The Little Old Lady Behaving Badly

by Catharina Ingelman-Sundberg

  That man didn’t seem to settle for the first chance, Anna-Greta thought, and she took an extra look at him. What sort of man was he? Men weren’t usually so fussy. Or was it because he wanted to eye Betty, who was always walking past the table on her way to the bar? Anna-Greta had seen him look up every time the full-figured waitress passed by and she and Christina looked at each other and shook their heads. Whatever did that woman have that all the guys seemed to go for?

  Blomberg hadn’t felt like asking either of the two ladies that he had iPad-chatted with so far, and then tentatively conversed with in the dating corner, to dinner. No, to be honest, he found the waitress more interesting. When she swept past with her tray and her rear end swinging like a ship in a storm, well, he found it hard to concentrate. He was only human, after all. But of course she probably wasn’t his type. He would like to be able to talk and discuss with his partner-to-be, exchange ideas and have fun with her. That was why this speed-dating thing was so exciting, as it also considered people’s inner qualities. In fact, it was really fun, and he loved it when the lamps flashed. He was particularly curious about the unknown person who had got all the lamps to flash. On Blomberg’s iPad, the questionnaire from place number three had turned up and that person had the weirdest of qualities. Well, to be truthful, it was the message under “Other” that had caught Blomberg’s attention. It said: Hello darling, I love you! So somebody had discovered him, somebody had understood his not entirely uncomplicated personality. Somebody, but who? Blomberg hardly dared look, but summoned up courage, raised his head and sought out place number three. There, in front of iPad number three, sat a fat fellow with checked trousers and a gray jacket and he stank of cologne. Blomberg looked around in confusion. There must have been a faulty connection somewhere. Disappointment washed over him and he went to the bar to console himself with a beer. With the glass of beer in his hand he looked around to find the IT manager at the restaurant. Now and then, a tall lady with a stick went up to the iPads and checked them. Could it be her? No, she looked more like Kungsholmen’s answer to Mary Poppins—but with a walking stick instead of an umbrella. But when she walked past, he addressed her.

  “That iPad over there, you know,” he started, and fidgeted with his beer glass. “Nice system you’ve got there, but I think there’s something wrong with my iPad. It worked all right to start with, but then—well, I didn’t exactly get a Marilyn Monroe, but him over there.” Blomberg nodded toward the fat man.

  “Oh my God!” exclaimed Anna-Greta and she gave such a horsey neigh that Blomberg dropped his glass which landed on the floor and broke.

  “And besides, he smells of cologne!” Blomberg complained, bending down to pick up the broken glass.

  “Ugh, so horrid. A real man should smell like a man!”

  “Ah, you think so?” said Blomberg, and he looked up with newly awakened interest. Of course, I don’t have any cologne, he was on the brink of saying, but he stopped himself at the last moment. Instead, he got up and held out two large bits of broken glass.

  “I’m so sorry, I’ve broken a glass, I shall, of course, immediately pay for it.”

  “A beer glass? Ah, that’s nothing. A miss in the Pississippi!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You can have another beer!” With large elk-size strides Anna-Greta made her way to the bar and filled a new beer glass which she gave to him. And before Blomberg had time to react she had ordered the bartender to sweep and mop the floor. Meanwhile she cleared the memory of his iPad.

  “So you are looking at the talent?” she wondered when everything was ready and she nodded in the direction of the dating table.

  “Talent? Well, I don’t know about that. How do you mean?” Blomberg immediately became uncertain.

  “Have you found a date?” Anna-Greta wondered and she gave him a flirty wink.

  “Er, hmm,” mumbled Blomberg. “Well, there was that faulty connection . . .”

  “Ah, don’t worry about that, it’s already fixed. No, I’m proud of that dating program. You know, I want every single person around that table to get a hit. A real love hit. With the iPad you find out the inner qualities and in the bar you can check out appearance and chemistry. Not bad, eh? All in one. And besides, you save time.”

  “Yes, indeed, it is modern.”

  “It took a while to write the program but in the end I put it together.”

  “Ah, so it’s you, I mean, you know all about computers?”

  Anna-Greta picked at the bun at her neck and looked very pleased with herself.

  “Oh yes, I do know a little, even though I missed your iPad. I didn’t want to give you a fat old fellow who smells of cologne—no, that was not the idea!” she giggled with her hand on his shoulder and a four-footed neigh of such a caliber that he almost dropped his glass again. Then he started laughing too and they carried on a long while until Anna-Great pushed her glasses up onto her forehead, dried her tears of laughter and said that it was time to get back to work.

  “Well, I wonder what went wrong with the iPad?” Blomberg pondered.

  “Somebody might have messed around with the system when I had my back turned,” she said.

  “Messed around?”

  “Yes, you must clear the memory between each user. Somebody might have locked the system by mistake. An old message might have remained in the memory.”

  “What a pity, it said: ‘I love you!’.”

  Anna-Greta angled her head to one side rather coquettishly.

  “Yes, we do need love, don’t we? But seeing how the lamps have lit up and flashed at your place, you are bound to receive more messages, just wait and see.”

  “Even the gold lamp lit up,” said Blomberg proudly and noticed to his chagrin that he was blushing. “But of course there aren’t so many available men in my age group, who are looking for mature ladies, I mean,” he smoothed over while realizing that he was really stretching the truth.

  “You don’t say? That’s nice. Most elderly gentlemen are only looking for young girls, those pin-ups, you know! But heaven knows how that will make them happier. And once they’ve got what they are after, they have no idea what they can talk about with the young lady. But our solution is better. Outer as well as inner qualities, all in one.” She threw a quick glance at the dating table where the lamps were flashing away.

  Oh goodness, what a language this lady had, Blomberg thought. But I love you! Well, of course a younger woman must have written that. And it had been meant for him. No doubt. A girl who was going all out. And she was certainly a real beauty. No, a younger woman wasn’t bad at all. But then again, the most important thing was what the woman was like as a person, of course. Blomberg looked down at his hands.

  “There are happy marriages where there is a great age difference,” he felt compelled to say.

  “Yes, indeed, if the man is rich, that’s true.”

  Blomberg was lost for words. He took a gulp of his beer and looked musingly at the stern lady. She knew what she was doing. But if old data could be left behind in the iPad, what would happen with his own questionnaire? He cleared his throat.

  “You do delete all the information as soon as somebody has left their place by the iPad? I mean, what happened with my iPad, that was a mistake, right?” he wondered.

  “Of course. People can be anonymous here. That will never happen again. Integrity is everything. Incidentally, what a nice tie you’re wearing. I love cats.” Anna-Greta leaned forward and stroked one of the portrayed cats with her index finger.

  “You do?”

  “Oh yes, I adore them! Cats are such delightful creatures! Cute and faithful but at the same time with a strong will of their own. Grrr!” said Anna-Greta and she made a playful clawing movement in the air.

  Blomberg couldn’t help but smile. She wasn’t the most beautiful creation on Mother Earth, that Mary Poppins. No, she was tall and straggly and with her hair in a bun, but in some way she was still attractive. She seemed to be full o
f joie de vivre and optimism and reminded him a little of his mother, one of those people who were secure in themselves and could take care of others. And her hair was well cared for and her eyes glowingly alert. She didn’t stink of creams and perfume either. He fidgeted with his beer glass and rocked slightly on the chair.

  “I have noticed that you have had a lot to do this evening. But perhaps you have time for a beer? By the way, I’m Ernst, Ernst Blomberg,” he said and he held out his hand.

  “Anna-Greta,” she replied and shook his hand so resolutely that it felt as if she was shaking water off a dishwashing brush.

  “And when it comes to computers, I might add, I’m good at them,” Blomberg went on. “If anything goes wrong, I’d be happy to help out.”

  Anna-Greta took a deep breath and looked as if she had been swept off her feet.

  39

  A WHITE MOTORBOAT WITH BLUE SPEED LINES CAME TEARING along Riddarfjärden firth, hardly slowed down at all along the Karlberg canal and then increased speed further when it reached Ulvsunda Lake. There weren’t many boats out at this time of the year and with the Evinrude 250 H.O. they could zoom along. Scarves fluttered and Kenta and the Weasel seemed for once to be very pleased with themselves.

  “Hang on!” shouted the Weasel as he took a wide swing out on the lake before slowing down and berthing at the newly built quay below Hornsberg. The Weasel threw out the anchor and Kenta climbed onto the quay with the rope, which he quickly tied to one of the bollards. Dusk was approaching and that suited them nicely. Without lanterns nobody would see them when they departed later in the evening. The Weasel climbed up onto the quay too and lit a cigarette. In silence they started to walk in the direction of the Silver Punk restaurant.

  “Do you want one?” The Weasel held out the cigarette pack, twisted it around and pointed at the text: “Look at this! Smoking kills. What the fuck do they think we’ll do now? Give up? Not fucking likely.”

  “Don’t smoke them all, we need them.”

  “Ah, it’ll be enough with one or two for the fenders.”

  “All right, then,” said Kenta, and he too took a Marlboro. He lit it from the Weasel’s cigarette and looked around. “But listen,” he said, pointing at the barge, “do we really have to go down into those weeds again? There’s a whole fucking jungle down there. And it’s fucking stupid, they can recognize us!”

  “But don’t you get it? We go there, get really sweet with the seniors and then everybody will think we’re all the best of friends. Then when the barge meets with an accident nobody will suspect us.”

  “But what if somebody is still on board? Fucking dangerous, could be arson.”

  “That’s why we must go around the whole boat. And they’ve got good food and speed dating. Shit, that’s popular! Check it out. Might be something for your pizzeria.”

  “Yeah, wow!” said Kenta and he brightened up. “Speed dating, we’ll snatch that.”

  “Uh, look at that line!” said the Weasel when they had come closer. He threw away his cigarette butt and coughed. “We’re not fucking standing there.”

  A long line with elderly gentlemen and dressed-up ladies with fancy hairdos was in the way. Kenta ditched his cigarette too, gave the Weasel a meaningful look and then they pushed past.

  “We are standing in a line here, can’t you see?” complained a gentleman with a cap.

  “Yeah, I hope you enjoy it,” replied the Weasel and with Kenta at his heels he pushed his way in through the entrance and went toward the bar.

  “Two strong beers!” he said. He kept his leather jacket on.

  “Nice place!” Kenta remarked, and he looked around.

  They observed the speed dating and smiled at the couple who sat in the dating corner.

  “Ah, isn’t that cute!” said Kenta.

  “I wonder if they’ve got what it takes—the fellows, I mean,” said the Weasel with a grin. “And the old dears.” He shut up when he caught sight of Martha. “Well, now, what have we got there? It’s that old lady with the waist bag. Time for some straight talking,” he said and he nodded in Martha’s direction. “That ancient bitch will have one last chance.”

  “Watch your balls man, danger ahoy!”

  The Weasel put down his beer and slid off the bar stool just as Martha was going past. He stood in her way.

  “We must have a talk!”

  “Oh, how nice. Would you like a beer?”

  “No, no, I fucking wouldn’t.” The Weasel sighed. Even though she fought, she was always so friendly.

  “A man without a beer is like a bank without money.” She held up two fingers in front of the bartender and waited until he had filled two beer glasses. Then she put them together with a bowl of nuts in front of the two men. The Weasel and Kenta exchanged a quick look.

  “Back to business. You wanted to talk about something?” she said and she smiled again.

  “Yeah, the barge, like. We want to buy it.”

  “The barge? Well, you don’t say! Regrettably, it is not for sale.”

  “Yeah, but we’ll pay good.”

  “Money isn’t everything, boys. Here at Silver Punk we want to make people nice and happy. Quality of life, you understand? That is much more important than money.”

  Quality of life? The Weasel and Kenta looked blankly at each other.

  “But you and your gang can take over a restaurant in the south of the city. Just as long as we get the barge,” the Weasel tempted her. He wanted to rid the area of these rebellious retirees, and had more than once regretted ever letting the walker gang in. He hadn’t in his wildest fantasy been able to imagine that they would gang up against him and he had seen the rent and the protection money as a guaranteed income. But had they paid? No! Time to get rid of them, no question about that.

  “South? But my good man, what is the point of that?” Martha shook her head.

  “A restaurant on firm land doesn’t sink, but, um, this barge isn’t safe. The hull is fucking ancient.”

  “But still you want to buy it?”

  Martha tried to be tough, but the underlying threat was very clear. The mafia gang wanted to be rid of them, perhaps even sink the barge. But this was where they were going to have their Vintage Village. Martha weighed things up. Brains had installed automatic pumps so they ought to be safe, but even so, if there was a power cut, things could go wrong. But she certainly wasn’t at all keen on obeying these petty gangsters. Somebody had to stand up to the mafia. Crooks, greedy companies and oppressors who didn’t pay taxes, the whole pack of them must meet with opposition.

  “Sorry, but we are not selling. You can try to rent out that restaurant in the south of the city to somebody else. I’m sure it will work out,” she said mildly and she pretended to be completely unaware of the setup.

  “Lady, a lot of things can happen to a barge,” the Weasel said again, in an irritated tone.

  “To a restaurant in the south of the city too,” Martha countered.

  “Ah, come on, this is fucking ridiculous!” The Weasel gave a scornful grin. “Right, there isn’t much of a choice.” He jabbed her beer glass so that it fell to the floor. “Now, my old dear, let’s do this nice and—”

  “Old dear! Nice! Aaaaghh!”

  The Weasel saw Martha’s notorious waist bag come flying, but didn’t have time to cover himself. His crotch felt on fire, and he keeled over. He dropped his glass, the beer splashed onto his fly and the glass rolled off under the bar stool. Kenta rushed forward to intervene, but then Martha stuck her foot out. Her left Ecco Saunter shoe, which had been rated with five stars on the Internet, stood firmly on the floor and he tripped, swirled around half a lap and collapsed.

  “You should be kind to old ladies!” Martha hissed and then turned on her heel (of soft rubber) with her waist bag in her hand, before walking off.

  “Fuck! Fuck!” groaned the Weasel.

  “Tweet, tweet,” could be heard from the loudspeakers in the ceiling because Brains, that same second, had turned on th
e background noise for the restaurant in an attempt to create a romantic mood. Betty particularly liked this little dicky bird, a blue tit at mating time—but the Weasel did not.

  “Shut the fuck up! Turn that fucking bird colony off!”

  “But look at those stains, wet your pants, did you?” said Kenta pointing at the Weasel’s fly.

  “Ah, just spilt some beer. That old bitch! That whole damned gang has got to go, now, right away!”

  The Weasel seethed and hissed as he limped off to the restroom, supporting himself on Kenta.

  “Are you quite sure?” Kenta wondered a while later after the Weasel had tidied himself up and they were on their way into the bar again. “I mean, perhaps we can talk some sense into them?”

  “If they’d sold us the barge, OK, but now . . . Time to do a reconnaissance. We’ll go over the barge now and then make a final check in the restaurant after they’ve closed. No bastard must still be on board.”

  THERE WAS A LOVELY SMELL OF WOK-FRIED VEGETABLES AND oriental spices and there was a great atmosphere inside the restaurant. Quite a few people from the dating corner had gone on to the dining room and were now flirting for all they were worth, while the service staff swept through the greenery with food and drink. The sound level was high and nobody seemed to notice the guys who moved slowly between the tables looking all around them.

  Kenta saw that many guests were in the sixty-five to eighty-five age range, but there were some younger ones there too. How on earth had the seniors managed that? He sighed and thought about his empty pizzeria and thought it was unfair. On the other hand, he couldn’t help but admit that this restaurant was nicely decorated. There were no straight lines, everything was softly rounded off and romantic and the forest path was bordered by cozy booths. It had that special quality, the right feeling and atmosphere.