Down for the Count

by Martin Holmén

  ‘Not at present.’

  ‘Who have you got taking care of debts?’

  ‘The National Socialists. The Reaper, Rickardsson and his gang. Ploman’s blokes.’

  ‘Nazis?’

  ‘That’s what people call them.’

  ‘How much do they charge?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘I charge fifteen.’

  ‘I’m not going to argue with the Reaper for the sake of a five per cent discount. To hell with that.’

  ‘I see.’

  The old man nods.

  ‘The legend, Harry Kvist, a magnificent comeback,’ he repeats.

  I grin. An unctuous smile spreads across Lindkvist’s face again, and we shake hands. When I release his hand he takes aim again with another right-hand punch at my shoulder. I quickly dart forward, roll under his arm and come close to his furrowed face. A quick left jab and the old man would be stuck to the wall like a damp patch. He smells of sweat and tobacco. We grin at each other.

  I’m back.

  In the foyer at the undertaker’s there’s a bottle of Kron on the desk. My favourite brand. There’s a note in front of the bottle:

  Brother, welcome back to freedom. This litre of spirits is a welcoming gift, no need to pay for it. The bloody dog awaits you up the stairs. See you at the residents’ party at number 41.

  I twist off the bottle top and take a couple of big mouthfuls. Still shivering with pleasure I walk through the office and flat, emerging into the stairwell. As I move along I have time to take another mouthful. Damn, how I’ve missed this.

  A dank smell hits me as the front door glides open. Dixie’s claws scratch against the cork mat. She whines excitedly. I crouch in the dark hall, stabilise myself with one hand against the wall and hold out the other to her. She licks it.

  ‘You could also do with a visit to the barber’s, dearie.’

  Dixie hasn’t had a trim for nigh on two years, and she really isn’t much more than a fuzzy ball of black fur. As she makes a few joyful spins, I notice that she’s limping. She yaps and lies with her belly facing up, playing dead.

  My knees click as I straighten up. I hit the round, black Bakelite light switch and peer at the buzzing lamp. Awkwardly, Dixie spins around, and gets back on all fours. I hang my jacket on one of the brass hooks, toss my hat onto the hat shelf and, passing the big full-length mirror in the hall, almost stumble over Dixie, who’s buzzing around my legs. I go into the narrow kitchen. For a while I look at the thick layer of dust which has settled over the little drop-leaf table and its two chairs.

  The double window facing onto the courtyard is so covered in soot that you can hardly see through it, and the rag rugs from Ström’s jumble shop are coated with dog hair.

  ‘This place needs a clean before Doughboy moves in.’

  I have another few gulps of the Kron, then put the bottle down on the draining board and go up to the window, unhooking the latch and opening it by pushing with my wrist.

  There’s a cat meowing in the yard and Dixie laboriously scales one of the chairs to make her way onto the table. She points her cropped ears and gazes out fixedly at the November evening. Down in the courtyard you can make out the dark protuberance of the potato shed and the row of latrines. No one uses them any more, not since Lundin installed water closets in the stairwell.

  I root through the top kitchen drawer for gas tokens but don’t find any. I come across an unfamiliar object and pick it up. It’s a cigar trimmer. I stare at it. Where the hell did that come from? I have no memory of ever having bought one.

  The vodka is starting to spin in my head. With a sigh, I pick up a couple of clumps of wood from the basket beside the cooker. I pile them up with an eighteen-month-old issue of Social-Demokraten and light the fire with a phosphor stick. The wrought-iron hatch chimes dully and hollowly as I close it.

  I fill the small copper saucepan with water and put it on the ring. Dixie yelps and I pick her up from the table and put her down. She limps ahead of me into the main room, disappears into the hall and takes her post by the front door.

  ‘Calm yourself, doggie. Just a minute…’

  The prison smell has lodged in my clothes. I leave the kitchen, take off my shirt and singlet, and throw them on the big oak desk. Dixie whines desolately. I find yet one more dry cigar in the desk drawer, stick it in my mouth and place myself in front of the mirror with my palms pressed to the wall. The tattoo of a full-rigged ship on my chest breaks through the hair as if it’s cutting through dark storm swells.

  The hard labour of Långholmen and its spartan diet has near enough returned me to my old physical shape. The flesh around my upper arms, shoulders and chest is firm and clearly defined. My skin has a prison pallor, but my trunk is almost flat. I run the flat of my hand across my broad nose and scarred face.

  ‘…magnificent comeback. Harry Kvist…’

  I totter slightly as I walk out of the hall, passing the large, square ceramic wood-burner with its blue-relief pattern, and open the dressing-room door. The light comes on automatically. The smell of mothballs and gun oil fills me as I step inside. I put the cigar in my mouth, bring down a shoebox from a shelf and give it a slight shake. The heaviness and a rattling sound indicate that the Husqvarna and the shells are still inside. With a smile I recall being given the pistol by a doting commanding officer during my military service, as thanks for some pleasant moments we shared.

  I put the box back on the shelf and slide my hand over the clothes on the hangers. I have six decent suits hanging there, arranged in dark to light colours; also more than a dozen shirts. I choose a broad silver-coloured tie to match a dark-grey pinstripe shirt with a fixed collar.

  I close the door behind me. On the way to the window I pass the sleeping alcove with the wide wrought-iron bedstead. Bedded with proper feather and down bolsters. I briefly spare a thought for Doughboy in his hard prison bunk. That boy. Beautiful in a way that almost awakens a desire to bruise him. I close my eyes to see him more clearly. He fills my senses with a subtle, but powerful joy.

  ‘Seven days. If there’s one thing Kvisten knows about, it’s how to wait – he’s hardly ever done anything else.’

  I stand by the window, putting on my shirt. Roslagsgatan lies steeped in darkness, almost deserted. A stray dog hobbles southward past Bruntell’s general store, but it stops for a moment and sniffs the air before heading off in the other direction. A bloke in a felt hat and hunched shoulders is zigzagging along in a northerly direction. I think it may be Wallin, the psychiatric nurse. I have the hiccups, and I belch sourly. I’ve been off it for a long time and the spirits’ve already made a mess of my head.

  Down the hill on Ingemarsgatan comes Nisse’s Eva, the baker’s wife, hurrying along with a tray of smooth buns. The party is in the offing.

  I slide on my tie and knot it with a certain amount of trouble. The street dog limps through the semi-circle of light spilling onto the pavement from Beda’s laundry. I remember how Beda used to pat me on the cheek when I came to pick up my suits. The way the skin of her hand used to be chapped and the nails cracked after too many years in the washtubs. I shake my head.

  That old girl was damn well made of dynamite. She walked her own road, didn’t care about gossip or slander, always kind to each and every person she met.

  I bite off the tip of my Meteor. The match scrapes against the strip and, for a moment, I can see the reflection of my scarred mug in the window. I puff some life into the cigar and kill the flame with a jet of grey-black smoke. I have another pull at it. Out of the corner of my eye, I sense a shadow speeding across the floor of the laundry down below.

  I clench my fists, raise my eyes and gaze into the darkness. My lungs are smarting from the heavy cigar smoke. The shadow does not reappear.

  I exhale, I shiver, I stumble.

  ‘A cup of java, that’s right. Should clear the head and see off the ghouls.’

  Back in the kitchen, the water is boiling on the stove. I put aside the pile o
f letters, take the saucepan off the ring and throw in a couple of generous scoops of ground coffee. After it has brewed for a bit, I find a cup and pour the coffee into it with a tot of schnapps, then I go back to the window.

  I stick the cigar in my mouth and start going through the letters. None from America. I grunt.

  One of the envelopes has no postage stamp and lacks a full address.

  I see the words ‘To Kvisten’ pencilled on it in wonky letters. I hold up the letter against the remaining daylight and grunt again.

  Again I see the shadow moving about inside the laundry.

  I take a few big gulps of java, break the seal of the envelope and open the folded paper. The words stick in my mouth as I read out loud:

  The 1st of September

  Dear Mistr. Kvisten.

  The thing is in the autum you prommised to take care of my Petrus. Its all goin to be over with me one of this days but theres no way of agetting away from a prommise. Not that I wold think such a thing off Kvisten. I have seen to it theres a monthly bob or too for Petrus so Kvisten wont have to fork out for him but if he cold make shure sommetimes that no one takes avantage of him it wold be good. Hes kind harted and does what hes told if he understands you.

  As ever

  Beda Johansson

  ‘Brother, how the hell can you turn up at a party with such an objectionable hairstyle?’

  Undertaker Lundin beams at me, displaying his tobacco-stained fangs. He’s a tall, lanky bloke of about seventy. Always dressed in a black three-piece suit and a high top hat. A couple of grains of snuff stick to his bushy white moustache. His handshake is firm and hearty.

  ‘Nyström didn’t have a lot to work with.’

  I smile, pulling my hand through my hair. Lundin nods, still beaming. I put a fresh Meteor from widow Lind’s cigar shop in my mouth, and adjust my tie. I am wearing a pinstripe chocolate-brown suit. It’s about a size too generous about the waist now, but the jacket sticks to the outline of my shoulders like tar to a hull, and coming home today on the tram I read that waistcoats are no longer worn in America, so I left mine behind. Looking around the premises I start wondering if I’ve done the right thing. You shouldn’t ever believe all the rot you read in the newspapers.

  The meeting house of the tenants’ association in the yard next door measures about five by seven metres. The walls are plastered and whitewashed but tobacco smoke has turned them yellow after years of meetings and parties, although there’s a pleasant enough smell in there of food and liquid soap. A couple of the trade union blokes have draped their red banners over one of the walls.

  Along one of the short walls the old girls of the quarter have laid out a spread on a trestle table with a long white runner. My gob starts salivating when I let my eyes wander over the goodies. The dishes are overflowing with herring salads, ribs, jellied pig’s trotters with beetroot, grilled potatoes, parsnips and carrots, no less than six kinds of brawn, and pils from the München Brewery. In large zinc vats under the table, I catch the glimmer of schnapps bottles, enough for ten ration books. Maybe Lundin, the local schnapps baron, has contributed something to the tally. With a touch of luxury, they’ve been put on ice.

  A haphazard collection of plates from several families have been piled up at the far end by the wall. There’s a silver jug; nickel silver, of course, but still. Everyone on our block seems to be here for the big party of the autumn, and it’s already getting crowded. Bruntell, the general-store owner from the other side of the street, has positioned his Kodak so that he can preserve the table for posterity. He’s put on weight around his waist since last time I saw him, and got himself a ludicrous little postage-stamp moustache. Ström, the jumble dealer, drags another zinc vat of ice across the floor, and peers warily in my direction, even though I have already apologised for kicking his arse this afternoon. Wallin runs his hand down his asylum staff uniform and shifts his weight to his other leg. He’s guarding the schnapps glasses, lined up at one end of the table.

  Nilsson, the sheet-metal worker from number 5, paces the floor from side to side with his hat in his hands, as confused as a tenant farmer in a water closet. The Good Templar, Wetterström, and his wife are hanging up colourful lanterns. They are both wearing Sunday best and Wetterström has a water-combed side parting.

  Probably it’s Johnsson from the Oden-Bazaar down on the corner who’s supplied the lanterns. Johnsson peers cautiously in my direction. A few years ago I was compelled to give him a proper beating to set him straight. He was never quite himself after that. He limps now. He went cock-eyed too. There’s another click when Bruntell takes a photograph. Lundin gets out his accounts book, looks up the letter K and runs his snuff-yellow finger down the page. He hums.

  ‘One thousand, nine hundred and twenty-seven kronor and fifty öre.’

  A droplet of sweat frees itself from under Lundin’s brim and runs down his furrowed cheek like a tear, then gets caught in his moustache. His left hand is shaking so badly that he drops his accounts book. He grabs his fist with his other hand and holds on tight.

  ‘As much as that?’

  I pick up his accounts book for him.

  ‘Rent, radio licence bills, dog food and porter.’

  ‘Porter?’

  ‘She wanted porter for breakfast.’

  ‘You’ve been giving Dixie beer for breakfast?’

  ‘You can work some of it off. I’ve got myself a motor, but I’m still short of a pall-bearer. My hand won’t quite do what it’s supposed to do.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘My health’s a bit iffy these days. I get a prickling sensation in my legs and it’s hard getting out of bed in the mornings. Dragging stiffs down a lot of stairs is out of the question.’

  ‘Porter? Why porter?’

  ‘It’s bracing.’

  ‘It’ll abort a foetus.’

  ‘Only if heated up.’

  The door opens and a trio arrives with a violin, an accordion and an American banjo. The man with the violin nods in my direction. I have no memory of having seen him before, but as I really don’t have much of a memory about anything at this time, I nod back. Eckman, the managing director of the cement company, tinkles a glass and shuffles into the middle of the room. His hair is oiled, his lips are thick. It must have been five or six years since he left number 41 to move into a house in Djursholm, but he’s still invited every spring and autumn to the house party.

  ‘Meine Damen und Herren,’ the managing director begins, with a jovial laugh.

  The murmur of voices immediately dies down, only for the door to be thrown open and a pair of heels to come clattering over the wooden floor. A young bottle-blonde woman makes her way inside. A few of the old girls give her the evil eye. The blokes in the quarter call her the Jewel; the old girls call her the Mannequin. She has a small child hanging on her arm and a rough-hewn dark-haired man in tow. He looks like Gunnar Turesson, who I fought in ’21. A short, squat Western Geat, a fairly decent slugger but he liked to fight dirty. He tried to rip my eyes out with his glove straps during the clinch. Strong enough to tear a telephone directory in two, they used to say. I decked him in the third round. The swine only woke up a month later, and he never came back after that. A part of me envied him. I’d rather have ended my boxing career like that.

  The Jewel blushes and smiles assuagingly, while keeping her eyes on the floor. The buzz of voices starts up again. Her bloke removes his cap.

  Managing Director Eckman clears his throat: ‘As I was saying, meine Damen und Herren…’

  ‘When did the minx have a child?’

  I gesture towards the Jewel. Lundin caresses his luxuriant moustache and leans towards me. The wrinkles around his eyes deepen as he squints to get a better look.

  ‘After a lot of faffing about they got married. The daughter came along pretty quickly after that, weak from the very start. Of course the hags stood around at Bruntell’s counting the days but, as I understand, it all added up.’

  ‘There
you are, then.’

  ‘She’ll be studying fashion, apparently. Quite different from how it used to be when she was driven home by gentlemen in taxicabs every other night. Her bed linen filthy after two days, that’s what people said.’

  ‘Bloody gossip-mongers.’

  ‘Bruntell’s wife claims she saw her hanging up nappies to dry in the attic a few weeks earlier than the official date, but you know what she’s like.’

  There’s a burst of applause. The managing director makes a shallow bow and gestures at the smörgåsbord. A rising din of voices follows.

  I hook onto Lundin’s sleeve and set course for the overflowing serving dishes. He limps along behind me. People get out of our way as we plough forward. With a decent haul of food each, and glasses of cold schnapps in our hands, we find a couple of chairs by the door. I get stuck in, with the plate on my knees, tearing the flesh off the greasy ribs with my teeth and unloading dollops of potato into my mouth. The warmth of the schnapps sluices through my upper body, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine. In a corner, three girls are eating standing up. Now and then they look over in our direction and titter. Two of them are blonde and look a lot alike. They’re all dolled up, wearing brightly coloured dresses. A boy with the Secondary Grammar School badge on his cap is waiting on them, mixing grogs of pure vodka and sugared soda.

  ‘Just two people missing here.’

  ‘So you know about it, brother?’

  ‘Ström told me.’

  Lundin puts down his plate between his feet and waves his finger at a little boy in shorts. He gets out a five-öre piece from the mirrored slot in his snuffbox, and points at the vats of schnapps bottles. The boy darts off between our neighbours and comes back before long with a litre of Kron.

  There’s a snapping sound as Lundin breaks the seal. He fills our glasses to the rim and we knock back the shots. At regular intervals the door beside us opens, bringing a whiff of the row of the shit-houses in the courtyard. More people turn up. The women have taken off their aprons for a change, and altered their dresses. The blokes are wearing their Sunday trousers. Their little lads are wearing sailor suits; the girls have pink or red bows in their liquid-soap-washed hair.