Popular Music from Vittula (29 page)

The moose hunters shuddered in shock. Grandad served them all with a thimbleful, and emptied the bottle. Silently, almost in tears, the men raised their glasses and emptied them. This couldn’t be true! The mean old bastard! Not now, when they’d managed to sneak out of the house without their old ladies noticing.

Grandad looked around and gave a signal. Dad quietly opened the hatch into the cellar and clambered down into the darkness. He was back in a shot and slammed the bottles down on the table. Two from each hand. And Grandad roared with laughter.

“Here you are, my boys! Some sweeties for you!” He was laughing so much, his belly was hopping up and down.

The hunters were so relieved, they almost burst into tears. Nobody bothered about the fact that the corks had not been sealed by the state monopoly liquor store. At last Bacchus could come into his own.

This was bliss. The joy of drinking. Getting drunk. Getting legless in the company of good friends without having to put up with whining objections. To pour the stuff down till your prick went stiff and your tongue flapped about your mouth like a flag in the wind. Emptying a bottle and immediately having it replaced, no need to go easy and measure it all out with a ruler, no need to pay, no need to sit
half-sober but broke in some fancy pub and wonder where all your pals had got to.

The wonders of excess. None of your smallholder’s skimping with bacon rind and moldy seeds, but the ecstatic whoop of the hunter faced with a couple of hundred pounds of steaming meat. To drink till you drop, fill yourself up to the brim, pour it down with gay abandon—and just for once have no thoughts about the morrow.

Mum and the rest of the women still around could see the signs of imminent doomsday, and sullenly withdrew to go home. The men promised with one voice not to drink too much, but their tongues were so far into their cheeks they almost emerged on the other side. My big sister also withdrew, so as not to become a sex object; so I took over her role and started washing the coffee cups. Some of the men wondered archly if I was
knapsu
, and went on about my small titties. I suggested they go away and sniff shit or lick little girls’ privates.

Soon we heard the noise of cars outside, and when I investigated I saw it was our band that had turned up. Niila, Erkki, and Holgeri had arrived in an old Volvo Duett, chauffeured by a cousin. I helped them unload the amplifiers, guitars, and the drums, fewer of them than usual for this occasion. We put them next to the wood-burning stove to thaw them out before use. Unfortunately Greger was unable to be present: he had some vital phone calls to make, but might put in an appearance later on.

The moose hunters had reached the cordial stage. They started telling tales and boasting and recounting pornographic experiences in both Finnish and Swedish. One of the men started to sing
Rosvo Roope
with half-closed eyes, and followed that up with
Villiruusu
, even though several of his pals urged him to stop singing Korpela songs, as they only revived memories.

Dad was now getting tipsy as well. He staggered backward with a few empty bottles in his hands, and very nearly fell through the trapdoor into the cellar. The men all roared with laughter, but Dad cursed the idiot who’d left the hatch open, even though it was him. Then he
passed the bottles on to me instead. I tottered down the unsteady ladder, feeling the coldness and dampness envelop me. There was a strong smell of sandy soil and potatoes. Wooden shelves with rows of glass jars full of cloudberry and lingon jam, the remains of the gravadlax, a few crates of pilsner, a tin of fermented Baltic herring, and a tub of pickled herring. Some planks had been placed on the earth floor, and on them were all the bottles of moonshine. I discreetly filled a lemonade bottle for the band, and put it to one side for later.

When the first of the sharpshooters went out for a pee, we gathered in front of the stove. I fitted a multi-plug into the mains and prayed the fuse would stand the strain. There was a worrying clicking noise in the cold loudspeakers when the current was switched on. Niila and Holgeri plugged in their guitars, and Erkki sat on a kitchen chair behind his drums and other fancy bits. I plugged the mike into the spare socket on the base amplifier, and coughed to get my vocal cords moving.

The hunters had watched our preparations with considerable misgivings, but when Niila started to strum in three-four time, they relaxed. Everybody recognized the old evergreen we’d taught ourselves in honor of the occasion:

“
Oi muistatkos Emma sen kuutamoillan, kun yhdessä tansseista kuljettin …
”

Everybody put their glasses down and remained seated. The party had already reached the melancholy stage, and the music was right on target. I sang facing Grandad, but he looked away modestly.

“
Oi Emma Emma, oi Emma Emma, kun lupasit olla mun omani …”

We followed that with
Matalan torpan balladi
. The mood became so sorrowful that the windows steamed up. We finished up with the Erkheikki Love Lilt, a slow waltz in a minor key that could have wrung blood from a stone.

Afterward, all the men wanted to drink a toast to us. As was the norm in Tornedalen, nobody said a word about our performance: after all, unnecessary praise would only encourage us to undertake projects
beyond our capabilities, and result in bankruptcy. But you could see from their eyes what they thought of it.

We sat ourselves down in a corner and started swigging from the lemonade bottle. The hunters, on the other hand, had the urge to wander around. They’d gone past the subdued stage, and now wanted to stretch their legs and discuss all sorts of things. One of them stumbled over to us and wondered about our political persuasions. Another wondered whether what he’d read in the
Evening News
was right, that girls were hornier now than they used to be. We gave evasive answers to his first question, but maintained in response to his second that girls were no doubt the same as they’d always been, and that their enthusiasm for sex wasn’t obvious on the surface but you caught on when you were halfway inside ’em. He then started asking intimate questions about our girlfriends, how horny they were and how often we did it. And although we told him where to go, he persisted and wanted to know all the details.

I started to feel a bit woozy and staggered outside. A few of the men were standing in front of a snow drift, trying to remember if they’d just had a pee or were just about to. They decided for the latter, and pulled out their guns. They seemed to have made the right decision, as jets eventually appeared. One of them claimed the height record, and another challenged him. My young bladder was as bouncy as a highly pumped-up football, and I had no trouble at all in beating them both. Then I signed off with my initials underneath the record squirt. The old boys got annoyed and threatened to tar my scrotum. I drew a box around my initials then increased my record for good measure before they agreed they would fill my underpants with snow—but I was already on my way back in by then.

The second phase of stupefaction was now approaching. The one that is final, and soft as the white shroud of death. A broad-shouldered, bear-like man grabbed me and started telling me something. He was holding me by the shoulder and droning on solemnly while his eyes circled
around like heavy bumblebees. It was impossible to make out what he said. His tongue was as thick as a gym shoe, his voice sounded like squelching in mud. One of the younger hunters was feeling argumentative and started saying something to him, but his comments were just as incomprehensible. Soon they were involved in a heated discussion even though neither could understand what the other was saying.

Those still capable of speech complained about being thirsty. Their mouths felt like sandpaper, their blood had turned to dust in their veins, their lips were sticking together, and their muscles were stiffening like dried meat. I dived down into the cellar, brought up the remaining bottles and placed them before the voices of those crying in the wilderness. There was no stopping now: once you’d started skiing down the slope you had no choice but to keep going. Throw caution to the wind, accelerate till your ears start popping. An
oikea mies
, a real man, feared neither death nor a three-day hangover.

Niila and Holgeri were now starting to get drunk as well. It showed least in Erkki, even though he’d been knocking it back faster than the others. He was discussing salmon flies with one of the younger hunters, who sat there with eyelids drooping and snot dripping down his downy moustache. They agreed to try out a place on the River Tärendo, since life offered few things more perfect than grilling a newly caught greyling over a campfire at night by a rushing Norrland river. They drank a toast to that and their eyes filled with tears. Summer is so beautiful, so perfect, and so endless! The midnight sun over the edge of the forest, glowing red night-clouds. Not a breath of wind. The water mirror-like, not a ripple. A fish snaps at a fly, a ring spreads slowly over the vast stillness. And there, in the middle of the silence, a moth swoops down. Gets stuck on the sticky water through the powder on its wings. Glides along toward the rapids, tosses about amid the rocks and the froth. Midges swarm over the tops of the fir trees in the reflected warmth. You can see it all from where you sit in the narrow crack that is a summer night, floating on the fragile membrane between two worlds.

The oldest of those present, the ones in their seventies and eighties, were leaning at alarming angles in their chairs. Dad noted the potential problem even though he was many sheets to the wind, and addressed me in a language that most resembled Tornedalen German. Nevertheless I got the drift, and between us we managed to get hold of the oldest and thinnest of the old boys under his arms. He was surprisingly light and made little resistance when we lugged him over to the sofa and sat him down in the middle, leaning back gracefully. The other two fossils were somewhat rounder in shape and weighed rather more, but we managed to place them on either side of the first. They woke up briefly and started hooting like owls, but soon fell asleep again, forming an orderly line. Heads leaning back against the sofa, but chins sagging. They sat there with wide-open mouths like fledglings in a nest, with their bald heads and wrinkled necks. I sat opposite them and tried to hit their open traps with sugar lumps, but Dad put a stop to that with an ominous glare.

Grandad came back in after an excursion outside for a pee. The tap had run so gently that his fingers were blue with cold, and he cursed old age and its cruel pranks. During his absence those left inside had made a horrifying discovery: they’d run out of booze. A slurred crisis meeting was called by some of the old dodderers and representatives of the moose hunters. They went through the better-known moonshiners in the area, reckoned up their own stores back home in the liquor cabinet, and wondered how they might be able to remove a few bottles without waking up the old woman. Somebody pointed out that the night was yet young, and the gas station down the road was still open. They could buy some meths, spruce it up a bit with a bit of wheat-flour, then pour it through a coffee filter. That would be not only strong, but also drinkable, and doubtless safe for anybody with a sound heart. One of the moose hunters volunteered to take a taxi to Finland provided they all shared the cost, buy some beer from a shop he knew in Kolari that was open until late, and bring back as much as was possible
to cram into the car. He knew the customs officers, so if they stopped him he could invite them to join the party. Everybody thought that was a splendid idea as Finnish beer was the best possible thing you could drink to avoid a hangover, and they asked him to make sure he also bought some Finnish bread and
piimä
, and brought along a few Finnish floozies if he happened to come across any.

Grandad now asserted himself and rose to his feet. He produced a three-liter plastic container and asked solemnly for it to be filled with water. A neighbor filled it up while the rest watched wide-eyed. With due ceremony Grandad placed the container in the broom closet, then asked his audience how well up they were on the Bible. Nobody said a word, realizing that the old man was gaga.

“Are you true believers?” he asked again, determined to get an answer.

“Not really,” muttered several of those present.

Grandad opened the cupboard door and took out the container. Then he took a swig and passed it to the man on his right, and so on, and everybody took a swig, one after another. And when they’d all had a taste, everybody agreed that Grandad was Jesus—no, to be honest, greater than Jesus, because Jesus had merely turned water into wine whereas Grandad had waved his wand and produced the hard stuff. Admittedly a bit primitive, with a greasy aftertaste; but there again there were not many substances as healthy as fusel oil, with all its trace elements and chromosomes. I was the only one who noticed that not only had the contents of the container been transformed, but also the color of the stopper; but I made up my mind to say nothing, in order not to spoil the implication that a miracle had been witnessed.

An elderly neighbor somewhat on the portly side started to slide out sideways from his kitchen chair. I just managed to get there and protect his forehead as he collided with the floor. It was not possible to revive him, so I took hold of his ankles and dragged him over to a wall so that the hulk wouldn’t be in anybody’s way. His limbs were totally relaxed and limp. I placed some newspapers under his head in case he
vomited. At that very moment his neighbor passed out, sitting in the rocking chair with his chin on his chest. The snuff trickled down onto his shirt like melted chocolate. The young moose murderer with the downy moustache laughed so much at the sight of the old guy that he couldn’t stop shaking. I also started giggling at all the old drunks staggering around from room to room, babbling away, spilling all over themselves when they tried to drink, going outside for a pee in their stockinged feet, singing cross-eyed, falling down on their bottoms and crawling like crocodiles on the rag carpets. I and the downy moustache combined to carry the snuff-stained gent away and place him on the floor next to the first one to succumb. We repeated the procedure for one of the men who’d passed out while apparently on his knees praying on the porch, and he became the third in the cluster. They lay there like slaughtered pigs, and we guffawed so much at the sight that we doubled up. Then we took a swig of the fusel oil and snorted and choked, then burst out laughing again.