The wall of the shack in front of me has been constructed from a big piece of hoarding. The Metro Construction Project, it says in large black letters. A map shows the three stations of Slussen, Södra Bantorget and Ringvägen, and underneath is a caption: For the benefit of Götgatan’s merchants. The hoardings have been temporarily erected all over the city and are easy to unscrew and take down.
I can hear a screeching, hacking cough inside.
I bang on the door.
The bloke who opens it is holding a rusty tin can in one hand. His eyes are deep-set and close together. A flap of skin on his throat hangs down like a washed-out blue collar. His tongue flicks across the snuff-daubed whiskers around his mouth. He wears a Horse Guards uniform, an older style; it looks as if it got in the way of a cluster of hungry rats. He hasn’t got long to go but at least he has a plank floor, a fire and a bed. On the hearth is a trivet, and there’s a smell of coffee granules.
‘Lill-Johan?’
He shakes his head, coughs and spits sooty phlegm into his tin. ‘Three houses down,’ he wheezes and points with his tin towards a cul-de-sac.
‘How little is he?’
‘Not little at all.’
I nod. As I approach Lill-Johan’s door I think about my limp. If he’s armed and in a bad mood, I could have problems. It’s not knives that gleam in the dark that I worry about. Glittering, sharp blades leave clean, fine cuts that any tailor’s apprentice can stitch up without the slightest problem. The knives I fear are the ones that do not gleam; dull Mora knives full of dirt. Even a small cut from one of those can be fatal. The poorer one’s enemy, the more dangerous.
The hinges of Lill-Johan’s plank door groan when he opens it. Straightaway, a big, filthy mitt gives me a shove in the chest. I slip and reel backwards while fighting to regain my balance. Lill-Johan follows, his belly oozing under his dirty blue shirt. His curly black hair is long and oily. At the top of his head, a large, pale bump erupts from his locks. The whites of his staring eyes shine in his dirty face. With a grunt, he pulls his knife at once. The blade is short and brown with rust. Slowly he moves towards me.
‘Now you listen…’
I retreat until I can’t go any further, cornered in a cul-de-sac with my back against a wooden fence. The mire reaches over my ankles, my toes are aching.
Lill-Johan approaches gingerly, holding his knife in his right hand, in front of his huge belly. Quickly I take off my overcoat and wrap it around my lower left arm. Maybe it would be easier to get away by smashing my way through one of the walls of the surrounding shacks.
‘Watch, wallet,’ he says monotonously and slightly laboriously, as if the words are strange to him.
There’s a squelch as he takes one more step. Less than two metres separate us. He changes his grip so that the knife points down at the mud, ready to hack rather than stab. My misgivings yield to that strange sense of calm that always precedes violence. I feel as if I’m back in a corner of the ring. I look up and, for a moment, let the snowflakes fall over my face. I stretch out my arms as if inviting him to embrace.
I fought my first bout with my hands wrapped in sailcloth, against a mess dogsbody inside a ring of drunk, roaring sailors. I remember the fear in my opponent’s face when they pushed him towards me. I remember the way the sea breeze came wafting through a wall of bodies that had washed in salt water for too long. How they bellowed my name.
On that day I won and I’ve won ever since. I’ve never taken a count. I’m not about to start now. Knife or not: I’ll knock the swine over the ropes.
Lill-Johan raises the knife above his head. Bellowing, he takes two squelching steps forwards, but he’s absurdly slow. My shoe is left behind when I move. I block the blade of the knife with my wrapped-up arm above my head. The edge shreds the thick fabric. Shielding myself behind my arm, I release a straight right at his midriff. In its quest to find the sensitive internal organs embedded somewhere in the blubber, my whole fist sinks into the distended gut.
Lill-Johan’s eyes threaten to pop out of their sockets when he finds that I am confronting him. A stale waft of pilsner left standing overnight hits me right in the face. Like the smelling salts my trainer forced on me between rounds, the stench makes me even more alert. I load my left fist, but when I twist my foot outwards to send it off, I slip in the mud and lose my balance. I roll my upper body to avoid any blows and retire a metre or so until once again I am against the fence.
Again the knife comes hurtling down at me. Like last time, I meet the blade with my coat. My hat falls off. There’s a prick in my lower arm but it’s not much more than a scratch. Sometimes one has to take a few blows and bleed a few drops to learn how one’s opponent works and make him reckless.
If I am not wearing gloves in a fight I can only use my left fist two or three times, or it’ll turn to smithereens. I hold back, but the hook connects as it should. His jaw, not my fist, shatters with a sharp, distinctive sound. A couple of teeth lose themselves in the snow.
The dog collar, August Gabrielsson, once consolingly said to me that there are all sorts of people in the world and they all react to things in different ways. I’ve always liked observing how people behave when their lights go out. Some lose their sinews and crumble into a shapeless heap, like ‘The Mallet’ Sundström in the last round of our much-analysed match in 1922, while others stiffen their limbs and fall like overturned statues.
Lill-Johan belongs to the first category. First one, then the other leg wilts under his massive weight. His eyes are open but there’s no one at home. He falls forwards. My mouth waters. If he had the ropes of the boxing ring behind him I’d keep him on his feet with a couple more punches just for the sake of it, but now I step aside.
There’s a squelch when his bulk hits the ground. The mud spatters a long way up my leg.
‘I’ll be damned. Bloody hooligans, always making a mess, and never anyone to send the bill to.’
I look down at my best suit and wonder if Sailor-Beda can save it. My right fist is hurting. I unravel the overcoat from my arm and put it on. It has a couple of serious rents in it.
I bend over Lill-Johan and move the flame of the gold lighter close to his face. He’s fallen on his stomach with his face to the side, partially covered in streaks of that long, oily hair. His mouth is open and half filled with mud and blood. I begin to worry that he has fallen on his own knife. I heave him onto his back. He coughs. A pulse of black-brown mess rises in his mouth and goes back down again.
My knees crack when I straighten. I stand with my legs on either side of his massive chest. He coughs again. It seems to be contagious. I cough as well and stand there doubled over for a minute or so before I catch my breath.
I put my lighter in my pocket and unbutton my fly. It’s abominably cold.
‘Unfortunately I left my smelling salts at home in Sibirien.’
I piss Lill-Johan clean of mud and blood. The dirt comes off in little chunks wherever the jet hits him, leaving cracks of pale white skin in his mask of grime.
‘Not bad, a hot drink for you, and a top-up too.’
The warm, wet sensation makes him slowly come to life. His eyelids tremble, he’s making some fairly odd sounds and shaking his head. His jawbone seems to have completely broken off.
I get rid of the last few drops and button up my fly. I take my necktie from my pocket and put it back on. Lill-Johan blinks maniacally. I step over him and locate my shoe by the plank a short distance away. Lill-Johan tries to crawl away from me on all fours. He whimpers like a tethered dog outside a government schnapps shop. I pick up his rusty knife from the deep mud. It has a home-carved hilt.
‘Stop!’
Lill-Johan freezes. With the shoe in one hand and the knife in the other, I squelch after him. I squat down in front of him. His chin hangs lopsidedly from its broken hinge.
‘Give me your paw!’
Lill-Johan’s eyes are still swimming after his knockout. He doesn’t understand what I mean. There’s no point
being subtle about it. Hard people need hard measures. I give him a belt on the jaw with the shoe. There’s a slap. His chin flies sideways and then snaps back. He bellows, bends down and buries his face in his hands.
‘Come on! Give me your paw!’
Without raising his eyes, he holds up his big, dirty hand. It’s trembling. I let go of the shoe, take a hold of his mitt and position the knife blade diagonally across his palm. Then I let rip. The warm blood swells over my muddy fist. Lill-Johan roars again, his voice echoing between the wooden walls. I throw the knife over the rooftops. It clatters against something made of metal.
‘My name is Harry Kvist. Remember that. Remember it every time you look at your hand. The man who tailored my suit is called Herzog. One of the best tailors in town. I had to dig deep in my pocket to pay for it. Sit up!’
I grab his chin. He whimpers with pain and can’t do anything but obey me. I empty my shoe, stand on one leg and put it on. Lill-Johan kneels in front of me. He holds his injured hand in the other. A lone snowflake finds its way into his bleeding gob. He sways slightly.
‘Listen: do you have a sister called Sonja who’s on the game?’
The sounds flowing out of Lill-Johan are transformed into gargles when he tries to speak.
‘Quiet! Shake your head or nod! Sonja?’
He doesn’t stay quiet but he shakes his head.
‘Do you know anyone called Sonja at all?’
Again he shakes his head. I nod and turn around. After a beating of that order there’s no reason not to believe him. It’s completely stopped snowing now. I examine my right hand and give it a squeeze. It seems to have survived.
The gravel scrapes in my shoes as I balance along the planks. Lill-Johan whines hoarsely like a kid with a hacking cough. Every inhabitant in the Mire seems to have locked himself in his hovel. The fire on the metal plate by the entrance illuminates the cold December night like a lighthouse, but the down-and-outs have gone.
The sun is as high as it can manage in December. The sallow light makes Roslagsgatan glitter. Everything has frozen over in the night. People step along carefully like the transvestites one sees in the parks I sometimes visit in the summer months. Motorcar drivers avoid the tram tracks in the middle of the road. Horses place their hooves hesitantly.
I’m standing outside the laundry, smoking and waiting for Sailor-Beda to mend the tear in my overcoat. The hat is still lying in the mud among the shacks of the Mire. I am wearing a black jacket with non-matching trousers. The combination does not have my usual dignity. It’s cold, but when the rays of the sun get through there’s a little warmth. I hope the good weather keeps. A gaunt cat comes and rubs itself against me. Two hundred and fifty kronor of my emergency capital burns a hole in my wallet.
The gang of wiry boys from around the block are trying to climb the streetlight outside my house. They usually hang about on my corner, smoking, passing around torn-out photos of Josephine Baker and identifying the makes of passing cars. I can hear them from my window. If it’s a Ford or a Chevrolet they content themselves with simple statements of fact. Volvo, the home-grown challenger, raises their voices a little, and a Dodge makes them yell. What’s really bad is when an old Thulin or a Scherling comes spluttering by. First someone makes a piercing cry, then a wild discussion erupts before someone gets a punch on the nose. Usually they don’t calm down until someone opens a window and throws a shoe – or the contents of a chamber pot – at them. I have no shoes I can get rid of, and not a potty either. If I need to get up in the night I use the sink.
I squat down and scratch the cat behind the ear. The grease in its pelt glimmers. My knee feels better but I have a slight stiffness in my back, stomach and shoulders. There’s a little scratch on my lower arm, but it was no match for Sister Ella’s Salve for Cuts and Grazes. This morning I loosened up my body with Danilo’s dance course, as seen in Stockholms-Tidningen. Lundin tears out the page of instructions every Saturday breakfast. Tomorrow it’s time for another one.
The cat darts off when the door tinkles as it’s opened. I straighten. Beda waddles towards me with the overcoat.
‘I did what I could. It was a nasty rip.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m only off to PUB to buy a new one.’
‘Your suit from Herzog’s. With all those stains.’ Her voice is filled with sorrow, marvelling at all the world’s evil.
‘I understand. Do what you can.’
Beda puts her hands together and starts swaying back and forth. I look around. Further down the street, Bruntell has rigged up his Kodak to photograph the kids. He chooses the oddest motifs. In the background, Ström is up on a ladder, screwing down his factory-painted sign with the elaborate text: ALL BOTTLES BOUGHT, ALL KINDS OF METALLIC JUNK, RAGS, RUBBER AND VARIOUS OTHER ITEMS AT THE BEST POSSIBLE PRICE.
‘A new chemical laundry has opened on Observatoriegatan.’ Beda rubs one eye with the knuckle of her forefinger. It’s tearing up. Must be the cold.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. You’ve taken care of my laundry for ten years.’
Beda stops swaying and smiles fondly. On the other side of the street a rye-blond boy manages the feat of climbing all the way to the top of the streetlight, and the kids are yelling as if deranged. He’s wearing long trousers, a cap on his head.
The owner of the general store folds up his camera tripod and carries it inside. Old man Ljung comes up from Frejgatsbacken, leading Lundin’s rented black horses.
A young woman without either a hat or a handbag comes out of the doorway of number 41. The blokes around the block call her the Jewel. The gossiping old bats at the General Store call her the Fashion Doll. Lundin firmly maintains that the shape of her head signifies an abnormally highly developed sense of ‘amour’.
Her heels clatter against the paving stones when she marches up to the junction. The Jewel stops and shouts at the kids, telling them to shut up. They screech back at her and laugh. Her hips swing hard when she turns around again. Her buttocks bounce from side to side like a pear-shaped ball.
It’s been years since I last had a woman. Maybe, in spite of all, I’ve missed it. I take a deep drag on my cigar.
‘Surely you’re not going bareheaded? In this weather?’ Beda gives me a concerned look, and rubs her running eye again.
‘It should be all right.’
‘Out of the question! You’ll catch cold! I’ll have a look among the unclaimed hats!’
‘It’s not necessary.’
‘Now just you wait here!’
The bell on the door tinkles and Beda disappears in a puff of bleach. I look in my notebook. The first stop will be Oscaria’s shoe shop, then PUB Department Store before I go on to Söder and Bondegatan, in the hope of visiting Sonja’s parents. If they still have the sweetmeats with peas at the Corso wine bar, I may stop off there first. I may also allow myself a couple of snifters. I borrowed a bit of dough from Lundin this morning.
The doorbell rings again. Beda comes out. To the north one can hear a march playing – the Johannes Folk School orchestra is beginning its usual Friday practice session.
‘Look here,’ she says, proffering a checked cap with earmuffs. She stands on her tiptoes and puts it on my head, then pats my cheek with her chapped hand.
‘Damn!’
Beda raises a gnarled finger. ‘He who swears gets worms in his teeth.’
‘Ever since my twin brother and I tore my mother in two while she was giving birth to us, worms are all we’ve had to eat.’
Beda laughs, swaying and opening her mouth wide. Judging by the state of her teeth, she’s sworn once or twice as well.
She goes back into her laundry and I cross the street. I daren’t take off the cap yet, in case she’s standing in the window watching me. I head off towards Lundin’s Undertakers. A coal delivery man has parked his cart against the wall and is unloading a couple of sacks. He takes a sack on each shoulder and goes around the corner into Ingemarsgatan.
‘Kvisten!’
The blond urchin with the Vega cap has crept up without my noticing. His eyes are rebellious but he has a childish, round face. He stretches out his little mitt and smiles, his mouth full of topsy-turvy teeth. Clearly he’s the tough of the gang. The others stand a bit further off. They twist and turn, pushing each other and tittering.
‘Yes?’
‘My dad says Kvisten was an ace boxer?’
‘My name is Kvist, as far as you’re concerned.’
The boy nods, the gang behind him titters even more. ‘My dad says Kvist was the best boxer we ever had. Better than Harry Persson, even.’
‘That’s not the only thing your old man says, I imagine.’
‘Why didn’t you turn pro like HP?’
‘Clear off!’
‘What do you mean, mister?’
Behind him, the street urchins have lined up like a little choir. One of them at the edge, a little shit with a bruise under his eye, starts swinging his elbow and the whole gang give it all they’ve got, as they roar out: ‘Harry Kvist was a hell of a bloke!’
I flick the stump of my cigar towards them and grab the nearest boy by his ear.
‘Clear the hell out of here!’
My growl comes from the very bottom of my throat. The boy opens his mouth as if he’s about to answer back. I slap him so hard that it stings the palm of my hand. The boy hits the paving stones on his face.
The other boys screech and scatter like a flock of seagulls. I bend down and pick up the wriggling boy by the scruff of his neck. There’s a scarlet mark on his cheek. I brush him down.
‘Go home to your father. Tell him not to talk behind honest people’s backs. If this continues I’ll have to teach him a lesson as well.’
The boy wriggles free. I let him run. I take off my hat and find a Meteor in my pocket. The gold lighter is on strike. I sigh and open the door of the undertaker’s.
‘The kids are making a lot of damned noise,’ says Lundin as I lower my head to come through the doorway. He’s sitting in his black suit, noting something down on a paper at his desk.
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