It’s good to find happiness in little things. Such as the fact that months went by and Hitman Anders murdered neither the receptionist nor anyone else in the immediate vicinity of the hotel. And the fact that the boss allowed Per Persson to close the reception desk and take a few hours off every Sunday. As long as the weather—unlike most other things—was on his side, he took the chance to leave the premises. Not to kick up his heels: he never had enough money for that. Sitting still and thinking on a park bench, though, was always free.
That was where he was sitting, with the four ham sandwiches and bottle of raspberry cordial he’d brought with him, when he was unexpectedly addressed: “How are you, my son?”
Before him stood a woman not many years older than Per himself. She looked dirty and worn out, and a white clerical collar gleamed around her neck, though there was a grimy stain on it.
Per Persson had never put much effort into being religious, but a priest was a priest, and he thought she deserved just as much respect as the murderers, drug addicts, and plain old trash he saw at work. Or maybe even more. “Thanks for asking,” he said. “I guess I’ve been better. Or maybe not, come to think of it. I guess you could say my life is relatively not great.”
My goodness, he had gotten so personal, he thought. Better put things right. “Though I don’t mean to burden the priest with my health and well-being. Just as long as I get something in my stomach I’ll be fine,” he said, signaling the end of the conversation by opening the lid of his lunchbox.
The priest, however, did not register the signal. Instead, she said she would certainly not be burdened by being of service—a lot or a little—if it would make his existence more tolerable. A personal prayer was the least she could do.
A prayer? Per Persson wondered what good the grimy priest thought a prayer might do. Did she think the heavens would 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.
“God, see your child . . . What’s your name, by the way?”
“My name is Per,” said Per Persson, wondering what God would do with that information.