On a mind-blowing contest in the Pajala sewage treatment works, and how we unexpectedly acquired another band member
Despite the admonitions of Laestadius, despite the warnings issued by medical science and despite many frightening examples among family and friends, several of my schoolmates started drinking themselves silly on the weekends. Tornedalen is part of the vodka belt stretching all the way across Finland and deep into Russia, and in the senior school one of the most popular spare-time activities was getting drunk. There were many tyro alcoholics who had seen the light and at every break preached the gospel according to 40-percent proof; where one had trodden, others were keen to follow in his footsteps.
It was around this time that the lads from Kaunisvaara started spreading the rumor that they could hold more drink than anybody else throughout the whole of Norrbotten. The proof was indisputable. Over the past year they had traveled to Gällivare and Kiruna and drunk under the table legions of miners’ sons from alcohol-soaked laborers’ families, and if the likes of them were unable to compete, who else could?
The Kaunis boys were getting too big for their boots, in fact. When others expressed doubt, they offered to challenge all comers. After a little consultation, two brothers from Paskajänkkä intervened. As they considered themselves to have not only a degree of insight into the subject but also a talent for organizing things, they announced their intention of arranging a Regional Boozing Championship.
News spread rapidly through the local boys’ gangs. The rules were simple: it was to be a young people’s contest and you had to be in class nine or lower. The message was passed on via school buses, cousins, poker schools, and, not least, sports clubs. As every district was allowed to nominate only one representative, ruthlessly tough preliminary rounds took place throughout the region. Eventually, one Friday evening at the beginning of October, it was time for the championship finals.
The contest was to be held in the old Pajala sewage treatment works. In those days it was situated on the steep river bank not far from the church, and was a red-brick building enveloped in a faint but unmistakable smell of shit. For that very reason it had become the main location for the making of mash. The lads had discovered a way into the top floor through a hatch in the roof and found a quiet corner where the tubs could bubble away undisturbed, with the yeasty smells being masked by the sewage odors.
As I knew the Paskajänkkä brothers I was allowed to help with the preparations, and in return Niila and I would be able to watch the contest. We fetched and carried some big buckets and filled them with water, while the actual potion was mixed by those who knew more about the recipe than we did. It involved baking yeast and sugar, and some of the containers also had potatoes and raisins added. It all had to mature for a few weeks, to acquire the right strength and aroma. The Paskajänkkä boys wanted nothing to do with distilling. It was true that three of them had produced HiLaGu schnapps, the name being composed from the first names of the lads involved. It had its own homemade label and looked authentic, but the level of fusel oil was such that drinking it made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The elder brother, who was more technically inclined, had also had a go, using equipment he’d welded together in the workshop at the local College of Technology when nobody was looking. He’d stood it on a hotplate in the garage, but the connections had not been tight enough, leaking ethanol fumes had caught fire, and the whole caboodle had blown up. At the community hospital he explained away the extensive burns by claiming that a pot of boiling potatoes had been knocked off the stove, and that the smell of yeast in his clothes came from his mother’s yeast liquid for baking bread that he’d poured over himself in an attempt to cool the burns down. In memory of that he’d been known as Breadloaf ever since, and had a blotchy red and hairless lower arm.
After this incident the brothers had agreed that distilling was for fools, a fiddly and unnecessary procedure that both spoiled the taste and resulted in the loss of valuable amounts of vitamin B. A real man should be able to drink mash, and it was on that basis that contestants were invited to take part.
We waited until evening, when the sewage workers had gone home in blissful ignorance of what was going on. It was dark by the time a dozen or so boys climbed in through the roof hatch and gathered in the storeroom upstairs, a dirty and untidy room smelling of sewage. All the competitors sat down on the floor in a circle. They started assessing the opposition while waiting for proceedings to start.
The boy from Korpilombolo had a freckled forehead and a melancholy air, with an unruly black fringe. The Junosuando boy grinned non-stop, his lower lip projecting alarmingly—a characteristic of people from that area. The young hopeful from Tärendö had a cleft chin and a dripping potato-nose. The Muodoslompolo youth had a curly brown sheep-hairstyle and was so nervous he couldn’t stop spitting. Pajala’s representative was Breadloaf, with his low forehead and ice-blue, slightly squinting eyes. There were also a few boys from the outlying villages. The aspirant from Lainio was pale and looked pious, with large, shy, doe-like eyes. The Torinen boy had enormous lumberjack-hands stuck on the end of his puny teenage forearms, and a nose with so many blackheads it appeared to be covered in gnats. The contestant from Kaunisvaara, the alleged favorite, was one of the village’s agile long-distance cross-country skiers, a thin-lipped, stooping giant of a youth who had already, at the age of fourteen, managed to finish eleventh in the Malmloppet ski race and had lungs with the capacity of fully inflated tractor tires. And there were also a few supporters present to see fair play.
Breadloaf’s younger brother, whose name was Erkki and was in class eight, opened the first tub with a ceremonial flourish. He was short but sturdy, known for his foolhardy fighting technique. The sight of the bubbling mash inspired him to request permission to join in the contest as a late entry. Everybody objected as Pajala had already filled its quota. Erkki then began to go into detail about his roots as a forest Sami and listed rank upon rank of ancestors while urging Breadloaf in an increasingly provocative tone to confirm the validity of his origins. In the end a compromise was agreed. Erkki would be allowed to take part as a representative of Sattajärvi’s Forest Samis, and his duties as competition steward would be taken over by Niila and me.
We started sharing out the mash without delay: I poured and Niila handed out the mugs. All the contestants emptied them quickly, in solid silence. The next round followed immediately. Eager slurping and gulping. Mug number three. When that was emptied a pause was declared for belching and recharging of snuff. They all glanced furtively at everybody else and muttered something about never having tasted insipid maiden’s water like this before, and that where they came from it was the kind of thing you put into babies’ bottles. Supporters and observers begged for a drop to taste, and their wish was granted. I knocked back a mouthful and almost choked on a raw potato. It tasted of baking mix and was hellishly strong.
I was reminded of the job I was supposed to be doing, for Christ’s sake, so I opened the next container. In the interests of justice I did my best to ensure that all the mugs contained the same amount, and Niila checked that everybody drank the whole lot. The mood was getting more excited, of course. Then all of a sudden, everybody started babbling away in Tornedalen Finnish. Happiest was probably Erkki, who had only been allowed to take part as a favor after all, and he started shaking hands with all present and thanking them until Breadloaf told him to shut his trap and stop disturbing the concentration of the other contestants.
As always, the intoxication brought about the most astonishing personality changes. The Korpilombolo boy’s face had lit up like a sun and he started telling obscene jokes about substitute teachers. Junosuando was frowning grimly and started going on about the large number of Nazis in the 1930s in certain villages not a thousand miles away from here, until the penny dropped for the lad from Tärendö, who became aggressive and started to recall the statistics with regard to village idiots in Junosuando. Lainio suddenly lost all his shyness and piety and proposed a game of poker at one krona a shot. Kaunisvaara wondered caustically when Lainio Laestadians had acquired an interest in that kind of thing. A conspiratorial expression came over Muodoslompolo’s face as he hinted at being descended from eighteenth-century French royals traveling clandestinely. Torinen maintained that as far as he was aware the Muodoslompolo area was better known for the feuding and bloodshed among local families, and for turning inbreeding into an art form. Breadloaf once again suggested that everybody shut their traps, whereupon they all commented sarcastically about the Pajalan piksipojat and such newfangled nonsense as merging local authorities into bigger units so that people living in the biggest place, like the aforementioned Pajala peacock, suffered delusions of grandeur.
After two more mugs the atmosphere turned even more cantankerous. At the same time the arguments became less lively and less precisely articulated. The only one in a good mood was Korpilombolo, who suddenly rose to his feet. He apologized profusely, but he would have to break off now as he was feeling extremely horny and did we know any depraved Pajala women? Erkki described in great detail how to get to the home of a recently retired math teacher and with a sly wink wished him the best of luck. The rest had decided now was the time to start a fight, but first they all needed a pee and a couple of minutes to get worked up. After the pee, however, everyone was so plagued by a lack of fluid that Niila and I were required to put that right immediately.
Eyelids were now at half mast. Tongues were growing bigger. The air was growing even smellier thanks to all the farting brought on by the mash. Junosuando and Tärendö exchanged a few slurred punches, then fell into each other’s arms and collapsed in a heap. Muodoslompolo laughed so much at the sight that he had to grab the nearest empty mash bucket to throw up in. He demanded in a loud voice to be allowed to get on with the contest even so, then passed out, sitting down with his head dangling. Kaunisvaara snorted in disgust at all this beginners’ incompetence.
A few new rounds followed. Lainio seemed surprised that he’d kept up with the rest for so long as the whole of his family were very religious, and he’d only started drinking so recently that he hadn’t really got used to it yet. Torinen was calmly confident on grounds of heredity and started counting all the alcoholics in his family. He got to a dozen then fell sideways and remained slumped on the floor.
Niila produced yet another bucket. Breadloaf and Kaunisvaara glared at each other like punch-drunk boxers and emptied their mugs in unison. Laino was hanging on in there, as was Erkki, who didn’t feel under pressure and was still drinking the stuff because he liked it. Breadloaf was now having trouble speaking whole sentences and came out instead with a string of vowels. Kaunisvaara was having problems with his eyes and kept missing his mug unless he covered one eye. But he exploited his verbal superiority and started singing the Pajala strike anthem, with scarcely a slurred consonant. That provoked Lainio into suggesting that every Communist should go back home to the inviting Siberian winter, and he went so far as to suggest that Lenin and Stalin had been sexual partners, and that Marx would doubtless have joined in as well were it not for the fact that he was already dead and buried. Then he stressed once again, with a degree of astonishment, how good it felt to be a sinner, and that if only he’d known, he’d have started long ago. Then, satisfied with his input, he leaned back against the wall and fell asleep without saying his prayers.
It was clear to the supporters that the end was now nigh, and they started chanting their encouragement. Three of them were from Kaunisvaara, descendants of strikers and Stalinists. They never said a word when sober, but were now keen to declare that Communist drinking habits helped to stir up revolution and sharpen arguments, and that the most amusing drunks in the whole world were the ones at Red Youth parties. One of the Pajala supporters was from Naurisaho and another from Paskajänkkä, and when they both announced that they were Social Democrats, the temperature rose noticeably. While Breadloaf and Kaunisvaara emptied yet another mug, the Kaunisvaara boys announced their intention of beating the living daylights out of all comers, first in beautiful Tornedalen Finnish similes, then spelled out in words of one syllable, and finally to the accompaniment of threatening gestures and aggressive stares. Social Fascists would be pissing blood after a few revolutionary hammer-blows. The Pajala lads wondered sarcastically what these revolutionaries had ever contributed to local history, apart from wrecking a bus not far from Kengis and waving a few revolvers about in remote cottages out in the forests. The Kaunisvaara boys went on about how only idiots who had spent too much time licking upper-class assholes could say things like that, and that working class action was just as much justified now as it had been then. At the last moment Erkki placed himself between the warring factions and explained somewhat haltingly but craftily that he’d always felt drawn toward Communism, but that he’d also been impressed by the Young Socialists, especially as they served up buns and juice at their meetings, and hence he hadn’t yet made up his mind where he stood politically. Both sides immediately homed in on him with missionary zeal, while I assiduously refilled all their mugs.
Breadloaf was forced to lean against the wall in order not to fall down. Kaunisvaara was seeing double in the one eye he was still using, and was also compelled to hold his eyelids up with his forefingers. Both had fallen silent. The pain barrier had been passed, and the poison offered nothing more than death and paralysis. Kaunisvaara’s arm collapsed, and his eyelid closed. Silence. But just when everybody had concluded it was all over, he announced that since his arm no longer did what he told it, somebody would have to help him. One of his mates raised the lad’s mug to his lips, and emptied it into the void. Breadloaf wasn’t answering questions as his powers of hearing had now failed him, but he still understood sign language. He could still raise his mug, but was unable to swallow and hence was forced to pour the stuff out slowly and let it find its own way down his throat. I proposed that the match should be declared a draw. The Kaunisvaara supporters were quick to declare vociferously that such cowardice was unthinkable, and besides, no Pajala upstart was going to rob them of the championship that was so obviously theirs.
I filled the mugs yet again. They were duly emptied as before. I was really worried now, and insisted that as they were both unconscious, the championship should be shared. The Kaunis supporters reacted by lifting the eyelids of their hero and demonstrating that his pupils were not fixed, but were in fact eager to continue with the contest. Somebody yelled into Breadloaf’s ear and asked if he wanted to keep going, in which case he should open his mouth. This he did, and another mug was poured in.
But now the last signs of life had faded away. Heavy-handed attempts were made from both sides to revive them. Breadloaf slumped at what looked like an uncomfortable angle, and the lad from Kaunisvaara started drooling with his tongue hanging out. As a result of my urging they were both laid down on their sides with their tongues hanging out, whereupon it was discovered that they had both wet themselves.
Erkki inshishted on having another mug. Like his brother, he found it hardest to speak when he was drunk—but even so, I gathered what he wanted and served him up another round. He emptied his mug, and then announced in Finnish, with more than a few intrusive consonants, that the champion boozer of Pajala and district was the representative of the Sattarjärvi Forest Sami.
Supporters of both Kaunisvaara and Pajala stared at me. I stared in turn at Niila. He nodded and said that it was right. Erkki had drunk one more mug than all the others. Erkki grinned and stammered in a hoarse voice something about this having been the most he’d ever drunk in his life. And whether or not he was a Social Democrat or a Communist, that was worth thinking about, but what he most needed now was a pee.
* * *
Niila and I helped Erkki out through the hatch in the roof. The Kaunisvaara supporters were thunderstruck and stayed put, started drinking to drown their sorrow and talked about the latest case of suicide that autumn. The Pajala boys realized that Breadloaf had thrown up and cleaned out his mouth to make sure he didn’t choke. A sweet and sour smell indicated that mash diarrhea had already arrived. The fallen Kaunisvaara hero looked worryingly pale, but it was assumed his strong skier’s heart would see him through. The others were snoring like pigs, their eyes either open or closed, blissfully unaware of the morrow.
Outside the sewage treatment works Erkki proceeded to paint the autumn night with steaming brush strokes. I congratulated him heartily, and then had a sudden idea. I explained solemnly that as he was now the youth champion, Erkki would receive the surprise award, namely a position as drummer in the most promising local rock band.
Niila opened his mouth but said nothing after I’d given him a nudge. Erkki said he’d barely even seen a photo of a drum. I assured him that if he could hold his willy and paint pictures in pee as he was doing now, he should be able to handle a drumstick. Erkki laughed so much the brush strokes broke in several places, and it was agreed.
* * *
And so the following Monday during lunch, the rock band was formed. It was a memorable day for several reasons. Although it was two days since the contest took place, Erkki was still hung over. But that was nothing compared to the state of his brother, Breadloaf, who signed the pledge over and over again in between fits of nausea, and actually stuck to it for a few weeks. The Kaunisvaara lad fought his attacks of sickness by means of a ruthlessly hard training program: running through the biggest swamps he could find, wearing his father’s Wellington boots with stones packed into the legs to make them heavier; chopping up several truckloads of firewood, alternately using his left and right arms; and bicycling to school in Pajala with no saddle so that he couldn’t cheat by resting, and breathing only every other time to strengthen his lungs.
At first Erkki wanted to back out when he discovered that playing the drums involved using two drumsticks. That was twice as many as he’d expected. In the end, however, he reluctantly sat down behind the school’s drum set, grasped hold of the sticks as if they were hatchets, and started to chop down the set. It fell over as if struck by a tornado—the stand, the cymbals, the lot. Erkki remained seated. Stared into space for a while. Then claimed his hangover was getting better already. Duly impressed, he picked everything up and set it all to rights, then tried again with similarly disastrous results. And now his headache had gone more or less completely. Very remarkable. If he played for a few more minutes, no doubt the shaking and sweating would stop as well.
I tried to get a beat going with the bass to Erkki’s non-existent rhythm, Niila and Holgeri filled in the holes with their guitars. We didn’t mention the word “key,” we hadn’t reached that level yet. Erkki seemed to be totally unaware of the rest of us, was going cross-eyed, sticking his tongue out, and twisting his mouth into strange shapes. Already he had mastered the imbecilic look that lots of drummers assume when they’re playing, even though they look normal in other circumstances.
All of a sudden, in the middle of Holgeri’s guitar solo, Erkki stopped and loosened his belt. We lost the thread and stopped playing as well. Erkki said this rock music lark was the most enjoyable thing he’d ever tried, including getting drunk and masturbating. He was unable to compare it with sexual intercourse because he hadn’t yet had that experience, but no doubt it would be irrelevant because he’d always suspected that sex is overrated anyway.
I asked him to try again, but this time attempt to hit the drum with regular intervals between each contact. Erkki was doubtful, but set off again. The result was even worse, a hellish row. Splinters of wood flew off the drumsticks, the skin was pockmarked, the screws in the stand worked loose and the whole thing collapsed again. I looked at Niila. He shook his head. We had never been anywhere near such an unrhythmical and infernal commotion as this. Holgeri had already unplugged his guitar and was packing up. Niila did the same. I wondered how we could get rid of Erkki without making him angry. Perhaps tell him the award had only been for one day. That would be best. He was mistaken if he’d thought anything else.
But Erkki beat us all to it. He stood up before I could get around to saying anything, and marched out of the door with a cheery “So long.”
The next second I heard jeering coming from outside. Quiet but triumphant. I looked out of the door and saw that Erkki was being held down by Uffe and his mate Jouko. Several of their underlings were standing by, watching. Suddenly a couple of them jumped on Holgeri and forced him down to his knees in a neck-lock.
“Now, you bloody pansies!” they snarled.
I was terrified. My stomach turned inside out, my blood vessels contracted in preparation for the attack. Uncertainty was always the worst. Never knowing how far they would go this time. How many bruises? How much pain? How long before Greger turned up?
There were screams from outside. Shrill and piercing. What the hell were they doing to Erkki? Surely they weren’t using knives?
I felt as if I were going to die. Then I noticed them crawling on the ground. Jouko was blinking over and over again with blood pouring from his skinned, split eyebrows. Uffe was drooling and collecting the remains of his front teeth.
The underlings backed away, white with terror. Erkki limped back into the hall with blood trickling down his chin from his lower lip.
“They won’t bother us again,” he said calmly.