The Swede by Robert Karjel Read Free Book Online Page A

grabbed the gun by the barrel and walked straight up to the pelican. He stood and watched it for a while as it turned in circles at his feet. He crouched down, looked at the bird, stood up, took a step back—shot.
    I t was Saturday night. Everybody was treating everybody else to beers and oversize cocktails under the palm-leaf roof. People talked back and forth among the tables, laughing loudly, and some couldn’t resist going out in the darkness for a swim in the sea. Pranks lasted as long into the night as anyone could keep a bar tab. N. made sure he was drunk into oblivion by the time people started talking about the Wave. It was always that way; something would start at one of the tables and spread like a disease. Half-truths and myths took hold. It was unstoppable. N. responded to direct questions with lies: he was traveling alone, had seen nothing. That way, nobody asked about his scars or bandages.
    But then the conversation turned to the religious sect and their leaflets. The rejoicing over all the deaths, how the victims had only themselves to blame. Many under the palm-leaf roof had heard talk on the beaches about fights and demonstrations in nearby cities. Just as on evenings before, the mood turned ugly when the subjectcame up. Voices were raised. Someone spat in anger and threw his glass, which smashed against the side of the bar.
    The man who’d called Reza an idiot the other night stood nearby, tossing out comments about Baptist mobs and evangelical wackos, which further fueled the debate. N. hated being reminded but listened to every word. He watched the tall man with the cane and wondered who he was. A young woman said she’d seen on television a group of people chanting, holding signs about sinners and God’s punishment. They were Americans, she said, a Christian sect. This had happened in the States, and apparently was still going on. The news had spread from television to the Internet, and out into the world. And it was here in Thailand that the response had been the most intense. Angry crowds had tried to attack a couple of consulates and the office of some airline, but riot police had protected them.
    “Americans,” said a local bartender, collecting bottles, “the authorities here . . . they don’t dare do anything else.”
    “I saw police beating people up,” said the woman, her voice cracking, “just to protect America’s interests, even for a bunch of sick religious fanatics.”
    The bartender made a gesture that suggested he was ashamed.
    A few hours and several glasses later, when spirits were running high again and Vladislav was just about to tell the next table how he escaped from the bus, Mary leaned close to N. and said, “Come.”
    “What . . .” He looked around, confused.
    “Come on.” She stood up, and he followed her out into the sand.
    They headed for Mary’s bungalow, her skirt fluttering around her bare legs. His mouth felt dry, and when they stopped outside her door, he thought she was the more sober one. She held his wrist, and he tried to put his other arm around her shoulder.
    “No,” she said firmly. He stopped, some kind of misunderstanding. She lifted his arm again, turning it with interest under the light from a lantern on the path.
    “We’re going inside.” She opened the door.
    N. stood awkwardly in the middle of the small room while Mary lit a candle and looked around for something. As she bent over in front of him, her skirt slipped down and her tank top rose up her back. In the gap appeared a tattooed cat—a black cat arching its back, its tail straight up. N. hadn’t seen it before; his first impulse was to touch it. Its eyes stared straight at him.
    “Sit down,” said Mary, standing up with a small bag in her hand. “On the chair there.” She pulled up a stool and sat down beside it. The candle burned on the table beside them.
    “Let’s see now.” She had unwrapped the bandages on one arm and felt with her fingertips over the stitches. N.