He hadn’t looked at himself in the mirror for a couple of days, and judging by the shopkeeper’s expression, an unpleasant sight awaited him.
‘We’ve been over here looking for you,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Several times.’
‘I’ve been away,’ said Hanck. His voice was hoarse, his eyes were running. He wiped the moisture from the corner of his eyes with a cloth that smelled of machine oil.
‘We were getting worried,’ said the shopkeeper.
‘About what?’ said Hanck.
‘You know.’
‘That I might shoot someone and then the gun would be traced back to you?’
The shopkeeper hadn’t thought of that possibility. He looked offended. Genuinely offended. ‘Don’t be stupid, Hanck. It was you . . . We were thinking about you.’
Hanck was tired and dull-witted, but he still noticed that ‘we’. He would never be able to express himself that way again. We were thinking about you. We’re on our way. We’re going there. We’re about to eat.
‘We’ve made a big casserole, the big kind that you like. You have to eat, Hancken.’
‘I do eat.’
‘No, you’re being eaten alive,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Look at you – gaunt and hollow-eyed! Why don’t you come with me?’
Hanck gave him a long, entreating look. ‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Not like this.’
‘Then tidy yourself up,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘I’ll wait.’
The shopkeeper refused to budge. No doubt he’d been given strict instructions by his wife to be firm and resolute. Now he was planning to stay there and wait until Hanck got tidied up. And Hanck was too weak and fragile to fend him off. He coaxed the shopkeeper into the living room and then went out to the kitchen where he downed what was left of the vodka.
A while later he had washed and changed clothes. There was no question of shaving. He would have cut off his ear if he had even tried.
They walked through the rain to Vinterplatsen, then over to the pleasure district. It was early evening, and the nightlife hadn’t yet got going.
The shop was closed, but the shopkeeper’s wife stood at the door and unlocked it. ‘There he is,’ she said. As if Hanck were the only thing they’d been talking about. ‘We’ve been so worried!’
The pot simmering out in the kitchen filled the whole shop with its aroma. They’d had it boiling for several days, throwing in everything they could find. Tough old roosters and salty bacon rinds.
Saussyr looked more miserable than usual. She came over and wordlessly gave him a hug. Hanck was hungover and sensitive to the slightest vibration. He had a feeling that she had put on that expression for his sake, to show respect and sympathy. He had a feeling it had required a good deal of effort.
He felt encouraged, not because of her genuine or exaggerated sympathy, but because he thought he could see through it. He’d been aware of and receptive to sensory impressions and moods before, but finally he’d become so worn out from the strain that he’d shut down the whole machinery so as not to be shattered or torn apart. Those dead, numb periods had become more lasting, a sort of restful indifference, unpleasant but perhaps necessary.
Now he was fragile and vulnerable and, in this snug flat behind the shop, with a drink in his hand, he was clearly able to notice the subtle changes in the young woman – the fact that out of consideration for him she looked sombre and dejected, but behind the mask she was filled with a sparkling joy, some sort of news, a secret.
The more he studied her, as she placed a cloth on the table, set out the fine East Indian porcelain, the silverware and crystal glasses, the more convinced he became that his observations were correct. She was really having to make an effort to hide her feelings.
And a little later, when the meal was fully under way and he had pleased his hosts by eating a good portion, accepting a second helping and showering them with praise, he finally had his suspicions confirmed.
‘Hancken . . .’ said the shopkeeper. ‘We have some news to tell you. We have . . .’ He hesitated, searching for the proper tone. Hanck could see that he too was having a hard time restraining his joy. ‘The thing is . . . we’ve been given a space . . . in the City Under the Roof. Our request has been granted!’
They had been worried about how he would take the news, whether he might feel deserted. But without reservation he could say, straight from his heart, ‘Congratulations! This calls for a toast!’
The shopkeeper looked at his daughter, beaming radiantly, as if he were now releasing her from her obligation to grieve. Saussyr’s face lit up like a sun, like the sun that she couldn’t tolerate and would now be able to evade in the City Under the Roof.
‘She can go outside whenever she likes,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘She can visit friends and spend all day outdoors.’
He didn’t mean to puncture the happy mood, on the contrary, but Hanck then said: ‘That was what Toby always used to say – poor Saussyr, who can never go outside.’
He hadn’t mentioned his son’s name before, but now, when he did so on such a joyous occasion, they asked him questions. They wanted to know.
Hanck said that he’d received reliable information about the circumstances surrounding his death.
He said that he hadn’t yet been allowed to see his son’s remains.
He described the queue at the Clan’s headquarters, said that he’d tried to present his case, but without success.
Perhaps under the influence of all the alcohol he’d been drinking, he now pulled the crumpled envelope out of his coat pocket and showed it to them. ‘I got this from a woman,’ he said. ‘A letter of reference.’
The envelope was passed around, everyone read the name of the addressee, silently and pensively.
‘What sort of woman?’ asked the shopkeeper.
‘One of those wanton types,’ said Hanck.
‘Do it!’ said the shopkeeper at once.
‘Do what?’ said Hanck.
‘Go there! You should always trust a whore.’
Gerlinde, his wife, rarely engaged in arguments in Hanck’s presence. But now she turned in her chair and said, ‘Liebling, what would you know about that?’
A new mood arose at the table. The ticking of various watches, pendulums and grandfather clocks could be heard from all directions, and the combined ticking sounded as if a different type of counting had started up – a sort of marital calculator that would be better off out of commission.
The shopkeeper’s spontaneous advice turned out to be costly. The certainty and conviction with which he had offered this advice aroused the attention of his wife and daughter, questions were raised and voiced, very bluntly, at times in quite coarse and sweeping terms. Every little trip the shopkeeper had ever made, as far back as they could remember, now had to be supported with receipts and documents.
Hanck suddenly found himself involved in a row that for a time looked as if it might jeopardise their move to the City Under the Roof. Later, when he thanked them for dinner and made his escape, emotions were still running high. A business trip to the other end of the city had proved difficult to explain in any sensible manner.
For some reason he wasn’t at all worried. The shopkeeper was above suspicion. He might be slippery in his business dealings, and he might defend his property with brutal violence if necessary, but he was a loyal and considerate father, and a sterling spouse. The ardour that his wife had displayed was almost touching, almost hopeful, in the midst of this shabby and sinful district.
The argument made Hanck feel guilty about following the shopkeeper’s advice. Maybe he should refrain, as a symbolic gesture, albeit a hollow one. He had practically destroyed a marriage just by waving a letter with a well-known addressee, presented as almighty, from an unknown sender, presented as a ‘whore’.
The queue encircling the Old Man’s residence produced great quantities of both tangible and intangible wares: rubbish, handiwork, poems, latrines, music, icons,
dreams and illusions. But perhaps most of all: rumours. They seeped out around the clock, all year long, each rumour wilder than the rest. Most of them had to do with the Old Man himself, his health, his past, his manner of exercising power. In a number of anecdotes he resembled the head of a corporation with iron claws; in others he was a gentle old patron of the arts, or a wizard, a ladies’ man, a he-man.
But what might start out as a stray word at the front of the queue, a mere whisper, might then be overheard by a someone who immediately passed it on, possibly in a slightly distorted form or embellished with supplementary information. Soon it would take on the shape of a real rumour that spread from mouth to mouth all the way to the very last person. And of course the information gradually grew even more distorted each time it was passed on. A statement that began as: ‘Loki has gone underground’ would soon become: ‘Loki has committed suicide’, and by the time the story had reached the end of the queue and turned around, it would come back to the first person in an entirely new form: ‘Loki no longer lives in the North.’
But most often all the talk had to do with the Old Man himself. His figure was cloaked in a wild flora of half-truths and pure lies, idle fantasies in which his powers were portrayed as almost inconceivable. Especially when it came to exploits in the past, during the dark, chaotic times before the borders were established, when the interaction with neighbouring peoples and states was closer and the conflicts ran much deeper.
The disputes with rival clans were countless, bloody and intense, particularly when they concerned the dwindling supply of raw materials. No treaties applied, everything was permitted, and personal honour was a rare phenomenon, as desirable as an untouched forest.
The Old Man was no stranger to employing means which in a more stable era would have been subjected to harsh punishments. A mighty oligarch in the east had committed a blatant error of judgement in a business deal; he had drawn the shortest straw but later denied any irregularities and refused to respond to the Old Man’s demand for compensation.
Heads rolled on both sides, time passed, the matter grew cold and weapons were laid down or were aimed in other directions, towards new foes. The oligarch probably thought that the Old Man had decided to let the matter drop, that the whole thing was history.
But the Old Man had forgotten nothing. On the contrary. He was furious and brooded over revenge. And he was determined to exact it, ruthlessly and in a spectacular fashion.
The oligarch had a daughter. She was beautiful, at least in her father’s opinion, a real jewel destined to marry someone of high standing, perhaps some leftover from a tattered royal family.
For that reason she was constantly guarded, day and night, by her own bodyguards. If she ever went anywhere, a minor military operation was set in motion to secure the road.
Naturally her father saw envious and malevolent eyes everywhere, and even worse: avaricious, covetous looks. He instituted his own laws, making it illegal even to look in the young woman’s direction. And naturally he saw these laws broken; disobedience was rampant.
If he thought that someone unauthorised had so much as cast a sidelong glance in his daughter’s direction, the eyeballs of the perpetrator were soon tossed into a big glass jar filled with a saline solution, a vessel that was shown as a test pattern on the local TV station. Once a month it would fill to the brim. The part of the country where the oligarch ruled soon became populated only by blind people.
When the daughter became aware of this insane jealousy, this incomparable cruelty, she developed a disease of the nerves. She tried to appeal to her father, but without success. In fact, he countered her sensitivity with even greater resolve.
The woman was suffering from melancholia. It became chronic. Finally she went stark raving mad and tried to take her own life, but she failed and became the object of intensive medical care. Powerful medicines were prescribed, and she was kept under observation round the clock. Specialists from the whole world were consulted, but her condition did not improve. She was a jewel, enclosed in tiles and chemicals.
And this precious gem was what the Old Man intended to steal and violate. Somehow he managed to ingratiate himself with the staff caring for the oligarch’s daughter. There was a steady turnover of personnel. The father might decide that someone was unsuitable or unworthy, and then she’d be out.
The incident supposedly took place during the night shift. The Old Man, who was young at the time, had gained access to the keys and ended up on a shift. A vacancy had occurred, and he had written his pseudonym on a dirty whiteboard in a hospital manager’s office. A woman’s name. During the graveyard shift he was going to achieve his goal and take his revenge.
Finally it was time, after long and protracted preparations. It was just the two of them. He entered the room of the drugged, defenceless woman, and tied her arms and legs to the bedposts. And then he cast off his female disguise. He raped her, in a thorough and businesslike way.
This was described as a great feat, even by women standing in the queue. It was seen as an act of heroic courage, such was their fear of the people in the east.
When the oligarch’s daughter later realised that she was pregnant, a truly dark time descended upon that part of the world. An entire hospital, an entire section of the city, was levelled to the ground. Any man who entered the area was found carved into a blood eagle, wearing a Colombian necktie, or (if time forbade such elaborate executions) was bludgeoned in half without ceremony.
The wealth of human inventiveness when it comes to torture is limitless, but no known methods in the world succeeded in forcing or pressing or squeezing or burning or hacking or pulling or cauterising or ripping or cutting or dragging a confession out of anyone.
It should be remembered that the oligarch belonged to a church. He was a devout believer, and this faith had also forced his daughter into submission. She would keep the child. The oligarch would have to accept the fate of being the grandfather of a bastard.
It was unprecedented; the utmost ignominy.
The bastard child turned out to be a son, big and well-formed.
No one in the known world dared offer congratulations, except for one – the Old Man. He sent a greeting. With acidic and elegant irony he offered congratulations on the birth, an occurrence which he had been looking forward to with particular joy, given that he was the father of the child. For practical reasons he did not intend to make any claims whatsoever regarding custody of the boy.
It was the final death blow. It made the daughter and the oligarch exchange roles. Motherhood had cured the woman; she had fully recovered her health. Her father, for his part, entered a great depression. He stepped down from the throne, stopped meting out punishments left and right, and instead devoted himself to an assiduous penance. He walked naked through the biting cold, he stopped eating and drinking, he whipped himself bloody. He chopped off his frozen, emaciated limbs with a machete and left them behind on his way to the salvation that ought to await someone who showed such repentance.
It was one of the Old Man’s greatest triumphs. It always aroused the same response among the public. To recount it with all the details and complicated facts could take a week for someone who was eloquent. Someone who was hesitant, or who presented any doubts as to the credibility of the events, might keep the magic alive for a month.
Other stories presented more peaceful and more appealing aspects of the Old Man. Such as his wit, his popularity with the ladies, and his preference for the art of poetry, to which he had made significant contributions. Many could attest to his benevolence and encouraging manner.
Some even went so far as to proclaim the Old Man the father of the art of poetry, saying that it was the almighty father who had once provided the means and established the conditions that poetry required for its very existence.
In popular parlance, poetry was called ‘the dwarves’ vessel’. Many understandably took this to mean that it was an aid for little people in a world that wasn’t set up in accordanc
e with their needs. A world in which you feel uncomfortable, and everything that you desire is far beyond your reach.
Many authors, as Hanck in particular had noted, were basically little people, spiritually shrivelled, atrophied and care-worn personalities. Petty. Vulnerable and frightened. They needed help in their daily lives in order to seem bigger, or at least like everyone else. They sought compensation in poetry, resorted to words because words seemed harmless and free of prejudice; they didn’t bite, they didn’t provoke, they didn’t infect. And besides, they didn’t cost a thing. They were a suitable material to use for revenge-seeking cretins.
No matter how apt such a premise might appear, it was wrong. The fact that poetry was called ‘the dwarves’ vessel’ had to do with the Old Man and the hardships he had endured to find the raw material of poetry and bring it to safety.
It existed in the form of a drink, an intoxicating drink, a cider pressed from the fruits of wisdom, the fruits of love and the bounties of peace.
The drink filled a kettle and two tubs; it was created by a couple of dwarves, clever blenders who knew how to extract the best effect from their raw materials. Whoever drank it would grow wise and become a skald.
A drink like that is not kept out in plain sight. It’s kept under lock and key.
For reasons that won’t be further elucidated, the two dwarves happened to kill a giant and his wife. Their son, Suttung, was filled with wrath and a desire for revenge. He managed to seize the dwarves, and as punishment he placed them on a rock that stuck up above the surface of the water only at ebb tide. When the tide rose, they would drown. The tide came in, the water rose, and the dwarves were filled with great anguish. They began to bargain with the orphaned son. They offered him the marvellous drink. He accepted and gave the dwarves a lifeboat in exchange. In this vessel they made their way to shore and out of the story.
The drink now had a new owner. The kettle and the two tubs – Odrärer, Sön and Bodn, as they were called – were kept deep inside a mountain cave. Suttung put his daughter Gunnlöd in charge of guarding them. She was considered intractable, utterly unrelenting.
The Hurricane Party Page 22