‘That’s fine, Birger,’ said Henry. ‘We’ll be going back upstairs now.’
‘You do that,’ said Birger, and he seemed on the verge of offering us a salute, like a professional soldier.
We went back up to the flat, feeling resolute and very moved.
‘A-p-o-c-a-l-y-p-s-e,’ Henry spelled out in the lift.
Then he happened to remember that we hadn’t seen Leo for a couple of days. Henry wanted to tell his brother not to worry, that a place had been reserved for him in a private air-raid shelter, which was a privilege granted to very few in those disorderly times.
But Leo had flown the coop. He’d gone out and hadn’t slept at home for several nights now; even his bed was neatly made up. On the desk in his room lay the black workbook with the draft for the poetry suite Autopsy, which he had been working on for nearly four years now, though he still hadn’t found the energy to complete it. He had slipped into a different period now, and it would soon turn out to be of the more serious kind.
‘So you haven’t heard anything from him?’ asked Henry uneasily.
‘Not a peep,’ I said. ‘He told me a while ago that he was going to ring Kerstin. So maybe he did. She likes him.’
‘Yes, unfortunately,’ said Henry. ‘But it’s nice for him, at least. If only he doesn’t beat himself up again. You have no idea how he can get. No one can booze the way he can, even though he’s not supposed to drink, and he knows that damn well. It triggers a load of processes in his brain that just make everything a lot worse.’
Henry looked around Leo’s room, but there were no clues, or at least no indications that he had sat there drinking.
‘I hope I wasn’t too hard on him,’ Henry went on, sounding worried. ‘Do you think I was? Was I too hard on him?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think you were too hard on him. If he’s feeling down, it’s because other people were too hard on him.’
‘I sure as hell don’t feel like being some sort of nanny anymore. But I have to, at least for a while. Otherwise he’ll be given a disability pension, and that would be the end of him.’
________
In early March it looked as if the storm would subside. The Soviet Union was lying low and restricting itself to verbal threats – or that’s what we were told, in any case. We read at least four daily papers, and in between them, Henri le boulevardier would go down to the central station to buy Le Monde in order to get some objective information. He would read aloud to me in French, and he had undeniably perfect pronunciation, as well as beautiful, melodic diction. He could turn an utterly depressing article in French into a joy to the ears, and that is no doubt the dilemma of every musician.
Henry the pianist really got going with his work at the beginning of March, during that Year of the Child and the Swedish elections of 1979. As mentioned, there had been some unforeseen interruptions in our work pattern, but now we both got going again, and we followed to the letter the daily schedule that was pinned up in the kitchen. The appanage and honorariums came streaming in as they should, and I managed to arrange a few advance royalties as a sort of artificial respiration.
Franzén the publisher had summoned up his courage and rung me a couple of times, now that I had definitely missed the deadline. And naturally he wanted to know what the hell I was doing, since this was starting to look like a breach of contract. He had already forked out close to 15,000 kronor. The only thing I could tell him was that these were difficult times, cold and ruthless times, and that under such conditions, things could take longer. He had a rather hard time comprehending this, but I managed to get an extension of a couple more weeks, just for the sake of fine-tuning the book. The story was by no means finished, but I didn’t breathe a word about that to him. He would have to be prepared for a lot of changes in the proofs.
Some time in early March the occupation of the Järnet district also came to an end – an event that was immediately incorporated into my modern pastiche of The Red Room. It never led to any major riots like at Mullvaden, and the whole thing received very little publicity. Henry and I were convinced that Leo had buddies in Järnet, and that he would now come back home since the police had sealed off the whole area and the demolition team had started excavating. But Leo remained missing-without-trace. We were gradually starting to feel concerned, even though he had been gone before and we hadn’t worried. But this time we had a bad feeling about it.
Henry went around worrying and fretting because he thought that he’d been too hard on his younger brother.
‘Do you think that I was too hard on him?’ he asked incessantly.
I kept trying to reassure him.
‘It’s not our fault if he’s in a bad way. There are plenty of other things that are worse, much worse.’
Henry would calm down for a while, but not for long. He could no longer concentrate, and he went around wearing his slippers, shuffling along and slamming doors; he practically drove me crazy too.
As a diversion, we tried going down to the Europa Athletic Club to work out, but it didn’t help. I watched him hammering in punches more stubbornly and energetically than ever, but there was no longer even a trace of that cheerful playfulness, that quick and improvised unpredictability that made his boxing so charming, for lack of a better word. Now he reminded me more of an untalented palooka of a heavyweight who didn’t give a damn about being good as long as he was big and had muscles and could throw punches precisely the way they were supposed to be thrown, neither better nor worse.
I could see that Willis had also noticed Henry’s decline. Willis watched him from a distance, looking concerned, as if he could read in Henry’s heavy, sighing blows that something was wrong. There was so much melancholy enmeshed in those gloves that it robbed his punches of sound. The sandbag no longer whistled or sang in that shrieking way it used to do.
After we had showered and were sitting on the benches with aching knuckles and steaming backs, Willis came out of his office and asked us how things were going.
‘You seem a little locked up, Henry,’ said Willis.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ said Henry dismissively. ‘I’m just a little stiff in the shoulders. It’s so damn cold in the flat. It’s my rheumatism.’
‘Bullshit!’ said Willis. ‘Somebody with rheumatism couldn’t even kill a fly. That doesn’t make sense, Henry.’
Henry rummaged through his bag for clean clothes and groaned.
‘I don’t have a woman, Willis. That’s what it’s all about. I don’t have a real woman.’
‘Then go get one,’ said Willis, giving him a wink. ‘You shouldn’t have any problems in that area. You’re so damned charming, for God’s sake.’
‘I don’t have any problem with women,’ said Henry. ‘They have a problem with me!’
Willis shook his head. He knew Henry and realised that he wasn’t going to get anything else out of him that evening. Then it was the same routine as usual: Henry combed his hair in front of the mirror, scrupulously knotted his tie, and said ‘So long, girls!’ just like always.
When we got back to the flat that evening, the phone was ringing for a change. It rarely rang. But in this case it was a saxophone player who had greetings from Bill of the Bear Quartet – who had actually found success with a respectable solo career south on the Continent. The guy on the phone was the leader of a quartet with an alcoholic piano player. He wanted Henry to sit in for a couple of sessions, or ‘gigs’, as they were called in the business, over at Fasching during the weekend. Henry thanked him for thinking of him, but said he didn’t have time. He was fully occupied with his own practising.
I couldn’t understand why he turned down the invitation, but he refused to discuss the matter any further. It was his business, and I should just keep out of it, although he had a hard time hiding how pleased he was. He was a sought-after pianist who was forced to turn down an offer.
________
A very depressed atmosphere hovered over the chiaroscuro of the flat, an
d I had no idea what caused it, except that Leo’s lost soul seemed to be haunting us during his physical absence. In any case, it had nothing to do with our finances, which were meagre but not absolutely hopeless. It had nothing to do with the cold, since by now we had learned the trick of keeping the fires burning, wearing pyjamas in bed with hot-water bottles, and keeping our Higgins cardigans on at all times. Nor did it have anything to do with our work, because we had now surfaced in a gentle cacophony of typewriter keys and explosive chords from the grand piano.
Henry was feeling optimistic. He said that he’d been in contact with the Södra Theatre and had tentatively booked a Wednesday evening in early May when there was an available slot in the theatre’s schedule. For Henry Morgan’s part, it was just a matter of kicking the machinery into gear, deciding on the repertoire from ‘Europa, Disintegrating Fragments’, printing up the programmes, and sending out stylishly designed invitations to all the elite. I instantly took it upon myself to sell at least a score of seats in the orchestra section. Things were looking promising for the composer; he had no reason to be in despair. And yet he was, deep inside.
It even went so far that one morning in March he refused to get out of bed. I went out to the kitchen, where he normally would have laid out that monumental breakfast of his by seven o’clock, but I found only a bare oilcloth on the table. I found the chef himself in bed, wide awake but apathetic.
‘I don’t feel like getting up today,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a fever and I feel awful.’
I went over to the bed and felt his forehead. It was even colder than one of those lampposts that kids get their tongues stuck on when it’s a very cold winter day.
‘I think it’s best if we ring Dr Helmers,’ I said. ‘This seems quite serious.’
‘Does it?!’ said Henry, putting his hand to his forehead to check for himself. ‘It doesn’t seem that bad, does it?’
‘It’s still probably a good idea to have it checked out,’ I said, and with a grin I went to get the liquid crystal thermometer.
Henry eagerly pressed the strip against his forehead, and naturally it showed that his temperature was below 37ºC. He was both deeply disappointed and quite reassured.
‘No reason to panic,’ he said. ‘It’s just my rheumatism.’
‘Then wouldn’t you feel better if you got up? You’ll get so stiff lying in bed.’
‘The only thing that would make me feel better right now is a woman.’
‘So go over and see Maud!’
‘Easier said than done. She had another man—’
‘Isn’t there anyone else?’
‘I’m going to lie low today. There isn’t a single woman in all of Europe who would want to have anything to do with me in this condition. Even Lana in London would shun me.’
I left him in peace. He wanted to lie in bed and feel sorry for himself, like a child. He had a couple of new Spiderman and Superman comics, and he ate every crumb from the breakfast tray, so at least there was nothing wrong with his appetite.
The sudden low pressure eased up a bit, and Henry got out of bed to resume his activities with all the snorting vitality, authority and energy that he had stored up under the covers. But it was like a boxer staggering to his feet from the mat in the ninth round, only to face another pounding. The altogether real, and actually anticipated, catastrophes began to happen, blow by blow, as if they were being timed by some merciless boxing demon.
At the end of March disaster struck in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, USA. The nuclear power plant on Three Mile Island suffered an accident, and there was talk of leaks in the pipes for the coolant water. Technicians and experts, mayors and the president all appeared like some elegant cabinet decorated with golden question marks. No one really knew what had happened; they knew even less about what might happen next. Rumours quickly began circulating about an ominous cloud of gas that was expanding inside the power plant. It could explode with an effect many times greater than that of an atomic bomb. Radioactivity would spread on the winds, and people would have to be evacuated. Hundreds of thousands of citizens would soon be fleeing Armageddon. In early April several reassuring reports appeared – the cloud of gas was under control, and the risk of a meltdown had diminished. Swedish Social Democrats made a duplicitous about-face and started calling for a national referendum on nuclear power in Sweden.
The world had barely caught its breath and the hope that things were not over on this earth after all was once again just beginning to dawn, when it was time for the next sledgehammer: Russian oil was found floating in the Stockholm archipelago. The tanker Antonio Gramsky had caused the Baltic’s worst oil-spill disaster to date. The tanker had run aground at the end of February outside Ventspils in Latvia, and 5,600 tons of heavy crude had leaked out. Now, in early April, the oil had drifted far across the sea and into Stockholm’s archipelago, where it lay in thick clumps under the ice, threatening the shores and the breeding grounds of sea birds. Twenty-five thousand islands – between the Svenska Högarna in the north and Landsort in the south – were threatened by the oil, and traces of it were beginning to show up everywhere. Reports came in from Nassa archipelago, Björkskär archipelago, Sandhamn, Langviksskär, Biskopsön, Norsten, Utö, Storm Island … The list went on and on.
Henry almost went completely out of his mind. That was quite evident as I watched him spell his way like someone who was near-sighted through all the newspaper reports about the oil, one statistic after another, one location after another. He shook his head, sighed, groaned and pulled at his hair in distress.
‘This is too much,’ he said over and over again. ‘This is all just too much!’
I had to agree.
‘I’m going to go hibernate, or hang myself, or whatever the hell else I can think of. I just don’t want to be here anymore,’ he moaned. ‘What the hell is a person supposed to do with this world? People are out of their minds!’
‘People are not out of their minds,’ I said. ‘It’s the ones in charge who are greedy. Capitalism is greedy. That’s why things like this happen.’
‘I’m allergic to that kind of talk,’ said Henry. ‘You know that, for God’s sake. And anyway, it’s the Russians who did this!’
‘They’re no exception.’
‘Bullshit! This is something else entirely. It won’t work to blame everything on capitalism anymore. They’re all equally bad. As soon as they get their hands on a little paragraph of Power, they all turn into piles of shit. That’s the way it is, Klasa, believe me!’
‘Well, OK,’ I said with a sigh. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Henry went on, still sounding bitter. ‘Here I am barely on my feet again, and the disasters come pouring down on me, trying to bring me to my knees. I’ll never be ready!’
‘For the concert?’
‘For the concert or anything else! I can’t live with this …’
He seemed utterly desperate during those days, restlessly pacing around the flat, opening and closing doors, hanging out at Greger’s Grotto – or rather, the Shelter, as the tunnel was simply called nowadays – but then he’d come right back upstairs after a little listless and restless poking about in the dirt.
This went on for a couple of days until the weekend arrived, and then Henry decided to go out to the archipelago to volunteer to help with the clean-up efforts. A headquarters had been set up on Stavnäs with radio huts, skips, and boat docks for the transport of personnel and equipment out to the disaster areas. They needed as many people as they could get, and Henry was not one to hesitate. When things really mattered, he always turned up.
Henry put on his overalls, packed up a few things that might be required, and left on Saturday morning for Stavnäs. That same day I participated in an impressive demonstration against nuclear power, starting at the King’s Garden and proceeding over to Sergels Torg.
________
April slunk in with vexing, dirty-grey weather. It was going to be a long-drawn-out, rough spring that kept out
the sun and any green foliage for as long as possible. People started feeling exhausted from the cold, the snow, the rain, the fog and the reports of various catastrophes coming in every single day. It felt as if people were collapsing all over the city, more and more with each day that passed. Greger and Birger looked worn-out down there at the Furniture Man. They were making dents in Greger’s Grotto, the Shelter, but it was hard for them to keep up the enthusiasm. Especially since the strange cup that had been found in the dirt still hadn’t been properly analysed, according to Morgan, the boss. The Cigar Seller looked ashen in his little shop, the Flask and Wolf-Larsson were holed up in their flats, cringing behind the drawn curtains. Everyone was equally engrossed in his own struggle to survive.
Henry was out in the archipelago for several days, cleaning up. He came home in the middle of the week, feeling both pleased with himself and in despair over the situation. He had stayed at disaster headquarters in Stavnäs, where various entrepreneurs within the clean-up industry were making money hand over fist during those days. He had been out to Storm Island and seen how every rock, every little spit of land, and every bay was completely smeared with the thick, stinking, sticky oil. It had taken a team of twelve people two days to get rid of the worst of it. The local populace would be using scrubbing brushes all summer long.
Henry’s maternal grandparents had suddenly grown so old that he could hardly recognise them. It seemed as if the air had gone out of them. He went out to the Storm Island of his childhood – he hadn’t been there in years – as a member of a special disaster task-force, and there he’d found his grandfather and grandmother looking like two trembling reeds, two innocent sea birds whose lives were in jeopardy. They couldn’t understand a thing about what was happening. They didn’t even mention the oil. They invited Henry for coffee and talked as if nothing special were going on. Henry couldn’t tell whether they had suddenly grown senile or if they simply refused to accept the disaster.
Gentlemen (Klas Ostergren) (FO8) Page 48