Caroline Åberg - Stockholm Noir

The young man grips the narrow stem of the glass with three fingers and lifts it up a few millimeters before setting it back down on the table. He closes his eyes. His chest heaves twice. Then, in one swift movement, he brings the glass to his lips and drinks it all down. He grins crookedly with his mangled lips. The girl pulls the cork from the bottle with a plop and he nods. She fills it to the brim again before he waves her away.

The front door opens again; the leather curtain is drawn aside and the breeze makes the flames of the candles dance. One flickers out. A black line of smoke drifts toward the ceiling. The cat jumps softly down onto the sawdust. He lifts one of his forepaws and shakes it slightly before he heads toward the door. He slides between the newcomer’s well-polished leather boots and disappears outside. The constant clatter of machines stops suddenly when the whistle of the factory signals the end of the workday.

The new arrival bends his head slightly to avoid hitting the top of the doorframe with the bowler hat that sits atop his head. He has a rolled-up newspaper under one arm while in his large hand he carries something wrapped in an oil-stained piece of sackcloth. With his free hand, he fishes out a watch with a gold chain from his vest pocket. He checks it and looks around. The bartender nods toward him and he nods back. The woman in the corner hastily stubs out her cigarette in the enamel cup. She gathers her skirts and disappears out the door behind the man’s back. The door slams shut behind her with an echoing thud.

The burly newcomer slips his watch back into his pocket. He glances around the room one more time before he moves forward to the table where the youth with the cleft palate is sitting. In the total silence in the wake of the stopped machines, the other people in the room can hear the young man inhale deeply. The large man smiles broadly and sits down across from him. There’s a clunk of metal as he sets the sackcloth on the table. The youth nods in greeting and stares down at the full schnapps glass in front of him.

The bartender goes over with a filthy rag and wipes down the table, avoiding the sackcloth bundle and newspaper between the two men. He brushes crumbs into his cupped hand as he speaks.

“Good that Belzén sent you, Hickan. I sent word to him two days ago that I—”

The man called Hickan holds up his hand. “I’m here for another reason.”

“I understand, I understand! Do you want the usual?”

Hickan nods. “The usual.”

The youth glances up for a second. Both of the men at the bar are counting coins. They put their money on the counter and head out the door without waiting for change.

The bartender comes back with a bottle of Estonian vodka. He fills a schnapps glass for Hickan as Hickan stares at the youth. The bartender sets the bottle on the table and walks away. Hickan smiles as he lifts his glass.

“For better luck next time!”

Both men throw back their heads and let the schnapps run down their throats. Hickan shrugs his shoulders and shudders. The youth runs a finger over his thin mustache as he glances at the package in front of him. Hickan takes out cigarette paper and a small silver box, placing both on the table.

“So, how are things on the islands?” Hickan removes the lid from his silver box. There’s a slight whisper as he drops tobacco into the cigarette paper he keeps pinched between his fingers.

The youth clears his throat: “The windstorm last week got up to gale force eleven.” His voice is high-pitched, and he has a slight lisp.

“And?”

“The gale hit when we were out. The boathouse, where we live right now, lost part of its roof. Lindén up on the hill was able to loan us some sheet metal to keep the water out for a while.”

“There was a bit of wind here in the city as well.”

Hickan rolls the tobacco in the paper, licking the adhesive side, sealing the seam of the cigarette tightly. The youth keeps stroking his sparse mustache.

“I was with Lindén and we had to anchor that night with a defective engine. We drifted a few hundred meters and then the chain broke. I put together a sail from a bunk to guide our drift.”

“And that worked?”

“With Neptune’s help, as Lindén put it.”

“You archipelago fishermen have always been resourceful.”

“You take what you have and you do what you can.”

“I have a story about Olsson, the Berghamn pilot. You know him?”

“Only by name.”

“Oh well, I’ll leave it for another time, then.”

The match scratches against the tabletop and flares as Hickan lights his cigarette. He rolls it between his fingers and watches the smoke curl and make its way to the soot-covered ceiling.

“I used to smoke that English brand Mixture but it got difficult to get ahold of. During the war, I started smoking Windsor, but it was too harsh for me. Now I keep changing brands, but I can’t seem to find one I like. This one is Perstorps Prima.” Hickan nods toward the silver box. “You’re welcome to roll one of your own.”

“No thanks. I prefer to chew.”

Hickan smiles and brushes some ashes from the tabletop. Behind him, the bartender is putting clean glasses on the shelf. They clink as they touch.

“So I hear your engine broke down the day before yesterday.” The end of Hickan’s cigarette burns through a full centimeter of paper.

The youth nods and looks away. “The coast guard was after me.”

“Yeah?”

The youth clears his throat. “Yeah, they were after me. I was pushing the engine hard and thought I’d gotten away when it started dying just outside of Yxlan. Pund-Ville was on the island and saw what was going on so he fired a couple of shots into the air to distract them. But it didn’t work. A few minutes later, the engine died completely.”

“I had two men waiting for you in Gröndal.”

“The boat is ready to go. I fixed it. The fuel looked like coffee grounds when I pumped it out. I took the whole motor apart and cleaned it. I even paid for a new filter.”

“And the barrels of alcohol?”

“The engine works just fine now, even better than before. It purrs like a kitten.”

“The barrels?”

“I had no choice.”

“Can you search for them in the water?”

“Not in Norrviken. It’s too deep.”

Hickan stubs out his cigarette in the mug. There’s a slight glug-glug sound from the bottle as he refills their drinks. He lifts his own glass while putting his other hand on the sackcloth package.

“If the coast guard caught you with the alcohol, at least there’d be a written report. Now we have nothing but your word.”

The youth stares down at the table. The back door creaks and then slams shut, as the bartender and his helper slip out. Someone inserts a key from the outside and there’s a thud as the bolt slides home. Hickan nods toward the young man’s glass.

“I imagine you’re too young to remember that pub called Hamburg Cellars? They closed about seven or eight years back.”

The youth lifts his glass with a shaking hand. Hickan smiles.

“It wasn’t much bigger than this place here, but it had an interesting story. You could find it at the crossroads of Götgatan and Folkungagatan not far from Södra Bantorget. The horses would stop there on their way to the gallows at Skanstull. In this country, we’ve always thought a man deserves one last drink. A nice custom, don’t you think?”

Drops of liquor spill between the fingers of the youth’s shaking hand. Sweat slides down his face beneath his sailor’s cap.

“They had a special cupboard there. All the glasses were on display. They engraved the name and the date.”

The spilled liquor collects in one of the grooves in the table, making a small pool.