Hitman Anders and the Meaning of It All Read Free

rain money? Or bread and potatoes? Although . . . why not? He was loath to reject a person who only meant well. “Thank you, priest. If you think that a prayer directed toward Heaven might make it easier for me to live my life, I won’t put up any fuss.”
    The priest smiled and made room for herself on the park bench next to the receptionist, who was enjoying his Sunday off. And then she began her work.
    â€œGod, see your child . . . What’s your name, by the way?”
    â€œMy name is Per,” said Per Persson, wondering what God would do with that information.
    â€œGod, see your child Per, see how he suffers . . .”
    â€œWell, I don’t know that I’m suffering, exactly.”
    The priest lost her stride and said she might as well start over from the beginning, as the prayer would do most good if she weren’t interrupted too much.
    Per Persson apologized and promised to let her finish in peace and quiet.
    â€œThanks,” said the priest. “God, see your child, see how he feels that his life could be better, even if he’s not exactly suffering. Lord, give him security, teach him to love the world and the world shall love him. O Jesus, bear your cross by his side, thy kingdom come, and so on.”
    And so on? Per Persson thought, but he dared not say a word.
    â€œGod bless you, my son, with strength and vigor and . . . strength. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
    Per Persson didn’t know how a personal prayer should sound, but what he’d just heard sounded like a rush job. He was about to speak up when the priest beat him to it: “Twenty kronor, please.”
    Twenty kronor? For that?
    â€œI’m supposed to pay for the prayer?” said Per Persson.
    The priest nodded. Prayers were not something you just reeled off. They demanded concentration and devotion, they took strength—and even a priest, after all, had to live on this Earth as long as it was here, rather than in the Heaven she would eventually hang around in.
    What Per Persson had just heard sounded neither devoted nor concentrated, and he was far from certain that Heaven awaited the priest when the time came.
    â€œTen kronor, then?” the priest tried.
    Had she just lowered the price from not much to practically nothing? Per Persson looked at her more closely and saw something . . . else. Something pitiful? He made up his mind that she was a tragic case rather than a swindler. “Would you like a sandwich?” he asked.
    She lit up. “Oh, thank you. That would taste good. God bless you!”
    Per Persson said that, from a historical perspective, pretty much everything indicated that the Lord was too busy to bless him in particular. And that the prayer he had just received as nourishment was unlikely to change that.
    The priest appeared to be about to respond, but the receptionist was quick to hand over his lunchbox. “Here,” he said. “Best fed, least said.”
    â€œGod leads the humble in what is right and teaches the humble his way. Psalm Twenty-five,” said the priest, her mouth full of sandwich.
    â€œWhat did I just say?” said Per Persson.
    She really was a priest. As she gobbled up the receptionist’s four ham sandwiches, she told him that she’d had her own congregation until the past Sunday, when she was interrupted in the middle of the sermon and asked by the president of the congregation council to step down from the pulpit, pack her belongings, and leave.
    Per Persson thought that was terrible. Was there no such thing as job security in the realm of the heavenly?
    Certainly there was, but the president was of the opinion that he had grounds for his action. And it so happened that the entire congregation agreed with him. Incidentally, that included the priest herself. What was more, at least two of the congregants had thrown copies of the hymnal after her as she departed.
    â€œAs one might guess,