Slugger Read online

  As it got dark, we were enveloped in the spring chill, but the glowing ashes of the bonfire still warmed the blood. And yet, when Emma took hold of my arm and stopped me from launching myself into the evening’s obligatory fist fight, I experienced a rare sense of peace, despite the schnapps vapour and scent of violence.

  The old newspaper hag’s steps thunder on the stairs and the sound of banging letter boxes mixes with cooing pigeons on the gutter pipes.

  It worked for me and for her, and the next winter she fell pregnant and we had to hurry the marriage along. To afford the rings I took a gig at the mill outside Norrtälje. Three weeks later I was on shift work, and though I had sworn never to walk the country roads like a tramp, I had to walk halfway home to save money. One cold evening a raging snowstorm was very nearly the death of me but I found a farm, surrendered my matches and thankfully, got a place to stay overnight in the barn.

  When I came home I thawed out, swapped my chaff-covered clothes for my Sunday best and ventured a proposal. I had the engagement gifts with me, wrapped in a piece of linen to sew baby clothes with. She had tears in her eyes that day, and she stroked my cheek and smiled, and said that at least I could have shaved. I probably should have, but there were so many damn things to think about.

  ‘How the fuck could I forget something like that?’

  I smack my palm into the mattress and a muffled thwack resounds in the room. I turn the bottle upside down a couple of times and give it a shake. One lonely drop trickles into the line of hair than runs between my chest and crotch.

  Forgetting to shave when I’m about to propose marriage. So fucking stupid when it matters most. They got that much right about me.

  An alarm clock blares distantly somewhere and life begins to stir in the house. Soon there are feet shuffling across linoleum floors, the smell of the coffee pots and the sound of lice being beaten from the bedclothes out in the courtyard. I had hoped that the schnapps would knock me out. Instead it seems to have cleaned out my brain channels to allow my memories to flow more easily than ever. The spirits make my sweat sting my skin, as if my own filthy interior were leaking out through the pores. A headache is sawing through my skull.

  All I ask is that I can sleep inside this hell.

  I married a good woman. The times when I had to stay home and rest after injury, broken and wretched the day after a match, she would rush out to rinse bottles at the brewery next door, or carry mortar to the building sites while I stayed at home and saw to the little one. She had to get up at half past four to get breakfast on the table because the workers’ whistle called the mason women in on the stroke of six. There was no other choice.

  There was some sort of love. Those were the good years of my life. They didn’t last.

  There is a murmur of movement and I hear a few clunking metallic sounds coming from outside, as if someone were chasing after a rat and trying to hit it with a shovel. Flat doors fly open, and brackets rattle as children on school holiday whiz down the banisters amid all the hustle and bustle. Before long the iron heels of work boots sing their monotonous song against the stone steps.

  Grief grips my insides. I drape my forearm over my eyes.

  The courtyard doors slam. Mats rustle as they are hung up on their stands. The first beat makes me wince, the second smacks my head to one side and rattles my skull. Fragments of the old crones’ gossip drift in through the window.

  How they gossiped, when I came home to the empty flat that time, and my betrayal became a certainty. Grand finale. My eyes well up for the second time tonight.

  Another pair of muffled thwacks makes my whole body flinch, and soon a hellish whipping resounds across the grounds. I twist my head frantically from side to side, causing lice to jump out of the pillow seams. Exhausted from schnapps and lack of sleep, I turn onto my good side and sob.

  My ribcage explodes over and over, and over again.

  The schnapps stings my blotchy palms, runs reddish along the scars on my knees and itches. A long night of drinking versus the morning after. There is nothing to do about it either, apart from take a break for a few hours to give my body enough of a rest for the schnapps to have a kick again.

  Somewhere outside I hear children laughing and small birds singing in the courtyard, as if my problems didn’t matter a damn.

  They probably don’t. The generation before me starved, the generation before them had the wars.

  ‘No cause to complain. Time to work.’

  I sit hollow-eyed and miserable at the desk and squint to focus on the columns in my notebook

  One new hat - 20 kronor

  One wool coat + 20 kronor

  One Husqvarna pistol + 40 kronor

  One pair of autumn boots + 5 kronor (after a polish)

  Pocket watch (Viking) + 10 kronor (poss. 12)

  Five suits + 7–15 kronor each

  Five shirts + 2.50 kronor each

  Three silk ties in various colours + 1 krona each

  A pigskin punchbag ?

  I take out the timepiece and tap on the glass. To my surprise I hear an irregular ticking when I bring it to my ear but the hands are still stuck. I might be able to convince someone that it works. I grab my pen and raise the price by a fiver.

  I was seven years old when I made my first business deal. The farmer who won me with the starting bid at the paupers’ auction liked to have a brimming cup of lingonberries each morning. I lived in the barn, in a pig sty that was divided with a metre-high plank wall, and was woken up in the wee hours every morning by the boar scratching himself against the boards.

  I would get up early and managed to pick an extra litre, which I sold to the woman at the neighbouring farm. Soon I made enough to buy a hen with nine eggs. Not long after that I had six chickens living under my bed. They were good company, and I cried the day I wrung their necks. I sold the meat, took the money, packed my belongings in a handkerchief, hit the road and never looked back.

  With a sweeping glance I take an inventory of the sailor souvenirs in my room. The ashtray with a hula-dancing figurine, a stuffed hummingbird from Rio so small that it fits in the palm of my hand, a box decorated with mother-of-pearl and a flagship made by a German donkeyman I once knew. Ström the junk dealer might give me a small lump sum for the lot. The hall mirror should be worth a couple of notes.

  It’s still not nearly enough. Maybe Lundin is right when he says that I don’t have a nose for business.

  I take the hummingbird in my hand and close my fingers around it. The feathers are soft against my palm. I want to crush it into pieces.

  I take a swig of java to chase the schnapps out of my body. The beans are ground in my grandmother’s mill and the coffee is weak but good. I’m not fussy. In the poorhouse we got coffee every other day. On the other days we got coffee grounds with a knob of butter to eat with a spoon.

  Born destitute, for ever destitute.

  I rip the page out of my notebook and crumple it up. I judge the distance by eye and throw it at the wastepaper basket, where the remains of Danilo’s Dance Course are still sticking out.

  ‘Well you’re good at missing, at least.’ The words ring out in the lonely room.

  Lundin’s Amerikaur clock strikes ten times from the flat below. It’s high time I go and check on the old man. I stagger to my feet and tap the barometer on the wall. The indicator confirms the relentless heat. I wouldn’t wear a jacket if I didn’t have to conceal my shoulder holster.

  Out of habit I grope futilely for my hat on the shelf on the way out. I almost trip on the doormat, fumble with the key in search of the keyhole and nearly fall over again as I turn to go down to Lundin’s. I find my balance and stand still. Through the flood of schnapps an idiotic notion floats to the surface and before I know it I am dashing up the stairs.

  I knock twice, thrice, before the youth opens. He is wearing elasticated underpants and has his undershirt on inside out. He has his arms wrapped around his body and looks decidedly cold despite the summer heat. His fa
ce is ashen and he seems to be suffering a severe case of Klara Malaria, the special hangover caused by the combination of spirits and amphetamines, which harvests its victims primarily among artist types and writers.

  ‘Kvisten? What the hell?’ the boy greets me mid-yawn and is suddenly wide awake. He straightens up and clears his throat. ‘Um, I’m sorry if I kept Mr Kvist awake. If that’s why you’re here.’

  ‘I hear you come from a family of fortune-tellers?’

  I am still slurring my words. I stretch out my jaws to make the words come out right. The lad looks at me.

  ‘My father had dealings with spirits, it’s true, but not me. I’ve got the gift, all right, but I haven’t done that in a long time now.’

  The youth indulges in another yawn. Cocky sod. Even my own neighbours have lost respect. I shift up a gear.

  ‘You’ve got birds standing in a damn queue outside morning and night.’

  ‘I have visitors. I’m sure Kvist understands…’

  I look him over. He backs up half a step, lowers his voice.

  ‘Female visitors.’

  I stand there quietly and let my battered face do the talking. Sometimes it is a blessing to look like you’ve been run over by a sled. He squirms, glances back inside the flat and stifles a sigh.

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘My wife.’

  The hinges in his jaw appear to be suddenly incapable of holding up his chin. It drops to his chest as if I had just broken his jawbone. He searches for the right words and plucks up the courage to produce a barely audible whisper.

  ‘I didn’t know that Kvist was married.’

  Grief shoots through me like black fever. I clench my fists so hard that my nails cut into my flesh. Another word from this pallid fuck and he’s going to get a proper box on the ear. I step in and force him back inside.

  I stand in place for a moment and look around the dimly lit flat. Heavy silk curtains obscure the windows. I squint. Every wall is covered with oil portraits, landscape paintings, pictures with battle motifs, gold-framed mirrors and a bunch of old weapons. A bookshelf displays a huge array of expensive-looking leather-bound books. A cardboard ouija board is attached to the divan table. In one corner I spy a horn gramophone. The bloke seems to have stuffed an upper-class apartment from the nineteenth century into forty square metres in Sibirien.

  ‘What was your wife’s name?’

  ‘Emma.’

  ‘Do you have your rings?’

  ‘Our engagement rings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  The fact that I pawned the gold and drank the money in my boozing years is information I keep to myself. I peer at a drinks cabinet full of bottles of whisky and gin. I stroke my unshaven chin and wet my lips.

  ‘Any other keepsakes?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I hear sounds coming from the bedroom and soon a young woman appears, with bobbed hair and a plaid dress with wide lapels across the bosom. She is holding stockings of the thinnest silk in her hand. She nods and looks away. A smile flashes across her face as she pads out to the hall. The occultist and I wait in silence until the front door is closed again.

  ‘When did your wife pass away?’

  ‘Recently.’

  ‘How did she die?’

  The letter from America burns in the inside pocket of my jacket.

  ‘Lung fever, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘I am sorry for your loss.’

  ‘I’m in a hurry.’

  The youth gestures towards a card table draped in a blanket. I sway as I walk and stretch out my arms and regain balance. The chairs scrape against the parquet floor. The occultist lights a paraffin candle in a bronze candlestick in the middle of the table, rubs the cards together and hands them to me across the blanket. Those wrists wouldn’t last half an hour at a ship’s boiler.

  I take hold of his slender hands. The candlelight flickers over his bare arms. He looks me straight in the eye. He clears his throat and there is a tremble in his voice as he speaks.

  ‘We have come here today to make contact by means of psychic trance with Mr Kvist’s wife Emma, who has sadly passed to the other side. If sir would be so kind as to close his eyes.’

  I do as I’m told. I feel slightly dizzy. I don’t understand why I came here. Bloody mumbo-jumbo. I swallow hard. My hangover is creeping in and clinging to me like a half-dead climbing plant. A gentle shudder runs through me. The youth’s breathing becomes heavy.

  I open one eye and sneak a peek at him. His eyes are shut but his eyelids are flickering. His mouth is half open and his lips are curved. He is holding his head tilted to one side and facing up to the ceiling with a mischievous expression.

  ‘Give us a sign.’

  I scoff, even though I feel a streak of superstitious fear at his voice. Nothing happens. My arms feel heavy.

  ‘Give us a sign, Emma.’

  His voice has something solemn about it, almost like a minister speaking to his congregation. Outside I hear the number 6 tram drive past. A few female voices drift in from the street. I glance at his eyelids again. The candle has gone out. A dark wisp of smoke coils towards the ceiling.

  All my pores open and sweat runs down my body. Maybe he blew it out while my eyes were closed. Fucking smoke and mirrors. If I know Emma she would definitely make her voice heard and I would be in big trouble.

  ‘She is here.’

  I squeeze the lad’s hands and try to breathe calmly. A hand, so cold it makes my blood turn to ice, caresses my sweaty neck. The skin on my back is taut. The chair falls backwards as I leap up and flap my arms as if a nest of hornets were after me.

  ‘Be gone servants of Satan! Be gone, I say!’

  I spin away like a madman, stumble over the divan table and fall heavily on my back. One of the paintings jumps off its nail and takes another with it on its way down. They hit the floor with a crash. I am lying on the floor, hugging my ribs. The sharp contours of the Husqvarna dig into my side. I whimper as I get up onto all fours.

  ‘It was my fault.’

  My voice is trembling.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. Everybody has a different reaction to contact with the spirit world.’

  ‘It was my fault.’

  I slam my fist into the tiled floor and bite my lip hard. I get up, my legs shaking, and push away the youth when he rushes to help me.

  ‘Keep your filthy ghost-talking trap shut!’ I threaten him and stagger out into the hall. The jazz boy calls something after me but I can’t hear what. Residents are slamming doors. I tumble down the stairs and grope for a cigar. Terror – the ice-cold embrace.

  The sharp smell of sabadilla vinegar from Lundin’s bed makes me feel sick. I breathe through my mouth as I sit on the carved chair next to it. The undertaker is struggling to get a bite of a fried egg onto his fork. He has a bit of yolk in his bushy white moustache. He gives up, throws down his fork with a clatter and pushes the plate away. The corners of his mouth droop downward.

  ‘My father, the old curmudgeon, turned a hundred and received a telegram from the King.’

  ‘Thought His Majesty preferred younger blokes.’

  Exhaustion surges through my body and makes my eyelids twitch. I scoop the egg up on the fork and hold it out to him.

  ‘What was that?’

  He opens his mouth and I feed him.

  ‘Nothing.’

  I take his plate and shovel some in my mouth too. My hand is unsteady and the porcelain clinks.

  ‘What a to-do you caused last night, brother. Did you have company?’

  I shake my head so hard my brain rattles between the bones of my skull. It feels like my hangover has multiplied in this Godforsaken heat. The more liquid you pour in, the drier your mouth becomes. I can’t even begin to understand how that works. I pinch the bridge of my nose as Lundin looks out the window. The curtains bulge inward lazily in the wind.

  With trembling hands I begin to shuffle his red-chequered pack
of cards, but I drop a few on the floor and fumble to pick them up. Lundin takes the deck from me.

  ‘How old is your daughter now?’ he says in a breathy wheeze.

  ‘Ida.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Almost sixteen.’

  Lundin nods and continues as if he is speaking to someone out in the street.

  ‘I’m sure she is coping. Women cope.’

  My heart strikes my broken tuning fork of a rib. I screw up my eyes. Hope the bastard will move on soon so I don’t have to deal with his horseshit. He starts talking about a young love of his but I’m not listening.

  He sets his cards out in his lap for another round of patience and nods at them.

  ‘It’s called Idiot’s Delight. It’s near impossible to win, like life.’

  ‘What the hell are you blathering on about?’

  I lean my elbows on my knees and hold my head in my hands. It’s still spinning.

  ‘I thought that you would probably go first, brother, the way you romp round. I’m glad that is not the case. There is no space in the future for the likes of us, you mark my words. The older generation.’ Lundin picks up the queen of spades and turns his head but I catch a glint in his eye.

  ‘Can you ask Good Templar Wetterström to shuffle his way down and bear witness to my will? It concerns the business and the building itself. The whole damn shebang.’

  ‘Can’t I do that?’

  Lundin laughs and shakes his head.

  ‘That wouldn’t be right.’

  Wrong fucking day to talk about death. I can feel myself welling up, and look over at the newspaper on the nightstand. ‘Rebel army 50km from Madrid’ reads the headline. I try to comfort myself with the memory of Jorge, the seaman I met in the harbour market in Malaga. He looked up at me while he was on his knees; his gaze was pure and intoxicated like a calf between the club and the knife. I want to stop my mind, get some respite from all the bad news and my money worries, but Lundin has fallen back into bitterness over lost love.