RIO by Harry Martinson

That town was situated in the gulf, with its semicircle front towards the ocean, softly curved like a blue password, the united breast of the warren took the wind in miles long sails of marble. The town confronted us like an absorbing white unity, curved around the room of space which our soul gently seized. Later, when the doctor's boat came, and - like shots fired from the marblefront - cutters, police boats, patrol boats arrived and the advertising boat, (full of blinking girls) arrived, at that time this quarrelsome independence came. It cuts up itself every day to achieve the love and the bread - that's when that town by the ocean became a broad mean, a white giant cistern for the bread, the work, the love, the indifference. At that time it swung in the gulf like a white desirable ship which is constantly loaded and unloaded.

When I had been signed off my first modest merchant vessel - a little schooner - I was fifteen years old and lumbered out of Stockholm. My purpose was to tramp the countryside and joyride until I reached Trondheim. And I did - that's obvious. However, it hardly belongs to the story. By the time of the first snowstorm that winter, I had reached Orsa. The snowstorm confined me inside the decent railway waiting room of Orsa. A couple of muffled up rural women sat on all sides and one of them - a gammer - even lit a pipe. At that time, I thought it was very strange. They'd been seeking shelter like me, these honest rural women, and what's more - they had to wait a long time for an abnormally delayed train. The stove of the waiting room wanted to be on strike. That didn't bother the women, but my feet were terribly freezing, perhaps my heart too, for these crummy women looked like mothers - in some special way. Something to cling to. Anyhow, they were safe, a kind of concrete symbols for my imagination. As they suddenly disappeared inside the snowy train, the waiting hall became empty and desolate. And cold!

Their bodies had radiated a warmth which soon was evaporated, my own couldn't preserve it. I had no money, so I couldn't buy a ticket and consequently - I couldn't accompany them a bit of the way. I lost myself in a light melancholy. I was seated so, for a long time. I was seated so, a bit tearful, fifteen years old and blue at Orsa waiting hall. I started to hate everybody, except the women of the world and a few good friends. The door leading to the waiting hall flew open, the snowstorm threw itself diagonally like a waterfall. Afterwards came a snowy man dressed in a fur. He wrestled with the wind and closed the door. He brushed the snow off: it seemed to be a fairly wealthy gentleman. Full of desperation, I rashly went up to him and begged for a coin. He kindly stared hard at me.

"You'll get that", he dashingly said. "But why are you out for a walk, you little man?"

"I'm going to Trondheim."

"TO TRONDHEIM???"

He laughed but controled himself and became harder:

"Been a sailor?"

"Yes".

"What boats and voyages?"

First, I said the truth: the schooner, the cruises to Scotland, Ireland and France. Then the lie came, I lied: a certain mysterious steamer, a cruise to Rio. His eyes shone, I understood. I wanted to die:

"What does it look like in Rio?"

"???"

"Describe Rio!"

I should have stopped here. At this point I should have said: I'm lying, or have neutralized the shame in such a confession with some diplomatic and clever turn. No. I hopelessly walked into the coils of the arabesque of the lie. I started to describe Rio.

I compromised about the ground and the view over the harbour, so that everybody would think it was a reasonably acceptable town. I wanted to cry when I heard myself say:

"It's not hilly and it's not flat country either."

He pityingly smiled and quickly interrupted me. In that way, the ridiculousness and shame was reduced a bit. He picked up a coin, turned it upside-down a little and looked at Oskar II.

"Once you've seen Rio, you never forget it", he tenderly said.

I was ashamed. I thought: now he won't believe the truth either: the schooner Willy, Scotland, Ireland and France. He put the coin in his hand, scraped with his finger around Oskar II and repeated:

"Once you've seen Rio, you never forget it".

While he gave me the coin, he said:

"You may get to Rio, if you keep being a sailor you'll naturally get there sooner or later. But you're still a bit stupid."

He gave me his hand. I shook it almost desperately and walked away. He remained in the waiting hall, but me? I just thought about disappearing and darken in the snowstorm. A signboard fluttered, I percieved the word Café. I went there. I remained seated with a cup of coffee and thought a few thoughts.

A few years have passed since then. Perhaps a new snowstorm is howling on the village street of Orsa. And perhaps a new boy is sitting with a cup of coffee which is getting cold - on his way along some of the thousand windings of the globe. To Rio, to Rio.

Once you've seen Rio, you never forget it.

A HALF SHEET by August Strindberg

The last vanful of furniture had disappeared; the tenant, a young man with mourning crape on the hat, once again walked through the flat to see, if he'd forgotten anything. No, he hadn't forgotten anything, nothing at all; and then he went out, in the hall, determined not to think about what he'd experienced in this flat. But in the hall, close by the phone, a half sheet was nailed on; and it was filled with writings in several types, some with plain ink, others scrawled with lead or red pencil. There it was, this beautiful story, which had been reflected in the short time of two years, everything he wanted to forget was there, a piece of human life on a half sheet.

He took down the sheet; it was a sun-yellow paper, which shines. He put it on the tiled stove and read it. First her name was written: Alice, the most beautiful name he knew at that time - because it was his fiancée's. And the number: 15 11. It looked like the number of a hymn. Afterwards was written: the bank. It was his job, the holy job, which gave the bread, the home and the wife, the foundation of the existence. But it was crossed-out! For the bank no longer existed, but he'd been saved by another bank - after a short time of much anxiety, though. Then it came. The flower shop and the driver. It was the engagement, when his pocket were filled with money.

Subsequently: the furniture dealer, the upholsterer: he settle down. The removal firm: they move in. The box office of the Opera 50 50. They are newly married and go to the Opera on Sundays. Their best moments, when they're quiet, and meet in beauty and harmony in the fairyland on the other side of the curtain. A male name follows, which is crossed-out. It was a friend, who'd reached a certain position in the society, but couldn't carry the happiness and fell, hopelessly, and has to travel far away. That's how fragile it is. At this point, something new seems to have entered the life of the couple. It says, written by a woman, and with a lead: "The lady." What lady? The one with the big coat and the friendly, sympathetic face who arrives so silently, and never walks through the drawing-room, but goes by way of the corridor to the bedroom.

Below her name, "Doctor" is written. For the first time, the name of a relative appears. It says "Mum". It is the mother-in-law, who discreetly has hid herself because she doesn't want to bother the newly-weds, but now she's called for in time of need, and happily arrives, since she's needed. At this point, a big scrawl with blue and red begins. The commission office: the maid has moved, or a new one is to be employed. The pharmacy. Hmmm! It's getting dark! The dairy. Milk is ordered, free from tubercle. The grocer's shop, the butcher, etc. The house is managed by phone; then the housewife is not there. No. For she is ill in bed. He could not read the following, for it's getting dark in front of his eyes, as it has to be for a drowning person at sea, when he's looking through saltwater. But there it said: The funeral parlour. That speaks for itself! One bigger and one smaller, understood: coffin. And it was written in brackets: of ashes. Afterwards, nothing more was written! It ended with ashes; and that's what it does. But he took the sun-yellow paper, kissed it and put it in his breastpocket.

In two minutes, he'd experienced two years of his life. He wasn't stooping, as he went out; on the contrary he carried his head high, like a happy and proud person, for he felt, that he'd still possessed the most beautiful thing. There are many poor ones, who've never done that!