What happened next is shrouded in darkness. A couple of people died or disappeared during the final phase of construction. When the tunnel was opened, hardly anybody wanted to use it, even though it made it much easier to move between Norrmalm and Östermalm. People preferred to cross the steep Brunkeberg Ridge rather than go through the tunnel.
Lindmark was worried about the tunnel, for some unknown reason. He didn’t want people to use it, and in spite of the enormous sums of money he had spent, he actually tried to get it closed. He failed, and eventually took his own life.
It was just after six when I strolled home along Sveavägen. The leaves on the trees down below the Observatory shimmered in shades of yellow, and a few kids were hanging around by the empty pool. From the McDonald’s behind me I heard someone shout: ‘I need ketchup!’
My mood was the polar opposite of the feeling I had had on Kungsgatan. I was numb, mute. The impressions drifted by without becoming anything other than what they were: yellow trees, kids smoking, someone who wanted ketchup.
One of the lectures being advertised on the Workers’ Educational Association noticeboard was ‘A New Social Democracy?’, and suddenly it seemed to me that the election in which I had voted with such enthusiasm had been totally unnecessary. If things are only themselves, and people too in the long run, then how can concepts such as solidarity and ‘the people’s home’, the idea that society should be like a family where everyone contributes, have any meaning? This is all built on a mystification of society itself, the idea that it can be spiritualised, when in fact nothing exists but kids, trees and ketchup, silently changing colour and place.
As I turned into Tunnelgatan and ambled towards the black mouth of the Brunkeberg Tunnel, I was struck by a new respect for this anomaly in our city—a respect that wasn’t easy to separate from fear. I saw the steam-driven freezing machines pumping away night after night in the darkness of the tunnel, and the labourers hacking away at the rock, one swing of the pickaxe and one thrust with the spade at a time, constantly terrified that the walls would collapse. What had they seen? What had they encountered? What was it that had driven Knut Lindmark to ultimate despair and down into the depths of Lake Mälaren?
Just as I was about to turn off Tunnelgatan and up into Luntmakargatan, the tunnel doors opened and a fat woman with a small flowering pot plant in one hand emerged. I caught a couple of lines of a song from inside the tunnel. The busker was in his spot, singing ‘Somebody Up There Must Like Me’.
The world shifted, and for a moment it seemed unpleasantly significant and coherent. I stood there with my mouth hanging open and the woman with the pot plant stopped in front of me. She looked at me, then back at the tunnel, before asking, ‘Are you all right?’
With her generous bosom and belly and the flower in her hand, she reminded me of the subject of a Rubens’ painting who had ended up in the wrong century. A face that might have been pretty was lost in puffy cheeks. I nodded and said, ‘Fine, thanks. How about you?’
‘Not so good, since you ask.’
The question had been automatic, and I didn’t want an answer, but it turned out that the woman lived in the same place as me, and as we walked she told me she had just moved into a one-room apartment. Her previous home had been much bigger, but long-term illness and a dispute with the national insurance office had left her broke.
She refused to let me go, and stood there in the stairwell listing all her problems: obesity, heart failure, bullying at work...Eventually she started to cry. It was terrible.
What would I have done if I had known then that I would sleep with this woman just a few months later? Screamed, probably. But people change. I didn’t scream when it happened. Well, I did, but not for that reason.
In a brief pause between her sobs I gabbled, ‘Lots to do!’ and left her weeping and clutching her little plant. My empathy was seriously underdeveloped at that time, and a while later I had more or less forgotten the encounter. I spent the rest of the evening practising. Getting ready for my premiere.
*
That Thursday was a big deal for me. I had done hundreds of street performances, sometimes as many as ten or twelve in one day, and my throat would feel like minced beef afterwards—all I could do was whisper. But street magic is different. You have to use big gestures, hammer home the key points and effects at regular intervals to capture and hold the audience’s attention. They have to stay until the performance is over, otherwise you don’t make any money. Okay, occasionally people would drop some cash in the hat earlier on, but the real clinking of coins—or, if you were lucky, the rustle of notes—came after the final bow.
Things would be different at the Mona Lisa. I would be able to do what I was best at, close-up magic, and have time to build up the effects with only a minimal risk that someone would leave before I’d finished. It was a privilege and a responsibility. I was already yawning by three o’clock; that’s what I do when I’m nervous.
At quarter past five I was dressed—black trousers, white shirt, waistcoat, bow tie—and had packed what I needed in my doctor’s bag—decks of cards, four five-kronor coins, foam balls in a range of colours, the specially prepared salt pot, the close-up mat and the laser pistol. Before heading off, I allowed myself five minutes sitting at my desk. I placed my hands on my knees, closed my eyes and tried to visualise a successful evening.
It didn’t go well. Instead of beaming faces and deafening applause, a room pushed its way in. The cell where I had spent the night. However hard I tried to conjure up the restaurant and its clientele, I kept coming back to the loneliness of the cell, the night that had ended in clarity.
Perhaps it was just as well. When I got to my feet I was calmer than I had been all day. Even the yawning had stopped.
Ten minutes later I arrived at the restaurant, and got a kick I hadn’t been expecting. Behind the glass door I saw a beautiful handwritten notice.
This Evening:
Magical Entertainment
From
John Lindqvist
At Your Table!
Welcome
I stood there for quite a while, staring at the words. It wasn’t exactly a jumbotron, but it was the first time I’d seen my name in writing like that, a message to the world: Here he is! Come and see him! When I had finished gazing I went inside and complimented Roberto on the sign. He smiled and told me it was his mother’s work. Of course. However, the corners of his mouth drooped when he said, ‘Only two reservations tonight. A party of six and a party of four.’
‘So what’s it usually like?’
He shrugged, and I could tell that he’d been hoping for a more immediate effect now that he’d hired a magician. The place was empty, and I realised how naive I’d been. Maybe it was the street magic that had led me astray, because I had kind of assumed that people would come. There are always people around; you just have to capture their interest.
Roberto disappeared into the kitchen and I was at something of a loss, unsure of what to do. I considered going to sit in the corner at the back, but that felt weird. When the customers came in I would be waiting there like a vulture observing a lion, biding my time until it finished so that I could do my vulture-thing.
I went around the bar and into the kitchen, where I found Roberto deep in conversation with the cook. There was a chair next to the dishwasher, plus a table with a half-full ashtray on it. I sat down, opened my bag and rummaged among my things. Roberto was on his way back into the restaurant when he caught sight of me and nodded. I nodded back; I was obviously in the right place.
The cook came over and introduced himself as Miguel. I stood up and gestured towards the chair. ‘Have I taken your seat?’
‘No problem. You are…magician?’
He had a strong Spanish accent: ‘a’ became ‘e’, and he pronounced words with the stress on the final syllable. Problem. Magician.
‘That’s right.’
Miguel had a broad face with small eyes; he looked almost Indian. He
nodded slowly, as if we shared a secret. Then he held his hands up in the air and said, ‘Hocus pocus!’ I responded with ‘Abracadabra!’ With that our conversation was over, and Miguel returned to his kitchen.
Six o’clock. I wished I’d brought something to read, my walkman, anything. I didn’t feel good, just sitting here waiting. My fingers had been supple and ready to amaze; now they were beginning to stiffen. I took out my deck of cards and began to play patience—Aces Up.
At six-thirty Roberto came into the kitchen and said, ‘Okay.’
‘Okay?’
‘They’re waiting.’
Three men and a woman, casually dressed, were sitting at a window table. As I walked towards them with three five-kronor coins in my hand, I couldn’t help thinking: What the hell am I doing? This is crazy! Pushing the thought aside, I plastered on a self-assured smile as I took up my position at the end of the table and said, ‘Good evening—welcome! My name is John, and I’m pleased to offer you some magical entertainment.’
From the guests’ reaction I realised they hadn’t seen the sign on the door or the note in the menu. They looked at one another as if trying to ascertain whether this was okay or not.
If there was one thing I’d learned while performing on the street, it was never apologise, never hesitate. I had intended to begin with Elbow, Knee and Neck, but that trick required a thirty-second buildup before anything magical happened. I needed something more immediate right now to stop them deciding that no, it wasn’t okay.
I slipped two of the coins in my pocket and passed the third from one hand to the other as I asked, ‘If I went to Australia and did this, the Australians would probably fall off their chairs—do you know why?’
The question aroused their interest enough to stop them wondering—temporarily at least—whether they really wanted to be entertained. I placed the coin between the painfully acquired calluses on my right hand, sent up a rapid silent prayer that it would fly, then said, ‘Well, they live on the other side of the world, so when they do it, it looks like this,’ and then I squeezed. My hands were slightly sweaty, which was an advantage for this particular trick. The coin shot half a metre up in the air and landed perfectly in my left hand.
The group relaxed as if a cooling breeze had blown over them, and a couple of them smiled in a mixture of relief and admiration. I might be an unexpected adjunct to their meal, but at least I seemed to know what I was doing. The atmosphere changed as they leaned back and became receptive. I took out the other two coins and said, ‘Through years of practice I’ve learned how to teleport coins through my blood vessels. Could I borrow a hand? It doesn’t matter if it’s still attached to an arm…’
And so on.
I finished off with the ten-kronor note that turns into a hundred, bowed in acknowledgement of their applause, said, ‘Enjoy your evening,’ and left the table. When I got back to the kitchen I felt as if I’d done an entire evening on stage at the famous Hamburger Börs, even though I’d only been gone for eight minutes, according to the clock. Only then did I realise that I hadn’t received any tips. Not necessarily because the people I’d performed for were mean—it was just that there was nothing in what I said or did to suggest that tips might be appropriate. No hat, so to speak.
I would have to think about that. For the moment I was just happy that everything had gone well, and that I was actually capable of entertaining people under these conditions.
When Roberto came in twenty minutes later to tell me that the larger group had arrived, my fingers had already begun to itch; I couldn’t wait to get started again. Like all other forms of pleasure, performing magic is addictive, thanks to the kick you get from people’s amazement and appreciation.
The second round went even better than the first. These clients were relatively well dressed, and seemed to have come straight from some kind of conference. They were after something cool, and I can confidently say that I delivered. I was feeling relaxed after having broken down the barrier with my first performance, and I was able to push things further, include the audience in more of my tricks. They didn’t seem to know each other all that well, but experiencing my illusions together drew them a little closer, and I could feel it.
When it was over and they had applauded warmly, the man who seemed to be the informal leader of the group said, ‘I’ve seen this kind of thing before, in LA, but you were much better. I’m Hasse, by the way.’
I shook his outstretched hand, gave a modest shrug and was about to walk away when Hasse touched my arm and asked, ‘Are you here on Saturday?’
‘Yes…why?’
‘A gang of us from work are having a night out, about ten of us—I was thinking we could come here, if you’re performing then?’
I was about to go and check with Roberto, but he was standing behind the bar and had obviously heard the conversation, because he raised his eyebrows and nodded.
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘I’ll be here.’
‘Great,’ Hasse said, reaching into his inside pocket. I thought he was going to give me his business card, but he brought out his wallet. ‘Are you allowed to accept tips?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said, which made Hasse laugh. I could see that he was trying to impress his companions with his worldly ways and his generosity, but I was quite happy to go along with him as he picked out a fifty-kronor note and gave it to me with the words: ‘There you go. You can turn it into a thousand when you get home!’
I laughed politely and left the group, wishing them a pleasant evening and saying that I looked forward to seeing them on Saturday. As I passed the bar Roberto patted me discreetly on the back and whispered, ‘Yesss!’
Only four more customers came in that evening, two couples at separate tables. One pair wanted to be entertained; the others didn’t, because they were totally absorbed in each other. When the group I had performed for at the beginning of the evening paid their bill they added an extra twenty kronor for me, possibly inspired by what they had seen and heard at Hasse’s table.
Okay, so it wasn’t exactly Springsteen at Ullevi, but when I sat down in the kitchen after my final performance, I could describe the evening as a success. When Roberto came to pay me I told him that a hundred was enough, because I hadn’t done many performances. I wanted to show him some goodwill, and it was clearly appreciated. We toasted each other with a beer: ‘Here’s to the future!’ At that moment I couldn’t imagine it was anything but glowing.
*
I walked home over the Brunkeberg Ridge. The tunnel was closed for the night, and in any case I wouldn’t have wanted to go that way. I whistled to myself, and it was only when I was on my way down the steps leading to Tunnelgatan that I realised the tune was ‘Somebody Up There Must Like Me’.
I was just outside the entrance to the tunnel. Beside me was a cast-iron plaque that read:
1886
KNUT LINDMARK
ENGINEER
I thought about all the material that had been removed during construction. The ridge had been sliced away in several different stages, Kungsgatan had been excavated and the tunnel dug out, so what had they done with the millions of tonnes of rock? Dumped the lot in Lake Mälaren? Built something else?
As I stood there on that misty October evening, it was difficult to imagine the enormous amount of activity that had gone on around this spot at different periods of time. The transportation. The movement. All in order to leave this place to me and me alone as I stood there on the steps, leaning on the railing and contemplating the memorial plaque, which resembled a shield.
Maybe the successes of the evening had evoked a mindset of unreasonable egocentricity, because I thought I felt a vibration in the railing, the echo of hundreds of years of effort, leading to me, right here and right now. Nothing dies or disappears, it simply metamorphoses and moves forward, and somebody up there must like me. I let go of the railing and carried on down the steps.
I had decided to ignore whatever was going on in the laundry block, but th
at night it was impossible. When I walked into the courtyard I could see that the light was on in there, and I heard faint but unmistakable noises.
I went over to the door and listened. The sound didn’t seem to be coming from the laundry room itself, but from further in. Silently I took out my keys, opened the door. The outer room was indeed empty, and the noises grew louder when I stepped inside. In spite of the fact that I was alone, my face flushed red as I quietly closed the door behind me.
Someone was making love in the shower room. No, I have to use another word. They were fucking. Violently. A man was grunting and groaning while a woman screamed in short bursts; it was impossible to distinguish pleasure from pain. The usual pull was emanating from the room. I didn’t resist, but allowed myself to be drawn closer until I was standing right next to the door, my face burning.
I heard thuds as bodies repeatedly banged against one another, a wet smacking accompanied by humming, whimpering and screams. It was hard to decode the animalistic noises, but in the brief pauses I could make out human voices, and I was more or less sure they belonged to the couple who had sold me the television. The cold couple. The dead.
They were neither cold nor dead now. I carried on listening as they went at one another with something close to violence. Beyond their howls I could hear something else, something that couldn’t possibly be coming from their bodies: a sluggish splashing that rose and fell. Stamping on a frog, mashing it into a slimy mess beneath the sole of your shoe. That sound, but deeper and following a different, slower rhythm than the Dead Couple’s increasingly frenetic activity.
I looked down at the floor and my throat contracted as a wave of nausea came over me. The linoleum was dotted with several small pools of blood, and I was standing right in the middle of one of them. I gasped and brought a clenched fist up to my chest. This was 1985, remember, and coming into contact with blood was regarded with the same horror as exposure to radioactive material, if not worse. The police wore thick gloves whenever they were called out, and any room in which an HIV-positive person had been held was fumigated with corrosive chemicals. Blood was death, and I was standing in it.