‘Who are you calling weak, you fucker?’
I pull his head towards me and throw it back onto the rough paving stones as hard as I can. Something cracks. I wrench up his skull, put all my weight on it and drive it down again. Blood pours from the crushed point of contact. I am panting from the effort. Once more, but that’s it. I know my job.
‘Who are you calling weak?’
The pimp lies lifelessly below me. I cuff him on the ear. I want him awake.
‘Weak as a fucking poof, was it?’
I can feel my age: my chest is heaving violently, my lungs hurt. I stare down at Pålsson’s ugly but nevertheless inviting nose where it divides his face, full of black pores.
The first time I broke a grown man’s nose it was winter.
Thinking of it makes me smile.
Light snowflakes were dancing in the air. I must have been ten, eleven years old. It was between the poorhouse and my years at sea.
It is a unique sensation.
I was working for a mill owner in Eskilstuna. It was the first time I hit back.
The boss beat me all the time. One day in February he walloped me on the backside after I had asked for a stove in my little room. I was undernourished and shivering cold in bed at night. Something inside me snapped. I went up into the barn where I knew there was a broken pitchfork.
I took the wooden shaft and the two-pronged end apart and climbed down again. I drove the bastard up against the wooden partition wall with the prongs and made the shaft whistle through the air with my strikes until he sank to his knees, bloody and wretched, and begged for mercy in the snowstorm. The downtrodden snow around us was coloured orange. One of the working dogs was howling. With my wood-soled poor man’s boots I kicked the boss’s dirty mug right in the nose. For the first time in my life I heard the magnificent sound of a nose breaking. There is no sweeter music than in that tremulous instant of contact when bone and cartilage yield.
The sound made the blood rush through my skinny little body and has ever since. When I ran away that time I felt like I was flying two centimetres above the ground, so cold, alive and happy. A couple of minutes later I had a rare sense of calm that I had never experienced before. Like coming home. Maybe it built some sort of home inside me.
Who the hell knows.
I raise my fist and drive it straight down into the ponce’s kisser. It is a merciful angle, one intending to floor the bastard rather than slam the bone into his brain. The smack resounds between the buildings that line the square. I smirk. The sound reminds me of a foal chewing on a sugar lump. Sweet.
I have always liked foals. So bouncy on those skinny legs with their funny tails hopping behind. Muzzles softer than Japanese velvet.
Somewhere a woman screams. Pålsson’s face looks like a bucket of slop. The type you buy from the butcher to feed your dog.
My breathing seizes up with effort. It’s shit that I hardly have time to beat a man before I am reminded of my body’s limitations. The blood that once made my flesh bloom seems to have curdled in my veins. I fold over coughing, phlegm strings quivering down into the red mess that was the pimp’s face.
The big bloke takes one step forward but I shake my head.
‘Still not ready.’
My voice is wheezing. I recover, clear my throat, take a last drag on my cigar and open Pålsson’s right eyelid wide with my thumb and index finger. Red cracks criss-cross the white of his eye; his pupil is an empty black hole. Nobody home.
Let’s see if I can wake the fucker up.
By making him half-blind.
Blood is running hot through my limbs after a whole day in the sun. Somewhere behind me comes the sound of tram wheels against the rail points and the driver ringing at the stop. I don’t have much time before the passengers get off.
I blow on the glowing cigar tip and bring it closer to his eyeball. A shiver runs through my body but then I stop myself, hesitate. My hand is shaking. The burning orange is reflected in his iris.
I clear my throat, spit and stand up. I throw the cigar away, and stagger around openly in the square. The other two thugs shuffle over and start dragging the lifeless body away.
I look up. In a wide ring around us stand at least a score of witnesses. I can’t quite believe it. One second it was deserted, the next second they all pour out, like the tide. A couple of them have their hands over their mouths; some of them are pretending to look away.
I lift my face to the sky and roar as loud as I can.
‘Take that!’
MONDAY 20 JULY
The morning sun burns my face, hot as the flames in a ship’s boiler. Hungover and thirsty, I am panting as I grasp the iron railing of the stone stairway. It took three days’ rations of schnapps to get to sleep last night. I can’t escape the image of Gabrielsson’s body.
‘Need sugar for the fight?’
Undertaker Lundin is hanging on my back, his unshaven chin scratching my neck and rasping in my ear. His breath is sour from his morning coffee with schnapps. We shared breakfast in his kitchen on the ground floor, as usual.
‘Go to hell. You’re just skin and bone and still heavy as grief.’
Lundin’s skinny forearms are stretched around my neck and I can hear his prosthesis rattle. I look up again and survey the reservoir’s brick fortress at the crest of Vanadislunden Park. I have already lugged Lundin halfway up the steps on Ingemarsgatan but there are still at least twenty metres to go. My back aches and I stoop under his weight. My thigh muscles are burning as I take one step, then another.
The trees above us reach for each other like seamen in distress. The harsh sunlight is filtered through the foliage. I am getting out of breath.
My trouser pockets are bulging with the contours of Pilsner bottles. A reward for my efforts. I find a rhythm, with Lundin’s gammy feet knocking against the steps behind me like logs of wood.
‘Soon you will be rid of me, brother.’
‘Halfway up to the pearly gates already.’
I take another few steps. I feel the faint rhythm of Lundin’s heartbeat against my aching back muscles. My own pump is working all the harder.
This morning I found him in bed in the little room at the back of the funeral parlour, covered in his own piss. I cleaned him up in the washtub and helped him into a fresh suit but he still smells faintly of old man urine.
It’s not like before, when he was up early doing morning gymnastics with Colonel Owl on the radio every day. I don’t know how old he is. Around seventy-five maybe. Never asked. We don’t make a big deal of that kind of thing. You’re born, you die, the rest is just numbers.
‘What the hell are we going up to the park for?’
‘Forgetful, aren’t you. Hasse’s lunchtime training.’
‘The life is draining out of me, what do I care about boxing?’
With the undertaker hanging on my back like a black sack of coal, I heave myself onward with both hands on the railing. There is a rustle as a rat ploughs through the sea of brown grass on the hill. Its tail slides behind it like a mooring rope.
My rotten cough is lurking in my chest. I look up again. Only three flights to go. If I can deck ‘The Mallet’ Sundström in the last round despite five broken ribs, then surely I can manage this without whinging.
‘The Spaniards are at loggerheads with each other.’
‘The Spaniards?’
‘Do you no longer have a radio, brother?’
‘No fewer than two.’
‘The southern provinces. Some sort of military uprising.’
I remember a sailor in Malaga a long time ago, with soft brown eyes and a fresh scar across the bridge of his nose. He might have been called Jorge. He was young and strong, and kissed as if it meant something.
It didn’t.
The eleven o’clock chimes of St Stefan’s Church up in the park egg me on. I grunt and take two steps, then another two. I clench my jaw. Two more.
We wind to the left where the staircase divides and I
lug the undertaker farther up the rugged slope behind the reservoir. I am huffing and puffing. The square brick monstrosity affords no shade.
As we approach the south side of the building, I dump the old codger on the grass and stand up straight. I bring my hand to the small of my back and look at him. His face is red with strain and there is a rubbery string of phlegm in his white moustache. He takes a deep breath that spreads through his rickety body before he laboriously rolls onto his back.
I lean my hands on my knees and catch my breath. I would have set Lundin down farther on in the park if I could. I once met with Hiccup, one of Belzén of Birka’s henchmen, up here on this scorched, grassy flat. I believe it was the winter of ’32.
Bad blood, bad memories.
The weather was different that time: sleet and wind. Hiccup drove to meet me with a couple of battered smugglers in the trunk of his Ford. One was a Söder lad and the other worked for Ploman, the schnapps baron of Vasastan. Their heads were wrapped in bloodstained jute bags, which made them considerably less talkative. Hiccup put three bullets in each, two in the back and one in the head. I remember the sound: the howling in my ears. The shots were louder than usual. Probably due to the rain.
As I understand it, what happened was my fault, but it was bound to have happened to them sooner or later anyway. They deserved it, unlike Gabrielsson. I can’t carry the undertaker any longer. Not one metre more.
I look up, squint and shade my eyes with my hand. From up here it looks as though the whole of Vasastan is in flames. The morning sun attacks the rooftops, the flashing rays weave a disorderly pattern, reflected in windowpanes, sheet metal and copper. The poor sods living in the garrets must be boiling alive.
The paths meander like plough lines and the grass is brown from drought. Low groundwater levels have brought about a watering ban for some weeks now. A stray dog with a lolling tongue works its way between the groups of people in search of food and water. The dust whirls around its paws as it trots along.
With its tail between its legs, it circles a group of reclining men playing cards, nearby enough for me to hear their throaty voices. They look like day labourers without a gig. The greasy cards dazzle like mirrors in the sun as they toss them in the pile.
‘Whose turn is it?’
‘I’m out.’
‘Get that fucking dog out of here.’
One of the men picks up an empty beer bottle and throws it. It whistles towards the mutt’s head before hitting the ground a couple of metres shy and bouncing a few times. The dog backs up and whimpers before setting off after two tramps who look like they’ve spent the night in the park. Their rags are full of dry grass and one has twigs and leaves in his beard.
Down by the stone façade of St Stefan’s Church, a few make-believe Indians skulk around the bushes. They are dressed up in burlap costumes and carved bows are taut over their backs. A working-class housewife flaps a sheet in the air once more than necessary, so that the other couple of biddies nearby can see how white it is before she spreads it out on the ground. She starts to unpack a picnic from a woven basket.
I take the Pilsner bottles out of my pockets and crouch down next to Lundin. I open the beers and set one of the bottles down next to him. The undertaker tries to pinch out a hefty wad of snuff from his brass box, using his good hand. I take a swig. The beer is lukewarm but it’s liquid and it tastes good.
‘Have you heard what the Yanks do on hot nights?’ I ask.
‘You’ve been talking about America for a dozen years and never done anything about it.’
‘What the hell does that have to do with anything?’
‘Like some old dear who’s been reading too many Californian novels.’
‘They take their mattresses outside onto the fire escape platforms.’
‘What do you know about it?’
‘I was a sandwich man in San Francisco once, for God’s sake.’
The mutt lopes to and fro in a cloud of dust. The street dogs are dying of thirst, or they eventually drink sewage, get sick and die. If you’re up early you see their paws sticking up out of the tops of rubbish bins. Tomorrow the city is going to start paying compassion bounties to the huntsmen who shorten their suffering. I clear my throat and spit out a clod of dust.
‘There’s something funny about it.’
‘Hush now!’
Lundin raises his iron hand and almost loses his balance as a result. I put the bottle down on the grass and take out a Meteor.
‘Something that doesn’t add up.’
I spit out tobacco flakes.
‘When was the last time anything added up to you?’ Lundin asks.
‘There’s nothing wrong with your mouth, at least.’
‘You’ve been going on about the same thing for hours. Forget it.’
Lundin puts a wad of snuff in his gum and tongues it into place. I light my cigar and take a puff, producing a cloud of tobacco smoke.
‘There’s something funny about it.’
‘What does it concern you? I have seen you like this before, brother. What did it get you but grief, misery and new scars?’
‘Dixie?’
He shakes his head.
‘A half-dead drunkard of a dog. What does this have to do with you?’
Down the hill the church strikes the quarter-hour. The mongrel comes running towards us and then slows its steps. It’s an emaciated bitch with hanging teats. A fresh wound runs across her ear. Her eyes shine like syrup drops in the sunlight. I show her that I have nothing in my hand.
I glance at the undertaker. His yellow, wrinkled skin is stretched like a dried tobacco leaf across his face. My hand begins to tremble slightly. The bitch patters to and fro in front of us.
I take two deep drags. I tap off the ash and take another. I clench my left fist.
‘Something happened to me every time I returned to land.’
I stare straight ahead. My words falter and I quieten. My heart is thumping like a punchball in my chest. The bitch slouches away in the direction of the old emergency shelters.
‘What are you prattling on about, brother?’
I take a swig of beer. The words return.
‘I was one sort of man at sea and another on land. Something happened when I got shore leave.’
‘Drunkenness and pox?’
‘At sea I was one of the crew, almost. But on land people would stare at me like a scab. It grated on me. Inside somehow.’
‘Like heartburn?’
‘Can’t explain it.’
‘And you’ve always had the gift of the gab. Is the boxer lad late?’
‘When I met Gabrielsson in Buenos Aires I was so full of self-hatred I was about ready to hang myself but he took my confession without blinking. It must have been twenty years ago. Or more.’
Lundin starts to hum.
‘You did say eleven o’clock?’
‘He said that Jesus Christ didn’t fit into his time and place either, or something along those lines. Not that I need any consolation from the fucking Bible, but it struck a chord with me.’
A little way down the hill the bitch takes a few wavering steps before collapsing on her side. She is lying there with her tongue out, panting. I take a deep breath. The smell of camomile is hanging heavy in the warm air; it cuts through the cigar smoke.
‘You did tell him eleven, right?’
The kids dressed as Indians have laid siege to the white music pavilion below us. I roll the cigar between my thumb and forefinger.
‘It has always been eleven.’
I glance at Lundin. The undertaker nods to himself and takes a swig of beer. He extends his iron prosthesis and claps me on the shoulder with a clinking sound. In the scorched clover between his useless legs a bumblebee drones its thirsty song.
My singlet is soaked through. Hasse’s wrapped fists jab into my palms with dull, rhythmical thuds, like a barn dance. Every time he makes contact a fine mist of sweat flies from his naked skin and covers his upper body i
n a glistening dew.
We have been going at it for over an hour and a half. I shout commands and angle my hands for hooks, uppercuts and straight punches. I go backwards, then sideways, and try to make him follow. His right fist cracks against my left palm. He is tired. The power of a right should come from all the way down through the foot. I am tired too but what the hell does that have to do with boxing? I bite my lip to stop myself correcting him.
‘Good. Again!’ I say instead.
I take a half-step to the side. I have tortured him for over six months, sweated with him, invested my own time and energy. When I manage to get the bastard to listen, he becomes an extension of myself. He has good hooks, fast and hard. My wrists ache, even though he is going at a quarter of his maximum strength.
Sometimes I touch him, to show him an opening, and I feel the sleek warmth of him on my coarse hands and it makes me gasp.
He isn’t that way inclined. Few are. I can tell.
‘Come on!’
I suck my lower lip in between my teeth. That broad chin could become a problem if the boy doesn’t learn to hide it behind his shoulder. He grits his teeth and determination surges through his muscles, forcing them to obey.
His fist meets its target with a smack. Willpower glitters in his eyes and his sharp jaw muscles protrude under his skin. His wide trousers flap as he turns his heel outwards.
That’s my boy, give me hell. Go as hard as the Devil himself.
The power runs up his legs, gains momentum at his hips and reaches his naked upper body. It spreads through his oblique abdominal muscles as he turns and puts his shoulder into the movement. His hefty arm and tight fist shoot out from his body.
That’s right.
Redeem me.
Hurt me.
My left palm meets his right. He snorts air out through his nose and thunders into me. Drops of sweat fly from his skin. The sunlight makes them glitter around his head like a halo.
This is the one. He doesn’t put all of his weight behind it, but still the blow diffuses through my arm and causes my shoulder joint to burn with pain.
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