Hitman Anders and the Meaning of It All (16 page)

S
weden's second and next-largest general criminal meeting was held in the cellar of one of the preferred pubs of the clientele mentioned below.

Seventeen men, no count or countess. On the agenda: getting rid of the noble couple. And this must be accomplished before they had time to harm a hair on Hitman Anders's head. This matter was approved by a vote of 17–0.

But who would make it happen, and how? This was the topic of discussion over beer after beer delivered from the floor above.

Among all the hoodlums there was one unofficial leader: the man who had been first to dare defy the countess during the last general meeting. After two large beers, the leader hoodlum recalled what everyone already knew: that Olofsson and Olofsson had burned down the Sea Point Hotel.

“What does that have to do with anything?” wondered Olofsson.

“Yeah,” said his brother.

Well, the leader hooligan reasoned that if the building hadn't burned down, Hitman Anders would still be there today, and then all they would have had to do was go over there and hide him from the count and the countess.

Olofsson protested, saying that up to now Hitman Anders had been hiding himself pretty well, even without their help, and, anyway, it wasn't the hitman's hiding that had started the whole mess with the
count in the first place but rather the opposite: he had stopped hiding. Instead, he had reappeared, accompanied by Jesus, and drawn attention to himself in the newspapers by saying that unfortunate stuff about what would follow if anything happened to him.

“If not for all of that, it's unlikely that the seventeen of us in this cellar would have gone to the hotel to have a chat with the hitman over a cup of tea, then politely asked him to move to some cabin in the mountains so nothing bad would happen to him,” said Olofsson.

“Right?” said his brother.

Olofsson's reasoning was far too convoluted for the rest of them to follow it much further than halfway. Thus, by a vote of 15—2, the brothers were tasked with snuffing out the count and the countess before the noble pair snuffed out the man who ought to have been snuffed out at the start, but whose flame it was now in everyone's best interest to keep as well lit as possible.

The hoodlums in the cellar weren't used to being in agreement when it came to money; it wasn't in their nature. It was even more surprising that the fifteen who weren't heading out into the field were able to agree that Olofsson and Olofsson's remuneration would consist of 400,000 kronor per nobleperson, plus a million more if they managed to get both of them at once.

Olofsson and Olofsson looked unhappy. But a million kronor was a million kronor, and that was what it would take for the brothers to get back on their financial feet again. At that moment, fifteen angry hoodlums were standing there staring at them, waiting for confirmation.

The brothers had two options: accept it . . .

Or accept it.

N
ow there was only an hour left before Hitman Anders's preaching debut. The priest went through their plan and strategy one last time. She wasn't sure how it would go. He seemed to be halfway teachable and contemplative, but the other half was only slightly more gifted than a croquet ball. Which half would take over in the pulpit was impossible to predict.

The church was filling up. Furthermore, a considerable flock was gathering at the screen outside, and newcomers were arriving in a steady stream. There were double snipers with telescopic sights in the bell tower, a guard at every possible entrance to the church, and the sole tolerably presentable half-gangster had been placed, in quiet protest, in a black suit alongside the electronic security monitoring station at the entrance. He had undergone a crash course in correct behavior, taught by the priest (for the sake of time, the crash course was of the speediest variety).

“Why is there a security check at the entrance to a church?” asked a visitor, who didn't want to be there but had been dragged along by his wife.

“For security reasons, my dear sir,” said the suit-clad man.

“Security reasons?” the visitor repeated cheekily.

The priest had decided that visitors would be separated from the truth, which was that the pastor and they themselves were under threat.

“Yes, security reasons, my dear sir,” said the suit-clad man again.

“Whose security, and which reasons?” the cheeky man persisted.

“Can't we just go inside, Tage?” said his mildly annoyed wife.

“I must confess that I agree with your lovely wife,” said the suit-clad man, who was inwardly longing to deck the bastard with his right fist, the one he was clenching very tightly in his jacket pocket. He just had to remember to let go of the hand grenade first.

“But there's something fishy about this, Greta,” said Tage, who had spent the entire day trying to make sure they prioritized the hockey finals on TV.

The line grew longer and longer behind the intractable man, and the suit-clad bodyguard could no longer manage to act suit-clad.

“If you don't understand the phrase ‘security reasons,' how will you understand what the pastor is about to say? Turn around, for Christ's sake, go home in your fucking Volvo to your fucking row house in your fucking suburb and sit down and rot on your fucking IKEA sofa, if you don't like the salvation we're offering.”

Fortunately, at that moment, the priest happened to walk by and heard the end of the dialogue that had gone so thoroughly in the wrong direction. “Forgive my intrusion,” she said. “My name is Johanna Kjellander, and I am the assistant pastor to God's perhaps second-most prominent messenger here on Earth. The security officer with whom you have just been confronted is part of Pastor Anders's beginners group and he hasn't yet made it past Genesis.”

“So?” said the cheeky man.

“Well, that book doesn't say much about how to conduct oneself, aside from not eating forbidden fruit, although both Adam and Eve did so after encouragement from a talking snake. One might think that sounds a bit peculiar, but the Lord can do just about anything.”

“A talking snake?” said the now more confused than cheeky man (who, in contrast to his wife, had never opened a Bible).

“Yes. He could listen as well, that snake, and Heavens, what a scolding that devil got from God. That's why he crawls around in the dirt to this day. The snake, that is, not God.”

“What is all this? What are you getting at, Pastor?” wondered the ever less cheeky but increasingly confused man.

What the priest was trying to get at, above all, was an off-balance cheeky man—and so far, so good. Now she appeared to be considering her words for a second or two before continuing, in a slightly quieter voice, to say that the power in Pastor Anders's words might know no bounds. Perhaps it was too much to hope that Jesus Christ himself would appear during the sermon, but in case it did happen, it would be just terrible if someone were to attack him. It was also conceivable, of course, that he would send one of his apostles, perhaps not Judas Iscariot as a first choice, but there
were
eleven more to choose from. The long and the short of it was that no one could be certain which powers the pastor might unleash, starting today. Hence the security arrangements.

“But we would never force anyone to meet the pastor. We would never force anyone to meet Jesus Christ or his apostles. Everything that is about to happen will probably end up in the newspaper tomorrow anyway, so you won't miss anything. Would you like me to show you out?”

No, the formerly cheeky man supposed he would not, and his wife
certainly
wouldn't. She gripped his arm firmly and said, “Come on, Tage, let's go inside before the seats fill up.”

Tage allowed himself to be led in, but he had the presence of mind to let the unpleasant security guard know that he and his wife had in fact been driving an Opel Corsa for the past two years.

Hitman Anders's task was to talk about generosity, generosity, and generosity. And on top of that, a dollop of Jesus and then some more generosity. Other catchphrases included this thing about how it was more blessed to give than to receive, that Heaven awaited he who emptied his wallet into the collection plate, and that this same Heaven could not be totally ruled out for he who opened his wallet
just a crack (in line with the principle that “every little bit helps”).

“And try to keep a lid on your Hallelujahs, Hosannas, and other things you don't understand,” said the priest.

But Hitman Anders was feeling nervous now that everything was coming to a head. If he were to keep a lid on everything he didn't quite understand, it was unlikely much would get said. He asked if an alternative might be to recite the scientific names of mushrooms, in case of emergency, because that might sound very religious to someone who wasn't totally in the know. And, as proof, he demonstrated: “
Cantharellus cibarius, Agaricus arvensis, Tuber magnatum . . .
in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.”

“What is he saying?” wondered the receptionist, who had just entered the room.

“I'm not sure, but I think he just worshipped the chanterelle, the horse mushroom, and possibly the truffle,” the priest said, then turned back to the hitman and forbade him to go anywhere near what he'd just said, much less anywhere near the toadstool, whatever that might be called.

“
Amanita muscaria
,”
Hitman Anders managed before he was interrupted.

The priest told him that this was no time to lose confidence (while simultaneously thinking that “toadstool” in Latin actually sounded better than a misplaced Hosanna). “Keep in mind that you're a national hero, the next Elvis,” she said, as she filled the communion vessel she had found the day before in an eighteenth-century cabinet, which might itself be worth more than the entire rest of the church.

The same cabinet, as it happened, also contained a box of wafers, which she guessed would taste rather dusty. The priest offered the body of Jesus to Hitman Anders to complement the wine, but the pastor, who was already in the process of emptying the vessel he'd just got his hands on, preferred a second round of blood instead. He had already hidden a bag of cinnamon rolls in the pulpit in case he should suddenly need some body during the sermon.

A
n unparalleled cheer and thunderous applause greeted Hitman Anders when he made his entrance. He waved to the right, he waved to the left, and he waved straight ahead. And then he waved again with both arms until the audience had calmed down a bit.

“Hallelujah!” was the first thing he said.

Another cheer went up.

“Hosanna!” Hitman Anders continued, at which point the priest, in the wings, whispered into the receptionist's ear that soon the toadstools would be all he had left.

But the pastor moved on to a different track: “Generosity, generosity, generosity!” he said.

“That's progress,” said the priest.

As two hired classes of students from Mälar Upper Secondary School dashed about with moneyboxes in and outside the church, Hitman Anders continued his sermon. “The blood and body of Christ!” he said, and applause broke out again.

“‘Body and blood' is the more formal order,” the priest whispered to her receptionist. “But to each his own.”

“As long as he doesn't take out the cinnamon rolls,” the receptionist responded.

Thus far, the pastor had not offered a word about his own story, about his new purpose in life. Thus far, he hadn't uttered a single
coherent sentence. But to the surprise of the priest and the receptionist, it seemed he didn't need to. They were treating Hitman Anders like he was . . . well, Elvis.

Presently he fished out a Post-it and placed it in front of himself. He had found something of extraordinary value during his Bible studies in the camper. “As Paul once wrote to Timothy: ‘No longer drink only water, but take a little wine for the sake of your stomach.'”

The receptionist smacked his forehead. The priest was mortified. What else did the fool have on his list?

This time the cheering was mixed with laughter and smiling. But the reactions still seemed affectionate. The atmosphere in the church was only improving.

The priest and the receptionist were standing behind a curtained area just to the left of the pulpit, and from there they were able to study the congregation without being seen. The young people from Mälar Upper Secondary School were rushing along the rows of pews. Almost all of the visitors had a coin to give, but didn't it look like . . . ?

“Is it my imagination,” said the receptionist to his priest, “or are those who are happiest also giving the most?”

The priest gazed out at the sea of people as Hitman Anders continued to speak with the aid of his very own notes: “Even the prophet Habakkuk set his sights on wine. Funny name, isn't it? Anyway, as it says in Scripture, ‘Drink thou also, and let thy foreskin be uncovered. The cup of the Lord's right hand shall be turned unto thee.'”

This quotation was taken completely out of context, but it had the effect of making the mood even more festive. And the priest could see that the receptionist was right. The moneyboxes weren't big enough, so some of the students were walking around with buckets, and someone had even put his entire wallet into one!

The priest seldom cursed. In this, she took after her father the parish priest. He used foul language very occasionally, and on those occasions it was always aimed at his daughter. Except on Sunday, in the hours leading up to church services. Then the parish priest would awaken, sit up in bed, stick his feet into the slippers his wife always
made sure to place in the perfect spot, realize that it was Sunday, and summarize the day even before it started: “Well, shit.”

So it's noteworthy that the priest said what she did when she saw five-hundred-krona bills and entire wallets vanishing into moneyboxes and buckets. She felt that what she was seeing was best summed up with a short and sweet “I'll be damned.” In her defense, she said it so quietly that she herself was the only one to hear it.

As the icing on the cake, Hitman Anders really pulled himself together during the remaining twenty minutes of his sermon. He thanked Jesus for allowing a wretched murderer to be reborn. He sent a greeting to his friend the Queen and thanked her for her support. And he tossed out another few quotes from his Post-it, but they were a bit more relevant this time: “‘God so loved the world that he gave his only son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.'” And then he repeated, backed by such tremendous applause that it was almost impossible to hear what he was saying: “Generosity, generosity, generosity. Hallelujah, Hosanna, and amen!”

Several of the visitors interpreted the unplanned “amen” to indicate that the pastor had finished (he himself didn't know whether he had or not), upon which they left the pews and rushed up to him. At least three hundred of the remaining congregation followed. Elvis is Elvis.

After that there were two and a half hours of autograph signing and people who wanted to capture a picture of themselves alongside Pastor Anders. Meanwhile, the priest and the receptionist gave the upper secondary students a hundred kronor each out of the collection and set to counting what was left over.

In one corner at the very back of the church stood a man who for once didn't have a rake in his hand (it would have set off the metal detector anyway).

“Thank you, Lord, for giving me the task of bringing order to this chaos,” said Börje Ekman.

The Lord did not respond.