To Cook a Bear
Page 1
Praise for To Cook a Bear
“Sumptuous.”
—Publishers Weekly
“There is much more to this wonderfully idiosyncratic novel from Sweden; it is not only a riveting, psychologically astute mystery but also a work of history, natural history (the pastor is a gifted botanist), and religion. Superb.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Multifaceted, mysterious, and engaging . . . A book quivering with commitment and compassion, but also with foolishness and unconstrained brutality.”
—Verldens Gang (Norway)
“Niemi is a born storyteller. To Cook a Bear is a beguiling and seductive read.”
—Crime Time (UK)
“Divine.”
—Dagbladet (Sweden)
“Niemi succeeds in constructing a story that works as a murder mystery and as a compelling study of a dangerously inward-looking community.”
—Sunday Times (UK)
“Niemi’s writing—that of a narrator and a poet, a dreamer and a storyteller—brushes the highest peaks of the most delicate lyricism, rising strongly out of the abyss of the darkest mystery.”
—Corriere della Sera (Italy)
“A masterpiece of narrative.”
—La Vanguardia (Spain)
PENGUIN BOOKS
TO COOK A BEAR
Mikael Niemi was born in 1959 and grew up in Pajala, in the northernmost part of Sweden near the Finnish border, where he still lives. He is the author of Popular Music From Vittula, which has sold more than one million copies. It won the Swedish August Prize and has been translated into more than thirty languages.
Deborah Bragan-Turner is a former bookseller and academic librarian, now a translator of Swedish literature, including works by Per Olov Enquist, Anna Swärd, and Sara Stridsberg.
PENGUIN BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Originally published in Great Britain by MacLehose Press, an imprint of Quercus, 2020 Published in Penguin Books 2021
Copyright © 2017 by Mikael Niemi
Translation copyright © 2020 by Deborah Bragan-Turner
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
First published in Swedish as Koka björn by Piratförlaget, Stockholm.
library of congress cataloging-in-publication data
Names: Niemi, Mikael, 1959– author. | Bragan-Turner, Deborah, translator.
Title: To cook a bear / Mikael Niemi ; translated from the Swedish by Deborah Bragan-Turner.
Other titles: Koka björn. English
Description: [New York] : Penguin Books, [2021] | First published in Swedish as Koka björn by Piratförlaget, Stockholm.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020002632 (print) | LCCN 2020002633 (ebook) | ISBN 9780143133902 (paperback) | ISBN 9780525505693 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Laestadius, L. L. (Lars Levi), 1800–1861—Fiction. | Sami (European people)—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PT9876.24.I29 K6513 2021 (print) | LCC PT9876.24.I29 (ebook) | DDC 839.73/74—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020002632
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020002633
Cover design: Lucy Kim
Cover images: (jungle) ilbusca / Getty Images; (faces, detail) Olof Sager-Nelson. Foster-Brothers, 1894. National Museum. Stockholm, Sweden / Alamy Stock Photo
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0
CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for To Cook a Bear
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part Two
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Part Three
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Part Four
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Epilogue
Afterword
KENGIS, NORTHERN SWEDEN,
close to the Finnish border, 1852
PART ONE
Out in the forest
Writing a line
My faithful damsel
Singing so fine
My deepest wish
Invading your heart
The pain of love
To thee will impart
1.
I wake to a complete absence of sound in a world biding its time before coming to life. Enclosed by darkness and sky, I lie with my eyes directed like conduits toward the great expanse, but there is nothing there, not even air. In the midst of the vast silence my chest begins to tremble and shake. The waves intensify; something growing inside threatens to force its way out. My ribs are pried apart like the bars of a cage. There is nothing I can do except submit to this formidable force, like a child groveling on the floor at the feet of an enraged father, never knowing when the next blow will strike. I am that child. I am that father.
Before the world is fully formed,
I rush out into the dawn with my knapsack on my back and the hand-forged ax in my fist. A short distance from the low barn I stop and shelter at the edge of the forest, pretending to busy myself with my clothing in case someone should see me and start to wonder; I wind a shoelace round and round, empty my cap of invisible lice, pretending to shake them onto the swarming anthill at my feet. All the while I watch the farmyard out of the corner of my eye. The first smoke of the morning rises from the cabin stove, signaling that the household is astir.
And then she emerges. Empty pails swing from her hands. Her headscarf stands out, white like a winter ptarmigan; her face is a circle of light, her eyes bright, her brows dark. I imagine the smoothness of her cheeks and her small rosy lips singing softly, shaping tender little words. The cows, their udders taut, low in response and expectation when she opens the heavy barn door and slips inside. It all happens at such speed, far too fast, and I try to keep my senses sharp, to hold this picture so that I can summon it again and again. And yet it is not enough. I have to see her tomorrow as well. Her swinging hips under the apron, the gentle round of her bosom, the hand that grips the latch on the barn door. I steal closer, almost breaking into a run across the farmyard as if I were a thief, and at the door I stop. I let my hand close round the handle. My rough, sinewy hand on the place where hers, so small and soft, has just been. Inside, her fingers squeezing the cow’s large teats, squirting white jets into the pail. For a split second I pull on the handle as if to enter, but I promptly turn and hurry away, afraid someone will have seen me. But I keep it in my hand for the rest of the day. The warmth from her skin.
2.
At mealtimes I always wait until last. I hold back in the corner while the pastor’s wife places the heavy cauldron of oatmeal on the table. It is smoking and black as death on the outside, as though fetched straight from the devil’s inferno. But inside, the porridge is light and golden, slightly grainy, creamy where it sticks to the wooden ladle. Brita Kajsa stirs with the broad wooden spatula, digging down to the bottom and then up again, breaking the skin that has formed on top and filling every corner of the cabin with the aroma of hay and pollen. The children and hired hands sit waiting; I see their pale faces, a silent wall of hunger. Her expression stern, she takes the bowls and gives large scoops to the older and smaller dollops to the younger ones; she serves the workers and the visitors who have dropped in. When they all have received their share, heads are lowered and fingers intertwined across the table. The pastor waits until there is quiet, then he too bows his head and gives heartfelt thanks for everyone’s daily bread. They eat in silence, apart from the sound of chewing and the licking of wooden spoons. The older want more, and more is given. The breaking of bread, the eating of cold boiled pike with deft fingers, bones piling up on the table like shiny pins. When everyone has almost finished, the mistress will chance to cast an eye toward the corner where I sit.
“Come and eat too.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“But come and sit down. Make room for Jussi, children.”
“I can wait.”
I see the master turn as well. His eyes are glazed; I detect the pain in them and how he struggles to conceal it. A brief nod from him brings me to the table. I hold out my guksi, the wooden cup I crafted myself up in Karesuando, the one that has accompanied me on my life’s journey. At first it was white as the skin of a suckling babe; over time it has darkened with sun and salt and a thousand washings. I feel the weight when the mistress empties her ladle and I watch her scrape the sides to gather more, but I am already back in my corner, cross-legged on the floor. The sticky, barley-tasting porridge I devour has cooled by now to the same temperature as my mouth. I feel it slip down my throat, then enclosed by my stomach’s muscles. There it grows into the strength and warmth that will help keep me alive. I eat like a dog, ravenous and watchful.
“Come and have some more,” the mistress urges.
But she knows I will not come. I eat only once. I take my allotted portion, never more.
The cup is empty. I wipe my thumb like a swab round the curved surface and pass my tongue over it; I lick and suck until it is all clean. It slides gently into my pocket. The cup is what provides me with food, drawing to it the edible things that happenstance delivers. Many times, weak with hunger, I have been close to collapse. But whenever I took out my cup, it was filled with a fish’s head. Or a reindeer’s blood. Or with frozen berries from a mountain slope. Just like that. And I have eaten and regained my strength. Enough to withstand the day. This is all I hope for and this is how I have survived. This is why I sit down on the floor, for never would I assert myself or make demands, never snatch like a raven or snarl like a wolverine. I would rather turn aside. If no one sees me, I stay in the shadows. But the mistress, she sees me. I ask for nothing, but she provides nonetheless. Her brusque kindness, the same concern for all beings, for cows, for dogs. All living things need to survive. That is about the size of it.
* * *
—
I might leave at any moment. As a wanderer does. I am here now, and the next thing you know I am somewhere else. I get to my feet, grab my knapsack, and walk. That is all. When you are poor, you can live like this. Everything I own, I carry with me. Clothes on my back, knife in my belt, fire striker and cup, horn spoon, pouch of salt. Their combined weight is almost nothing. I am agile and fleet of foot, in the next river valley before anyone misses me. There is hardly a trace of me left behind, no more than an animal’s. My feet tread on grass and moss that spring back up. When I build a fire I use old firepits, and the ash I make settles, invisible, on the ash others have made. I answer the call of nature in the forest, lifting up a clod of earth and replacing it afterward. The next traveler can place his foot right on top without noticing a thing; only the fox can detect a faint human scent. In winter my ski tracks fly across the pillowy skies of snow several cubits above the ground; and on spring’s arrival all the pockmarks left by my sticks will melt away. It is possible for humans to live this way, without damaging, without disturbing, without really existing: being like the forest, like a host of summer leaves and autumn detritus, like midwinter snow and myriad buds opened by the sun in spring. When it is finally time to leave, it is as though you have never been here.
3.
My master is wrought with anguish. I see his lips contort, smack, and pucker around words that will not form. His enemies are drawing ever nearer; not a day goes by without more attacks and more contempt. And the only thing he has in his defense is a pen. Against their swords and cudgels he lifts his quill, but the words will not flow. At each attempt I want to beat myself, pinch myself hard to relieve him of his burden. Anything that will let the light into his mind. He could have been my father. That is how I think of him, but when I hinted at it once it made him angry, and I saw the color rise in his averted cheek. I sink down onto the rug and like a loyal dog I wait, nose resting on paw, hour after hour, ready to follow him at any moment.
His brow is furrowed by years of thinking. It is dirty, marked by tobacco juice perhaps, or soot from the lamp wick. His hair is long and hangs in greasy strands that he brushes aside from time to time, like dangling branchlets. Alone he treads a path through shadows and overgrown marshes, in places where no one has ventured before him. He is, however, not entirely on his own. I follow him in silence, padding behind him with my nose on his trail: the tarred leather of his curled-toe shoes, the rustle of their straw lining, the damp wool of his trouser legs. He pushes farther on into the unknown, but I am always there. My stomach is empty, but I don’t complain.
* * *
—
On one of our treks we sat down by a natural spring. As we slaked our thirst, he gave me a thoughtful sideways look.
“What makes a good person?” he asked eventually.
I had no answer.
“What makes us good, Jussi?” he persisted. “What does it mean, to be a good person?�
�
“I don’t know,” I muttered.
The master continued to stare at me, radiating a strong light, a warmth.
“But look at the two of us, Jussi. Look at you and me. Which one of us is good, would you say?”
“It’s my master.”
“Don’t call me master when we’re in the forest.”
“I mean . . . the pastor.”
“And why?”
“Because the pastor is a priest. You give us God’s words. You can give us the Lord’s forgiveness.”
“That’s my job. Can a job alone make a person good? Are there no evil priests?”
“No, none at all. I can’t imagine that’s the case!”
“Priests who drink, who fornicate, who beat their wives half to death. Truly, I have encountered them.”
I didn’t answer, but fixed my gaze on the smoldering polypore we had lit to ward off the swarms of gnats.
“Look at yourself, Jussi. You’re no glutton, no drunkard.”
“But that’s because I’m poor.”
“You don’t brag. When something is offered, you’re the last to step forward. If someone pays you a compliment, you deflect it.”
“I don’t, Pastor. It’s just . . .”
“Often I don’t even notice you’re there. I have to turn and look at you to be sure. If you’re so quiet that you disappear, how could you be evil?”
“But the pastor does so many good things.”
“Does that come from God, Jussi? Think about it, think about it. Could it just be the devil of ambition whispering in my ear? Luring me with worldly ostentation and applause? When I die, I hope people will remember me as one of the greats. Whilst you, Jussi, will be wiped out like a phantom that never existed.”
“I’m happy with my lot.”
“Is that really true?”
“Mm.”
“That’s what makes you good. You’re the kindest, finest person I have ever met.”