by Mikael Niemi
The teachers had a good idea of what was going on in the corridors, but they didn’t dare to intervene. Several of them were badly treated themselves. One woman teacher from the south of Sweden was taunted systematically, and time and time again she’d go running out of the classroom in tears. The pupils just sneered at her no matter what she said, refused to fill in her stencils, hid her books, made sexual allusions because she was unmarried, put pornographic pictures in her bag, and things like that. More and more pupils joined in when they saw the opportunity. Perfectly normal boys and girls. Classmates. So frenzied they were trembling inside. There were times when the air in the classroom was unbreathable.
* * *
The moment I heard Holgeri’s solo, I knew he was vulnerable. He was precisely the sort the bullies picked on, delicate little boys who drew too much attention to themselves. I’d seen him before in the corridors, but had never taken any notice of him. He was evasive but not unfriendly. One of those quiet lads from the outlying villages who prefer to keep to themselves, who stand around in corners in little groups, mumbling to each other in Finnish. They never felt at home in Pajala itself. Holgeri told me how difficult it was for the first few weeks every autumn term. He’d been speaking Finnish for the whole of the long summer holidays, and all of a sudden his brain needed to readjust to Swedish. It took several weeks, he couldn’t think of the right word and made linguistic mistakes, and so it was safest to keep quiet.
Holgeri came from Kihlanki, and we used to chat while he was waiting for the school bus. We usually talked about music. I wondered how he’d learned to play the guitar, and he said it was his dad who’d taught him. His dad had been dead for several years, and Holgeri never wanted to say exactly what had happened. What he remembered best from his childhood was sitting on his dad’s knee while he played traditional Liikavaara tunes, singing quietly in the euphoric stage of intoxication; how he would wipe the spit from his moustache, which he used to trim with nail scissors, and then slip his son a throat pastille. When his father died, his guitar was left hanging from its hook. Holgeri had taken it down, started fingering the strings, and imagined he could hear his father’s voice, coming from somewhere in the depths of the forests where he now was.
His mother retired early on account of her nervous state, and her son was all she had left. And when Holgeri asked for an electric guitar with amplifiers, that’s what he got, even though she could scarcely afford to buy shoes and clothes.
Just like me, he’d sat by the radio. He made up the fingering himself and played solos to the background accompaniment, and in his fantasy world he had been the big star, the genius, the one who dumbfounded his audience single-handedly. This caused quite a few problems for the band. Niila was working hard on rhythm guitar, but he still found it difficult to change chords. Holgeri was much more skillful from a purely technical point of view, but there again, he seemed to be deaf to what the rest of us were doing. His contributions came too soon or too late, and seldom fit in with the tunes we were playing. I tried to tell him this in a friendly way, but he either didn’t listen or just smiled distantly. Holgeri was one of those people who find it hard to be simple. He sort of made lace frills for the music. If you wanted a note he would come out with a chord, if you went along with the chord he would come up with a riff, if you liked the riff it would be transformed into a solo or into variations in another key. It was impossible to pin him down. Niila hated Holgeri at first, largely because he was jealous of course, but at the same time he recognized that we couldn’t do without him.
In the evenings Holgeri would sometimes sit on the sofabed back home in Kihlanki and get out his father’s old guitar. His teenager’s fingers caressed the strings to produce chords like large butterflies. They fluttered off over wooden chairs and rag carpets, rose up over the stove where the potatoes were cooking, swerved past the wall calendar, the clock, the woven Norwegian wall hanging, dived down over the potty and the broom, brushed past the school satchel and the Wellington boots, up again toward Mum in the rocking chair, circled around her clicking knitting needles and the Lapp mittens and the ball of wool, then off toward the potted plants, the begonias and sanchezias, up inside the window panes, a brief glimpse of grassy meadows, birches, and nipple-warm evening sunshine, past the treadle sewing machine, the teak-veneered radio, the wardrobe with the door that wouldn’t close, then back into the guitar, into the murky sound hole where other butterflies were clamoring to get out.
His mum never used to say anything, never praised him but never disturbed him either. Just sat there in body, providing body warmth.
CHAPTER 14
On a mind-blowing contest in the Pajala sewage treatment works, and how we unexpectedly acquired another band member
Despite the admonitions of Laestadius, despite the warnings issued by medical science and despite many frightening examples among family and friends, several of my schoolmates started drinking themselves silly on the weekends. Tornedalen is part of the vodka belt stretching all the way across Finland and deep into Russia, and in the senior school one of the most popular spare-time activities was getting drunk. There were many tyro alcoholics who had seen the light and at every break preached the gospel according to 40-percent proof; where one had trodden, others were keen to follow in his footsteps.
It was around this time that the lads from Kaunisvaara started spreading the rumor that they could hold more drink than anybody else throughout the whole of Norrbotten. The proof was indisputable. Over the past year they had traveled to Gällivare and Kiruna and drunk under the table legions of miners’ sons from alcohol-soaked laborers’ families, and if the likes of them were unable to compete, who else could?
The Kaunis boys were getting too big for their boots, in fact. When others expressed doubt, they offered to challenge all comers. After a little consultation, two brothers from Paskajänkkä intervened. As they considered themselves to have not only a degree of insight into the subject but also a talent for organizing things, they announced their intention of arranging a Regional Boozing Championship.
News spread rapidly through the local boys’ gangs. The rules were simple: it was to be a young people’s contest and you had to be in class nine or lower. The message was passed on via school buses, cousins, poker schools, and, not least, sports clubs. As every district was allowed to nominate only one representative, ruthlessly tough preliminary rounds took place throughout the region. Eventually, one Friday evening at the beginning of October, it was time for the championship finals.
The contest was to be held in the old Pajala sewage treatment works. In those days it was situated on the steep river bank not far from the church, and was a red-brick building enveloped in a faint but unmistakable smell of shit. For that very reason it had become the main location for the making of mash. The lads had discovered a way into the top floor through a hatch in the roof and found a quiet corner where the tubs could bubble away undisturbed, with the yeasty smells being masked by the sewage odors.
As I knew the Paskajänkkä brothers I was allowed to help with the preparations, and in return Niila and I would be able to watch the contest. We fetched and carried some big buckets and filled them with water, while the actual potion was mixed by those who knew more about the recipe than we did. It involved baking yeast and sugar, and some of the containers also had potatoes and raisins added. It all had to mature for a few weeks, to acquire the right strength and aroma. The Paskajänkkä boys wanted nothing to do with distilling. It was true that three of them had produced HiLaGu schnapps, the name being composed from the first names of the lads involved. It had its own homemade label and looked authentic, but the level of fusel oil was such that drinking it made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The elder brother, who was more technically inclined, had also had a go, using equipment he’d welded together in the workshop at the local College of Technology when nobody was looking. He’d stood it on a hotplate in the garage, but the connections had not been tight enough, leaking
ethanol fumes had caught fire, and the whole caboodle had blown up. At the community hospital he explained away the extensive burns by claiming that a pot of boiling potatoes had been knocked off the stove, and that the smell of yeast in his clothes came from his mother’s yeast liquid for baking bread that he’d poured over himself in an attempt to cool the burns down. In memory of that he’d been known as Breadloaf ever since, and had a blotchy red and hairless lower arm.
After this incident the brothers had agreed that distilling was for fools, a fiddly and unnecessary procedure that both spoiled the taste and resulted in the loss of valuable amounts of vitamin B. A real man should be able to drink mash, and it was on that basis that contestants were invited to take part.
We waited until evening, when the sewage workers had gone home in blissful ignorance of what was going on. It was dark by the time a dozen or so boys climbed in through the roof hatch and gathered in the storeroom upstairs, a dirty and untidy room smelling of sewage. All the competitors sat down on the floor in a circle. They started assessing the opposition while waiting for proceedings to start.
The boy from Korpilombolo had a freckled forehead and a melancholy air, with an unruly black fringe. The Junosuando boy grinned non-stop, his lower lip projecting alarmingly—a characteristic of people from that area. The young hopeful from Tärendö had a cleft chin and a dripping potato-nose. The Muodoslompolo youth had a curly brown sheep-hairstyle and was so nervous he couldn’t stop spitting. Pajala’s representative was Breadloaf, with his low forehead and ice-blue, slightly squinting eyes. There were also a few boys from the outlying villages. The aspirant from Lainio was pale and looked pious, with large, shy, doe-like eyes. The Torinen boy had enormous lumberjack-hands stuck on the end of his puny teenage forearms, and a nose with so many blackheads it appeared to be covered in gnats. The contestant from Kaunisvaara, the alleged favorite, was one of the village’s agile long-distance cross-country skiers, a thin-lipped, stooping giant of a youth who had already, at the age of fourteen, managed to finish eleventh in the Malmloppet ski race and had lungs with the capacity of fully inflated tractor tires. And there were also a few supporters present to see fair play.
Breadloaf’s younger brother, whose name was Erkki and was in class eight, opened the first tub with a ceremonial flourish. He was short but sturdy, known for his foolhardy fighting technique. The sight of the bubbling mash inspired him to request permission to join in the contest as a late entry. Everybody objected as Pajala had already filled its quota. Erkki then began to go into detail about his roots as a forest Sami and listed rank upon rank of ancestors while urging Breadloaf in an increasingly provocative tone to confirm the validity of his origins. In the end a compromise was agreed. Erkki would be allowed to take part as a representative of Sattajärvi’s Forest Samis, and his duties as competition steward would be taken over by Niila and me.
We started sharing out the mash without delay: I poured and Niila handed out the mugs. All the contestants emptied them quickly, in solid silence. The next round followed immediately. Eager slurping and gulping. Mug number three. When that was emptied a pause was declared for belching and recharging of snuff. They all glanced furtively at everybody else and muttered something about never having tasted insipid maiden’s water like this before, and that where they came from it was the kind of thing you put into babies’ bottles. Supporters and observers begged for a drop to taste, and their wish was granted. I knocked back a mouthful and almost choked on a raw potato. It tasted of baking mix and was hellishly strong.
I was reminded of the job I was supposed to be doing, for Christ’s sake, so I opened the next container. In the interests of justice I did my best to ensure that all the mugs contained the same amount, and Niila checked that everybody drank the whole lot. The mood was getting more excited, of course. Then all of a sudden, everybody started babbling away in Tornedalen Finnish. Happiest was probably Erkki, who had only been allowed to take part as a favor after all, and he started shaking hands with all present and thanking them until Breadloaf told him to shut his trap and stop disturbing the concentration of the other contestants.
As always, the intoxication brought about the most astonishing personality changes. The Korpilombolo boy’s face had lit up like a sun and he started telling obscene jokes about substitute teachers. Junosuando was frowning grimly and started going on about the large number of Nazis in the 1930s in certain villages not a thousand miles away from here, until the penny dropped for the lad from Tärendö, who became aggressive and started to recall the statistics with regard to village idiots in Junosuando. Lainio suddenly lost all his shyness and piety and proposed a game of poker at one krona a shot. Kaunisvaara wondered caustically when Lainio Laestadians had acquired an interest in that kind of thing. A conspiratorial expression came over Muodoslompolo’s face as he hinted at being descended from eighteenth-century French royals traveling clandestinely. Torinen maintained that as far as he was aware the Muodoslompolo area was better known for the feuding and bloodshed among local families, and for turning inbreeding into an art form. Breadloaf once again suggested that everybody shut their traps, whereupon they all commented sarcastically about the Pajalan piksipojat and such newfangled nonsense as merging local authorities into bigger units so that people living in the biggest place, like the aforementioned Pajala peacock, suffered delusions of grandeur.
After two more mugs the atmosphere turned even more cantankerous. At the same time the arguments became less lively and less precisely articulated. The only one in a good mood was Korpilombolo, who suddenly rose to his feet. He apologized profusely, but he would have to break off now as he was feeling extremely horny and did we know any depraved Pajala women? Erkki described in great detail how to get to the home of a recently retired math teacher and with a sly wink wished him the best of luck. The rest had decided now was the time to start a fight, but first they all needed a pee and a couple of minutes to get worked up. After the pee, however, everyone was so plagued by a lack of fluid that Niila and I were required to put that right immediately.
Eyelids were now at half mast. Tongues were growing bigger. The air was growing even smellier thanks to all the farting brought on by the mash. Junosuando and Tärendö exchanged a few slurred punches, then fell into each other’s arms and collapsed in a heap. Muodoslompolo laughed so much at the sight that he had to grab the nearest empty mash bucket to throw up in. He demanded in a loud voice to be allowed to get on with the contest even so, then passed out, sitting down with his head dangling. Kaunisvaara snorted in disgust at all this beginners’ incompetence.
A few new rounds followed. Lainio seemed surprised that he’d kept up with the rest for so long as the whole of his family were very religious, and he’d only started drinking so recently that he hadn’t really got used to it yet. Torinen was calmly confident on grounds of heredity and started counting all the alcoholics in his family. He got to a dozen then fell sideways and remained slumped on the floor.
Niila produced yet another bucket. Breadloaf and Kaunisvaara glared at each other like punch-drunk boxers and emptied their mugs in unison. Laino was hanging on in there, as was Erkki, who didn’t feel under pressure and was still drinking the stuff because he liked it. Breadloaf was now having trouble speaking whole sentences and came out instead with a string of vowels. Kaunisvaara was having problems with his eyes and kept missing his mug unless he covered one eye. But he exploited his verbal superiority and started singing the Pajala strike anthem, with scarcely a slurred consonant. That provoked Lainio into suggesting that every Communist should go back home to the inviting Siberian winter, and he went so far as to suggest that Lenin and Stalin had been sexual partners, and that Marx would doubtless have joined in as well were it not for the fact that he was already dead and buried. Then he stressed once again, with a degree of astonishment, how good it felt to be a sinner, and that if only he’d known, he’d have started long ago. Then, satisfied with his input, he leaned back against the wall and fell asleep without s
aying his prayers.
It was clear to the supporters that the end was now nigh, and they started chanting their encouragement. Three of them were from Kaunisvaara, descendants of strikers and Stalinists. They never said a word when sober, but were now keen to declare that Communist drinking habits helped to stir up revolution and sharpen arguments, and that the most amusing drunks in the whole world were the ones at Red Youth parties. One of the Pajala supporters was from Naurisaho and another from Paskajänkkä, and when they both announced that they were Social Democrats, the temperature rose noticeably. While Breadloaf and Kaunisvaara emptied yet another mug, the Kaunisvaara boys announced their intention of beating the living daylights out of all comers, first in beautiful Tornedalen Finnish similes, then spelled out in words of one syllable, and finally to the accompaniment of threatening gestures and aggressive stares. Social Fascists would be pissing blood after a few revolutionary hammer-blows. The Pajala lads wondered sarcastically what these revolutionaries had ever contributed to local history, apart from wrecking a bus not far from Kengis and waving a few revolvers about in remote cottages out in the forests. The Kaunisvaara boys went on about how only idiots who had spent too much time licking upper-class assholes could say things like that, and that working class action was just as much justified now as it had been then. At the last moment Erkki placed himself between the warring factions and explained somewhat haltingly but craftily that he’d always felt drawn toward Communism, but that he’d also been impressed by the Young Socialists, especially as they served up buns and juice at their meetings, and hence he hadn’t yet made up his mind where he stood politically. Both sides immediately homed in on him with missionary zeal, while I assiduously refilled all their mugs.
