"You let me win that last game.", I pant.
Frieda explodes with laughter: "And I thought you let me win the first seven games… I didn't let you win. I'm just tired. Agneta and I used to play almost every day, but that's been a while; I'm not as fit as I used to be. Or perhaps yesterday's dinner and your bottle of Chardonnay slowed me down."
Yesterday's dinner was a success. First, we did the shopping at a small Turkish supermarket, close to the Stockholm Central train station. Then, we went to Agneta's house and her spectacular kitchen. I like to cook, but cooking for just myself isn't half as nice as cooking for two, and we can say the same about eating alone or together. Combine that with my friend Shirley's recipe for Wiener Schnitzel, a macaroni salad for a starter, fresh French carrots and sweet peas as a side dish, ice cream with cranberries for dessert, with a bottle of Chardonnay and Frieda for company, and anyone knows why I wanted to become a spy so much: life can't get any better than this.
But life can get a lot worse the next morning, when the alarm on my spiPhone wakes me up with the promise to play squash against Frieda and not letting her win. Already at the warming-up, I forgot about my original plan to play with my wrong hand. After losing the first three games by 11 – 1, Frieda offered to play with her wrong hand, her right hand, but I stubbornly refused, telling her I was just getting warmed up, and I improved significantly by losing the next four games by 11 – 5, 11 – 3, 11 – 7 and 11 – 6. The final game, though, I won 11 – 8, and somehow it felt like Frieda was cheating.
I puff back: "Rostov! You discovered my secret tactics. Tonight, I'm going to cook lamb chops with a sauce of red wine for you, with basmati rice on the side and German beer to drink with it, and tomorrow I'll take my revenge on this squash court. After that, we're going to visit Kris, the rapist, in jail, and laugh at his ugly face during the entire visiting hour."
Frieda grabs her bag, shows me her back, gives me a wave, and disappears into the lady's dressing room: "I'm looking forward to that."
"The laughing? The revenge on the squash court? Or the German beer and the lamb chops?", I ask.
I'm looking forward to all three of them. And your ponytail. And your backside. And your incredible smile. Rostov. You're an amazing woman, Frieda Larsson. When this mission is over, I will miss you…
"I'll wait for you in the lobby.", I shout.
I take the other door, towards a cold shower. I'm a professional. We have a job to do. I have to make plans. We have one lead left, and it isn't even a strong lead, as it's based on female intuition, but that's the female intuition of both Frieda and Camilla, and it's all we have, so I need to concentrate on ideas and plans to get close to the leaders of the two tribes that force the Swedish electorate to make their choice.
I think back to the choice I made earlier, the choice between my fear Agneta is dead, and my hope she's kept as a sex slave by her kidnapper. There is a third logical explanation. If the government is behind this, they will both have the means and the motive to get Agneta out of the way without killing her. They put criminals in jail, keeping them alive and out of society at the same time. They send black and coloured refugees back to the hell they try to escape from, without killing them, just keeping them out of our elite society, without any responsibility about what will happen to them when they're out of sight. Governments don't kill the people who voted for them. If the government is behind this, Agneta will still be alive and kicking, with three meals, a bed and the right to remain silent.
Suddenly, my own wonderful male spy intuition jumps with joy, dancing a perfect polka with the female intuition of Frieda and Camilla. Agneta might still be alive. Is this wishful thinking? Or is it pure logic? I don't care. It's a lead, it's a chance, and it's all we have, so we should go for it.
The cold water in the shower makes me grin. I feel like the host of a TV program, presenting the final challenge of this show to the audience: "Ladies aaaaaaaaand Gentlemen. On our right side, we have the Liberal Party, represented by its trustworthy managing director… Please welcome him with massive applause… Mister Per Sjöwall! He promises us freedom, freedom and even more freedom. On our left side, we have the Socialist Party, represented by its charming captain… Please give her a standing ovation… Misses Maj Wahlöö. She promises us equality, which is the same as being all the same. And in the middle, behind the curtain, we have Miss Agneta Larsson, who will present us with some amazing alternatives to rule our country. Are we ready for the final?"
I'm not ready for anything. Doing one thing while thinking about something else isn't on the list of male qualities. When I walk the aisle from the sports centre towards the lobby, I notice I didn't tie my shoelace properly. I sit down in a leather chair to tie up the loose end of my outfit. Right in front of me, the door of room 037 opens and a woman steps out. She looks suspiciously at me, not impressed by my friendly smile and my innocent behaviour. She closes the door and walks away.
This isn't a gym or a sports centre where we played squash. This is Sports Hotel The Bridge, an upper-class hotel with a swimming pool and several sports facilities, both for its clients and for people with potential who can afford high prices. Its location, close to the centre of Stockholm but also perfectly hidden in a private park, guarantees maximum privacy. The woman who just left room 037 must have picked this hotel room for privacy reasons. She probably suspected me of being some sort of creepy paparazzo.
Privacy?
Or hiding a secret?
I take my spiPhone and do a quick search on the Internet. The woman's face looked familiar. Is it a hunch? Is it my intuition? It doesn't matter: I am right. That woman was Maj Wahlöö, the leader of the Swedish Socialist Party. Her face is on every billboard on every corner of every street. What would she do in room 037 of Sports Hotel The Bridge at eight o'clock in the morning?
I curse Frieda for needing so much time in the shower. I should be following Mrs Wahlöö, trying to isolate her, perhaps finding a way of talking to her, asking her why she kidnapped Agneta… No, I already know why she kidnapped her. She wouldn't stand a chance in the upcoming elections against Agneta. I should ask her where she's keeping Agneta. I should torture her, tear out her long nails one by one, perhaps even stick a fork in her buttocks to make her talk. But I should act fast. Should I send Frieda a message? Should I call her to hurry? Or should I investigate room 037 first? Perhaps Mrs Wahlöö keeps Agneta here, with three room service meals per day and the right to remain silent. Checking the room will cost me five seconds and picking the lock will cost me…
The door of room 037 opens again. A man steps out. He looks at me, suspiciously, not impressed by my friendly smile. He locks the door with his key card and leaves in the direction of the lobby.
Rostov!
Now I'm sure I should investigate this room first. That man is on every billboard on every corner of every street. The smiling face on the left side of the billboard belongs to Mrs Wahlöö. Mr Sjöwall, the leader of the Liberal Party, looks trustworthy on the right side. Why would the two leaders of the two biggest political parties step out of room 037 of Sports Hotel The Bridge at eight o'clock in the morning? They are sworn enemies in the upcoming fight for the Presidency. Why would they work together? Because a mutual enemy, Agneta, is worse than their fear of facing each other. They work together to neutralise the evil force that will make them lose the elections, their jobs and their power.
I don't want to lose more time. I get up and run back towards the sports centre, calling Frieda on her phone. She picks up immediately: "Come. Now. I might have found your sister. We need a chambermaid or something. These rooms here have electronic locks and I don't have my tools with me."
"Okay. Where are you?"
"In the aisle between you and the lobby."
"There's a cleaning lady here in the lady's dressing room. I'll ask her if she has a master key."
Fifteen seconds later, I storm into the sports centre. I almost bump into Frieda and a dark-haired elderly woman.
"She has a master key. I promised her one thousand krona if she helps us.", Frieda says.
"Quickly. Room 037. I'm with the FBI. Do you want to see my badge?"
"I want to see the money."
Half a minute later, the chambermaid opens the door of room 037 and I rush inside. It's empty. The bathroom is empty. The bed is empty. The walk-in closet is empty. But something makes my blood turn cold: on the backside of the door, there's a photograph. It's been used as a dartboard. Somebody played 501 and hit the bull's eyes all the time. Not the bull's eyes. The eyes of the woman in the photograph: Agneta Larsson. Someone painted a moustache on her upper lip, blacked out two of her bright shiny teeth, and gave her scars and vampire teeth.
Torture.
Hate.
We are too late.
Hate.
Torture.
"We're not too late. We can still get them.", Frieda cries.
"They've left, dear. We've lost."
"This is a five-star hotel, Benny. At least one of them has to check out and pay the bill. How many clients do the same thing at eight o'clock in the morning? There must be a line in front of the reception. If we don't try, we don't score. Think positive."
Frieda's right.
We run through the aisle, thinking positively until we reach the double doors towards the lobby and the reception. Mrs Wahlöö has already left, but Mr Sjöwall is still there, receiving the smile and the «have a nice day» wishes from the receptionist. With a merry pace, he walks through the door where a dark-blue car is waiting for him. A gorilla in an ugly dark-green suit opens the back door, closes it behind his boss, and takes his place in the front seat. Bodyguard.
"Dump your bag. We'll pick it up later. We have to run.", I say to Frieda.
"Are we going to follow a car on foot?"
"There's a shortcut to the entrance. Pray for a taxi."
We run as fast as we can. The car isn't allowed to drive faster than 20 km/h and the road runs around the forest, while we move in a straight line through the trees. When we reach the gate, I guess we have thirty seconds, perhaps even one minute, to find a taxi. But this isn't a railway station or a shopping centre where taxis are standing in line. This is a luxury hotel where clients have their own transport, usually with a six-figure price tag (seven, if the price is in krona). The only car in sight is a red Saab 96, parked in front of the church on the other side of the road. Three sinners with an urgent need to confess, hiding their privacy under black ski masks, hurry inside the church. The driver looks around if there's anything interesting to see while he's waiting for their return.
I cross the street for a chat: "Good morning. What a beautiful day. And what a beautiful antique car you have. Is it yours?"
The driver isn't in the mood for a chat. He doesn't say a word and looks straight ahead as if I'm not there. Perhaps he doesn't speak English. That can be arranged. In my backpack (which I didn't leave in the hotel's lobby like Frieda did with her sports bag), I have the perfect tool to translate my words into every possible language.
I take off the security of my Makarov, stick the barrel into the ear of the driver, cock the hammer and ask again, even friendlier than the first time: "What a beautiful car. Is it yours?"
This works perfectly. The driver sticks his hands in the air: "Don't shoot me. I'm just the driver."
"I asked you a question. Do you have the papers for this car? Slowly. That's it. That's what I thought. You guys are church robbers but not car thieves. You use your own car to get away after robbing the donations and the money people leave when they burn a candle. That's smart."
The driver agrees: "Robbing banks is complicated. Robbing cars, with their GPS and electronic alarms and other gadgets, is even more difficult."
"No, it's not. Get out."
"What?"
"Get out. I'm stealing your car. It's easy. It's a lot easier than robbing a church. I promise you to take good care of it, I'll even return it to you when I no longer need it, but I need it now, for a matter of national security, and I'll also call the police and the army and those black gorillas that hit everything that moves when there are riots, so you and your ski-masked friends in there have about three minutes to run away as fast as you can if you don't want to be arrested. I'm actually doing you a big favour. It would be much easier to shoot you in the head. And I will, if you don't get out of the car immediately."
Ten seconds later, Frieda and I, in our brand new antique Saab 96, follow a dark-blue car, coming out of the gate of Sports Hotel The Bridge. In my mirror, I see how the former driver explains to his three masked friends what happened.
Frieda looks at me with admiration: "I know you're a professional spy, but this…? We wonder if the government is behind this, without any clue where to look or where to start, but you don't even give me the time to blow-dry my hair, and now we're following the man who's going to be the country's next President, according to the exit polls. Other people can only get an appointment with Mr Sjöwall if they have friends in high places."
At that moment, the old car radio switches on and U2's Bono sings a line from one of his songs: "Sometimes, you can't make it on your own…"
And then, the radio stops.
With my eyes on the road and the car before us, I smile at Frieda: "If I told you about my friends and the high places where they live, I'm sure you won't believe me. What matters is that it works. Sometimes you can't make it on your own. Then, it's good to have a friend, someone who watches your back, someone who loves you."
«Thank you, Shirley. I love you too.», I think, but I don't say that, of course, because Frieda would think I'm crazy.
"I love you too.", Frieda says while she tries, in vain, to get some more sounds out of the broken radio.
Now I can't keep my eyes on the road anymore. Paralysed with fear, I look at Frieda. Did she just confess her love to me? Trying to hold on to that is just… impossible: "I'm a spy, babe. You can't confess your love to me. It's just your imagination. I know, you are more than beautiful, with a little down-to-earth flavour, but you should realise, when it's three in the afternoon, I'm gone for good. I'm sorry."
Frieda looks back like she thinks I'm crazy: "What are you talking about? I love Bono, U2, that song I heard on the radio. I asked if you could turn it back on. What makes you think you turn me on? LOOK OUT!"
With a quick turn on the wheel, I avoid getting on a motorbike, coming from the other direction.
"Oh. Yeah. That. I mean… You like U2, I like the Rolling Stones. I quoted a few lines from the song «Anybody seen my baby». You warned me about your sister, falling in love with me and all that, and now we're following her kidnapper… My intuition tells me, in less than an hour, this mission will be over. I just thought of what I'll say when we save Agneta."
Frieda's tear hits my weak spot, and her words carve a bloody canyon in my soul: "Agneta… My hands are tied. My body is bruised. There's nothing to win, and there's nothing left to lose. I can't live, with or without you."
Nothing left to say.
The dark-blue car stops in front of an old building made of red bricks that houses a small supermarket. The car park used to be a playground when the building itself used to be a school, but someone in a high place saw the bigger picture and decided democratically that this country needed fewer schools and more shopping malls.
The gorilla steps out and goes inside. Seconds later, the customers are friendly and politely forced to leave because the upcoming President and leader of the Liberal Freedom Party wants the freedom to do his shopping alone, without being disturbed. Mr Sjöwall goes inside and the gorilla in the ugly green suit takes his place at the door, to make sure nobody gets inside. Some stay and peep through the windows: the hungry watch how the leader eats, just like we learn from TV.
"He's alone. This is our chance. All we need is a banana to keep the monkey off our back.", Frieda sighs.
I grin: "Bono just gave me an idea. I love U2, remember? Sometimes you can't make it on your own. What's the slogan of the Liberal Party?"
"Freedom. Why? Are you going to quote Aretha Franklin now?"
"That song by Aretha Franklin isn't called «Freedom». It's called «Think». I think that's exactly what we need here. Listen. This is what I think …"
* * *
"Good morning."
"You're not from here."
"How did you figure that out?"
"You speak English, not Swedish."
"Outstanding deduction. Are you military intelligence?"
"Yep."
"That's a contradiction in the terms."
"What?"
"Military intelligence."
"No. The other thing."
"A contradiction in the terms?"
"Yeah, that."
"It has to do with speaking entire sentences and correct grammar so you can fill your Bet-To-Win form with the football results without spelling errors. Nothing for you to worry about."
"Should I worry?"
"Of course. Someone wants to steal that gun you're hiding under your jacket. He needs it to kill your boss. That's what killers do, you know. They don't even need a gun for it, as the victim guarantees there's enough firepower around for the job. You never thought about that, did you?"
"My superiors do the thinking."
"And what did they teach you when somebody shows up with bad intentions?"
"I shoot him. Twice."
"And if he already stole your gun? Do you have a backup gun in your ankle holster? I have. Look. Here, in the inside pocket of my jacket, I have my Beretta, a reliable Italian quality gun, loaded and ready to rock 'n' roll. And here, behind my back, I have my loaded Makarov. That's 8 times 9mm of mortal firepower with superior reliability and deadly precision. And on my ankle, I have a Glock 17, just in case somebody finds my Beretta and my Makarov when they search me. But you're not searching me, so I won't need the Glock."
He searches me. I don't have the Beretta in my pocket, I don't have the Makarov behind my back, and I don't have the ankle holster either, but he does make himself too vulnerable when he bends to check my ankle. I kick him on the temple with my knee and put him asleep with a capsule of Tumble Tornado.
I'm a professional. I follow the LSD rules and do what I've learnt during my training. Guns are dangerous. Imagine. Someone passes by and sees an armed gorilla, sleeping on the floor. He could easily take the gorilla's gun and start shooting. No guns, no killings. It's simple. It works. I take the gorilla's Glock from his shoulder holster, remove the clip with the bullets, check if the chamber is empty and the safety is on, and toss the empty gun plus the clip to Frieda, so she can lock them away safely in the boot of our Saab. I don't want to be accused of having a gun when I'm fighting an unarmed man.
The unarmed man is doing some difficult thinking: he doubts between the expensive ketchup and the cheap brand, taking his time to study the pros and cons of each option.
"Making the right choice is indeed a difficult thing. Imagine you vote for someone and you make the wrong choice. You can't imagine how sad it is for an entire country to have the wrong man in the White House for four years, just because the majority of the voters made the wrong choice. What's your favourite cake?"
The soon-to-be most powerful man of Sweden looks at me, suspiciously, and says: "That's classified information. Terrorists might use it against me."
"On your wife's Facebook, she tells the world you love chocolate cake with whipped cream. We have something in common. That's my favourite too."
I'm relaxed, leaning to the post of the door and smiling comfortably. I'm well-dressed, well-educated, well-informed, and welfare is my middle name.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
"My name is Nobody, and I want the same as you. So the correct question would be: what do YOU want, Mr Sjöwall? Can I call you Per? Don't worry, my dear Per. I've done my homework. I know what you want. You want Freedom. What a nice word. Freedom… Everybody in Sweden will agree with you that Freedom is indeed a wonderful thing. Without giving it a second thought, they will vote for you and turn you into the next President. And what will happen then? What does your promise of Freedom mean? Does it mean «No More Rules»? Does it mean «No More Work»? Does your Freedom stand for «Money for Nothing and Chicks for Free»? Will you encourage everyone to do what they please, without any rules, contracts, or limits? Are you going to release all the animals in the zoo? Are you going to release all the prisoners? Does Freedom mean that refugees are free to enter Sweden and escape from the dictators who make their life impossible? Your election program promises the contrary: you're going to build a wall to keep all that Freedom for yourself."
Per shrugs my criticism away: "Don't try to convince me with your lies. Those illegal aliens steal the jobs of our people."
"If you believe that, you should vote against computers too, and against machines, and against electricity, cars, and steam engines… Either you have a strong desire to go back to the Stone Age or a strong necessity to go back to school for some extra lessons in Economy class. Illegal aliens mean extra clients for your working class, and many extra hands to do the work nobody else wants."
"I don't need your free advice. I prefer expensive advice."
"Ah, that clarifies everything. Your Freedom is only for the ones with money, the people who own everything. The working class, the poor, the old, the students, and the sick, they have to pay for all this Freedom you promise. You tell them to vote for you, Per, but after you have their vote, you take their time, their energy, and their privileges, to add it to the Freedom of you and your wealthy friends. Am I right, Per?"
"You know nothing about politics."
"Oh, don't be too sure of that. Politics is the art of taking what you want and getting away with it. I have a simple metaphor for your right-wing politics, clarifying it to everyone in this country: what you call Liberalism is exactly the same thing as Darwin's Law of the Jungle, a.k.a. the Survival of the Fittest. You want your Freedom to tell others what to do. You want to be the Number One, the next President of Sweden, the Monkey on the top of the Rock of Gibraltar.
» You forget one thing about Freedom, my dear Per. You won't get freedom for free. Responsibility is the price we pay for Freedom. Your Liberal Party only feels responsible for the top of our society, the strongest, the fittest, the richest, and the most powerful. You lower taxes for companies and raise the VAT for workers and consumers. Liberalisation of the job market makes labour cheaper for companies, while the workers need to work harder for less money, without any guarantee they can pay their mortgages to keep their homes. Selling out government issues to commercial companies devaluates our moral of good and bad to a level of profitable or not. Companies don't create jobs; they create profit, and they don't care about anything else.
» It's illegal to sleep in a park or under a bridge, but if someone can't pay the rent, your friends have a legal right to kick hor out of hor house. It's illegal to steal food, but your friends have a legal right to fire anyone when they can find someone who does the same work cheaper. Your laws make life impossible for the ones without money, but not one law guarantees people the possibility of earning a living. Justice has become a matter of getting the most expensive lawyer, healthcare is now a matter of getting the most expensive treatment, and Freedom has devaluated to getting all the money you need to buy everything you want. Your Freedom only works for the elite, Per. Your party calls it Democracy, but Meritocracy would be a better name. Rights and services are only available to those who can pay for them. The others, who are not The Best, will drop out, into unemployment, ignorance, and poverty. You should take responsibility for your actions."
"And what are you going to do about it? Nature works that way. Society is about eating or being eaten."
"And some members of society have the entire shop for themselves, while others are politely told to go and find welfare somewhere else. We invented politics, so our leaders could protect the poor and the weak against the greedy and the selfish. But now, politicians use their power to protect themselves and their selfish greed against the poor and the weak, just like the Survival of the Fittest predicts. Ironic, isn't it? That's exactly what we're going to do right now. You'll have to fight for your right. A duel. Shop or stop. The winner takes it all.
» I'll give you something you never gave others: I give you the chance to defend yourself. Your Liberal Law of the Jungle allows any other monkey in the tribe to challenge the leader and try to do a better job. It's not Survival of the fattest, Per; it's Survival of the fittest. What are you fit for? You sit on your big butt in an office, chew on a cigar, and make life impossible for people who want to work for a living. If I can find a fitter candidate, you're out."
"Are you going to kill me?"
"You think like a politician; your work requires a killer instinct. I'm not a killer. Your chauffeur-bodyguard is sleeping. I like to avoid violence. But I get angry when people say one thing and do something completely different. Do you like a world of Freedom and competition? Okay, you get it, but you won't get it for free. You have to fight for it. Do you know Miss Frieda Larsson?"
Frieda steps forward, gorgeous, with her hair in a cute ponytail and an amused grin that makes Per's few hairs rise while a chill runs down his spine. The silverback gorilla prepares for his fight. Adrenalin fills his veins. He leaves his shopping cart alone and takes his position in the centre of the aisle. He clenches his fists: "You're Agneta Larsson's sister. I know you."
With a smile, I add some extra fear to Per's rising panic: "Her name is Frieda. You might think you know her, but it's impossible to tell what she'll do or say next, except that it's bound to be astonishing."
Frieda clenches her fists too. She's astonishing when she's angry: "I know you too. You're the kidnapper of my sister, Agneta. You wanted her out of the way so you could win the race and become the next President. That's nothing personal, just business. Self-defence. You know the Law of the Jungle: she's younger than you, she's faster than you, she smiles more beautifully than you and she's miles more beautiful than you. In every debate, she would crush you like an elephant crushes an ant. I'm here to take her place."
Per looks at me: "And he?"
Frieda answers: "Sometimes you can't make it on your own, Per. The Law of the Jungle teaches us that selfish people can only count on themselves. Your hired protection just got a better offer. Without money, you have nobody that you can depend on.
» My politics depend on friendship. I have someone who loves me and watches my back. Against a majority, not one leader has a chance. But we want this duel to be fair, just you and me. Benny guards the door. Only the winner steps out. If you try to run away from me, he'll give you a Shanghai Kiss that knocks you out for the rest of the day. We fight. There can only be one. The loser gets what he deserves: a place between the jobless poor who have to stand in line and pay for everything. Do you realise that your overweight gives you an advantage here? You're a heavyweight. I'm not even a middleweight. I don't care. Championships are never decided on the scale and always in the ring. I have a chance and I will give it my best. Are you afraid of me?"
I can hardly keep a serious face. Per now understands the situation; it's his party's ideal, the survival of the fittest. His job of pushing buttons and ordering others might easily be done better by a fit young woman like Frieda.
"You won't get away with this.", Per growls.
I explain: "This is politics. Politics is being selfish and getting away with it. If you can do it, we can. Are you ready? The first one who hits the other on the head five times is the winner. You can throw everything you can find in this supermarket except the chocolate cake with whipped cream."
Per lifts his eyebrow: "Why not the chocolate cake?"
"Because it's a Deadly Sin to throw such a delicious cake at your ugly face, Per. I want a piece of that cake with my coffee. Do you have any idea how delicious Swedish whipped cream is?"
Frieda takes a box of eggs, size L, of chickens that had a better life. Her fastball lands exactly between Per's eyes.
"STRIKE! Frieda one. Per zero."
The second egg hits him on the chin. Finally, Per reacts. He ducks when the third egg comes his way and hides behind the pile of cartons of milk, straight from Father's Farm where all the cows dance the hokipoki every day. Frieda moves over to the ecological vegetables and makes a fine selection of unsprayed, organically grown tomatoes. She has to sidestep twice, first when a creamy dessert with strawberry flavour flies in her direction, and then to see a pack of wholewheat macaroni (on offer, two packs for the price of one) splash against a crate of sweet onions.
"Is that all you've got? If one man has a pack of macaroni and another man has tomatoes and onions, they should work together, Per, and both will eat macaroni with a sauce of tomatoes and onions. It's also nicer to eat together, wash the dishes together, and cook together, than it is to eat alone."
She throws one tomato as a decoy and lets it follow by a second one. It hits Per in his left eye when he stands up again.
"Frieda three, Per zero. Frieda four, Per zero." Frieda's curveball tomato lands on Per's right eye. One more on the nose and Per's face looks like three cherries on a slot machine, giving the jackpot to Frieda.
Per dives on the ground and crawls away. He hides under the tissues with sweet-smelling lotion, perfect for the delicate skin of your baby's bottom. When Frieda bombs him with ecological kiwis, he tries to escape behind the shampoo anti-dandruff that makes you irresistible. He grabs a bottle of deodorant that keeps you 48 hours free of bodily odours (he can use it, the sweat pearls from his forehead, and his silk shirt sticks at his back like it's been washed with an inferior brand) and launches it, without aiming, in the direction where he suspects Frieda, but Frieda has moved already to the other side of the shop, fast, picking up a box with a chocolate cake with whipped cream on her way.
"Not that chocolate cake!"
"There's plenty of it, Benny. You'll get your share. Don't worry. Per will feel what it is to be black and defeated in a country where Freedom rules."
Per sees it coming, but there's nothing he can do. In his attempt to escape Frieda's snatch of fury, he slips on one of the eggs that missed him, and falls backwards into the fresh strawberries from Huelva. Frieda smashes the chocolate cake with whipped cream in his face, the cherry on the cake. She kills him with words, a dagger in his soul: "You're not superior. You're just self-important and arrogant. Bah!"
I present Frieda a bunch of wild flowers (the perfect gift for your perfect friend), lift her right hand and shout: "Frieda five. Per zero. Game over. The winner takes it all. And the good news is: I have it all on video. For a small contribution, we will share this promotional recording with all the voters in Sweden and beyond, so they can be sure to elect the right woman for the job, next June. Is there anything you want to say in your defence, my dear Per? Do you accept your loss? Do you want to congratulate Miss Larsson on her victory? Or perhaps you can tell us where you and your dear friend Misses Wahlöö are hiding Frieda's sister Agneta. You did kidnap her, didn't you?"
Per Bojangles, with his black face and his black hands, has no idea what I'm talking about: "I have no idea about that. It's Maj you should talk to. She's the one who couldn't stand Agneta. I don't know what she thinks she's doing, but… I know nothing about Agneta."
"So what were you doing with Maj Wahlöö in room 037 of Sports Hotel The Bridge?", I wonder.
"Well? What are a man and a woman doing in a hotel room? We're having an affair, of course. She has stupid ideas about politics, shouting about sharing and equality all the time, but she has a spectacular pair of tits that make a man forget he's married with children."
An affair? The leader of the Liberal Party and the leader of the Socialist Party are having an affair? I can't believe this: "This affair you and Maj are having… Is it just lust? Or is it a political statement?"
Per looks bloody hurt with all the pulp of fresh strawberries everywhere: "A political statement?"
I shake my head: "You have one chance to get away with this, my friend. When I said I recorded this, I wasn't joking. Here, on my phoneh I have your confession about having an affair with the leader of your biggest rival. Let's make a deal. You can call it an affair and I'll make it public, or you can explain it like a brilliant political move and I'll forget about the whole thing."
Per makes a politically rather clumsy remark: "Are you blackmailing me?"
"You're the one who's black and I'm the one who puts it in the mail. When I do it, you call it blackmail, but when you do it yourself, you call it politics. I made you an offer. You're free to choose…"
Per seems interested: "Explain the brilliant political move to me."
"I heard an interesting slogan today: «Sometimes, you can't make it on your own». Your Freedom has a price: responsibility. Maj Wahlöö and her Socialist Party stand for responsibility. They stand up for the poor, the old and the sick. They want education and a decent job for everyone. Your freedom and your company-friends are their biggest obstacle. You and she are fighting a war. My suggestion is: make love, not war. Sometimes, you can't make it on your own. Even the strongest leader is powerless without the people who gave him his power. You're not here to fight each other. You're here to join forces and rule this world together, like the Lion King and the Lion Queen of the Jungle, taking care of each other. The companies and their owners need workers and consumers. The workers, on the other hand, need a decent salary to buy the products the companies produce. They need each other, and they need leaders who create win-win situations, making deals with a profit for everyone. Don't fight. When two fight, one loses. Join forces and make everyone a winner. Then, there's a third option: when voters realise their political car of democracy is so full of junk that it's slowing them down, they will get rid of the junk and not of the car. Do I make myself clear?"
Per nods at Frieda while he asks me: "Did she give you those ideas?"
Frieda answers: "No, Per. My sister Agneta did. You can try to get her out of the way, but her ideas will remain, like a virus, and influence more and more people, until the majority starts to understand that the current politics of Two Tribes, the continuous fight between Left and Right, has no future anymore. Agneta just opened our eyes. She doesn't tell people what to do. She tells them to think. Freedom is nice, but it's useless without responsibility. You let us choose between Left and Right, but heaven is above and hell is below, so the choice you give us is meaningless. Don't tell others what to do. Inspire. Motivate every citizen in our beautiful country to do hor best for all of us. You were just lucky to be born white, rich and powerful. Imagine you're as black as a chocolate cake, hurt like a strawberry, on the ground, defeated, with no chance of getting up. You don't need selfish politicians that only work for the white elite. You'll need a helping hand, someone who helps you get back on your feet again, someone who motivates you to go on and fight for what's really important: Swedish men and women who trust each other, who respect each other, and who commit themselves to give everything they have, every day, for the country they were born in, and for the people who make it special. Here's my hand. Grab it or leave it. It's your choice."
It's hardly a choice. Per is an intelligent man. He takes Frieda's hand and gets up: "I don't know what to say."
"You can say «Thanks». You can say «I promise to give it my best». Show me you can change. You can be a leader like Sweden never had before. But if you forget your promise, you can be sure we won't."
I wave my spiPhone before his eyes.
There's nothing more to say. I give my credit card to the owner of the supermarket, who has watched the happy horror show like every average voter of every modern democracy watches the outcome of the political fight, waiting for the invoice of the damage that the working class always has to pick up. Not this time, Mister. Luxembourg's taxpayers will be thrilled to compensate you for your kindness, your hospitality, and the shipload of fun we've had this morning.
We get our gift of chocolate cake with whipped cream. He wishes us a pleasant day and hopes to welcome us to his shop again soon.
Before we leave, Frieda has one final word of goodbye to Per: "I didn't come here to criticise you. I came to give you solutions.
» Your Freedom, your right-wing politics of Survival of the Fittest, it worships the Seven Deadly Sins, and it's based on animal instinct. Instinct leads to Extinct. You should try Intelligence and Responsibility as a base for your political ideas. Your mother and your wife wanted to teach you that. Agneta tried to teach you that. And now I do my best to teach you that. If you're intelligent, you learn fast and start teaching it to others.
» And don't teach us that hiding under the table is an effective defence against a nuclear attack. Teach us Human Qualities. Don't teach us how to compete and fight. Teach us how to love each other, and give rewards to the ones who are best at it.
» In the ancient Confucian state, the ruler's main function was to educate and transform the people. Confucianism was a moral system. The state was the moral guardian of the people. Their merit civil service selected officials for their moral qualities, so they would not only govern but also set a moral example that would transform the people. Wisdom and decent behaviour, not financial wealth or profit in business, were the marks of status of their leaders. It might be an idea for your upcoming election campaign: change your slogan «Freedom» into «Think». Evolution means you've learnt from your old mistakes, so you can grow to a higher level. You'll have to change your evil ways, baby, before Sweden stops loving you."
Rostov! They teach interesting things at Management University.