XIX
Today we went into Kåge and tried to prostitute ourselves at the foundry. But the proletarian bullocks wouldn’t play along.
— It’s the dogdays of summer. It makes them priggish, Grandpa said reassuringly.
— Doesn’t matter anyway, you fucking pricks! he hissed at the foreman, who was throwing us out.
Down in front of the foundry, goldbrown, frothtipped wavelets lapped at the river’s rough black boulders. Thistles and nettles lined our path, which led to the bridge. As we crossed the river, I looked between the boards at the black vortex that gurgled and churned away below us, a skinny, washedout kid, naked from the waist down, wearing an oversized cardigan patterned with vipers. Life’s a ghastly affair — I’d never make it without Grandpa. I only wish he’d say he liked me every now and then. The water at the bridge’s base was calmer. A newborn intestineshimmering Lapp baby in a birchbarkbasket was floating there. It’d probably made it all the way from the Kågeälven’s unknown source. A miracle. Not that it was much longer for this world. A hundred-kilo pike awkwardly glided up from the river’s muddy bottom and crunched basket and newborn between its divinely beautiful jaws. It was fucking hilarious, but Grandpa was in one of those moods. He punched me in the small of my back and started yelling.
— What the fuck are you looking at?! Keep moving, or I’ll give you something straight out of Brueghel and Bosch!
I kept moving, since I’d rather keep it like Bauer and Beskow. From the bridge, we could see the ravaged village square. Overhead the sun was blotchy, the sky was watery, the earth was the color of old skin. Summer was wheezing its last, and the soursweet dusk of a late summer day closed around this smokeeating town like an ulcered mouth around a cankersore. The sky was a chamberpot upended over an embonpoint landscape. The area around the church was overgrown with weeds, but the bush down by the river was tamer. Roots hung helterdeeskelter over the gouged-out, ratinfested bank. In Kåge, the grass is always yellower; the buildings look like they were built in the blink of a blind man’s eye. Every house is a different color, they’re built wherever people get the whim to build them. Kåges a boil on the butt of the Bay of Bothnia, and the folk in these parts are a homicidal bunch. They’ve got ostisch and fälisch strains in them, most of them think that the meaning of life’s in spreading garbage around and polluting as much as possible. They’re vultures, most wear kerchiefs to parties. They love dirtyjobs, and in their freetime, they like to lay back and gobble dicks. They begrudge everyone everything, they’re quick to anger and quicker in bed. Bigmouthed, but small between the legs. They’re coarse and mean. Rude and prude. In Kåge, existence is an open saltandpeppered wound, andthey kill joy wherever they find it, no one has the cowballs to do otherwise. The true Kågeborner is slackjawed and secondrate, content to go behind his neighbors back and talk trash. They fuck women, but never redheads. And their faith in bwana Namnam is highly adequate.
— Kåge is an udumucavern blessed by Satan, Grandpa said during the trip from Helvetesliden, and there’s something to that. The most remarkable thing Kåge ever produced is Margot Wallström, and that’s saying a helluva lot.
When we were approaching the rivers north bank, Grandpa pointed out one of the area’s main attractions, which was located about a hundred and fifty meters upstream from where we were standing: over the years, around two hundred suicidecorpses had gotten stuck in the barbedwiretangle that borders Eelspit, and there they stew to this day.
— My old flame’s down there, Mauritz Hamilton, Grandpa reminisced. He went down into the river sometime in the mid thirties, thought he was going hetero. We had a honeysweet romance in old man Wonkowaara’s loo. You see, being laidback and easygoing is its own reward.
We strolled nonchalantly toward Sällbergs Meat and Gristle, hoping to run across Pulli and Nyllet. When we knocked, though, all we got was Vivo, wrinkled as a wet ballsack and with a ciggi dangling from each nostril.
— Wherethehell s Pulli and Nyllet? Grandpa demanded.
— Hooked up to respirators. Suicidepact. Tried to suffocate each other with their dicks.
— Ooh, that’s horrible! Grandpa screeched, lighting a ciggibutt, whatever could’ve gotten into them? Nyllet was so fucking sug-arysweet, he had peachfuzz inside of him! And Pulli, Godforbid! he was just made to suck you deep!
— Too true, Vivo smiled.
— How long have you two been married? Grandpa croaked, ashing in Vivos hair.
— Don’t really know. But now it looks like I’m all by my lonesome, she said, scratching her crotch.
— But Vivo, you old bonedry cowcunt, you wouldn’t happen to know if Ditti or Amos would be up for a little harmless flirtation, would you? said Grandpa, warbling like a fucking swingkid.
— I heard Ditti was shitting himself after he let himself be duped into some gang hankypanky with a group of Polacks down by the docks, all for a keg of beer. And Amos just moved in with Björn-motherhexer. As of now, he’s only got eyes for one.
— What about Gammsagge Ahlgren, the organgrinding queer?
— All he wants to do nowadays is pretty up young Mormon boys, cackled Vivo. But you can try it with Tattar-Torsten up in Högsen, I hear he’s like a cat in heat.
— Hell no, I’d rather diddle a woman, Grandpa blasphemed.
— You sweet man, I’ve always said there’s no finer gent in all of Kågedell than old Grandpageezer, Vivo lisped and licked her lips. That got Grandpa shaking in his boots. Just to be safe, he beat her with his cane until she swayed, lost her wig, and collapsed. Then we hauled ass back across the bridge.
— Hell, that Vivo’s nasty as Old Nick, I squeaked.
Grandpa was trembling so bad he’d pissed his snowboots.
— I thought it was all over, mite, he finally stammered. Did you see her eyefucking me? I never thought I’d live to see the day when it was so hard to drum up a little action around here.
— We can hide in the bushes around the kindergarten and snap up a boy or two to fondle, I suggested.
— Nah, I’ve lost the urge, Grandpa sighed. Women — they just make me limp. But pull up a chair and listen here. What say you go and nab us some bacon and old Swissrolls and then we’ll surprise Hilding Dahlgren at the old folk’s home. Oh, and if they’ve got issue twenty-nine of My Life’s Novel, grab it. Meet me at the church afterward, I like to shit in peace! He was still yelling as I made my way to the supermarket to nab what we needed.
I watched out for the girls making faces at me, but then I almost got lost. Behind the parish house a tobaccopug was tonguing a kidneystone buyer from Istermyrliden. At that same moment, a tbs. of people came dripping out of Kågebadets gates and shrieked and laughed at me. A few of them picked up rocks and gave chase. When they caught me, they punched me in the stomach and kicked me in the head.
When I woke up, they were gone. Luckily, the church was close by. I went inside and immediately got hot. Grandpa was sitting on the altar chainsmoking. His pants were down around his knees, those long legs of his were hanging loose, and God’s house was chockfull of his uncleanness. But he was pissy and kept his distance.
— You took your time! he exclaimed, coughing a Dzerzhinsky cough and boxing my ear.
— I had to suck J.O. at the hardware store to get some of this paint thinner, I said defensively.
— Is that right? Grandpa asked, clearing his throat. Now clean me.
I tonguescrubbed his sweetspot until he started to protest.
— Okay, cowboy, enough with the fine tuning!
He pulled up his pants and snuffed his ciggi out on Jesus’s left nipple.