Sleet. Stig Dagerman

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СКАЧАТЬ 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?” СКАЧАТЬ