Slugger

by Martin Holmén

  It doesn’t matter. Not any more. It has to be done. For a moment I feel that same stagnant sensation from the boxing club earlier moving through my limbs. I smack myself hard on the cheek with a loud crack. I get up and pace to and fro across the floor in rhythm with the occultist’s little ditty a couple of times. I stop in front of the punchbag and wedge the cigar in my mouth. I shut my eyes and recall the moment when Hasse’s opponent stood still for the briefest moment, thinking over his options.

  I punch three jabs in quick succession with my eyes still shut. With every strike I turn my front foot a quarter turn and roll my head like a fucking owl. I listen to the rattling chain, feel the faint draught of wind when the punchbag swings back. The sound of my right hook reverberates through the flat; the straight left makes everything go quiet.

  I could have smashed that bloke into pieces with my eyes shut. I bury my face in my aching hands. I feel on the verge of tears.

  When the bell strikes the quarter-hour, he appears. He is walking south with a decisive, swaying gait. He is dressed in a brown shirt and black waistcoat but has left his jacket behind.

  I watch the condemned man. For a moment I play with the thought of warning him and giving him a head start. He could leave town by tonight, but Ma and the others would smell a rat.

  I put on my sunglasses. It isn’t necessary in the dusky twilight but I don’t want Rickardsson to look me in the eye while I am sealing his doom. I lean out through the window and purse my lips to whistle, but there is no need, he has already noticed me. He takes off his hat, waves with it and hastens along the pavement like a bull to the slaughterhouse.

  Kvist must be careful about joining forces with people he doesn’t know.

  The occultist’s prophecy sears through my mind like one of his dodgy trumpet notes. If that bastard would just take a break from his dodgy music, maybe I could concentrate on my dodgy dealings. I bury my face in my arm and sink deeper into the pillow. Every limb is stiff, except the exact one that was intended to play the leading role in this scene.

  A sudden chill: my cock slides out of Rickardsson’s mouth with a slurping sound. My member is soft and slack like warm gutta-percha. He gives my saliva-moistened dick a shake, and slaps the blasted thing against my thigh.

  ‘Is Kvisten not in the mood?’

  He chuckles and flicks my flaccid cock against my thigh muscle again. Every joint in my body is trembling with shame. In the mood, like hell. Part of me wants to punch him but I daren’t meet his gaze.

  As soon as my mind begins to regain the slightest control, my body becomes completely useless.

  The bed springs creak when he gives up on me. He sits back against the iron bed frame, takes his hat off the bedpost and puts it on his head. He nods at the silver box of snuff on the bedside table.

  There is no disappointment in his eyes. I take a breath so deep it makes my ribcage hurt, and I pass him the box. He holds it tight in his right.

  ‘It happens,’ he says as he prises out a pinch. ‘With schnapps and this fucking job.’

  ‘I lost Ploman’s convoy after Väster Bridge the day before yesterday, but the devils are definitely driving around Söder for some reason.’

  I press my lips together and fiddle with a cigar. That was too direct. A shiver of deceit runs along my arm and makes the flame dance as I draw the matchstick towards my Meteor. I take a puff, twist the cigar a half-turn and puff again, squinting through a curtain of smoke.

  ‘Thought Kvist had signed off for good? Is he setting sail again?’

  Rickardsson grins and gestures to the seabag of clothes. My muscles tense up, and my ravaged lungs feel like they are on fire when I hold my breath too long, before I finally squeeze out a response.

  ‘Laundry.’

  Rickardsson smiles, bites his top lip and strokes my leg. A few greasy flakes of snuff stick in the hair on my calf. The jazz boy upstairs starts playing something a little livelier and soon the notes are wailing as loudly as cats in heat. The music makes the blood pump a little more easily through my veins in any case.

  ‘Kvist knows how to wear a suit. I’ve always thought so. Good haircut too.’

  I feel my cheeks flush and my eyes flit upward and lock onto the ceiling lights: six yellow light bulbs in a circle, most with burnt brown patches. I run my hand through my hair.

  ‘Can’t get any shape into the bastard even with half a hectogram of Fandango.’

  ‘I must admit, I’m a sucker for that prison cut.’

  ‘Hell of a way to treat a grown man.’

  ‘It is punishable by law for a man to love another man. People like Kvist and I can only fulfil our hearts’ and bodies’ desires in secrecy and shame. Funny, isn’t it? That they try to force us out of it by threatening the clink, which is filled with a thousand other lonely men?’

  Rickardsson snorts. He moves his hand ten centimetres farther up my leg and cups it over my knee.

  ‘And what does Rickardsson use?’

  ‘Pomade, you mean? Triumf. What the hell does it matter?’

  ‘I am considering buying a pure red shirt.’

  I close my eyelids.

  ‘Red? I’ll be damned.’ His hand is working its way gradually higher. ‘Well, I’m sure a man like Kvisten can get away with anything.’

  The creases in my cheeks and skin deepen as I squeeze my eyes even harder. How did I get here? They forced me onto the wrong side of the law from the start. They took everything away from me. They took my daughter away, and now she needs her father. Rickardsson, of all people, should understand. I want to try to explain it to him, but it is impossible. There is no way out of this other than betrayal.

  I am going to get him killed as a result. I can picture him now, riddled with bullet holes. The thought of it makes me feel sick.

  His damned children.

  Versus mine.

  ‘Does Kvist remember when he was discharged last autumn? We bumped into each other in the stairwell of number 41. Your crown was as smooth as a peach, but the rest of you was as sour as a lemon.’

  ‘Thought you wanted a fight.’

  ‘I offered to walk you home.’

  ‘Thought you wanted to compare fists.’

  ‘And when you refused I suggested a walk to somewhere private in the park.’

  ‘Did you already know then?’

  ‘I’ve always known.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Since the first time I saw you.’

  ‘That’s why you always stared at me.’

  ‘Hell, you always gawked back.’

  I scrabble among the clothes on the floor for my wallet to show him the photograph of Ida, as some sort of apology or explanation for what must be done. The bed springs complain as I tear loose from his grip and swing my feet over the edge.

  ‘Maybe I would have been safer in Långholmen, the way things are looking these days,’ I hear him mumble behind my back as I stand up. I shudder.

  I turn around with a quart of moonshine in a beer bottle. The condemned man has the right to a final drink. After a mouthful I pass the bottle to him and suck on my Meteor as greedily as Rickardsson just sucked on me.

  I stand naked before him, take the cigar out of my mouth but hesitate and take another few considerable drags to gather my strength.

  ‘If only I hadn’t lost Ploman’s damned van in Söder…’

  Dark grey coils trail from our cigars and hang between us like gun smoke. I move my hand down to my cock, to hook the bait, though my nerves definitely won’t allow any hanky-panky now.

  ‘Maybe their little trips aren’t that important anyway. I don’t know. I’m sure I could figure out a plan but the more I think about it, the more hopeless it feels.’

  His voice has become hoarse. He wipes his hand across his plump lips, then looks at my crotch and takes another swig.

  I close my eyes, and pull at myself.

  ‘Rickardsson did say before that it’s probably important.’

  He reaches for the ashtra
y, takes out his snuff and tips his hat farther back on his head. I thrust my hips forward a couple of centimetres. His Adam’s apple moves as he swallows.

  Men. When their blood is up you can steer them any way you like. My work would be so much bloody easier if more men shared my preference. Then I wouldn’t have to chase them halfway round the city and beat them into submission.

  My blood surges when I think about it. Rickardsson sucks his fat lower lip into his mouth for a moment but then looks away.

  ‘There is no way out,’ he says. ‘Only here and now.’

  The condemned man’s words burrow into my skin. I sink down a couple of centimetres. Betrayal, after all we have shared.

  ‘I’m sure we can figure out a plan together, but let’s start with the van. Does Rickardsson know when the next transport is planned?’

  Half a minute later I tear into the funeral parlour, with my shirt done up wrong and in shoes without socks. With my notebook in one hand and the telephone receiver in the other I request the number to the drinking den on Kommendörsgatan. Svenne Crowbar answers, like last time. Just as I am about to communicate my message, a coughing fit tears through my body. It feels as if my lungs are going to burst. I lean my forehead against the wall.

  ‘The last transport.’ I wheeze. ‘Tomorrow evening. Our only chance.’

  I end the conversation as another hacking cough ravages my ribcage. I wait out the spasms. I stare up at the ceiling in a cold sweat, with tears running down my cheeks. I can hear Rickardsson’s shuffling steps as he paces around my flat on the second floor.

  Maybe there are some tears of sorrow mixed in with the tears of pain.

  If Ma and Belzén have their way, then he has barely twentyfour hours left to live.

  My wallet and the photograph are still in my jacket. I try to summon the image of Ida but my thoughts are filled with the gangster upstairs.

  I close my eyes and recall the brief times we managed to snatch together. Each one of his words caresses me as intimately as his calloused hands.

  ‘We are cut from the same cloth.’

  I wipe my face with my shirtsleeve.

  ‘We met only to be separated.’

  It sounds like a fucking film. I think about him and me, and about his kids and my daughter. Then I throw open the funeral parlour door and step out into the evening heat and the stench of rubbish. It sure feels as if my whole wretched existence has gone rotten.

  FRIDAY 24 JULY

  It is still early when I enter the bakery up the hill the next day. I’ve got my old boxing gloves hanging by their laces around my neck. The smell of leather and ingrained sweat mixes with the enticing aroma of newly baked bread, cinnamon and butter.

  I am going to say goodbye to Lundin this morning.

  I take the heavy seabag off my shoulder and it lands with a thud. I push back my hat and wipe the sweat from my forehead with my shirtsleeve. Nisse’s Eva, the baker’s wife, is loading trays with freshly baked loaves. She brushes the flour from her fingers and strong arms. Her chubby round face breaks into a smile.

  ‘Has old Lundin given up the ghost yet?’

  ‘Still some grit in the bloke.’

  Nisse’s Eva rubs her hands on her apron.

  ‘Naturally the women have already laid claim to his corpse needles.’

  ‘I didn’t know that Nisse’s Eva was interested in the occult.’

  ‘I sew Småland pouches in the evenings.’

  ‘Well, leather is leather.’

  A smile moves across Nisse’s Eva’s lips before settling as a smirk in the right-hand corner.

  ‘What can I do for the sombre Kvisten?’

  ‘Bloody stupid really.’

  I search for a cigar and wonder how I am going to fulfil my task.

  ‘Well, I was wondering, would it be possible to order a couple of soft-bread sandwiches, with meat and everything, to wrap in paper and take away with me?’

  ‘Take them away? What do you mean?’

  ‘Home to Lundin. I’ll pay extra for the topping and for your trouble.’

  ‘We don’t usually do that. Down in town maybe, but not here.’

  ‘Just a thought that occurred to me.’

  ‘In paper did you say?’

  ‘Possibly a cardboard box.’

  ‘We don’t usually do that.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Could fry some eggs to go in them.’

  ‘That would be very kind.’

  ‘Maybe you’d like to have a look at our American cash register while you wait. A Patterson. You didn’t have time when you were last here.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  Despite her reservations, it’s not long before I am walking back down the hill with two egg sandwiches wrapped in green crêpe paper. A skinny rat runs along the gutter. The seabag burdens my shoulder like grief but the smell of the boxing gloves reminds me of victories past.

  The doorbell chimes. I set down my paraphernalia in the foyer of the funeral parlour and take a couple of deep breaths before entering the living quarters.

  Lundin has nodded off and is snoring with his mouth open. His untrimmed moustache flutters as he breathes. I swipe away a louse that is crawling across his forehead but he doesn’t wake up. The bottle on the table is empty. He is probably sleeping off the booze.

  I put the sandwiches down on the bedside table and leave the room. I open the door to the cool room and let my steps echo between the fully tiled walls. The room is empty but for the white child’s coffin. I open it. It used to be brimming with bottles, including sweet liquors for the ladies. Now there is just one bottle of O. P. Anderson left, right at the bottom.

  During the Spanish flu, in Lundin’s heyday, the tram seats were scrubbed with alcohol at each turning point to stop infection, and those who survived the influenza pandemic at least got a taste for schnapps. Now he has no customers, for funerals or booze. I pick up a liquor bottle and go back.

  He is still sleeping. A buzzing fly is beating against the dusty window. I find his engraved silver-plated hip flask in the pocket of his jacket hanging on the bedpost. There is a glugging sound as I fill it with aquavit. I put it in my inside pocket. Lundin grunts and I am afraid that he will wake up but he soon begins to breathe heavily again.

  I put Mr Andersson down and puff up the pillow so that Lundin’s head is a little better supported, then move the wooden chair and sit down next to his bed. I can taste sweat. I dry off my face with the sleeve of my jacket.

  ‘I remember when you first took me in.’ I clear my throat. ‘I said, I remember when you took me in.’ My hand reaches for the bottle again. ‘Nobody wanted to rent above a funeral parlour, of course. And you couldn’t very well turn down the money either.’

  After a swig I unwrap one of the sandwiches and start to eat it, continuing to speak between chews.

  ‘You should know that I could have had a two-room flat in Birkastan.’ I tear off a bit of bread between my front teeth and chew. ‘But what the fuck would I do with two rooms? Corniced ceilings but a blockage in the stove from what I understood.’ I put the last bit in my mouth, chew and swallow. ‘There, I finally said it.’

  I lean over the bed and open the window to get a little air into the muggy room. The fly escapes.

  Warm silence fills the bedroom. I sit down again, take the snuffbox, open it and pinch out a decent wad. I slowly shape it into a ball, as big and smooth as a bullet.

  ‘It’s finally time to go now.’ I pinch out another ration from the box. ‘The past few days have turned my whole life upside down. I didn’t say anything. You’ve had plenty to think about, what with dying, and the funeral parlour and everything.’

  I put the snuff on my knee, reach for the bottle, swallow a couple of swigs of aquavit and suck my lips clean before I continue doling out the snuff.

  ‘I’m sorry that I left you alone last Christmas. When those damned screws let me out last autumn, I was on top of the world. Then when it all went to hell I just couldn’t cop
e.’

  My voice breaks, but I pull myself together.

  ‘People in the building say that you smell like your corpses, but I never noticed. You’re good about the heating. Your brother raised the telephone tower, and your nephew is going to the Olympics. That’s more than can be said for the rest of them.’ I cough and clear my throat. ‘I went up to Wetterström’s and asked him to come down and witness your will this afternoon.’

  Quietly and carefully, I line up the snuff until a dozen pinches are set out along the edge of the bedside table like a rosary.

  ‘One for each year.’

  I brush the breadcrumbs from my trousers. The chair legs scratch along the floor as I stand up.

  ‘If you ever think of me, just know that I am doing well. If I don’t die on the way.’ I have to pull my sticky shirt free from my back. ‘God knows what will happen next.’

  I take the stuffed hummingbird out of my jacket pocket, lean over the bed and put it down on the windowsill. The words get stuck in my throat.

  ‘Sleep well, old man.’

  I turn my back on him.

  Like always.

  I turn my back on them all.

  Enough now.

  On the way out I stop in the doorway for a moment. I know that I will never come back, unless it’s feet first. I want to say something else but nothing occurs to me. I unscrew the lid from the hip flask and raise it to him.

  ‘Thank you Lundin.’

  I leave him there in his room, lying in the warm silence.

  Bruntell’s general store, Ström’s junk shop, the captain’s cigar shop and Nyström’s barbers. I don’t look around, I just place one foot in front of the other hurriedly, my wide brown trousers flapping around my dusty shoes, the boxing gloves bouncing against my chest.

  It is time for my comeback.

  I stand at the crossing for a while. I stare up at Goering’s old place and Wernersson’s Velocipedes. For a moment I wonder whether I should go and say goodbye to my old employer, and thank him for all the debt collection jobs he gave me through the years but I turn towards the library instead.