The Three Fates of Henrik Nordmark: A Novel (4 page)

[Saintdameon has left the room]

Henrik departed the internet café even more upset than when he entered. His boring conversation had made people flee his presence. Were there any depths lower than the one to which he’d just sunk? Henrik headed straight home and turned on the television again. He watched a cooking show with Rachael Ray, considered masturbating to her segment about making goulash, then heard her thick New York accent and suddenly fell limp. He changed the channel to Jacksonville’s Religious Crusade. Henrik watched this show with eager fascination. One after another guests came on to explain what an incredible impact Jesus had made in their lives. The outdated hairstyles and grainy film quality made Henrik suspect he was watching a rerun. But there was a
1-800
number at the bottom of the screen. Henrik was willing to try anything — even giving up his life of brazen heresy. He’d never considered becoming a religious zealot before. It did seem to have its advantages. The sense of righteous indignation and the promise of an eternal life were both alluring. Henrik couldn’t really think of a third reason, but he repeated the first two in his head and decided they more than justified his looking into this.

He picked up the phone and called the number.

A woman with a southern accent answered.

“Hello, this is Mary Jo. Would you like to donate to Jacksonville’s Religious Crusade?”

“Actually,” Henrik said, “I’d just like to learn more about your religion.”

“Would you like to subscribe to the Jacksonville’s Religious Crusade newsletter?”

“Yes, I would.”

Unprompted, Henrik gave the woman all his personal details — address, birthdate, social insurance number, bank account number and his
PIN
numbers.

“Sir, I don’t think we need all of that information.”

“Is there someone I can talk to about Jesus now?” Henrik said.

“You would have to call a different number for that,” the woman said. “I work primarily in the donations department.”

There was something funny about this woman. Her accent was inconsistent. It wavered from Deep Southern, to Southern Baptist, to something altogether foreign. Norwegian, maybe?

“So there’s no one there that I can talk to about religion?” Henrik said.

“I’m afraid not, sir. You would have to call a different number.”

“Do you have that number?” he said.

“No, I don’t. Not in front of me.”

“Oh.”

There was dead silence on the line. Finally, the woman spoke. Her southern accent suddenly disappeared and was replaced by another accent altogether.

“Listen, sir, I have to level with you,” she said. “My name isn’t Mary Jo. It’s Parminder. The Jacksonville Religious Crusade outsourced their financial calls to India three weeks ago. People were getting really angry when they heard my Indian accent, so I started faking an American accent. I’m sorry to have misled you.”

“Outsourced?” Henrik said.

“Yes, you know how things are with the global economy and whatnot.”

“And you answer all of Jacksonville’s Religious Crusade’s calls?”

“I sometimes also pick up calls for the Ab Lounger Deluxe.”

“Does that machine really work?” Henrik said.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think it does.”

“How much do they pay you?”

“One hundred and forty-five rupees an hour.”

“How much is that?” he said.

“I believe it’s about three dollars and fifty cents.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” she said.

“And you can’t teach me about Jesus?”

“No,” she said. “I’m not Christian. I’m Sikh. I follow the teachings of Nanak.”

“I want to learn about religion so that I can be different,” Henrik said. “I want to be unique.”

“Well, religion alone won’t make you unique.” Parminder suddenly turned somewhat philosophical. “That’s something you need to find within yourself.”

“What if it’s not there?” Henrik said. “What if there isn’t anything within me to make me unique?”

Parminder didn’t seem to know what to say so she began explaining Nanak and the writings of the Janamsakhis. Apparently Nanak believed in helping the elderly and the poor. This was all very well and good, Henrik thought, as it is probably the wisest way to attract virtuous people to one’s religion. Henrik leaned back in his chair and listened intently for almost three full minutes before feeling abnormally tired. Parminder’s real accent was quite thick and difficult to understand. Moreover, this Nanak seemed to speak in a lot of generalities. Henrik wondered if Jesus spoke in so many generalities. His eyelids were getting heavy. A wave of drowsiness washed over him.

Henrik was just about to fall asleep when he heard a second voice on the line. A man with an even thicker Indian accent was speaking to Parminder in a language Henrik didn’t recognize. Parminder replied in the same language. They carried on for about fifteen seconds before the man’s voice trailed off into the distance.

“I’m sorry,” Parminder said. “My supervisor walked by and asked me what I was talking about.”

“Did I get you in trouble?” Henrik said.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Parminder said. “I do have to go though. Donations to the Crusade are down eight percent this quarter and I have an hourly rate to maintain. But I wish you the best, Henrik. Be strong my friend. And have faith that you will find what you’re looking for.”

She hung up.

Henrik turned off the television and placed his phone on the receiver. He waddled on groggy feet into the bedroom and climbed under the covers. Henrik put his head on the pillow, completely unaware that at that very moment on the other side of town, three elderly assassins were planning his demise.

six

9:37
a.m. Alfred’s
1984
Chrysler LeBaron thundered along the road with pockets of rust on the hood and billows of black smoke churning out the back. Like an out-of-control shopping cart, it warbled down a hill, veered between lanes and narrowly missed a stop sign as Alfred’s shaky hands steered the vehicle off the highway and into the suburbs. Beside Alfred, dressed in black from head to toe, Conrad barked out sightless directions to his mute associate and held on for dear life.

Billy Bones sat in the back seat, a smile spread across his frumpy face.

The previous evening in the dead of night, Alfred and Billy Bones sneaked out of their rooms and met Conrad in a darkened corner of the retirement home. There amongst the shadows, Conrad laid out plans for their mission. Billy Bones, fearing it might be his last, insisted he be allowed to say goodbye to his one true love. Conrad and Alfred naturally assumed he meant his wife of fifty-three years, a woman named Beatrice who lived in a nursing home across town. When they mentioned her name, Billy Bones went red with anger.

“Beatrice tried to kill me with a meat cleaver back in
1976
. Why would I want to see her?”

“Really, old chap?” Conrad said. “You’ve never told me this before.”

“I came home from the track smelling like perfume, and Beatrice, who was an old biddy years before she was old enough to be an old biddy, she grabbed a meat cleaver and swung it at my head. I ducked out of the way and she hit our cat Mittens.”

“Dear God.”

“Split the cat right in two, she did. It made a hell of a sound.”

“What happened after she killed the cat?”

“That’s where the story gets ugly. Beatrice didn’t quite manage to kill the cat. Mittens proved resilient. Cats with orange hair have always got a lot of fight in them. She rushed Mittens to the vet and he sewed him up pretty good. Somehow Mittens managed to hang on for the better part of six months. He would hobble around the house howling in pain. Beatrice always blamed me. She told me the cat developed low self-esteem since it wasn’t able to catch mice anymore. But I told her —
you
swung the meat cleaver!”

“And now you’re estranged?” Conrad said.

“We are.”

“Then who is this true love of yours?”

Billy Bones motioned for Conrad to come closer. Of course, the room was dark and Conrad was blind so he couldn’t see. He stood still, waiting expectantly. Billy Bones leaned into Conrad’s ear and screamed, “A prostitute I visited during the war! Rosalina Estranova!”

Conrad recoiled from Billy’s bellowing voice. His hands formed a pyramid under his chin and his expression turned serious. “I will find this Rosalina Estranova for you, old friend. You will say your goodbyes and then we’ll settle the business at hand.”

The next day Conrad made a few calls and it turned out there was a woman named Rosalina Estranova living about twenty minutes from the old folks’ home. They climbed into Alfred’s car and despite not having had a valid driver’s license for the past fifteen years and the fact his insurance had long since expired, Alfred fired up the old LeBaron and roared off. Soon enough they rounded the last corner before the Estranova household.

Conrad stepped out of the car and into the backdrop of a green suburban landscape, his crimson-laced cape fluttering in the breeze. On the road, children were playing street hockey. Alfred had narrowly missed running into a goaltender and a defenseman as he parked the car. He peered his long pointed nose through the open window and climbed out on thin legs to stand beside Conrad. Billy Bones waited behind as the two old assassins approached the house. The front door was painted Amsterdam red.

“Now remember,” Conrad said. “Old Bones wants us to scope out the situation first to make sure this is a good idea.”

Alfred nodded. He dusted off his old brown suit, secured his pocket watch inside his vest, then rang the doorbell.

A count of ten passed before the door opened to reveal a stunning young Spanish woman, her skin luminous and brown. The long curls of her black hair fell down to her shoulders where they met the transparent white of her dress. The dress, in turn, clung to her skin, curved tight along her waist and led to the plunging neckline that displayed her pert breasts. She was a goddess. A warmth swirled in Alfred’s heart. Beside him, the ethereal smell from the woman’s sun-browned skin caused Conrad’s ancient loins to ache. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three years old.

“We’re looking for Rosalina Estranova.”

“You’ve found her,” the young woman said.

Alfred leaned over and whispered something inaudible in Conrad’s ear. Conrad pushed him away. “I believe we’re looking for someone more senior.”

The young woman shifted her weight from one sumptuous hip to the other.

“You’re thinking of my grandmother. Grandma Rosa died late last year. I’m looking after her house while the estate is being contested.”

Conrad twirled the ends of his moustache. “This might be a slightly delicate question, my dear, but was your grandmother a prostitute during the war?”

The young woman opened her mouth to speak and then paused. Her moist bottom lip kept Alfred mesmerized.

“Have you by any chance taken up the family business?” Conrad said.

“I’m an exotic dancer,” she said. “Not a prostitute.”

“Then the apple hasn’t fallen all that far from the tree.”

“Rosalina!” Billy called from the car. “You’re as beautiful as the day I last saw you.” He stepped out and began shuffling up the front walk.

Conrad leaned into the young woman’s ear. “Time is of the essence and I can’t explain in full, but I will give you five hundred dollars if you pretend to be your grandmother for fifteen minutes.”

The young woman shifted her eyes from Conrad to Billy Bones and back to Conrad again.

“A thousand,” she said.

Conrad reached out his glove and handed her a wad of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. Rosalina took the money just as Billy Bones enveloped her in a full-body hug.

“What’s his name?” she said.

“Bones. And there’s no need to whisper,” Conrad said. “My associate is quite deaf.”

Billy Bones stepped back to give her a better look.

“My goodness,” he said. “You haven’t aged a day.”

“Would you like to come in for some tea?” the young woman said at the top of her voice.

Billy Bones shook Alfred’s hand. He clasped Conrad’s glove as well. “I’ll be back in ten minutes, boys. Light a candle for me.”

With that Billy Bones and his true love’s granddaughter disappeared through the front door. Conrad and Alfred took position by the LeBaron and waited. They soon discovered they had an audience. The children playing street hockey had stopped their game and watched the whole scene take place. A couple of parents had now appeared and were casting suspicious looks at the two elderly assassins who were now leaning against the car. The tall skinny one smoked cigarettes while staring back at them in silence as the one in the cape slapped a pair of gloves against his shiny black cane.

Twenty minutes later the red door opened and Billy Bones emerged. Alfred could have sworn he saw the young Rosalina Estranova behind him, adjusting her dress back into its rightful position.

“Onward and upward,” Billy Bones yelled. “We have a mission to accomplish.”

The three associates climbed into the old boat. A burst of black smog shot out the back as Alfred put the car in gear and tore backward out of the driveway. The goaltender and defenseman leapt out of the way as Alfred knocked over a flimsy hockey net before peeling off down the street.