Clinch (23 page)

‘You’re almost home.’

He nods. I indicate that he should go behind the hedge against the façade of the museum.

There’s already a bloke with another sailor in the dark, narrow space between the bushes and the wall. The sailor leans against the façade with his trousers halfway down his thighs. He moans every time the bloke behind him thrusts into him.

‘There’s space here for more.’ The bloke gives his sailor a quick breather before he gets to it again.

My sailor starts pacing on the spot. ‘Not the stern thruster.’

‘Okay.’ Damn it!

I start pulling at his blazer, getting the buttons open and sliding my hands under his jumper, over his completely smooth chest. He wriggles. I press him up against the wall and lean in to kiss him. He moves his face away. I grunt. He breathes in. I unbutton his rough, tight trousers. He’s already standing to attention. I’m disappointed; this one’s nowhere near as well-endowed as Leonard. I grunt again. He pants.

‘Shall I wank you off?’

I nod. He finds me down there, beneath my trousers and underpants. It’s unbearably cold. He starts moving his hand up and down. I could just as well be with a woman. He holds it too softly. He pulls the foreskin back too hard.

‘You enjoying that?’ he whispers close to my face, his breath smelling slightly of vomit. I turn my face away. I think about the boy with the slicked-back hair on Kommendörsgatan earlier. I grab the sailor’s hair and press his face against my neck. The bloke next to us starts groaning, but my cock is softening.

‘You like this, don’t you?’

‘Stop!’

He carries on. The vein in my forehead is pulsating hard. I grab his blue collar.

‘I said stop!’

I move his schnapps-reeking face close to my own. With a whimper he totters back against the wall.

The disappointment wells up from my stomach. I feel as if hunger is setting in after a week of fasting, although my jaw muscles are too swollen to chew. I stumble out of the bushes, pulling my trousers up.

‘Damn it!’

Anger thumps in my veins. The snow crunches under my feet as I remove my tie, fold it up in my pocket, and rush past the Customs House. I come up on Hovslagaregatan and go around the corner. Squeezing the Husqvarna against my body with my arm, I run along the water’s edge, back up towards Berzelii Park, passing the Strand Hotel. It’s worryingly quiet, and I swear loudly again.

The park is deserted. The goons probably managed to get a gang together and break up the fight. Bits of military kit lie strewn across the area. The snow has taken on that trampled, bright yellow colour that one associates with the usual Christmas slaughter. Here and there in the snow, uniform buttons stare up at me like cat’s eyes. I kick a bloodstained sailor’s hat into the air.

I feel it in my whole body. To hell with Zetterberg, Sonja and the German creep! Back to Doris, Wernersson’s Velocipedes and runaway farmers’ daughters.

I’ve had enough.

From the undertaker’s premises below, one can hear the heavy blows of a hammer as Lundin tacks on the lid of a coffin. It’s getting dark outside. I leave the lights off and watch the sunset, just as I used to do in the olden days. In a minute I’m going down to pick up a suit from Beda. In half an hour I’m meeting Doris for a Christmas smorgasbord.

My lungs sting me when I inhale too deeply on a cigar. I haven’t bought her a Christmas present. Even though I’ve left my two-line classified ad about ‘detective assignments and other discreet services’ on a rolling basis for the last few days in
Landsbygdens Folk, Social-Demokraten
and
Stockholms-Tidningen
, my letterbox has remained empty.

I stand in front of the mirror, the pinstripes of my brown suit hardly visible in the gloom. I scoop out a sizeable amount of pomade from the pot and pull my fingers through my hair before combing it. I shut one eye to shield myself from the smoke.

Really I should go and get a haircut at Nyström’s, even though he’s a terrible barber and usually has a cigarette dangling between his lips as he works, dropping ash on your head at regular intervals. I keep going there because he’s just around the corner and he’s also one of the few barbers in town that sells Fandango.

I slip the comb into my breast pocket and take a deep pull on
the cigar. Leaving the Husqvarna in its holster on a hook in the hall, I put on my overcoat and push the door open.

Good Templar Wetterström from two floors up is standing just outside the door in the stairwell, ready to knock. He couldn’t look more surprised, not even if I’d caught him red-handed with a bottle. He has a water-combed parting in his hair. His wife stands beside him, holding a brown paper bag spotted with grease stains. Both are in their Sunday best.

In the gloom behind them stands Nilsson from number 5, with his cauliflower ears, a green knitted scarf and black box calf boots. He fidgets as Wetterström clears his throat. His wife pokes him with her elbow.

‘Season’s greetings.’

‘Oh, well thank you.’ I put my cigar in my mouth and get out my wallet to see if I can find the receipt from the laundry.

‘So, you probably had your Christmas lunch with Lundin this year?’

‘It usually ends up that way.’

‘Yes, I see. And the heating is working like it’s supposed to in your flat?’

‘I haven’t had any problems.’

‘No, Lundin is good in that way. When it comes to the heating.’ Wetterström nods.

I find a box of matches and give it a shake.

‘You’ll have a bit of ham, won’t you?’ Mrs. Wetterström holds out the paper bag.

I stare at it. Her husband takes it in his hand. I strike a match, puff at the cigar, blow out a thick plume of smoke and put the spent match back in the box.

‘Yes, we brought you a bit of ham. It turned out very nicely this year.’ He holds out the bag.

Nilsson stares at his slippers behind them.

I put away the matchbox and take the bag. ‘Much obliged.’

‘And thanks to you also. We’ve been asked to see if you’ll come to the New Year’s bazaar this year.’

‘New Year’s bazaar?’

‘You could bring Lundin along as well,’ his wife interjects. ‘And maybe your lady friend.’ Wetterström stares at the door frame. ‘If you’d like to. And if she would.’

‘Right. Well, I’ll ask her.’

‘New Year’s Eve, from lunchtime at the back building, number forty-one. If you want to contribute in some way you can let us know.’

‘Thanks, I’ll ask.’

‘Well, we hope to see you then.’

The little congregation troops off up the stairs. I stand there for a moment with the bag of ham in my hand, taking a few puffs on my cigar. It’s all Dixie’s fault. Ever since I started dragging that fat little dog about, people around here are quite transformed.

I’ve only just locked the door when Nilsson comes sneaking back.

‘I hope you can excuse them,’ he says, tugging at his earlobe. ‘They’re going potty about that bazaar.’

‘Not a problem.’

‘And, I was going to ask, you were a sailor, weren’t you?’

‘For quite a while.’

‘Did you go to Africa?’

‘It wasn’t unheard of.’

‘Right, so I wanted to ask. Are they as beautiful as on the coffee tin? The Negro girls?’

‘Even more beautiful.’ I take the cigar out of my mouth.

He puts his hand across his mouth and sniggers. ‘Even more beautiful!’ He slaps his thigh and takes a couple of waltz steps. ‘Thanks.’

He’s still sniggering as he goes up the stairs. I shake my head, close the door and get out my keys.

A flimsy mist hangs like fine-carded wool over the block. The temperature has risen slightly. I dodge one of the ambulances from the Epidemic Hospital as I cross the road.

On the corner stands the uncrowned king of the yo-yo, demonstrating his tricks to a bunch of kids. He’s a head taller than the others, and wearing proper long trousers. With a crooked smile at them, he sends the yo-yo into a spin. As I understand it, this year it has to be the Kalmar twist.

Slightly to one side of the kids, a tramp stands frozen to the spot, staring listlessly at the sky. He’s bearded, and has crocheted together his multi-coloured rags. On one foot he wears a spat, on the other a cigar box.

Beda, in a large-patterned floral apron, comes out to meet me with the black suit hanging over her arm. She rubs her eye.

‘Here’s the suit.’

‘Thanks. And season’s greetings.’

‘Thanks, and the same to you!’

‘Things will get better now, you know.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I had a visit from Doctor Jönsson…’ Beda smiles.

‘The doctor’s for the death certificate.’

‘They say I have cancer. Of the eye. They’re removing it.’

I nod. The suit hangs heavily on my arm. The words freeze in my throat.

Beda smiles again. ‘We’ll see if it’s spread.’

I nod again, put my cigar in my mouth and massage the bridge of my nose.

‘I’m sure it’ll go fine.’ I offer her the bag of ham. ‘Here, have some ham that’s left over.’

The yo-yo king puts his apparatus into a spin, lets it roll across the cleared paving stones, then, with a jerk, snaps it back into his hand. A collective sigh passes among the kids. The tramp shuffles off in a northerly direction.

‘We’ll see.’ Beda nods as she accepts the paper bag. ‘If it wasn’t for Petrus…’

‘He’ll make his way.’

‘He can’t even make a pot of gravy.’

We laugh. She puts her hand on my arm. ‘I want you to promise me something, Kvisten, do you think you can?’

‘I think so.’

‘Can you look in on Petrus sometimes?’

‘Of course I can.’

‘So he doesn’t end up in Konradsberg Asylum. Can you promise?’

‘Yes.’

Beda reaches up and pats my cheek quite firmly a few times. ‘Well that’s good. Maybe things will sort themselves out.’ She nods thoughtfully. ‘If tomorrow comes, common sense will come too.’

‘I’ve celebrated Christmas in every corner of the world,’ I say, sitting opposite Doris at the Metropol Restaurant on the corner of Sveavägen and Odengatan about half an hour later.

Although it’s the only restaurant that seems to stay open for a late afternoon lunch on Christmas Day, the dining room is not more than half full. The trio makes an abrupt change from ‘Jingle Bells’ to ‘La Paloma’.

‘Usually they slaughtered the last pig on board. The skipper gave the crew a bottle of gin to share, and the cook made blood pancakes and pork escalopes. Sometimes you got a ginger cake. The off-duty watch sang Christmas songs, accompanying himself on the violin. This isn’t so bad, not so very bad at all.’

‘Don’t do that.’

Doris is resoundingly unimpressed by the huge crystal chandeliers under the ceiling, the live orchestra and the rippling water sculpture in the middle of the dining room that changes colour. After two mouthfuls of the Christmas food, she puts down her cutlery. I’m eating with good appetite, keeping the linen napkin under my chin and the silver fork in my right hand.

‘And damn, on Långholmen. If you were lucky you got the Christmas edition of
The War Cry
.’

‘I said, don’t do that!’

‘Do what?’

‘Don’t talk to me as if I were a spoilt child.’ She fiddles with a cigarette to get it into the cigarette holder, and then lights it.

‘Okay.’

I have a good go at my herring salad. It’s delicious. Doris exhales a cloud of smoke and nods at me.

‘Did you change your hairstyle?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You had a side parting before, it wasn’t slicked back like that.’

‘I’ve always had it like this.’

‘I preferred it before.’

‘I’ll change it, then.’

With darting eyes, Doris takes a gulp of her champagne. ‘Sorry. I’ve had a couple of
miserable
days. My son slapped my face – on Christmas day, no less.’ She has another mouthful. She’s on her fifth glass of champagne.

‘I’ll be blowed.’

She sighs and looks around the room. ‘Everyone hurts you in the end, it’s just a matter of finding the ones who are worth the bother.’ She takes a drag of her cigarette. ‘Do you want children? You’re still young, aren’t you?’

‘I had one. A daughter.’ I put down my cutlery.

‘What happened?’

‘She died.’

‘La Paloma’ ebbs away, followed by a pause. I take another Meteor from my inside pocket. Outside, darkness is quickly gobbling up the last of the city. It’s snowing; there are lots of tiny, whirling flakes. No people are out and about on the pavements except a boy dragging a jute sack along the pavement, his legs swaddled under his shorts.

A few tables behind us, a bloke raises a toast, and the crystal glasses tinkle as they’re brought together. The guitarist is tuning his instrument.

‘I’m sorry.’ Doris crushes her cigarette in the ashtray. I light my Meteor with the restaurant matches, and then throw the box on the table. She picks a few crumbs off the table.

‘It’s long ago.’

‘So you had someone, then? Were you married?’

‘It must be almost ten years ago.’

‘Did you leave her? Or did she leave you?’

‘I never hit her.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I never hit her. We almost always had food on the table and we weren’t cold. Maybe I was drunk from time to time but I never raised my hand against her.’

Outside the window an old Ford picks up speed to make it to the top of the hill. The almost-empty number 3 tram passes in the other
direction. I hold up my schnapps glass at an angle to see if there are still a few drops left in it. I look around, but the waiter’s already on his way to our table. He holds a handwritten note in his hand.

‘Mr Kvist?’

‘Correct.’

‘A caretaker by name of Petersén asked me to give you this. He’s looked for you at home, and has been directed here.’

Sonja’s lover from Boden Hotel. I wipe my mouth with the linen napkin and push back my chair. The waiter gives me the note and makes himself scarce.

‘
She’s on Regeringsgatan, number 67
’, I read out loud.

There’s a stabbing feeling in my stomach. Sonja. The missing prime witness.

I read the note one more time, then push the car keys over to Doris. Regeringsgatan is only about fifteen minutes away.

‘Thanks for lunch. I have to look into this at once.’

‘What does she have that I don’t?’

‘It can’t be helped. This is urgent.’ I stand up.

‘All right, I’ll wait at your place. And be a good fellow and send the waiter over on your way out, would you? I need more champagne.’

I nod and set off. I point the waiter towards our table. Doris has gone to the toilet. I won’t have time to go home and pick up that blasted Husqvarna. I get my overcoat from the cloakroom and put it on. I step outside into the falling snow, and start running at once towards the crossroads.

Sonja, my little dear. Now you’re mine.

As I head up the hill on Regeringsgatan, I pass the pleasure palace, Alcazar, at number 74. It’s closed for Christmas. The snow
is falling hard and, above my head, the local retailers have put up streamers of electric lights to force away the darkness and create a bit of Christmas cheer.

I continue past the spice huts with their blue-painted shop signs and the boutiques just above the bridge. The mannequins in the dark windows have painted-on bob hairstyles. They stare at me with their dead eyes. I walk onto the bridge that runs over Kungsgatan. I stop halfway across and gaze down towards Stureplan. It’s an excellent vantage point. I’ve already checked countless times whether I am being followed, but it doesn’t hurt to look one more time. All the shops and restaurants are closed, and the fashionable street is eerily deserted. The newly fallen snow on the pedestrian walkway is scarcely marked by any footprints.

‘Maybe the German sod went home for Christmas.’

My voice is muffled by the snow. I snort. The wind whines under the bridge like a drive-belt in a workshop. The spans of the bridge have been decorated with lamps that meet in a gigantic shining Star of Bethlehem, exactly where I am standing and keeping a lookout. Kungsgatan has been carefully cleared and high snowbanks separate the traffic lanes from the wide pavements. Cinemas and shops jostle for space with restaurants. The evening is lit up by neons. The falling snowflakes seem to capture the lights and deflect them as a glow of red or blue shimmering mist.

I hunch up my shoulders. The cold drums against my limbs. I turn around, pace a bit, and read the numbers of the houses.

Further down on Regeringsgatan, a torch-lit procession comes slowly winding along like a giant glow worm. In the front rank, behind a mounted policeman, a couple of blokes are striding along with banners in their hands, but they’re too far away for me to be able to identify which congregation they are from. Maybe
they’re on their way up to Johannes, to celebrate the Redeemer’s birthday.

I check the address in my notebook. Number 67 is squeezed between a perfume shop and a tobacconist just a few doors further down the street. An elegant black Rolls is parked outside. I have an idea I’ve seen the car before some place but I can’t remember where. I let my gaze wander up the façade. Most of the windows are lit.