Popular Music
Mikael Niemi
‘A wonderfully warm tale of weddings, funerals, marathon sauna contests – and the incomparable thrill of your first kiss, from “the Nick Hornby of the Arctic”.’ Marina Warner, Sunday TimesIts the 1960s, and pop records are gradually finding their way into the eager hands of teenagers in the far north of Sweden. Young Matti dreams of being a rock star – but in the tiny ice-bound village of Pajala, a boy should really spend his time cultivating more manly pursuits, such as hunting elk, drinking moonshine and fighting on dancefloors…‘Popular Music’ is one of the freshest, funniest debuts of recent years, and winner of the August prize, Sweden’s equivalent of the Man Booker. So wrap up warm and join Matti and the unforgettable community of Pajala in a wonderful tale of weddings, funerals and marathon sauna contests, the incomparable thrill of your first kiss – and of finally hearing the Beatles.
Popular Music
Mikael Niemi
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#ua467d67a-db57-5757-9c10-034797821525)
Title Page (#u3a09b3e3-fbdb-5761-a505-64609969ae12)
Maps (#u14202dad-c42d-5efd-a9e9-36423bc89fdf)
Prologue (#u888c78a1-b8f1-50c9-8d01-05d18e015b0d)
Chapter 1 (#u9d65113f-1c0b-50cb-995e-e662ec641bee)
Chapter 2 (#u459e8a37-db5c-5786-b656-f2b320218f96)
Chapter 3 (#u444f2c09-01aa-59ee-be1a-6f0d04bdc44b)
Chapter 4 (#u32be75de-19a7-58cb-a242-4a18d0a81e73)
Chapter 5 (#u341c2fbf-5f7e-5fad-9f0a-141c4db681dc)
Chapter 6 (#u2f69babb-6b6e-5d88-831c-8cb49abe3a3a)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Maps (#ulink_be074dca-5eee-5a06-9401-22208bcd23c2)
Prologue (#ulink_93d567da-6c7f-5303-820e-3beb3f97916b)
The narrator wakes up, starts on his climb and finds himself in a spot in the Thorong La Pass, whereupon the story can commence.
It was a freezing cold night in the cramped wooden hut. When my travel alarm started peeping I sat up with a start, unlaced the top of my sleeping bag and reached out into the pitch-black cold. My fingers groped around on the rough wooden floor, through all the splinters and grains of sand and the naked draught from the gaps in the floorboards until they found the cold plastic of the clock and the off-button.
I lay there motionless for a while, semi-conscious, clinging on to a log with one arm trailing in the sea. Silence. Cold. Short panting breaths in the thin air. Still lingering in my body was an ache, as if I’d spent the whole night with muscles tensed.
It was then, at that very moment, that I realised I was dead.
The experience was difficult to describe. It was as if my body had been emptied. I had been turned into stone, an incredibly big, bleak meteorite. Embedded deep down in a cavity was something strange, something long, thin and soft, organic. A corpse. It wasn’t mine. I was stone, I was merely embracing the body as it grew ever colder, encompassing it like a colossal, tightly closed granite sarcophagus.
It lasted two seconds, three at most.
Then I switched on my torch. The alarm clock display showed zero and zero. For one awful moment I had the feeling that time had ceased to exist, that it could no longer be measured. Then it dawned on me that I must have set the clock to zero when I was fumbling for the off-button. My wristwatch said twenty past four in the morning. All round the breathing hole of my sleeping bag was a thin layer of frost. The temperature was sub-zero, even though I was indoors. I braced myself against the cold, wriggled out of my sleeping bag, fully clothed, and forced my feet into my icy walking boots. Somewhat uneasily I packed my empty notebook into my rucksack. Nothing today either. No draft, not even a single note.
Up with the metal catch on the door and out into the night. The starry sky stretched away into infinity. A crescent moon was bobbing on the horizon like a rowing boat, and the jagged outlines of the Himalayan giants loomed dimly on all sides. The starlight was so strong that it drenched the ground – sharp, white spray from a colossal shower head. I manoeuvred into my rucksack, and even that little effort left me panting for breath. The lack of oxygen sent tiny spots dancing before my eyes. A rasping cough scraped through my throat, hacking bellows, 14,450 feet above sea level. I could just make out the path running steeply up the stony mountainside before disappearing into the darkness. Slowly, ever so slowly I started climbing.
The Thorong La Pass, Mount Annapurna in Nepal. 17,765 feet above sea level. I’ve conquered it. Up there at last! My relief is so great, I flop down on my back and lie gasping for breath. Lactic acid is making my leg muscles ache, my head is throbbing, I’m in the early stages of altitude sickness. Daylight is worryingly blotchy. A sudden gust of wind is a warning that nastier weather is on the way. The cold bites into my cheeks, and I can see a handful of hikers quickly shouldering their rucksacks and starting their descent to Muktinath.
I’m left all alone. Can’t bring myself to leave, not yet. I sit up, still gasping for breath. Lean back against the cairn with its fluttering Tibetan prayer flags. The pass is made up of stones, a sterile expanse of gravel with no vegetation at all. Mountain peaks loom up on all sides, rough black façades dotted with heavenly white glaciers.
Gusts of wind fling the first snowflakes into my anorak. Not good. If the path gets buried in snow, it can be dangerous. I look back over my shoulder: no sign of any other hikers. I’d better get back down quickly.
But not just yet. I’m standing at the highest point I’ve ever been in my life. Must bid it farewell first. Must thank somebody. A sudden urge takes possession of me, and I kneel down beside the cairn. Feel a bit silly, but another look round confirms that I’m on my own. I bend quickly forwards, like a Muslim with my backside in the air, lower my head and mumble a prayer of gratitude. I notice an iron plate engraved with Tibetan writing, a text I am unable to understand but one that exudes solemnity, spirituality, and I bend further down to kiss the text.
At that very moment a memory comes back to me. A vertiginous pit down into my childhood. A tube through time down which someone is shouting out a warning, but it’s too late.
I’m stuck fast.
My damp lips are frozen onto a Tibetan prayer plaque. And when I try to loosen my lips by wetting them with my tongue, that sticks fast as well.
Every single child from the far north of Sweden has no doubt found itself in the same plight. A freezing cold winter’s day, a railing, a lamp post, a piece of iron coated in hoar frost. My own memory is suddenly crystal clear. I’m five years old, and my lips are frozen onto the keyhole of our front door in Pajala. My first reaction one of vast astonishment. A keyhole that can be touched without more ado by a mitten or even a bare finger. But now it’s a devilish trap. I try to yell, but that’s not easy when your tongue is stuck fast to the metal. I struggle with my arms, trying to tear myself loose by force, but the pain forces me to give up. The cold makes my tongue numb, my mouth is filled with the taste of blood. I kick against the door in desperation, and emit an agonized:
‘Aaahhh, aaahhh…’
Then Mum appears. She’s carrying a bowl of warm water, she pours it over the keyhole and my lips thaw out and I’m freed. Bits of skin are still sticking to the metal, and I resolve never to do that ever again.
‘Aaahhh, aaahhh,’ I mumble as the snow starts lashing into me. Nobody can hear me. If there are any hikers on their way up, they’ll no doubt turn back now. My backside is sticking into the air, the wind is whipping up and making it colder by the minute. My mouth is starting to go numb. I pull off my gloves and try to warm myself loose with my hands, panting away with my hot breath. But it’s all in vain. The metal absorbs the heat but remains icy cold. I try to lift up the iron plaque, to wrench it loose, but it’s firmly anchored and doesn’t shift an inch. My back is covered in cold sweat. The wind worms its way inside my anorak lining and I start shivering. Low clouds are gathering and enveloping the pass in mist. Dangerous. Bloody dangerous. I’m getting more and more scared. I’m going to die here. I’ll never last out the night frozen onto a Tibetan prayer plaque.
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 not possible. 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 rucksack with my foot, but it’s several metres away. Fear is churning my stomach, my bladder feels about to burst. I open my zip 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. It 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.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_4f9536d1-892c-5574-b6ca-ce8e3b6afe2c)
—in which Pajala enters the modern age, music comes into being and two little boys set out, travelling light
It was the beginning of the sixties when tarmacked 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 potholed dirt road. It was early summer. Men in overalls marched around straddle-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 through the rails, and breathed in the diesel fumes oozing out of those armoured 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 it 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 Vittu-lajänkkä, which means something like Cuntsmire. It’s not clear how the name originated, but it probably has to do with so many 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 to, was populated by poor 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, and be crowned with 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 cycle 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 lorries. 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 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 in black plastic, a shiny little box with a transparent lid concealing remarkable knobs and buttons. Scattered all round it were curlers, 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 piles 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, the leading actors and marks out of ten written on the back.
She’d placed the only single she owned on a plastic contraption looking 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 out into a sweat, I switched 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 never-ending clatter, a commotion that roared away towards the crimson sunrise on the far horizon.
I leaned forward and looked out of the window. Smoke was rising from a tipper lorry, they were starting the final surfacing. But what the lorry 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 cycling into the future.
When all the machines had finally gone away I started going for cautious little walks round about the neighbourhood. 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 PV:
‘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-lolly 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 in order to build up speed.
The next moment I realised I was being watched. There was a boy sitting on the slide. Right up 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 materialised out of thin air. I tried to ignore him, and drove 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 towards the ground, then up towards the sky on the other side.
When I opened my eyes again he was sitting in the sandpit. 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, and in the end I jumped down onto the grass, did a forward roll and remained lying there 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 inside of my eyelids. Small black dots creeping over a red membrane. When I shut my eyes tighter I could see little violet-coloured fellows in my stomach. They clambered over one another and traced 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 lad 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 normal, 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 clipped unevenly at home, and a scab was working its way loose on his forehead. His face was turned towards 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.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.
‘Mikas 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 bogey. 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 realised he wanted to be my friend.
We sat up in the grass, and I had an urge to impress him 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 towards 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 which was just a few doors away. We bowed our heads in acknowledgement 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 lad and pulled him over to the steps, and we climbed aboard. There were suitcases and jackets lying on the seats, which smelt a bit damp. We sat right at the back and crouched down behind the back of the seats in front. 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 pensioners eventually came to join them, and then the driver turned up, paused 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 kilometres before anybody noticed us. I happened to bump against the seat in front, and a lady with pincushion cheeks turned round. 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 car park. 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 aeroplanes. 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 case into the building. The flock of pensioners 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 towards the aircraft.
It was going to be my first ever flight. We both felt a bit like fish out of water, but a nice, brown-eyed lady with gold heart-shaped earrings helped us to fasten our seatbelts. My friend landed up in a window seat, and we grew increasingly excited as we watched the shiny propellers start spinning round, faster and faster, until they disappeared altogether in a round, invisible whirl.
Then we started moving. I was forced back into my seat, could feel the wheels bumping, and then the slight jerk as we left the ground. My friend was pointing out of the window, fascinated. We were flying! There was the world down below us. People, buildings, and cars shrunk to the size of toys, so small we could have popped them into our pockets. And then we were swallowed up by clouds, white on the outside but grey inside, like porridge. We emerged from the clouds and kept on climbing until the aircraft reached the sky’s roof and started soaring forwards so slowly we hardly knew we were moving.
The nice air hostess brought us some juice, which was just as well as we were very thirsty. And when we needed a pee she ushered us into a tiny little room and we took it in turns to get our willies out. We peed into a hole, and I imagined it falling right down to the ground like a yellow drizzle.
Then we each got a book and some crayons. I drew two aeroplanes crashing into each other. My friend leaned his head further and further back and soon dozed off with his mouth wide open. The plane window misted over as he breathed.
We eventually landed. All the passengers pushed and shoved their way out, and in the mêlée we lost touch with the old lady. I asked a bloke in a peaked cap if this was China. He shook his head and pointed us in the direction of an endless corridor where people were hurrying to and fro with their cases. We walked down it, and I had to ask politely several times before we came across some people with slitty eyes. I reckoned they must be going to China, and so we sat next to them and started waiting patiently.
After a while a man in a dark blue uniform came over to us and started asking questions. We were going to be in trouble, you could see it in his eyes. So I smiled shyly and pretended not to understand what he was saying.
‘Dad,’ I mumbled, pointing vaguely into the distance.
‘Wait here,’ he said, and strode off purposefully.
The moment he’d gone we moved to another bench. We soon discovered a black-haired Chinese girl in knee-length socks who was playing with a sort of plastic puzzle. It seemed to be fun. She laid the pieces out on the floor and showed us how you could make a tree, or a helicopter, or whatever you liked. She talked a lot and waved her thin arms around, and I think she said her name was Li. She sometimes pointed to a bench where an elderly bloke with stern eyes was reading a newspaper, next to an oldish girl with raven hair. I gathered she was the girl’s sister. She was eating a red, messy fruit, and kept wiping her mouth with a lace-edged napkin. When I went over to her she gave me a guarded look then offered me some pieces that had been neatly cut with a fruit knife. It tasted so sweet that I started to get butterflies in my stomach: I’d never tasted anything as good as that in my life, and I prodded my friend into trying some as well. He was ecstatic, his eyes half-closed. As a sort of thank you, he suddenly produced a matchbox, opened it and let the Chinese girl have a look inside.
Inside was a large, shimmering green beetle. Big sister tried to feed it a little piece of fruit, but then it flew off. Buzzing softly it flew over all the slitty-eyed people in their seats, circled round two ladies with long pins in their hair who gazed up in astonishment, investigated a mountain of suitcases with some carelessly wrapped reindeer antlers on top and headed off down the corridor just under the fluorescent lights, the same way we had come in. My friend looked sad, but I tried to console him with the thought that it was no doubt going back home to Pajala.
At that very moment there was an announcement over the loudspeakers, and everybody started moving. We packed the puzzle into the girl’s toy bag and passed through the gates in the midst of the jostling crowd. This aircraft was much bigger than the previous one. Instead of propellers this one had big drums on the wings that made a whistling sound when they started up. The noise grew and grew until it was a deafening roar, and after we’d taken off it reduced to a booming rumble.
We got to Frankfurt. And if my silent travelling companion hadn’t been taken short and started doing his number twos under a table, we would certainly, we would quite definitely, without a shadow of a doubt we would have got to China.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_d8a9f1d4-f6d8-54ea-8a93-e48e9c75ccc6)
—about living and dead faith, how nuts and bolts give rise to violence and a remarkable incident in Pajala church
I started seeing quite a lot of my taciturn friend, and before long I went home with him for the first time. His parents turned out to be Laestadians, members of the revivalist movement started by Lars Levi Laestadius a long time ago in Karesuando. He was only a little man, but his sermons were red-hot and peppered with almost as many curses as the sinners used when he attacked strong drink and debauchery with such force that the reverberations are still rumbling on even today.
Faith is not enough for a Laestadian. It’s not just a question of being baptised or confessing your sins or putting money in the collection plate. Your faith has to be a living faith. An old Laestadian preacher was once asked how he would describe this living faith. He considered for quite a while, then answered thoughtfully that it was like spending the whole of your life walking uphill.
The whole of your life walking uphill. It’s not easy to imagine that. You’re ambling casually along a narrow, winding country road in Tornedalen, like the one from Pajala to Muodoslompolo. It’s early summer and everything is fresh and green. The road passes through a forest of weather-beaten pines, and there’s a smell of mud and sun from the bog pools. Capercaillies are eating gravel in the ditches, then take off with wings flapping loudly and disappear into the undergrowth.
Soon you come to the first hill. You notice that you’re starting to climb and you can feel your calf muscles getting tense. But you don’t give it a second thought, it’s only a gentle slope after all. When you reach the top, quite soon, the road will level out again and the forest will be flat and dry on each side, with fluffy white reindeer moss in among the soaring tree trunks.
But you keep on climbing. The hill is longer than you thought. Your legs grow tired, you slow down and you look more and more impatiently for the crest which has to come at any moment now, surely.
But it never does come. The road just keeps on going up and up. The forest is the same as before, with stretches of bog and brushwood and here and there an ugly clear-felled patch. But it’s still uphill. It’s as if somebody has broken off the whole landscape and propped it up on one edge. Lifted up the far end and stuck something underneath it, just to annoy you. And you start to suspect that it will keep on going uphill for all the rest of the day. And the next day as well.
You keep on climbing stubbornly. The days gradually turn into weeks. Your legs start to feel like lead, and you keep wondering who it was that thought he’d be smart and chock up the landscape. It’s been pretty skilfully done, you have to admit that, grudgingly. But surely it will level out once you get past Parkajoki, there are limits after all. And you come to Parkajoki, but the road is still going uphill and so you think it will be Kitkiöjoki.
And the weeks turn into months. You work your way through them one stride at a time. And the snow starts falling. And it melts, and falls again. And between Kitkiöjoki and Kitkiöjärvi you’re pretty close to giving up. Your legs are like jelly, your hip joints ache, and your last reserves of energy are practically used up.
But you stop for a while to get your breath back, then keep battling on. Muodoslompolo can’t be far away now. Occasionally you come across somebody going in the other direction, that’s inevitable. Somebody skipping along merrily downhill on the way to Pajala. Some of them even have bikes. Sitting on the saddle without needing to pedal, free-wheeling all the way down. That does raise your doubts, you have to admit that. You have to fight a few inner battles.
Your strides get shorter and shorter. And the years pass. And now you must be nearly there, very nearly there. And it snows again, that’s how it should be. You peer through the snow flurries, and you think you might be able to see something. You think it might be getting a bit lighter just over there. The forest thins out, opens up. You can make out houses among the trees. It’s the village! It’s Muodoslompolo! And in mid-stride, one last short and shaky stride…
At the funeral the preacher bellows on about how you died in the living faith. No doubt about it. You died in the living faith, sie kuolit elävässä uskossa. You got to Muodoslompolo, we all witnessed it, and now at long last you are sitting on God the Father’s golden luggage carrier free-wheeling down the eternal slope accompanied by fanfares of angels.
The lad turned out to have a name: his mother called him Niila. Both his parents were strict Christians. Although their house was teeming with kids, there was a dreary, church-like silence wherever you went. Niila had two elder brothers and two younger sisters, and there was another child kicking away in his mother’s stomach. And as every child was a gift from God, there would be even more as time went by.
It was unreal for so many young children to be so quiet. They didn’t have many toys – most of what they did have were made of rough wood by their elder brothers, and unpainted. The kids just sat there playing with them, as silent as fish. It wasn’t only because they had been brought up in a religious way. It was something you found in other Tornedalen families: they’d simply stopped talking. Possibly because they were shy, possibly because they were angry. Possibly because they found talking unnecessary. The parents only opened their mouths when they were eating; at other times they would nod or point when they wanted something, and the children took after them.
I also kept quiet whenever I went to visit Niila. Children have an instinctive feel for that sort of thing. I took my shoes off and left them on the mat in the hall and tip-toed into the kitchen with head bowed and shoulders slightly hunched. I was greeted by a mass of silent eyes, from a rocking chair, from under the table, from by the pot cupboard. Looks that stared, then turned away, sneaked off round the kitchen walls and over the wooden floor but kept coming back to me. I stared back as hard as I could. The face of the youngest girl puckered up with fear, you could see her milk teeth gleaming in her gaping mouth and tears started to flow. She was sobbing, but even her sobs were silent. Her cheek muscles trembled and she clung on to her mother’s beskirted leg with her chubby little hands. Mum was wearing a headscarf even though she was indoors, and had her arms plunged up to the elbows in a mixing bowl. She was kneading vigorously, flour swirled up and was turned into gold dust by a sunbeam. She pretended not to notice that I was there, and Niila took that as a sign of approval. He led me over to a settee where his two elder brothers were exchanging nuts and bolts. Or perhaps it was some sort of game, involving a complicated pattern of shifting nuts and bolts around various compartments in a box. The brothers were growing increasingly annoyed with each other, and without speaking tried to wrench bolts from the other’s hands. A nut fell onto the floor and Niila snapped it up. Quick as a flash the eldest brother grabbed him by the hand and squeezed until Niila was in so much pain he could hardly breathe, and was forced to drop the nut into the transparent plastic box. Whereupon the younger brother turned it upside down. A clatter of steel as the contents rolled all over the wooden floor.
For one brief moment everything stood still. Every eye in the kitchen homed in on the brothers like rays of the sun through a magnifying glass. It was like when a film gets stuck in a projector, blackens over, goes crinkly and then turns white. I could feel the hatred even though I couldn’t understand it. The brothers lashed out and grabbed each other’s shirt front. Biceps bulging, they exerted the force of industrial magnets and the gap between them closed inexorably. All the time they stared at each other, coal-black pupils, two mirrors face to face with the distance between them expanding to infinity.
Then their mum threw the dish cloth. It flew across the kitchen trailing a thin wisp of flour behind it, a comet with a tail that squelched into the elder son’s forehead and stuck there. She eyed them threateningly, slowly wiping the dough from her hands. She had no desire to spend the whole evening sewing on shirt buttons. Reluctantly, the brothers let go. Then they stood up and left through the kitchen door.
Mum retrieved the dish cloth that had fallen to the floor, rinsed her hands, and went back to her kneading. Niila picked up all the nuts and bolts, put them in the plastic box and stuck the box in his pocket with a self-satisfied expression on his face. Then he glanced furtively out of the kitchen window.
The two brothers were standing in the middle of the path. Trading punches in rapid succession. Heavy punches jerking their crew-cut skulls around like turnips in a hopper. But no shouting, no taunts. Biff after biff on those low foreheads, on those potato noses, bash after bash on those red cabbage ears. The elder brother had a longer reach, the younger one had to slot in his blows. Blood poured from both their noses. It dripped down, splashed about, their knuckles were red. But still they kept going. Biff. Bash. Biff. Bash.
We were given juice and cinnamon buns straight out of the oven, so hot that we had to keep what we bit off between our teeth for a while before we could chew it. Then Niila started playing with the nuts and bolts. He emptied them out onto the settee, his fingers were trembling, and I realised he’d been longing to do this for ages. He sorted them out into the various compartments in the plastic box, then tipped them out, mixed them up and started all over again. I tried to help him but I could see he was annoyed, so after a while I left to go home. He didn’t even look up.
The brothers were still at it outside. The gravel had been kicked around by their feet to form a circular rampart. Still the same frenzied punches, the same silent hatred, but their movements were slower now, weariness was creeping in. Their shirts were soaked in sweat. Their faces were grey behind all the blood, powdered lightly with dust.
Then I noticed they had changed. They weren’t really boys any more. Their jaws had swollen up, their canines were sticking out from between their swollen lips. Their legs were shorter and more massive, like the thighs of a bear, and so big their trousers were splitting at the seams. Their fingernails had turned black and grown into claws. And then I realised it wasn’t dust on their faces, it was hair. They were growing a pelt, dark hair spreading over their fresh, boyish faces, down over their necks and inside their shirts.
I wanted to shout a warning. Rashly took a step towards them.
They stopped immediately. Turned to face me. Crouched slightly, sniffed at my scent. And then I saw their hunger. They were starving. They were desperate to eat, craved meat.
I stepped back, an icy chill ran down my spine. They growled. Started advancing shoulder to shoulder, two vigilant beasts of prey. They speeded up. Stepped outside their gravel circle. Dug in their claws then pounced.
A dark cloud loomed over me.
My scream was stifled. Terror, whimpering, the squeaking of a stuck piglet.
Ding. Ding dong.
Church bells.
The holy church bells. Ding dong. Ding dong. A white-clad being cycled into the courtyard, a shimmering figure ringing his bell in a cloud of floury light. He braked without a word. Grasped the beasts with his enormous fists, lifted them by the scruff of their necks and banged their turnip-heads together so hard that sparks flew.
‘Dad,’ they gasped, ‘Dad, Dad…’
The bright light faded, the father flung his sons to the ground, grabbed them by their ankles, one son in each hand and dragged them backwards and forwards over the gravel, smoothing out the surface with their front teeth until everything was nice and tidy again. And by the time he had finished, both brothers were crying their eyes out, sobbing, and they’d turned back into boys again. I raced home, galloped as fast as I could. And in my pocket I had a bolt.
Niila’s dad was called Isak and came from a big Laestadian family. Even as a little boy he’d been dragged along to prayer meetings in the smoke-filled hut where dark-suited smallholders and their wives in knotted headscarves sat bum to bum on the wooden benches. It was so cramped that their foreheads hit against the backs of those in front whenever they were possessed by the Holy Spirit and started rocking back and forth as they intoned prayers. Isak had sat there, hemmed in on every side, a delicate little boy among all those men and women being transformed before his very eyes. They started breathing more deeply, the air grew damp and fetid, their faces turned crimson, their glasses misted over, their noses started dripping as the two preachers sang louder and louder. Their words, those living words weaving the Truth thread by thread, images of evil, of perfidy, of sins that attempted to hide underground but were torn up by their hideous roots and shaken like worm-eaten turnips before the congregation. On the row in front was a little girl with plaits, fair golden hair gleaming in the darkness, squashed in by grown-up bodies riddled with dread. She was motionless, holding a doll pressed to her heart as the storm raged over her head. It was horrific to see her mother and father weeping. Watching her grown-up relatives being transformed, crushed. Sitting there hunched up, feeling the fall-out dripping all over her and thinking: it’s all my fault. It’s my fault. If only I’d been a bit better behaved. Isak had clenched his boyish hands tightly together, and inside them it felt as if a swarm of insects was creeping around. And he thought: if I open them we’ll all die. If I let them escape we’re all finished.
And then one day, one Sunday after a few years had passed, he crawled out onto the thin nocturnal ice. Everything crumbled away, his defences fell down. He was thirteen and could feel Satan beginning to grow deep down inside him, and filled with fear that was greater than the fear of being beaten, greater than the urge for self-preservation, he’d stood up in the middle of the prayer meeting and, holding onto people’s backs, he’d swayed back and forth before collapsing nose-first into the lap of Christ. Callused hands had been placed on his brow and his chest, it was a second baptism, that’s the way it was done. He had unbuttoned his heart and been drenched by the flood of his sins.
There was not a single dry eye in the congregation. They had witnessed a great event. The Almighty had issued a summons. The Lord had taken the boy with His very own hand, and then given him back.
Afterwards, when he learned to walk for the second time, as he stood there on trembling legs, they had propped him up. His corpulent mother had hugged him in the name and blood of Jesus, and her tears flowed down over his own face.
Obviously, he was destined to become a preacher.
Like most Laestadians Isak became a diligent worker. Felled trees and piled the trunks up on the frozen river during the winter, accompanied the logs down to the sawmills in the estuary when the ice melted in the spring, clearing jams on the way, and looked after the cows and potato fields on his parents’ smallholding during the summer. Worked hard and made few demands, steered well clear of strong drink, gambling and Communism. That sometimes caused him a few problems with his lumberjack colleagues, but he took their mockery as a challenge to be overcome, and didn’t say a word during the working week, merely read books of sermons.
But on Sundays he would cleanse himself with saunas and prayers, and put on his white shirt and dark suit. During the prayer meetings he could cut loose at last, sail forth to attack filth and the Devil, brandish the Good Lord’s two-edged sword, aim His law and gospel truth at all the world’s sinners, the liars, lechers, hypocrites, the foul-mouthed, boozers, wife-beaters and Communists who flourished in the accursed valley of the River Torne like lice in a blanket.
His face was young, energetic and smooth-shaven. Eyes deep-set. With consummate skill he grabbed the attention of his congregation, and soon plighted his troth with a fellow-believer, a shy and well-polished Finnish girl from the Pello district, smelling of soap.
But when the children started to come, he was forsaken by God. One day there was nothing but silence. Nobody answered his pleas.
He was left with nothing but confusion, tottering on the edge of the abyss. Filled with sorrow. And festering malice. He started to sin, just to discover what it felt like. Minor little wicked acts, aimed at his nearest and dearest. When it dawned on him that he quite enjoyed it, he kept going. Worried members of his church tried to engage him in serious conversations, but he put the Devil’s curse on them. They turned their backs on him, and did not return.
But despite being abandoned, despite feeling hollow, he still regarded himself as a believer. He maintained the rituals, and brought up his children in accordance with the Scriptures. But he replaced the Good Lord by himself. And that was the worst form of Laestadianism, the nastiest, the most ruthless. Laestadianism without God.
This was the frosty landscape in which Niila grew up. Like many children in a hostile environment, he learnt how to survive by not being noticed. That was one of the things I observed the very first time we met in the playground: his ability to move without making a sound. The chameleon-like way in which he seemed to take on the background colour, making him practically invisible. He was typical of the self-effacing inhabitants of Tornedalen. You hunch yourself up in order to keep warm. Your flesh hardens, you get stiff shoulder muscles that start to ache when you reach middle age. You take shorter steps when you walk, you breathe less deeply and your skin turns slightly grey through lack of oxygen. The meek of Tornedalen never run away when attacked, because there’s no point. They just huddle up and hope it will pass. In public assemblies they always sit at the back, something you can often observe at cultural events in Tornedalen: between the spotlights on stage and the audience in the stalls are ten or more rows of empty seats, while the back rows are crammed full.
Niila had lots of little wounds on his forearms that never healed. I eventually realised that he used to scratch himself. It was unconscious, his filthy fingernails just made their own way there and dug themselves in. As soon as a scab formed, he would pick at it, prise it up and break it loose then flick it away with a snapping noise. Sometimes they would land on me, sometimes he just ate them with a faraway look on his face. I’m not sure which I found most disgusting. When we were round at our place I tried to tell him off about it, but he just gaped at me with a look of uncomprehending surprise. And before long he was at it again.
Nevertheless, the oddest thing of all about Niila was that he never spoke. He was five years old after all. Sometimes he opened his mouth and seemed to be about to come out with something, you could hear the lump of phlegm inside his throat starting to move. There would be a sort of throat-clearing, a gob that seemed to be breaking loose. But then he would change his mind and look scared. He could understand what I said, that was obvious: there was nothing wrong with his head. But something had got stuck.
No doubt it was significant that his mother was from Finland. She had never been a talkative woman and came from a country that had been torn to shreds by civil war, the Winter War and the Continuation War while her well-fed neighbour to the west had been busy selling iron ore to the Germans and growing rich. She felt inferior. She wanted to give her children what she had never had. They would be real Swedes, and hence she wanted to teach them Swedish rather than her native Finnish. But as she knew practically no Swedish, she kept quiet.
When Niila came round to our place we often used to sit in the kitchen because he liked the radio. My mum used to have the radio mumbling away in the background all day, something unknown in his house. It didn’t much matter what was on, so we had a pot-pourri of pop music, Women’s Hour, Down Your Way, bell-ringing from Stockholm, language courses and church services. I never used to listen, it all went in one ear and out of the other. But Niila seemed to be thrilled to bits just by the sound, the fact that it was never really quiet.
One afternoon I made a decision. I would teach Niila to talk. I caught his eye, pointed to myself and said:
‘Matti.’
Then I pointed at him and waited. He also waited. I reached out and stuck my finger in between his lips. He opened his mouth, but still didn’t say anything. I started stroking his throat. It tickled, and he pushed my hand away.
‘Niila!’ I said, and tried to make him say it after me. ‘Niila, say Niila!’
He stared at me as if I were an idiot. I pointed at my crotch and said:
‘Willy!’
He grinned, thought I was being rude. I pointed at my backside.
‘Bum! Willy and bum!’
He nodded, then turned his attention back to the radio again. I pointed at his own backside and made a gesture to show something coming out of it. Then I looked at him questioningly. He cleared his throat. I went tense, waiting impatiently. But nothing happened. I was annoyed and wrestled him down to the floor.
‘It’s called babba! Say babba!’
He slowly extricated himself from my grip. Coughed and sort of bent his tongue around inside his mouth to loosen it up.
Then he said: ‘Soifa.’
I held my breath. That was the first time I’d ever heard his voice. It was deep for a boy, hoarse. Not very attractive.
‘What did you say?’
‘Donu al mi akvon.’
There it was again. I was flabbergasted. Niila spoke! He’d started talking, but I couldn’t understand what he said.
He rose to his feet with great dignity, walked over to the sink and drank a glass of water. Then he went home.
Something very remarkable had taken place. In his state of dumbness, in his isolated fear, Niila had started to create a language of his own. Without conversing, he had invented words, begun to string them together and form sentences. Or wasn’t it just him alone, perhaps? Could there be something deeper to it, embedded underneath the deepest peat layer at the back of his mind? An ancient language? An ancient memory, deep frozen but slowly starting to melt?
And before I knew where I was, our roles had been reversed. Instead of me teaching him how to talk, it was him teaching me. We would sit in the kitchen, Mum pottering around in the garden, the radio buzzing in the background.
‘Ĉi tio estas seĝo,’ he said, pointing at a chair.
‘Ĉi tio estas seĝo,’ I repeated after him.
‘Vi nomiĝas Matti,’ he said, pointing at me.
‘Vi nomiĝas Matti,’ I repeated, good as gold.
He shook his head.
‘Mi nomiĝas!’
I corrected myself.
‘Mi nomiĝas Matti. Vi nomiĝas Niila.’
He clicked his tongue enthusiastically. There were rules in this language of his, it was ordered. You couldn’t just babble on in any way you liked.
We began using it as our secret language, it grew into a space of our own where we could be all to ourselves. The kids from round about grew jealous and suspicious, but that only increased our pleasure. Mum and Dad got a bit worried and thought I was losing my powers of speech, but when they phoned the doctor he said that children often invented fantasy languages, and it would soon pass.
But as far as Niila was concerned, the blockage in his throat had been cleared once and for all. Our make-believe language overcame his fear of talking, and it wasn’t long before he started speaking Swedish and Finnish as well. He understood quite a lot already, of course, and had a big passive vocabulary. It just needed translating into sounds, and his mouth movements had to be practised. But it proved to be more difficult than one might have thought. He sounded odd for ages, his palate had trouble with all the Swedish vowels and the Finnish diphthongs, and he was constantly dribbling. Eventually it became possible to understand more or less what he was saying, although he still preferred to stick to our secret language. That was where he felt most at home. When we spoke it he would relax, and his body movements were less awkward, more natural.
One Sunday something unusual happened in Pajala. The church was full. It was a routine service, the clergyman taking it was Wilhelm Tawe as usual, and in normal circumstances there would have been plenty of room. But on this particular day it was full to overflowing.
The reason was that the inhabitants of Pajala were going to see their first real, live black man.
There was so much interest that even Mum and Dad were induced to turn up, despite the fact that they very rarely went to church at all apart from on Christmas Eve. In the pew in front of us were Niila and his parents and all his brothers and sisters. Just once he turned round and peered at me over the back of the pew, but was immediately prodded quite hard by Isak. The congregation included office workers and lumberjacks, and even a few Communists, all whispering amongst themselves. It was obvious what they were talking about. They were wondering if he’d turn out to be really black, pitch black, like the jazz musicians on record sleeves. Or would he just be a sort of coffee-brown?
There was a ringing of bells and the vestry door opened. Wilhelm Tawe emerged, looking a little bit on edge behind his black-framed spectacles. And there behind him. Also in vestments. A glittering African mantel, oh yes…
Pitch black! Whispers spread swiftly among the Sunday School mistresses. No trace of brown, more a sort of bluish black. Trotting alongside the African was an old deaconess who had been a missionary for many years, thin as a rake and with skin like tanned leather. The men bowed in the direction of the altar and the woman curtsied. Then Tawe got the service under way by bidding all present welcome, especially the guest who had travelled all the way from the war-stricken Congo. Christian parishes there were in crying need of material assistance, and today’s entire collection would be sent straight to the aid of our brothers and sisters in Africa.
Then the rituals commenced. But everybody just stared. They couldn’t take their eyes off him. When the hymn-singing started they heard his voice for the first time. He knew all the tunes, they seemed to have the same hymns in Africa. He sang in some native language or other, with a deep and somehow passionate voice, and the congregation sang softer and softer in order to listen to him. And when it was eventually time for the sermon, Tawe gave a sign. The unheard of happened. The black man and the deaconess both climbed the stairs into the pulpit.
There was widespread alarm – we were still in the sixties, and women were supposed to take a back seat and keep silent in the churches. Tawe explained that the lady’s role was to translate what our guest said. It was a little on the cramped side in the pulpit as she tried to establish herself alongside the imposing form of the newcomer. She was sweating profusely under her deaconess’s hat, took hold of the microphone and looked nervously round the congregation. The black man was calm and collected as he contemplated the worshippers before him, and he seemed even taller than he was, thanks to his high pointed hat, in blue and yellow. His face was so dark that all anybody could see was the glint in his eyes.
Then he started preaching. In Bantu. He ignored the microphone. He sort of shouted, loud and alluring, as if he were trying to contact somebody in the jungle.
‘I give thanks to the Lord, I thank the Lord my God,’ according to the deaconess’s translation.
Then she dropped the microphone, slumped forward moaning loudly and would have hurtled over the pulpit rail had it not been for the black man who grabbed hold of her and hung on.
The verger was the quickest of all to react. He raced forward, skipped up the stairs, folded the deaconess’s bony arm round his bull-like neck and levered her down into the aisle.
‘Malaria,’ she gasped. Her skin had turned deep yellow, and she was on the point of collapse. Several members of the church council hastened forward and helped to carry her out of church and into a car that sped off in the direction of the cottage hospital.
The rest of the congregation and the black man were still there. They were all somewhat confused. Tawe stepped forward to assert his authority, but the black man was still dominant in the pulpit. He’d travelled halfway across the globe, and so he ought to be able to cope with this. In the name of God.
He thought for a moment, then switched from Bantu to Swahili. Many millions speak Swahili, including many Africans up and down their continent. Unfortunately, not many people in Pajala are acquainted with it. He was confronted by a mass of blank faces. He changed language once again, and tried Creole. His dialect was so specialised that not even the local French teacher could work out what he was saying. He was getting a little heated, and tried a few sentences in Arabic. Then, in desperation, a couple of phrases in Flemish that he’d picked up while in Belgium on ecumenical business.
But contact was zero. Nobody could understand a word he said. In remote areas like this, you had to speak Swedish or Finnish.
He was desperate by now. Tried one final language. Bellowed it out so that it rebounded from the organ loft, roused an old lady from her slumbers, scared stiff a small child that burst out crying, and set the pages of the lectern Bible a-flutter.
Then Niila stood up in the row in front of me and answered him back.
A deathly silence descended on the whole church. Every single member of the congregation turned round and glared at this impertinent little brat. The black man focused on the little lad in the midst of the congregation before him, just as Niila was being given a good thump by Isak. The African gentleman raised his hand to indicate a halt to any such action. The palm of his hand was remarkably white. Isak felt the eyes boring into him, and let go of his son.
‘Ĉu vi komprenas kion mi diras?’ bellowed the black man.
‘Mi komprenas ĉion,’ replied Niila.
‘Venu ĉi tien, mia knabo. Venu ĉi tien al mi.’
Niila edged his way hesitantly along the pew and into the aisle. For a moment it looked as if he might run away. The African beckoned to him with the pale palm of his hand. All eyes were on Niila as he took a few trembling steps. Shoulders hunched, he tiptoed towards the pulpit, a bashful little boy with an awful haircut. The black man helped the slip of a lad up the stairs. Niila could barely manage to peer over the edge of the pulpit, but the African lifted him up in his strong arms. Held him like he would a little lamb. In a quaking voice, he resumed his sermon:
‘Dio nia, kiu aŭskultas niajn preĝojn…’
‘Oh Lord our God, who hears our prayers,’ said Niila without the slightest hesitation. ‘Today Thou hast sent unto us a boy. We thank Thee, oh Lord, we give unto Thee our thanks.’
Niila understood every word the black man said. The citizens of Pajala were thunderstruck, the boy translated the whole of the sermon as it was delivered. The faces of Niila’s parents and those of his brothers and sisters were etched with dismay, they sat in their pew like statues of stone. They were in shock, they realised they were witnessing a wondrous act of God. Many of the congregation burst into tears from sheer rapture, everyone was deeply moved. Whispers of jubilation spread throughout the chapel until the whole place was buzzing. The hand of God! A miracle!
As for me, I couldn’t understand what was happening. How had the black man learnt our secret language? For that was what they were speaking, him and Niila.
News of the incident spread rapidly, and not just in ecclesiastical circles. For a long time afterwards there were calls from newspapers and the television people, wanting to interview the lad, but Isak forbade it.
I didn’t see Niila again until several days later. He sneaked into our kitchen one afternoon, still looking staggered. Mum gave us each a sandwich and we sat there chewing. Niila occasionally pricked up his ears in that awkward way he had.
The radio was mumbling away in the background, as usual. I suddenly had a strange suspicion, and turned up the volume.
‘Ĝis reaŭdo!’
I gave a start. Our secret language! A brief snatch of a signature tune, and then an announcer said:
‘You have been listening to today’s instalment of our course in Esperanto.’
A course in Esperanto. He’d picked it up from our radio.
I turned slowly to look at Niila. He was miles away, staring out of the window.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_60d1639b-e0a8-53f3-9d60-a42cac146101)
—on dramatic happenings in the Pearly-Girly School shed and an unexpected meeting when we find ourselves way ahead of events
Next to the children’s playground was a big, wooden building, almost a mansion, with lots of windows. It used to be the hostel that housed pupils at Pajala school who lived too far away to travel backwards and forwards every day. Then it became a college where teenage girls were trained in such things as cookery and knitting. Instead of being unemployed, the girls were able to become well-qualified housewives. We boys imagined the girls being taught how to ‘knit one, pearl one’, and called it the Pearly-Girly School. Next to it was an old, red-painted shed, full of scrap metal and discarded school stuff that we youngsters found exciting to rummage through. There were some loose boards at one of the gable ends that could be prised open far enough for us to crawl inside.
It was a scorching hot day in high summer. A canopy of heat weighed down on the village, and the smell of hay from the grassy parts of the playground was as strong as tea. All alone, I sneaked up to the wall of the shed, keeping a weather eye open for the school caretaker. We children were scared stiff of him. An athletic type in paint-stained overalls, he hated kids nosing around. He would materialise out of thin air with his radar eyes on alert. He used to wear wooden clogs that he kicked off before pouncing on his prey like a tiger. No kid ever managed to get away. He would clamp his hand round their necks like a pair of pliers round a nail, then wrench them up into the air and very nearly sever their heads from their bodies. I had seen with my own eyes one of the lads down our street, a teenage tough guy as hard as steel, cry like a baby after daring to ride his moped where he shouldn’t.
I took the risk even so. I’d never been in the shed before, but I’d heard about others who’d been bold enough to sneak in. With nerves at breaking point, I peered cautiously round. It seemed all clear. I dropped down on all fours, prised open the wooden boards, stuck my head through the dark opening and edged my way inside.
After the sunshine, everything was pitch black. The darkness and blindness made my eyes swell up. I stood there motionless for an age. Then, gradually, I was able to start making out shapes. Old bookcases, broken desks. A pile of wood, a stack of bricks. A cracked lavatory bowl with no lid. Boxes of old electrical odds and ends. I started wandering about, being careful not to bump into anything. There was a smell of dried-out rubbish, sawdust and mortar and warm asphalt from the sun-drenched roofing felt up above. I glided around, almost swimming through the dense darkness. It was olive-green, like the heart of a spruce forest. I was moving as if through a dormitory at dead of night. Breathing silently through my nose, feeling the dust tickle my nostrils. My canvas shoes made no noise on the concrete floor, the soft paws of a cat.
Stop! A giant loomed up before me. I shrank back, a shadowy shape in the darkness. My body stiffened.
But it wasn’t the caretaker. It was an old boiler. Tall and heavy, covered in metal plating. As fat as a housewife with big, cast-iron doors. I opened the biggest of them. Peered into a cold, pitch-black opening. Called softly. My voice reverberated inside. She was empty. An iron maiden, left with no more than the memory of an all-consuming inner fire.
I carefully stuck my head in through the door. Groped around with my hand and felt lumps of rust coming loose from the walls, or maybe it was soot. There was a smell of metal inside there, oxide and old fires. I hesitated for a moment, plucking up courage. Then I wormed my way in through the fire doors.
Now I was inside her. Crouching down in her rounded belly, curled up like a foetus. I tried to stand up but hit my head against the top. I closed the door quietly behind me, pulled it to until the last faint strip of light was extinguished.
I was shut in. She was pregnant with me, protecting me with the bullet-proof iron walls of her womb. I was inside her, I was her child. It felt stimulating but unnerving. A feeling of security mixed with a strange sensation of shame. I was doing something forbidden. I was betraying somebody, my mother perhaps. Eyes closed, I curled myself up more tightly, resting my chin on my knees. She was so cold, but I was warm and young, a small, glowing ember. And when I pricked up my ears I could hear her whispering. A faint sighing through a damper or the remains of a cut-off pipe – tender, comforting words of love.
Then there was a clattering noise. The caretaker stormed into the shed. He was furious, threatening to beat the living daylights out of any bloody brats he found in here. I held my breath and listened to him charging around, searching, heaving aside furniture, shoving and kicking at piles of rubbish, as if hunting down rats. He charged round and round the shed, growling out threats: no doubt somebody in the Pearly-Girly School had seen me and blabbed to the caretaker. And now it was all buggers and bastards and death threats, in both Swedish and Finnish.
He stopped right next to the boiler, and seemed to be sniffing the air. As if he were onto a scent. I could hear a scraping noise against the metal plating, and realised he was leaning against her. The only thing separating us was three centimetres of iron skin.
The seconds ebbed away. Then another scrape, and the sound of footsteps fading into the distance. The shed door slammed shut with a bang. I stayed where I was. Didn’t move a muscle as the minutes ticked by. Suddenly there was the clomping of the wooden clogs again. He’d only pretended to go away in order to flush out his young prey with the cunning of a grown man. But now he gave up, this time he left for real, I could hear his footsteps fading away on the gravel outside.
At last I was able to move. My joints were aching, and I pushed at the door. It was stuck. I pushed harder. It wouldn’t budge. I broke out in a cold sweat. Fear grew into panic. The caretaker must have accidentally brushed against the handle. I was locked in.
Once the immediate paralysis began to wear off, I started screaming. The echo magnified my voice, I stuck my fingers in my ears and bellowed out over and over again.
But nobody came.
Hoarse and exhausted, I collapsed in a heap. Was I doomed to die? Die of thirst, shrivel up in my sarcophagus?
The first day was awful. My muscles ached, I had cramp in my legs. I had no option but to sit curled up, and my back grew stiff. Thirst was driving me mad. The heat given off by my body condensed on the sooty walls, I could feel it dripping and tried to lick it. It tasted metallic, and only made me feel even more thirsty.
The second day I was completely overcome by exhaustion. I dozed for hour after hour. The emptiness felt liberating. I lost all trace of time. I slid in and out of contented oblivion and realised I was dying.
The next time I came to my senses it was obvious that a considerable length of time had passed. The greenish light of day that seeped in through the ventilator was fainter now. Days were growing shorter. It was getting much colder at night, and soon there was frost as well. I kept warm by jerking my muscles one after another.
I don’t remember much of winter. I curled up in a ball and slept most of the time. I was in a trance as weeks passed by. When the spring warmth finally returned, I discovered I had grown. My clothes felt tight and uncomfortable. I wriggled and squiggled and managed to take them off, and resumed my waiting naked.
Gradually my body filled more and more of the cramped space. Several years must have passed. The damp given off by my body had started the iron rusting, and I had flakes of rust in my tousled hair. I could no longer move up and down, only sway from side to side like a duck. If the doors were to open now, the hole would be too small for me to climb out anyway.
Eventually it became almost unbearable. I couldn’t even move from side to side any more. My head was jammed in between my knees. There was no room for my shoulders to grow any broader.
For several weeks I was convinced it was all over.
In the end everything came to a full stop. I occupied the whole of the space. There was no room to breathe properly any more, all I could manage was a series of short gasps. But I kept growing even so.
Then it happened one night. A faint cracking noise. Like when a pocket mirror breaks. A brief pause, then a slow crunching noise from behind me. When I tensed my muscles and pressed backwards, the wall gave way. Bulged out then burst open in a cloud of splinters, and I shot out into the world.
Naked, newly born, I crawled around through the rubbish. Stood up on very shaky legs and supported myself against a bookcase. To my surprise, I noticed that the whole world had shrunk. No, it was me who’d doubled in size. I’d sprouted pubic hair. I’d grown up.
It was a bitterly cold winter night outside. Not a soul in sight. I ploughed my way through the snow and scampered barefoot through the village, still stark naked. At the crossroads between the chemist’s and the kiosk, four youths were lying in the middle of the road. They seemed to be asleep. I stopped and stared down at them in surprise. Bent down to examine them more closely in the light from the street lamp.
One of the youths was me.
Feeling very odd, I lay down next to myself on the icy road. It was cold against my skin, melted and turned damp.
I started to wait. They’d wake up soon enough.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_36965540-a33d-56c8-bf4f-c72cffaefe9b)
—in which the village children start at the Old School, they learn about southern Sweden, and a homework session ends in a hell of a row
One overcast morning in August the bell rang, and I started school. Class one. Mum and I marched solemnly into the tall, yellow-painted wooden building that housed the infants’ section – an old school imaginatively named the Old School. We were piloted up a creaky staircase and into a classroom on the first floor, strode over broad, yellowed floorboards with a thick, shiny coat of varnish, and were each shepherded into an antique school desk with a wooden lid, a pen box and a hole for an inkwell. The lid was covered in carvings made by the knives of generations of pupils. The mums all trooped out, and we were left behind. Twenty young kids with loose milk teeth and knuckles covered in warts. Some had speech defects, others wore glasses, many spoke Finnish at home, several were used to receiving a good hiding if they stepped out of line, nearly everybody was shy and came from working-class homes, and knew from the start they didn’t belong here.
Our teacher was a matron in her sixties with round, steel-framed glasses, her hair in a bun contained by a net and pierced with pins, and she had a long, hooked nose that made her look like an owl. She always wore a woollen skirt and a blouse, often a cardigan buttoned halfway up, and soft, black shoes like slippers. She approached her duties gently but firmly, intent on carving out of the roughly sawn planks confronting her something neat and presentable, and capable of coping with Swedish society.
To begin with, we all had to go to the blackboard and write our names. Some could, others couldn’t. On the basis of that scientific test, our teacher divided the class into two groups, called Group One and Group Two. Group One comprised all those who had passed the test – most of the girls and a few sons of civil service clerks. The rest were in Group Two, including Niila and me. We were only seven, but correctly classified right from the start.
Hanging from the wall in front of the class were The Letters of the Alphabet. A scary army of sticks and half-moons stretching all the way across. Those were the things we were required to wrestle with, one after another: force them down on their backs in our exercise books and make them do as they were told. We were given pencils as well, and chalks in a cardboard box, a reading book about Li and Lo, and a stiff sheet of cardboard with blocks of watercolour paints that looked like brightly coloured sweets. Then we had to get down to work. The inside of the desk lid had to be lined with paper, and the books as well: there was a deafening crackling and rustling from the rolls of wax-paper we’d brought from home, and some eager snipping with blunt school scissors. Finally we stuck a timetable onto the inside of our desk lids with tape. Nobody had the slightest inkling of what all those mysterious squares actually meant, but the timetable was an essential part of things, part of being Neat and Orderly, and it meant our childhood was over. Now we were faced with a six-day week with school from Monday to Saturday, and on the seventh day there was Sunday School for those who hadn’t had enough of it.
Neat and Orderly. Stand in a queue outside the hall when the bell rang for lessons. Walk in a line to the canteen, with the teacher at the front. Hold up your hand whenever you wanted to speak. Hold up your hand whenever you wanted to leave the room for a pee. Turn the punched holes in your paper towards the windows over to your left. Go out into the playground the moment the bell rang for break. Go back in the moment the bell rang for lessons. Everything done in that typically calm, Swedish manner, and only rarely was it necessary for some cheeky oaf in Group Two to have his hair tweaked by pincer-like magisterial talons. We liked our teacher. She really knew how to turn you into an adult.
Right at the front, next to teacher’s desk, was the harmonium. It was used every morning when she read the register and we sang hymns. She’d sit down on the stool and start pedalling away. Her fat calves bulged inside her beige knee-length stockings, her glasses misted over, she spread her gnarled fingers over the keyboard and gave us a chord. Then a quivering dowager-soprano, with stern glances to left and right, making sure we were all joining in. Sunlight seeping in through the window panes, yellow and warm over the nearest desks. The smell of chalk. The map of Sweden. Mikael who suffered from nose-bleeds and sat with his head leant back, clutching a roll of kitchen paper. Kennet who could never sit still. Annika who always spoke in a whisper, and all the boys were in love with. Stefan who was brilliant at football but would ski into a tree on the Yllästunturi slalom slope three years later and kill himself. And Tore and Anders and Eva and Åsa and Anna-Karin and Bengt, and all the rest of us.
As a citizen of Pajala, you were inferior – that was clear from the very beginning. Skåne, in the far south, came first in the atlas, printed on an extra-large scale, completely covered in red lines denoting main roads and black dots denoting towns and villages. Then came the other provinces on a normal scale, moving further north page by page. Last of all was Northern Norrland, on an extra-small scale in order to fit onto the page, but even so there were hardly any dots at all. Almost at the very top of the map was Pajala, surrounded by brown-coloured tundra, and that was where we lived. If you turned back to the front you could see that Skåne was in fact the same size as Northern Norrland, but coloured green by all that confoundedly fertile farming land. It was many years before the penny dropped and I realised that Skåne, the whole of our most southerly province, would fit comfortably between Haparanda and Boden.
We had to learn that Kinnekulle was 1,004 feet above sea level. But not a word about Käymävaara, 1,145 feet high. We had to be able to ramble on about the Viska, the Ätra, The Vomit and the Bile (or whatever they were called), four colossal rivers that flowed from the southern Swedish highlands. Many years later I saw them with my own eyes. I felt obliged to stop the car, get out and give my eyes a good rub. Ditches. Tiny little brooks barely deep enough to paddle in. No bigger than Kaunisjoki or Liviöjoki.
I felt similarly alienated when it came to culture. The books intended to teach us the Swedish language were full of things that made sense to children in the south of the country, but were beyond our comprehension.
‘Have you seen Mr Chantarelle?’ our reader asked us.
I could answer that question with an outright ‘no’. Nor Mrs Chantarelle, nor any other strange members of this mushroom family, come to that. Chantarelles didn’t grow in our part of the world.
We sometimes used to receive Treasure Trove, the Savings Bank magazine, with a picture of the bank’s oak tree logo. If we saved our money, it would grow and grow until it was as big as that majestic old oak, we were told. But there were no oak trees around Pajala, and so we realised there was something fishy about the advert. The same sort of things applied to the Treasure Trove crossword, where one of the clues that kept cropping up was a tall tree similar to a cypress, seven letters. Answer: juniper. But where we lived the juniper was a straggly little bush about knee-high.
Music lessons were a fascinating ritual. Our teacher would produce a big, clumsy tape recorder and put it on her desk – a gigantic chest dotted with spikes and knobs. She would slowly thread in and set up a tape, then hand round song books. Peer at the class with her owlish eyes, and switch on. The reels would start turning, then a bright and breezy signature tune would blare out from the loudspeakers. A brisk female voice spouting something or other in a Stockholm accent. She would go on to give us a perfect music lesson, peppered with sighs and squeals of enthusiasm. The pupils were from the Nacka School of Music in Stockholm, and to this very day I wonder why we were forced to listen to these southerners with angelic voices singing about bluebells and cowslips and other tropical vegetation. Sometimes one of the Nacka pupils would sing a solo, and the worst thing was that one of the boys had the same name as me.
‘Now, repeat that tune for me, Matthias,’ the lady would chirrup, and a girlish boy soprano would ring out as clear as a bell. At which point the whole of our class turned round to stare at me, grinning and giggling. I wished I could have gone up in smoke.
After several pedagogical repetitions, we were expected to sing along with the tape – the Kermit the Frog Ensemble joins the Vienna Boys’ Choir. Our teacher’s eyes took on a glint of steel, and the girls started to sing softly like the soughing of zephyrs through tufts of grass. But we boys stayed as silent as fish, moving our lips when teacher glared at us, but that’s all. Singing was unmanly. Knapsu. And so we kept quiet.
We gradually caught on to the fact that where we lived wasn’t really a part of Sweden. We’d just been sort of tagged on by accident. A northern appendage, a few barren bogs where a few people happened to live, but could only partly be Swedes. We were different, a bit inferior, a bit uneducated, a bit simple-minded. We didn’t have any deer or hedgehogs or nightingales. We didn’t have any celebrities. We didn’t have any theme parks, no traffic lights, no mansions, no country squires. All we had was masses and masses of mosquitoes, Tornedalen-Finnish swearwords and Communists.
Ours was a childhood of deprivation. Not material deprivation – we had enough to get by on – but a lack of identity. We were nobody. Our parents were nobody. Our forefathers had made no mark whatsoever on Swedish history. Our surnames were unspellable, not to mention being unpronounceable for the few supply teachers who found their way up north from the real Sweden. None of us dare write in to Children’s Family Favourites because Swedish Radio would think we were Finns. Our home villages were too small to appear on maps. We could barely support ourselves, but had to depend on state hand-outs. We watched family farms die, and fields give way to undergrowth. We watched the last logs floating down the River Torne when the ice melted, before it was banned; we saw forty muscular lumberjacks replaced by one diesel-oozing snow-mobile; we watched our fathers hang up their heavy-duty gloves and go off to spend their working week in the far-distant Kiruna mines. Our school exam results were the worst in the whole country. We had no table manners. We wore woolly hats indoors. We never picked mushrooms, avoided vegetables, never held crayfish parties. We were useless at conversation, reciting poems, wrapping up presents and giving speeches. We walked with our toes turned out. We spoke with a Finnish accent without being Finnish, and we spoke with a Swedish accent without being Swedish.
We were nothing.
There was only one way out. Only one possibility if you wanted to be something, no matter how insignificant. You had to live somewhere else. We learnt to look forward to moving, convinced it was our only chance in life, and so we moved. In Västerås you could be a person at last. In Lund. In Södertälje. In Arvika. In Borås. There was an enormous evacuation. A flood of refugees that emptied our village, but strangely enough it felt voluntary. A phoney war.
The only ones who ever returned from the south were those who died. Car crash victims. Suicides. And eventually also those killed off by AIDS. Heavy coffins dug down into the frozen earth among the birch trees in Pajala cemetery. Home at last. Kotimaassa.
Niila’s house had a view over the river and was in one of the oldest parts of Pajala. It was a spacious, well-built house from the end of the previous century, with large, small-paned windows along the long walls. If you examined the façade closely, you could see traces of where it had been extended. There were still two chimneys from two separate hearths: the house had been too big to be heated by just one fire. When Laestadianism was at its peak, the house had been a natural grey colour; but at some point in the 1940s it had been painted the traditional Swedish red, with white window surrounds. The rough corners had been sawn and planed in accordance with the new fashion, to make sure the house couldn’t be mistaken for an overgrown barn – much to the distress of national archivists and other persons of good taste. On the river side were grassy meadows that had been fertilised for thousands of years with river silt every time the thaw came, and they produced abundant and rich hay, perfect for boosting milk production. At this very spot several hundred years ago, one of the earliest settlers had taken off his birch-bark rucksack and created a smallholding for himself. But the grass in the meadows had not been harvested for years. Creeping bushes and undergrowth had thrust up their sauna twigs here, there and everywhere. The place stank of gloom and decline. Visitors did not feel welcome there. There was a chill about the spot, like that of someone browbeaten so relentlessly as a child that all the bitterness had been directed inwards.
The cowshed was still standing, and over the years it had been turned into a shed and a garage. We’d just finished school, and I’d gone home with Niila. We’d exchanged bikes for the day. He’d borrowed mine, which was rather flashy with a racing saddle and drop handlebars. I was riding his Hercules – ‘just the thing for knobbly knees’, as the nastier element in class three used to shout at him when he rode past. As soon as we got to his house, Niila dragged me with him to the cowshed.
We sneaked up into the loft, up the steep, axe-hewn stairs that had been polished by a century’s feet. It was semi-dark up there, with only one small glazed window to admit the afternoon sun. There were piles of junk everywhere – damaged furniture, a rusty scythe, enamel buckets, rolled-up carpets smelling of mould. We paused by one of the side-walls. It was dominated by a huge bookcase full of volumes with worn, brown leather spines. Religious tracts, collections of sermons, books on ecclesiastical history in both Swedish and Finnish, row after row of them. I’d never seen so many books at the same time before, apart from in the library on the top floor of the Old School. There was something unnatural about it, something decidedly unpleasant. Far too many books. Who could possibly ever manage to read them all? And why were they there, hidden away in a cowshed, as if there was something shameful about them?
Niila opened his satchel and took out his reader starring Li and Lo. We’d been given an extract to prepare for homework, and he found his way to the page, turning them over with his clumsy, boyish fingers. Concentrating hard, he started mouthing the letters one after another, spending an enormous effort on connecting them up to form words. Then he grew tired of it and slammed the book shut with a bang. Before I’d caught on to what was happening, he hurled it down the stairs with tremendous force. It landed awkwardly and the spine broke against the rough floorboards.
I looked doubtfully at Niila. He was smiling, with red patches on each cheek, reminiscent of a fox with long canines. Then he plucked a tract from the enormous bookcase, quite a small volume with soft covers. Defiantly, he flung that downstairs as well. The thin, silky pages rustled like leaves before it crashed to the ground. Then followed in quick succession a few volumes of collected works, heavy brown tomes that disintegrated with a crack as they landed.
Niila looked encouragingly in my direction. I could feel my heart starting to pound with excitement as I reached for a book. Flung it down the stairs and watched several pages flutter out before it thumped down into a rusty wheelbarrow. It looked outrageously funny. Growing more and more ecstatic we hurled down more and more books, egging each other on, spinning them up in the air, kicking them like footballs, laughing until we choked as the shelves were emptied one after another.
All of a sudden Isak was standing there. Broad-shouldered like a wrestler, black and silent. Not a single word, just big, fleshy fingers trembling as he unfastened the buckle of his belt. He ordered me away with one brief gesture. I crept down the stairs like a rat then bolted for the door. But Niila stayed behind. As the cowshed door closed behind me, I could hear Isak starting to beat him.
Just for a moment I look up from the notepad I started filling in Nepal. The commuter train is approaching Sundbyberg. The morning rush hour, the smell of damp clothing. In my briefcase is a file with twenty-five corrected school essays. February slush, and over four months to go before the Pajala Fair. I sneak a look out of the train window. High over Huvudsta is a flock of jackdaws, circling excitedly round and round.
I switch my attention back to Tornedalen. Chapter five.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_6fdee5c9-9dce-56af-85b6-34ae56385bdf)
—about two hesitant winter warriors, chain thrashings, and the art of stamping out a ski slope
Every day when lessons were over at the Pearly-Girly School, hordes of sixteen- and seventeen-year-old girls would come swarming past our house. Pretty young things. This was the sixties after all, with lots of mascara, false eyelashes, mini-skirts and tight plastic boots. Me and Niila used to perch on the snowdrift outside our house and check them out. They would saunter past in bunches, chatting away, bare-headed no matter how cold it was, so as not to disturb their hairdos. They smoked like chimneys, and left behind a sickly-sweet smell of ashtrays and perfume that I associate to this day with desire. Occasionally they might say hello to us. We’d be incredibly embarrassed, and pretend we were building a snow fortress. Even though we were only seven, we were certainly interested in them, in a way. You couldn’t really say we were randy, it was more of a vague longing. I’d have loved to have kissed them, to get close to them. Snuggle up to them like a little kitten.
Anyway, we started throwing snowballs at them. Mainly so they’d regard us as being manly, I think. And believe it or not, it worked. These lanky sixteen-year-old Valkyries would scamper off like reindeer, screaming and shrieking, holding up their make-up bags as shields. They really made a meal of it. We were only throwing loosely packed little bundles of snow that rarely hit them, after all – fluffy lumps of snow that came floating down like woolly Lapp mittens. But it was enough to impress them. We were a force to be reckoned with.
It went on like this for a few days. We made a store of snowballs as soon as we got home from school. By now we felt like soldiers from Vittulajänkkä fighting in the Winter War, two battle-scarred veterans in action on a foreign continent. We bristled in expectation. Fighting brought us closer and closer to pleasures we could only dream of. Our coxcombs grew with every battle fought.
There came the flock of girls. Several bunches with irregular intervals between them. As they approached, we crouched down behind the ramparts of snow piled up at the side of the road by the snow plough. The plan was worked out in great detail. We used to let the first group pass by unscathed, then throw the snowballs at their backs while the other groups came to a halt in front of us. Create disarray and panic. And admiration, of course, of our manly deeds.
We crouched down in wait. Heard the girls’ voices approaching, the smokers’ coughs, the giggles. We stood up at exactly the right moment. Each of us with a snowball in our right hands. Like two fearsome Vikings we watched the girls scamper away, screaming. We were just going to heave our missiles into their midst when we suddenly realised that one of the girls was standing her ground. Only a couple of yards in front of us. Long, blond hair, neatly made-up eyes. She was staring straight at us.
‘Just you dare throw one more snowball, and I’ll kill you,’ she snarled. ‘I’ll hit you so hard, you’ll never be able to walk again. I’ll make such a mess of your faces that your mothers will burst into tears the moment they clap eyes on you…’
Niila and I slowly lowered our snowballs. The girl gave us one last, terrifying look, then turned on heel and strolled after her friends.
Niila and I didn’t move. We didn’t even look at each other. We just felt we’d been terribly misunderstood, in spades.
As a boy in Pajala, one’s life was dominated by chain thrashings. They were a means of adjusting the balance of power between the male citizens of the village. You were drawn into them as a young lad of five or six, and didn’t escape until you were fourteen or fifteen.
Chain thrashings took something like the following form: a few little lads would start arguing. Anders thumped Nisse, who started crying. I won’t go into the cause of the argument, whether there was a history of animosity or some kind of family feud hovering in the background. A young lad simply thumped another one, and then they went home.
That’s when the chain reaction starts.
The one on the receiving end, Nisse, immediately tells his two-years-older brother about it. Big brother goes out into the village and keeps his eyes skinned: the next time he comes across Anders he gives him a good hiding and extracts revenge. Anders goes home crying his eyes out and tells his own four-years-older brother, who goes out into the village and keeps his eyes skinned. The next time he comes across Nisse or Nisse’s elder brother, he gives them a good hiding and issues a series of threats into the bargain. (Are you still with me?) Nisse’s five-years-older, burly first cousin hears an abridged version of what has happened and beats up Anders’s brother, Anders himself and a few friends who tagged along as bodyguards. Both Anders’s two friends’ six-years-older brothers go out into the village and keep their eyes skinned. The rest of Nisse’s brothers, cousins and other relatives hear an abridged version of what has happened, who has beaten up whom, and in what order; the same thing happens on Anders’s side. Exaggerations in the interests of propaganda are common. Eighteen-year-old second cousins twice removed and even fathers receive urgent requests for assistance, but claim they couldn’t give a shit about the petty squabbles of little kids.
That gives some idea of how things developed. The most elaborate of chain thrashings would involve classmates, neighbours and an entire range of friends, especially if the two original combatants came from different parts of the village. In that case it was Vittulajänkkä versus Paskajänkkä, or Strandvägen versus Texas, and war was declared.
The duration of a chain thrashing could be anything from a few days to several months. The norm was a few weeks, following the pattern described above. The first stage was scuffling and an exchange of blows with little kids crying. Then came the threat stage, with the strongest ones involved roaming the village with their eyes skinned while the little kids stayed in hiding at home. If any of the little brats got caught, it was no laughing matter, believe you me. I used to think that was the worst stage, that non-stop terror between school and the relative safety of home. Last of all came the disarmament stage, when nobody could remember or be bothered to remember all those complicated patterns of punishment with all the subtle variations, and the whole thing ran out of steam.
But before that happened, life was dominated by the balance of terror. It’s winter and you’re on your own on your kick-sledge, gliding over the tightly packed snow to the corner shop where you’re going to buy a bag of mixed sweets. It’s mid-afternoon, but it’s already quite dark, and scattered snowflakes are drifting down from the endless lead-grey sky, sparkling under the street lamps like stars. You’re standing with one foot on the runner of your sledge, clinging on to the handlebar and kicking with your other foot, skimming your way between the mountains of snow piled up on each side of the road by the ploughs. Your runners are being held back a bit by the newly fallen snow, and from the nearby main road to Kiruna you can hear the booming of a snow plough bludgeoning its way through the winter. And then, just ahead at the crossroads, one of the big boys materialises. The black silhouette of a pupil from the senior school. He comes towards you, you slow down and try to make out who it is. You consider turning back, but you see there’s another big lad closing in from behind. Hard to make out who it is in the gloom, but he’s certainly big. You’re surrounded, a little boy on a kick-sledge. All you can do is hope. Square your shoulders and advance towards the first of the big boys, who eyes you up and down. The street lamps are snowing, his face is in the shadows, and now he steps forward and your heart stands still. You try to prepare yourself for what’s coming, snow down the back of your neck and all down your back and into your trousers, your ears boxed so hard you can feel your skull coming loose, your woolly hat thrown up into a birch tree, sobs and snot and humiliation. You stiffen up like a calf as the slaughterer approaches. And now he’s right in front of you and you have to stop. He’s as big as an adult, but you don’t recognise him. He asks you whose boy you are, and you recall that there are at least three chain thrashings on the go at the moment, your mind is working overtime, then you tell him who you claim to be, and hope you’ve hit upon the right answer. And the bloke puckers up his eyebrows and knocks your hat off into the snow. Then he says:
‘Lucky for you!’
And you brush the snow off your hat, set off again, and wish to God you were a grown-up.
The end of winter was in sight, the worst of the cold was over. The days were still short, but in the lunch break you could occasionally catch a glimpse of the sun over the frosty roof-tops, looking like a blood-orange. We drank in the light in greedy gulps, and the fiery deep orange juice filled us with renewed lust for life. It was like crawling out of a burrow, waking up from hibernation.
One day Niila and I made up our minds to test Laestadius Hill. Straight after school we strapped on our wooden skis with cable bindings and took a short cut through the children’s playground. It was getting dark, the skis sank about a foot into the loose, deep top covering of snow. Niila led the way, and I followed in his tracks, two blurred figures in the murky gloom. Over by the Laestadius House loomed two rows of sky-high giant spruce firs like church steeples. Silent, ancient, holy trees, preoccupied with greater thoughts than ours.
We crossed over the ice-covered Laestadiusvägen, our skis clattering on the road surface; the street lamps were on already. We clambered over the piled-up snow by the side of the road and slunk into the darkness that sloped steeper and steeper down towards the river. We skied in silence past the statue of Lars Levi: he was staring out into the birch trees, his head covered by a cap of snow. Soon the street lamps had faded away behind us, but it wasn’t completely dark even so. Light was reflected by millions of ice crystals, and grew until it seemed to be hovering over the ground. Our eyes slowly became used to it. The slope stretched out in front of us, swishing away down to the river. But it was impossible to ski on as yet, covered knee-deep in soft snow. We turned our skis at right-angles to the slope, and started stamping. Ski-width by ski-width we worked our way down the hill. Compressing the snow, pounding it down with all the weight our young bodies could bring to bear, making a furrow between the masses of snow on either side, all the way down the long slope to the ice-covered river. We worked away, side by side, sweat pouring off us under our clothes. And when we finally got to the river, we turned back again. Stamped our way back over our own tracks, with bull-like obstinacy. Compressed the snow still more, made it as hard and smooth as we possibly could.
And finally we’re standing there. Back where we started, after all that strenuous effort. Our legs are shaking, our lungs heaving; but stretching out below us is the tightly-packed slope. A broad, smooth path, the result of thousand upon thousand stamps with our skis. We stand side by side, Niila and me. Gaze down into the darkness. The slope points us down into a blurred, murky dream world, disappears like a fishing line dropped through a hole in the ice. Vague shadows, silent movements down in the depths. A thin thread plunging down into our dreams. We glance at each other. Then we crouch forward, dig in our bamboo poles. At exactly the same moment we thrust ourselves forward.
We’re off. Glide away. Surge faster and faster through the night. Swishing. The cold burning our cheeks. Two steaming young boys, two newly-cooked black puddings thrown into the freezer. Faster and faster, wilder and wilder. Side by side, mouths open wide, warm holes sucking in the winter. Perfectly stamped, couldn’t be better! Knees flexible, feet firm in tightly laced boots. A roar penetrates our flesh, our speed approaches the impossible, snow flashing, wind howling, everything swirling.
And then it happens. A thunderous explosion rolls over the ice down Tornedalen as far as Peräjävaara and the air is smashed like a mirror. We break through the sound barrier. The sky is as hard and sharp as gravel as we hurtle down through it, side by side, each in our twirling cloud of snow, whirling round and round in powdery bounces, arms outstretched, our ski poles pointing to the sky, at outer space, at our shining stars.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_2e61fe82-9a21-5cc6-8e13-a3e0b70dd657)
—how an old biddy takes her place on the right hand of God, and on the hazards involved in distributing worldly goods
One bleak day in spring Niila’s grandma took her leave of this earthly life. Still mentally alert, she had lain on her deathbed and confessed her sins in a barely audible whisper before licking the bread with the tip of her leather-brown tongue and having her shrivelled lips sprinkled with wine. Then she said she could see a bright light, and angels drinking curdled milk from ladles, and when she drew her last breath her body became half an ounce lighter, that being the weight of her eternal soul.
Close relatives were summoned to the ulosveisu the same day as she died. Her sons carried her coffin round all the rooms in the house, with the foot end first and the lid open so that she could take farewell of her home; hymns were sung, coffee was drunk, and the corpse was eventually driven off to the freezer at the mortuary.
Then the funeral arrangements were made. The Pajala telephone exchange glowed red hot, and the post office started distributing invitations all over Norrbotten, Finland, south Sweden, Europe and the rest of the world. After all, Grandma had filled as much of the world as she could manage and had time for. She had borne twelve children, the same number as the apostles, and like them they had gone off in all possible directions. Some lived in Kiruna and Luleå, others in the suburbs of Stockholm, and some in Växjö and Kristianstad and Frankfurt and Missouri and New Zealand. Only one still lived in Pajala, and that was Niila’s father. All of them came to the funeral, including the two deceased sons – the ladies of the parish in touch with the other side had seen them. They had wondered who the two boys were, standing with heads bowed by the coffin during the introductory hymn, but then had realised they were rather bright round the edges and that their feet were hovering a finger’s breadth over the ground.
Also present were grandchildren and great-grandchildren from all over the globe, strange elegantly dressed creatures speaking every Swedish dialect you could think of. The grandchildren from Frankfurt had German accents, while the Americans and New Zealanders chattered away in Swenglish. The only ones from the younger generation who could still speak Tornedalen Finnish were Niila and his brothers and sisters, but they didn’t say very much anyway. There was a whole host of languages and cultures assembled in Pajala church, a very tangible tribute to what a single fertile Tornedalen womb could give rise to.
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