The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared

then noticed was the man standing in the middle of the bottom step, with both arms in the air holding a home-made poster on which could be read:
I AM
ALLAN
EMMANUEL
    Allan Karlsson had of course understood Secret Agent Hutton’s sermons; he simply paid no attention to them. In Hutton’s Parisit was spring, but in Moscow it was both cold and dark. Allan was freezing, and now he wanted results. At first he had intended to write Yury’s name on the poster, but eventually decided that if he was going to be indiscreet then it should be on his own behalf.
     
    Larissa Aleksandrevna Popova, Yury Borisovich Popov’s wife, lovingly held on to her husband’s arm and thanked him for the fifth time for the fantastic experience they had just shared. Birgit Nilsson was pure Maria Callas! And the seats!
    The fourth row, right in the middle. Larissa was happier than she had been for a long time. And besides, this evening she and her husband would be staying at a hotel, and she wouldn’t have to go back to that horrid city behind the barbed wire for almost twenty-four hours. They would have a romantic dinner for two… just her and Yury… and then perhaps…
    ‘Excuse me, darling,’ said Yury and stopped on the top step just outside the theatre doors.
    ‘What is it, my dear?’ Larissa asked anxiously.
    ‘It’s probably nothing… But do you see that man down there with the poster? I have to go and have a look… It can’t be… but the man is dead!’
    ‘Who’s dead, darling?’
    ‘Come on!’ said Yury and negotiated his way down the steps with his wife.
    Three metres from Allan, Yury stopped and tried to make his brain understand what his eyes had registered. Allan saw his crazily staring friend from long ago, lowered his poster and said:
    ‘Was she good, Birgit?’
    Yury still didn’t say anything, but his wife whispered, ‘Is this the dead man?’ Allan said that he wasn’t dead, and if the Popov couple wanted to make sure he didn’t freeze to death it wouldbe best if they could immediately lead him to a restaurant where he could get some vodka and perhaps a bite to eat.
    ‘It really is you…’ Yury finally managed to exclaim. ‘But… You speak Russian…?’
    ‘Yes, I went on a five-year Russian course shortly after we last met,’ said Allan. ‘The school was called Gulag. What about that vodka?’
    Yury Borisovich was a very moral man, and the last twenty-one years he had felt very guilty for having involuntarily lured the Swedish atom-bomb expert to Moscow for subsequent transport to Vladivostok, where the Swede presumably – if not earlier – would have died in that fire that all reasonably well informed Soviet citizens knew about. He had suffered for twenty-one years, because he had instantly liked the Swede and his unstoppable ability to look on the bright side.
    Now Yury Borisovich was standing outside the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow, where it was -15°C, after a warming opera performance and… no, he couldn’t believe it. Allan Emmanuel Karlsson had survived. He lived. And he was standing in front of Yury this very moment. In the middle of Moscow. Speaking Russian!
     
    Yury Borisovich had been married to Larissa Aleksandrevna for forty years and they were very happy together. They hadn’t been blessed with children, but their mutual trust knew no bounds. They shared everything for better or worse and Yury had more than once expressed to his wife the sorrow he felt over the fate of Allan Emmanuel Karlsson. And now, while Yury still tried to make sense of events, Larissa Aleksandrevna took command.
    ‘If I understand correctly, this is your friend from the old days, the man you indirectly sent to his death. Dear Yury,would it not be a good idea if in accordance with his wishes we take him quickly to a restaurant and provide him with some vodka before he dies for real?’
    Yury didn’t answer, but he nodded and let his wife drag him over to the waiting limousine in which he was seated beside his until recently dead comrade while his wife gave instructions to the driver.
    ‘The Pushkin Restaurant, please.’
     
    They needed two good drinks for Allan to thaw out and two more for Yury to come to his senses again. In between, Allan and Larissa got to know each other.
    When Yury was finally able to replace shock with joy (‘Now we’re going to celebrate!’), Allan thought it was time to get down to business. If you had something to say, better just to say it right away.
    ‘What do you