The Rock Blaster

The Oar Strokes

Oskar moves his oars in time with his breathing.

His many voices form a whole which does not actually exist.

Oskar is distorting his own history. He claims a poor memory, that none of it is important, that he does not feel like talking about it. He picks fragments out of his story and gives a terse account of them, while drumming his index finger on the wax tablecloth. Rarely answers questions. Doesn’t avoid them, but his replies are always ambiguous and open-ended.

His way of being evasive.

“Others have already described it so well.”

“I don’t really remember that bit.”

Surely you can’t have forgotten.

We are sitting on the bench outside the sauna. Hitting out at flies, mending nets, drinking coffee, and occasionally Oskar mentions something in passing. I hear the words, close up the gaps between them, fill in the margins.

Oskar Johansson, the rock blaster with the damaged body. He is there, and he mentions something in passing. His sentences weave in and out.

The alarm clock keeps ringing, harsh and unrelenting, and the sauna is always the same distance away.

We sit in the rowing boat.

Oskar’s flat tone as he counts the fish we catch.

The playing cards, Radio Nord, frequencies and blue-speckled cups.

And the narrator?

Oskar thinks he is too slow at pulling up the nets.