Andrzej Tichý - Wretchedness

PRAISE FOR
WRETCHEDNESS

What can a survivor do with their history? Can you be loyal to the friends you left behind? Andrzej Tich turns this wretched reality into something poignant. His polyphonic novel has a rough, rhythmic melody and a ferocious rage.

August Prize Judges

Post-political, thats what I want to call Andrzej Tichs arrestingly acute writing. [] A terrifying and hard story that doesnt forget to occasionally burst out into something gripping and beautiful.

Jonas Thente, Dagens Nyheter

Tich writes a delirious, detailed prose, studded with Malm slang and contemporary verve. The language pours forth over the pages like a contaminated river, full of filth, despair and anxiety, an associative flow of long, disjointed, almost endless sentences.

Eva Johansson, Svenska Dagbladet

In virtuosically rendered language; full of the poetry of spoken word, the innovation of contemporary slang, and the philosophical verve of great literature, Tich gives a voice to the lost brothers of his youth. To follow this frantic, mournful, bamboozling, pleading, smart, childish, would-be hard, bragging, desperate and despairing collective memory is to hear a whole forsaken generation. Despite the embracing of darkness, despite the absence of hope and faith, it is a magnificent elegy, teeming with life.

Pia Bergstrm, Aftonbladet

In terms of ambition, few contemporary Swedish authors can compete with Tich. The same goes for linguistic intensity. His prose rushes forward, roaring with, if you will, dark poetry, hurling its rage at an indifferent present. Wretchedness is a furious novel.

Ann Lingebrandt, Sydsvenska Dagbladet

Authors like Tich are needed to keep our literature alive. He is drilling frenetically, refusing to neglect the suffering and succeeds in lighting a spark with a linguistic tinder.

Nils Schwartz, Expressen

In spite of its slimness, this is a huge novel Tich has written.

Viktor Malm, Expressen

Andrzej Tich is an author who, time after time, in language that sings, says something important about contemporary Sweden. Read him.

Stefan Eklund, Bors Tidning

This is literature. Powerful and moving. And a lament for people with few opportunities to escape that place fate has decided for them.

Inger Dahlman, Motala Tidning

The darkness Tich evokes has an epic, radiant energy. The frenzy in the narrators flashbacks forces its way up through the narrative like volcanic continents, full of ruin, tragedy, wretchedness, and a rare, raging and destructive power. It is magnificent, across the board, magnificent.

Jan-Olov Nystrm, Sknska Dagbladet

First published in English in 2020 by And Other Stories
Sheffield London New York
www.andotherstories.org

Originally published as Elndet by Albert Bonniers Frlag, Sweden, in 2016.
Copyright Andrzej Tich, 2016

Published by arrangement with Nordin Agency AB, Sweden

Translation copyright Nichola Smalley, 2020

All rights reserved. The rights of Andrzej Tich to be identified as author of this work and of Nichola Smalley to be identified as the translator of this work have been asserted.

Quotation from the following sources gratefully acknowledged:

One written by James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich. Published by Creeping Death Music (GMR). All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission. Shook Ones, Pt. II by Mobb Deep; So Glorious by Killer Mike; Real by DJ Krush feat. Tragedy Khadafi; Free Will and Testament by Robert Wyatt; The Lost Prison Tapes by Tupac Shakur; Gravity and Grace by Simone Weil, translated by Emma Crawford and Mario von der Ruhr (Routledge Classics); The Cherry Orchard by Anton Chekhov, translated by Richard Nelson, Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky (Theatre Communications Group); Versiegle mir die Zunge, binde mich by Hugo Ball (new translation); Die Flucht aus der Zeit (Flight Out of Time) by Hugo Ball, for which the translation by Ann Raimes, Flight Out of Time: A Dada Diary , (University of California Press) was the source of the paraphrase: The skull was the name given to a girl in the nomads language. The outline of her skeleton showed in her worn features.

Whilst all attempts have been made to find the copyright holders of quoted passages and secure permission where relevant, the publishers and author would welcome approaches in the case of omission.

ISBN 9781911508762
eBook ISBN 9781911508779

Editor: Anna Glendenning; Copy-editor: Gesche Ipsen; Proofreader: Sarah Terry. Cover design: Sarahmay Wilkinson. Typesetting and eBook by Tetragon, London .

And Other Stories gratefully acknowledge that our work is supported using public funding by Arts Council England and that the cost of this translation was defrayed by a subsidy from the Swedish Arts Council and a grant from the Anglo-Swedish Literary Foundation.

Contradiction alone is the proof that we are not everything. Contradiction is our wretchedness, and the sense of our wretchedness is the sense of reality. For we do not invent our wretchedness. It is true. That is why we have to value it. All the rest is imaginary.

Simone Weil,
Gravity and Grace , 1947

That last day a Friday afternoon at the beginning of October I was waiting for the guitarist and the composer down by the canal, by the gravel track between the police station and the water. I stood there, thinking about the wax plants, whose whitish-pink and perfumed petals had opened overnight, and about some of the lessons I felt I might take away from that mornings practice of a Scelsi piece, which had been as focused as it was fruitful. And just as I was unsuccessfully trying to remember the name of an Italian philosopher whod written a long and exceptionally deep and incisive essay on Scelsis work and importance, a guy came up and asked if I could spare any change for the homeless. I felt about in my right pocket and found a twenty-krona note, scrunched up, irregularly folded, which I gave to him. He took it without a word and stuffed it in the pocket of his black jacket, whose fur-edged hood was pulled up, hiding large parts of his head. I was smoking and I could see that he was looking at the cigarette, following it with his eyes. I saw him but I didnt offer him one. I looked back at him, looked him straight in the eye and I wasnt afraid. He was a young guy, really thin, frail, I thought, if he tries anything Ill knock him down no problem. Even if he has a knife or a gun. He was still looking at the cigarette as I brought it to my lips. I took a drag, and then let my hand drift from the lower part of my face down to my stomach, approximately level with my navel, and I saw his eyes follow the movement. I exhaled. Smoke and ember, paper and tobacco. I could have offered him a cigarette, but I didnt think of it. He could have asked, but he didnt. And I saw he was looking at my bike, which was leant against the wooden bench behind me, or perhaps it was a utility box. Then he said hed been beaten up in the night, the previous night. He said: I dont know where Im going to sleep and I got beaten up yesterday. He said someone had hit him in the ribs and the face. I looked again and now I saw it, a bruise and a little graze on his left cheek, by his cheekbone. I asked him: who beat you up? He said something I didnt understand. He said a name. His tongue moved in his mouth. I asked why and he said something about them getting junked too much . He said: hes a whore. Those words made me flinch a little, as though their aggression was too intimate, and all at once I thought of Robert, a childhood friend Id recently bumped into, on a sunny day, down by the sea, down by Limhamn Fields, before a five-a-side match. We hadnt seen each other for years. He was big and well built now, no longer the gangly teenager I remembered, and he told me in a neutral tone, with no shame or swagger, that hed been inside, that hed stabbed a guy with a screwdriver when he was interrupted doing a robbery. He did a few years, got out and got a job at some factory making optical equipment or whatever. He said it was cool now, it was good to have a job. I told him briefly what Id been doing the last few years. I mentioned the adult education classes, the Academy of Music and my life as a freelance musician. Its cool, I said, adding that I guessed it must be nice to have a permanent job. He replied that it wasnt permanent. He was on a zero-hours contract. But theres stuff to do, he said. Then he asked if I went to Prague much. I said: no, its been a few years. He said: fucking nice whores in Prague. I didnt reply. Followed the freshly chalked touchline with my gaze, over to the corner flag, the little orange triangle in the high wind. When I looked back at him hed also turned away. I dont know what happened. I think we shook hands and said: well, take it easy, bro, look after yourself. We went our separate ways. The wind blew up great clouds from the dry gravel pitches. I looked after him, saw his shoulder blades and the muscles on his back and thought, I have to tell someone about this, but I never have, not even the guitarist or the composer. I stood looking after him and suddenly remembered how hed helped me once during a fight on one of the estates. I was fighting Carlos, I think about his girl Victoria, she was standing on one side, flattered I think I saw her one night years later when I was buying a burger at the kiosk on Mllevngstorget, she was working there, making fries in her Sibylla uniform, pretending she hadnt recognised me and I had Carlos in some kind of grip so he couldnt breathe, and his top was pulled up, exposing the bottom of his back, and then Robi ran up with a lighter and some kind of spray can, like deodorant or something, and set light to the gas and burned Carlos on the back. Only for three or four seconds, but he yelled and I let him go and he backed away and stood against the brick wall and we could tell from the look of him that hed lost, that he was scared and about to give up. But the thing was that Carlos was my friend. He was a hard little Chilean. He was smart, a maths geek. He lived with his grandparents, I think because his dad was a user and a drinker a few times, years later, I thought I saw the dad, sitting on the benches by Vrnhemstorget, and every time I had to stifle an impulse to go up and ask what had happened to Carlos, his little Carlito, my friend and I dont know what was up with his mum. She was Swedish I think, Im not sure I ever met her. There was some custody thing I think, at least when he was younger, like in primary school. Once, when we were in year one or two, a car came into the turning area by the supermarket, there by the school, what was it, Sndroppsgatan maybe, and someone jumped out and dragged Carlos into the car, right in the middle of break while we were playing our games, playing marbles or whatever, and we thought it was pretty weird that someone could just rock up from nowhere and drag a kid into a car like that, it felt like something out of a film, not reality. But wed seen it happen. What did it mean? I dont really know what we decided. Several days later Carlos was back, peddling some lie no one believed, and then we never talked about it again. Homes were generally very simple. The houses were usually built of mud or plastered, often with just one room. The houses mostly had flat roofs, where the family could rest, sleep and work. The roofs were made of brushwood, mud and earth. They had to be flattened out after heavy rainfall. Years later I heard hed been into drugs and hanging out with little kids, getting them to run errands for him so he wouldnt go down, probably, but someone at the school told the kids they shouldnt hang out with him, and then he went to the school and threatened the teachers. I dunno. What can I say? It felt so ridiculous. This thing with the gaze. Or, I dunno, these fantasies, and this thing of not being the first to look away, you know. And if you are it doesnt feel good. What can I say? Theres nothing weird about it, actually, even though you might think there is. Me and Robert, who was half Polish, used to hang out with a Polish gypsy called Tony, we called him Montana, yeah, and he went around wearing a suit and you know like gold chains and jewellery and all that shit, he used to have 100-krona notes tucked into the plastic wrapper on his cigarette packets, playin gangsta, as we used to say, and one time I met him by the school he liked me, you know, I dont know why, maybe because we spoke Polish sometimes and he was too young to understand it didnt mean anything, you know, that the Poles hated him just as much as the Swedes, I dunno but anyway I ran up to him and he was standing there with this bike and the chain had come off, one of those racing bikes from the eighties, so I said thats easy to fix, just turn it upside down and well fix it, but he said no, fuck it, youll just get dirty, leave it, come on, come with me to my cousin Lucianos place in Kroksbck, and we walked along and he said youre all right, you can share my fags as we go, and he pulled out a pack of Marlboros, then suddenly he got mad as hell and said hed lost a 100-krona note hed had in there, and as we walked along this guy came past, we didnt know him but Id seen him at school, was in year nine, geeky, Swedish, and as he passes us, Tony says like, hey fix my bike, and the guy says I cant, I dont know how to do it, and Tony says what, what do you mean you dont know how, just put the fucking chain back on man, its easy, youll ace it, and the guy, scared out of his wits, is still like, but, but, but I dont know and shit and Tony jumps up and does a roundhouse kick on his head, hits like, the cheek, not really hard, no blood or nothing, but still, I was a bit surprised, and the guy just gets down on his knees, hands shaking, fiddles with the chain, gets his fingers totally black, I said take it easy Tony, but I was scared of him too, everyone was, and in the end the three of us did it together, Tony holding the bike, me turning the pedals and the guy, I think he might have been called Daniel, like the guy with the lion in the Bible or in that song by Elton John, the guy fiddled with the oily chain till it was in place, and he headed off and we smoked a fag and then he cycled off, Tony did, and I walked on and looked sort of lazily for the 100 he might have lost. That wasnt really my style, actually, jumping innocents like that thats what I thought then in any case, but maybe that was exactly what I did, maybe I thought it was exciting, kind of fun, kind of entertaining, to see someone get jumped without doing anything myself, I dont know but I liked Tony all the same, there was some kind of bond there, and one time he helped me when I got in a fight with a guy from the fancy part of town, from Bellevue, some rich mans kid (I looked him up years later, by that point he was a pretty famous chef), who jumped in through the window during class, yeah, cos for some lessons I had to take the remedial classes, as they called them, for unruly students, we were in a smaller group and it was a bit quieter actually, but he climbed in and started picking on some little guy called Lars, he was really small for his age, used to take growth hormones and shit, and the other guy, the rich one, he was a year or two older than us, so I got between them and gave it all that, then he got thrown out and then we bumped into one another again and fought for a bit, but some teachers broke it up, and then someone said we should meet by the hills at twelve, and we met there and had a fight, he chipped a bit off my left front tooth, I can still feel the unevenness with my tongue today, like twenty-five years later, and I guess I got in a few punches and a kick or two, enough for him to know it would cost him something to humiliate me, and in the end we got tired and the circle around us thinned out and we stopped fighting and it ended kind of undecided, but the thing was that Tony found out about it later, and a rumour went round that he was gonna kill the rich kid, and you know, everyone knew he was crazy, and we had another mate, Marcin, a Pole, he bumped into the rich kid in a car park, there was a fight, nothing serious, but you know, Marcin was from Rosengrd and had a load of friends there, and Tony knew all the gypsies, as we used to say so all these rumours spread and in the end the rich kid got well freaked out, or else someone snitched, cos in the end the teachers called me and the rich kid in for some kind of peace negotiation, though it was nothing to do with me any more, but now there we were, and we were meant to apologise and shake hands and shit, and I cant remember what they threatened but I shook his hand and he shook mine and I asked Marcin and Tony to back off and they did, and then he became a chef as I said, pretty famous I think, but still a piece of work, you know, I remember he lived up in the villas, drove around on his brand-new fucking MT5, while me and Rodrigo shared a stolen fucking Puch Maxi with a broken front wheel, we nicked it off Hamza whod nicked it off someone else of course and it wasnt exactly risk-free, cos the thing was Hamza was totally wild, shot people in the eye with air guns and shit. What can I say? Homes were generally very simple. We used to sit, me and Carlos and the Kassem twins, Robi and a few others, in the stairwells and set light to plastic. Pots, plastic bags, whatever. I dont know why it fascinated us so much. Mostly we talked about the sound of the plastic dripping on the stone steps. Chop, chop, it went, and we called the whole game chop-chop. I think the whole thing started when someone taught us how to make little smoke bombs from ping-pong balls and aluminium foil. You stole a ping-pong ball and some aluminium foil, wrapped the ball in the foil, it had to be smooth, no wrinkles, and then you set fire to it, the foil would burn, the ball would start burning slowly, start giving off a lot of smoke. The smoke made your eyes itch. The houses were normally divided into two sections, one for the humans and one for their animals. The humans lived in a somewhat raised section with a floor of flattened earth. The windows were small and had no glass, and small oil lamps provided light. A peasant farmers family would have had no furniture, aside from a few rough skins that were rolled out for sleeping on. The woman of the house was responsible for household work preparing food, cleaning, spinning, weaving and sewing. She also helped out in the fields and the vineyards at times, and she taught the children when they were young. Generally, they ate two meals a day a light breakfast of bread, fruit and cheese, and an evening meal consisting of meat, vegetables and wine. And so the years passed. He mumbled something about drugs. I asked which drugs and he said: too much. He said: benzos, speed, horse. Too much. Grain harvest, linen harvest. The early figs ripen. I dont know where Im going to sleep tonight. Grape harvest. How old are you? Olive harvest. Twenty-four. He inhales. Summer figs, dates. Go now. Well pray for you. Winter figs, ploughing. Sowing. Lemon harvest. Yet another year has passed. And he, like an idiot, said it was no good. He said: brah, you know its no good. And I kind of nodded and shook my head all at once, because I knew and didnt know, saying: I know, bro. And then I left. And everything played on in my head. And he, like an idiot, said: its no good, the life youre living, its not good, man, youre young and that, and I replied: I know, man, Im not stupid, and he, like a big brother or maybe a father, no, not a father, then he would have hit me, thats what I was thinking, beaten a little sense into me, as they say, like a real father, but no, and again he said it was no good, he said hed also been into that kind of thing , sounded like a real idiot, but hed quit, was totally clean , totally squeaky , and I looked at him, as I would at a brother or something, I swear, and he said: Ive got out of selling, got off road, yani , I swear, and I said, sort of looked up to him and replied: got off everything, have you? Walking defeated and dirty and deathlike along the edge of the path in a black jacket, hood pulled up. Chapped skin and damp, smoke-infused clothes propping up head and face. Walking, fiddling with a lighter. I replied: yeah, bro, I have kids now, family and a job now, have to take it easy now, and you know its no good. And then a few years passed and then I went by again and then he looked at me and said: Im ashamed of you , and then shit youre an embarrassment, man . I left. And everything played on in my mind, the whole night, whole nights. Then the guitarist came and the composer, they were late and I could see the guitarist had been stressing and he apologised and I said no big deal, and the composer said she thought we still had plenty of time, and we started walking and I was about to say something about the junkie when the guitarist said: do you remember?