The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden

by Jonas Jonasson

  ‘Help, I’m dying,’ said the interpreter for a fourth time.

  ‘Soon I’m going to start wishing you were right,’ said Nombeko. ‘Instead of sniffling that you’re dying when you aren’t, look on the bright side – it was a scorpion and not a cobra. And now you know that in Africa you can’t just pee however and wherever you want and go unpunished. There are sanitary facilities everywhere. Where I’m from, they even come in rows.’

  The interpreter went quiet for a few seconds, shocked that the scorpion he was about to die from could have been a cobra that he definitely would have died from. Meanwhile the guide found a car and a chauffeur that could take the man to the hospital.

  The scorpion-afflicted man was placed in the back seat of a Land Rover, where he resumed his repetition of the path he expected his health to take. The chauffeur rolled his eyes and departed.

  This left the engineer and the Chinese man to stand there and look at each other.

  ‘How is this going to work?’ the engineer muttered in Afrikaans.

  ‘How is this going to work?’ the Chinese official muttered in his Wu Chinese dialect.

  ‘Might you be from Jiangsu, Mr Chinese Official?’ Nombeko said in the same dialect. ‘Possibly even from Jiangyan?’

  The Chinese official, who had been born and raised in Jiangyan in Jiangsu Province, couldn’t believe his ears.

  How could that cursed whatshername always be so incredibly irritating? thought Engineer Westhuizen. Now she was standing there speaking some totally useless language with the Chinese guest, and the engineer had no control over what was being said.

  ‘Excuse me, but what’s going on?’ he said.

  Nombeko explained that it just so happened that she and their guest spoke the same language, so it didn’t matter that the interpreter would soon be lying there whimpering in a hospital with a blue toe instead of doing his job. If the engineer would allow them to speak, of course. Or perhaps he would prefer that they sit in silence all day and night?

  No, the engineer would not. But he would ask whatshername to stick to interpreting and say nothing else. It would not be appropriate for her to make small talk with the Chinese official.

  Nombeko promised to do as little small-talking as possible. She just hoped that the engineer would understand if she happened to answer the Chinese official if he spoke to her. That was what the engineer himself had always said she should do. Furthermore, one might say that things had worked out for the best:

  ‘Now you can say whatever you want about advanced weapons technology, Engineer, and other things you don’t quite have a grasp on. Should you say the wrong thing – and we can’t rule that out, can we? – well, then I can just adjust it in translation.’

  Essentially, whatsername was right. And since she was utterly below him, he didn’t have to feel distaste. One does what one must to survive, thought the engineer. He felt that luck had increased his chances of making it through tonight’s dinner with the Chinese official and the president.

  ‘If you take care of this, I’ll see if I can’t order a new scrubbing brush for you after all,’ he said.

  The safari was a success: they had close encounters with all of the big five. In between, they had time for coffee and small talk. Nombeko took the opportunity to tell the Chinese official that President Botha would happen to run into them five hours later. The Chinese official thanked her for the information and promised to look as surprised as he could. Nombeko did not say that they would probably all be plenty surprised when the acting interpreter suddenly disappeared in the middle of dinner at the safari lodge. Then they could all sit there, staring at one another.

  Nombeko climbed down from the Land Rover to walk into the restaurant with the engineer. She was fully focused on her approaching escape. Could she go through the kitchen and out the back? Some time between the main course and dessert?

  Her thoughts were interrupted when the engineer stopped short and pointed at her.

  ‘What is that?’ he said.

  ‘That?’ said Nombeko. ‘That’s me. Whatever my name is.’

  ‘No, you idiot, what you’re wearing.’

  ‘It’s a jacket.’

  ‘And why are you wearing it?’

  ‘Because it’s mine. Have you had a bit too much brandy today, Engineer, if I may ask?’

  The engineer no longer had the energy to reprimand his cleaning woman.

  ‘My point, if you even have sense enough to listen, is that that jacket looks awful.’

  ‘This is the only jacket I have, Engineer.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. You can’t look like you come from a shanty-town when you’re about to meet our country’s president.’

  ‘Although, to be precise, I do,’ said Nombeko.

  ‘Take off that jacket at once and leave it in the car! And hurry. The president is waiting.’

  Nombeko realized that her planned escape had just been cancelled. The seam of her only jacket was full of diamonds, which she was to live on for the rest of her life – if circumstances allowed her to have one. Without them, fleeing South African injustice . . . no, she might as well stay where she was. Among presidents, Chinese officials, bombs, and engineers. Awaiting her fate.

  * * *

  Dinner began with Engineer Westhuizen explaining the day’s scorpion incident to his president; it was no big deal, he added, because the engineer had had the foresight to bring along one of the servants, who happened to speak the Chinese official’s language.

  A black South African woman who spoke Chinese? And wasn’t that the same person who had both served bubbly and discussed the tritium problem during the president’s most recent visit to Pelindaba? P. W. Botha decided not to investigate this any further; he already had enough of a headache. Instead he let himself be satisfied with the engineer’s word that the interpreter wasn’t a security risk for the very simple reason that she otherwise never left the facility.

  P. W. Botha took command of the dinner conversation, president that he was. He began by telling them about South Africa’s proud history. Interpreter Nombeko had resigned herself to the thought that her nine years of imprisonment would not end there. Thus, in the absence of any new, spontaneous ideas to the contrary, she interpreted word for word.

  The president went on to say more about South Africa’s proud history. Nombeko interpreted word for word.

  The president went on to say even more about South Africa’s proud history. At that point, Nombeko grew tired of giving the Chinese official more of something he could do without. Instead she turned to him and said, ‘If you would like, Mr Chinese Official, I can say even more of the president’s self-righteous nonsense. Otherwise I can tell you that what they’re getting at is that they are very good at building advanced weapons and that you Chinese ought to respect them for that reason.’

  ‘I thank you for your honesty, miss,’ said the Chinese official. ‘And you’re quite right that I don’t need to hear more about your country’s excellence. But please translate now and say that I’m grateful for this vivid account of your history.’

  The dinner continued. When the main course arrived, it was time for Engineer Westhuizen to say something about how gifted he was. What he came up with was a mishmash of technical lies that didn’t make any sense whatsoever. But Westhuizen got so entangled in what he was saying that even the president could no longer follow (the thing about the engineer’s luck was that it lasted all the way up until it ran out). The engineer’s muddled tale would have been difficult for Nombeko to translate, even if she had tried. Instead, she said, ‘I’m going to spare you the nonsense the engineer just spouted, Mr Chinese Official. Basically, it’s like this: they’ve figured out how to build nuclear weapons, and they’ve already completed several – despite the engineer. But I haven’t seen any Taiwanese sneaking around and I haven’t heard anyone say that they’re going to export any of the bombs. Might I recommend that you answer politely now, and then suggest that the interpreter be given some food? Be
cause I’m about to starve.’

  The Chinese messenger thought that Nombeko was absolutely charming. He gave a friendly smile and said that he was impressed by Mr Westhuizen’s knowledge, and that it demanded respect. Beyond that, he didn’t want to show disrespect for South African traditions, not at all, but in China it simply wasn’t right for someone to sit at a table without being served just like everyone else. The Chinese official said he was uncomfortable because the superb interpreter hadn’t had anything to eat, and he wondered if the president would allow the official to share some of his food with her.

  President Botha snapped his fingers and ordered a plate for the native. It wasn’t the end of the world if she got something in her stomach, as long as it made their guest happy. Moreover, the conversation seemed to be shaping up for the best; the Chinaman was looking pretty docile.

  By the time dinner was over, several things had happened:

  China knew that South Africa was a nuclear nation

  Nombeko would for ever have a friend in the secretary-general of Guizhou Province in China

  Engineer van der Westhuizen had survived yet another crisis, because . . .

  P. W. Botha was generally pleased with the way things had gone, because the president didn’t know any better. And last but not least:

  Twenty-five-year-old Nombeko Mayeki was still a prisoner at Pelindaba, but for the first time in her life she had been able to eat until she was completely full.

  CHAPTER 6

  On Holger and Holger and a broken heart

  Part of Ingmar’s plan had always been that Holger would be drilled in the spirit of republicanism from birth. On one wall of the nursery he put up side-by-side portraits of Charles de Gaulle and Franklin D. Roosevelt, without stopping to think about how neither of them could stand the other. On another wall he put up Finland’s Urho Kekkonen. The three gentlemen earned these places because they had been elected by the people. They were presidents.

  Ingmar shuddered at the dreadful idea that someone could be born into one day being the formal leader of an entire nation, not to mention the personal tragedy of having certain values drilled into one’s head from day one, without being able to defend oneself. That ought to be considered child abuse, he thought, and to be on the safe side he also put up former Argentinean president Juan Perón on the still-gestating Holger’s wall.

  One thing that concerned Ingmar, who was always getting ahead of himself, was that the law said that Holger must go to school. Of course the boy needed to learn to read and write, but in addition to that children were force-fed Christian knowledge, geography and other nonsense – things that only took time away from a true education, the important home education: that the king, possibly by democratic means, must be deposed and replaced by a representative elected by the people.

  ‘Possibly by democratic means?’ said Henrietta.

  ‘Don’t quibble now, my dear,’ Ingmar replied.

  At first, the logistics were made even more difficult when Holger came into the world not only once but twice in a matter of minutes. But as he had so often before, Ingmar managed to turn lemons into lemonade. He had an idea so revolutionary that he thought it through for forty seconds before making up his mind and presenting his decision to his wife.

  What he had figured out was that Holger and Holger could divide their time at school. Since the birth had happened at home, all they had to do was register the birth of one of them, whichever one they wanted, and keep the other one a secret. One fortunate fact of their situation was that Ingmar had yanked the telephone cord out of the wall, which meant that the midwife-slash-witness had never been summoned.

  Ingmar’s idea was for Holger One to go to school on Mondays, while Holger Two stayed at home to be drilled in republican knowledge by his father. On Tuesdays, the boys would switch, and they would keep going like this. The result was meant to be an adequate dose of general school-learning along with sufficient amounts of something that meant something.

  Henrietta hoped she had misheard. Did Ingmar mean that they should keep one of the boys a secret all his life? From the school? From the neighbours? From the world?

  ‘More or less.’ Ingmar nodded. ‘In the name of the Republic.’

  Incidentally they should watch out for the school, because too many books could make a person stupid. After all, he’d become an accountant without reading too much along the way.

  ‘Accountant’s assistant,’ Henrietta corrected him, and was told that she was quibbling again.

  What else was she worried about? What the neighbours and the world would say? Please. They didn’t have any neighbours to speak of, out there in the forest. Except Johan on the hill, but what did he do besides poach moose? And without sharing, to boot. And surely the world in general didn’t deserve much respect. Monarchies and dynasties everywhere.

  ‘What about you?’ said Henrietta. ‘Are you going to give up your job at the post office to stay home with one of the boys full-time? Were you planning for me to bring in every single krona our family needs?’

  Ingmar pitied Henrietta for being so narrow-minded. Of course he had to give up his job at the post office; he couldn’t have two full-time jobs, after all. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to take responsibility for his family. He was happy to help in the kitchen, for example. It was no longer important for his scrotum to remain cool.

  Henrietta replied that the only reason Ingmar could even find his way to the kitchen was because their house was so small. She supposed she could manage her seamstress work, her cooking, and all the nappies if Ingmar and his scrotum would just stay away from her oven.

  And then she smiled, in spite of everything. To say that her spouse was full of life would be an understatement.

  Ingmar gave notice at work the next day. He was allowed to leave that very day, with full pay for three months, and his departure led to a spontaneous party that night among the otherwise so quiet and dull men and women in the accounting department of the post office.

  The year was 1961. Incidentally, that was the same year an unusually gifted girl was born in a shack in Soweto, half an eternity away.

  * * *

  During Holger and Holger’s early years, Ingmar divided his days between being in his wife’s way at home and heading off to pull pranks of varying but republican quality.

  He also joined the Republican Club, under the moral leadership of the great Vilhelm Moberg. Moberg, the legendary author, was angry with all the treacherous socialists and liberals who had written ‘republic’ into their party platform without doing anything about it.

  But because Ingmar didn’t want to overstep the mark too soon, he waited until the club’s second meeting before he suggested that he himself could administer the club’s considerable funds, with the intention of kidnapping and hiding the crown prince, thus cutting off the constant stream of claimants to the throne.

  After a few seconds of shocked silence around the republican table, Moberg had personally sent Ingmar packing, with a well-aimed kick to the backside as a farewell.

  Moberg’s right foot and the subsequent fall down the stairs had hurt, but otherwise no damage had been done, Ingmar thought as he limped away. They could keep their Republican Club for Mutual Admiration. Ingmar had other ideas.

  For example, he joined the spineless Social Democratic Party. The Social Democrats had been in power in Sweden since Per Albin Hansson had guided the nation through the horrors of the Second World War with the help of horoscopes. Hansson himself had made a career out of demanding a republic before the war, but once the old champion of temperance rose to a position where he could do something about it, he prioritized poker and whisky with the boys over following his own convictions. This was even more tragic, considering that Hansson was talented as a matter of record – otherwise, he would never have managed to keep both wife and mistress happy for years, with two children in each camp.

  Ingmar’s plan was to climb so high in the Social Democratic hierarchy that he
would one day have the power to send the damn king as far away as possible by parliamentary means. The Soviets had already managed to launch a dog into space; next time they were welcome to take the Swedish head of state instead, he thought as he made his way to the district office in Eskilstuna, since the Social Democrats of Södertälje had an office next door to his father-in-law’s Communists.

  But Ingmar’s political career turned out to be even shorter than his career in the Republican Club. He was registered as a party member on a Thursday and immediately received a bundle of leaflets to hand out outside the off-licence on the next Saturday.

  The problem was that the internationally oriented Eskilstuna district was demanding the resignation of Ngo Dinh Diem in Saigon. But Diem was a president! After a thousand years of imperial dynasty, no less.

  Sure, not everything had been done quite correctly. It was said, for example, that his brother had smoked his brain out on opium and then, in the capacity of vote counter in charge of the Vietnamese presidential election, hallucinated two million extra votes for Diem.

  Of course that wasn’t how things should be done, but to demand the president’s resignation because of it would be to take things too far.

  So Ingmar threw the leaflets he had been given into the Eskilstuna River. Instead he printed his own, in which he applauded Diem and the efficiency of the American military in the name of social democracy. The damage to the Social Democratic Party was limited, however, because three of the four members of the district leadership happened to have business to take care of at the off-licence that Saturday morning. Ingmar’s leaflets ended up in the rubbish instead of in the hands of potential voters, while Ingmar himself was asked to hand over immediately the party book he hadn’t yet had time to receive.