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he was. With the intention of dining at Koshy’s he had not eaten anything since breakfast. He ate a couple of cookies, glanced at Lester and met his gaze.
    Did Lester sense that it would be a long time before they saw each other again, if ever, that the friendship of many years would end here at a table with two cups of tea and a plate of cookies? Sven-Arne had Lester to thank for many things. He was the one who had put in a good word for him, taken him on as a helper in the garden, and this without asking any questions. ‘Merciful’ was the word that Sven-Arne came to think of. Lester had been merciful. This was a word that had dropped out of common usage and was only used by believers, something he had never been.
    He had made a place for Sven-Arne, skillfully bypassing the Indian bureaucracy, and presented it as if Sven-Arne was a middle-aged man who needed a change of scenery for a short while, would only play a visiting role, and then return to his country. But Lester must surely have guessed that day he first saw him that this was a man who would be a lifelong fugitive.
    Sven-Arne had never asked why he had been received with such a humble and unquestioning welcome; he knew there could be no rational explanation. This was what Lester was like. He would have been embarrassed to entertain such a question.
    It was not a matter of religion. Lester rarely or never participated in ceremonies or services; his empathy was simply there. At first Sven-Arne assumed it was Lester’s half-British background that was the source of his genuine kindness toward the stranger who wanted to help dig. Or else he had been taken aback and decided to test the stranger’s mettle. Sven-Arne would never know for sure, and had long since stopped wondering about Lester’s original motivations. Nowadays he simply warmed himself with the memories of his first stretch of time in Bangalore.
     
     
    They parted without much ado, shook hands and – after a moment’s bashful silence – gave each other a quick embrace. Sven-Arne asked Lester to hug the children for him and forward his best wishes. Sonia stood quietly by the kitchen door. She was holding a plastic bag with naan and a jar of pickles of the kind she knew Sven-Arne liked. She gave these to him without a word. Sven-Arne took the bag before he headed out the door.

FOUR
     
     
    Each time he stepped into the bathroom he felt as if he were entering a Monty Python sketch. The hotel room was more or less quiet, despite the noise of the traffic, the honking and the recurring high-pitched signal that he always mistook for his mobile phone. But when he opened the door to the bathroom it was like stepping into a roundabout with traffic rushing from every direction. It would not have surprised him if a rickshaw had rushed out between the shower and the toilet in a crazy driving manoeuvre.
    Jan Svensk sat in the midst of this tumult, in deep reflection, as he at the same time followed the exertions of an insect ascending the shower curtain. When it tumbled down, rolled over onto its legs, and set its sights on the shower for the third time in a row, he stretched out a foot and crushed it against the floor.
    His irritation at the attitude of the waiter, and above all, the maître d’, had subsided. In a way he understood them. They did not know him, whereas Sven-Arne Persson was probably a regular. One protects one’s habitual guests, that is simply a fact. Why should he let this irritate him?
    Maybe it was his general frustration at the Indian reality that had so incensed him. He had left Koshy’s in a rage without leaving a single rupee in tip. Now he was ashamed.
    Against all odds, he was also constipated. Everyone had assumed something else, but the past two days he had spent several sessions on the traffic-exposed toilet. Now, finally, his own gases mingled with the exhaust that penetrated through the always-opened vent at the very top of the wall. He sighed with relief, but also pure