The Hand that Trembles by Kjell Eriksson Page B

grabbed hold of a box, but it was a job for two – the boxes were too heavy – and so he immediately let go.
    ‘But you know him, this Swede?’
    Lester’s pained smile when he realised the uselessness in trying to appear otherwise occupied, and the fact that his eyes flitted to a spot somewhere next to Svensk, spoke clearly that Lester was a man who had a hard time telling lies.
    He scratched himself in the crotch and did not reply.
    ‘His real name isn’t John, you know that, don’t you? It is Sven-Arne.’
    Lester looked up, surprised.
    ‘He’s talked about me, hasn’t he? That a man would turn up and ask for him, say he was hiding out in Bangalore.’
    Svensk felt energised, enjoying the Indian man’s confusion and unease, and he knew that his offensive had had the intended effect.
    ‘He has asked you to be quiet, hasn’t he? You may be protecting a criminal. What do you really know of this Swede who goes by an assumed name?’
    ‘Are you a policeman?’
    ‘It doesn’t really matter who I am.’
    They stood quietly across from each other. Lester pretended to study a couple of small birds who were jumping around on the ground, and he was markedly disturbed. Jan Svensk also felt anxiety rise in his body – why was he putting pressure on this man? What did he have to do with Sven-Arne Persson? As far as he knew, he had not made himself guilty to anything criminal. Why then burst in like someone from the Gestapo and beset peaceful civilians?
    ‘He was my neighbour,’ Svensk said finally.
    Lester nodded absently but Svensk took it as encouragement.
    ‘I don’t wish to hurt him, but you have to understand that you get curious if you see a man who has been missing for twelve years. What do you know of his background?’
    ‘Nothing,’ Lester said softly.
    ‘Can we sit down somewhere?’
    Lester waved toward some recessed areas of the garden. Svensk started walking toward them without a word, came around a shrubby area, and sat down on a log. Lester followed and crouched down, two or three metres away. Svensk thought he glimpsed a smile before he resumed his expressionless face.
    ‘Why don’t you tell me where he is?’
    Lester stood up and walked over to a shed, the door of which was hanging from one hinge, reached in behind the door, turned his head and gave Svensk a look before he held out an axe.
    Svensk stood up. ‘What are you doing?’
    ‘I have a job to do,’ Lester said, and again sat down in a crouch. The axe rested against the ground, the handle against one knee.
    Svensk was struck by the scene. An image, a stereotype, and at the same time a vivid illustration of a worker of the third world, the axe an expression of underdevelopment but also of power. All at once, he became afraid.
    Lester’s inscrutable expression as he gazed at the Swede did not reveal anything directly threatening but nonetheless a feeling of danger hovered over the little clearing in front of the shed. Perhaps it was Lester’s blankness that was most alarming. It could conceal anything.
    Svensk looked around. A faint murmur of traffic could be heard, muted by a thin hedge and a high fence.
    ‘I could kill you,’ Lester said.
    ‘Why would you do that?’
    ‘You don’t know why.’
    ‘Will you let me guess?’
    Jan Svensk felt the sweat run down his back and under his arms. I should sit down again, he thought. The Indian nodded and it struck Svensk that he – as opposed to all other Indians – used the nod as an affirmative.
    ‘Our mutual friend is hiding something, and you may be guilty by association.’
    ‘That may be,’ Lester said, with an indifference in his voice that increasingly irritated Svensk.
    Lester picked up the axe and tested the sharpness of the blade against his thumb.
    ‘I know that John is an honest man, but are you? What do you want with him? What has he done to you?’
    ‘Nothing, as I said. But he is a friend of the family and it is understandable that I am curious.’
    He proceeded to