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?” she asked bluntly.
“We’ll wait till tonight,” his mother replied. She gave Håkan a quick wink.
That night the relatives arrived in cars from Uppsala and Gävle. The farmers who lived a long ways off came in yellow horse-drawn wagons. The bank clerk came and the store manager came, and in a short time the house was filled with laughter, talk, and the smell of food. Håkan stayed out in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and drying glasses. His mother ran between the living room and the kitchen with warm food and china. At one point, the store manager made a speech which tempted them out of the kitchen. They stood in the doorway, listening and watching. The store manager was already a little drunk and his voice seemed to lose itself in his throat. With a little trouble he pulled out a gold pocket watch from his vest pocket and presented it to the septuagenarian. Håkan’s grandfather wept in silence, a few small tears dropping stealthily into his brandy snifter. Next one of the tenant farmers talked, and then the bank clerk and the relatives from Uppsala and Gävle. Håkan’s mother nudged him in the side suggestively; soon it would be their turn.
The store manager had brought along a phonograph. It was sitting on the dresser next to the radio. Without drawing any attention to himself, Håkan smuggled the record over there. When they met in the dark, empty hallway, his mother whispered to him.
“Wait till after the coffee,” she said. “I’ll give you a nod.”
They drank their coffee with brandy, and spirits were high. Håkan’s mother cleared the table while he walked around the living room, passing out cigars and cigarettes. When he saw his mother step into the doorway a couple minutes later, Håkan caught the look in her eyes and made his way carefully over to the dresser. Meanwhile, his aunt was busy setting up the card table. The bank clerk, the store manager, and the organist dragged their chairs to the green card table and sat down. Håkan began to wind up the phonograph. The bank clerk dealt. Håkan’s mother nodded to him from the doorway. The four players picked up their cards, their faces glowing from liquor and laughter. Håkan’s grandfather was dealt a possible straight flush in spades, and he had the first bid. He was so beside himself with excitement that he dropped his cigar on the floor. Then he heard the radio come on, loud and irritating, from the corner of the room. It sounded like a lecture. He whirled around on Håkan.
“Will you turn that goddamn thing off!” he screamed. “…Two spades.”
Håkan turned it off. It no doubt put a big scratch in the record, but that made no difference. The pain ran through him, cold as an eel. A fine mist settled over his eyes and the red drunken faces in the room took on a dull metallic cast. Someone from Uppsala or Gävle laughed. And it was that laugh which drove him from the room, out through the hallway and into the darkness of the small back room. He came to a stop in the middle of the room with the record still in his hands. And it seemed to grow and grow, until at last it was as heavy as his own life. The door creaked open, and from the stream of light his mother stepped quietly towards him. He slipped into her arms with his pain, and her warm wet whispers caressed his cheek.
“Don’t cry, my boy,” she whispered. “Don’t you cry.”
But she herself was shaking and in tears.
Sleet
No, there will never be another afternoon like this. It simply couldn’t happen. Because it’s only once in the world that you’re nine years old, chopping the heads off carrots with your new Mora knife, having sleet in the middle of October, and with an aunt — or should I say your mother’s aunt — coming from America at seven-thirty. So here we are, sitting in the barn, cutting the tops off big muddy carrots. If you want to, it’s easy to pretend other things, like how it’s not really carrots that are losing their heads, but something totally different, like kids at school that you don’t like, or even vicious animals. Most of the time we don’t talk. We just cut, the green tops tumbling down between our feet, the headless carrots tossed out in long looping arcs to disappear in the bushel basket.
It smells good from all the freshly dug carrots. The tops are wet and when you get really dirty you can even wash yourself with them. Just like what Alvar does to Sigrid when she’s not watching out — how he jumps up from the upside-down pail, grabs her around the neck and rubs her face with the wet carrot tops till she screams and laughs. But this just makes Grampa lose his temper and start pointing his finger at Mama, who’s sitting next to me on the stool that Alvar uses when he shoes the horses.