I take a look at the description. He’ll be easy to spot. I nod in farewell and hasten away. I think of my suddenly very busy agenda and quicken my pace. Excitement surges through my body. Metal bells in the south chime ten ominous strikes, as if counting me down.
The shade of a large chestnut tree, the bark rough against my sweaty back, the grass between my legs still green under the canopy’s immense parasol – an oasis among the scorched plant beds of Humlegården.
All this waiting. All my life.
Chevrolet, Mercedes, Cadillac. Cars on Sturegatan pass with the tops down. Youths with their right hand on the steering wheel, elbow on the door frame and a pocket full of their father’s cash. In the passenger seat there is always a young lady with painted lips, oval sunglasses and a colourful silk scarf over her hair. Line them all up next to each other and I wouldn’t be able to tell one from the next. All alike, slaves to the shifts of fashion.
All this hanging around and not even enough money for a blasted summer hat.
About thirty metres behind me they have set up a cafeteria with round tables and a patch of grass encircled by gravel paths and plants. When I walked past earlier I saw that the menu on the blackboard was chalked up in French. A sweaty little brass band from some Östermalm garrison serves as entertainment and their notes struggle their way through the thick, quivering air.
Few master the difficult art of waiting. You must empty the mind of thoughts. Just stay still and watch.
Bide your time, and then bide some more, in doorways, like the one I am watching, or inside. Waiting in the queue for schnapps. Or for some bloody rain that refuses to fall.
For death.
I hold in a sigh as long as I can without angering my cough. Three plumes of smoke stream upward, blackish grey against the sky, and disperse.
On a blanket to the right of me some young posh types are larking about shamelessly. The number 2 tram groans past with shining windows. The oak front door beyond it remains closed.
A postman is strolling along the pavement with his empty black-lacquered postal bag. According to the Bumpkin’s brother, he leaves in the early afternoon to have time to sell his catch.
I’m running out of time.
A couple of lads stop in front of me. They are both covered with brick dust and their hands have been scraped bloody by clay chips. Hoddies on some building site. One of them wants to go for a beer but the other says no, he’s broke, better shake a leg and get home. No choice in the matter.
New houses are sprouting up here in Östermalm. Excavators and fucking legal permits have muscled into the unruly shanty town around Träsket Lake and Gropen. Out of the mire of poverty arises a collection of enclaves for the wealthy, circled by broad avenues, water and green spaces, with Birger Jarlsgatan as a razor-sharp barrier against the have-nots, just one block north from Roslagsgatan.
The oak door opposite finally opens and pulls me out of my thoughts. I stretch my neck, grunt, stand up and brush off the seat of my trousers. The man with the eyepatch looks around and dabs his mouth with a handkerchief. Perhaps wiping off lingering female juices. He grabs the middle section of his cane and heads north along Sturegatan. I cross the street behind him.
The man strides along with brisk steps. Fine by me, there are too many people around anyway. I wait until the distance between us grows to ten metres or so. A hurdy-gurdy sings from one of the inner courtyards.
There is something military about the one-eyed man’s stature and energetic gait. Not that it matters. He doesn’t look like the kind of man who hits back. I loosen my tie and take off the noose.
Here we go again.
This never-ending piece-of-shit job.
I start closing in on my victim, my eyes locked on his back. I can probably run up alongside his blind side when there are fewer people around, and pull him into a stairwell.
I stop whistling abruptly and come to a halt. A feeling I don’t fully recognise bubbles ever so gently through my body, a sensation so vague that I cannot really grasp it. The half-melted street sags under my shoes. I see a car company’s logo on the pavement, embossed in the asphalt. I force my feet to continue.
‘What the hell has he done wrong?’
I mumble to myself and take a deep puff to get rid of the insipid taste in my mouth.
Something feels wrong. I look around. Fewer people here now, no police patrolling either.
So he’s stolen himself a little love. It can happen to the best of us.
I think of Miss Evy Granér’s weepy, bloodshot eyes, begging helplessly. I’m not sure why. My steps feel heavier, but if I abandon my assignment it will be the second time in a short period that I break an agreement and steal money. Not good for my image or business. Blood fills my mouth as the scab on my lower lip rips open.
I press forward. I am being called on by the savagery I learnt from years in the ring, by the taste of blood. The attaché looks around and crosses Kommendörsgatan. I take a final puff and flick away the cigar butt.
‘Bloody captain.’
I spit red. If only that damned Wång hadn’t stolen Lind’s tobacco shop from under my nose last autumn, everything would have been different. I would have been a shopkeeper with dough in the bank and a new tie every week. I could have even had a charming assistant by my side.
Screeching wheels jerk me out of my thoughts as a Cadillac I recognise all too well brakes in front of me at the crossroads. Over the roof I see the one-eyed man step aside for a couple of younger ladies, bow neatly and saunter on. I inhale deeply and realise I have been holding my breath. My lungs protest, my cough tears at my chest and I end up crouching with my hands on my knees as the back door of the Cadillac opens. I let a magnificent glob of blood smash on the pavement. A couple of well-polished shoes with triangular heels enter my eyeline, and an embroidered church handkerchief appears in front of my nose.
‘The young can die, but the old are certain to.’
I press the soft cotton cloth to my bloody mouth and look up: the gold tip on the ivory cane, a light dress that near enough drags in the road dust, some sort of crochet item that looks like a short apron. I clear my throat, spit and stand up straight.
‘In which case, the lady and I will meet down below when the day comes.’
I insert a Meteor into my mouth. In the shade of a wide-rimmed hat, a lipstick-red smile slices through the shadows and wrinkles of her face.
‘Since that is already established, is it not a question of making a respectable exit?’
‘I have an important job at Kungsträdgården.’
Ma emits a sound between a snort and a laugh, then lifts her cane and points to a bench in the park across the street. An elegant executive car with Swedish flags on both corners of the bonnet brakes abruptly as she steps out into the traffic. Maybe it’s on its way up to Army Headquarters.
It takes a woman of a certain mettle to dare such a manoeuvre. I glance towards her headquarters farther up on Kommendörsgatan, and then in the direction of the attaché who has disappeared from sight. Then I follow her like a ragged dog, albeit on a long leash.
Ma parks her wide backside on the green bench and pats the slats beside her. The bench creaks as I do what I’m told. We sit quietly for a while. A chaffinch warbles its eternal melody; the sounds of engines intensify and then die away as cars pass. I look at the Cadillac and her sons on the other side of the street.
‘For a young man like Kvist death will be sudden, but inside an old crone like me it has long been brewing, in flesh and mind alike. My time is limited and it’s ticking away faster than ever.’
‘Have to find a fisherman.’
‘We’ll drive you, like Sunday.’
‘Madam is too kind.’
Ma recognises the streak of mocking in my voice and scoffs so loudly the bench timber creaks. She inserts a cigarette into her holder and I shelter a match with my hand though the air is still. The smoke pours from the corner of her mouth like a fine mist. I remember our ride in t
he Cadillac and want to ask the gangster queen about what she said on the way home. Instead she speaks first.
‘I expect Kvist has cheated death at some point.’
‘I know all about that ugly fuck.’
I puff on my fresh cigar before the matchstick burns my fingers.
‘What went through your mind at the time?’
‘How in the hell should I remember? You probably just think you’re done for. That the game is up.’
I chuck away the matchstick. Ma points at it with her cane.
‘There is time to think while the flames of existence slowly peter out. My mind is full of thoughts about the people who follow life’s path, and those who make their own way.’ She nods at the Cadillac. Nix has jumped out of the car and is drumming his fingers on the roof, his eyes flitting up and down the street. Ma appears to hesitate before adding: ‘Has Kvist anyone to call family?’
I lean forward on my knees, take a deep puff, clear my throat and send a gob of spit through the cloud of smoke. I feel a shudder inside me.
‘Like hell.’
‘And so perhaps he has nothing to lose?’
A young woman comes strolling along with a little pedigree dog of some description. Her wide trouser legs swish against each other and the sunbeams attack the side row of brass buttons around her boldly swaying hips. The dog stops in front of us and pulls on the leash in the direction of Humlegården. I reach my hand towards it. In the corner of my eye I glimpse the lacklustre young thing’s well-painted lips drooping under her wide-brimmed sun hat. She pulls the dog decisively onward. Nix wolf-whistles at her lasciviously from the other side of the street even though it is plain to see that she is the virtuous type, long trousers or no.
I open my mouth to speak but have forgotten what Ma said.
She pats me twice on the thigh with a wrinkled hand.
‘One must ask oneself what legacy one is leaving behind,’ she continues. ‘What is one passing on to the next generation?’
‘Debts seem to be the popular choice on my side of town.’
Ma laughs and takes a puff.
‘Our position has certainly weakened in recent years, but we won’t have it that bad. Perhaps Kvist can appreciate that I am talking about something different. When it all comes to an end, will I be seen as a has-been, withering more with each passing year until I shrivel up completely in bed?’
I think of Lundin and wipe my lips with the handkerchief.
Ma searches my eyes.
‘I think it is impossible to foresee the judgement of the afterworld,’ she continues. ‘It probably depends on who writes the obituary. By what yardstick is a woman measured when death comes? And a man?’
‘It’s the same one. Lundin has one at home.’
Ma blinks, looks away and lifts her cane to the Cadillac where both her sons are now standing on the pavement.
‘They fight like cat and dog. I haven’t told them yet, and the cocaine helps with the pain.’
‘I am telling you, they use the same measuring stick for women as for men. I measured plenty of bodies when I worked at the funeral parlour last year. I might not be good with numbers but I can measure. Accurate to the millimetre every time. Anyone who says differently is a damned liar.’
‘I am afraid you don’t understand what I mean. It has taken root inside me, dug in its claws.’
‘You bet I understand. People tell a whole lot of damned lies. In my years at sea I measured things with foreign measuring systems and in foreign languages.’
‘I really don’t think…’
My indignant zeal makes me brave enough to interrupt her.
‘Kvisten can sure as hell measure anything.’ I grip the handkerchief hard in my fist. ‘I don’t give a shit what people say.’
We don’t speak for a while. It is nice to have a bit of silence. One can let thoughts come and go.
‘Yesterday at dusk Ploman and the Reaper drove to Söder via Kungsholmen again.’
I pinch my little finger stump with the fingers of my other hand and then shake my hand in the air.
‘Likely lads out on a nice drive every night.’
‘We still need to know where they are going.’
‘Maybe up to Fåfängan to enjoy the view?’
‘And what they are transporting.’
‘Cake and juice?’
I chuckle and look around to check that no one is listening. I lean forward and lower my voice, try to change the subject.
‘On Sunday you said that I was illuminated by violence. What did you mean?’
‘You’re like me. A vicious bull who is best off in the barn, alone, with nothing but gnats and gadflies for company. Does Kvisten understand what I am trying to say?’
I do my best to remember and struggle to find the right words.
‘Damn right,’ I say in the end.
‘It is out of sheer respect that I am asking you to consider this job rather than trying to convince you.’
I swallow and stroke my hand over my chin.
‘I’m up to my neck in shit. In four weeks’ time maybe.’
I stare straight ahead and drum my fingers on the bench.
‘I probably won’t be here in a month.’
‘Going somewhere nice, are you? These newfangled bloody holidays.’
‘Very funny. No. My time is limited.’
Her cane spins in the air before falling back hard on the gravel path. She takes a breath.
Kvisten takes his hat off for no one. Stand up for yourself, you fuck. You don’t want to get involved with these types. Already got so many bloody things to do.
I sit as still as one of Humlegården’s statues behind us. Like with the kids outside the tobacco shop earlier today, I think I must have said something crazy but don’t understand what. I spread my legs, put my arm along the backrest and gaze at Sturegatan. Ma gets up with considerable effort and stands in front of me. The pince-nez dangling on its silk string by her bust glints in the sun.
‘Has Kvisten listened to a single word I’ve said?’
‘To each and every one, as attentively as Moses on Mount Sinai.’
Ma taps the gold tip of her cane hard against a wooden slat between my legs, a couple of centimetres from my groin. The vibrations travel through my thighs and make my cock shrivel like a walnut. She looks straight at me, a drip of sweat tunnelling its way through the peach-coloured powder on her right cheekbone.
‘Well, listen now. Kvist has a few days to organise his affairs but before the week is over, he is required at Kommendörsgatan to discuss details such as remuneration.’
My clothes are clinging to my body, sweat is stinging the stitches on my forehead. The chaffinch is trilling like a lunatic. I lean forward and kick the gravel but stop when the flying dust clings to the hem of her white dress.
‘It’s Tuesday.’
‘Kvisten is right about that at least.’
‘I have a wall calendar. Got it for only ten öre.’
‘Work for me and you will be better paid than ever before, I can promise you that.’
I harden.
‘On sale. It was already well into February.’
My body rests in Ma’s large shadow and I shiver despite the heat. I look around. An emaciated mutt covered in sores and lice is running around after water or food. Chances are it will get a bullet between the eyes.
‘There was talk of a lift?’
I hold out the bloody handkerchief but she shakes her head.
‘To Kungsträdgården, was it?’
I nod.
‘The Bumpkin with the maggots.’
My stomach is fluttering when, ten minutes later, I jump out of the Cadillac at Kungsträdgården and walk along the canal up to the Opera House. The feeling of being watched creeps through my body again. I look around and spot a man in a white panama hat, pottering along the other side of the street. I can’t quite place him.
I stop and gaze out over the water, mostly to see whether this bloke will
stop too. White smoke rises to the sky from the quay down by the Grand Hotel. The sun glitters on the sewer they call Strömmen. Drums blare from Kungsträdgården as the Royal Guard parade approaches, wearing fine uniforms in the colours of the Oscarian era. I have to wait for them to pass.
I watch a half-rotten yacht sail past, then look up and stare at the end point of the parade: the dirt-brown palace on the other side of the wide canal. I pick up my notebook, open the page with the Bumpkin’s description and study it awhile before turning around as quick as a flash.
The man on the other side of the street has also stopped. He is holding the panama hat in front of him. A pair of bright eyes shines above a bony nose. I meet his gaze and hold it until he turns and walks over to a hot dog vendor on the south side of Kungsträdgården.
Someone has definitely put a tail on me.
I flinch at the sound of two gunshots in the park.
The people nearby stare and point. Soon I catch sight of a man with a rifle over his shoulder. In his hand he is holding a small mutt by the hind legs. It is bleeding from two gunshots in its side but is still alive.
Tough to be a dog in this city.
Brass instruments and clattering hooves replace the rattle of the drums. I walk a few steps towards the bridge abutment where the Bumpkin supposedly fishes, then stop again. The man has put his white hat on and turned around and is now walking rapidly towards the tram stop in the park’s western corner, hot dog in hand. Probably realises that he has been seen.
Who the hell set him on me?
I grumble to myself and direct my attention to the bridge. Here, where Lake Mälaren rushes into Saltsjön Bay, hopeful anglers stand in a row with their fishing lines in the water. My eyes fix on a skinny bloke with a sun-bleached leather cap swaying near the bridge abutment, not far from the copper lion across the street. He observes the Royal Guard parade for a while before turning around and casting his hook into the water. I know I have seen him here before but don’t remember where. Maybe last year.
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