by Mikael Niemi
The second phase of stupefaction was now approaching. The one that is final, and soft as the white shroud of death. A broad-shouldered, bear-like man grabbed me and started telling me something. He was holding me by the shoulder and droning on solemnly while his eyes circled around like heavy bumblebees. It was impossible to make out what he said. His tongue was as thick as a gym shoe, his voice sounded like squelching in mud. One of the younger hunters was feeling argumentative and started saying something to him, but his comments were just as incomprehensible. Soon they were involved in a heated discussion even though neither could understand what the other was saying.
Those still capable of speech complained about being thirsty. Their mouths felt like sandpaper, their blood had turned to dust in their veins, their lips were sticking together, and their muscles were stiffening like dried meat. I dived down into the cellar, brought up the remaining bottles and placed them before the voices of those crying in the wilderness. There was no stopping now: once you’d started skiing down the slope you had no choice but to keep going. Throw caution to the wind, accelerate till your ears start popping. An oikea mies, a real man, feared neither death nor a three-day hangover.
Niila and Holgeri were now starting to get drunk as well. It showed least in Erkki, even though he’d been knocking it back faster than the others. He was discussing salmon flies with one of the younger hunters, who sat there with eyelids drooping and snot dripping down his downy moustache. They agreed to try out a place on the River Tärendo, since life offered few things more perfect than grilling a newly caught greyling over a campfire at night by a rushing Norrland river. They drank a toast to that and their eyes filled with tears. Summer is so beautiful, so perfect, and so endless! The midnight sun over the edge of the forest, glowing red night-clouds. Not a breath of wind. The water mirror-like, not a ripple. A fish snaps at a fly, a ring spreads slowly over the vast stillness. And there, in the middle of the silence, a moth swoops down. Gets stuck on the sticky water through the powder on its wings. Glides along toward the rapids, tosses about amid the rocks and the froth. Midges swarm over the tops of the fir trees in the reflected warmth. You can see it all from where you sit in the narrow crack that is a summer night, floating on the fragile membrane between two worlds.
The oldest of those present, the ones in their seventies and eighties, were leaning at alarming angles in their chairs. Dad noted the potential problem even though he was many sheets to the wind, and addressed me in a language that most resembled Tornedalen German. Nevertheless I got the drift, and between us we managed to get hold of the oldest and thinnest of the old boys under his arms. He was surprisingly light and made little resistance when we lugged him over to the sofa and sat him down in the middle, leaning back gracefully. The other two fossils were somewhat rounder in shape and weighed rather more, but we managed to place them on either side of the first. They woke up briefly and started hooting like owls, but soon fell asleep again, forming an orderly line. Heads leaning back against the sofa, but chins sagging. They sat there with wide-open mouths like fledglings in a nest, with their bald heads and wrinkled necks. I sat opposite them and tried to hit their open traps with sugar lumps, but Dad put a stop to that with an ominous glare.
Grandad came back in after an excursion outside for a pee. The tap had run so gently that his fingers were blue with cold, and he cursed old age and its cruel pranks. During his absence those left inside had made a horrifying discovery: they’d run out of booze. A slurred crisis meeting was called by some of the old dodderers and representatives of the moose hunters. They went through the better-known moonshiners in the area, reckoned up their own stores back home in the liquor cabinet, and wondered how they might be able to remove a few bottles without waking up the old woman. Somebody pointed out that the night was yet young, and the gas station down the road was still open. They could buy some meths, spruce it up a bit with a bit of wheat-flour, then pour it through a coffee filter. That would be not only strong, but also drinkable, and doubtless safe for anybody with a sound heart. One of the moose hunters volunteered to take a taxi to Finland provided they all shared the cost, buy some beer from a shop he knew in Kolari that was open until late, and bring back as much as was possible to cram into the car. He knew the customs officers, so if they stopped him he could invite them to join the party. Everybody thought that was a splendid idea as Finnish beer was the best possible thing you could drink to avoid a hangover, and they asked him to make sure he also bought some Finnish bread and piimä, and brought along a few Finnish floozies if he happened to come across any.
Grandad now asserted himself and rose to his feet. He produced a three-liter plastic container and asked solemnly for it to be filled with water. A neighbor filled it up while the rest watched wide-eyed. With due ceremony Grandad placed the container in the broom closet, then asked his audience how well up they were on the Bible. Nobody said a word, realizing that the old man was gaga.
“Are you true believers?” he asked again, determined to get an answer.
“Not really,” muttered several of those present.
Grandad opened the cupboard door and took out the container. Then he took a swig and passed it to the man on his right, and so on, and everybody took a swig, one after another. And when they’d all had a taste, everybody agreed that Grandad was Jesus—no, to be honest, greater than Jesus, because Jesus had merely turned water into wine whereas Grandad had waved his wand and produced the hard stuff. Admittedly a bit primitive, with a greasy aftertaste; but there again there were not many substances as healthy as fusel oil, with all its trace elements and chromosomes. I was the only one who noticed that not only had the contents of the container been transformed, but also the color of the stopper; but I made up my mind to say nothing, in order not to spoil the implication that a miracle had been witnessed.
An elderly neighbor somewhat on the portly side started to slide out sideways from his kitchen chair. I just managed to get there and protect his forehead as he collided with the floor. It was not possible to revive him, so I took hold of his ankles and dragged him over to a wall so that the hulk wouldn’t be in anybody’s way. His limbs were totally relaxed and limp. I placed some newspapers under his head in case he vomited. At that very moment his neighbor passed out, sitting in the rocking chair with his chin on his chest. The snuff trickled down onto his shirt like melted chocolate. The young moose murderer with the downy moustache laughed so much at the sight of the old guy that he couldn’t stop shaking. I also started giggling at all the old drunks staggering around from room to room, babbling away, spilling all over themselves when they tried to drink, going outside for a pee in their stockinged feet, singing cross-eyed, falling down on their bottoms and crawling like crocodiles on the rag carpets. I and the downy moustache combined to carry the snuff-stained gent away and place him on the floor next to the first one to succumb. We repeated the procedure for one of the men who’d passed out while apparently on his knees praying on the porch, and he became the third in the cluster. They lay there like slaughtered pigs, and we guffawed so much at the sight that we doubled up. Then we took a swig of the fusel oil and snorted and choked, then burst out laughing again.
Dad was getting worried and pointed at the three blokes on the sofa. They were ashen, motionless. He asked me to check if they were dead. I went over to them, grasped their blue-veined wrists and took their pulse: nothing. Oh, yes, a faint pecking.
Niila and Holgeri came back in smelling of diarrhea, and shivering with cold. They asked for some coffee to clear their throats, and I handed them a thermos flask. At the same time I noticed that the downy moustache had stopped laughing. He was slumped in his chair and snoring, just like the guys he’d been laughing at. He was about to collapse onto the floor, so I dragged him away and deposited him next to the previous three, looking young and red-cheeked alongside the gray old-timers.
Somebody wanted a taxi, staggered over to the telephone, and ordered one. Somebody else marched shakily over to me and
started yelping—it sounded like a puppy sucking at a bone. It was an age before I realized he wanted some assistance in phoning his wife and asking for a lift home. I asked him for his telephone number, but couldn’t understand what he said. Instead, I looked him up in the phone book then held the receiver to his ear. The old lady answered after the eighth ring—no doubt she’d been asleep in bed. The man tried hard to concentrate:
“Issshh … lissshhh … msssorrriter trubbbbell …”
She slammed the phone down although she’d certainly recognized his voice. I myself could feel the floor starting to rotate, and went over to Niila. He was sitting with his eyes half-closed, a blaring transistor radio pressed to one ear. He could hear the voices of the dead on medium wave, and had just heard an announcement in Tornedalen Finnish. It sounded exactly like his uncle who’d died the past autumn, a voice whispering, “Paska … paska …,” followed by a mysterious silence. I suggested there might well be a long line for the toilets up there in heaven, but Niila told me to hush. Listened hard, looking somewhat confused.
“Hang on, there’s somebody else there!”
“I can’t hear a word.”
“It’s Esperanto! She says that I … wait … that … I’m going to die …”
At that point the taxi turned up. A couple of the men steadiest on their feet tried to wriggle their way into their overcoats and staggered out of the door. A third fellow, very portly, explained to me in sign language that he’d very much like to take part as well. I propped him up and helped him down the steps and into the snow. Halfway to the car he uttered a drawn-out, horse-like whinny. Then his body imploded as if pricked by a pin. He collapsed on the spot, his bones giving way as if his skeleton had shriveled. I tried to hold him up, but didn’t have a chance. Three hundred pounds of old man’s flesh and blood.
I took his pulse. The man was unconscious, not of this world. His body was steaming like a meat casserole in the arctic cold. The taxi was waiting, its engine ticking. I took hold of the guy’s feet and tried to drag the pile of bacon toward the taxi through the uncooperative snow. The old fellow’s shirt splayed out and acted as a brake. The snow melted against his back, but not even that could wake him. He was as heavy as a corpse. In the end I gave up and signaled to the taxi, which disappeared in a flash. Moaning and groaning, I started dragging the body back where it had come from, back to the house. I kept slipping, and could feel the sweat breaking out on my spine. Inch by inch. He was still alive, I could see the steam puffing out of his nose and mouth. A thin column of breath spiraled up to the starry sky, outlined against the porch light.
I was forced to pause and draw breath. And at that very moment, when I looked up, the Northern Lights blossomed forth in all their glory. Big green fountains growing and swelling, waves of sea-fire foaming forth. Quick red axe cuts, violet flesh just visible inside. The light grew more intense, more lively. Billows of phosphorous in frothing maelstroms. For minutes on end I simply stood and enjoyed it. Suddenly thought there was some faint singing from up above, as if from a Finnish soldiers’ choir. The voice of the Northern Lights. Or maybe it was the engine of the taxi being projected through the severe cold. It was all so beautiful. I had the urge to go down on bended knee. What splendor, what beauty! Too much to bear for a small, shy, and drunk boy from Tornedalen.
Somebody slammed the front door behind him. Erkki stumbled over to me, unzipping his fly. I pointed to the drunk lying at his feet. Erkki registered the fact with a degree of surprise, took a couple of steps back, and fell over. Stretched out comfortably in the snow, he took out his dick and peed as he lay. Duly relieved, he closed his eyes. I suggested he should abandon any thought of slumber, the stupid bastard, and kicked some snow into his face. He started threatening a bloody punch in the kisser, but struggled to his feet even so. Between us we managed to drag the old devil back into the house and place him at the end of the impressive row of bodies on the floor.
Dad and Grandad were sitting at the kitchen table looking pale, and stammered something about the old fellows on the sofa having died. I took the pulse of all three. Their bald heads were leaning in various directions, their skin yellow and wax-like.
“Yup, they’re dead,” I said.
Grandad cursed at the thought of all the problems there’d be with the authorities then started sobbing as old folk do, snot dripping from his nose and into his glass. Dad launched into a solemn if slurred speech on the glorious death of heroic Finns, listing suicide, war, a heart attack in the sauna, and alcohol poisoning as the most common examples. And tonight this trio of beloved and respected relations had chosen to walk simultaneously, side by side, through the Pearly Gates …
The thin one in the middle opened his eyes at this point and asked for some more schnapps. Dad was stopped in his tracks and could only stare. Grandad handed over his snot-filled glass and watched it being shakily drained. I laughed so much at their faces that I nearly fell off the chair, and said it must be a pretty good party if even the dead join in and drink.
Peace began to settle in all around the house. The old boys lined up on the floor hadn’t moved since I laid them there, deep in a dreamless drunken stupor. Others were crawling around like tortoises with slow, stiff movements. Niila was sitting with his back to the wall, his face green all over. He was trying desperately to remain upright, drinking occasionally from a pail of cold water. Holgeri lay beside him in the fetal position, twitching. Most were now silent and introverted as their livers worked overtime to clean up the poisons and their brain cells died like swarms of midges. Erkki had half-fallen off his wooden chair, but his jacket was caught on the back. The only one still going strong was a wiry sixty-year-old moose hunter who had propped himself up on the table and was doing gymnastic exercises with his legs. Stretching them forward, upward, and to the side in complicated oriental patterns. He always did this when he was drunk, and everybody left him to get on with it.
I could feel the intoxication reaching its peak inside me. It was bubbling away in the background as I sat studying the old devil’s leg movements. The party was over already, even though it was barely eleven o’clock. In less than four hours the moose hunters had downed more than two pints of moonshine per head, but even so not a single one had thrown up, a sure sign of long and dedicated practice.
A car was heard approaching, and its headlights played on the wallpaper. Before long I heard the stamping of feet on the porch. In stormed Greger, and caught sight of me.
“Jump in, let’s go!”
Then he stopped dead. Turned slowly around and stared wide-eyed at the impressive battle field.
I shook some life into the boys; we carted the equipment out into the car, and drove off. Greger was whistling merrily and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel until we asked him to stop.
“Boys,” he said with a smile, “I’ve been on the phone all evening. You’d better starrrt practicing.”
“Eh?”
“Learrrn some new songs.”
“Songs?” we repeated stupidly.
Greger just laughed.
“I’ve fixed your first tourrr. A few schools, a youth club, and then a festival in Luleå for amateurrr bands.”
* * *
We pulled up outside the school. Greger unlocked the deserted music room and we carried in the amplifiers. We were all still elated and dazed by the news, so when Greger went home we stayed behind and played. It sounded awful, but it came from the heart; it was rough and raw, exactly like we were. Niila did his homemade riffs, and I improvised a few songs and began to feel like a rock star. The cold had put Holgeri’s guitar out of tune and his fingers were fumbly, but perhaps that was why he produced fantastic solos, distorted and lopsided bellows, fluttering swaying tones. Finally we played our old favorite, “Rock ’n’ Roll Music,” at least ten times. We didn’t pack it in until Erkki had snapped both his drumsticks.
It was just after three in the morning. Pajala church village was desolate in the winter darkness. We crunched
home through the powdery snow under the softly buzzing streetlights. The cold streamed into our lungs, our ears wrapped themselves around the silence of dawn. Inside our mittens our fingertips were aching, thanks to the sharp strings.
“We ought to run away,” proposed Niila, “Just clear off.”
“Stockholm!” said Erkki.
“America!” yelled Holgeri.
“China,” I said. “I’d like to see China one of these days.”
It was so silent. As if everyone in the village had frozen to death. We started walking down the middle of the road, four abreast. There was no traffic. The whole place, the whole world was motionless. We were the only four people alive, four pounding hearts in the innermost hollow of the winter taiga.
We stopped when we came to Pajala’s biggest crossroads, the one between the hardware store and the newsstand. We were all hesitant, as if we felt we’d arrived at our goal. That it was here something else was about to begin. We looked around uncertainly in all directions. The road to the west led to Kiruna. If you went south you came to Stockholm. Eastward took you to Övertorneå and then Finland. And the fourth stub of road led down to the ice on the River Torne.
After a while we went back out to the middle of the road and sat down. Then, as if by mutual agreement, we lay down in the middle of the crossroads, right across the carriage way. We stretched out on our backs and gazed at the starry sky. There was no traffic noise, everything was still. We lay there side by side and breathed up into space. Felt the chilly ice under our bottoms and shoulder blades. Then finally, peacefully, we closed our eyes.
* * *
And this is where the story ends. Childhood, boyhood, the first life we led. I’ll leave them there. Four boys on their backs at a crossroads with their faces turned up to the stars. I stand quietly beside them, watching. Their breathing grows deeper, their muscles are relaxing.
They’re asleep already.