down in my soul, wiggling my hips, bouncing about and belting out chords until the lump of hardboard trembled.
There was a sudden noise, and I froze in terror. Just for a moment I was convinced the roar of approval could be heard as far away as the church. But I was alone in the garage, and soon I was back into the make-believe. Absorbed by the acclaim, surrounded by lights and clamor. My hips were quivering, the stage was quaking, my body arched backward.
Then Niila materialized. He’d crept in as quietly as a lynx, and been studying me in silence, for God only knows how long. I stiffened in shame. Waited for the scornful smile, the splatter as I was squashed against the wall with a flyswatter.
Only once afterward have I ever felt as naked. That was on the train from Boden to Älvsbyn, in the toilet. I’d just had a crap, stood up, and was wiping my bottom with my trousers around my ankles when the door opened and the female conductor asked to see my ticket. She claimed she’d knocked first, but the hell she had.
Niila sat down on an upturned enamel bucket and scratched away thoughtfully at a scab. Eventually he asked me in a low voice what I was doing.
“Playing,” I muttered, deeply embarrassed.
He sat in silence for what seemed an age, staring at my badly carved lump of hardboard.
“Can I have a go?” he asked at length.
At first I thought he was teasing me. But then I realized to my surprise that he was serious. Feeling increasingly relieved, I hung the board over his shoulder and showed him how to hold it. He started copying me, who’d in turn been copying Elvis. He swayed tentatively from side to side.
“You’ve got to get your legs working as well,” I told him.
“Why?”
“For the girls, of course.”
He suddenly looked shy.
“In that case you’ll have to sing.”
I nonchalantly raised the toilet roll to my lips and mimed silently, tossing my head from side to side. Niila looked disapprovingly at me.
“You must sing properly!”
“Bugger that!”
“Yes, you must.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Yes, for the girls!” said Niila in Finnish. I burst out laughing, and a wave of warmth flowed between us.
That was how it all began, at home in the garage surrounded by skis and snow shovels and winter tyres. Niila played, and I opened my mouth and let my voice do its thing. Hoarse and shrill and bellowing. I crowed, I whined, it sounded worse than the dog, but for the first time in my life I dared to sing.
* * *
A few weeks later I happened to mention during recess that Niila and I had started a pop band. That’s certainly how it felt. After all, we’d stood in the garage every day after school, and blown up each other’s dream world into enormous, brightly colored balloons. And as I’ve always had far too low a sense of self-preservation, not to mention a tongue loose at both ends, it just slipped out.
The sensation spread like wildfire. This was Pajala in the sixties, remember: an earth-shattering piece of world news wasn’t necessary. Niila and I were surrounded, it was the lunch break, and we were subjected to scorn and accusations of lying. The ring closed in on us, and in the end there was only one way out. We were forced to perform at the next Happy Hour.
Unfortunately our teacher agreed. She got the caretaker to dig out an old record player, and I borrowed Sis’s record of
Jailhouse Rock
when shewasn’t looking. We were going to mime, and I borrowed a girl’s skipping rope to use as a microphone. I was going to sing into the handle.
As early as the rehearsal at break, it was obvious it would be a disaster. The gramophone wouldn’t work at 45 revs, it would only play at 33 or 78. The record sounded like either funeral bassoons in Tibet, or Donald Duck at the circus. We chose the latter.
The bell rang, and the class sat down at their desks. Niila was holding on to the hardboard guitar with a grip of iron, looking panic-stricken. The boys started throwing erasers at us
There was a sudden noise, and I froze in terror. Just for a moment I was convinced the roar of approval could be heard as far away as the church. But I was alone in the garage, and soon I was back into the make-believe. Absorbed by the acclaim, surrounded by lights and clamor. My hips were quivering, the stage was quaking, my body arched backward.
Then Niila materialized. He’d crept in as quietly as a lynx, and been studying me in silence, for God only knows how long. I stiffened in shame. Waited for the scornful smile, the splatter as I was squashed against the wall with a flyswatter.
Only once afterward have I ever felt as naked. That was on the train from Boden to Älvsbyn, in the toilet. I’d just had a crap, stood up, and was wiping my bottom with my trousers around my ankles when the door opened and the female conductor asked to see my ticket. She claimed she’d knocked first, but the hell she had.
Niila sat down on an upturned enamel bucket and scratched away thoughtfully at a scab. Eventually he asked me in a low voice what I was doing.
“Playing,” I muttered, deeply embarrassed.
He sat in silence for what seemed an age, staring at my badly carved lump of hardboard.
“Can I have a go?” he asked at length.
At first I thought he was teasing me. But then I realized to my surprise that he was serious. Feeling increasingly relieved, I hung the board over his shoulder and showed him how to hold it. He started copying me, who’d in turn been copying Elvis. He swayed tentatively from side to side.
“You’ve got to get your legs working as well,” I told him.
“Why?”
“For the girls, of course.”
He suddenly looked shy.
“In that case you’ll have to sing.”
I nonchalantly raised the toilet roll to my lips and mimed silently, tossing my head from side to side. Niila looked disapprovingly at me.
“You must sing properly!”
“Bugger that!”
“Yes, you must.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Yes, for the girls!” said Niila in Finnish. I burst out laughing, and a wave of warmth flowed between us.
That was how it all began, at home in the garage surrounded by skis and snow shovels and winter tyres. Niila played, and I opened my mouth and let my voice do its thing. Hoarse and shrill and bellowing. I crowed, I whined, it sounded worse than the dog, but for the first time in my life I dared to sing.
* * *
A few weeks later I happened to mention during recess that Niila and I had started a pop band. That’s certainly how it felt. After all, we’d stood in the garage every day after school, and blown up each other’s dream world into enormous, brightly colored balloons. And as I’ve always had far too low a sense of self-preservation, not to mention a tongue loose at both ends, it just slipped out.
The sensation spread like wildfire. This was Pajala in the sixties, remember: an earth-shattering piece of world news wasn’t necessary. Niila and I were surrounded, it was the lunch break, and we were subjected to scorn and accusations of lying. The ring closed in on us, and in the end there was only one way out. We were forced to perform at the next Happy Hour.
Unfortunately our teacher agreed. She got the caretaker to dig out an old record player, and I borrowed Sis’s record of
Jailhouse Rock
when shewasn’t looking. We were going to mime, and I borrowed a girl’s skipping rope to use as a microphone. I was going to sing into the handle.
As early as the rehearsal at break, it was obvious it would be a disaster. The gramophone wouldn’t work at 45 revs, it would only play at 33 or 78. The record sounded like either funeral bassoons in Tibet, or Donald Duck at the circus. We chose the latter.
The bell rang, and the class sat down at their desks. Niila was holding on to the hardboard guitar with a grip of iron, looking panic-stricken. The boys started throwing erasers at us
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