Gentlemen (Klas Ostergren) (FO8) Read online

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been some mistake,’ I finally managed to say. ‘I have an appointment with Mr Wijkman about applying for a job as a groundskeeper.’

  The secretary was quite startled, and at that very moment the man who turned out to be Mr Wijkman, the managing director, came out of his office. Naturally he assumed the look of a large, sun-tanned question mark when he saw us in that situation, so difficult to interpret. A misunderstanding had occurred. The secretary had thought that I was from the company that made copies of dossiers, under strict confidentiality.

  Both Mr Wijkman and the secretary apologised profusely. Of course I claimed to have known all along what was going on, and I think they both realised that they were dealing with a real little joker. It’s a part of my daily life. I’m regularly mistaken for someone else, and people are always apologising to me profusely, which often gives me an advantage. Sometimes it’s the beginning of quite an interesting acquaintance. It’s an excellent position to be in when applying for a job, as in this case, if your future boss has to start off with an apology. It feels invigorating.

  After this little farce – a fine example of the type of complication that Molière made his trademark – Mr Wijkman invited me into his elegant office. We immediately began discussing life in Stockholm in early summer, sailing, golf, his daughter and taxes.

  Mr Wijkman and I hit it off at once, even though he thought it was a bit strange that I didn’t have a job and wasn’t a student either. That didn’t really add up for him, but we were certainly not going to talk politics.

  The meeting ended with me getting the job, and I was supposed to show up at the golf course the first week of June, when the regular groundskeeper would be on holiday. My temporary position would last all summer long. The salary didn’t exactly make me fall on the floor in paroxysms of glee, but on the other hand the job did include meals and lodging in a little bungalow a stone’s throw from the clubhouse. It sounded promising. Wijkman also intimated – an extremely discreet intimation, man-to-man – that a certain amount of high life went on at the club, in which I, with my alert mind and polished style, surely could participate and enjoy particular benefits.

  _______

  The first week of June started off splendidly. The weather was glorious and all of Stockholm was panting in the heatwave. The pavement cafés were full, and everyone was waiting for Midsummer, when they could finally get out of the city, which was nevertheless displaying a remarkable, though arguable, charm at the time. Everyone complains about the heat, and yet they love it, as long as they can go out and lie on the grass in the park. Sitting indoors in an office or standing in a workshop in the worst heat is absolutely unbearable. I myself was quite pleased to be moving out to the country, over twelve miles north-east of Stockholm, to a bungalow on a golf course.

  The girl who lived next door to me was going to take care of my plants and post, and everything was packed up and ready. Errol gave me a lift out there in his high-class Mercedes with the diplomatic number plates. His golf clubs were casually tossed on the back seat, and the boot was full of my luggage. I had brought along work clothes, ordinary gear, and some nicer things for relaxing summer evenings at the country club.

  ‘The danger is that you might drink up your whole salary at the club,’ said Errol. ‘That’s easy to do.’

  ‘Can’t I get some sort of discount?’ I asked optimistically.

  ‘Possibly. But the bartender is a really tough customer. The cold type.’

  ‘Damn. Well, never mind. I’m sure I’ll figure something out. I’m planning to spend a lot of the evenings reading and working.’

  Errol laughed his Danish laugh.

  ‘Is it your books that weigh so much?’

  ‘They’re probably a good couple of stone,’ I said.

  ‘Two stone,’ repeated Errol. ‘Right, well, I think you’ll be happy if you even manage to read the newspaper.’

  ‘You know nothing about my moral tenacity,’ I said.

  Out at the club I was introduced to the rank and file, the servants. There were a few of Wijkman’s subordinates, whose duties seemed quite loosely defined, the waiters and kitchen workers at the restaurant, as well as the bartender who, true to reputation was an insolent, cold man named Rikard but known as ‘Rocks’.

  After the tour of the estimable clubhouse, it was time to have a look at the machinery. I was escorted around by an up-and-coming young guy in his thirties, a real Young Turk, whose name I didn’t even bother to remember. All he had on his mind was everything I was not allowed to do. His manner of speaking was like one long negation of existence, filled with prohibitions and felonies. I was not supposed to mow this way or that, or mow here or there, or drive too close to the club, or disturb the guests. And I was absolutely forbidden to lie down and sunbathe in full view up in the rough beyond the fairway. Also typical of this Young Turk was the fact that he didn’t know a single thing about how the machinery functioned. There were two big Westing tractors that pulled a mower system for the fairway, a small Smith & Stevens tractor with very wide, soft tyres for the greens, as well as a couple of push mowers for various special purposes.

  Grass, and golf-course grass in particular, is a whole science unto itself, as I soon realised, and my only task was to mow it. If I discovered bare patches or other mysterious phenomena I was immediately supposed to contact the consultants – experts in the field who would provide the appropriate remedies.

  After the machinery, the tour finally headed for the celebrated bungalow which would be my lodgings. It turned out to be quite an elegant building, long and low, nestling on a gentle slope behind the club itself. A few of the rooms were occasionally used by the employees, or ‘the staff’, as the very American Young Turk liked to call the rank and file. But most of them commuted from the city to the club, so for the most part I could count on peace and quiet.

  My room faced east, had sunlight most of the day, and offered a magnificent view of the little hollow where the deep green fairway undulated towards the fifteenth hole. A short hole requiring a four-iron, according to the Young Turk. He had almost made a hole-in-one at that very green. At any rate, it was a beautiful, serene view, and I had high hopes for the summer.

  It took no more than a few days before I was completely into my job. I learned to worship the grass and despise the golfers. Their whole attitude got on my nerves. They were assaulting my grass. But it’s no use talking about them. The grass was green, at any rate. I was soon sitting like some little hotshot racer behind the wheel of my deluxe three-gear Smith & Stevens tractor, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and getting as tanned as an Adonis; I was feeling great. In the beginning I did quite a decent job, wanting to make a good impression, as they say. I developed an admirable style on the machines, learning all the special little quirks of the various models that gave them each a unique personality. They seemed as personal and individual as horses in a stable – though to the uninitiated they may appear quite anonymous. With one machine the trick was to kick a certain spot; another machine required shifting gears precisely this way or that at just the right moment to achieve the most perfect and docile pace. Back when I was a teenager, I knew everything there was to know about American dragsters. I had meticulously studied three years’ worth of Start & Speed, and now I was reaping the benefits.

  But by the second week I was already starting to take things more easily. A sense of ‘mañana, mañana’ began to settle in. There was a time for everything. It was hot and muggy, and a groundskeeper, a golf proletarian, needed to take a siesta when the sun was at its zenith. No one could find fault with that. Nor did anyone find fault with the way I was doing my job, since I did it well.

  _______

  For a number of evenings a fine, tranquil, liberating rain fell, making me feel delicately attuned and harmonious as well. Naturally the rain was balm for my beloved grass, but it also cast a certain lyrical vitality over the landscape. A strangely colonial mood suddenly seemed to hover over the gr
ounds between the club and my bungalow, as if it were a British country club in some Asian tea colony. There was a limestone path lined with rosebeds, along with lilacs and jasmine. In the drizzling rain, I sat on a bench near that path for hours, wanting fully to imbibe the refined and lofty atmosphere along with a cup of Oriental Evening tea and an unfiltered Camel cigarette.

  It was idyllic, and anything idyllic is always in a state of stasis. I wondered what the opposite might be called. I couldn’t come up with any antonyms for something idyllic other than war, physical violence and misery; any sort of physical change per se. I came to a certain self-realisation, perceiving that I myself, as a physical organism, was tremendously conservative. As a child I never washed until I was told that the warts on my fingers were caused by a lack of hygiene. Of course that wasn’t true at all – after having scrubbed my hands fifty times a day, I was finally sent off to the hospital, where the warts were very painfully burned off. I still feel sick washing in cold water in the morning. And I always shave in the evening. I suffered from car-sickness until I was nearly grown-up. I actually hate to travel, and I never go anywhere near an aeroplane. My body is immensely conservative, perceiving even the slightest change as an assault. I would prefer, above all, to live in a termite mound – in which the temperature is exactly the same all year round. I detest any extreme changes in light or sound. At the cinema I often feel sick, and I try to avoid people with shrill voices or strong body odour. My whole being is, so to speak, predisposed to the idyllic. Yet as soon as I find myself lying in a hammock or sitting in a lilac bower, which may well be called idyllic, I start getting tics and spasms and have to flee as fast as possible. But I happen to know deeply rootless and restless individuals who rarely do anything other than sit in just these types of bowers among flowering bird- cherries and lilacs to inhale the idyllic fragrance of sweet blossoms and freshly brewed coffee.

  I soon went crazy sitting there on that bench, and I lacked the peace of mind to tackle all the books I had planned on reading. I went over to see Rocks in the bar at the club. He could make an obliterating Singapore Sling, and that quickly put an end to any ambitions or intentions for the evening.

  The threat of cruel change is one of the fundamental conditions of human existence, and considering how often the threat becomes reality, there is every reason to call that existence basically tragic. This would soon become evident to me personally, with all due clarity.

  _______

  The summer would turn out to be anything but idyllic. In early July I went up to the Young Turk’s office to ask for some time off. He was lounging at his desk, talking on the phone about some company board that he was apparently going to join. When he was finished with the conversation he offered me a seat, saying, ‘Sit down, dammit all. What the hell was your name?’

  I told him my name, but I couldn’t help laughing because I hadn’t learned his name either. The Young Turk laughed along, just to be on the safe side, and asked me what I wanted.

  ‘I’m going to a concert in Göteborg next week. I need to take a couple of days off.’

  ‘That’s going to be tricky …’ the Young Turk started off, rubbing his jaw and trying to look harried. ‘We’re damned pleased with you, I want you to know that, but …’

  Maybe it was because it was such a hot day; maybe it was because I hadn’t had enough sleep. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t about to be bullied, and I immediately went on the offensive.

  ‘Look here,’ I said, my voice icy cold, ‘I’ve got tickets to Bob Dylan, and I don’t care whether you like it or not. I’m going next week. That’s how it is. You should be glad that I’m giving you fair notice.’

  The Young Turk tapped his chin and nodded.

  ‘Well, all right then. If that’s the way it is.’

  That’s the way it was, and it turned out to be a splendid trip to Göteborg. Half of Stockholm had come to the west coast. Göteborg’s trams were full of old hippies, beatniks, little Bob Dylans and Scandinavia’s whole protest-song elite. It was like one big carnival.

  And it was a grand festival. The myth had succeeded in killing his own myth, and he almost sounded like a new rock star. At the end everybody lit matches, like candles in a huge cathedral, making it feel as if we were in complete unity and inviolable.

  I ended up next to a skinny guy who sat completely motionless for several hours. He didn’t move a muscle. I recognised him from Stockholm, because he’d been showing up at events for a long time, wherever anything was happening. I might have seen him first at the event to save the elm trees in Kungsträdgården, the King’s Garden, in 1971. One of the protest singers who was going to perform said hello to this guy, and maybe that’s why I noticed him. He was always alone, although everyone said hello to him. I didn’t know his name.

  But even though it was a great concert, the rest of my time off took the sheen off the Dylan experience. The day after the show, I hitchhiked to Stockholm. I had promised the Young Turk that I’d be back as soon as possible; a promise to him didn’t mean much, but I didn’t want to abandon the grass.

  I went up to my flat in Lilla Essingen to get a change of clothes and to ask the girl who lived next door, who had promised to water my plants, if anything interesting had turned up with the post.

  There wasn’t the slightest mark on the front door, but as soon as I opened it I could feel the vibrations left behind by the thieves. No doubt it’s the same for anyone who comes home to find that uninvited guests have been inside. Maybe it’s the trembling guilt of the fingerprints, maybe burglars secrete a special sort of fluid, a previously unknown theft-adrenaline that comes out in their sweat, giving the room a unique atmosphere. Or maybe it’s simply the fact that the unconscious is able to register every little change and thus prepare the conscious mind, issuing forewarnings and alarms before the Big Shock sets in.

  As soon as I entered my flat, I confirmed what had already sparked my suspicions: my beloved home had been emptied of practically every single thing that might bring a few kronor on the black market. Not that I owned much of value, but when I did the estimate for the insurance company afterwards, it still amounted to quite a bit.

  I instantly lit a cigarette and proceeded to look around. It felt exactly like receiving the news of a death. At first you just want to pinch yourself to wake up from the nightmare; later you refuse to comprehend anything, but you force yourself to sample small portions of the truth until a defensive reaction sets in as solace.

  I matter-of-factly concluded that citizen Östergren was now in possession of an empty space totalling approximately forty-seven square yards, completely bare walls, a cleaned-out kitchen, and a bookshelf that had been ransacked of anything of value by the burglars’ excellent sense of judgement and literary taste. All that remained were my desk and my two typewriters. How nice and humane, I thought. But to add insult to injury, the thieves had put a piece of paper in one of the typewriters and typed the words: ‘Hope Dyllan was good. We’ll leave you the tools of your trade so you’ll be able to earn an income.’ – just like some greedy bailiff who didn’t know shit about how a rock star spells his name.

  Only then did I pull out the desk drawer where I kept all my valuable documents. My passport and ID papers were gone, but the burglars had left behind a few items of purely sentimental value.

  Roaming around in my flat, which had been cleaned out lock, stock and barrel, gave me the strongest sense of despair that I’ve ever felt. I definitely didn’t feel angry, not yet. Instead I was tremendously surprised at the way a couple of hard-working thieves could haul out an entire removal van full of stuff without any suspicious citizen intervening. People knew me in the building, after all; I’d lived at that address nearly all my life.

  I went out to the landing and rang my neighbour’s doorbell. She wasn’t home, but she was above suspicion. Then I aimlessly wandered up to the attic, just to make sure that the burglars hadn’t gone up there and swiped my skates. There they still were, hanging from a hook b
ehind the door, and that made me happy. My old skates had suddenly acquired a priceless value for me, and I pictured myself falling apart completely if they had been gone. I stubbed out my cigarette on the cement floor of the attic, peered out through the dormer window, and saw that it had started to rain again.

  Since the burglars had even taken my telephone, I had to go over to another neighbour’s flat. I told the whole story to an astounded and even more shocked fellow citizen and then rang the police and insurance company.

  _______

  So it was a very upset groundskeeper who returned to the golf course. The whole bureaucratic investigation had been kicked into gear, and both the police authorities and the insurance representatives had informed me that it could take time. Summertime burglaries were nothing new; the investigators were overworked this time of year.

  I tried to push aside the whole tragedy, burying myself in my work and mowing one hell of a golf course, raking all the paths and re-digging all the flower-beds in a blind fury. After a couple of days the worst of the shock had subsided, and in certain bright moments I was actually filled with a dizzying sense of freedom and independence. There was no longer anything keeping me in my place in the world. I could do whatever I felt like doing, provided I had a little money. But the next instant this euphoria would be replaced by the deepest sorrow. It felt like some sort of penance.

  Days and weeks passed in this manner. In early August a small bright spot occurred: I was commissioned to write a book. This coincided with a couple of different anniversaries. First of all, the club was celebrating its tenth anniversary, with flags flying and much pomp and circumstance. After a great deal of solemn planning, palavering and arguing, they had arranged a fun little tournament for juniors, ladies, semi-pros and old-boys in mixed teams that would conclude with cocktails at a festive gathering in the evening. A big crowd of people turned up, and anyone of importance who had ever sunk a ball in any of the club’s eighteen holes was on hand. It was a splendid evening and the whole publicity stunt looked as if it would be a memorable success.