Way of Escape (6 page)

What usually took only moments began to stretch into a considerable amount of time. Carl-Joran looked down at Siddhu and shrugged. He leaned his tall body around the corner and peered through the thick glass windows. Just barely, he could see the teller's black-suited form rather animatedly talking to someone not visible to Carl-Joran, and the teller's back was uncomfortably stiff and his arms intermittently jerked in some sort of pleading motion.

“I don't like this,” said Carl-Joran to Siddhu, “this is not good.”

“What? What is happening?” Siddhu tried to lean around like his large counterpart, but was unsuccessful.

Three more minutes and the teller and an expensively dressed young man came out of the security area. The young man, younger than the teller, introduced himself as the bank manager. He had probably been sent directly to Haifa from the main bank in Zurich.

“‘Ello, yes,” said the manager, whose accent immediately confirmed Carl-Joran's suspicions, “there is a very strange problem on your account, Baron.” He laid some computer printouts on the desk. “If you see it says from the main bank that you…that you are
tot
. I mean, obviously, you are not dead. You are standing right here alive. But,
mein
baron, we cannot get into your accounts. None of them. You see on the forms, they all say your accounts are all to be put in your inheritor's name and until that has officially happened, they are frozen. I am very sorry, Baron. I am so sorry.” The young man was beside himself and the teller hovered like a distraught groom.

Carl-Joran's face had the appearance of a boxer who's been hit one too many times and is about to go down for the count.

Siddhu Singh Prakash, not much better, stared at the young manager, then at his friend and gently tugged at Carl-Joran's sweatshirt sleeve. “Baron, is he saying you cannot put money in the EW account here in Israel? Is he?”

“I guess that's the upshot,” said Carl-Joran.

“What will we do?” Siddhu almost screeched, “Nothing can happen.”

“I'll call my son,” Carl-Joran said. “Don't worry. We'll get this straightened out.” He smiled at the worried bank manager and the dancing penguin and nodded, “It'll be dealt with. And, you don't say anything about having seen me alive, here, correct?”

The bank manager bowed again, “Naturally not, no. Of course, Baron, because we are here to help, Herr Hermelin.”

They hurried out of the bank and along the street until Carl-Joran could whistle a taxi, which sped them, along with Siddhu's bicycle, to the top of the steep hill and to the door of the Nof Hotel. Carl-Joran paid the driver and they were quickly up the elevator and into the big Swede's room.

The little red light on the phone was blinking madly. Messages—Carl-Joran called the desk. All of them were from Sture, the very person he was about to call, his son and the number was the castle's. Sture was at home. Carl-Joran got hold of the international operator and was rung through to Sweden and to his castle.

“
Far!
” Sture almost shouted into the phone when he heard his father's voice. “Dad! What the hell is going on? I can't get any money from our bank. I must go to Stockholm, I should have gone today, to the Karolinska Institute and see my professor…and, and…”

“But,
min son
, the accounts should all have come directly to you, except for the one that goes to Emigrant Women. They weren't to go into probate, they were in trust accounts.” Carl-Joran dropped heavily onto the bed. Siddhu sat quietly in a chair at the table and waited patiently while the man spoke in Swedish, which he didn't understand. Carl-Joran went on, “There was to be no probate, none at all. I assure you. Everything was in trust funds and assigned accounts. It was all taken care of.”

“Well, it's not!” exclaimed Sture Nojd Hermelin. “All I got is what's in the housekeeping account and in my own savings account. Everything is closed up!”

“Damnation! The lawyer must have gotten confused,” said Carl-Joran. “Can you call Inge Person? Can you see what's happened and call me right back?”

“I already got a call in to whoever's in the office,” said Sture. “As soon as they answer, I'll ring you.”

“Okay, I'll be waiting right here in my hotel room.” He hung up and Siddhu jumped to his feet and waved his hands. He was about to speak when Carl-Joran said firmly, “It'll be taken care of. Just…wait. Wait. Sture is getting hold of our attorney.”

“But…but…but…,” Siddhu sputtered.

“Don't!” insisted Carl-Joran. “Here, I'll order up some tea.” He grabbed the phone and did just that. Siddhu's eyes were wide with anxiety and he began to pace, back and forth, back and forth.

Fifteen very long minutes later, after the strong tea had been delivered and was about to be drunk, the phone in the hotel room rang and Carl-Joran grabbed it up.

“It's me, Far,” said Sture on the other end, “and the news is bad. It's a terrible shock.”

“What? Tell me,” Carl-Joran sat down again on the edge of the bed.

“The Pastorkirche has found someone they say is your real wife, a woman you did not divorce. She is the person who has been given your accounts.” Sture, a youngster as tall and strong as his father, could be heard near tears. “Everything, except for my small private account has gone to her. Far, she even owns the castle!”

“It can't be. Your mother,
min alskling
Heda, was my wife. What do they mean my first wife?” Carl-Joran could see the lights coming on in the harbor and around the shiny dome of the Bab's temple down in the Baha'i Gardens immediately below the hotel. He was completely unprepared for such a shock as this. “What name was it? Did they give you a name for this woman who is supposed to be a wife of mine?”

“Mrs. Bonnie Ixey,” said Sture. “Now really, Dad, be honest, did you ever know her?”

“Bonnie?” Carl-Joran's lightly tanned face began to blush pink, “Bonnie…I knew a Bonnie once, long ago, but her name was Seastrand, not Ixey.”

“Okay, then they're the same,” Sture said with horrible resignation. “Here is what the Pastorkirche papers say, ‘Bonnie Mari Sjostrand Ixey of Morro Bay, California.'“

“
Aha
…
min
…
gud!
” swore the big Swede, “I cannot believe such a thing. That was years and years ago. It is ancient history. Long before you were born, before I came home to Sweden and met your mother, so long ago! The marriage was not even real. It was…it was for…for protection!” and he stopped speaking for a moment. How could he explain all of this to a son who knew nothing of the Contras, of Nicaragua, of guns and drugs in Latin America, of rebellions and refugees, of the exigencies of war and soldiers and terrorists and intrigue? Finally, Carl-Joran took a ragged breath and asked, “You didn't tell the lawyer I was alive, did you?”

“No, that's still a secret,
Pappa
.” Sture sighed on the other end with all the implications of not understanding his father at all or his father's crazy friends and crazier business, but putting up with it.

“Okay, then we're safe.” The father shifted on the bed and noticed the very anxious Siddhu now pacing at warp speed back and forth, back and forth. “I'll deal with it from here, Sture, I'll take care of things as fast as I can.”

“I hope so, Dad. Call me soon, I'll want to be at the Karolinska by noon tomorrow. I'll tell the professors something.” Sture rang off.

Carl-Joran hung up the phone. Agonized, he turned to the Indian accountant and switched to English. “We're in a whole bunch of trouble.” He said, “We don't have any money.”

Siddhu screeched, “Do not say such a thing!”

CHAPTER 4: WEALTH IN AN INSTANT

It was like waiting for a medium to look in her crystal ball, except that Mrs. Lena Falquist Reynolds bore no resemblance to a gypsy palm reader or spirit medium. She was in her late twenties, dressed in an old sweatshirt and jeans, her boyish-cut blonde hair pushed under a scarf, and her face had a minimum of makeup, leaving her gray eyes the most outstanding feature in her lightly tanned face. She peered at the letter though as if it were just such a magical instrument to divine the future.

Bonnie, in the big armchair with the floral patterned cover, tried to be still. The large, comfortable house had that morning quiet only housewives or househusbands know, those moments when everything is suddenly peaceful. The cat, black with a white chin, having finished its morning's wash job, purred in the sun on the windowsill, his little pink tongue absentmindedly left poking out from between sharp fangs. Lena's daughter was in preschool class, her husband, an aeronautics engineer, had gone to work. The world seemed empty of strife. The chubby cat half closed its eyes, settled into encircling paws and with little pink tongue vibrating, began to snore gently.

“I am very sorry,” said Lena abruptly, making Bonnie jump a bit, “to have you to sit and to wait a long time.” She poked a straying lock of hair back under the scarf. She was slender, with that willowyness found in the southern Swedes from Skona. With a nod, she went on, “You were right, it is a government form and it is complicated. It says this and it says that and then it repeats it and then you have to fill out this form on the back.
Forbaskad
byrakratism!
” She shook her head, trying to translate with, “Darn it bureaucracisms!”

“But generally, what does it say?” Bonnie begged.

“Okay, we begin with the
brev
, the letter that is on top,” her accent was heavy and she was struggling with the words. “One moment, I get dictionary.” She jumped to her feet and hurried to the bookcase in the hall, pulled out two huge orange books, brought them back to the coffee table, and laid them there between her and Bonnie. “
Nu
, we work.”

Bonnie was somewhat appalled at the seriousness with which Lena was suddenly taking all this. Perhaps appalled was not the word, perhaps it was fearful. When Bonnie had appeared that morning, Lena had been bright and cheery and had happily served up a tray of rich coffee and supremely delicious, and probably highly caloric, Swedish cookies. All was amiable until Bonnie handed her the envelope with the ominous window and the two sheets of airmail paper. Lena's face had immediately clouded with tension and as she read through the papers, her whole demeanor underwent a transformation.

“You do not know anything of what they write here?” Lena had asked. Bonnie had shaken her head no. It was then Lena had begun the divination of sorts.

The big orange dictionaries looked as formidable as the expression on Lena's face. “Do you see they have your name spelled correctly? That they have translated the name Seastrand to the Swedish Sjostrand?”

“My father's real name was Sjostrand,” explained Bonnie, “which makes this all the more mysterious that they should have gotten it right. That's all I could figure out though, except for the blanks where they want the grandmother's name, grandfather's name, and children.”

“Ah, yes, here on the back. That is for you to give the Pastorkirche official enough information to register you in the correct book.”

“Why? What is a Pastorkirche? What book?”

Lena sighed, struggled for more words. “The Pastorkirche is a very, very old institution. Each area in Sweden has one.” She thumbed through the big orange dictionaries. “Ah, you say parish, each parish has one, or county, yes, it can be county. It is like the chief church office of each county. In that office, for centuries, all the people are marked down in a giant book. Of course today everyone is put into a computer list in Stockholm central government as well. All the
fodelsen
, all the
dodsfallen
—that is, the births, the deaths, and you say, the marriage, the divorce, everything that happens to the people in that county.”

“But…” Bonnie shook her head again, “why me? Why does this Pastorkirche office want me to fill out a form?” “ Ah,” Lena leaned back into the couch, “because the Swedes are fanatical people about making records. When you fill out the form, this person can put you in the correct book in the correct Pastorkirche. Do you know where your father was born?”

“A place called Mora. I saw it once on some old papers.” Bonnie remembered the yellowed immigration forms hidden away in the trunk, which was now in her own attic, untouched, left as her parents had left it all those years.

“Ah, you are officially going to be registered in Dalarna County. It is a wonderful place, Dalarna. It is where the red horses of wood come from and elfs…is that right? Elfs?”

“Elves. Little fairy people?” Bonnie tried to help.

“Yes, maybe, in Sweden these elfs are very big and not good.” Lena looked back at the letter and the form. “Your registration is the second thing. The first thing is this letter. You are being told that you
arvade
,” she leaned forward and flipped through the dictionary again. “Ah, you inherit a
aga
, a…a
egendom
. You inherit a…estate.”

“An estate!” Bonnie exclaimed. “What estate? Whose estate? Where?”

“Wait, slower, I try to explain,” Lena held up one hand. “Someone who is called Carl-Joran Hermelin died two weeks past and the Pastorkirche says you are his
laglighet hustru
. It means you are his legal wife.”

Bonnie's mouth dropped open. She could no longer speak.

Lena, putting a finger on the names, held the letter so Bonnie could read them. “Do you know a person who is called Carl-Joran Hermelin?”

Bonnie shook her head.

“It say you are his wife! You must remember him if you did that,” said Lena, grinning. “And also, he was a baron.”

“Baron?” Bonnie's voice returned with a sharp squeak, “You mean, like a lord, he was royalty?”

Lena nodded. “Yes, you inherit his
slott
—his castle and his land.” Lena laughed at the look on Bonnie's face. “You never know this Baron Hermelin? Never?”

Bonnie, completely perplexed, shrugged a big shrug and raised both her hands. “No, never.”

Pursing her lips, Lena perused the letter again. “It is very unusual for the Swedish byrakratism to make a mistake on these matters. They have wonderful genealogy records. They are very thorough.” The pretty face scowled. “Very thorough, especially when taxes must be paid.”

Whirring back over the years, Bonnie tried and tried to remember anyone she'd known who might conceivably have been called anything like Hermelin. Surely, as Lena pointed out, she'd have remembered being married to royalty! Nothing, absolutely nothing came to mind. She shook her head again.

“Well,” said Lena, “you are now wealthy. You must fill out this form and send it back so you are registered as Swedish. Then you must travel to Norrkoping and take possession of the castle. Let's see,” she returned to the letter, “there is a younger son who lives at the castle. His name is Sture Nojd Hermelin.”

“Why didn't he inherit his father's estate?” asked Bonnie.

“Ah, it says you are legitimate, he is not. It says you did not divorce this Carl-Joran Hermelin, so when he married a woman named Heda Bergshem it was not legitimate. This makes Sture Nojd not legitimate.”

A thought struck Bonnie. She said the name slowly, “Carl-Joran was his first name?”

“Yes.”

“I…” the small, gray-haired woman sat back in the big chair. “ Once, I knew a Swedish man named Carl. Many years ago. In college.”

“Many Swedish men are named Carl. Many are named Carl-Joran. It is common,” said Lena. “What was his last name?”

“I…” and Bonnie thought, this is where things get sticky. She breathed once, twice, and blurted out, “I never actually knew his last name. I mean, his real last name. It was…I was doing a friend a favor. You see…”

“So what was the last name he used?” asked Lena again.

“Mink. He called himself Carl J. Mink.” Bonnie felt the blood rush to her face.

“Mink, what means mink?” Lena grabbed up the dictionary and hurried to the word mink.

Bonnie explained, “It's a little white animal whose fur gets made into extremely expensive coats.”

“Ah, of course,” she said with glee, “I find it. Mink or ermine in Swedish is
hermelin
. I thought so because of the crest.” She held up the letter, which had near the middle part with the name Baron Carl-Joran Hermelin:
avliden
, a small imprint of a shield. On each side of the shield were two creatures, one black, one white, which, if the imagination stretched, could be considered to be a mink and an ermine.

“Oh…my…God.” Bonnie put a hand to her face as it turned scarlet. Trisha was right. There is a bottom line.

Bonnie had had the one moment in her life that could be considered an adventure. None of it had seemed real. A summer, three months that had gone blindingly fast like a movie speeded up. And once over, she had not looked back. How lucky Ike had died last year, she suddenly thought and the import of the statement hit her hard. What an awful thing to believe! She had had many good years with Eisen Ixey. He had been very good to her. What would he have done though, if he had known? She could feel tears start down her cheeks.

Lena saw them, reached across the coffee table, and took her by the shoulder. “It is sad? What can I do?”

“I don't know,” Bonnie shook her head. “I never thought, how could I, that I was bringing you this!”

With a swift movement, the willowy Swedish lady came to sit on the arm of the big, overstuffed chair. “This paper does not say bad things, Bonnie. It says you are rich. It says you are a baroness.”

“How could this Pastorkirche have found out about me? About that man? He didn't use his right name. I, myself, never knew his real name. I never knew who he was. I only knew he was in trouble, that he needed help, he needed to hide, and I…I helped.” Bonnie wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“You helped him?” Lena bent to look in her face, “You helped him by marriage. Yes? To give him have a green card.”

Bonnie nodded. “Yes. And…and more, he could have a new identity for a while.”

“Do you know why he needed the identity, a new one?” Lena put an arm around Bonnie's shoulders.

“No. I didn't ask questions. We knew we shouldn't, or couldn't. The only reason I did what I did was because I trusted Toby, Toby Hughes, our leader. We were all in an antiwar group, helping refugees from Latin America, you know, go to someplace safer. One day Toby came to me and asked me, because my father was Swedish, which would make this seem logical to the immigration authorities, he seemed to think, to take care of this man, well, a boy really, who called himself Carl Mink. And I did.”

A cloud of doubt came over Lena's face. “Did you get a divorce from this boy, Carl Mink? If you divorced him, you cannot be rich now.”

Bonnie shook her head. “I knew Carl Mink was a made-up name. I didn't think the marriage was real. How could it be legal if Mink wasn't Carl's name? And we did everything in secret. My parents didn't know, no one at school knew. We got married in Las Vegas, we honeymooned…I mean, we called it that…and I didn't…” Bonnie choked, “I couldn't tell the man I met the Christmas after Carl went away…I couldn't tell Ike before we married, and I could never, ever have told him later.”

“A marriage is a marriage and Mink is the same as Hermelin. It is the same man.” Lena nodded. “You have always been Baroness Bonnie Mari Hermelin.”

“What will I tell my daughters?” Bonnie asked, not Lena, but herself, and no answer immediately came.

Lena went back to her seat on the couch and poured more of the excellent coffee into Bonnie's cup, stuck a rich butter cookie on the saucer, and forced Bonnie to take saucer and cup in hand. “Do you think Dell and Trisha will object to being rich? Oh, I don't believe they will.”

“Probably not,” laughed Bonnie, trying to cover her dismay. “Tell me what else the letter says. You said I have to go to Sweden? That I'll be registered as Swedish?”

After pouring her own coffee, stirring sugar into it, and sipping, Lena scanned the letter again. “Umm—yes, because your father was a Swedish citizen, you are a Swedish citizen. So, first you must go to the Norrkoping Pastorkirche office and report to them. You will be given the proper papers and so you will take possession of the Hermelin Slott, the Hermelin Castle. You must decide what will happen to the poor boy, Sture, if he gets any money or property or something. And you must decide what you want to do with the castle and your bank accounts.”

“Accounts!” Bonnie almost spit out her coffee. “How many accounts? How much money is there?”

“It only says accounts, it does not say how many,” said Lena reading, “but it does say that the total amount of property value and money is, hmmm, let's figure, from the krona to the dollar…around $280 million dollars.”

Bonnie forced herself to gently put the cup on the coffee table. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably.

“You know,” Lena went on happily, blithely, “a friend of mine won a lottery
pris
in Sweden five years ago; she won eight million kronor. She had lots and lots of trouble. She of a sudden had so many relatives! And so many friends! Before, she never knew these people! She almost lost the money but then she hired an attorney who protect her. I think you must hire an attorney.”

“And I better hire one in Sweden!” Bonnie agreed. “Can you ask your friend who hers is?”