit interested in plants he found it a convivial sight. There was something peaceful in the arrangements. People moved more calmly. Here there was nothing of the noise and stress of the street, quite the opposite. There was something static about it.
Perhaps it was the collection of everything green that was so refreshing, that caused everyone to move so slowly. A couple of men helped to load earthenware pots on a large cart. Between loads they paused and talked with each other, joking. A woman in a green sari spoke with a man who Svensk believed to be a staff member. He walked closer. They glanced briefly at him. The woman in green smiled.
He walked around for a couple of minutes, following the paths in the various areas, reading the signs, and to his astonishment he recognised many of the plants from his childhood home. No one addressed him or wanted to sell him anything. To him it was a moment of freedom and he temporarily forgot why he had come to the garden.
Sven-Arne Persson worked here, in this oasis in the middle of a clamouring metropolis? Well, why not, Jan Svensk thought. If one is interested in plants this must be a paradise. No rush and a calm, green colour that was soothing for the eyes, for the entire body.
After a couple of circles he walked over to a woman and asked for ‘John.’
‘You mean John Mailer? I thought I just saw him. Check with Lester,’ she said, and pointed to one of the men who was loading pots.
‘I mean the Swede.’
‘There is only one European here, and that is John. I did not know he was from Sweden. I thought he was English.’
The man with the pots – Lester – took on a stressed expression as Jan Svensk approached. He said something to his companion, who immediately left them alone. Svensk had the impression that Lester was preparing himself. He turned and looked back at the shop that lay at one end of the nursery. Svensk followed his gaze.
‘May I help you?’
‘I am looking for a mutual acquaintance: John.’
‘He is not here.’
Lester bent down and
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