Down for the Count

by Martin Holmén

  ‘Closing down, are we?’

  I gesture at the till, take the box of Meteors and tuck it under my arm. The old woman’s smile fades.

  ‘I’ve done my bit. My pains are getting worse… parsley water and rose hips don’t help me no more. Or aspirin powder neither.’

  ‘Sorry to hear it.’

  The doorbell goes, saving me from the outpouring that usually follows whenever the question of the widow’s aches and pains comes up. Instead, a foetid smell settles over the little room. A bearded vagrant walks in, hat in hand. The soles of his shoes are fixed with metal wire. He bows slightly.

  ‘God bless you, Missus Lind.’

  His yellow teeth glow in the midst of his beard when he smiles. The widow nods half-heartedly, keeping her eyes on the cigar cutter on the counter.

  The vagrant snatches up a cigar stump from the ashtray and stuffs his corncob pipe with the tobacco. The fly starts buzzing through the air again.

  ‘God bless you, missus,’ the vagrant repeats, retreating into the street.

  Clucking thoughtfully, the widow Lind straightens the piles of newspaper in front of her and wipes the dust from the cash till.

  ‘This is a good shop I’m selling. Kvisten should think about taking it on himself. So he won’t need to run about harryin’ impoverished poor things from mornin’ to night.’

  I push up my hat with my finger and raise my eyebrows.

  ‘How much you asking?’

  ‘Twelve hundred. The stock’s not been fully inventoried yet, but there should be goods there for a good few hundred.’

  ‘Is the stock included in the price?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Turnover?’

  ‘About two hundred a day. A little less at the start of the week, but the nearest cigar shop is a long way down Sveavägen.’

  ‘There’s one next to the Metropol.’

  ‘That closed about a year ago. Not for you to know. You’ve been away, haven’t you.’

  The doorbell goes again, Nilsson, the sheet-metal worker who lives in my apartment building, comes in. His trousers are shiny with dirt and stiff as a pair of drainpipes. We greet one another and he buys five grams of lip snuff. I spit on my pen and scrawl down the figures in my notepad.

  ‘Will you shift at all on the price?’

  ‘It’s already a good proposition, and there’s many who’s interested. You can rely on the regular clients. I’d recommend it, naturally.’

  ‘Can I think about it?’

  ‘There’s a man by the name of Wång, a sea captain with a family, who’s favourably inclined. I gave him a week to sort out the financials, but Kvisten can have until Wednesday morning. If you are quicker than Wång, the shop is all yours to do what you will with. Kvist’s been loyal to me through all the years. And surely it’s time for a new start.’

  That’s the same day Doughboy’s released. I tighten my tie with my free hand and push out my chest. I look around. A blond, blue-eyed youth stares down at me from one of the advertising signs. He’s wearing a bow-tie and a knitted tennis jumper, holding a filter cigarette between his fingers. There’s no dirt under this lad’s fingernails.

  ‘Two hundred kronor per day, did you say?’

  ‘Towards the end of the week.’

  I make a quick calculation and stay there a moment, a ridiculous grin on my face. Fourteen hundred a week and a new tie every Saturday.

  I’ve worked myself to the bone in all the ports of the world, I’ve been a fire watchman, I’ve been a so-called sandwich man while waiting to be enlisted in San Francisco, and I’ve thumped countless people in the gob for money, but I’ve never been a till rat. I give the widow a sparkling smile and touch my hat before turning around.

  Still with a big grin plastered over my face I step outside into Roslagsgatan. It has grown colder; darkness has fallen entirely. Paraffin lamps have been lit in the windows above Nyström’s salon, and the ceiling light is on. An image of Doughboy in one of those knitted tennis jumpers flashes through my mind as I walk down the street. He could mind the cash register and deal with the customers while I sat in the back doing the accounts, solving crosswords and sharing the odd porter with Dixie. Unfortunately I have no idea at all how to lay my hands on twelve hundred kronor in the next six days.

  ‘God bless you, Mister Kvist,’ I mumble to myself to see how it feels, then I push the door handle of Nyström’s barber shop. Dixie’s claws are scrabbling among the clumps of hair on the floor. I go inside and squat next to her. Her characteristic beard and long eyebrows are in full view once again. Pleased, she licks my hand.

  ‘Already back for a second cut? Want to give the stubble a bit of a polish?’

  Nyström, tall and gaunt with his bushy eyebrows and a cigarette always stuck in his weak mouth, smiles, sending his ash plummeting over his white barber’s coat. Involuntarily I clench my fists. He’s got a nerve to be poking fun at my prison haircut. There was a time when people practically stood to attention and held their breath when I opened the door. But I just grunt by way of an answer, take Dixie’s lead and straighten up.

  ‘What do I owe you for clipping the dog, plus a jar of Fandango?’

  I pay up without a word and leave with Dixie. The number 6 tram ploughs through the dark afternoon in a sea of green sparks from the power lines. I thread the leash around my wrist and button up my overcoat. Together, we stroll back towards the flat. As we amble along I think about the piece of skirt who came storming into Lundin’s office earlier today.

  ‘Elin Johansson.’

  I quicken my steps until Dixie’s leash is pulled tight behind me. In the decade that I knew Beda she never once mentioned her daughter. Only now has it come to light that she works at Standards, just a few blocks to the south.

  ‘I wonder how the hell things were between them.’

  A harried-looking co-minister, his fingertips stained blue with ink, shows me the way to August Gabrielsson’s diocesan home, in the shadow of the Katarina Church’s mighty dome opposite a beer café known as the Stone Angel at the east end of Högbergsgatan.

  ‘The rector is always up before the crowing of the cock, and usually he’ll take a nap before supper, but he should have woken by now. You said you are old friends?’

  The co-minister glances at me for the fifth time. I kill my Meteor with the heel of my boot and quicken my pace.

  ‘Been a long time since we saw each other.’

  ‘He still has the calling.’

  ‘We met during his time as a naval chaplain.’

  The additional information that Gabrielsson once saved my young life in Buenos Aires at a time when I was almost going under on account of my self-denial, I keep to myself. Since then he’s helped me in times of need on a number of occasions. I must owe him a couple of hundred but what the hell. If I only manage to bag the tobacco shop, I can pay him back.

  ‘I see, I see. Here it is.’

  Someone has carved a large swastika into the wooden door. The knocker gives off a hard, jagged sound. The steps come closer. The co-minister removes his hat. I leave mine where it is. The maid is wearing a dark-blue dress with a white pinafore. She holds a large key in one hand. She curtsies slightly and throws me a furtive glance.

  ‘Good evening, little Karin. Say, has the rector woken up? He has a visitor, an old friend.’

  ‘Certainly he’s awake. If the gentleman could wait in the hall, I’ll go and see. What was the name?’

  ‘Kvist.’

  ‘Come inside, Mr Kvist.’

  The spacious hall is lined with brown wallpaper. Running along the back wall is a storage crate for firewood. There’s a good cooking smell, probably game, maybe a casserole. I remove my coat and hat and hang them up. At the same time as the bell in the steeple strikes the quarter-hour, I pull the comb through my damned Långholmen stubble. My bloody hair won’t lie down on my scalp, even after I’ve slathered it with half a handful of Fandango.

  ‘The rector will see you in the drawing ro
om.’

  The maid gestures towards the first door on the left. I nod by way of thanks and take a deep breath before pushing the door open. I’m attached to Gabrielsson but he has a tendency to engage in boring topics of conversation. I walk through the passage into the drawing room.

  An irate electric whining from upstairs fills the whole room and even drowns out the ticking of the white Mora grandfather clock in the corner. The room is sparsely lit. The walls are lined with plentifully stocked bookcases. In front of the windows facing onto Högbergsgatan are two settees, each placed on a large rug. The angry whining stops abruptly.

  ‘Would you be kind enough to turn on the light, Harry, so I can have a good look at you?’

  I can hardly make out the person lying in the sofa at the far end of the room, but there’s no mistaking the soft timbre of his voice. I fumble over the wall until I find the Bakelite switch. The electrified chandelier hanging from the ceiling wakes up with a click.

  The room measures at least five by six metres. In the middle, by another door, is a small altar for engaged couples who wish to tie the knot in private but still have a religious ceremony. It’s covered in green fabric.

  ‘Thank you, Harry.’

  With a tired sigh, Gabrielsson grips the back of the sofa with his large hand, and pulls himself up. The settee, rather than the old sod himself, moans as he swings his black trouser legs over the side and gets up on his feet. He’s a beanpole of a bloke, his hair almost as white as his dog-collar.

  His handshake is firm. He glances at my miserable hair but he has the sense to withhold comment, gesturing at a big floral-patterned armchair. I take a seat. It’s too hard. The whining from upstairs resumes. Gabrielsson raises his voice: ‘That’s Aunt Gerda. She’s been given an electrified sewing machine.’

  ‘Sounds like a mosquito on a motorised bicycle.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘A good friend of mine has ended up in Konradsberg after his mother’s passing away in September. I have to find out who the father is, or if he has any other living relatives.’

  ‘Someone in my congregation?’

  ‘No, he was the proprietor of the Roslag Laundry round my way, in Sibirien. Petrus Johansson.’

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘The mother’s name was Beda. She died on the eighteenth of September. Her boy is about the same age as myself. Deaf and dumb to boot. I promised her I’d look after him.’

  Gabrielsson notices the gravity in my voice.

  ‘Should be enough. Let me go and make a telephone call. Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Thanks, I already had one.’

  Gabrielsson nods and the sofa creaks again when he stands up. He stops: ‘You’re a reliable man, Harry. If you have ever failed in your promises it’s on account of forces over which you had no control. I know you.’

  I scrutinise the rug while the rector leaves the room with long strides. The whining sound from above stutters, then stops. I look around the room. No ashtrays.

  Gabrielsson is back before long. He moves in an agile, alert manner, as if considerably younger than his actual age.

  ‘Please do sit down. They’ll ring back in a moment.’

  ‘My thanks to you, Rector.’

  ‘Helping you keep your promises is thanks enough, Harry.’

  Gabrielsson sits on the sofa opposite. He crosses his legs.

  ‘Stay for dinner. The housekeeper is making a delicious elk stew.’

  ‘There was a fine smell in the hall.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Gabrielsson smiles and puts his hands together in his lap. ‘Now tell me, it’s been such a long time since we last saw one another! Are you keeping busy?’

  ‘I have a mind to start my own business. A cigar shop further down the street’s for sale. There’s also talk of, what’s it called, a comeback.’

  ‘That’s good. You know what I’ve always said…’

  ‘A noble sport, a sport for gentlemen.’

  ‘You have a good memory for a pugilist.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘But you’re still in the same line of work, I mean outside the ring?’

  With a gracious smile he nods at my black eye. I shrug. Black-frocks always have to stick their noses in, and you can’t snarl at them either and tell them to shut their mouths.

  ‘I saw the swastika on the door.’

  Gabrielsson sighs and slides forward in the armchair.

  ‘We’re living in confused times. In one of their recent publications the Swedish National Socialist Party called me a lackey of the Jews.’

  ‘Nothing but a bunch of girl scouts.’

  ‘Quite the opposite.’ Gabrielsson shakes his head with dismay. ‘National Socialism is a spiritual plague, and the infection is sweeping across Sweden. Have you heard what they are preaching?’

  ‘The only one I know has a bad stutter.’

  ‘You see, it really is a contagion, of both a spiritual and a corporeal kind. My evangelical brethren in Germany have started referring to one’s race as something just as indelible as sin.’

  Gabrielsson gesticulates with his hands, quivering with rage.

  ‘They’re harmless.’

  ‘Were you aware of the fact, Kvist, that they go after homosexuals?’

  ‘Over there and over here as well.’

  From the upper floor the sewing machine splutters to life again, angrier than ever. The sound stops abruptly, and then the aunt stamps on the floor. Both Gabrielsson and I look up at the ceiling for a moment. His cheeks are as red as winter apples. He catches his breath.

  ‘When the day comes I know you will choose the right side. And that day will come, mark my words.’ Gabrielsson twists his old hands in his lap. ‘But there we are. Let us forget politics and go back to you. Do you have any contact with your family? Was it in North Dakota they were living, your wife and daughter?’

  ‘Grand Forks. I sent them some money a few Christmases ago.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  A telephone trills at the back of the house. Someone picks it up on the third ring. We hear steps approaching, and there’s a knock on the door. Gabrielsson keeps his eyes on me as he leaves the room. I root about for a checked handkerchief and mop my forehead. My stomach is rumbling.

  ‘I asked Hildur to set the table for one more person,’ he says when he comes back a minute later. He’s holding a sheet of paper in one hand, and in the other a pair of round spectacles with a thick frame.

  ‘Many thanks.’

  Another creak of the sofa as Gabrielsson sits down.

  ‘Right, let’s have a look.’

  I get out my notebook and dab the aniline pen against my tongue. Gabrielsson puts on his spectacles and reads: ‘Petrus Valter Johansson, born on the twenty-sixth of August, 1902, at Södra Children’s Hospital, son of Beda Johansson, father unknown. The closest relative is an uncle who emigrated in 1898, and a half-sister named Elin.’

  ‘That damned woman I met.’

  ‘Be careful with your words, Harry.’

  ‘Surely the years you spent as a naval chaplain have hardened you somewhat. No one else?’

  I make notes.

  ‘Not as far as one can see. Has been resident in Roslagsgatan from 1903. In 1915 he was admitted to the Asplunden Institute for the Deaf, Mute and Blind.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The school behind the Garrison Hospital.’

  ‘Sounds expensive, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I assume he was admitted on a non-fee-paying basis, probably at the cost of the royal household or by use of the school’s own charitable funds. He only remained at the school for two years. After that he was sent back home.’

  ‘Is it not clarified there who paid his fees?’

  ‘Maybe the school could help you with that.’

  ‘I’ll have to pay them a visit.’

  Wearily I tap my pen
against my notebook. The trail is twenty years old. Not much of a trail.

  ‘This seems important to you.’

  ‘I made a promise.’

  I hear the grandfather clock in the corner tense its muscles, only for its ringing to be lost in the outpouring of Katarina’s bells. We wait for her to finish. Gabrielsson takes off his spectacles and sits back in his armchair.

  ‘How old is your daughter?’

  I hold my breath. I knew he’d come back to it and start poking about. On the way here I was worrying about my debt, but this is even worse. I look down at my battered fists in my lap and silently count my knuckles.

  ‘Surely you must know, Rector – you officiated at the christening.’

  ‘Age withers, memory fails.’

  ‘She was fifteen in September.’

  ‘So she must have been confirmed by now.’

  ‘I don’t know how they do it over there.’

  My heart is thumping as loud as that church bell just now. My knuckles turn white, the scars on them turn crimson as if I’m drunk.

  ‘Send her a line. Explain why you have not been in contact.’

  I mumble, unsure of whether he can hear: ‘I’m sure people also gossip over there on the other side of the Atlantic. She knows well enough where her old man is.’

  I rummage about in my pockets. Whenever I’m with the rector I always seem to shrink into a shamefaced confirmation candidate. It puts me in a bad mood.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten my cigars and have to be on my way home. The widow who owns the cigar shop closes at six.’

  ‘And dinner?’

  ‘Another time.’

  Gabrielsson turns around and looks at the Mora clock.

  ‘Promise to come back. We can talk about old reminiscences.’

  ‘From Buenos Aires?’

  Gabrielsson’s breathing seems to fail. He looks away. I save him: ‘Next week, if that would suit?’

  My knees click as I stand up. Gabrielsson follows my example. We go into the hall. I put on my coat.

  ‘I want to thank you, Rector. You were a great help.’

  ‘The first time we met you weren’t much more than a midshipman. How long ago is that now?’