riday, 27th May–Thursday, 16th June 2005

Amanda Einstein was still alive. She was now eighty-four years old and lived in a suite at the luxury hotel in Bali that was owned and run by her eldest son, Allan.

Allan Einstein was fifty-one years old and had quite a brain, just like his one-year-younger brother, Mao. But while Allan had become a business specialist (for real) and eventually hotel director (he had been given the hotel in question by his mother on his fortieth birthday), his little brother Mao went in for engineering. At first things hadn’t gone too well with his career, because Mao was exceedingly fussy about details. He had been given a job in Indonesia’s leading oil company with the task of ensuring the quality of the production system. Mao’s mistake was that he did. Suddenly, all the mid-level management in the company found that they were no longer able to siphon off various sums under the table when they had to order repairs, because there was no longer any need to order any repairs. The efficiency of the oil company increased by thirty-five per cent and Mao became the most unpopular person in the organisation. When the general bullying from his colleagues turned into more direct threats, Mao Einstein thought it wise to withdraw and instead got a job in the United Arab Emirates. He soon increased efficiency there too, while the company in Indonesia to everyone’s relief soon returned to its old level.

Amanda was endlessly proud of her two sons. But she couldn’t understand how they could both be so clever. Herbert had once told her that there were some good genes in his family, but she couldn’t really remember what he was referring to.

Be that as it may, when Amanda received the telephone call from Allan she was overjoyed and she wished him and all his friends a warm welcome to Bali. She would immediately discuss the matter with Allan Junior; he would have to kick out some other guests if the hotel happened to be full. And she would phone Mao in Abu Dhabi and order him to come home for a holiday. And, of course, they served drinks at the hotel, with and without a parasol. And yes, Amanda promised not to get involved in the actual serving of the drinks.

Allan said that they would all turn up soon. And then he ended with some encouraging words about how he thought that there wasn’t a single person in the world who had gone so far with such a limited intelligence as Amanda had done. And Amanda thought that was so beautifully said, that tears came to her eyes.

‘Hurry up and get here, Allan dear. Hurry up!’

Prosecutor Ranelid opened the afternoon’s press conference with the sad revelation about police dog Kicki. She had indicated the presence of a corpse on that inspection trolley at Åkers Foundry, and that in turn had led to a number of assumptions on the part of the prosecutor – which of course were correct when based on the dog’s indications, but nevertheless wrong, so very wrong.

It had now come to light that just before this assignment the dog in question had lost her mind and was on that account not to be trusted. There was, to put it simply, never any corpse in that place.

It had just come to the prosecutor’s notice that the police dog had been put down, and the prosecutor thought that was a wise decision by its handler. (Kicki, under an assumed name, was on her way instead to the dog-handler’s brother in the north of Sweden, but the prosecutor never got to know that.)

Furthermore, Prosecutor Ranelid regretted that the Eskilstuna Police had neglected to inform him as to the new, and most honourable, evangelical direction of the Never Again organisation. Had he been in possession of that knowledge, the prosecutor would most certainly have given other instructions to further the efforts of the investigation. On behalf of the police, Prosecutor Ranelid would like to apologize for the conclusions that he had drawn. They were based partly on a crazy canine, partly on the information supplied – and wrongly so – by the police.

As for the discovery of the corpse of Henrik ‘Bucket’ Hultén in Riga, it was likely that a new murder investigation would be instigated. The case of the similarly deceased Bengt ‘Bolt’ Bylund was, however, now closed. There were strong indications that the said Bylund had joined the French Foreign Legion. Since all legionnaires join up under a pseudonym, it was not possible to confirm definitively, but it was nevertheless highly likely that the said Bylund was a victim of the suicide bombing that had taken place in the centre of Djibouti a couple of days earlier.

The prosecutor presented a detailed account of the various protagonists’ relationships, and in that context showed the assembled media representatives the copy of the super thin bible that he had received earlier that day from Bosse Ljungberg. At the end of the press conference, the journalists wanted to know the whereabouts of Allan Karlsson and his entourage so as to obtain their version of events, but Prosecutor Ranelid had no information to give them on that score (he had absolutely nothing to gain from allowing the senile geriatric to spout on about Churchill and God knows what else with representatives of the press). So the focus of the journalists was now switched to Bucket Hultén. He had presumably been murdered, and the previously presumed murderers were no longer suspected. So who had killed Hultén?

Ranelid had hoped that the matter would be conveniently forgotten, but now he had to emphasize that the investigation would be started immediately after the conclusion of the press conference and he said that he would return to that subject on a later occasion.

To Prosecutor Ranelid’s amazement, the journalists accepted that, and all the rest of what he had said. Prosecutor Ranelid, and his career, had survived the day.

Amanda Einstein had asked Allan and his friends to hurry up and travel to Bali, which was what the friends wanted too. At any moment, a far too skilful journalist might find his way to Bellringer Farm, and it would be safest for all concerned if the place was abandoned. Allan had done his bit by contacting Amanda. The rest was up to The Beauty.

Not far from Bellringer Farm lay the Såtenäs military airfield and there was a Hercules plane that could swallow an elephant or even two with ease. The plane in question had on one occasion roared over Bellringer Farm and almost scared the elephant to death, and that was what had given The Beauty the idea.

The Beauty spoke to a colonel at Såtenäs, but he was far more stubborn than he needed to be. He wanted to see every manner of certificate and permission before he could even think of intercontinental transport assistance for a number of people and animals. For example, the military was absolutely forbidden from competing with commercial airlines, and they would need a certificate from the Department of Agriculture that such was not the case. A transport would further require four stopovers, and at each airport a vet would have to be present to check the status of the animal. And as regards the elephant, there was no question of anything less than twelve hours’ rest between flights.

Damn and blast the Swedish bureaucracy, said The Beauty and instead phoned Lufthansa in Munich.

They were only slightly more cooperative. They could of course pick up an elephant and a number of accompanying travellers, and that could be done at Landvetter Airport near Gothenburg, and they could of course transport them all to Indonesia. All that was required was a certificate of ownership of the elephant, and that a registered veterinarian accompanied them in the aircraft. And of course necessary documents would need to be provided for admittance to the Republic of Indonesia, for people as well as animals. When those conditions were fulfilled, the airline’s administration could plan the transport within the next three months.

‘Damn and blast the German bureaucracy,’ said The Beauty and instead phoned Indonesia.

It took a while, because in Indonesia there are fifty-one different airlines and not all of them have English-speaking staff. But The Beauty didn’t give up, and finally she succeeded. In Palembang, on Sumatra, there was a transport company that for a reasonable fee would be happy to make a round trip to Sweden. They had a Boeing 747 suitable for that purpose, a machine that had recently been purchased from the Azerbaijani army. (Luckily this was before all Indonesian airlines were blacklisted by the European Union and forbidden from landing in Europe.) The company promised to arrange all the papers for the landing in Sweden, while it was the customer’s responsibility to arrange landing permission for Bali. A vet? Why?

All that remained was the matter of payment. The price went up by twenty per cent before The Beauty with a maximum use of her rich vocabulary got the company to agree to be paid in cash in Swedish crowns on arrival in Sweden.

As the Indonesian Boeing took off on its flight to Sweden, the friends held a council. Benny and Julius were entrusted with the falsification of some papers that they could wave in front of what they assumed would be fussy officials at Landvetter Airport, and Allan promised to arrange the Balinese landing permission.

They had a few problems at the airport outside Gothenburg, but Benny not only had his false veterinary certificate, but also the ability to reel off some professional-sounding veterinary phrases. This, together with the certificate of ownership and the certificate of health for the elephant, and a whole bundle of credible documentation written by Allan in Indonesian, meant that they could all board as planned. Since the friends amidst the general falsification had also said that the next stop was Copenhagen, nobody asked for their passports.

The travelling party included the hundred-year-old Allan Karlsson, petty thief Julius Jonsson (now declared innocent), eternal student Benny Ljungberg, his fiancée, the beautiful Gunilla Björklund, both of her pets, elephant Sonya and Alsatian dog Buster, Benny Ljungberg’s brother, the newly religious food-wholesaler Bosse, the previously so lonely Chief Inspector Aronsson from Eskilstuna, the former gangster boss Per-Gunnar Gerdin and his mother, eighty-year-old Rose-Marie, she who at one time had written an unfortunate letter to her son while he was incarcerated at the Hall Prison.

The flight took eleven hours, without lots of unnecessary stops en route, and the group was in good condition when the Indonesian captain informed his passengers that they were now approaching Bali’s international airport and that it was time for Allan Karlsson to pull out that landing permission. Allan asked the captain to let him know when the air traffic controller at Bali got in touch. Allan would take care of the rest.

‘Here they are,’ said the worried captain. ‘What do I tell them? They could shoot us down any minute!’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Allan and took over. ‘Hello? Is that Bali Airport?’ he said in English, and received the answer that they should immediately identify themselves unless they wanted to face the Indonesian Air Force.

‘My name is Dollars,’ said Allan. ‘One Hundred Thousand Dollars.’

The air traffic controller was completely silent. The Indonesian captain and his co-pilot looked at Allan in admiration.

‘At this very moment the controller and his closest colleagues are counting how many are getting a share,’ Allan explained.

‘I know,’ said the captain.

Another few seconds passed, before the flightleader contacted them again.

‘Hello? Are you there, Mr Dollars?’

‘Yes, I am,’ said Allan.

‘Excuse me, what is your first name, Mr Dollars?’

‘One Hundred Thousand,’ said Allan. ‘I am Mr One Hundred Thousand Dollars, and I want permission to land at your airport.’

‘Excuse me, Mr Dollars. The sound is very poor. Could you please be so kind as to say your first name once more?’

Allan explained to the captain that the controller had now started to negotiate.

‘I know,’ said the captain.

‘My first name is Two Hundred Thousand,’ said Allan. ‘Do we have your permission to land?’

‘One moment, Mr Dollars,’ said the flightleader, and checked with his colleagues. He then said:

‘You are most welcome to Bali, Mr Dollars. It will be a pleasure to have you here.’

Allan thanked the flightleader.

‘This must not be your first visit,’ said the captain, and smiled.

‘Indonesia is the country where everything is possible,’ said Allan.

When the high-ranking officials at Bali International Airport realised that several of Mr Dollars’ fellow travellers didn’t have passports, and that one of them weighed in at nearly five tons and had four legs instead of two, it cost a further 50,000 dollars to arrange the customs documents and suitable transport for Sonya. But an hour after landing, the entire group was in place at family Einstein’s hotel, including Sonya who had been transported there with Benny and The Beauty in one of the airport’s catering trucks (that afternoon’s flight to Singapore, incidentally, unfortunately lacked lunch trays).

Amanda, Allan and Mao Einstein received their guests, and after a bout of hugging and kissing, they were shown to their rooms. Sonya and Buster could meanwhile stretch their legs in the hotel’s enormous fenced-in garden. Amanda had already expressed her regret at the lack of elephant friends for Sonya on Bali, but she would immediately arrange that a potential boyfriend be delivered from Sumatra. When it came to girlfriends for Buster, he would probably find them himself; there were lots of pretty girl-dogs roaming around the island.

And Amanda promised that towards the evening there would be one hell of a Balinese party for them all, and she urged them to have a nap first.

All except three abided by that recommendation. Pike and Pike’s mamma couldn’t wait any longer for that parasol drink and the same applied to Allan, minus the parasol.

All three made their way to the deckchairs beside the water, made themselves comfortable, and waited for the delivery of what they had just ordered from the bar.

The waitress was eighty-four years old and had taken over from the barman.

‘Here’s a red parasol drink for you, Mr Gerdin. And a green parasol drink for you, Mrs Mamma Gerdin. And… but wait a moment… You didn’t order milk, did you, Allan?’

‘I thought you had promised not to get involved with serving the drinks, dear Amanda,’ said Allan.

‘I lied, dear Allan. I lied.’

Darkness descended upon the paradise and the friends gathered for a three-course meal, invited by their hosts Amanda, Allan and Mao Einstein. For starters they were served sate lilit, for the main course bebek betutu and for dessert a jaja batun bedil. They drank tual wayah, palm-tree beer, except for Benny who drank water.

The very first evening on Indonesian soil was almost as long as it was pleasant. The food came to an end and it was rounded off with pisang ambon for everyone except Allan who had a vodka and Benny who had a cup of tea.

Bosse felt that this day and evening of excess needed a bit of spiritual balance so he stood up and quoted Jesus from the Gospel according to Matthew (‘Happy are they… their spiritual needs’). Bosse believed they would all benefit from listening to God and learning from God. And then he put his palms together and thanked the Lord for an extremely unusual and unusually good day.

‘Everything will work out just fine,’ said Allan in the silence created by Bosse’s words.

Bosse had thanked the Lord and perhaps the Lord thanked them in return, because their good fortune lasted and grew. Benny asked The Beauty if she would marry him, to which she replied: ‘Yes, damn it! Now, straight away!’ The ceremony took place the following evening and lasted three days. Rose-Marie Gerdin, eighty years old, taught the members of the local pensioners’ club how to play the Treasure Island Game (but no better than her so that she herself could win every time); Pike lay on the beach under a parasol day in and day out, drinking parasol drinks in all the colours of the rainbow; Bosse and Julius bought a fishing boat which they rarely left, and Chief Inspector Aronsson became a popular member of the Balinese upper classes: he was a white man after all, and a detective chief inspector too, and if that wasn’t enough, he had come from the least corrupt country in the world. You couldn’t get more exotic than that.

Every day, Allan and Amanda went on suitably long walks along the glowing white beach outside the hotel. They always had lots to talk about, and they felt better and better in each other’s company. They didn’t go very fast, because she was eighty-four years old and he was now in his hundred and first year.

After a while they started to hold each other’s hand, for balance. Then they decided to dine, just the two of them, on Amanda’s terrace in the evenings, as it got too much with all the others. And in the end, Allan moved in with Amanda for good. In that way, Allan’s room could be rented to a tourist instead, and that was good for the hotel’s balance sheet.

During one of the following day’s walks, Amanda raised the question of whether they should just do the same as Benny and The Beauty, that is, get married, when they were living together anyway. Allan said that Amanda was a young girl in comparison with him, but that he could bring himself to ignore that circumstance. And nowadays he mixed his own drinks so there was no problem there either. So, in short, Allan couldn’t see any decisive objection to what Amanda had just proposed.

‘Then it’s a plan?’ said Amanda.

‘Yes, it’s a plan,’ said Allan.

And they held each other’s hand extra hard. For balance.

The investigation into Henrik ‘Bucket’ Hultén’s death was short and without result. The police looked into his past and interrogated Bucket’s former companions in Småland (not far from Gunilla Björklund’s Lake Farm, in fact), but they hadn’t heard or seen anything.

The colleagues in Riga sought out the drunkard who had taken the Mustang to the scrapyard, but they couldn’t get a sensible word out of him until one of the police colleagues thought of priming him with a bottle of wine. Then the drunkard suddenly started to tell them – that he had no idea who it was who had asked him to take the car to the scrapyard. Somebody just turned up at the park bench one day with a whole bag full of wine bottles.

‘I wasn’t sober, admittedly,’ said the drunkard. ‘But I never get so drunk that I’d say no to four bottles of wine.’

Only one journalist got in touch a few days later to find out how the investigation about Bucket Hultén’s death was going, but Prosecutor Ranelid wasn’t there to take the call. He had gone on holiday, booking a cheap last-minute charter flight to Las Palmas. What he really wanted to do was to get away from everything, and he had heard that Bali was nice, but that flight was fully booked.

The Canary Islands would have to do. And there he sat now in a deck chair under a parasol, with a parasol drink in his hand, wondering where Aronsson had gone off to. He had apparently given his notice, taken all the holiday due to him and just disappeared.