My Father, His Son Read online

  Also by Reidar Jönsson

  MY LIFE AS A DOG

  Copyright © 1988, 2012 by Reidar Jonsson

  English translation copyright © 1991, 2012 by Reidar Jonsson

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-61145-681-3

  ALGERIA

  1976

  What I remember best is the end. Or perhaps I ought to say the beginning of the end. This is how my downfall began. I was on the fifth day of a long journey from Stockholm to Algiers in our family’s old Volvo. Between Stockholm and Marseilles I was in good spirits though somewhat flatulent since my stomach tends to act up during long drives. I did not sleep much, just short naps in the car, and then I spent the crossing from Marseilles to Algiers doubled up in pain. I ran around, trying desperately to find a toilet that was neither overflowing nor had turds all the way up on the bulkheads. In my distress, I recalled old sailors’ tales about Arabs’ relations to their own excrements, but these paled to prosaic catalogs of facts compared to the total collapse of the plumbing system on this modern passenger ship.

  Goaded by a violent need, I finally crouched down furtively on the stern rail.

  Here sits Ingemar Rutger, I mused. My last name is actually my second middle name. Earlier, my last name was Johansson. Ingemar Wallis Rutger Johansson. A rather noxious combination.

  My wife, Louise, felt that I ought to change my name when we got married, which we did in 1968.

  Everybody I know talks constantly about the year 1968. I do too, since I married Louise that year and took my middle name as my family name. It worked out all right for her. Louise Rutger sounds almost like high nobility, or at least I made it sound rather grandiloquent. But Ingemar Rutger only brings to mind someone who tries to fry snow. Or someone who forlornly roams aboard a passenger ship in the middle of the Mediterranean, searching for a toilet, and instead finds himself squatting on a stern railing. But not for long. I was overpowered by two able-bodied seamen who were of the serious opinion that life was worth living in spite of everything, even if one suffered from extreme hygienic hang-ups. They explained that my behavior was rather typical of the European double standard: clinically clean, white, and gleaming sanitary porcelain and tiles, but every country studded with nuclear plants. The whole Arab world turned topsy-turvy simply because we did not buy their oil. But a little shit does not hurt anyone, if one avoids looking at it.

  The two guys were truly well read sailors.

  They shared some lukewarm sweet muscatel with me.

  The wine filled me with memories. We played cards and I tricked them out of a bottle, fell asleep, and dreamed that I was sixteen years old and in the process of killing myself somewhere in Valencia, Barcelona, or Lisbon. Or perhaps it was Ceuta or Tangier — or a Swedish town called Gävle. The last named is a place where a person could die from pure boredom.

  With a pounding hangover, and still in dire need of a toilet, I arrived in Algiers and its three-hour lines to get to the ever-distrustful passport police.

  Unshaven, wrinkled, and filthy, I explained in my rusty Mediterranean language — a little Spanish, a little French, a little Italian, and then some English to fill in the gaps — the reason for my visit. In their eyes, I must have seemed more than a bit mad, since I kept having fits of uncontrollable laughter. The passport police did not pronounce French at all as it was spoken on the tape I had listened to while I was driving. Then, somewhere around Hamburg, my French in Ten Easy Lessons was irretrievably chewed up by the tape deck. The last thing I heard was the polite question:

  “Votre petit chien va bien?”

  I found that hilarious. Imagine arriving in Algiers and asking the passport police how their little dog was doing?

  My wife’s address not only failed to amuse them, it increased their suspicions. Such a place simply did not exist. I agreed wholeheartedly. I had diligently studied whatever maps were available in Sweden, but nowhere had I been able to locate that tongue-twisting letter combination.

  All of a sudden there she was, my wife, Louise, armed with the kind of authority needed to get me admitted into the country.

  Thus I arrived in Algiers, a city that had once been familiar but had now become alien to me. Rather similar to my wife’s welcome. Her excited words were slowly dripping into my inner being, like a familiar drug, while I was being directed along the noisy streets, round and round the block adjacent to the post office.

  What her flood of words added up to was that she actually regretted having invited me. Moreover, there was no place for me to stay. Not in Algiers, not by the oasis, not even at some distance from their holy camp would I be allowed to pitch the tent I had lugged along. Louise had thoroughly pondered our relationship, which was how she, as a thoroughly modern woman, referred to our marriage. The problem was that she had to finish writing her thesis. With me around, that would be impossible. I was a danger to her mental health; and I had ruined her life. For that reason, she had made an irrevocable decision: We had to separate. As soon as she returned home, as soon as she was done with her work.

  In what way her research plans had any bearing on our future divorce, I could not fathom. In contrast to her stupendous research, which never brought her anywhere, our separation meant two signatures and a moving van.

  I should have pointed out such logistical errors, but instead I continued to stare at the dazzling white post office as we got stuck in traffic. And Louise got stuck, too. We were a couple of horses in the same harness. She insists that I only pretend to listen to her, while I contend that she always repeats the same thing at least twenty times. What is cause and what effect I don’t know. Perhaps she was right. I wasn’t even pretending to listen to her litany of complaints; actually I was dreaming of having a general delivery address. General delivery forever. I climb the steps of all the world’s post offices: Calcutta, Singapore — why not Casablanca? Am I European? Am I American, Scandinavian, or perhaps Russian? No matter! I am the man without a home, I pick up my letters and answer them while enjoying tall, cool drinks at sidewalk cafés. My imagined heroic self-image serves as a filter that slowly expunges the main content of my wife’s verbiage. The image is of a tenderhearted, wounded man who travels on forever in order to protect his feelings. Perhaps to Madrid’s general delivery. There exists a post office designed for exquisite messages, including those so delicate they have to be put into double envelopes.

  I dreamed away her words at a time when crystal-clear logic would have been essential. By the ninth round I wondered why she had sent the wire, asking me to come.

  “But that was then!” cried Louise.

  On such occasions I have developed a habit of recalling all her other double-edged and illogical answers. Whereupon she
flies into a rage and repeats what I have heard many times before.

  “But now I feel differently!”

  Such immutable emotion sends me into a rage. Her ever-changing moods had driven me clear across Europe. The drive down here had put my life in danger. At any moment, I may die from flatulent dyspepsia in Algiers’s most congested quarter, instead of registering at a hotel like any normal human being would. It was highly unreasonable to first say yes and then no to a reunion. Just another sign of how she was driving me mad. She was the dangerous one. Not me.

  We were deep into our familiar arguments when we saw that three cars had surrounded us in a highly professional manner. One car in front, one behind, and one alongside. A perfect example of the paragraph in the police instruction booklet entitled “How to Nab Extremely Dangerous Persons in Automobile.”

  The self-assured display of small, pale pink police I.D. cards in front of our windshield confirmed the suspicion that they were indeed police officers. I attempted to explain that they must have made an unfortunate mistake as they had hailed and stopped the wrong car, but while I was still explaining two of the men were already in our car, waving their pistols.

  Louise was dragged out of the front seat and thrown into the backseat. With her usual lack of logic, she screamed that I had done it again.

  There was no time to answer. An unshaven, foul-smelling cop in jeans and sweater sat down beside me, his pistol pointed directly at my diaphragm. He shouted at me to drive on, follow the car in front. The car in front sped away, while I did my best to follow it. This in spite of the fact that the cop suddenly got it into his head that we should keep our hands above our heads. He probably got nervous when Louise, totally unfazed by the event, continued to say what she really thought of me. If only my French had been a tiny bit better, I could have asked him if by any chance he was related to my wife: The two of them seemed to share an impossible sense of drama. But the muzzle of the pistol pressing against my ribs clearly signaled that the man was in no mood for jokes and that he would only be too happy to send a bullet upward into my heart.

  While I drove, and at the same time tried to steer with my hands up, I strove to give him the impression that I was a calm, secure, law-abiding Swede. So I decided to ask him how things were with his little dog.

  “Votre petit chien va bien?”

  That apparently only served to confuse him further. He probably assumed I was speaking in code. He shoved his gun into my gut and shouted that we should keep our mouths shut.

  I couldn’t begin explaining to the frightened cop that my wife always lit into me when she was afraid. Nothing to worry about, provided one understands the real reason for her fury. She is merely transferring her own fear to someone else. I tried to explain all this in French, using as an example the time I totaled our first car at an intersection. As luck would have it, Louise had come pedaling by on her bicycle only minutes later. She immediately concluded that the collision was her fault, since she had tried unsuccessfully to stop us from buying the car. The crumpled heap of metal before her proved without doubt that she had been right from the start. That I had nearly killed myself in the accident was a personal insult to her: I had tried to escape. She had stood there, banging on the window of the police car, screaming that everything was my fault from beginning to end, while I, as slowly as possible in order to remain detained inside the police car, answered the questions put to me by the amazed cops.

  Of course, I bore the whole responsibility. But things could have been worse. If the police had really listened to Louise, I would have gone to prison for ten years.

  For eight whole years I had been pondering my wife’s complex emotional life without success. How then could I explain that emotional life to an Algerian cop who wasn’t even courteous enough to answer my friendly question about his little dog? Besides, it was too late since at that exact moment we were driving into a black hole, ending up in a filthy, dark garage. There we were snatched out of the car along with our luggage. The method for both was identical: a quick yank and then being spread as much as possible on the greasy floor.

  Louise disappeared in one direction. To judge from the male outbursts and her own haughty and icy voice, she was simultaneously kicking them and threatening them with Swedish justice, Swedish marines, the prime minister’s personal intervention, which would mean immediate cessation of all aid and all interest-free loans, plus lodging a complaint to the United Nations about crimes against human rights.

  As I was being jostled and hauled in the other direction, I couldn’t help but admire her prowess in the French language. What a vocabulary! That line about human rights — and to be able to say it in an upright position and with all teeth still in place! Quite different from my own mushy mumblings and awkward attempts to bang on the slammed-shut iron door.

  How did we end up in this mess?

  Why did the Algerian police nab us with such force?

  Had I driven the wrong way on a one-way street?

  In my condition, that would be entirely possible.

  I inspected the single windowless cell with all the Swedish disdain I could muster, but my mood turned to absolute bliss when I discovered the freshly scrubbed hole in the floor and the drippy faucet next to it.

  After almost a week of painful nonproductivity, I finally had found a peaceful, secure place. Squatting down, I reflected that things could have been worse. That kind of philosophical musing is a habit of mine from childhood, beginning in my grandmother’s meticulously clean-scrubbed outhouse. Many years have passed since my brother fell through the hole and got stuck, folded in two, whereupon I consoled him with the words “Things could be worse.” He could have fallen headfirst, for instance.

  Was it in Grandma’s outhouse that I developed my personal view of the world? I remembered those whitewashed walls with ever-changing, delicate shadow patterns created by the door slats, chicken and rabbits clucking and scratching outside, and piles of old weekly magazines inside. How carefully I read about counts and barons in castles and country homes. The short but inspiring religious parables. And the romantic short stories. What a wonderful world right there in my grandmother’s outhouse….

  Had Louise encountered a bedouin in the desert, a sheik with flashing black eyes and a white steed? Was that the explanation for her hostility? Infatuation is the elixir of life to her. She cannot live without being in love, as she confided to me the first time we met. I thought she meant me. What a fundamental mistake! I never learned to understand her peculiar need to fall constantly in love. But, according to her, I am not especially talented emotionally. That may be partly true. Are we both victims of some unfortunate mistake?

  Before falling asleep on the hard bunk, I remembered a special day. Is it possible everything began then?

  It was an early morning, and I remember in detail every color, every emotional pitch, every particularity in minute exactness.

  SWEDEN

  1975

  Next to the third white birch is a pile of leaves. The air is moist and warm after last night’s rain. Far away, the whistle of the train fades into silence. Bottom-heavy in our boots, Jonas and I walk across to turn over the leaves in the compost pile.

  I am not one to rave about my strong feelings for nature, but when Jonas and I turn over the leaves with their deep, iridescent colors and the thick worms slip through his seven-year-old fingers and he emits small sounds of excitement — then the very air feels as if it had broadened and extended my senses a thousand times. The present time is registered without intention, without reflection, like a long, unbroken axis of time made up of rhythmic pulse beats in complete harmony.

  Jonas’s adventure in the present pulls me along. My enjoyment is intense.

  Finally we have collected enough worms.

  We walk along the pebbly lane. I am walking ahead, carrying the thick end of the bamboo fishing rod. Jonas is following, holding on to the thin end. Patches of light fog make it seem at times as if we were walking in two
worlds, the bamboo rod constituting the link between us. It feels secure following the path, which descends in a lengthy, winding green tunnel toward the small stream and the old mill. I sneak a look back at Jonas’s damp, expectant face. So many enigmatic moods travel over the open surface, as varied as the patterns the breeze creates in the water of the pond.

  We work our way over to the edge of the stream. The wet ferns and the autumn-dry reeds barely reach my knees but for Jonas it must be like cutting his way through a rain forest.

  He does not like putting the worm on the hook.

  He does not want us to kill the first perch. He feels it should just swim around on the hook so he could pull it up again and again. Jonas insists it is possible to talk sense to the fish, to tell it that it doesn’t hurt, that it likes to swim around with a hook in its mouth.

  I remind him that one has to eat the fish. But this is his fishing adventure, after all. I let him be. We get along.

  We concentrate on the float and our moment of happiness. Suddenly, I realize that the surface of the old millpond has turned black and forbidding. An unreasonable terror works its way up my throat, like an acrid odor of death and putrefaction. Jonas doesn’t understand why I hug him tightly. It’s my usual old fear of losing him.

  Walking home, we are both proud. Stubbornly he insists on carrying the perch strung up on a forked branch. We pass the closed gas pump, cut through toward the building, walk across the lot where the old country store used to be, pass by the warehouse, and reach the front porch of my in-laws’ house. As usual, I am amazed at the turns of fate. What but fate would place me as son-in-law to the grocer for the glassworks? The same glassworks where my uncle and aunt still live and where I came as a thirteen-year-old when my mother died….

  For almost a year I have been working with the union representatives of the glass factory as a researcher and sociologist. To them I am an active, compassionate, and helping hand; simultaneously I enter into my accounts every move in the enormous game of future structural changes. The owners have hinted at massive layoffs. The unions as usual set their hopes to their government representatives. And I? I live in a sort of symbiosis with the workers. They know me, they distrust me, but they also imagine they need me. To use my professional idiom, they are all investiture units. Whenever I hear that term, I always think of the insemination of cows. But then I am a bit perverse, according to Louise. I take nothing really seriously.