Читать книгу Sleet - Stig Dagerman - Страница 9

There are some people who never do anything to be loved and yet still are. And then there are those who do everything to be loved, but never are. The very poor, it could be said, often find it hard to be loved. When Håkan’s mother had been a widow for five years, her father-in-law turned seventy. They were invited to his birthday celebration in the form of a short, curt letter some eight lines long; it read:

Of course you’re free to come if you want to, Elsa, but you got to bring your own bedding ’cause its cold in the back room. Besides, some people’s probably gonna have to sleep in the hallway. You ain’t the only ones coming. There’s the bank clerk and the store manager Mr. Jonsson. Both of them’s been invited and they’ll probably sleep in the living room. If you can come up a day ahead of time, then that would be nice. We’ll need some help with the cleaning and the tables and the cooking.

Best,

Irma

p.s. I’m sure there’s a few other things, like the dishes and such, that’ll have to be taken care of afterwards, and maybe Håkan can chop some firewood.

Håkan’s mother read the letter out loud one night under the lamp. She was tired and she gripped the edge of the writing table with both hands as she read. For the whole day she had been cleaning the ceiling of a large, lush apartment in Östermalm, and she had a terrible headache from all the hours spent with her head crooked upwards. After she finished reading, both she and Håkan sat quietly for a while without looking at one another. Håkan began flipping through his geography book: the waterfalls at Trollhättan have a natural beauty … the Dutch are a cleanly folk who scrub their pavements daily … under Mussolini’s harsh but effective rule, these unsanitary swamps were nonetheless drained … from Chile comes a fertilizer we call guano …

Håkan’s mother stared out into the room. Her hands were completely alone as they crumpled the letter into a rough ball. As he looked at those hands, Håkan could see that they were ashamed. The hands of the poor are always ashamed. They worked to smooth out the letter again, but it kept its wrinkles, like the face of an old woman.

That night the light burned long over the small desk, and Håkan went to sleep quite late. For a while he thought his mother had fallen asleep with the light on. But when he raised himself up carefully on his elbows, he could see that her eyes were still open. And he could see her hands on top of the blanket, at first crumpling up and then smoothing back out a small invisible letter.

The next night the light burned even longer. Fully dressed, his mother sat at his father’s old desk, writing. It was a letter that never seemed to be finished. By the time Håkan went to sleep, the desk top was littered with wadded balls of inkstained paper. When he awoke in the middle of the night, it was cold, and his mother was sitting on the edge of his bed. She was holding her hand on his forehead, as if he were running a fever. She waited until he was fully awake and then looked him in the eyes.

“It’s only twelve o’clock,” she said. “How do you spell ‘century’? With a ‘c’ or an ‘s’?”

The alarm clock said quarter past one. “C,” he whispered. He heard her tiptoe quietly back to the small desk and begin scratching with her pen. Then he fell back to sleep and slept the deep sleep of a child until morning.

The next day she was standing outside the school gate, waiting for him. Like all children with poor mothers he was ashamed at first and pretended that he didn’t know her. He crossed the street with his friends, parted company, and then timidly made his way back. His mother sensed his anxiety, and she did not take his hand until they were completely alone on the street. They rode the trolley down towards the city, sitting opposite one another, looking at each other’s hands. When they got off the car, she took him again by the hand and led him through the rush-hour crowd along the bustling rows of shops on Drottninggatan. They stopped in front of a big, fancy store with a window full of flashing lights. Håkan’s mother stood there for a minute, pretending to read the signs in the window. There were several English phonograph records on display, and she read their titles without understanding them. When at last they went inside, she pushed Håkan out in front of her like a shield.

In fancy stores the salesgirls are always your enemies. When you talk to them you suddenly feel embarrassed and stammer. “What can I do for you?” they say, so arrogant, as if they’re speaking to you in some foreign language. And immediately you translate – “Can you really afford it?”

“We want to talk into a record,” said Håkan’s mother. “You see, his grandfather’s turning seventy, and he wrote this poem that he wants to say into the record.”

They had to sit and wait a while until the recording booth was free. The bench was made of metal, and they sat vulnerably out on its edge, whispering. Håkan’s mother gave him a note. It was the poem she had written the night before. He read it, but understood nothing. While he was reading he could not keep his mind off the salesgirls in their pure white work blouses. It seemed to Håkan that they were staring at him from behind the counter, and his face flushed red from shame and dismay. His mother looked around.

“Don’t forget the rhymes,” she whispered. “And make sure you talk loud.”

Håkan’s eyes struggled with the words on the page to the point of tearing, and he stared at the rhymes until they echoed inside him: seventy years old – young and bold; your loving wife – the stream of life; hard at work – no duties shirked; sewed your seeds – dropped their leaves; horses and plows – feeding the cows; to make things nice – your sacrifice; on this glad day – happy birthday.

When they entered the hot, cramped booth, the air was still thick from the heavy perfume of a woman who had just finished singing in there, and Håkan’s throat suddenly seized up, locking his voice within. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t get a single sound to come out. His mother stood behind him, holding him by the shoulders. To Håkan, it felt as though she was about to strangle him. The sweat ran down his back in large, hot drops. But when everything was set and the recorder began to hiss and rasp, he found that he still did have a voice after all. The words came loose and filled his voice – big words, solemn impressive words – and he read the first line like a priest. When he was finished, there was still some room left on the record, so his mother bent forward and sang into the microphone in her mild Christmas Eve voice: “Happy Birthday to you … Happy Birthday to you …”

That whole evening she could not stop talking about what a good job he’d done, about what a surprise it was going to be for Grampa and the other farmers in the village, for the relatives from Uppsala and Gävle, and for the bank clerk and the store manager. What a surprise they’d all get when she wound up the phonograph and put the record on. Many times that night she simply sat and looked at Håkan, her eyes alive with pride. Sometimes she would fold her hands beneath the light and sit there quietly for a while. But then, sooner or later, she’d begin it all over again.

The next night she disappeared from the apartment with a mysterious smile on her lips. She came back shortly afterward with a portable phonograph she had borrowed from the neighbors. She set it down in the middle of the table and put the record on, handling it as if it were a relic, something that shouldn’t be touched. She wound the crank and lowered the needle tenderly onto the spinning disk.

They sat beneath the lamp and listened.

It began with a harsh scratching noise, and at first Håkan’s mother stiffened, her eyes tense and watchful. But then a soft panting arose from the speaker, and immediately Håkan was embarrassed because he knew it was his. However, he didn’t recognize the voice that followed. He thought about saying that the store must’ve cheated them. But when he turned towards his mother, she looked back at him with such delight in her face that he understood at once – the voice was his after all. At the end, when her song came on, Håkan’s mother tried to look away. But he smiled at her over the phonograph, until at last she smiled back.

A moment later, when the record was over, she turned to Håkan.

“I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt if we played it one more time. I’m sure it could stand that much.”

They listened to it another time. And later on, when they took off their clothes for the evening, she put it on yet another time, somewhat unknowingly, as if it had happened on accident. In the middle of the night Håkan awoke from a rainbow dream. The room was empty, but from the kitchen he could hear his own unfamiliar voice. He fell back to sleep with her song in his ears. The next night they heard the record four more times, and each time somewhat unintentionally.

One Friday in March they stepped off a train in the village. It smelled of smoke and melting snow. No one met them at the station, but Håkan’s mother told him that was only natural, considering all the preparations they had to make for the party. It was slippery on the road, and they had to walk a very long way. Håkan wanted to carry the suitcase, but she wouldn’t let him. However, along the way she began to feel palpitations and was no longer able to manage it on her own. From there on he would have to carry it – but only if he was very, very careful. Inside was the record, wrapped up in thick layers of newspaper, like a poor man’s only eggs.

No one was standing on the porch when they got there. They had always done that when his father was alive. Håkan and his mother stepped right into the kitchen. At the table sat his grandfather with a newspaper spread out in front of him. His aunt was standing by the stove, stirring a big pot. His grandfather looked up from the paper and his aunt let the ladle slip from her hand.

“If it ain’t the widow,” said Håkan’s grandfather. “What you got in the bag? Not a present, I’ll bet.”

He went back to his reading, as if he had already forgotten they were there. Håkan’s aunt nodded to them and then took up the ladle again. They stood abandoned in the middle of the room. Håkan watched his mother’s eyes wander nervously about the kitchen, from the potted plants to the copper pots and pans. It was the fifth year she looked like a widow, dressed in black, thin and alone. Suddenly she looked down at Håkan with a conspiratory pleasure in her eyes.

“It’s a surprise,” she said.

But only Håkan heard her.

“You can start with the floor in the living room,” said his aunt. “And Håkan, he can go out to the woodshed.”

Late in the evening Håkan’s mother came out to him in the woodshed. She put her hand on the axe, sat down on the chopping block, and ran her fingers through his hair. She said nothing. She was dressed like a scrubwoman. She brushed the wood chips off his shirt.

That night they slept on the same couch in the tiny back room. When they were finally alone, late in the evening, she unpacked the suitcase and stood for a while under the lamp, holding the record tenderly in her hands.

They were up early the next morning, stringing garlands from the living room ceiling. A little while later the church organist stopped by with a few of the local farmers, and they presented Håkan’s grandfather with a silver-handled cane. They sat in the living room, drinking coffee and brandy. As they were getting ready to leave at ten o’clock, a few of the men helped Håkan’s grandfather over to the couch. Just then Håkan’s aunt turned to his mother.

“And what about your surprise?” she asked bluntly.

“We’ll wait till tonight,” his mother replied. She gave Håkan a quick wink.

That night the relatives arrived in cars from Uppsala and Gävle. The farmers who lived a long ways off came in yellow horse-drawn wagons. The bank clerk came and the store manager came, and in a short time the house was filled with laughter, talk, and the smell of food. Håkan stayed out in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and drying glasses. His mother ran between the living room and the kitchen with warm food and china. At one point, the store manager made a speech which tempted them out of the kitchen. They stood in the doorway, listening and watching. The store manager was already a little drunk and his voice seemed to lose itself in his throat. With a little trouble he pulled out a gold pocket watch from his vest pocket and presented it to the septuagenarian. Håkan’s grandfather wept in silence, a few small tears dropping stealthily into his brandy snifter. Next one of the tenant farmers talked, and then the bank clerk and the relatives from Uppsala and Gävle. Håkan’s mother nudged him in the side suggestively; soon it would be their turn.

The store manager had brought along a phonograph. It was sitting on the dresser next to the radio. Without drawing any attention to himself, Håkan smuggled the record over there. When they met in the dark, empty hallway, his mother whispered to him.

“Wait till after the coffee,” she said. “I’ll give you a nod.”

They drank their coffee with brandy, and spirits were high. Håkan’s mother cleared the table while he walked around the living room, passing out cigars and cigarettes. When he saw his mother step into the doorway a couple minutes later, Håkan caught the look in her eyes and made his way carefully over to the dresser. Meanwhile, his aunt was busy setting up the card table. The bank clerk, the store manager, and the organist dragged their chairs to the green card table and sat down. Håkan began to wind up the phonograph. The bank clerk dealt. Håkan’s mother nodded to him from the doorway. The four players picked up their cards, their faces glowing from liquor and laughter. Håkan’s grandfather was dealt a possible straight flush in spades, and he had the first bid. He was so beside himself with excitement that he dropped his cigar on the floor. Then he heard the radio come on, loud and irritating, from the corner of the room. It sounded like a lecture. He whirled around on Håkan.

“Will you turn that goddamn thing off!” he screamed. “…Two spades.”

Håkan turned it off. It no doubt put a big scratch in the record, but that made no difference. The pain ran through him, cold as an eel. A fine mist settled over his eyes and the red drunken faces in the room took on a dull metallic cast. Someone from Uppsala or Gävle laughed. And it was that laugh which drove him from the room, out through the hallway and into the darkness of the small back room. He came to a stop in the middle of the room with the record still in his hands. And it seemed to grow and grow, until at last it was as heavy as his own life. The door creaked open, and from the stream of light his mother stepped quietly towards him. He slipped into her arms with his pain, and her warm wet whispers caressed his cheek.

“Don’t cry, my boy,” she whispered. “Don’t you cry.”

But she herself was shaking and in tears.