Popular Music. Mikael Niemi
I took hold of the snake, the rigid black pick-up arm with its poisonous fang, as big as a toothpick. Then I lowered it onto the spinning plastic.
There was a crackling, like pork frying. I just knew something had broken. I’d ruined the record, it would be impossible to play it ever again.
BAM-BAM…BAM-BAM…
No, here it came! Brash chords! And then Elvis’s frantic voice.
I was petrified. Forgot to swallow, didn’t notice I was slavering. I felt dizzy, my head was spinning, I forgot to breathe.
This was the future. This was what it sounded like. Music like the bellowing of the road-building machines, a never-ending clatter, a commotion that roared away towards the crimson sunrise on the far horizon.
I leaned forward and looked out of the window. Smoke was rising from a tipper lorry, they were starting the final surfacing. But what the lorry was spewing forth was not black, shiny-leather asphalt. It was oil-bound gravel. Grey, lumpy, ugly, bloody oil-bound gravel.
That was the surface on which we inhabitants of Pajala would be cycling into the future.
When all the machines had finally gone away I started going for cautious little walks round about the neighbourhood. The world grew with every step I took. The newly surfaced road led to other newly surfaced roads, the gardens stretched away like leafy parks with giant dogs standing guard, barking at me and rattling their running chains. The further I walked, the more there was to see. The world never seemed to end, it just went on and on, and I felt so dizzy I was almost sick when it dawned on me that you could go on walking for ever. In the end I picked up courage and went over to Dad, who was busy washing our new Volvo PV:
‘How big is the world?’
‘It’s enormous,’ he said.
‘But it must stop somewhere, surely?’
‘In China.’
That was a straightforward answer that made me feel a bit better. If you walked far enough, you’d eventually come to an end. And that end was in the realm of the slitty-eyed ching-chong people on the other side of the globe.
It was summer and roasting hot. The front of my shirt was stained by drops from the ice-lolly I was licking. I left our garden, left my safe little world. I occasionally looked back over my shoulder, worried about getting lost.
I walked as far as the playground which was really an old hayfield that had survived in the middle of the village. The local authority had installed some swings, and I sat down on the narrow seat. Started heaving enthusiastically on the chains in order to build up speed.
The next moment I realised I was being watched. There was a boy sitting on the slide. Right up at the top, as if he were about to come down. But he was waiting, as motionless as a hawk, watching me with wide-open eyes.
I was on my guard. There was something worrying about the boy. He can’t have been sitting up there when I arrived, it was as if he’d materialised out of thin air. I tried to ignore him, and drove the swing up so dizzyingly high that the chains started to feel slack in my hands. I made no sound and closed my eyes, and could feel my stomach churning as I hurtled down in a curve faster and faster towards the ground, then up towards the sky on the other side.
When I opened my eyes again he was sitting in the sandpit. As if he’d flown there on outstretched wings: I hadn’t heard a thing. He was still watching me intently, although he was half-turned away from me.
I allowed the swing to come slowly to a stop, and in the end I jumped down onto the grass, did a forward roll and remained lying there on the ground. Stared up at the sky. Clouds were rolling over the river in patches of white. They were like big, woolly sheep lying asleep in the wind. When I closed my eyes I could see little creatures scuttling about on the inside of my eyelids. Small black dots creeping over a red membrane. When I shut my eyes tighter I could see little violet-coloured fellows in my stomach. They clambered over one another and traced patterns. So there were animals inside me as well, a whole new world to explore in there. I felt giddy as it dawned on me that the world was made up of masses of pockets, each of them enclosing the previous one. No matter how many layers you penetrated, there were more and more still to come.
I opened my eyes and gave a start. I was astonished to see the lad lying beside me. He was stretched out on his back right next to me, so close that I could feel the warmth of his body. His face was strangely small. His head was normal, but his features had been crammed into far too small a space. Like a doll’s face glued onto a large, brown, leather football. His hair had been clipped unevenly at home, and a scab was working its way loose on his forehead. His face was turned towards me. He was screwing up one eye, the upper one that was catching the sun. The other was lying in the grass and wide open, with an enormous pupil in which I could see my own reflection.
‘What’s your name?’ I wondered.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.
‘Mikas sinun nimi on?’ I repeated the question in Finnish.
Now he opened his mouth. It wasn’t a smile, but you could see his teeth. They were yellow, coated with bits of old food. He stuck his little finger into his nostril – the others were too big to fit in. I did the same. We each dug out a bogey. He stuck his into his mouth and swallowed. I hesitated. Quick as a flash he scraped mine off my finger and swallowed that as well.
I realised he wanted to be my friend.
We sat up in the grass, and I had an urge to impress him in return.
‘You can go wherever you like, you know!’
He was listening attentively, but I wasn’t sure if he’d understood.
‘Even as far as China,’ I added.
To show that I was serious I started walking towards the road. Confidently, with an affected, pompous air of self-assurance that concealed my nervousness. He followed me. We walked as far as the yellow-painted vicarage. There was a bus parked on the road outside, no doubt it had brought some tourists to see the Laestadius House which was just a few doors away. We bowed our heads in acknowledgement of the Bible-thumping evangelist who once lived there. The bus doors had been left open because of the heat, but there was no sign of the driver. I grabbed the lad and pulled him over to the steps, and we climbed aboard. There were suitcases and jackets lying on the seats, which smelt a bit damp. We sat right at the back and crouched down behind the back of the seats in front. Before long some old ladies got in and sat down, panting and sweating. They were speaking a language with a lot of waterfall sounds, and gulping down big swigs of lemonade straight from the bottle. Several more pensioners eventually came to join them, and then the driver turned up, paused outside to insert a wad of snuff into his mouth. Then we set off.
Wide-eyed and silent, we watched the countryside flash past. We soon left Pajala behind and breezed off into the wilds. Nothing but trees, trees without end. Old-fashioned telephone poles with porcelain insulators and wires sagging in the heat.
We’d gone several kilometres before anybody noticed us. I happened to bump against the seat in front, and a lady with pincushion cheeks turned round. I smiled expectantly. She smiled back, rummaged around in her handbag and then offered us a sweet from an unusual cloth-like bag. She said something I didn’t understand. Then she pointed at the driver and asked:
‘Papa?’
I nodded, my smile frozen.
‘Habt ihr Hunger?’ she asked.
Before we knew where we were she’d thrust a cheese roll into each of our hands.
After a long and shaky bus ride we pulled up in a large car park. Everybody got off, including me and my friend. In front of us was a big concrete building with a flat roof and high, spiky, metal aerials. Beyond it, behind a wire fence, were some propeller-driven aeroplanes. The bus driver opened a hatch and started pulling out bags and suitcases. The nice lady had far too much luggage and seemed to be under a lot of strain.