Hitman Anders and the Meaning of It All

Per Persson responded that up would be preferable. The conversation had not taken the turn he desired. Now he was hoping at least to keep what he already had.

And so he did. The boss had, however, been generous enough to make a suggestion: ‘Hell, move into the room behind the reception desk, and you won’t have to pay rent on the apartment you took over after your mom left.’

Well, Per Persson agreed that this was one way to save a little money. And since his salary was paid under the table, he could also try to get social-welfare and unemployment benefits on the side.

Thus it happened that the young receptionist became one with his work. He roomed and lived in his reception area. One year passed, two years passed, five years passed and, to all intents and purposes, things did not go better for the boy than they had for his dad and grandfather before him. And the blame lay squarely with his late grandfather. The old man had been a millionaire several times over. Now the third generation of his own flesh and blood was standing at a reception desk, welcoming foul-smelling hotel guests, who answered to names like Hitman Anders and other horrid things.

This very Hitman Anders happened to be one of the long-term residents of Sea Point Hotel. His real name was Johan Andersson, and he had spent his entire adult life inside. He had never had an easy time with words or expressions, but early on in life he had realized that you could be very convincing by walloping anyone who disagreed with you, or appeared to be considering doing so. And walloping them again if necessary.

In time, this sort of conversation led to young Johan ending up in bad company. His new acquaintances urged him to blend his already violent argumentation techniques with alcohol and pills, and with that he was more or less done for. The alcohol and pills brought him twelve years in prison at the age of twenty, after he was unable to explain how his axe had ended up in the back of the region’s leading distributor of amphetamines.

Eight years later, Hitman Anders was out again, and he celebrated his release with such fervour that he’d barely had time to sober up before he received fourteen more years on top of his previous eight. This time a shotgun had been involved. At close range. Right into the face of the person who had taken over from the guy with the axe in his back. An extraordinarily unpleasant sight for those who were called in to clean up.

In court, Hitman Anders maintained that he hadn’t meant to do it. He didn’t think he had, anyway. He didn’t remember very much of the incident. Which was pretty much like his next stay in jail, after he’d cut the throat of a third pill entrepreneur because said entrepreneur happened to accuse him of being in a bad mood. The man with the soon-to-be-cut throat had essentially been correct, but this was of no help to him.

At the age of fifty-six, Hitman Anders was free again. In contrast to the earlier times, this was not a question of a temporary visit to the outside: this time it was permanent. That was the plan. He just had to avoid alcohol. And pills. And everything and everyone who had anything to do with alcohol and pills.

Beer wasn’t so bad; it mostly made him happy. Or semi-happy. Or, at least, not crazy.

He had found his way to the Sea Point Hotel in the belief that the place still offered experiences of the sort one might have found lacking during a decade or three in prison. Once he’d got over his disappointment that this was not the case, he decided to check in instead. He needed somewhere to stay, after all, and just over two hundred kronor per night was nothing to argue about, especially given what arguing had often led to in the past.

Even before he collected his room key for the first time, Hitman Anders had managed to tell his life story to the receptionist who happened to land in his path. It included his childhood, even though the murderer didn’t think it had any bearing on what had followed. His early years had mostly involved his dad getting drunk after work in order to tolerate his job, and his mom doing the same in order to tolerate his dad. This led to his dad being unable to tolerate his mom, which he demonstrated by beating her up at regular intervals, usually while their son watched.

After hearing the whole story, the receptionist didn’t dare to do anything but welcome Hitman Anders with a handshake and an introduction. ‘Per Persson,’ he said.

‘Johan Andersson,’ said the murderer, promising to try to commit murder as little as possible in the future. Then he asked the receptionist whether he might have a pilsner to spare. After seventeen years without, it was no wonder his throat was a bit dry.

Per Persson had no intention of beginning his relationship with Hitman Anders by refusing him a beer. But as he poured it, he asked if Mr Andersson might consider keeping away from alcohol and pills.

‘That would probably lead to the least trouble,’ said Johan Andersson. ‘But listen, call me Hitman Anders. Everyone else does.’

CHAPTER 2 (#ua20fc219-b733-54d2-8ed0-ba3d24cec6ce)

It’s good to find happiness in little things. Such as the fact that months went by and Hitman Anders murdered neither the receptionist nor anyone else in the immediate vicinity of the hotel. And the fact that the boss allowed Per Persson to close the reception desk and take a few hours off every Sunday. As long as the weather – unlike most other things – was on his side, he took the chance to leave the premises. Not to kick up his heels: he never had enough money for that. Sitting still and thinking on a park bench, though, was always free.

That was where he was sitting, with the four ham sandwiches and bottle of raspberry cordial he’d brought with him, when he was unexpectedly addressed: ‘How are you, my son?’

Before him stood a woman not many years older than Per himself. She looked dirty and worn out, and a white clerical collar gleamed around her neck, though there was a grimy stain on it.

Per Persson had never put much effort into being religious, but a priest was a priest, and he thought she deserved just as much respect as the murderers, drug addicts and plain old trash he saw at work. Or maybe even more. ‘Thanks for asking,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’ve been better. Or maybe not, come to think of it. I suppose you could say my life is relatively not great.’

My goodness, he’d been too honest, he thought. Better put things right. ‘Though I don’t mean to burden the priest with my health and well-being. Just as long as I get something in my stomach I’ll be fine,’ he said, signalling the end of the conversation by opening the lid of his lunchbox.

The priest, however, did not register the signal. Instead she said she would certainly not be burdened by being of service – a lot or a little – if it would make his existence more tolerable. A personal prayer was the least she could do.

A prayer? Per Persson wondered what good the grimy priest thought a prayer might do. Did she think the heavens would rain money? Or bread and potatoes? Although … why not? He was loath to reject a person who only meant well. ‘Thank you, priest. If you think that a prayer directed toward Heaven might make it easier for me to live my life, I won’t put up any fuss.’

The priest smiled and made room for herself on the park bench next to the receptionist, who was enjoying his Sunday off. And then she began her work.

‘God, see your child … What’s your name, by the way?’

‘My name is Per,’ said Per Persson, wondering what God would do with that information.

‘God, see your child Per, see how he suffers …’

‘Well, I don’t know that I’m suffering, exactly.’

The priest lost her stride and said she might as well start again from the beginning, as the prayer would do most good if she wasn’t interrupted too much.

Per Persson apologized and promised to let her finish in peace and quiet.

‘Thanks,’ said the priest. ‘God, see your child, see how he feels that his life could be better, even if he’s not exactly suffering. Lord, give him security, teach him to love the world and the world shall love him. O Jesus, bear your cross by his side, thy kingdom come, and so on.’

And so on? Per Persson thought, but he dared not say a word.

‘God bless you, my son, with strength and vigour and … strength. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.’

Per Persson didn’t know how a personal prayer should sound, but what he’d just heard sounded like a rush job. He was about to speak up when the priest beat him to it: ‘Twenty kronor, please.’

Twenty kronor? For that?

‘I’m supposed to pay for the prayer?’ said Per Persson.

The priest nodded. Prayers were not something you just reeled off. They demanded concentration and devotion, they took strength – and even a priest, after all, had to live on this Earth as long as it was here, rather than in the Heaven she would eventually hang around in.

What Per Persson had just heard sounded neither devoted nor concentrated, and he was far from certain that Heaven awaited the priest when the time came.

‘Ten kronor, then?’ the priest tried.

Had she just lowered the price from not much to practically nothing? Per Persson looked at her more closely and saw something … else. Something pitiful? He made up his mind that she was a tragic case rather than a swindler. ‘Would you like a sandwich?’ he asked.

She lit up. ‘Oh, thank you. That would be lovely. God bless you!’

Per Persson said that, from a historical perspective, pretty much everything indicated that the Lord was too busy to bless him in particular. And that the prayer He had just received as nourishment was unlikely to change that.

The priest appeared to be about to respond, but the receptionist was quick to hand over his lunchbox. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Best fed, least said.’

‘God leads the humble in what is right and teaches the humble his way. Psalm Twenty-five,’ said the priest, her mouth full of sandwich.

‘What did I just say?’ said Per Persson.

She really was a priest. As she gobbled up the receptionist’s four ham sandwiches, she told him that she’d had her own congregation until the past Sunday, when she was interrupted in the middle of the sermon and asked by the president of the congregation council to step down from the pulpit, pack her belongings and leave.

Per Persson thought that was terrible. Was there no such thing as job security in the realm of the heavenly?

Certainly there was, but the president was of the opinion that he had grounds for his action. And it so happened that the entire congregation agreed with him. Incidentally, that included the priest herself. What was more, at least two of its members had thrown copies of the hymnal after her as she departed.

‘As one might guess, there is a longer version. Would you like to hear it? I must say, my life has not exactly been a bed of roses.’