Clinch

by Martin Holmén

  Olsson stands up and puts his pipe in his mouth. He offers me his hand, but I stare at it, then at him. He lowers his hand.

  ‘And may I say,’ he adds, ‘you look more like forty-four.’

  ‘The poor man grows up quickly, the rich one not at all.’

  I stand up, and Olsson nods at my clothes on the chair. I put them on, and find a Meteor in my jacket pocket, then walk out of the room without looking back. The goon who escorted me is sitting outside. When the door opens he jumps up, ready to salute.

  ‘I hope you know how to get out of the building.’ I put the cigar in my mouth and button up my jacket. ‘And I hope for your own sake that you have a match going spare.’

  The stripling goes pale under his oversized hat. Far away a church bell strikes three desolate chimes, one after the other, like the gong at the start of the final round.

  Outside, little neat snowflakes are whirling about in the dark afternoon. It’s blowing less than I thought. Cigar in hand, I am left standing for a few moments on the front steps of the police station. The tobacco is dry and doesn’t taste as good as I was expecting. I pull my jacket tighter around me and turn up the collar. A numbing tiredness streams through my muscles. I rub my beard stubble and look around.

  ‘Kvisten needs a drink.’

  I steer my steps up towards Fleminggatan and turn into the courtyard of number 23, where it still stinks of latrine. It’s only been two weeks since I came here to repossess a Monark, but it feels like considerably more. For a moment I think about that old bloke with the bicycle in his miserable attic room. I wonder how he is doing in the cold. I should change jobs.

  I go over to the shack in the corner. The crack between the frame and the door has been filled with jute sacking. I pull it open and push the heavy sheet of swine leather out of the way.

  The drinking den hardly has space enough for its three tables. The walls are insulated with newspaper. On the tables are a couple of lit candle-ends in tin mugs of cracked white enamel. I sigh. It may not be the Cecil, Metropol or Continental, but at least it has a proper wood floor.

  Along the short wall at the other end runs a bar made of lacquered planks. On it sits a tiger-striped cat with scarred ears, lapping milk from a saucer. At the other end of the bar is a bowl with a couple of eggs, daubed with dirty fingerprints. The bartender is a tall bloke wearing a thick, homespun coat. His beard stubble is almost as long as my own His eyes are cold and blue and his face is chapped by the cold. Behind him on the wall hang two paraffin lamps. He nods at me.

  The only other guest is sitting at a table to the left of me, an elderly woman with black rings under her eyes; she’s wearing a grey hat, the greasy brim of which glitters in the candlelight when she also nods at me. The buttons of her black coat are in many shapes and colours. She pulls her skirt up to her knees and, underneath, her legs are bare and her varicose veins gleam blue against her hairy white calves.

  ‘Had a good New Year?’

  I shake my head and walk up to the bar, taking the extinguished cigar from my lips.

  ‘Give me a decent-sized glass. I’ve got a long way to go.’

  The proprietor nods and puts a schnapps glass in front of me. He opens an unmarked bottle and pours out some oily soup. I fling my head back and toss down the contents. Freedom smells of fusel oil. I make an ugly face.

  I reach out towards the cat, still at the milk with a faint lapping sound. I quickly drum my fingers against the counter. Blue-black scratch marks run across it, like scars on the hands of an old coal delivery man. For a moment the cat stops its lapping, and fixes its eyes on my fingers, before going on.

  I put my half-smoked Meteor back in my mouth and rummage around in my pockets until I feel the familiar outline of the gold lighter. I take it out and, for the last time, read the name engraved on it. Looking round, I whistle at the old woman in the corner. She looks up, I toss her the lighter, and she catches it.

  ‘Happy New Year to you as well.’

  I turn to the bartender again. He’s already got the bottle ready and a box of matches. The woman behind me mumbles something. I nod at the schnapps glass and he refills it as I’m lighting my cigar.

  ‘Egg?’ The bartender points at the bowl at the far end of the counter.

  ‘Hard-boiled?’

  He nods and I nod back and he brings me an egg between his thumb and forefinger. I take it and put it next to my glass.

  ‘You never even came close, Kvisten.’

  If the bartender hears me muttering he’s not concerned about it. I pour down the shot, and, in spite of all, find that it tastes better than the last one. I think I’ll have another before I clatter down the long streets back to Sibirien. I make eye contact with the bartender, and nod once more at my glass.

  The door rattles and a cold breath of wind seeks its way into the shack. I hear the candles fluttering behind me. I take a pull at the cigar that makes my lungs sting, and then I tap the egg against the counter. There’s a gentle sound as the glass in front of me is filled to the brim.

  I raise it.

  ‘I’ll take one more after this,’ I say, adding, ‘I’m in no hurry to get anywhere.’

  An hour or so later, I stop for a few moments on the junction between Roslagsgatan and Ingemarsgatan, even though I’m so cold that I’m shaking. To my left are the steep stairs leading up to the water tower at the top of the hill in Vanadisparken. The bare trees around the stairs reach for each other like sailors in a sea of foaming waves. The snow has not been properly cleared.

  Something seems different about my district, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. I let my eyes wander from Lundin’s creaking sign to the Roslag laundry on the other side of the street. I have lost feeling in my feet and fingers, and my ears and cheeks are smarting.

  Old man Ljung appears, leading Balder and Faust, Lundin’s black draught horses, along the street. He nods at me and I nod back. Wallin comes stumbling along, his hands thrust deep into his coat pockets, on his head a hat with a worn brim and earmuffs. A piece of flotsam on a winter-stormy sea. Most likely he’s already knocked back a full bottle, the New Year’s ration. He doesn’t usually hang about.

  Lundin’s doorbell tinkles as I hunch my head to go inside, seeking to avoid a conversation with Wallin for the sake of politeness. He often has the nerve for one of those once he’s been drinking.

  Not least since I got myself a dog. He used to have one just like it, a few years ago, while his daughter was still alive.

  The undertaker is sitting at his desk, a bottle of Kron next to him. There’s a faint smell of formalin and new-baked bread. The potted palm on the floor is wilting. Lundin takes his top hat from the table and puts it on his head.

  ‘New supplies in the store. I saved this for you, brother.’ He taps the bottle with his pen and guzzles down his snuff juice.

  I nod, with a sniff. ‘I was banged up.’

  ‘They kept you in longer this time.’

  ‘You know how it is.’ I scrape at my neck.

  ‘Ernst Rolf’s died.’

  ‘What do you mean? Why?’

  ‘He tried to drown himself. Then he changed his mind. Then he got a pneumonia and died.’

  ‘Is it really true?’

  ‘They’re saying he swallowed a lot of Veronal too.’

  We fall into silence for a few seconds. Lundin hands over the bottle and I take possession of it, while he gets out his accounts book and makes a note. My headache comes back whenever I cough.

  ‘Have you ever been knocked unconscious?’

  Lundin looks up for a moment before going back to his figures.

  ‘We’re getting close to payment date.’

  ‘The lights just go out, it’s as simple as that,’ I go on. ‘You no longer feel your body. Everything goes empty. Did anyone call?’

  ‘Only Wernersson. About a bicycle.’

  ‘So no one else?’

  ‘No. There’s a party in the back building of number forty-one. A bazaar.’r />
  ‘Have you been to take a look?’

  ‘No. How about twelve o’clock?’

  ‘Hopefully I’ll be sleeping by then.’

  Lundin nods. ‘Happy New Year, then.’

  ‘Same to you.’

  I reach out with my left hand. Lundin stares at it for a few moments before he shakes it, and then I go back outside into the New Year’s freeze.

  My door is unlocked. I step into the hall and hang up my hat. It smells of dog piss. I go into the kitchen where, on the draining board, dirty glasses have been lined up. The frying pan on the cooker is full of congealed fat. The briny water in the bathing tub is cold.

  I empty it into the sink, then put a bit of wood in the fireplace and get it going. On the floor around the kitchen table lies some of Doris’s dirty underwear, also her silk stockings. I feed the fire with them, then slowly straighten my back, moving as if in a trance.

  The paper bag with Christmas decorations lies overturned in a corner, spilling out red glitter balls and straw angels.

  Slowly I cross the room and light the ceramic stove. The Christmas tree is leaning up against the wall, undecorated and dropping its needles. A couple of dresses lie on the floor. The contents of my top desk drawer have been emptied out over the desk. My testimonial letter from the navy, Ida’s green cloth, a couple of old clippings from Boxing Monthly! and some faded letters from America are lying on the floor. Someone has taken them out of their envelopes and read them. My stomach turns. I used to take that green cloth, soak it in sugar-water and give it to Ida to suck on when I couldn’t afford toffee or a couple of cocoa balls on Saturdays.

  The splashes of blood on the wall next to the sleeping alcove are still there from the time Doris smacked me on the nose. The ashtray lies upside down among the sheets. I pull the blanket off the bed, and a rain of cigarette ash scatters over the flat. Doris’s medicinal bottle bounces along the floor.

  Her syringe is lying by the pillows. There’s no sign of the little case. I pick up the bottle, on the bottom of which there’s still a smidgeon of the brown liquid.

  I go back into the kitchen. The fire is crackling nicely. I rinse the syringe in Kron and then have a pull straight from the bottle. I get out of my strange clothes. Outside, in the courtyard, someone bursts out laughing.

  Using the syringe, I mop up the remaining fluid in the bottle and walk naked out of the kitchen. I leave the bottle on the desk and go over to the wardrobe. The Husqvarna is in its usual place. I put on a pair of clean underpants and bring out the pistol and a black tie with red stripes.

  I get the photograph from my wallet and put it on the table in front of me. I sit in the armchair and wrap the tie around my right arm. The silk ends taste dry in my mouth. I clench my hand at the same time as I hear Lundin start hammering at another semi-finished coffin in his workshop.

  The pain of the pricking needle wakes me out of my stupor, brings me back to life. I pull back a little blood with my left hand before I slowly inject the contents into myself, then withdraw the needle and open my hand.

  Leaning back in the armchair, I keep my forearms on the armrests.

  It doesn’t take long. A curious warmth spreads through my body. My muscles open like flowers. When I breathe in, my lungs don’t hurt as they usually do.

  The syringe hits the floor like a drop into a barrel of rainwater. With infinite slowness, my forehead lowers itself towards the edge of the table. I breathe out once my head is resting against the table top. Then, entirely without any warning, I vomit warm lava over my feet.

  I don’t know how much time has passed. The table is cold and hard against my forehead. It feels good. My eyelids are leaden, the blood ripples through my veins, and my whole body is itching, but I can’t bring myself to move.

  I’m no longer here. I’m the one I used to be. Memories course through me, framed in pink or golden yellow. I hear myself murmuring along to one of them; my voice is dark and drawling, just like Doris’s. I find I’m back in the room we rented on Tavastgatan, with Emma and Ida.

  ‘Just think if she…?’

  ‘Don’t say it!’ I interrupt.

  ‘But what if!’

  ‘No, she’s strong.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we call for another doctor?’

  ‘You know as well as I do that we can’t do that, and he’ll only say the same thing as the last one.’

  ‘Hilda’s infant died of whooping cough.’

  ‘Hilda’s child, yes, and my brother, but not our little one, she’s strong.’

  ‘But what if she doesn’t recover by the time we have to travel?’

  ‘She will, she’s strong.’

  ‘You’ll come as soon as you can, won’t you?’

  ‘It’s only a couple of matches to improve our prospects. No one has got the better of me yet.’

  ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Nothing, all we have to do is sit here.’

  ‘But what can we do?’

  ‘Just sit here.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to pray with me?’

  ‘It won’t do any good, so stop nagging!’

  ‘For my sake?’

  ‘You say it and I’ll listen.’

  ‘Can you at least kneel here next to me?’

  ‘Fair enough, but you have to do it for the both of us.’

  ‘And clasp your hands together!’

  ‘Don’t spy on me, say what you want to say!’

  ‘Have you clasped your hands together?’

  ‘Yes. Let’s get this out of the way.’

  ‘Hey? You’re not angry with me, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m here, aren’t I! Are you angry with me?’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Right then, so let’s pray.’

  I struggle to catch my breath. I’m back in Roslagsgatan, smiling, while the tears run down my face, dripping from my stubble onto the rug. I open my mouth and let it all back in.

  My memories darken, grow light, and then darken again. The black sun quickly rises. I am very close now.

  The newly pointed wall around the imposing house on Nobelgatan feels rough against my gloves. I’ve walked all the way from Sibirien in my clogs, taking a detour through the deep snow around the barracks by Gärdet to avoid bumping into anyone. I can’t feel my feet any more. My stomach is aching with its own emptiness and my head is filled with thunderous pains. I am overwhelmed by my own smell: old sweat and vomit. I’m still alive, though.

  I check my watch again – half past eleven – then I put it back in my waistcoat. I’m wearing my best suit, tailored by Herzog.

  I look around, and find a snow-covered zinc bucket that’s full of old cement. I turn it upside down by the wall. For a moment I think of the murder weapon, the mason’s axe. I stand on the bucket and grab the top of the wall.

  I drop down heavily on the other side as an early New Year’s rocket wails across the sky. A green light illuminates the undulating winter-white garden. Low, severely pruned fruit trees cast momentary shadows. The white waves of frozen snow reflect the light in the backyard. A flock of crows lifts from one of the trees and takes off.

  I squat down by the wall. Somewhere in the distance, I hear music and laughter. The top floor of the house is entirely dark. I rub my hands together, draw the Husqvarna from my shoulder holster, flick the safety catch and feed a bullet into the chamber. I hold the pistol in my left hand. It doesn’t matter if they are out.

  ‘Kvisten can wait.’

  Another rocket sends a broom of light over the sky. I run some twenty metres over the frozen crust of the snow, and thump my back into the façade of the house, which is still utterly silent. I wonder if Doris was speaking the truth when she mentioned how their entire service staff had been dismissed. I glance into the kitchen, which looks large and empty. A couple of decorative lamps with white shades throw a faint sheen across the floor.

  I go round the corner and, squatting down, follow the wall to the corner on the other side. The crust of the s
now cuts my shins as I move forwards. I lift my clog out once more. A need to cough tickles my lungs, but I keep it in check. I’m squeezing the Husqvarna so hard that I can feel the grooved surface of the hilt through my glove. I haven’t had time to test fire it, as planned. Not with my right hand, even less so with my left.

  I look into a window again, still at that empty kitchen. I take a few calm breaths to assuage my cough. My breath comes out of my mouth like steam. I remove my hat and mop the sweat off my brow with my sleeve. Then I peer around the corner.

  The drive is empty of cars. A pale light emanates from the ground-floor windows. Faint jazz tones are punctured by high-pitched laughter. Still crouching, I make my way up the front steps to the door.

  My heart starts thumping hard. I put the Husqvarna in my jacket pocket, find a Meteor and start fumbling with some matches. On my third attempt a spark illuminates the nameplate on the door and I light the cigar. I take a couple of deep drags and put my hand on the handle as I check my watch. I won’t have to remove my tie. Not tonight.

  At twenty to midnight a rocket howls nearby. I press down on the handle while the explosion is still reverberating. My heart leaps when I find it is open. As long as Dixie doesn’t give me away.

  ‘Damn it, Kvisten. It’s on.’

  I slip inside and carefully close the door behind me. There’s a welcoming smell of Arrack Punch and expensive cigars. Mumbling men’s voices can be heard through the jazz music. A couple of billiard balls are clicking. I’m early. At worst, I’ll have to delay it. At least there’s no sign of Dixie; she’s afraid of fireworks, poor thing. I get the pistol out of my pocket.

  I take a couple of muffled steps over the Persian rug and walk into the half-lit hall. Someone has brought in gravel and dirt. To my right, a monumental staircase flows down, supported on Greek columns. So this is where Doris makes her dramatic entrances. I can see it all now.

  Immediately in front of me stands a life-size bronze statue of a young man, naked, with a broken arrow in his hand. A dining room opens up beside the statue, decorated in a deep blue colour. A gigantic crystal chandelier hovers like a jellyfish over a large oak table.