44. Jon-Ante
JON-ANTE
1986
He watched them go, the girls wobbly, Anne-Risten holding her daughter’s hand. They cut across the parking lot and crossed the road to Gula Raden, then vanished from sight.
He shouldn’t stand around the bus station alone. Rumor had it there would be a fight, their gang and the hard rockers were expected to clash tonight, cocky young guys on both sides. He didn’t like these fights and had tried more than once to ease flaring tempers among his group, feeling almost fatherly. This kind of thing didn’t happen back in the day, and he wasn’t comfortable with it, nor did he understand it. Why should they try to beat up the hard rockers, or the punks for that matter? Although it had been a long time since the mohawks had messed with them.
Classe and Jon-Ante had driven in the caravan all evening, slowly cruising along Foreningsgatan by Domus, and down Hjalmar Lundbohmsv?gen, the mountains on one side, way off on the horizon, and the high-rises known as Snusdosan and Spottkoppen—the snuff tin and the spittoon—on the other. Classe wanted to live in Snusdosan, at the very top, with a view of the mountain world. A buddy of his lived there, and Jon-Ante had stood on his claustrophobic balcony one summer; they had to take turns because it hardly fit two people. The balconies were meant to resemble the mine elevators, the guy had said. He was interested in architecture. Jon-Ante got dizzy and had to go back inside.
Classe had switched cars after Jon-Ante made sure Cecilia and her friend had gotten out of Perre’s car. Jon-Ante recognized Anne-Risten’s daughter straight away when Perre pulled up beside them at Empe’s, where they’d stopped for hamburgers. At least the girls were sitting in the back, but he opened the door and ordered them to get out. Cecilia had the hiccups, and the flash of concern in her eyes cut through the alcohol haze. Her friend tried to act fresh, but he ignored her. Perre was in line at Empe’s and cursed when he realized what was going on. Jon-Ante herded them into his own car and took a plastic bag from the glove box.
“Don’t you dare throw up in my car.”
They hadn’t made it very far; the girls whined in the back seat that they didn’t want to be driven home and demanded to be let out, so he pulled off at the bus station.
Now he was furious, angry at Anne-Risten for thinking of him as a dirty old man who rode with teen girls. He didn’t trust her not to spread rumors. Worst of all, she worked with Marge.
He rubbed his thin mustache and wiggled his toes, which felt cold in his pointy-toed winklepickers. The shoes were as polished and shiny as his car.
He needed to talk to Marge, explain himself before word spread. The question was, should he go straight to Kyrkogatan or call first? He’d stopped by a week or so after Easter, riding high after the ice-fishing tournament, imagining that maybe something could come of it. She answered the door without lighting up like he expected, told him it was a bad time and whispered that Stella wasn’t feeling well. He felt stupid and went back down the stairs without turning on the stairwell light, tripping on the last step.
The bus station was a popular gathering place for the teenagers in town, and tonight was hardly an exception. He locked the car and glanced over at the crowd in concern, hoping they wouldn’t decide to take a closer look at his Lincoln. He walked fast, sights set on the phone booth. Sometimes people would call the Hotline with a whole pocket full of one-krona coins to insert, hogging the booth to be connected with random people also looking to chat. But tonight was Walpurgis, and conversations with a stranger weren’t quite as tempting. He often saw young girls standing in the freezing cold phone booth by the Odd Fellows building, chatting away in the dead of winter. They probably weren’t allowed to call from home. He’d tried the number once, just to see what the big deal was, and creepily enough had ended up with a man panting in his ear. He wanted to tell the guy to hang up and leave the kids to their own fun, but in the end he was the one to end the call, without saying a word.
The phone booth was empty, and he slipped inside, inserted two coins, and brought the chilly receiver to his ear. She picked up after two rings.
“Hi, this is Jon-Ante.”
“Oh, hi!” She sounded genuinely glad and he smiled, exhaling.
“So you’re home. Not out at some bonfire?”
“No, we went, but it got cold and Stella goes to bed early so we’re home already.”
He let his finger trace the number plate on the green telephone. “Would it be okay if I came by?”
She didn’t hesitate. “For sure.”
And that was that. They said goodbye and he patted his hair. The sugar water he’d used to style his pompadour was sticky against his palm, and he wiped it on his black jeans. At least he hadn’t used beer, like Classe did.
When he opened the door, the hard rockers were right there. They weren’t waiting for him—they probably had no idea one of the raggare guys was about to step out of the phone booth. His heart pounded and he tried to make himself small behind all the teenagers. He saw his friends coming from over by City Hall, their cars in a line; they would soon pull into the station.
He made eye contact with someone he knew. They’d attended KPU together ages ago. They looked at each other, two weathered old guys among all these kids. Neither of them was about to throw a punch.
Jon-Ante turned away and walked fast. He heard a familiar sound, a sudden grunt that meant someone had spotted prey. He didn’t look around, just broke into a run and heard more noises, ones he’d learned to interpret in a former life. Back then, he never even tried to run. He would hit the ground as quickly as possible so it would stop. Nowadays there was no guarantee it would stop even if he were lying on the ground with his eyes closed against the asphalt.
He was too old for this! A man of almost forty who just wanted to drive his Lincoln in peace. He didn’t want to run toward his car, because he realized there was a good chance they’d attack it if he made it inside. The colorful American cars honked as they waited at the red light—Classe and the other guys must have realized he was being chased.
A foot caught him in the back, as if someone had karate-kicked him mid-run. He stumbled and caught himself, his palms scraping across the grit left over from winter. It burned. His knees took the rest of the impact. The next kick got him in the side. Kidneys, always the kidneys.
Tires screeched, they must have run the light, engines close now. It would be a bloodbath. And he was too old. He closed his eyes as the next kick got his stomach. After that, he was a downed onlooker. Young men from both sides grunted, wild-eyed, and he gasped for breath. His old classmate from KPU stood nearby, just looking at him. Jon-Ante had lain like this before, meeting eyes. Aslak’s.
He had to get up and get to Marge’s place. His legs shook but he managed to stand, and no one came after him. The classmate—Tage was his name, he remembered—turned and began to walk off, an upside-down cross and band names on his leather vest. It fit poorly; Tage had been skinnier before. Jon-Ante limped to the car and only once behind the wheel did he feel the pulsing in his crooked little finger. He must have sprained it when he fell.
His friends had come to his rescue, and he was about to sneak off, coward that he was. Tage was already over by J?rnv?gs Park and didn’t look back. Maybe tonight he’d hang up that vest for good.
Jon-Ante started the car, and that rumble he loved set something in motion inside his chest. Was it time for him to put all this aside too? To retire the car to the garage? He rubbed his eyes in irritation, though he wasn’t crying, no, he just wasn’t.
T HERE WERE PLENTY OF free parking spots outside Marge’s building. He parked the car and waited for his pulse to slow. His finger was already swelling, his palms skinned just like when he fell off his bike as a child. His pompadour was flat, and the long strands of hair poked him in the eyes.
What could he possibly have to offer her? All that time devoted to the car, all those years working in the mine just to earn enough money to make his dream car a reality. Now what? Was he going to ring her doorbell all beaten up? Didn’t she deserve better?
He started the engine again but glanced up at the window on the second floor and saw her waiting there, her head cocked to the side, puzzled. Maybe she’d seen him pull up and wondered why he was just sitting there, only to start the car again. She vanished from the window but then emerged onto the balcony, where she smiled and waved. He waved back, then took the key from the ignition and went inside.
S HE LOOKED AT HIS jeans—he’d forgotten to check for holes, but it felt like the blood had congealed on the inside of the fabric. He asked where her bathroom was, trying to act casual.
His pinkie was twice its usual size. It stung badly when he rinsed off with warm water and rubbed soap over his scraped hands. He dropped his jeans to his ankles and used damp toilet paper to wipe the blood from his knees; she had definitely noticed the holes in his pants. He looked at himself in the mirror, hadn’t expected to ever see that tortured gaze again. Back when he was seven and standing just the same way at the sink at the dormitory, he’d hardly been able to see his nose. Each time he washed his hands and face after being beaten up in the schoolyard, he was glad he couldn’t see much, but now and then he stood on tiptoe to try to get a look at a fat lip.
Sometimes Aslak came and stood beside him, and if they hadn’t been boys they probably would have cried. It was a double-edged sword: on one hand, he wanted to hate Aslak for never telling his brother to stop; but on the other, he was grateful to him for standing there with him.
By the time Aslak was suffering abuse as well, they had both grown tall enough to see more of their faces in the mirror. In those days, Jon-Ante was just as often the one who snuck to the bathroom to stand beside Aslak and hand him toilet paper if something was bleeding.
After he transferred to the village school, he only saw Aslak a time or two every six months when he was home from the nomad school. If Aslak felt abandoned, he never said so. They would play with Oskar, sliding down the village’s biggest slope. But Aslak only ever dared to come along if Nilsa was nowhere nearby. Jon-Ante never asked how he was doing at the nomad school, and he never talked about how his move to the village school had saved him. They lived in this no-man’s-land a few times each year. Later on they went in different directions, Aslak becoming too enamored with alcohol and Jon-Ante badgering his way to a spot at KPU in Kiruna. Aslak became known for his large reindeer herd; he had the reindeer luck like no other. Jon-Ante was happy for him, he really was. Nilsa struggled with his herd, and that made Jon-Ante just as happy, if not more.
“How’s it going?” Marge sounded nervous, jolting Jon-Ante back to the present. How long had he been standing in front of the mirror? He quickly splashed water on his face and ran his hands through his hair, but it was no use.
“Everything’s fine,” he said as he opened the door.
She looked doubtful and her eyes drifted to his ripped jeans, but she let it go. “I set some things out in the living room, some coffee and sandwiches. I got so hungry.”
He followed her and sat beside her on the sofa. The aroma of coffee had a calming effect. She had cut thin slices of dried meat and arranged them on a white napkin, and the bread was homemade gáhkku. He took a tentative sip of the coffee, put down the cup, and reached for a piece of bread.
“Which bonfire did you go to?” he asked.
“We actually went all the way down to ?n. Stella thought the archers were exciting and now she wants to try shooting a bow and arrow.”
“I’ve got an old set back home in the village, she can practice with that.”
“Oh, fun, I’m sure she’ll take you up on that.”
He was reminded of his skinned palms again as he buttered the bread and set the knife back down.
“What happened to you? I can see those hands, and your pants.”
“Oh, it was nothing.” He gave her an uncertain smile and she seemed dismayed, leaning back on the sofa with her cup of coffee in hand. How could he confess that he’d been assaulted by a gang of hard rockers? His cheeks burned at the very thought. “Do you remember that failure of a bonfire in the village?” he asked. “The time it almost caught everything on fire?”
She wasn’t about to let herself be charmed so easily, but he saw a hint of a smile as she nodded. He knew he’d better shape up, so he took a bite, got butter in his mustache, and complimented the bread. He took three slices of dried meat and let their salty taste linger on his tongue. Her disappointment was obvious, and he couldn’t find the right words.
An uncomfortable silence fell between them and he looked around. Her place was cozy, with green houseplants on the windowsills, lots of books in the bookcase, and photos of Stella everywhere.
What he really wanted to do was reach for her on the sofa, embrace her. Instead he held his palms pressed together, stinging with pain. He looked down at his pathetic jeans and his kneecaps peeking out even worse now that he was sitting.
A door creaked and she leaped to her feet. Her scent remained as she bustled away. He found himself sniffing for it, no better than Isá’s dog. He heard mumbling in the hall and the bathroom door opening, and a moment later the flush of the toilet and the same door creaking as it closed.
She returned, told him in a whisper that it was Stella, and sat back on the sofa, closer to him this time, so close their legs brushed. She was wearing black stockings and a green knitted dress that came to her knees. A wide black belt rested on her hips, and he wanted to let his hand slide over the roundness there. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“Why did you come here?” Her gaze had changed. He should cup a hand around the back of her neck and pull her close. But his palm would scrape roughly over her soft skin.
“I wanted to see you,” he mumbled, brushing her thigh. She jumped and he let his hand land gently on her leg. He squeezed slightly; it was dizzying to touch her.
She was the one who leaned in, the one who kissed him, the one who cupped her hand around the back of his neck. They breathed each other in. He knew he was going to say he loved her. Probably too soon. Maybe even right now.