Popular Music from Vittula (2 page)

There’s only one possibility left: I must wrench myself free.

The very thought makes me feel sick, but I have no choice. Just a little tug first, as a test. I can feel the pain right back to the root of my tongue. One … two … 
now …

Red. Blood. And pain so extreme I have to beat my head against the iron. It’s impossible. My mouth is stuck just as firmly as before. My whole face would fall apart if I tugged any harder.

A knife. If only I had a knife. I feel for my backpack with my foot, but it’s several feet away. Fear is churning my stomach, my bladder feels about to burst. I unzip my fly and get ready to pee on all fours, like a cow.

Then I pause. Feel for the mug that’s hanging from my belt. Fill it full of pee, then pour the contents over my mouth. The urine trickles over my lips, starts the thawing process, and a few seconds later I’m free.

I’ve pissed myself free.

I stand up. My prayers are over. My tongue and lips are stiff and tender, but I can move them again. At last I can start my story.

In which Pajala enters the modern age, music comes into being, and two little boys set out, traveling light

It was the beginning of the sixties when paved roads came to our part of Pajala. I was five at the time and could hear the noise as they approached. A column of what looked like tanks came crawling past our house, digging and scratching at the pot-holed dirt road. It was early summer. Men in overalls marched around bow-legged, spitting out wads of snuff, wielding crowbars, and muttering away in Finnish while housewives peered out from behind the curtains. It was incredibly exciting for a little kid. I clung to the fence, peeping out between the rails, and breathed in the diesel fumes oozing out of those armored monsters. They prodded and poked into the winding village road as if it were an old carcass. A mud road with lots and lots of holes that used to fill with rain, a pock-marked surface that turned butter-soft every spring when the thaw came, and in summer was salted like a minced meat loaf to prevent dust flying around. The dirt road was old-fashioned. It belonged to a bygone age, the one our parents had been born into but were now determined to put behind them, once and for all.

Our district was known locally in Finnish as
Vittulajänkkä
, which means something like Cuntsmire. It’s not clear how the name originated, but it probably has to do with the great number of babies being born here. There were five children in some of the houses, sometimes even more, and the name became a sort of crude tribute to female fertility. Vittulajänkkä—or Vittula, as it’s sometimes shortened—was populated by villagers who grew up during the hardship years of the thirties. Thanks to hard work and a booming economy, they worked their way up the ladder and managed to borrow money to buy a house of their own. Sweden was flourishing, the economy was expanding, and even Tornedalen in the far north was being swept along with the tide. Progress had been so astonishingly fast that people still felt poverty-stricken even though they were now rich. They occasionally worried that it might all be taken away from them again. Housewives trembled behind their home-made curtains whenever they thought about how well-off they were. A whole house for themselves and their offspring! They’d been able to afford new clothes, and the children didn’t need to wear hand-me-downs and patches. They’d even acquired a car. And now the dirt road was about to disappear under a layer of oily-black asphalt. Poverty would be clothed in a black leather jacket. What was being laid was the future, as smooth as a shaven cheek. Children would ride along it on their new bikes, heading for welfare and a degree in engineering.

The bulldozers bellowed and roared. Gravel poured out of the heavy trucks. Enormous steamrollers compressed the hard core with such incomprehensible force that I wanted to stick my five-year-old foot underneath to test them. I threw big stones in front of a steamroller, then ran out to look for them when it had rumbled past, but there was no sign of the stones. They’d disappeared, pure magic. It was uncanny and fascinating. I lay my hand on the flattened-out surface. It felt strangely cold. How could coarse gravel become as smooth as a newly pressed sheet? I threw out a fork taken from the kitchen drawer, and
then my plastic spade, and both of them disappeared without a trace. Even today I’m not sure whether they are still concealed there in the hard core, or if they did in fact dissolve in some magical way.

* * *

It was around this time that my elder sister bought her first record player. I sneaked into her room when she was away at school. It was on her desk, a piece of technical wizardry made of black plastic, a shiny little box with a transparent lid concealing remarkable knobs and buttons. Scattered all around it were curlers, tubes of lipstick, and aerosol cans. Everything was modern, unnecessary luxuries, a sign of our new riches heralding a future of waste and welfare. A lacquered box contained photographs of film stars and cinema tickets. Sis collected them, and had fat bundles from Wilhelmsson’s cinema, each one with the name of the film, a list of its leading actors, and grades out of ten written on the back.

She’d placed the only single she owned on a plastic contraption that looked like a plate rack. I’d been made to cross my heart and promise never even to breathe on it. Now, my fingers tingling, I picked it up and stroked the shiny cover depicting a handsome young man playing a guitar. He had a dark lock of hair dangling down over his forehead, and was smiling straight at me. Ever so painstakingly I slid out the black vinyl. I carefully lifted the lid of the record player. Tried to remember how Sis had done it, and lowered the record onto the turntable. Fitted the hole of the EP over the central pin. And, so full of expectation that I’d broken into a sweat, I switched it on.

The turntable gave a little jerk, then started spinning. The tension was unbearable. I repressed the urge to run away. With my awkward, stumpy, boy’s fingers I took hold of the snake, the rigid black pick-up arm with its poisonous fang, as big as a toothpick. Then I lowered it onto the spinning plastic.

There was a crackling, like pork frying. I just knew something had
broken. I’d ruined the record, it would be impossible to play it ever again.

BAM-BAM … BAM-BAM …

No, here it came! Brash chords! And then Elvis’s frantic voice.

I was petrified. Forgot to swallow, didn’t notice I was slavering. I felt dizzy, my head was spinning, I forgot to breathe.

This was the future. This was what it sounded like. Music like the bellowing of the road-building machines, a neverending clatter, a commotion that roared away toward the crimson sunrise on the far horizon.

I leaned forward and looked out the window. Smoke was rising from a tipper truck, they were starting the final surfacing. But what the truck was spewing forth was not black, shiny-leather asphalt. It was oil-bound gravel. Grey, lumpy, ugly, bloody oil-bound gravel.

That was the surface on which we inhabitants of Pajala would be bicycling into the future.

* * *

When all the machines had finally gone away I started going for cautious little walks around the neighborhood. The world grew with every step I took. The newly surfaced road led to other newly surfaced roads, the gardens stretched away like leafy parks with giant dogs standing guard, barking at me and rattling their running chains. The further I walked, the more there was to see. The world never seemed to end, it just went on and on, and I felt so dizzy I was almost sick when it dawned on me that you could go on walking for ever. In the end I picked up courage and went over to Dad, who was busy washing our new Volvo:

“How big is the world?”

“It’s enormous,” he said.

“But it must stop somewhere, surely?”

“In China.”

That was a straightforward answer that made me feel a bit better. If
you walked far enough, you’d eventually come to an end. And that end was in the realm of the slitty-eyed ching-chong people on the other side of the globe.

It was summer and roasting hot. The front of my shirt was stained by drops from the ice-pop I was licking. I left our garden, left my safe little world. I occasionally looked back over my shoulder, worried about getting lost.

I walked as far as the playground, which was really an old hayfield that had survived in the middle of the village. The local authority had installed some swings, and I sat down on the narrow seat. Started heaving enthusiastically on the chains to build up speed.

The next moment I realized I was being watched. There was a boy sitting on the slide. Right at the top, as if he were about to come down. But he was waiting, as motionless as a hawk, watching me with wide-open eyes.

I was on my guard. There was something worrying about the boy. He can’t have been sitting up there when I arrived, it was as if he’d materialized out of thin air. I tried to ignore him, and forced the swing up so dizzyingly high that the chains started to feel slack in my hands. I made no sound and closed my eyes, and could feel my stomach churning as I hurtled down in a curve faster and faster toward the ground, then up toward the sky on the other side.

When I opened my eyes again he was sitting in the sandbox. As if he’d flown there on outstretched wings: I hadn’t heard a thing. He was still watching me intently, although he was half-turned away from me.

I allowed the swing to come slowly to a stop, then I jumped down onto the grass, did a forward roll, and lay on my back on the ground. Stared up at the sky. Clouds were rolling over the river in patches of white. They were like big, woolly sheep lying asleep in the wind. When I closed my eyes I could see little creatures scuttling about on the insides of my eyelids. Small black dots creeping over a red membrane. When I shut my eyes tighter I could see little violet-colored fellows in my stomach,
clambering over one another and tracing patterns. So there were animals inside me as well, a whole new world to explore in there. I felt giddy as it dawned on me that the world was made up of masses of pockets, each of them enclosing the previous one. No matter how many layers you penetrated, there were more and more still to come.

I opened my eyes and gave a start. I was astonished to see the boy lying beside me. He was stretched out on his back right next to me, so close that I could feel the warmth of his body. His face was strangely small. His head was a normal size, but his features had been crammed into far too small a space. Like a doll’s face glued onto a large, brown, leather football. His hair had been snipped unevenly at home, and a scab was working its way loose on his forehead. His face was turned toward me. He was screwing up one eye, the upper one that was catching the sun. The other was lying in the grass and wide open, with an enormous pupil in which I could see my own reflection.

“What’s your name?” I wondered aloud.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

“Mikäs sinun nimi on?”
I repeated the question in Finnish.

Now he opened his mouth. It wasn’t a smile, but you could see his teeth. They were yellow, coated with bits of old food. He stuck his little finger into his nostril—the others were too big to fit in. I did the same. We each dug out a booger. He stuck his into his mouth and swallowed. I hesitated. Quick as a flash he scraped mine off my finger and swallowed that as well.

I realized he wanted to be my friend.

We sat up in the grass, and I had an urge to impress the boy in return.

“You can go wherever you like, you know!”

He was listening attentively, but I wasn’t sure if he’d understood.

“Even as far as China,” I added.

To show that I was serious I started walking toward the road. Confidently, with an affected, pompous air of self-assurance that concealed
my nervousness. He followed me. We walked as far as the yellow-painted vicarage. There was a bus parked on the road outside, no doubt it had brought some tourists to see the Laestadius House. We bowed our heads in acknowledgment of the Bible-thumping evangelist who once lived there. The bus doors had been left open because of the heat, but there was no sign of the driver. I grabbed the boy and pulled him over to the steps, and we climbed aboard. There were suitcases and jackets lying on the seats, which smelled a bit damp. We sat right at the back and crouched down behind the seats. Before long some old ladies got in and sat down, panting and sweating. They were speaking a language with a lot of waterfall sounds, and gulping down big swigs of lemonade straight from the bottle. Several more retirees eventually came to join them, and then the driver turned up, pausing outside to insert a wad of snuff into his mouth. Then we set off.

Wide-eyed and silent, we watched the countryside flash past. We soon left Pajala behind and breezed off into the wilds. Nothing but trees, trees without end. Old-fashioned telephone poles with porcelain insulators and wires sagging in the heat.

We’d gone several miles before anybody noticed us. I happened to bump against the seat in front, and a lady with pincushion cheeks turned around. I smiled expectantly. She smiled back, rummaged around in her handbag, and then offered us a sweet from an unusual cloth-like bag. She said something I didn’t understand. Then she pointed at the driver and asked:

“Papa?”

I nodded, my smile frozen.

“Habt ihr Hunger?”
she asked.

Before we knew where we were she’d thrust a cheese roll into each of our hands.

After a long and shaky bus ride we pulled up in a large parking lot. Everybody got off, including me and my friend. In front of us was a big concrete building with a flat roof and high, spiky, metal aerials. Beyond
it, behind a wire fence, were some propeller-driven airplanes. The bus driver opened a hatch and started pulling out bags and suitcases. The nice lady had far too much luggage and seemed to be under a lot of strain. Beads of sweat were forming under the brim of her hat, and she started making nasty smacking noises, sucking at her teeth. My friend and I gave her a hand as a way of saying thank-you for the sandwiches, and we lugged her heavy cases into the building. The flock of retirees crowded round a desk, jabbering away loudly, and started to produce no end of papers and documents. A woman in uniform tried patiently to keep them in order. Then we passed through the gate as a group and made our way toward the aircraft.