“Last winter the café shut down and I believe they’ve now turned it into a pub. Where you play darts and drink beer.
“The café was closed on Sundays so on the Saturday we would sit up a bit later. We never went out. We were happy at home. It seemed obvious, while the kids were still living with us. We used to sit and have tea and listen to the radio before there was TV. They had family programs like 20 Frågor and Snurran. Sometimes there was some detective story. And then we got TV. Every now and then on a Sunday I’d go to watch soccer with my boy. He was keen. Still is. I never really cared for it, but I went for his sake.
“As they were growing older the kids started to go out and we’d be sitting up waiting for them to come home. But none of them ever got into trouble. Elvira and I often said so to each other. We were grateful for that.
“When Elvira passed away my life became very lonely. I tried to keep everything as it was before. I still looked after the flowers, I watered them, but somehow it felt wrong. I didn’t change anything. When I’m out here a neighbor does the watering.
“Neither of us ever believed in God. I suppose we were afraid of him when we were children, like everyone else in those days. But when we became socialists, God disappeared. We had a priest for Elvira’s funeral, but that was different. None of our children was confirmed. I’m sure they wanted to be. They liked the idea of the presents, same as the others. But we said no. They didn’t go to Sunday school either. On the other hand, they all joined the scouts. They thought that was fun.
“Now in the winters I mostly play Patience and watch TV. There are plenty of good programs. Sometimes I watch all evening long and have the feeling that I’m learning. Last winter I also switched it on during the mornings, for the school programs. I enjoyed picking things up.
“I once found an English book in the garbage room. I tried to read it, but I didn’t manage.
“As we grow old it’s easy to envy the younger generation. We want to live, let’s face it, and be part of it all. Many who complain about young people probably do it because they wish they too were young again. You have to sympathize with that. It’s natural. Nobody wants to get old and be put out to pasture with achy legs and a heart turning somersaults in your chest. There’s an old couple living on the floor above me. They have jars of medicine standing in every room in case they get sick in the kitchen or bathroom. They never go out. They were missionaries in Africa. I’ve never spoken to them. In the olden days, the elderly were neglected by society. Now they’re neglected by both society and their families. It’s bad to grow old. But people have always been growing old.
“I’m actually very scared of dying. Especially at night before I go to sleep. Then I sometimes get the idea that I’m never going to wake up again and it’s horrible. But when I wake up in the morning, it’s no longer on my mind. When I was twenty, I used to believe that there was nothing after death.
“Nothing. We turn into earth and grass. Ten years later, I thought there might be something else. And then I was persuaded that we’re born again as another person. It’s been changing the whole time. Right now, I’m thinking that living isn’t so fantastic that one would want to do it all again. But that too may change, of course. And then I have the children and somehow one lives on through them.
“Elvira and I only ever went on one single trip. It was in 1950.
“It was a bus tour to Austria. I don’t know why we went. It just happened somehow. We were to be away two weeks in June. Elvira and I were the only two who were working-class. The others were different. We didn’t mix with anyone. But it was nice to get out that once. You could still see the signs of war and people were very poor. I think we gave away most of our spending money to beggars. In Vienna we visited a palace, which was beautiful. We went and ate out and had a good time. Elvira wasn’t afraid. Neither of us understood the language, of course, but she could always explain what we wanted. And she laughed all the time. We bought lots of postcards during the trip. Elvira also made notes in a diary. After she died, I was going through some drawers and found the diary and the cards. I read the notes. Then I threw away the lot of them. It was just too painful to keep it all. It felt sad. The only thing I still have is a photograph of Elvira and me standing in front of a church somewhere in Germany. A photographer took it and said he’d send it to us. We paid in advance and we must have thought we’d never get it. But it arrived in the autumn. It was good of him not to cheat us. The picture is starting to look a bit funny now. It’s beginning to fade. But I’ve still got it. What I remember from the trip is how tough people’s lives were. Let’s hope there were some socialists down there too.
“Apart from that we never went anywhere. We couldn’t afford it.”
* * *
—
“Even though both of us worked, all our money was spent on the children. We wanted them to have everything they needed. Elvira once said that what the two of us earned in one month was only half of what many mediocre singers were paid for an evening in an amusement park. It made both of us angry. But by then we were old. Had we been young I’m sure we would have kept up the struggle.
“The Social Democrats’ greatest outrage was to have turned socialism into some sort of organization for unnecessary civil servants to line their pockets at the expense of the workers. There’s a way into this society and a way out, but no one knows what there is in between.
“It’s all gone wrong. Terribly wrong. And it can’t be put right. Young people have realized that, and therefore I’m confident that sooner or later they’ll introduce socialism. Or it may come from outside. It’s become clear that what’s happening in the rest of the world will force change to happen here too. It’s inevitable. Every time there’s a revolution somewhere, it makes me happy. Then I sometimes lie on my bed and dream that I’m a part of it. And in some way I am too, obviously.”
* * *
—
In 1962 Oskar writes a letter to one of the local newspapers. He argues for pensioners’ getting a higher state pension so that they can lead a decent life. The letter is clear and concise. Oskar sets out his name and address underneath. He is one of the few to do so. That day he is the only one.
* * *
—
“Once I went into a bookshop and bought a map of the world. I sat for many days looking at all the countries, one by one. It turned out that there were several I’d never heard of. Since then, I always have it in front of me when I watch TV.
“I’ve read Moberg’s books. They’re good. They’re like history books, only more exciting. Absolutely gripping. His characters were not in any way remarkable. They were like all the others. But you get to see how much happened in their lives. There ought to be more books like those. Throughout all the centuries, ordinary people have only been allowed to speak in murmurs, yet they were the ones doing all the fighting and being beaten. More ought to be written about things that folk have only been able to talk about in murmurs.”
The Lansen jet fighter flies low overhead. The words are drowned out and Oskar falls silent.
* * *
—
“I once took part in a TV show. I was in the audience. There were about fifty of us. It was one of the Forum current affairs programs. But I got angry when they said we could laugh if anyone said something funny. I don’t want to be treated like that. Later my boy told me there’d been a close-up of me where you could see my injuries. The eye and the arm. I suppose that can happen.”
* * *
—
“I don’t like that my boy started to call himself a director as soon as he’d bought a washing machine and started doing people’s laundry. The old washerwomen never bloody well called themselves directors, even though they used to have to stand and wash clothes their whole lives. And what about those who clean up other people’s shit? The very word makes me angry. Now he has a large laundry business, b
ut he still shouldn’t be calling himself a director. I’ve told him so, but he just laughs. I’m disappointed in him. For a while when he was twenty he was really good and angry and stirred things up. And now he’s the sort of person who votes blue. Bloody terrible. It feels as if he’s betrayed everything. But it’s hard not to love one’s children. About once a year I tell him what I really think. He only laughs, though.
“He’s got a big house and boats and cars. He’s worked for it, of course, but in some way it still feels as if he’s been given it for free. You can see how society has gone off the rails.
“I think things can only be changed through revolution. And it’ll come. Sooner or later. But it would have been nice to have been a part of it.”
* * *
—
Military maneuvers are taking place in the archipelago. One morning, Oskar and I see a semisubmerged submarine passing the island.
* * *
—
“Elvira and I were always happy together. We used to lie in bed and chat afterward. We were constantly tired, but we still managed it a couple of times a week. After we married, neither of us slept with anyone else. I don’t think either of us ever needed it. And you’re not going to risk something valuable by getting yourself into a stupid mess. So we used to lie there and talk about how things were back then. Elvira would reminisce and so would I. We were never bored. And we spoke about the way things are now and had very much the same views. Elvira was active in the trade union for many years. She would have made a good politician. And she kept on at me to make sure that we shared the household chores. But I did them anyway. It was not a problem. Only once did each of us get really furious with the other, but that was all. She was angry and upset when I had told our youngest girl that she had an ugly mug. I’d only said it as a joke, but she was very put out and told Elvira. Although she realized that I hadn’t meant it seriously, she said that girls have a tough enough time as it is. And she was right. Then Elvira infuriated me by staying away for a whole night once without any warning. She had been at a meeting that had run late and had slept on the sofa in the room behind the kitchen in the café. She had the key. And she saw my side then too, so we were never really angry. Not even when we had no money. Somehow we always got by.
“Elvira knew almost everything about flowers. When we were out walking she would know the names of all of the ones we saw. Even if we stopped outside a flower shop, she could identify them all and where they came from. But the great thing was that she was able to describe their scent as well. Then when I leaned forward to sniff, it was spot-on. I think that’s fantastic. To be able to describe a smell with words. But she could manage.
“It was pure chance that Elvira and I got to know each other. But I’m glad it happened.”
* * *
—
June 3. We spend all day on the bus driving through Germany. It’s more than seventy-five degrees. Oskar sits by the window. I’ve never seen such big fields as here. In the evening we get to Hamburg.
June 4. Today it’s even hotter. We drive around and look at various things in Hamburg before we go on. Today I sit by the window.
June 5.
June 6.
June 7. Now we’re in Vienna. It’s a beautiful city. It’s hot and we’ve been out to a big palace. We walked in the park. There was also a place there with all sorts of animals.
June 8. Today it was almost too hot to go outside. But we’ve walked around the city looking at things. We’ve sent postcards home to the children.
* * *
—
The notes Oskar threw away.
* * *
—
“When we were doing the housework, the vacuum cleaner would sometimes go on the blink. Then we would both take it apart and mend it. Or when we were making supper we would both be in the kitchen. And one of us did the dishes while the other cooked. It was never a problem.
“We voted the same because we thought the same. We changed party at the same time.
“We always had a good time at Christmas. The children got presents, but Elvira and I didn’t give each other anything. We sang songs with the kids and danced around the Christmas tree. I expect we made a terrible racket. But we had fun. And the kids learned to be happy at home. I think that’s important at a certain age. To feel welcome where you live.”
The summer of 1967. The story continues. Oskar is sitting in the cabin with the summer cane lying across his blue work trousers. He has become more tired, older. When he can’t solve a game of Patience, he just leaves the cards scattered on the table. Instead of getting up and going over to the worktop for the coffeepot and the spirit stove, he asks me to make the coffee. The newspapers lie unread. The smell of old age gets stronger.
* * *
—
Few words.
Long pauses.
* * *
—
He spends more and more time on the bench outside the house looking out over the water. Once when I come over, he is sitting there even though it is raining.
“Don’t you think we should go in?”
“I seem to have gotten stuck here.”
We go in. He is wet, but he does not put on any warm clothes.
“I never get a cold anyway. Never have. But we must have some coffee. Will you get it?”
The coffee cup between index finger and thumb. Long slurping mouthfuls. The lump of sugar on the tongue.
“I’ve started taking sugar in my coffee this winter. I don’t know why. Doesn’t make it taste any better.”
More and more forgetful.
* * *
—
Unless I’ve gotten this completely wrong.
* * *
—
But I’m not so sure.
I don’t remember anymore.
It’s not important when it happened.
It doesn’t matter what he was called.
* * *
—
The eyes have dulled. Their whites have become gray. The movements are more sluggish, the head bent forward more and more.
* * *
—
“You really wonder what’s going on. We have all these international organizations. Such as the UN. And in spite of that we have situations like the one in Greece. Or in Spain. Or anywhere else. I read last winter that they still punish thieves by cutting off their arms and hands and feet. I look at my own stump and it’s all a mystery to me. How can this be possible? Haven’t we come any further than that? I remember there was someone who was executed in Sweden in about 1910. But then they put a stop to that and we thought it would be the same everywhere. It was a robber who’d killed someone. But I can’t remember what he was called.”
“Wasn’t his name Ander?”
“What?”
“Ander?”
“Yes. Perhaps. I don’t remember. Was it him?”
“Might have been.”
“I see. Was he related to the balloonist?”
“That one was called Andrée.”
“Right. Then there was someone by the name of Strindberg.”
“He was one of the balloonists. Nils Strindberg. He was the first to die.”
“How do they know?”
“That’s what they think.”
“I see.”
“Yes.”
“But I haven’t lost heart. My guess is that you’ll see this whole society blow apart, in one single blast. And then you can give them all my regards.”
Later on, just before I go.
“I don’t think I’m going to get much older than this. That’s how it feels.”
* * *
—
Nowadays we usually only put out the nets one night a week. But sometimes Oskar livens up and then we are out every evening and every m
orning.
“One has to pull oneself together. Otherwise I fear one ends up just sitting around and moaning like the rest of them.”
* * *
—
In one single blast.
And give them my regards.
THE SUMMER OF 1968
The summer of 1968. The last one.
“How have you been this winter?”
“Not too bad. Much as ever. Been sitting in front of the TV.”
“I’m sure.”
“I keep busy with this and that. But I go to bed earlier now. I get tired quickly.”
“I see.”
“I didn’t really think I was going to come out here this year.”
“Really?”
“Not that I didn’t feel like it, but I do get tired. Then I decided I would come out anyway.”
“It’s nice to be here.”
“It is. Shall we have coffee?”
“I’d love some.”
“Will you make it?”
“Of course.”
“You’ll have to get some water first, I think.”
“The bucket isn’t empty yet.”
“Don’t bother then.”
“Do you still take sugar?”
“I do. Bring us cookies while you’re at it. Or there’s buns if you’d like.”
“A cookie will do.”
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