Slugger

by Martin Holmén

  Blind-Pyttan raises her voice during the final verse and the very willows seem to hold their breath. Her words flow clear and clean into the cloudless sky:

  See now how the grass full-grown,

  Is cut and turned for haymaking.

  The flower begs not to be mown;

  Now is the end of her short spring.

  See the mighty stalks a-falling

  When the reaper’s scythe doth swing,

  But soon an angel comes a-calling

  To rake them up and bring them in.

  A lump of unease forms in my throat and I struggle to swallow it down. This song makes me think of Rickardsson, Ploman and the Reaper. I feel a shooting pain in my little finger stump. The lukewarm beer runs down my throat. Applause sweeps across the park and Pyttan’s young assistant starts going around with a hat.

  With the song over, the paper boy comes closer and starts his announcements.

  ‘Spanish bloodbath continues! Read the latest! Police release statement about priest’s murder! Only in Svenska Dagbladet!’

  Shaking off my fears, I blow out the match, which releases a fine stream of smoke, then I puff the cigar alight and whistle at the youth. He hurries towards me with swift steps. I look him over, pausing at his crotch and chest before meeting his cheery gaze. He has undone a couple of shirt buttons and I catch a glimpse of a suntanned, hairless chest underneath, no doubt as smooth as Pellerin’s margarine. I pull my lip with the knuckle of my forefinger, get out a fifty-öre coin and let him keep the change. He toddles on. I watch him go.

  ‘That boy, Dixie. On his knees with his mouth hot and wide open like the gates of hell.’

  The bitch flinches when I pat her on the head. I moisten my thumb, flick quickly through the paper, skip the upcoming Berlin Olympics and the ongoing war in Spain until I find the police bulletin in the national news pages. Sure enough, Berglund and the police have found a witness and issued a statement:

  Man, circa 25–45, average to strong build, possibly tall, possibly blue-eyed, with prominent nose, brown-black hair and wearing a dark suit.

  ‘Could have been me,’ I say to Dixie, lifting her up and scratching her neck. ‘Maybe I should get myself an alibi.’ She stretches her neck and nips at my hand. She is probably tipsy. I whistle at Hasse and gesture over to Götgatan.

  Just as I’m about to leave, a little girl comes up to me: light-blue dress, white-striped apron, frayed satin ribbons in her golden-brown hair.

  ‘Can I stroke the dog?’

  ‘She’s a bit poorly from too much booze.’

  ‘You can have this, uncle.’

  In her little hand she is holding a dandelion head. Her nails are dirty. She smiles to reveal dimples and no front teeth. I look around. Five metres away stands a middle-aged woman. The sun glints in her spectacles as she nods at me.

  ‘Oh?’

  I take the dandelion. What the hell am I supposed to do with it?

  ‘Blow!’

  I clear my throat and do as I am told. The spores spread on the wind. The girl squeals in delight and runs up and down, trying to catch them with outstretched hands. Most stick in her hair. I stand there holding the stalk in my hand awhile before I stick it in my trouser pocket.

  ‘What did uncle wish for?’

  ‘Didn’t know I was supposed to.’

  ‘Do it now!’

  I think about it a moment.

  ‘I wish I could see you grow up,’ I mumble.

  The little girl throws back her head and bubbles with laughter, her freshly washed hair shining in the sun, before running back to the woman. I tip my hat to the latter, lumber back to Hasse and give Dixie a stroke. As we wander down towards Södra Bantorget, my wish burns in my trouser pocket.

  Götgatan’s pavements don’t afford much shade, but the porter has chased my headache away and we stroll south at a rapid pace. A shooting gallery, they said. The Bumpkin’s brother. Somewhere near the emergency shelters. Please God, don’t let it be too far. My shirt is soaked through and I am short of breath.

  ‘It’s hot.’

  Hasse trots alongside me with nimble steps, smiles and rolls his eyes.

  ‘It’s damn hot.’

  ‘National assembly! Three o’clock.’

  A small group of shouting Germanophiles are showing off their uniforms and waving flyers a little farther down the street. The smell of the malt house permeates the air. A couple of drops of sweat break loose from my forehead, run around my eyebrows and find open channels in my scars. I blink them away, push back my hat and turn right onto Åsögatan.

  ‘Most of them keep to Strömmen.’

  ‘This city is full of fishing spots, damn it. The bastard could be anywhere.’

  ‘That’s where we should go if the brother isn’t at the shooting gallery. Nearly everybody hangs around there.’

  ‘Not far till the shelters now.’

  Now I find myself hoping the bloke is stubborn so I can rough him up in good conscience. I promised the boy a lesson and if he doesn’t get one I’ve brought him along for no reason.

  I glance over my shoulder but the street behind us is dead and deserted. We pass the old nursery school and puff our way up the slope. The road dust swirls around our shoes. The boy can shine them again this afternoon.

  Outside the People’s House it’s buzzing like a beehive. Söder lads in ill-fitting suits run in and out. Someone is hauling a bundle of poles for flags and banners. Gilded buttons sparkle with brilliance in the sunlight. Another man is wearing a snare drum and a third is flapping his arms in the air as if trying to direct the others. A Communist march. It smacks of trouble.

  I glance over my shoulder.

  The buildings thin out. The little hovels along the street are depressed into their stone foundations, sunken in poverty. Dark sweat patches of wooden wallboards seep through the flaking paint. I stop by one of the mirror-like windows, bend down and straighten my tie. Not a soul behind us but the Communists.

  In my unscrupulous piece-of-shit job I have shadowed hundreds of people and at times I have been hounded by plainclothed goons in bowler hats. One gets a sneaking feeling that lies in wait like a reptile but crawls out when the time is right. Since our lunch break in Björn’s Garden I have had the vague impression of being watched. I straighten up and continue.

  Under Hasse’s arm Dixie soon starts sniffing the scents in the air. The stench of rotting refuse becomes stronger. We are approaching Södermalm’s central rubbish dump.

  We follow the stink and soon hear the dump’s horses neighing in their stable. I scan the open areas, from the orphanage and Rosenlund’s old-age home to the homeless shelters. Fashionable area. All that’s missing is a paupers’ cemetery.

  My shoulders shudder involuntarily at the thought of the orphanage. Those ragamuffins could have been me. I could have been them. How randomly one’s lot in life is apportioned.

  Nobody can control their poverty, nor their wealth. Pensive, I spit out a clod of dust and wipe my lips with the back of my hand.

  From a tent of grey awning fabric next to the yellow-painted, two-storey shelters, angry voices can be heard, but it is impossible to distinguish what is being said. Finding no shade, I ask Hasse to tie Dixie to a lamp post. She’s scared of loud noises so she wouldn’t like visiting a shooting range, and if all goes to plan this won’t take long.

  I kneel down, undo my tie, roll it up in my pocket and pat the bitch on the head. Her tongue is flapping like a ship’s flag. I crack my knuckles.

  ‘This will be quick.’

  I walk towards the tent with Hasse in tow.

  ‘Keep an eye on the position of your feet, for God’s sake. If you’re taller than your opponent you need your right foot outside his. Think about timing and striking angle.’

  ‘I should stay with Dixie. She doesn’t do well in the heat.’

  ‘Pay attention, damn it!’

  ‘Timing and angle.’

  ‘If you don’t learn to listen you won’t learn any
thing.’

  ‘My girl is coming to watch the match.’

  ‘All the more reason to win.’

  Hasse falls back a few steps, I grunt and continue towards the grey tent. As we approach the opening we hear a voice.

  ‘Aspengren is fucking drunk. He couldn’t hit a barn wall.’

  The tent is divided by a counter consisting of three planks on top of two standing oil drums. Someone has tacked blue fabric around the counter and put a zinc can of fresh flowers and twigs on the left-hand side. Another plank along the back of the tent holds a parade of preserve jars and empty glasses. The proprietor is standing behind the counter. He is a small man dressed in a shirt and waistcoat, with sunburn on his bald head. He is holding a small-bore rifle in his hands. The miserly fucker has sanded down the sight to make it harder to aim.

  ‘I once hit a coin at fifty paces.’

  Aspengren’s booming slurs well up from the depths of his immense body. A large sweat patch has spread across the back of his shirt. His trousers are dirty and it looks like he has spent the night on a demolition site. He lurches first to the left and then to the right and holds out his arms to find his balance. I walk up to the counter.

  ‘Do you have a brother?’ I ask the owner.

  ‘The other day, Aspengren shot on credit for a Pilsner without hitting a thing, and that was when he was sober.’

  ‘The hell I was.’

  The proprietor’s fingers whiten around the gun; I drop my cigar to the ground and crush it. Birds are trilling somewhere; in the distance a locomotive roars. Perhaps it’s another freight train coming into Södra Station with one of Piggen’s lucrative loads of Jews. I rap my knuckles hard against the counter three times.

  ‘Stop your damn bickering and listen up! Do you have a brother? One that they call the Bumpkin?’

  ‘Get to the back of the queue.’

  Aspengren smacks me hard on the shoulder with a loud thump. The vein in my forehead starts to throb at once, and I check to see if Hasse is watching. I come closer, widen my stance and draw back my right shoulder. The man smells like a spittoon in an alehouse. I could knock the fucker into next week without so much as taking off my waistcoat.

  ‘What was that?’ I lower my voice.

  ‘I… was here… first!’

  I have a job to do. I have an excuse. I smile.

  Aspengren pokes me three times in the chest with his index finger to emphasise his words. A cloud of booze stench washes over me as he speaks. His red-flushed cheeks are shiny with sweat. For a moment all that can be heard is the sleepy drone of insects. The smell of the mustard leaves and wild roses in the can fills the sun-warmed tent. A pale-yellow butterfly rises from the bouquet and strays momentarily between my face and Aspengren’s unyielding gaze. He’s got balls, I’ll give him that. I lower my chin to my chest.

  ‘Do you have a brother?’

  I bend my knees slightly.

  ‘Like hell. I have three unmarried sisters and…’

  My right hook hits him straight in the chin with a dull thud. Pain vibrates up through my fist and bounces back from my elbow; elation shoots into my blood.

  A right deck from a trained fighter is like a mule’s kick. The bloke’s eyes roll back in his head. Time for bed.

  I step aside as he falls diagonally forward. His forehead bounces on the counter, making the can jump, and he lands on his side, throwing up a cloud of dust. I shake the pain out of my hand and pull my lips open into a smile. It has been weeks since I delivered a blow like that with such a short striking range. I can’t tell whether Hasse is impressed or horrified. He is standing completely still with eyes wide open.

  ‘Look.’ I turn to the man behind the counter, bite the end off a cigar and point a foot at the man on the floor. ‘See what I did to this bloke, and he doesn’t even have a brother.’

  The proprietor clutches his rifle. He is red about the ears but otherwise so pale that the dirt in his wrinkles stands out. His left eyelid flickers. He stands on his toes and stretches his neck.

  Aspengren is snoozing underneath the counter all the while. Blood runs from a deep gash in his forehead and forms narrow rivulets in the dry soil. I strike a match, light my cigar, roll it between my fingers and bore my eyes into the owner.

  ‘Is he your brother? The Bumpkin?’

  My heart is pounding. I’m playing for high stakes but am too close to back down. The man hesitates for two seconds, his weapon shaking in his hands, but soon he brings the rifle down to his side. He swallows a couple of times, then whispers of fraternal betrayal float from his mouth like fine flakes of soot.

  ‘He keeps to the same place, smelt in April, pikeperch in May, all year until it freezes over in winter.’

  I clamp the cigar in the corner of my mouth, take my notebook out of my pocket and nod.

  ‘Let’s start with his appearance.’

  I hope I am the only one who notices that my pen is trembling against the page.

  The beautiful union of pain and excitement in equal measure. The union that became my life.

  The centre of Old Town. A seagull screeches and swoops towards the rostrum in the middle of the steps up to the Stock Exchange, perhaps mistaking the silver head of the microphone for a glistening herring. With a few metres to spare it changes its course, streaks past the Swedish flags and swastika banners that adorn the façade and sweeps over the men standing packed in Stortorget. Most attendees are wearing suits but some are in uniform.

  ‘The Swedish middle class stand defenceless before the advance of Marxism, which is currently raging against the last lines of defence, of the Fatherland and the Swedish people.’

  The speaker takes half a step back from the microphone, straightens his armband and leans forward. He is a thin-haired man with close-set eyes. I recognise him from the press but can’t remember his name. There is something simultaneously awkward and brazen about him.

  Gabrielsson said that National Socialism was a particularly ugly baby a few years ago, and now it is even uglier but mature enough to step out into the world. The fucking brat has finally grown brave enough to stop hiding behind its mother’s skirts and embark on an adventure. If I remember his words correctly.

  Probably not.

  He didn’t fucking swear anyway.

  I spit between my shoes pensively. I don’t give a damn about the affairs of the state but I know these types. The pillocks can’t be reasoned with. The only way to communicate with them is with fists. But I’ll be damned if I get involved in politics unnecessarily. Let someone else deal with all that.

  I stand at the mouth of Skomakargatan with Hasse and Dixie, next to the corner house with the cannonball embedded in the wall, and we go no farther. The police have cordoned off all roads leading to the square and the hooves of skittish sidestepping police horses clatter on the cobbles in the alleyways. It smells of horse shit and man sweat.

  ‘Remember, practically speaking there is no difference between Social Democracy, in its current corrupt state in our country, and Soviet communism.’

  The speaker pauses as the bells of Storkyrkan Cathedral strike a quarter past three. I look around. Maybe we should go back and bypass the square. According to the brother with the shooting gallery tent, the Bumpkin fishes in Strömmen from early morning until early afternoon, and then he goes around the restaurants to sell his catch and maybe get a pot-wash gig to boot. I wonder how much time I have.

  ‘I went on a louse-hunt with a kerosene lamp last night, lifting the wallpaper. At first I thought I was looking at the masonry wall, until it started moving. It was a whole grey mass of vermin.’

  ‘It’s that kind of summer.’

  Two women next to me are talking with their shawled heads leaning in towards each other. One has an apron that glitters with fish scales. Behind them stands a rag of a man whom I not only recognise but whose name I even remember. He is called Halte Harald. He has tied scraps of cloth over the holes in his knees. His jacket is in tatters and shines with greasy s
tains in the sunshine. His bushy beard is alive with resident lice. People say that he was an elementary school teacher before a broken heart caused a nervous breakdown and a descent into madness.

  ‘It is clear that our views on race and its significance for the survival of our society and nation necessitate strong opposition to racial intermingling as a political idea and a social system.’

  I direct my attention towards the square. I swallow hard and look for a cigar. Opposite us, just a few metres away, on Kåkbrinken, stands Detective Chief Inspector Berglund in conversation with his men. His company includes a tall chap I’ve never seen before. He is blond and dressed in a superbly well-tailored suit. One of his eyelids hangs a little heavier than the other. He has a cleft chin. A damned stylish gent. I stare for a while.

  ‘We define the Swedish nation by loyalty, a common identity, common language and common culture.’

  The thin-haired speaker looks up when the rattle of a snare drum pours out of the narrow alley to the left of the square. He flicks through his papers.

  ‘Judaism has proven to be the most problematic religious creed in co-existence with Swedish culture.’

  Brass instruments strike up from the adjacent side streets and the notes of ‘The Internationale’ swell above the rooftops and up towards the cloudless sky. Feedback cuts across the square like an angry warning sound as the speaker knocks the microphone with his papers. The audience look around. A horse dances in place and whinnies.

  ‘This is going to be another bloodbath.’

  The fishwife takes the other woman by the arm and retreats along Skomakargatan. The sound of the trumpets is growing in strength with every second. Inspector Berglund’s bony hands gesticulate wildly as he shouts out orders. The uniformed contingent of the public draws to the west side of the square. The batons come out. Someone sets a crowbar to the corner of a paving stone and tries to pry it up. I find a cigar, light it and crane my neck for a better view.

  ‘Get home to Lundin and leave Dixie there,’ I say to Hasse and nod in the direction of the German church. ‘Don’t want you to get hurt three days before the fight.’