The Swede by Robert Karjel

before, when Adderloy snorted at Reza: “Immortality—what’s your secret?”
    Reza had responded with a malevolent gaze. He hadn’t forgotten that Adderloy had called him an idiot.
    “That’s what you feel like,” said Vladislav, conciliatory, “when you’ve survived.”
    “You feel immortal too?”
    “Not immortal,” said Vladislav, and smiled his broadest white grin. “But strong.”
    “I am truly immortal,” said Reza then, and leaned forward. “Right now, I mean—you do not understand. That day, the wave.” He ran both hands through his hair. His lips were moist, his mindtuned to its inner images. “I went to bed late the night before. I fell asleep surrounded by relatives, thought I was sleeping in a city. It really was a city. There was a whole city around me when I fell asleep, but then when I woke up . . . My bed was in a room on the second floor, and I went to the window as I usually do.” He made a motion with his hand, as if he were in a vast, open field. He swallowed. “Everything was gone,” he whispered, “everything. Just me and the house left—nothing else, no one else. God forgot to count me in, I was overlooked.” He leaned back. “You understand?”
    “God?” said Mary. “You think it was God. That’s . . .” She went silent.
    “Immortal,” said Reza grimly.
    “How can you believe . . . God, so silly,” Mary went on.
    “Those hit by the tsunami, they died for our sins,” said Adderloy. “There are people who believe it.”
    Vladislav shook his head. He looked at Reza.
    “You’ve heard about them too,” continued Adderloy, raising his chin. “About the American church that celebrates what happened as God’s punishment. About their minister, Charles-Ray Turnbull.”
    He looked at N., recalling the night they’d talked about the minister and his followers. N. wasn’t drunk enough yet. The anger took his breath away. His hands trembled. He remembered the pictures: the bloated bodies, the smiling minister called “Beloved Father.” Thank God.
    Adderloy fiddled with his ring, shrugged. “Those struck down were sinners, as simple as that.” He tapped his cigarette, and the ashes fell in the sand. “That’s the price, some say, the price of freedom in a country”—he kept looking down at the sand—“where anyone can say anything.”
    “Is it really a church?” Vladislav wondered.
    Adderloy paid no attention. “You know they celebrated, right? They were especially happy about the children. They think that—”
    “Bastards, they deserve to die,” interrupted N.
    Reza hit his palm on the table. “An American church.” He spat something in his own language and continued: “No American church can come here and talk about my sins.”
    “Where’s that church?” It was N. who asked.
    “In Topeka,” replied Adderloy. “Topeka, Kansas.”
    “But aren’t you . . .” Vladislav looked puzzled.
    “Yeah, I’m from Topeka,” Mary said.
    Adderloy waited as glances went around the table, watching the glow of his cigarette.
    “Mary and I happened to be sitting at the same table one evening when people got started on the fanatics and the demonstrations. That’s when we made the connection.” Then he said to Mary: “Go on, tell them about Charles-Ray.”
    She said, her voice low, “Charles-Ray Turnbull is a hideous man. He often came to the hospital where I work, or worked.” She paused a moment. “He used to donate blood. I’m sure he still does. He needs the money.”
    “They deserve—” continued N., angry again.
    Adderloy looked up quickly at him. “Deserve what—deserve to be talked about?”
    N. shifted uneasily in his chair, as if he had hit on something.
    “And what if you actually decide to act?” continued Adderloy.
    Reza replied with a snort.
    “Decide what?” said Vladislav slowly.
    Mary listened with narrowed eyes.
    “They deserve to die,” repeated N.
    “To give them payback,” replied Adderloy. Vladislav measured him with his