by Mikael Niemi
In class seven we got a new music teacher. His name was Greger and he came from Skåne, a tall, thick-lipped farmer’s boy who had lost all the fingers of his right hand in a piece of farm machinery. Only the thumb was left, as big as a fluted almond potato. After his accident he had retrained, and landed in Pajala immediately after graduating as a music master. It was difficult to understand what he said. Apart from that, he was a cheerful fellow with an odd sense of humor. I’ll never forget the very first lesson he gave, when he bounced in with his hand hidden in his pocket, and announced in his typical Skanian burr:
“Good morrrning! Now you’ve got a teacherrr with a thumb in the middle of his hand!”
With precise timing to maximize the shock effect, he whipped out his deformed hand. We gasped with horror. He turned his hand around, and we noticed that from a certain angle his thumb and hairy knuckles looked like a male sexual organ. Only bonier and more frightening, and supernaturally mobile.
Greger brought with him to Pajala an unusual novelty: a twelve-gear racing bicycle. It was among the most outrageous and useless things we’d ever seen, with a rock-hard leather saddle and tires no broader than cigars; it didn’t even have mudguards or a luggage carrier. It looked almost improper, completely naked. He started whizzing like a rocket along our roads in a red tracksuit, frightening the living daylights out of old ladies and local kids, and gave rise to several reports of UFOs in the Haparanda Daily News. He also made dogs go mad. It must have had something to do with his scent, something Skanian in his intestinal flora. As soon as he came swishing past, they went berserk. They would break loose and race after him for mile after mile, barking for all they were worth in flocks that got bigger and bigger. One day he returned from a practice run to Korpilombolo followed by two Norrbotten spitzes, a Swedish foxhound, a Jämtland wolfhound, two Norwegian elkhounds, plus a few more of mixed race. They were all white-eyed and intent on murder. Greger pulled up outside the police station and was immediately attacked by the pitch-black labrador that had taken on a leadership role in the hysterical pack. Greger waited for the right moment, then calmly kicked it on the snout with his fancy cycling shoe, whereupon the cur staggered back to his friends yelping and whining. Then he strolled with dignity into the police station. The duty officer had to chain them all up, apart from the labrador—it needed veterinary attention. For the rest of the day silent peasants from the surrounding villages came driving up in their cars to collect their Fido. From then on Greger was much talked about locally.
Another topic of discussion was just how fast you can ride on a contraption like his. One evening Staffan, from class nine, claimed he’d just tested his newly-souped-up moped to see how fast it would go, on the road to Kengis. He’d bent forward low over the handlebars and maintained the moped had clocked forty-two miles per hour. Just then Greger had come swishing past. Pedalling away vigorously and effortlessly, he’d soon disappeared over the crown of the hill ahead.
One of the lads from Vittulajänkkä with a penchant for making money arranged an unusual wager. Greger would race against the school bus from Pajala to Kaunisvaara. The bus wasn’t exactly renowned for its scandalously high speeds, but even so. The lad fiddled the odds and took a shamelessly high percentage for himself, but nevertheless persuaded people to place bets and also got Greger to take up the challenge.
The race took place one Wednesday at the end of September. The bus stopped as usual at the back of Central School, and the pupils filed aboard. The driver, who knew nothing about the challenge, pulled away and noticed a creature dressed in red shoot past him on the outside.
The next time the man in red was seen was in Mukkakangas. He was standing at attention next to a Gällivare Police patrol car when the bus drove past. One of the officers was making notes in a book, and the other was beating off an aggressive Jämtland wolfhound with his baton.
By the time we came to Jupukka, Greger had caught us up again. The bus was going at a fair lick, but the man in red was in our slipstream and belting along. As the bus was going downhill shortly afterward, he surged past to the excited approval of the pupils. The driver blew his nose in astonishment and couldn’t believe his eyes.
Five miles further on the man in red was crouched at the side of the road changing a tire on his back wheel. He occasionally had to hit out at a snarling fox with his bicycle pump.
But there was no sign of him after that. The pupils crowded around the back window, staring out through the dirt. But the road was deserted. Bogs and woods flashed past, Kaunisvaara was getting closer and closer. In the end the signpost appeared some way ahead, and everybody began to realize it was too late now.
Then a little dot came into view. A figure in red. A vehicle catching up on us, but not quickly enough. Just then a tractor appeared in front of the bus, chugging along. It was being driven by an aged pensioner wearing a peaked cap. Slap bang in the middle of the road. The bus slowed down and sounded its horn. The tractor pulled in very slightly. The bus started to overtake, with only a couple of inches to spare. The road was completely blocked by the two vehicles. The man in red was getting nearer and nearer.
The tractor chugged along.
“Greger will never make it!”
There was the sign: Kaunisvaara. And the road was blocked, it was impossible to overtake.
“There!” yelled Tommy from class seven.
Down in the ditch at the side of the road. Something red was lurching its way forward. Through all the gravel and undergrowth. Along the side of the bus. Then past, just as we came to the road sign.
Just for a moment everybody sat there as if paralyzed. Trying to take in what they’d just witnessed.
“The guy from Skåne did it!”
A fat Lapland hound knocked over an old biddie picking berries and raced after the man in red, barking like mad.
* * *
Greger had another remarkable talent. He could speak Tornedalen Finnish. As he was from Skåne, everybody had taken it for granted that he was an ummikko, in other words, ignorant of the mother tongue of glory and heroism; but confirmation of the fact came from several neutral observers. Old men and women swore blind they had conducted long and informative conversations in meän kieli with this outsider with the burr.
Greger was a cheerful soul, and, like southerners do, he had an abnormally developed need to make contact with people. After scorching along on his racing bike for a few dozen silent miles, he used to get off and chat with the locals. Startled men and women in Anttis, Kardis, Pissiniemi, Saittarova, Kivijärvi, or Kolari might suddenly be hailed for no reason at all. They’d look up and find in front of them a sweaty man from Mars, babbling away with spit spraying around like rain. They didn’t recognize the words, but to be on the safe side they would reply in Finnish that they didn’t want to buy anything.
Then it dawned on them that, strangely enough, they could understand what he was saying. It was unreal. This double Dutch full of sounds that only a drunk could possibly produce! And when they replied with joo varmasti, or said niinkö, this stranger understood exactly what they meant.
The mystery was solved by a retired customs officer who’d been stationed for some years in Helsingborg when he was a young man. As a result he was one of the few people in Tornedalen who understood both Tornedalen Finnish and the dialect of Skåne. He happened to be passing Conrad Mäki’s country store in Juhonpieti one day when Greger was standing outside jabbering away with some pensioners. The customs officer stopped a couple of yards away and listened discreetly but carefully. Afterward he reported his conclusions in an objective and detailed way for anybody who was interested. By force of habit he also recorded his testimony; I’ve seen and read it: It was duly signed by himself in accordance with the regulations, and witnessed by two independent observers.
What was clear was that converser G (Greger, that is) spoke a Skanian dialect strikingly muddy in character throughout the conversation, with the exception of a small number of Tornedalen emphatic expressions (see appendix one)
, usually incorrectly pronounced. Conversers A, B, and C (two old men and an old lady) had equally obviously spoken Tornedalen Finnish the entire time. The strange thing was that the conversation had followed a totally logical course with both parties apparently understanding everything the other said. The topics of conversation were, in chronological order:
The latest spells of rain and cold weather.
The progress made by potatoes in late summer, the taste advantages enjoyed by almond potatoes in comparison with round ones, and to what extent all the rain would cause potato rot.
The summer’s hay harvest, the number and quality of the drying racks for hay, and to what extent the late spring has affected the nourishment content of the hay.
The number of animals on farms owned by local villagers, the foddering of milch cows nowadays and some years ago, the mechanization of farming and whether tractors were cheaper on the Swedish or Finnish side of the border.
A number of recently pulled-up deformed carrots that looked like penises, and to what extent that was a whim of nature or a warning sent by the Creator regarding dances arranged by young people.
Hopes regarding improvements in the weather, and goodbye phrases.
In the interests of science the customs officer had hailed Greger just before he pedaled off, and in a neutral tone asked him for the time in Finnish:
“Mitäs kello on?”
“And the same to you,” Greger had replied in a friendly tone.
The customs officer drew the following conclusions:
Greger knew no Finnish (apart from the incorrectly pronounced swearwords, appendix one as mentioned above). Similarly, the pensioners couldn’t understand a word of the Skåne dialect. The mysterious understanding between the parties could be ascribed to two causes: Greger’s body-language, which was strikingly exaggerated and clear, and also his extraordinarily comprehensive knowledge of agriculture.
The customs officer’s son was studying linguistics at the University of Umeå, and started a thesis entitled Bilingual Understanding in a Northern Scandinavian Multicultural Environment. But he turned to drink and never finished it.
Greger himself just laughed whenever the subject was broached. They’re like that, people from Skåne. They laugh a lot.
* * *
On the very first day of term Greger took stock of the music cupboard, with its class set of birch drumsticks; two tamborines, of which one was split; two triangles; a wooden xylophone with F sharp and A out of action; a maraca leaking seeds; a guitar with three strings; and a broken felt-tipped mallet. There was also a class set of Let’s Sing, Book I, and a few copies of Patriotic Songs by Olof Söderhjelm.
“Bloody hell, what a disaster!” muttered Greger.
And before we knew where we were he’d gripped the powers that be and squeezed money out of the school budget that nobody’d even suspected was there, and bought a set of drums, an electric bass, an electric guitar, and an amplifier. Plus a state-of-the-art record player. The next lesson, he demonstrated that he was an unexpectedly good guitar player. His enormous (and whole) left hand scuttled up and down the fret-board like a hairy South American bird spider, while his lonely right thumb strummed diminished and augmented chords, not to mention flageolet imitations, as easy as pie. Then he went over to blues, and pretended to sing like a black man—which was easy for him as he came from Skåne. He played us a sorrowful guitar solo using his thumb nail as a pick. The class gaped in astonishment.
When the bell rang, Niila and I stayed behind.
“I’ll never be able to play like that,” said Niila gloomily.
Greger put the guitar down.
“Hold your hands up!” he said.
Niila did as he was told. Greger did the same, and looked hard at his fingers.
“Count ’em,” he said.
And Niila did so. Six fingers.
“And how many have you got?”
“Ten.”
Well, no need to say any more.
Now that Greger had realized we were interested, we were given permission to have jam sessions during the breaks. Niila stroked the electric guitar, wide-eyed, and was amazed how easy it was to press down the strings. I went for the bass. It felt surprisingly heavy, hanging from its shoulder strap like a Mauser. Then I switched on the two amplifiers. Niila was a bit worried in case he got an electric shock in his fingers. I told him there was no need to flap as the strings were insulated.
Then we started playing. It felt nerve-wracking but wonderful, and it sounded awful. But from then on our playing was somehow more real. We’d started off with a home-made piece of hardboard, via a discordant acoustic guitar in the cellar, and here we were now with the real McCoy. Shiny lacquer, chrome pegs, and buttons, a loudspeaker membrane humming softly. This was serious stuff. This was big time.
Our first problem was to keep time. Individually, to start with, which was bad enough. Then together, which was much worse. The next problem was changing chords. At the same time. Still keeping in step. And then changing back again.
Those of you who play yourselves will understand what it was like. It was some time before we produced anything that could be called music.
Greger listened to us sometimes and gave us some friendly advice. His biggest asset was his enormous patience. Like that lunchtime when he taught us how to start off at the same time. He counted us in over and over again, but I would always start on three and Niila on four. For a while it was the other way round. In the end, when we were both starting on four, Greger told us we ought to start on one. The second one. The one that’s never spoken out loud.
“One, two, three, fourrr—(now!).”
Niila said he’d never been what you might call a math genius. Greger then held up his deformed hand and asked Niila to count his stumps.
“Fourrr fingers are missing, and that’s when you are quiet,” Greger explained helpfully. “And then the music starts with the thumb!”
Strangely enough, it worked. For the first time we started correctly. Even today when I count in a tune, I can still see Greger’s finger stumps in my mind’s eye.
We had jam sessions the whole autumn. Made the most of every free minute. Breaks, free periods, and after school. And at last, one lunch break, we managed to complete a blues number reasonably well.
Greger was listening, and nodded in approval.
“Keep it up,” he urged.
Then he opened the hall door. In came a shy-looking lad with a cherubic face and a long fringe hanging over his forehead. He didn’t look at us. Just opened up the oblong case he had with him. The inside was lined with red plush. With his long fingers he took out a red and white electric guitar, plugged it into one of the amplifiers and turned up the volume. Then he played a solo over our backing that almost tore our hearts from our chests, a screaming solo full of harrowing sorrow. The window panes rattled in sympathy. The sound was quite different from anything we were used to, fractured, heartrending, wailing. Like a heartbroken woman. He adjusted a little box on the guitar and the lament became even worse. Then he played another solo. A crunching, bellowing guitar solo, manly in a beastly way, inconceivable coming from this delicate thirteen-year-old. His fingers flew from string to string, the pick plucked out violent cascades of notes, your ear couldn’t keep up with it, only your heart, your body, your skin. In the end he did something I’d never seen before. He released his grip on the guitar and held it against the loudspeaker: soon it started to play all by itself, tragic whistles, wolf howls, and flutes simultaneously.
Then he smiled. Gently, almost girlishly. He stroked back his bangs and switched off. His face looked very Finnish, with ice-blue eyes.
“Jimi Hendrix,” he said abruptly.
We opened up the curtains. A dozen or so pupils had their noses pressed against the window, tightly packed, shoulder to shoulder. The sound had been audible all over the school.
Greger gave us a faraway look.
“Now you’rrre getting somewhere, lads! This is H
olgerrri.”
I turned to Niila and muttered a gruesome premonition:
“By God, but he’s going to get beaten up.”
“What?” said Greger.
“Oh, nothing.”
* * *
It was in the senior school that the bullying started to get serious. Pajala Central School was an awful place to be at that time, if you stood out from the crowd in the wrong way. You wouldn’t have expected it if you were from somewhere else in Sweden—a country school in a quiet village, only a couple of hundred pupils. The atmosphere in the corridors was calm, almost shy, you might think.
The fact was that some of the pupils were dangerous. They had started causing trouble before, but it was only now that things really came to a head. Perhaps it had to do with puberty. Too much horniness, too much angst.
Some of them found it amusing to inflict bruises on their fellow-pupils in dark corners of the corridors, ramming bony knees into thighs or buttocks. Tender parts. When you turned around, in agony from the pain, they would be grinning at you. Sometimes they had sewing needles hidden in their hands, and would stick them through your clothes and into your skin as you passed. It was also common to punch the muscles in other pupils’ upper arms, which hurt for hours afterward.
The bullies could sniff out the vulnerable. They knew right away when somebody was different, and they would pick on loners, artistic boys or girls, anybody who was too intelligent. One of their victims was a quiet little lad called Hans, who liked going around with girls. His persecutors succeeded in controlling the whole of his life, making him so scared that he no longer dared to walk alone in the corridors. He always tried to be with friends, hiding himself in the herd like a weak antelope. It wasn’t until several years later that he was able to move to Stockholm and come out as a homosexual.
Another of the victims was Mikael. He was also shy and introverted, incapable of hitting back. He was different, that was obvious; he thought deep down that he was something special. On one occasion the gang surrounded him in the metalwork shop while the teacher was out of the room. With the class’s sadist, Uffe, in the lead, they tried out various strangleholds on Mikael. Uffe slowly squeezed harder and harder with his snuff-stained fingers round Mikael’s slender throat until he started croaking like a frog. His classmates stood by watching, but nobody protested. Instead they watched it all with something approaching curiosity. Is that how you strangle somebody? Just look how swollen his eyes are! Before long several of the other lads were so intrigued, they wanted a go as well. They didn’t even need to hold their victim down, he just sat there, paralyzed with fear. Oh look, he’s going to be sick, better let go now. Anybody else want a try? Come on, have a go! Just look at the idiot, he’s scared to death! Squeeze there, a bit further down, it’s more effective there. Cough, cough, uuuhhhuuurhhh … You have a try, he’ll never dare to tell anybody! There’s his throat, bloody hell, it’s amazing how thin it is!