sky, it would be a bitterly cold night. Niila hung around, wanted to ask something, but didn’t really dare. In the end he dragged me into the garage. Closed the door as quietly as he could, and then crept up close to my ear.
“What did she do?” he whispered.
I grabbed him by the shoulders.
“Stick out your tongue,” I said. “No, not as much as that.”
He pulled it back in so that just the tip was sticking out, round and wet and pink. I stuck mine out as well. We stood there without moving for a while. Then I leaned forward and kissed his salty, boyish mouth.
CHAPTER 8
In which a piece of hardboard is carved, a mouth is opened, and the stage is trodden for the first time
The sixties were coming to an end, and in the big, wide world pop music was coming into its own. The Beatles went to India and learned to play the sitar, California was overwhelmed by Flower Power and psychedelic rock, and England bubbled over with bands like the Kinks, Procol Harum, The Who, Small Faces, and The Hollies.
Very little of all that reached as far out as Pajala. Sis did her best to keep up: she hung up a copper wire between a pair of pine trees in the garden as an antenna, and tuned in to Radio Luxembourg on our ancient steam radio. We occasionally went to Kiruna to see The Shanes from Tuolluvaara, who had appeared with the Beatles in 1966, or the Hep Stars when they happened to be passing through—but only after long, cautionary conversations with Mum behind closed doors.
It was a long way from Pajala to the rest of the world. And when Swedish Television eventually got around to broadcasting one of its rare pop concerts, it was a recording of an event several years earlier with Elvis Presley. You simply had to take whatever was on offer.
I sat down with great expectations. Sis opened the wood veneer doorsshielding the screen from view, and switched it on quickly, in order to give the tube plenty of time to warm up. It matured like a loaf in the oven, and eventually produced a picture. The electrical signals were routed via the Kaknäs Tower in Stockholm and set off on their long, meandering journey over Sweden. The relay stations received the signals, and passed them on to the next, and the next, and eventually, just like one of those gigantic trains with neverending wagons laden with iron ore, they staggered as far as the Pajala TV mast on the top of Mount Jupukka, were duly transformed, and tumbled down like shelled peas into our black-and-white box.
And there he was. Elvis. Before he’d been sent to Germany as a GI, at the height of his career, a slim, virile young man with a wry smile, greasy hair, and legs as pliable as pipe-cleaners. Dad groaned and made a point of marching out to the garage. Mum pretended to knit, but she couldn’t take her eyes off this sweaty stud in his black leather jacket. Sis bit her nails down to the quick, and wept into her pillow all night long. I wanted a guitar.
The next day, when school was over, I went down to the woodwork shop in the basement and made something looking like a guitar from a piece of hardboard. Nailed on a bit of wood to make a bridge. Stretched a few elastic bands to make strings. Attached a piece of string so that I could hang the thing over my shoulder.
The only place where I could count on having a bit of peace was the garage. I sneaked in when nobody was looking, spread my legs wide apart on the concrete floor, and looked out over the packed audience. I could hear the shrieks, and imagined the thousands and thousands of teenyboppers surging forward toward the stage. Then I launched into
Jailhouse Rock
, which I knew by heart, thanks to Sis’s record. I tried wiggling my bottom. Felt the music pulsing through me, powerful and spicy. Then I grasped the toilet roll I was using as a microphone and opened my mouth. And started singing. But it was a song without words—I was only moving my lips, just as in the music lessons atschool. I was miming to the music from deep
“What did she do?” he whispered.
I grabbed him by the shoulders.
“Stick out your tongue,” I said. “No, not as much as that.”
He pulled it back in so that just the tip was sticking out, round and wet and pink. I stuck mine out as well. We stood there without moving for a while. Then I leaned forward and kissed his salty, boyish mouth.
CHAPTER 8
In which a piece of hardboard is carved, a mouth is opened, and the stage is trodden for the first time
The sixties were coming to an end, and in the big, wide world pop music was coming into its own. The Beatles went to India and learned to play the sitar, California was overwhelmed by Flower Power and psychedelic rock, and England bubbled over with bands like the Kinks, Procol Harum, The Who, Small Faces, and The Hollies.
Very little of all that reached as far out as Pajala. Sis did her best to keep up: she hung up a copper wire between a pair of pine trees in the garden as an antenna, and tuned in to Radio Luxembourg on our ancient steam radio. We occasionally went to Kiruna to see The Shanes from Tuolluvaara, who had appeared with the Beatles in 1966, or the Hep Stars when they happened to be passing through—but only after long, cautionary conversations with Mum behind closed doors.
It was a long way from Pajala to the rest of the world. And when Swedish Television eventually got around to broadcasting one of its rare pop concerts, it was a recording of an event several years earlier with Elvis Presley. You simply had to take whatever was on offer.
I sat down with great expectations. Sis opened the wood veneer doorsshielding the screen from view, and switched it on quickly, in order to give the tube plenty of time to warm up. It matured like a loaf in the oven, and eventually produced a picture. The electrical signals were routed via the Kaknäs Tower in Stockholm and set off on their long, meandering journey over Sweden. The relay stations received the signals, and passed them on to the next, and the next, and eventually, just like one of those gigantic trains with neverending wagons laden with iron ore, they staggered as far as the Pajala TV mast on the top of Mount Jupukka, were duly transformed, and tumbled down like shelled peas into our black-and-white box.
And there he was. Elvis. Before he’d been sent to Germany as a GI, at the height of his career, a slim, virile young man with a wry smile, greasy hair, and legs as pliable as pipe-cleaners. Dad groaned and made a point of marching out to the garage. Mum pretended to knit, but she couldn’t take her eyes off this sweaty stud in his black leather jacket. Sis bit her nails down to the quick, and wept into her pillow all night long. I wanted a guitar.
The next day, when school was over, I went down to the woodwork shop in the basement and made something looking like a guitar from a piece of hardboard. Nailed on a bit of wood to make a bridge. Stretched a few elastic bands to make strings. Attached a piece of string so that I could hang the thing over my shoulder.
The only place where I could count on having a bit of peace was the garage. I sneaked in when nobody was looking, spread my legs wide apart on the concrete floor, and looked out over the packed audience. I could hear the shrieks, and imagined the thousands and thousands of teenyboppers surging forward toward the stage. Then I launched into
Jailhouse Rock
, which I knew by heart, thanks to Sis’s record. I tried wiggling my bottom. Felt the music pulsing through me, powerful and spicy. Then I grasped the toilet roll I was using as a microphone and opened my mouth. And started singing. But it was a song without words—I was only moving my lips, just as in the music lessons atschool. I was miming to the music from deep
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