The Rock Blaster Read online

  “They’re good. But my teeth are giving me grief.”

  “Are they hurting you?”

  “My three teeth? Not bloody likely. But they wobble around in my mouth. I can’t really bite properly.”

  “Have you thought about dentures?”

  “No. There’s no point.”

  “Isn’t there?”

  “No. I can’t be bothered.”

  “You’ve bought a new pack of cards.”

  “The old ones were looking bloody awful. They kept sticking together. They were cheap.”

  “I think Öberg is now the only make.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve never seen any others.”

  “Is that right? It’s boiling now.”

  “I’ll turn it off.”

  “The radio’s on the fritz.”

  “In what way?”

  “It makes a scratchy noise. The sound’s so bad now I don’t turn it on all that often.”

  “When did you come out this year?”

  “About three weeks ago. It’s been cold.”

  “Have you been in the boat at all?”

  “It’s leaking. I was hoping you could help me.”

  “Let’s go out tomorrow.”

  “Do you think we’ll get any fish?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “We’re bound to catch something.”

  “Are there any people out here yet?”

  “I haven’t seen any. It’s a while yet before the holidays. Thanks for the postcard, by the way.”

  “Oh, you got it.”

  “It was just about the only mail I got this winter. But I had a bit of difficulty reading what you wrote.”

  “Was it so unclear?”

  “It must be my eyes.”

  “Have they gotten worse?”

  “Definitely worse, I’d say. But I’m not complaining.”

  “The card was from London.”

  “Blimey.”

  “I spent a few weeks there.”

  “I see.”

  “It was nice.”

  “Good.”

  * * *

  —

  Coffee, coffee. Long, hot gulps.

  * * *

  —

  “There’s a lot going on.”

  “Yes. It’s good, what’s happening.”

  “There’ve been demonstrations everywhere.”

  “I’ve seen them on TV. Bloody police.”

  “They’re rough.”

  “I’d have liked to have been there. They’d think twice about beating up a disabled person.”

  “Maybe.”

  “It puts me in a good mood. You’d be up for it, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s good. I’ve bought paint for the boat. Apparently, there’s some kind of plastic in it that stops the leaking.”

  “Let’s deal with that tomorrow.”

  “It’d be good if you could help me.”

  “Shall we put out the nets tomorrow?”

  “Will the paint be dry by then?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’ve been doing some mending on the nets. But they’re starting to get a bit fragile.”

  “Let’s see if I can buy some at auction this summer.”

  “That might be good.”

  “They don’t usually cost all that much.”

  “Shall we have some more?”

  “I’ll pour it.”

  “That’s enough.”

  “It’s lovely to be out again.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “Still a little cold though.”

  “Let’s see how it turns out.”

  “Shall we take a look at the roof again this year?”

  “We probably ought to. The winters can be harsh out here. And the bed is broken.”

  “Is it? What happened?”

  “If you look underneath, you’ll see that the steel springs have come unstuck in one place. Perhaps you can prop it up with a plank of some sort.”

  “I’ll do that. Have you bought a new blanket?”

  “I brought one with me from town. My boy dropped it off. They’d bought some new ones for themselves.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I like the green.”

  “It’s time for me to go back to my place now. But we’ll see each other tomorrow.”

  “Let’s do that. Will you take the coffeepot off the stove?”

  “I’ll get some water too. Is there a lot in the well?”

  “There is.”

  “See you then.”

  “Yes. Bye.”

  “I’ll bring the water right away. Where’s the rope?”

  “It’s lying on the lid of the well.”

  * * *

  —

  Step across the cold ground of the island. Lift the lid of the well and look down into the brown water. Lower the bucket, watch it fill up. Go back to the cabin, set the gray bucket down on the floor inside the door. Oskar is sitting on the chair with his cane across his knees. He is wearing a tattered gray sweater over his shirt.

  “See you tomorrow then. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  * * *

  —

  Summer is approaching. Oskar Johansson, 1888–1969.

  THE RECOLLECTIONS

  The yellow trams.

  The finger tracing a line across the wallpaper.

  The canal builder Johannes Johansson.

  Elly’s white dress.

  Elvira’s white dress.

  * * *

  —

  I played the same games as all the others.

  I’ve been a worker all my life.

  Lots of things have changed, but not for us.

  * * *

  —

  It’s going to blow apart in one single blast.

  And give them my regards.

  THE SUMMER CANE

  Oskar goes up the hill behind the house to relieve himself. He has a roll of toilet paper in his left hand. He unbuttons and lowers his trousers behind a juniper bush and squats and strains and holds himself up on his summer cane. The mosquitoes bounce off his bare skin. He looks intently at the heather and his excrement falls to the ground. He wipes himself, gets up, buttons his trousers, and bends down to pick up the used paper. Then he goes back down to the house and puts the paper in the plastic bag with the trash.

  * * *

  —

  Goes in.

  Shuts the door.

  Takes a few steps.

  Props his cane up against the chair.

  Sits down on the edge of the bed.

  Straightens the sheet and the pillow.

  Lies down.

  Breathes out.

  Rests.

  Looks around the room, imagines the paraffin lamp lit up, the spirit stove burning, the static hissing from the radio.

  A fishing boat passes.

  The wind rises.

  Distant airplanes.

  Oskar in his cabin. Gray light.

  * * *

  —

  Sometimes he lies down in his grave and looks. Looks at the earth being scattered by the priest as it thuds onto his face. The wood of the coffin and the skin of his face merge. The eye becomes one with a blue surface, far away. A seagull wings its way across the blue, cutting a movement against a background of blue.

  Gulls cry in the distance.

  * * *

  —

  Sometimes Oskar will lie there and put on a death scene. He imagines the design of the stage and gives all the directions. The tears in his eye bring a little smile to his lips as he gropes his way further and furth
er into his dream. The index finger drums on the bedcover. The light turns to gray.

  * * *

  —

  Soon the narrator will be there, but first just a few more dreams.

  * * *

  —

  Elvira comes in through the door.

  Elvira goes out through the door.

  Dreams, dreams.

  Oskar’s dreams.

  How many were there? How many did he dream while awake? How many times did he lie down on his bed to dream, in the afternoon silence when no one was at home?

  Many.

  Many.

  * * *

  —

  The images are clear. Clear as a flash in his eyes. Oskar is dreaming with eyes open.

  * * *

  —

  He is standing in the midst of the demonstrators who are marching past the leader of the revolution. He holds up a picture with one face among millions of others. He calls out.

  The face trembles. The lips are drawn up toward the cheeks. Flashing teeth. A thousand faces.

  Millions of white teeth.

  El pueblo te defiende…

  The people will defend you!

  “La revolución.” A feminine noun. Woman giving birth to the future. Oskar’s face among those of others.

  His face among those of others. He is lying on his bed in his cabin. It is chilly. He is alone in his archipelago. He is dreaming about his revolution.

  * * *

  —

  The most important dream. The recurring one.

  Then all the other ones. About Elly.

  About Elvira.

  About children falling over steep drops.

  About work.

  About the accident he never experienced but was a victim of.

  About white dresses.

  About fish flapping around in the bottom of a green hardboard boat.

  * * *

  —

  Oskar knows his dreams. He keeps them on a leash. He knows his reality. Oskar is a man who has made thousands of choices. He never got confused. He has avoided chaos. He has chosen. Whether he has made the right choices is another matter. But with his hand in Elvira’s, Oskar has always made choices. Opted for, against, then for again. Chosen an allegiance, decided against it, decided in favor.

  * * *

  —

  The images that brush against his skin, embedded in the scent of an old man. Before the end of the road. The stump of an arm lying on his chest, rising and falling, rising and falling.

  * * *

  —

  He is lying in his sauna. The dreams are jostling for space. He is drawing closer.

  And he asks the narrator to give his regards.

  * * *

  —

  “What I liked in those days, and still do, is the way socialism battles solitude. We headed to the left and the further we went, the more crowded the ranks became. That’s how I met Elvira, after all. But now I look in the papers and there are whole pages full of notices in which people are falling on their knees, begging for companionship. And to think that this country has a so-called socialist government. Every one of those notices is terrible. People are so lonely. They say that their financial situation is good or bad, they identify themselves as male or female, they talk about their interests, and they’re on their knees pleading for companionship. Where the hell did socialism go? There was a time when we marched together. When we wanted change for the benefit of us all. It was almost like a contest without competition. Everyone wanted to give something to the person walking next to them, whom they hardly knew, but that never mattered. There was a time when we were happy to see someone new join the march, someone we hadn’t seen before. But nowadays people tend to get annoyed if someone new turns up. What the hell is he doing here? Is he a threat to my position?

  “It’s bad.

  “What do I care if they have long hair? All that matters is that they’re out there, marching and creating a racket. They’re more than welcome to smell like shit as far as I’m concerned, just so long as they’re there.

  “And if they were to throw stones through the windows of my boy’s laundry business, then that’s probably just as it should be. And you can quote me on that.

  “I’ve heard people say that they’ve seen enough workers to stop them from believing in the revolution. To which I say, or used to say: I’m amazed at how many mirrors you have hanging on the wall at home.

  “I don’t know if they understood what I meant. I hope they did, because they were just talking crap.”

  * * *

  —

  What happened to it? Oskar ducks the answer. He knows, he knows perfectly well. But he feels guilty, and then the extent of his own involvement becomes unclear and uncertain. Time and again he blurts out: One single blast. And give my regards.

  * * *

  —

  My name is Oskar.

  Johansson, former rock blaster.

  “I don’t have much in the way of hands, but I can still pitch in. And I know I look bloody awful with just one eye, but at least I can see.”

  My name is Oskar.

  I’m not afraid of you.

  I’ll tell you what I think of you.

  You can call me whatever you like.

  One day you’ll see.

  The summer cane bangs hard against the table leg. He drops it and I bend down and hand it to him.

  “One does get angry. That must be the last thing that goes.”

  * * *

  —

  Oskar. The unremarkable. Johansson in the trade union register. Johansson to the bosses. Johansson on his pension slip. Johansson to the election campaign organizers. Johansson to everybody.

  “I do have a king’s name but you must admit that it also sounds like thunder.”

  “Johansson is a good name. People understand it over the telephone without my having to spell it. And nobody gets it wrong.”

  * * *

  —

  One “S” or two?

  Does it matter?

  * * *

  —

  “I’m sure I still have our passport from the coach trip somewhere. It was a joint one for Elvira and me. The photographs were hilarious. Elvira looked as if she had a whole egg in her mouth. She wanted the pictures to be taken again, but I told her we shouldn’t be vain. Or should I put some lipstick on my left eye?”

  * * *

  —

  The dreams are red.

  The cane bangs against the table leg.

  Oskar is more than seventy years old.

  * * *

  —

  “El pueblo te defiende. I don’t know what it means, but when you see the photographs you get the message.”

  “If you look, you’ll see.”

  “Can you see the power of it?”

  “They have demands.”

  * * *

  —

  “Did you see?”

  “Did you see?”

  “What they want is a better life.”

  “You can take the paper with you if you want to read it. I know what it says.”

  “Half past four tomorrow, then.”

  “Bring some sugar if you have any.”

  * * *

  —

  “There are lots of flies.”

  “Half past four tomorrow, then. I’ll have coffee for you.”

  OSKAR JOHANSSON, 1888–1969

  Autumn, winter, spring. Nineteen sixty-eight to sixty-nine.

  * * *

  —

  Oskar leaves the island at the end of October. The oak trees are bare and there is snow in the air. The boat comes to pick him up at ten o’clock. The engine thuds and the man helps Oskar with his suitcase. Oskar
closes the door, locks it, and puts the key into his pocket. He is wearing a gray overcoat and a hat. The fisherman helps him into the boat. Oskar sits on a bench down in the cargo hold. All you can see sticking out is his hat and part of his forehead.

  The boat backs out, turns, and disappears around the headland.

  It is a Sunday. His son is there to meet him at the harbor on the mainland. Oskar settles into the backseat of the large American car. It vanishes up the hill. The gravel is hard and cold under the wheels.

  * * *

  —

  He sits at the kitchen table in his apartment on the ground floor. It is quiet. Distant sounds from the street barely touch him. The kitchen clock ticks. It is a quarter past seven. He has his coffee cup in front of him. A plate with cookies. A carton of milk. The wax tablecloth is beige. The winter cane, the black one, is lying on the table.

  He turns his head and looks straight at us. There is a scraping from the letter box and a thud against the hall mat. He gets up, takes his cane, and starts to walk out of the kitchen. He keeps close to the wall. He brushes past the sink, the closet, the doorpost, and he bends down to pick up a whole lot of papers of different colors scattered all over the floor by the front door. Then he hobbles back to the kitchen. When he bends down, he squeezes the cane into his right armpit and presses it firmly against his body. Then he swaps over, puts the pieces of paper under his armpit and holds the cane with his finger and thumb.

  * * *

  —

  He is sitting by the kitchen table and looking through the day’s mail. All advertising leaflets. He looks at them, one by one.

  * * *

  —