‘This is Spinks, the black cat from Nowhere,’ said Henry. ‘He roams around on the roof, and I don’t know who he belongs to. If a cat can really belong to anyone, that is.’
‘Hi Spinks,’ I said.
Spinks came over to say hello. Henry poured some cream into a dish, and the big fellow noisily lapped it up.
‘He showed up here on the night when Spinks beat Ali, so there was never any doubt what to call him.’
Henry sat and prattled with Spinks for a bit while I attempted to find my way to the toilet. When I came back to the kitchen a faint light was coming from the other end of a narrow corridor connecting a number of rooms. Clinking tones came from there, crisp, light notes from a piano. I headed back towards the room and there, behind a pair of tall, mirrored doors, sat Henry Morgan, playing a shiny black grand piano. It filled half the room, while the rest – from what I could see on that occasion – contained several palms on pedestals and an old-fashioned sofa with tassels. It was a very tasteful room, filled with a special spiritual aura as Henry sat there at the piano, playing several ethereal chords. Spinks and I sat down on the sofa with the black tassels and sank into the atmosphere.
I must have dozed off, because I gave a start at the sound of a fiery dissonance and Henry’s voice.
‘Don’t fall asleep now, kid. We have to practise tonight.’
‘What’s the rush?’
‘There’s no time to waste. Come over here and stand next to the piano!’
I shuffled over to the piano, but I was having a hard time staying on my feet. What I really wanted was to go to sleep, but Henry started tapping out an old hit tune to encourage me, so I cleared my throat and joined in on the refrain.
‘Since you’re a writer, you ought to be able to write some lyrics for me,’ said Henry. ‘I’ve tried with Leo, but he’s too serious. I’ll bet you’re different. We could become a new variety team, writing couplets. You really ought to try everything in life.’
‘One thing at a time,’ I said.
‘Have you heard “The Drop Drips” by Alice Babs and her daughter? We’ll start with that. A complicated round. The drop drips and the drip dropped,’ he began singing. ‘When I get to the “p” in “the drop”, that’s when you come in. Get it?’
‘Yes, I get it,’ I said. ‘But it’s such a damned ridiculous tune,’ I objected. ‘Couldn’t we try something more sedate right now, in the middle of the night?’
‘Who cares what time it is. Now, let’s go … The drop drips and the drip dropped … hang on a minute … The drip dropped. Let’s take it from the top …’
I took a deep breath on ‘drips’ and started singing, even though it was one of the worst songs I’d ever heard. Besides, it wasn’t easy to sing something that was almost hopelessly difficult at three in the morning after a lot of beer and whisky. But Henry was bull-headed and, as I mentioned, he possessed phenomenal powers of persuasion.
By five in the morning on a perfectly ordinary Friday, we were actually able to sing ‘The Drop Drips and the Drip Dropped’ almost as well as Babs and her daughter. Henry sat there revelling in the results, and with good reason. He was an excellent teacher.
‘OK, that’s enough for today,’ he said at last. ‘You’re looking a bit peaky.’
‘That doesn’t even come close to what I am.’
‘You can crash here if you like.’
‘I could sleep anywhere.’
Henry showed me to a room at the other end of the long corridor, which was as dark as a passageway to Hell. He threw open the door and the only thing I really took in was a big bed, onto which I collapsed full-length without even taking off my shoes.
‘There’s just one thing you should know,’ said Henry.
‘What’s that?’
‘That’s Göring’s old bed you’re lying on. Good night.’
_______
On a perfectly ordinary Friday in early September I woke up around eleven a.m., feeling sick and not really sure where I was. Slowly my consciousness started functioning again, blowing life into my memories of the night before, and I scanned the room with bleary eyes until I located myself in the bed that had supposedly once belonged to Göring.
It was a sunny day, and the room faced the courtyard to the east; the sun blasted down on the galvanised roof, blinding me. And in fact, it was rather a pleasant room with light-coloured wallpaper and thin curtains, a tile stove, a mahogany bureau, several wardrobes, a couple of copperplate engravings depicting scenes from Shakespeare’s plays and a Persian rug. The bed that was supposedly Göring’s had an enormous bedstead with knobs carved from walnut. Against all the odds I’d slept quite well in that bed.
I got up, feeling cold even though I’d slept in my clothes and had wrapped myself up in the coverlet. Out in the kitchen Henry was in the midst of a substantial breakfast of eggs, bacon and fried potatoes. The mere smell made me feel instantly sick, but I was actually very hungry. I felt as if I were on board a ship.
‘Morning,’ said Henry. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Like the dead.’
‘There’s a Réveil waiting for you,’ he said, pointing to a big whisky glass containing a pale, slimy liquid.
‘What is it?’
‘A Réveil? It’s an eggnog, an eye-opener, a hair-of-the-dog, plain and simple.’
I sniffed at the drink and immediately wanted to know what was in it, because I didn’t trust the cook.
‘An egg yolk, grenadine, a dash of cognac, nutmeg and milk,’ said Henry, rattling off the five ingredients as he held up one finger after another. ‘It’s extremely nourishing and fortifying; it’ll revive the old spirits.’
After breathing deeply I took a swallow, and the drink was actually good, even though I’ve never put much store in hair-of-the-dog concoctions; they’ve always seemed a bit too depraved for my taste. But Henry refused to give me any breakfast until I downed the entire Réveil, so it was just as well to pick up the glass and empty it. And it did the trick. After the substantial breakfast, my old spirits actually were fully revived, and it was a glorious sunny day. I felt like a sultan.
‘You’ll have to tell me the story about Göring’s old bed sometime,’ I said later, because I couldn’t get it out of my mind.
‘I’ll do that,’ said Henry. ‘But not right now. I have to shave and make a good job of it. We need to go over to see the film people and get your picture taken. You’re not backing out, are you?’
‘Backing out? Me? Never!’
‘Good. Go ahead and take a look round the place while I shave. You should be glad your whiskers don’t grow as fast as mine do.’
I did as Henry said and took a tour of the flat. It really surprised me. I couldn’t figure this man out. Whenever you meet a stranger, you always try to put labels on him, but in Henry’s case none of the labels fit. His flat alone made it a hopeless endeavour.
It was a very old double luxury flat, cold and gloomy. From the big hallway a long corridor led to four rooms in a row. There were two bedrooms, a library and a living room with a fireplace. At one end of the corridor was the room with the grand piano, and at the other end the bedroom with Göring’s old bed. The corridor also gave access to a separate section of the flat, but I was stopped by a locked door.
After my tour I went back to the kitchen and washed the dishes; it was the only thing I felt like doing. Washing dishes is a pleasant activity if you put your heart and soul into it. Then it serves the same function that I imagine is served by meditation. Afterwards you feel as clean and sparkling as the china.
Henry came back after shaving – he had done a good job of it – and putting on proper clothes. He was wearing a new, pinstriped blue shirt, a burgundy tie and pullover, a houndstooth jacket with leather patches on the elbows, brown trousers and walking shoes.
‘So, shall we pop over there?’ he said. ‘I’ve already given them a ring. It’s a go.’
‘OK,’ I said.
‘Thanks for washing up, by the wa
y.’
‘No problem. I enjoy washing dishes.’
‘Good, I’ll remember that.’
We strolled across the locks at Slussen to Gamla Stan where the small film company had their offices. Henry waltzed inside without ringing the doorbell, and people greeted him cheerfully, exactly as if he were a real star. I was introduced to an efficient woman in early middle-age; her name was Lisa and she was in charge of production. She gave me a long, slow look, as if in her mind she were already taking off my clothes and dressing me in uncomfortable Terylene trousers, a nylon shirt and a leather tie.
‘I’ve seen you somewhere,’ she said. ‘Have you been in a film before?’
‘I don’t believe so,’ I said.
‘What’s your name?’
I told her my name, and her face lit up like a sun. I thought that maybe she’d read one of my books.
‘That’s it!’ she said. ‘You were in Remorse Comes Gently, right?’
‘No,’ I said with a sigh. ‘I’ve never been in a film.’
Henry gave me a furious look, because that was not a good thing to harp on about.
‘You might still be good,’ said Lisa after a long pause. ‘Can you sing?’
‘Yes, yes, of course he can,’ Henry chimed in, and suddenly he was Henry the manager. ‘His voice is perfect for the part. He’s got fantastic material. We only practised for a few minutes, and it fit him like a glove.’
‘OK, then let’s take a few pictures,’ said Lisa, and she took a few shots with a Polaroid camera. After she wrote down my name, social security number and address it was time to make our exit.
‘Don’t worry about all that,’ said Henry out on the street. ‘You have to learn to handle those kinds of people the right way. You can’t be shy or hesitant; you have to assume a confident manner. It’s the same in all walks of life.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘OK, I get it.’
‘Now we’ll go over to Kristina for some coffee.’
We ordered a pot of coffee at the Café Kristina on Västerlånggatan and lit our first cigarettes of the day. I instantly felt sick again. My heart began pounding in my chest and I stubbed out the cigarette. Henry was being unusually quiet. Without saying a single word he meditatively smoked two cigarettes in a row while I browsed through the selection on the jukebox across from our table.
Henry was looking mournful. He surveyed the room, lit another Pall Mall, and ran his hand over his newly shaven face. His mood could change from white to black in no time. Two nostalgic lines of a song could make him bitter and sentimental at the same time, just as he was finishing telling a funny story.
He gave me a long look as I lit another cigarette and thought about going home. I could always hope for something pleasant and uplifting in the post. Maybe a payment from my publisher Franzén, or new decisions from the insurance company.
‘How’d you like to move in with me?’ Henry asked abruptly.
I was surprised and didn’t know what to say.
‘We … we don’t really know each other very well,’ I said.
‘All the better,’ he said. ‘But for God’s sake, I’m psychic. I think I know exactly what you’re like. You’re like my brother Leo, except without his faults.’
‘And what is he like?’
‘No rhetoric now. I’m serious. There’s plenty of room for you up there. You can work in the library and sleep in Göring’s old bed. We don’t need to get in each other’s way.’
I willingly admitted that I was tired of my own flat, and that it had also been stripped of anything of value. I could easily move everything over in a cab.
‘Well, I haven’t got much to lose,’ I said.
‘Neither do I,’ said Henry. ‘And besides, it’ll be cheaper if we join forces. I assume that neither of us is especially well-off.’
‘You’re right about that.’
‘So? You should never hesitate for long when it comes to making important decisions. I often make snap decisions. And then whatever will be, will be. It’s been up and down. But I’m still alive, even though I’m feeling a bit lonely.’
‘What about your brother Leo? Doesn’t he live with you?’
‘That can always be worked out. He’s in the States right now, in New York. I got a postcard the other day. He won’t be back for a long time.’
‘What the hell,’ I said. ‘Let’s try it.’
‘It’s a deal then.’
Henry stretched his hand across the table. The deal was done. I would go home immediately, pack up the few belongings that the thieves had left me out of sheer humanity, have my post forwarded, and try to find a trustworthy person to sublet the place. It could all be arranged in an afternoon.
And it was. One of Errol Hansen’s respectable friends from the Danish embassy needed a little pied-à-terre in a central location, and so the problem was solved.
_______
In the middle of my flat there now stood two large suitcases containing my clothes, next to two typewriters and a couple of boxes of books and papers and items of purely sentimental value: a fox skull that I’d found in the woods, a crab shell I got from some fishermen in the Lofoten Islands, several rocks, and an ashtray in the shape of a gaping satyr. You flicked the ashes into his mouth.
Autumn sunlight poured through the dirty windows, turning the whole room white, and I silently took a few drags on an unfiltered Camel. The smoke circled around in thin wisps like cirrus clouds high overhead.
I was feeling melancholy. The flat seemed so lugubrious in the state it was in. I had endured such genuine anguish in this space, and now I was going through some kind of separation anxiety. I had loafed around and worked here, loved and hated in this place, and I’d become part of the atmosphere. I had actually written my best lines in this place. Now a few stray ideas and characters flitted across the bare floor like fleeing phantoms. The years became compressed into a few details, a couple of isolated incidents. I was melancholy. A whole new life was about to start, and I had no idea where it might take me. No doubt that was fortunate.
The lift doors slammed and Henry Morgan came tramping through the door of the flat.
‘Frey’s Removal Service, good afternoon,’ he said, shoving a peaked cap back from his forehead.
‘What kind of hat is that?’
‘It’s a genuine mover’s hat. Is this all?’
‘It’s all I’ve got left. Everything I have to my name.’
Henry stared at the modest pile of suitcases and boxes, and the two typewriters in the middle of the room. He shook his head.
‘Whoever did this was awfully thorough.’
‘It’s fucking Dylan’s fault, the whole thing.’
‘Don’t be so down about it, my boy. You’re going to start over in whole new digs. Soon you’ll get the insurance money and you can buy all new things. We can go over to the shops in Söder and buy back every single item.’
‘I don’t want all that shit back,’ I said. ‘I’m starting a new life now.’
‘So be it. Let’s get going.’
We carried everything out to the landing, into the lift, and over to the Volkswagen van that Henry had borrowed from the Furniture Man shop. It didn’t take more than an hour. A new life was ready to begin.
_______
Henry had obviously thought through all the details. I would have two rooms at my disposal, to do with more or less as I pleased. The bedroom with Göring’s old bed and the library. I carried my two typewriters into the library, noting that there was reading material of the highest order for several years to come. Henry lugged my suitcases into the bedroom. He had cleaned out the wardrobes and scrubbed them with soap. It almost smelled like spring.
‘So what do you think?’ he asked.
I sat down on the window-seat and looked out. The arrangement suited me perfectly.
‘This is better than I’ve ever had it before,’ I said.
‘It’s going to get cold; you need to be prepared for that. We have to go out an
d get wood and keep the stoves going even in October. The fuses in the cellar blow out if you switch on even one radiator.’
We took a tour of the flat, and Henry told me about his grandfather, because this place had once been his. He’d been dead for ten years now. His name was Morgonstjärna and he was of noble blood. Today the lineage was dying out. There was a seal in the House of Knights with the family crest on it, but little else was left. Grandfather Morgonstjärna had only one son, Henry’s father, who was also deceased. The only remaining family members were Henry, his mother Greta and his brother Leo. But their name was Morgan.
‘Have you ever heard of the Jazz Baron?’ asked Henry as we went into the billiard room.
‘The Jazz Baron?’ I repeated, and it did sound somewhat familiar.
‘That was my father,’ said Henry. ‘His name was Morgonstjärna, of course, but he was a pianist, a jazz pianist. He was very well known. When he started playing properly, he couldn’t keep the name Morgonstjärna because it didn’t fit in in those circles. He needed a name that sounded a bit more American, so he changed it to Morgan. That was back during the war, I think. Grandmother was sick with rage, and she broke off all contact with my father. He died when Leo and I were little. Grandmother died not long afterwards. This was once her room. Grandfather turned it into a billiard room straight after her death.’
Henry’s paternal grandfather had always been a real dandy, a bon vivant. The fact that he eventually married didn’t seem to make much difference. This was evident from the furniture; there was something aristocratic and coquettish about it all. The library was filled with marvellous books, heavy, beautifully bound volumes that were in pristine condition. There was an oppressive, smoke-permeated atmosphere in that particular room. I immediately felt at home.
The living room was like some sort of museum. Persian rugs on the parquet floor with sedate and ingenious patterns. A Chippendale arrangement consisting of a sofa and two armchairs made of rattan and mahogany. They had supposedly once belonged to Ernst Rolf. Like the variety star, Morgonstjärna had had a penchant for gaming and gambling, and one night back in the merry thirties they were playing poker together. Rolf lost and was forced to give up a pawn ticket to pay off his debts. When Morgonstjärna redeemed the pawn ticket for a very small sum, he found himself in possession of some tip-top Chippendale furniture; he’d made a good deal.
Gentlemen (Klas Ostergren) (FO8) Page 4