throughout the year. I was not in mourning for just one death, but for two. An old one and a new one – I shall come back to that later – and dealing with one’s sorrow is by no means a simple matter.
It turned out that I had actually met Martin before.
‘Don’t you recognize me?’ asked a young man who came up to me, carrying a large plastic mug of red-coloured punch. He had long, dark hair and Che Guevara on his chest. And was smoking a pipe.
I didn’t. Didn’t recognize him, that is.
‘Try erasing the long hair and Ernesto,’ he said. ‘Lit studies a year ago. Where did you go to?’
Then it dawned on me that it was Martin Holinek. An assistant lecturer in the department – or at least, he had been while I was studying there. We hadn’t exchanged many words, and he hadn’t taught any of the courses I had attended, but I certainly did recognize him once the penny had dropped. He was reputed to be a young genius, and I think Rolf had talked to him quite a lot.
‘That business of your boyfriend,’ he said now. ‘That was absolutely awful.’
‘Yes, it was,’ I said. ‘It was too much for me. I just couldn’t carry on studying as planned.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said. ‘Have you managed to get back on your feet again by now, more or less?’
That was not a matter I wanted to start going into, even if it seemed to me his sympathetic tone of voice was genuine, and so I asked instead about his links with the garden party crowd. He explained that he actually lived in the same block and knew most of those present, and so we started talking about the Old Town, and about the advantages and disadvantages of various districts in Stockholm. The suburbs versus the town centre, that kind of thing. We somehow managed to skirt round the fact that it was a matter of class and nothing else – or at least, that’s how I remember it. Then when we sat down to eat at the long table, we ended up next to each other, and I noticed to my surprise that I was enjoying it. Not just Martin, but the whole party. Everybody was happy and unassuming, there were lots of young children and dogs around, and the early summer weather was at its absolute best. I had been rather antisocial ever since the accident, kept myself to myself and wallowed in my gloomy thoughts – and I think this was the first time since the previous August that I laughed spontaneously at something. It was probably something Martin said, but I don’t remember.
But I do recall what he said about Greece, of course. As soon as the following week he was going to board a flight to Athens, and then continue by boat from Piraeus to Samos. Western Samos, on the southern side. He would spend at least a month there in a sort of writers’ collective: he had done the same thing last summer, and when he spoke about it I realized that it had been a stunning experience. Needless to say they were all high for much of the time, and all kinds of weed were smoked, he admitted that readily – quite a few of those present had their roots in California – but nevertheless everything was devoted to literary creation. A writers’ factory, if you like. He wasn’t able to explain exactly what happened in detail that first evening, but everything was concentrated in or around a large house owned by the English poet Tom Herold and his young American wife Bessie Hyatt. I knew who they were: Herold had published several collections of poetry despite the fact that he couldn’t be more than thirty, and Bessie Hyatt’s debut novel, Before I Collapse , had been one of the previous year’s most talked-about books. Not just in the USA, but all over the world. The fact that it was considered to contain various keys to the complicated relationship between her and Herold did its reputation no harm.
Of course I was impressed, and of course I could see that Martin Holinek was proud of being a part of such an illustrious gathering. For a specialist in literary history it would
It turned out that I had actually met Martin before.
‘Don’t you recognize me?’ asked a young man who came up to me, carrying a large plastic mug of red-coloured punch. He had long, dark hair and Che Guevara on his chest. And was smoking a pipe.
I didn’t. Didn’t recognize him, that is.
‘Try erasing the long hair and Ernesto,’ he said. ‘Lit studies a year ago. Where did you go to?’
Then it dawned on me that it was Martin Holinek. An assistant lecturer in the department – or at least, he had been while I was studying there. We hadn’t exchanged many words, and he hadn’t taught any of the courses I had attended, but I certainly did recognize him once the penny had dropped. He was reputed to be a young genius, and I think Rolf had talked to him quite a lot.
‘That business of your boyfriend,’ he said now. ‘That was absolutely awful.’
‘Yes, it was,’ I said. ‘It was too much for me. I just couldn’t carry on studying as planned.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said. ‘Have you managed to get back on your feet again by now, more or less?’
That was not a matter I wanted to start going into, even if it seemed to me his sympathetic tone of voice was genuine, and so I asked instead about his links with the garden party crowd. He explained that he actually lived in the same block and knew most of those present, and so we started talking about the Old Town, and about the advantages and disadvantages of various districts in Stockholm. The suburbs versus the town centre, that kind of thing. We somehow managed to skirt round the fact that it was a matter of class and nothing else – or at least, that’s how I remember it. Then when we sat down to eat at the long table, we ended up next to each other, and I noticed to my surprise that I was enjoying it. Not just Martin, but the whole party. Everybody was happy and unassuming, there were lots of young children and dogs around, and the early summer weather was at its absolute best. I had been rather antisocial ever since the accident, kept myself to myself and wallowed in my gloomy thoughts – and I think this was the first time since the previous August that I laughed spontaneously at something. It was probably something Martin said, but I don’t remember.
But I do recall what he said about Greece, of course. As soon as the following week he was going to board a flight to Athens, and then continue by boat from Piraeus to Samos. Western Samos, on the southern side. He would spend at least a month there in a sort of writers’ collective: he had done the same thing last summer, and when he spoke about it I realized that it had been a stunning experience. Needless to say they were all high for much of the time, and all kinds of weed were smoked, he admitted that readily – quite a few of those present had their roots in California – but nevertheless everything was devoted to literary creation. A writers’ factory, if you like. He wasn’t able to explain exactly what happened in detail that first evening, but everything was concentrated in or around a large house owned by the English poet Tom Herold and his young American wife Bessie Hyatt. I knew who they were: Herold had published several collections of poetry despite the fact that he couldn’t be more than thirty, and Bessie Hyatt’s debut novel, Before I Collapse , had been one of the previous year’s most talked-about books. Not just in the USA, but all over the world. The fact that it was considered to contain various keys to the complicated relationship between her and Herold did its reputation no harm.
Of course I was impressed, and of course I could see that Martin Holinek was proud of being a part of such an illustrious gathering. For a specialist in literary history it would