Wiesenthal — Simon: famous Nazi hunter
Sákar, Hútama — Muslim hells
What of it then if I warble …—from the Kalevala, the Finnish epic (Friberg trans.)
Väinämöinen — Hero of the Kalaevala
Myrberg — town in Västerbotten, Sweden
So weit die braune Heide …—An SS song: “As far as the brown heath goes, it belongs to us …”
Leshy — from Slavic mythology, a male woodland sprite
VIII
— Fuck me, soccer again! Grandpa complained, thumping down on the sofa bed’s bright red quilt. He’d just placed a tray holding a stack of danishes and a flask of Black Velvet onto the Perstorptable’s slick oilcloth.
— Goddamn game … who’s playing?
— Barcelona and PSV Eindhoven. Spaniards are in bluepurple. It’s the cupcupercup finale.
— Bunch of assgoblins, if you ask me, Grandpa frowned, pointing to the Dutch team. Satan’s bedlamites, that’s what they are! Couldn’t distinguish ciggifilter from ciggibutt! he exclaimed, getting riled up when a kick was blocked.
All Grandpa was wearing was a strawberrycolored T-shirt with the words “Korova Milk Bar” on it.
— What about those Dagos? Where are they from?
— Turkey, I think …
He dunked a pastry into his glass of whisky.
— That bear of a man, that bonnieblueeyes, that damn Frankenstein, where did he come from?
— You mean Cowman?
— Yeah, that guy!
— No idea … they probably bought him off some other team …
— What a whore!
Grandpa simmered down for a few minutes, simply sat there muttering to himself. Barcelona had the ball but wasn’t doing much with it. Just beating around the bush, while the Dutch just beat … off. No one, neither the players nor public, seemed to be having much fun. The ball just got kicked back and forth, while the crowd made faces and booed loudly. Finally, the teams slunk home, tails tucked; the commentator called them fucking homos; the judges on the sideline muttered their agreement; no one knew what the whole mess was good for. Watching a soccer game’s a little like life itself. You have to get gone before it starts to feel right. No matter what, everyone’s a loser. Clear goals and finesse are as rare as creativity and courage … And even then, once set in motion, they usually fall short. That’s life, Jack; most everything’s a disappointment.
— Ajax is a damn Kiketeam, Grandpa declared. And Tottenham! Hell, it’s all money and sex! No one has mercy on me! There’s been nothing worth cheering for since Heysel and Hillsborough! These aren’t big matches! They’re neutrinos! Mites! Nits and gnats! A bunch of fucking nonsense!
— That’s just how it is sometimes, I worked up the courage to say.
— So you have an opinion, do you! You who don’t even know what dry humor is yet! You’re so fucking smart it just fucking makes me want to fucking puke all over your fucking smartass face! If only I had something to puke up!
He farted disdainfully, Zsa Zsa Gabor style, and tossed back another glass of whiskey. I was drinking beer out of an old Bavarianstein with a lid. The stein had scenes from the traditional Lenthunt of little girls: big men ripping up rosy bellies and so forth. Now and then I took a fistful of chips from the washtub. But Grandpa was right, soccer is a surefire path to senility. For the emptyheaded among us, though, it doesn’t really matter.
— The World Cup has fifty-one matches! fifty-one! and not a single shot at a goal! just backwardpasses! throwins! gamestop-pages! Give me just one serious injury, for the love of God! But no! There are no stretchers in sight! Of course, they carried out that fogy with the grandma hair, you know the one—
— Valderrama—
— But he was up-and-at-’em again in a flash! Why do they bother with that sort! John Eldritch and Bo Jälefors!
— You know what I think is neat, Grandpa?
— Blowing a rabid hyena! Eating me out of house and home!
— No, that soccer demonstrates how a destructive defensive strategy is best. Maybe that could be useful someday …
— Useful! That you of all creatures in the galaxy dare to use that word! You were never of any use to anyone! and you never will be! not if you live until the sun falls from the sky and cowboys are walloped by Indians! I’ll tell you what useful is! useful is being happy! and happiness is to soar! There’s something to think about! you narcissistic little Hitlerjew!
At least Grandpa didn’t talk to me like he did when I was small. Back then he sounded like Heidegger, and sometimes like Artaudor Char. Him, the world’s worst backward hick. The wind stopped when he opened his mouth; he had an answer for every riddle. No one listened to him, though, so he gave up. When he did, God on high muttered a curse and breathed a sigh of relief; after all, his cover had nearly been blown … Back then, Grandpa liked to cram me full of all sorts of things. I remember him telling me how the Sandman was going to jump out of the closet and throw sand in my eyes. There was Plupp, Klas Klättermus, Babar … Prince Vibescu, Naked Lunch and Last Exit to Brooklyn … Curious George, The Satanic Bible, and Manus lawbook, naturally in Sanskrit … The Book of Dzyan … Beowulf … Froissart … Borel … Sorel.. Przybyszewski … Nechajev … Rathenau … Brehm … Codreanu … some old editions of Der Sturmer … Das Schwarze Korps … He really liked boring me to death … with Robert Müsli’s Mom Without Qualities … Hermann Broch’s Death ofSvebil … It made him hot when I started to cry, I was so goddamned tired … I wanted to sleep and never wake up … he just kept on torturing me … kept on kneading and kneading … the same boring, fucking old shit … again and again and again … people came and went, said their piece and did their thing … chokechains around their tongues … they had serious shit to offer, these guys, but I didn’t give a damn … I wanted to play on Death’s team … Ordinary match time ended, score’s nillnill … naturally … Too many overtimes, though, you can’t use them all.
Grandpa tottered off into the kitchen to get some snacks. He came back with an octagonal nickeltray piled high with coffee-beans, an eggcup with a lightbulb, roadsalt, castoroil, TetraMin, some slices of ryebread smeared with Oil of Ulay, a few Arlandapastries, and some silverfish. He sat down and immediately found the right tone. He was never long in venting his displeasure.
— Nancy and Raisa! Cunt versus cunt!
Grandpa rumbled on like Bruckner, his tailpipe hissing.
— An uphill struggle against a headwind for ninety years! Bridges and boats all burned! And yet the whole goddamn thing ends here! This here is nothing! It’s ghostshit! Satan’s ass, the things you’re forced to do! It’s like swapping feet with a loon! Like a mosquito pissing in the ocean! Like climbing a pinetree to fuck a knothole! Like fucking a juicy boytuft!
Varicose veins were swelling, arthritic joints were aching. Grandpa’s legs are chalky, white and spindly, worse than Åsa Lundgrens, the guy who wrote The Microcephalic Lappish Boy. There was a good chance the fun was about to end.
— PSV is keeping their team together, the announcer said … Chiquita hasn’t gotten much done … well see if they can’t step up the pace … coming back around the side …
— Laudrup is on his side of the field … against Roberto … Beguiristain … Salinas coming to his aid … Cochones back to Zubi-zarreta … who hammers the ball … signals … kicks … the Dutch defense has gotten organized … van Aerie back to van Breukelen … They’re playing like they’ve got Alzheimer’s, don’t you think?