The Rock Blaster

1911

“I’d met her half a year before the accident. Pretty much exactly half a year. We got serious in June. We hadn’t really talked much about getting married. But in those days, there was no question of anything else. If you met and started walking out, then you were supposed to marry. She was the same age as me. There were three days between us, she was just those few days older. We used to meet on Thursday evenings. The only time she could manage. She had four hours off then. She worked for the manager of a textile company, looking after his small children. A boy and twin girls. She slept in a room at the back of the nursery. She belonged to that generation of working-class girls who spent most of their youth with a middle-class family, tucked away either behind a kitchen or in the children’s room. She didn’t like children at all, but that was the only work she could find. Mostly we used to walk around town. I don’t really remember what we talked about nor what we looked at. We just walked.”

“But there’s one thing I do recall. It must have been about a month before the accident. It was graduation day at the town’s high school. A Thursday, and we were out walking. Then three of those students came toward us on the pavement and refused to make way, so she and I were both jostled. I remember it clearly. It’s usually those sorts of things that come back to me. Meaningless details like that.”

Elly comes out of the kitchen entrance. She is wearing a white dress, brown boots, and a black shawl over her shoulders. She is quite short, a little chubby. Round face. Fresh complexion and green eyes. Brown frizzy hair. Pinched lips. Her teeth are pale yellow and she has already lost one, in her upper jaw, just where her laugh usually ends.

Johansson is waiting outside the iron gate. He watches Elly walking down the broad gravel path that leads from the white three-story house. She gives an embarrassed little smile as she fumbles with the lock on the inside of the gate. Then they stand there, face-to-face; nod; and start walking along the pavement. They don’t talk. The air is warm. They go along a street with high iron railings on each side, high walls, white detached houses. They head for the centre of town, toward their own world.

“How’s it looking for you next Thursday?” Oskar asks Elly.

Elly answers, “I’m probably free then too.”

An orange tram clanks past on its way into town. They pause and look to see whether there are any familiar faces in the two carriages. They stand and watch it make a stop; a middle-aged couple gets off and strolls toward Oskar and Elly. A soft wind is blowing. Elly brushes her face with her hand, looks away from Oskar when she smiles. Oskar takes her hand. He has washed himself with special care today, as he does every Thursday.

A month from now his hand will be lying with outstretched fingers among dandelions, while the blasting crew stand looking at it numbly.

Oskar and Elly cut across the cobbled square. In the distance, three students are approaching.

“Latin was the worst. Enoksson’s never liked me. He’d have flunked me, given half a chance.”

Black patent-leather shoes, blue walking sticks with silver-grey tips. Quick, jerky steps over the cobbles. A black-clad foot which changes direction in mid-air, narrowly avoiding a brown, sticky heap of excrement.

“Just imagine, they failed seven people this year. Many of the classes were weak.”

“That’s those plebs.”

Patent-leather shoes, clattering footsteps.

“Now look at that. See the girl over there. In the white dress. She’s one of our maids. Got big breasts. I’m going to walk in on her one evening and grab a handful.”

“How much will you pay her?”

“Ten kronor, but then it’s the whole hog.”

“Have you done it before?”

“Of course. Twice.”

“With her?”

“With prettier ones.”

“Who’s she with?”

“Don’t know.”

“Shall we push them around a bit?”

“Yes, let’s.”

Patent-leather shoes, pointed ones. Silk socks. Grey woollen trousers. Jackets. The white student’s cap. Spots on their chins, their backs, their buttocks. Elbows that have not yet been sharpened jab Oskar and Elly in the side. A greeting, cigar out of the mouth, cap in slim hand.

“Good evening, Elly.”

Oskar says nothing. They walk on and he holds on to her hand. But then, trying to make it sound unimportant, he quickly asks:

“Did you know them?”

And Elly. Elly, you cannot leave this unanswered.

“He’s a son in the house where I work. From another marriage.”

“I see.”

Oskar’s face darkens. He slams his heels into the cobblestones. With jealousy welling up, he can feel an evil thought gnawing all the way down to the pit of his stomach.

“Fucking bastard. Did he shove you too?”

“A bit.”

Oskar looks like thunder. Fucking rock blaster, working-class pig, nothing but riffraff. Twelve children in a kitchen, another ten in the living room. Stack them up on top of each other. Rat-catchers. Mouldy food. Let them freeze. Block out the sun with tall white houses. Build our houses, and walls to shut out the sun. Pull their teeth, remove their vocal chords. Bang nails through their feet.

“What is it, Oskar?”

Elly pulls her hand away. She looks at him. He shakes his head.

“Nothing. I was just thinking.”

One more block to go. The sun’s setting.

“What were you thinking about?”

One more block.

“Nothing in particular. Shall we turn back?”

“Might as well.”

And already they have turned around. Piano music can be heard from an open window. Elly and Oskar. Elly and Oskar.

The town they have to cross: Wooden hovels clinging desperately to one another, propping each other up, warming each other. High white brick walls framing a square, screening off the slums. The short walk from the middle-class homes. The long way back.

Elly goes into her room beyond the nursery. The other girl is already asleep. Her blanket has slipped off. She is snoring, open-mouthed. The noise cuts into Elly’s ears. She takes off her white dress. Without knowing why, she pushes it under her end of the long, narrow pillow. Clambers over her bedfellow and lies down against the wall. Slowly, she runs her little fingernail along the wallpaper. She thinks she can see a tram in the white-brown pattern. She falls asleep with that image in her mind.

As to Elly: in the spring of 1911 she is twenty-three years old. Her employer is the manager of a textile company in the town.

As to Oskar: He is wandering through the streets. In seven hours, he will be standing in front of Norström holding his metal spike in his hand.