The Accidental Further Adventures of the Hundred-Year-Old Man. Jonas Jonasson
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friend with the black tablet, except the money in the suitcase that never ran dry was starting to run dry. The income from the crop fields in the mountains was respectable, but life at the luxury hotel where the friends resided was anything but free. Even the imported Swedish asparagus in the restaurant cost half a fortune.
Julius had wanted to broach the topic of their finances with Allan for some time. He just hadn’t got round to it. At breakfast that morning, however, the time had come. Allan had brought his black tablet along as usual, and the day’s news was a story about the love between siblings. The North Korean leader Kim Jong-un had just had his brother poisoned to death at an airport in Malaysia. Allan said he wasn’t overly surprised: he’d had his own dealings with Kim Jong-un’s father. And grandfather.
‘Both father and grandfather did in fact intend to take my life,’ he recalled. ‘Now both of them are dead, but here I sit. Such is life.’
Julius had grown used to Allan popping up with such reflections on the past and was no longer surprised by them. He had probably heard that particular story before, but he didn’t quite recall. ‘You met the North Korean leader’s father? And grandfather? How old are you?’
‘A hundred, almost a hundred and one,’ said Allan. ‘In case that somehow escaped you. Their names were Kim Jong-il and Kim Il-sung. The one was only a child, but he was very angry.’
Julius resisted the urge to enquire further. Instead he guided the conversation towards the topic he’d been planning to discuss from the start.
The problem was, as Julius had hinted earlier, that the suitcase of money was increasingly transforming into a suitcase without money. And it had been two and a half months since they’d last settled their debts with the hotel. Julius didn’t want to think about what the bill would say.
‘Then don’t,’ Allan suggested, taking a bite of his mildly seasoned nasi goreng.
More urgent was the issue with the boat-renter, who had been in touch to say that he had throttled their line of credit and intended to do the same to Messrs Karlsson and Jonsson unless their debt was settled within the week.
‘The boat-renter?’ Allan said. ‘Did we rent a boat?’
‘The luxury yacht.’
‘Oh, right. So that counts as a boat, does it?’
Then Julius confessed that he’d been planning to surprise Allan on his hundred-and-first birthday, but their financial situation was such that the celebration couldn’t be up to Harry Belafonte standards.
‘Well, we met him once before,’ Allan said. ‘And my birthday parties and I have never quite seen eye to eye, so don’t worry about that.’
But Julius did. He wanted Allan to know he had appreciated the Belafonte gesture. It had been above and beyond. Julius was no spring chicken himself, and at no time in history had anyone done anything as nice for him as Allan had.
‘Though I wasn’t the one singing,’ Allan said.
Julius went on to say that there would absolutely be a party: he’d already ordered a cake from the one bakery he’d been able to find that would make it on credit. Thereafter awaited a hot-air balloon ride over the beautiful green island, along with the balloon pilot and two bottles of champagne.
Allan thought a hot-air balloon ride sounded pleasant. But perhaps they could skip the cake, given that their finances were strained. Even the hundred and one candles might cost a fortune.
The state of the friends’ joint capital didn’t hinge on a hundred and one birthday candles, according to Julius. He had dug through the suitcase the night before and made a rough estimate of how much was left. Then he made another based on what he expected the hotel thought they owed. When it came to the yacht, he didn’t need to make an estimate, since the lessor had been kind enough to tell him the exact amount.
‘I’m afraid we’re at least a hundred thousand dollars in the red,’ said Julius.
‘Is that with or without the candles?’ Allan asked.
The hundred-year-old man had always had a calming effect on those around him, except during isolated moments in history in which he had riled people beyond all rhyme and reason. Like the time he’d met Stalin in 1948. That had led to five years in a gulag. And a few years after that, it had turned out the North Koreans weren’t great fans of his either.
Oh, well, that was all in the past. Now, he had got Julius to agree that they would first celebrate his hundred-and-first birthday according to the plan (since Julius so desperately wanted to) and then they would sit down and deal with their finances. Everything would work out. With a little luck, perhaps a new suitcase full of money would turn up.
Julius didn’t believe it would, although one never knew what might happen in Allan’s company. Despite their sub-optimal financial situation, he had gone along with Allan’s suggestion that there be four bottles of champagne in the hot-air balloon rather than two. There might be a lull in the air up there, and in that case they would need some way to amuse themselves.
‘Perhaps a few sandwiches as well,’ Julius mused.
‘But why?’ said Allan.
The hotel manager was keeping a close eye on the old man and his even older friend, these days. Their unpaid bills had surpassed a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That was only a small part of what the manager had made from the spendthrift Scandinavians in the past year, but at the same time it was far too much to let it go unpaid. He had taken certain steps and measures. A few days ago, or nights ago, he had put a man on discreet watch outside the gentlemen’s luxury bungalow, just in case they should get it into their heads to climb through one of the paneless windows and vanish.
But there was a certain amount of gratitude involved in the manager’s relationship with Messrs Jonsson and Karlsson. The former had, in a fairly believable manner, suggested that more money would be on its way before the week’s end. And, after all, this wasn’t the first time Jonsson had clung to his money just a little too long. Maybe the whole issue was simply down to him loving his cash. And who didn’t?
All in all, the manager thought it prudent and strategically smart to lie low, and to join in celebrating the older man’s birthday on the beach, with cake and a few carefully selected words.
* * *
In addition to the birthday boy, Julius and the hotel manager, the hired balloon pilot was present for the party. Gustav Svensson would have liked to attend, but he had the good sense not to.
The balloon was inflated and ready. Only a classic anchor around a palm tree kept it from taking off on its own. The heat in the balloon was regulated by the pilot’s nine-year-old son, who was deeply distressed as he would much rather have been next to the cake a few metres away.
Allan stared at the hundred and one unnecessary candles. Imagine the waste of money. And time! It took Julius several minutes to get them all lit, with the help of the hotel manager’s gold lighter (which ended up in Julius’s pocket).
At least the cake tasted good. And champagne was champagne, even if it wasn’t grog. It seemed to Allan that things could have been worse.
And, all of a sudden, they were. For the hotel manager was tapping his glass with the aim of giving a speech. ‘My dear Mr Karlsson,’ he said.
Allan interrupted him. ‘That was well said, Mr Manager. Truly charming. But surely we can’t all stand around here until my next birthday. Isn’t it high time we took off in the balloon?’
The hotel manager became flustered and Julius gave the nod to the balloon pilot, who immediately put down his piece of cake. After all, his primary purpose for being there was to work.
‘Roger that! I’ll go and make the