by Mikael Niemi
EPILOGUE
Once or twice every year when I can’t control my longing any more, I travel up to Pajala. I get there as evening is drawing in, and wander out onto the new, circus-like pylon bridge that spans the River Torne. I stand in the middle and gaze out over the village and the pointed spire of the wooden church. If I look around I can see the forest on the horizon, and Jupukka Mountain with the blinking sewing needle that is the TV antenna. Way down beneath me the river flows wide and neverending toward the sea. The low roaring sound rinses the din of the city out of my ears. My restlessness melts away as dusk gathers.
I let my eyes wander over the village. Memories come flooding back, people who’ve moved away like me, names that flash past. Paskajänkkä with its Kangas, Karvonen, Zeidlitz, Samuelsson. Texas with all the Wahlbergs, Groths, Moonas, and Lehtos. Strandvägen’s Wilhelmsson and Marttikala, Äijä and Tornberg. Vittulajänkkä with its Ydfjärd, Kreku, Palovaara, Muotka, Pekkari, Perttu, and many, many more.
I rest my hands on the cold parapet and wonder what became of you all. People I once knew, people who shared my world. My thoughts pause for a while with my friends in the band. Holgeri, who went to technical college and now works on the mobile phone network in Luleå. Erkki, who became a supervisor at LKAB’s pellet factory in Svappavaara. And me, who became a Swedish teacher in Sundbyberg with a sense of loss, a melancholy I have never managed to overcome completely.
On the way home I pass by the cemetery. I have no flowers with me, but I pause for a while by Niila’s grave. The only one of us who went in for music. Who really went in for it.
The last time we met was during the Pajala fair, he’d flown in from London and was scratching absent-mindedly at little sores on his wrist. That night we went fishing at Lappeakoski. His pupils were as small as drawing pins, and he was buzzing away manically:
“The breaking up of the ice, Matti, that time we stood on the bridge and watched the ice breaking up, by God, it was awesome …”
Oh, yes, Niila, I remember the ice breaking up. Two little boys and a homemade guitar.
Rock ’n’ roll music.
The taste of a boy’s kiss.
MIKAEL NIEMI grew up in Pajala in the northernmost part of Sweden, near the Finnish border. Among his published books are two collections of poetry—Näsblod under högmässan (“Nosebleed during Morning Service”) (1998) and Änglar med mausergevär (“Angels with Mausers”) (1989)—and a young adult novel, Kyrkdjävulen (“The Church Devil”) (1994). His most recent book is Svålhålet, a collection of short stories.
LAURIE THOMPSON has translated some fifteen novels from the Swedish, including books by Stig Dagerman, Peter Pohl, Henning Mankell, and Kjell-Olof Bornemark. He was editor of Swedish Book Review from its launch in 1983 to 2002. He lives in West Wales.
