Of course I too, in the democratic spirit of the day, had been invited. By that time I was feeling quite at home with the people who frequented the club. Most of them were disgusting, but it was still possible to have a good time with them, as long as you had no expectations. I went over to the club in the evening and took up a casual position at the poolside with a drink in my hand as I chatted with Mr Wijkman about the summer. He expressed his deep and solemn regrets about the burglary and seemed genuinely concerned. He told me that he wanted me to continue working at the club; I could simply move out there for good, or at least for the rest of the year. But I let him know that I now had to get back to my writing.
‘Fantastic,’ exclaimed Wijkman, who had grown a bit tipsy, and he slapped me on the back. ‘It’s fantastic that you can just sit there and write like that. You know, I have always admired people who believe in something …’ he went on in a familiar manner.
While Wijkman kept on spouting off about life in general and writing in particular, I tried to scan the sea of people with all the celebrities. No one attracted me much, and I assumed it was going to take a lot of drinks for the evening to shape up into anything at all.
Eventually Wijkman’s wife and enormous daughter joined us as we stood there trying to converse by the pool. I had never met them before, but they were just as suntanned, wore just as much make-up, and had exactly the sort of low-cut necklines you might expect.
‘Now Klas here,’ said Wijkman, introducing me, ‘he’s somebody for the two of you. He’s actually an author. He’s a secretive devil, ha, ha, ha,’ he chuckled and disappeared into the crowd.
The ladies seemed instantly intrigued and asked me what I had written. They hadn’t heard of my books, but they thought they definitely sounded interesting. They promised to order them from their bookshop at once.
‘And yet you have to mow grass all summer long just to survive …’
‘I’m not complaining,’ I said.
‘I suppose it’s rather nice to do different sorts of jobs. You meet a lot of people, don’t you?’ said the mother, tilting her head to one side.
‘Oh yes. My next book is going to be set on a golf course.’
Both the mother and the daughter laughed, and then the mother was clearly struck with an idea, apropos earning money.
‘Wait here a minute,’ she said, and she made her way through the guests.
I followed her with my eyes and watched her corner a middle-aged man wearing jeans and a sweater. He looked slightly bohemian, like an advertising guy who made tons of money and only came out to the club to hit a bucket of balls now and then and enjoyed having a drink in the bar. Mrs Wijkman exchanged a few words with the man, who hiccuped, and then they both looked in my direction. He nodded affirmatively and came back with her.
‘This is Torsten Franzén,’ said Mrs Wijkman as they approached.
‘How do you do?’
We shook hands, and Mrs Wijkman explained that she and Torsten had been friends since school and that he knew of me because he was the publisher of a well-known company, and he always had loads of ideas.
Torsten Franzén put his arm around my shoulders and led me away; on our way out to the periphery of the crowd we grabbed a couple more drinks.
‘Everybody is so fucking stuck-up in this place,’ said Franzén. ‘Don’t you agree?’
I nodded and lit a cigarette.
‘You need a job?’
‘Money, first and foremost,’ I said.
‘That’s right,’ said Franzén. ‘You should never work for nothing, even if you’re a writer. You see, I really like your work, and I’ve got an idea that might interest you.’
‘Let’s hear it.’
Franzén told me in confidence about the second planned celebration, meaning the hundredth anniversary of the publication of August Strindberg’s novel The Red Room. Franzén’s idea was that someone – such as myself, for instance – should sit down and rewrite the book, but set it in the present day. The book was still hot stuff, but adapted to the present it could be dynamite. It was Franzén’s hope that a young talent with a bold style could do something brilliant with it.
‘The idea does appeal to me,’ I confessed.
‘Don’t be so damned reticent, like all the others,’ said Franzén. ‘Either you’re hot for the idea or you’re not, that’s the question.’
‘Let me have a few minutes to think it over. This isn’t the best setting for conducting this sort of business.’
‘OK,’ said Franzén, giving me another slap on the back. ‘I’ll give you fifteen minutes, then I’m going to throw you in the pool. Maybe it’ll help if you know that I’m prepared to put ten grand on the table as soon as you sign the contract.’
Franzén took aim for the nearest table with drinks and set off. I was now alone in a corner on the other side of the pool, and the club and all of life seemed far away. I smoked a cigarette as I pondered the proposal in silence. The idea was quite appealing, and I was actually looking for a new project. Rewriting The Red Room with a present-day setting was undeniably tempting; there were plenty of people to skewer, and besides, it was a genre that I hadn’t attempted before.
Ten grand on the table certainly didn’t make the offer any less attractive.
Before long I headed for a drinks table, downed a dry, sharp little shot in a single gulp and paused to see how it felt. It went down nicely, and then I made up my mind. I went looking for Franzén and said, ‘You’ve got a deal!’
Franzén stuck out his mitt and looked relieved. The deal was made, and we drank a toast to The Red Room.
‘This could be your breakthrough if you can pull it off,’ he said.
‘As long as no one else does it first.’
‘You’d better get started tonight, for God’s sake. We need the manuscript before Christmas.’
‘It’ll work out.’
‘It has to work out. You’re the perfect guy for the job.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Oh hell,’ said Franzén in the middle of everything. ‘Do you see who’s just arrived over there?’
I scanned the crowd by the entrance but couldn’t see any big celebrity worth noting.
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘Sterner, Wilhelm Sterner. He’s the one wearing the light-blue jacket, with that Chinese woman, or whatever she is. They’re over there, talking to Wijkman.’
I had a hard time picking out the man in question, but I did see Wijkman, who was wagging his tail like some clever little puppy dog.
‘Who the hell is he?’ I asked, because I’d never heard of Wilhelm Sterner.
Franzén looked at me with both contempt and sympathy, and maybe a touch of forgiveness thrown in.
‘If you’re going to set The Red Room in the present, you’ve got to know who the hell Wilhelm Sterner is. He’s a big shot, one of the biggest. He seldom shows up at these low-level functions,’ said Franzén emphatically. ‘Look carefully, because this could be the first and last time you’ll ever see him.’
‘So what’s his game in life?’
‘He’s the man behind this golf course,’ muttered my new publisher out of the side of his mouth, because he didn’t want to let the behemoth out of his sight for even a second. ‘He’s the man behind almost all Swedish business today, let me tell you. Ten years ago he took over the Griffel Corporation. Pretty soon he’ll be as big as Wallenberg. He trained with Wallenberg, actually. The old man himself taught him. You can tell. He’s growing into the suit. And it’s about time. The old man’s suit. Wilhelm Sterner – he exists but he’s invisible.’
‘Non videre sed esse,’ I interjected.
Franzén gave a start and fixed his eyes on me briefly.
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘That’s right, my boy. To exist, but not be seen. That’s his motto, and Wallenberg’s. The government is about to fall apart, I’d bet a thousand kronor on it. Things are rough right now. But next year is another election. Then they’ll start looking for new, fr
esh ministers. There aren’t many competent fellows around, people who haven’t already been compromised. But Sterner has never been part of any government.’
‘So he’s clean?’
‘Clean?’ exclaimed Franzén, once again making me feel like an idiot. ‘Is there any heavyweight who’s clean? But he knows how to tidy things up, Sterner can sure do that. He can tidy things up after himself. He recently drove two of his department heads to their death. One guy’s ticker gave out, and the other one found a rope. And I don’t suppose anyone remembers the ‘Hogarth Affair’ anymore. People dropped like flies; I don’t really know much about it myself. But Sterner is a devil, my boy. A real wolf in sheep’s clothing. Good-looking clothing.’
So I did my best to home in on this financial behemoth who trod on corpses, but I found that it was actually quite difficult to do. He was standing over near the entrance in his impeccable light-blue club blazer, beige trousers and brogues, his skin attractively tanned. His iniquity, of course, was of international scope.
He might have been pushing sixty, but that was only a guess. If I wasn’t mistaken, he played tennis with other magnates to keep himself fit. He was a typical serve-expert who slammed away and ground people down, smashing his opponent to smithereens with his serves like Tanner, imbued with all the stubbornness and recalcitrance that every big shot absolutely has to have. He was certainly difficult to pin down, this man, with his aura of equal parts charm and malice. Stout and solid, as befits a magnate with a world presence, yet at the same time light and resilient. In general he was as unreal and vague as a Ken doll, merely emanating precision and an odourless physical clout. His jacket moved freely in space, floating like a Zeppelin without touching the ground.
All the small fry and their wives wanted at any cost to go over and touch the Evil One, to shake hands with the big shot. Before long Franzén was over there too, shuffling his feet. Like an American senator, Sterner very dutifully shook everyone’s hand as his escort, the woman with the Asian appearance, looked on, nodding left and right and handing out smiles of recognition, both high and low. She had got hold of a martini and was elegantly sipping her drink in the behemoth’s shadow. She seemed accustomed to the whole thing, looking exactly as blasé as was permitted; she gave the impression that the party was dreary, without appearing to be bored to death. She also looked as if she’d been a really hot number when she was young. By now she was middle-aged, but she had no need to regret a single day. If I’d had another half-hour, I could have been bewitched by her, but I didn’t. Not this time.
The big finance king Wilhelm Sterner and his dazzling lady-friend thought it best to withdraw early that evening, and that showed good judgement because it turned out to be quite a damp party. I helped pull at least five fully dressed guests out of the pool. Including my new publisher, Franzén.
_______
That was more or less the state of my situation in the early autumn of 1978. That was also approximately what I told Henry Morgan at the Zum Franziskaner, as a way of introducing myself. He actually heard a good deal more, but that doesn’t really belong in this account.
The story of the burglary made a strong impression on Henry. He was deeply moved and even had tears in his eyes.
‘You poor boy!’ he exclaimed. ‘You remind me so damned much of my brother,’ he added with great emphasis. ‘You both belong to an ill-starred lot. Are you a Pisces too?’
‘Of course.’
‘I might have guessed! I’m quite psychic, you know. I can sense things in my bones. I knew you were a Pisces.’
That’s when the thirst set in. We had been talking for several hours, and we’d run out of cash, so there was nothing to do but leave.
‘We can go up to my place,’ said Henry. ‘I’m sure I can find something to offer you.’
‘I really ought to be getting home,’ I said because I recognised the pattern. The plug had been pulled, and we could easily keep going all night long, even though it was a completely ordinary Thursday. No saints had either died or been born on that day, or if they had, it was in vain because it was never recorded on our calendar. Or maybe Luther had sacked those saints.
‘I really ought to go home now. It’s only Thursday, for God’s sake.’
‘No arguments,’ said Henry. ‘I haven’t yet told you about your role, your role in the film.’
‘All right then,’ I said. ‘But you’ll have to make it brief.’
It turned out that Henry Morgan lived on Hornsgatan. Right across from Puckeln Hill, in one of those dilapidated old buildings, between the newly renovated façades that look so unreal, like sugar cubes topped with cream.
We went into the foyer, which was adorned with a hunting mural dated 1905.
‘Wait here,’ he said, standing in front of the lift as he took out a key ring. ‘I live on the top floor, but I have to get us something to drink.’
Henry selected a key and opened a door in the foyer. Then he disappeared behind a curtain and silence descended. The light went out, and I fumbled my way to the switch. The silence continued for several more minutes. Finally I heard a couple of doors opening and shutting behind the curtain and out stepped Henry Morgan with a half-full bottle of Doctors whisky.
‘It’s nice when people trust you,’ he muttered with satisfaction and opened the doors to the lift. ‘Just don’t ask any questions.’
The sixth floor consisted of a single flat with two entrances, and I assumed that it was a luxury residence, but Henry didn’t want to show me much that night. Instead he shushed me by placing his index finger to his lips.
‘We have to be quiet! People are sleeping here.’
‘Do you have a family?’
‘Everyone’s asleep, everyone’s asleep!’ he whispered. ‘We’ll have to stay in the kitchen.’
We tiptoed out to a big, rectangular kitchen with both a gas and a wood stove, smudged old cupboards stretching up to the firmament, wood panelling on the walls and an impressive sideboard made of dark wood. Henry lit a couple of candles and took out some sturdy-looking glasses.
‘Sit down, kid,’ he hissed, pointing to a chair. ‘Yes, by God, someone else lives here. It’s a bit chilly, isn’t it?’
‘That’s OK. We could have a little pick-me-up, couldn’t we?’
Henry poured a couple of healthy pick-me-ups and started talking about the film role I was supposed to get. It turned out that he wasn’t exactly the director but something more along the lines of an extra, though he had in fact once played a starring role. It was in Calle Learns the Crawl, a training film about swimming from 1953, when that fine swimmer, the ten-year-old Henry Morgan, made his debut on the big screen. He wondered if I remembered the film, but I didn’t. I was too young.
So Henry Morgan was an extra, one of the best. All the extras were part of one big family, and I learned that it was almost always the same bunch who appeared in all the films made in Sweden. There were thick folders filled with photos and data on all the extras, and Henry was going to see to it that I ended up in just such a folder, because that was as important as being on the housing waiting list.
He claimed to have shot at wagons and fought and fenced and sat in speakeasies in historical films; he had stood in employment queues and taken buses and waved farewell from train platforms in modern films. The next time I saw any Swedish film made after ’68 I ought to think of him, because it was highly likely that he was somewhere in the background.
The film now in question was a story from the early sixties, the first film by a new director.
‘They need a skinny guy in a thin nappa leather tie and nylon shirt, and you’d be perfect for the part,’ said Henry. ‘I play the piano – I’m a pianist, after all – and we’re supposed to be rehearsing a couple of tunes in the background, and then a chick and a guy start arguing in front of us. It’s bound to be fun. Can you sing?’
‘Not really.’
‘That’s OK. I can train you. You see, if we do this right, we’ll get more offer
s. That’s how it works in this business.’
I wasn’t especially keen on becoming an extra, standing there with plastered- down hair wearing a nappa tie and nylon shirt and singing off-key. That wasn’t at all what I had in mind. If I was going to be in a film, it had to be a proper role right from the start.
But I managed to voice only feeble objections. Henry Morgan was an enthusiast, and he had phenomenal powers of persuasion. Maybe the whisky also played a part. At any rate, some time in the wee hours of the morning – after we had sat there whispering our way through a dozen of our favourite films – I finally gave in and promised to go with Henry the very next day to visit the film company and get registered as a prospective extra. ‘That’s fucking great!’ Henry bellowed.
‘Shh!’ I hissed. ‘We don’t want to wake up the others.’
‘What others?’ he said.
‘The ones asleep in the flat.’
Henry Morgan looked a little puzzled at first, but then he started laughing, a booming, jovial laugh, the kind that rises up from the diaphragm the way only truly happy or drunk people can do it. He laughed for a long time, then wiped his eyes and pulled himself together.
‘There’s no one else here,’ he said. ‘I’m here all alone. I just thought it might be fun to drink quietly for a change.’
I was starting to think this man was a real idiot. It didn’t help matters that he went over to the kitchen window, opened it and began shouting into the autumn night:
‘Spinks! Spinks! Spinkssss!’
At that point I was convinced that the man truly was an idiot and that we’d have the police after us. Henry kept on yelling into the night:
‘Spinks! Spinks! Spinkssss!’
It took a few minutes before a pair of eyes emerged from the depths of the night and onto the windowsill jumped a black cat. He was so black that his fur verged on blue. Henry picked up the big fellow in his arms. The cat instantly started purring and then meowed when he caught sight of me.
Gentlemen (Klas Ostergren) (FO8) Page 3