© Anna-Karin 2003
Author's note: In Sweden Father Christmas comes with the gifts on Christmas eve.
It was early in december 1934. The snow was falling down in big wet lumps on the streets of Gothenburg. There it melted into thick layers melting away as people walked on them. On the streets just a few steps away from the harbor a man was standing in front of a shop window. The man was tall and thin, with red hair streaked with white and gray, and a scar running from the temple to just above the jawbone on one side of his face. The window he was standing in front of belonged to a pawnshop. And in the pawnshop window was, among other objects, a big black typewriter.
Patrick Hickey was the man's name, and he had come to Gothenburg two summers earlier, in the spring of 1933. Now he was looking forward to his second Christmas in this town. And he was not spending it on his own, but with the other guests at the workman's hotel where he lived. And among those guests was the man he loved, John Smith.
Hickey knew that Smith had been drooling over that typewriter in the pawnshop window for nearly two weeks.
He stepped inside and was greeted by the owner's assistant, a young man with freckles and a
cheeky grin, standing behind the counter.
"Welcome, sir."
"Thanks. I'd like to ask about that typewriter in the window."
"The big black one?"
"Yes", Hickey nodded and asked if anyone else had been interested in it.
"Yes, actually. There's a man who stands here every day to take a look at it", said the assistant
with a smile.
"That's my friend. I'm thinking of buying it for him for Christmas. How much does it cost?"
The assistant told him, and Hickey found that he needed to think about it for a while. The
young man nodded. He understood the importance of prudence. Such a big investment should not be
made in a haste.
Half Hickey's pay went to the room he shared with John Smith at the workman's hotel. He had saved enough to buy that typewriter, but he had intended to buy a new coat, or rather a less old and worn one, for the money. He thought of the coat he had seen in the rag shop, a nice dark brown coat of thick wool and silk lining. It had looked so warm, and when he had tried it on, it had fit him perfectly. Then he thought of the stories Smith had written down on pieces of paper, old flour bags and the like. Hickey had read them, short stories of life among the workers of a big, unidentified harbor. They were good, but Smith was too proud to send them to a publisher as they were. Neatly typed stories on clean crisp paper, that you could send to a publisher, and for that Smith needed a typewriter.
Oh, well, thought Hickey, I can survive another winter in my old coat. I just need another thick jersey to keep out the cold. Then he told the assistant of his decision, and went to get the money at the bank.
---<-<-<@
Smith felt a pang of disappointment when he saw that there was an empty spot in the pawnshop window where a big black typewriter used to be. Then there were a movement behind the glass, and a young man put down a pair of nice white ladies' boots on the vacated spot.
Smith could imagine the story behind those boots, how their owner would have to hock them in order to buy food, or new clothes to her children. They were of fine leather, with buttons down the side, and one-inch heels. Maybe, Smith thought, they'd been worn by a young bride some twenty years before, or by a young lady of the high society of Gothenburg. There was a story about them growing in the back of his head as he went home.
But he wished that the typewriter had still been in the window, because he had planned to buy it that day. Things like that happen, he told himself, but still it gnawed at him. Who had bought the typewriter? And why today, when he had saved enough to buy it himself?
He walked in his own thoughts, spinning a tale and mourning the typewriter at the same time. Then he suddenly stopped. Hickey's Christmas gift! He could buy a Christmas gift for him for those money. He felt a bit ashamed of himself for not having thought of that before. And he did know just what to get for Hickey. That coat he'd seen at the used clothes store. It was a fine coat, and Hickey liked it a lot.
He smiled when he thought back on when Hickey had tried it on. It had fit perfectly, and was very warm. Hickey froze easily, and those Gothenburg winters were cold and raw, with a damp that seeped through everything. Yes, that coat would be just right for his dear Hickey. With a grin he turned around and went to the store. He hoped that it hadn't been sold yet.
The old proprietor of the store, a plump man with thin gray hair and kind hazel eyes, was happy to tell him that the coat was still on its hanger among the other clothes on the rack. The old man fetched the coat and wrapped it up in brown wrapping paper, while Smith got the money from his wallet.
Smith was whistling the whole way home from the store, with brown bundle under his arm, and a springy lightness in his step. Hickey would be so happy on Christmas eve. Smith could imagine how Hickey would smile, and then put on the coat, then turn around a little to let Smith see how well it fit him. Oh yes, he thought, this was the perfect Christmas gift.
Then something struck him, and he stopped in his steps. Where to hide it? It would not be a surprise if Hickey opened it before Christmas, would it? He could not hid it in the wardrobe, he thought, because he shared it with Hickey, and not in any of his drawers in their chest of drawers. Not under the bed either. Then he got an idea. Viola could help him hide the gift. She knew the hotel inside and out.
---<-<-<@
The two brown parcels, one soft and one hard and heavy, lay next to each other on a shelf in the room that functioned as the hotel's linen cupboard. Viola, the hotel maid thought this was a good hiding place because no man would ever go near the linen storage. This had been an interesting day. First Mr. Hickey came to her and asked if she could help him hide his gift to Mr. Smith. Then Mr. Smith came and asked her to hide his gift to Mr. Hickey. She thought that it was cute, the two men buying gifts for each other.
Viola had thought about the relationship between the two men for a while. They never talked about their past, except that they had come from Mexico to Sweden. When she had asked Smith if they were born there, he had shaken his head no, and told her they were from the USA. She thought they were good people. Per Augustsson would not have recommended them to Aunt Hedvig if they weren't.
They were close, she'd seen that much. But she didn't know much more about them than that they shared a bed, but many people did that in these days of cramped living. Not enough rooms and too much people. She considered herself lucky to have her own bed at the Anderssons Hotell. Her younger sisters still had to share a bed at home.
Maybe they were brothers, Viola thought. No, not brothers. They looked too different for that. Maybe they were stepbrothers. Yes, she thought, they could be stepbrothers. Perhaps Smith's mother had been a young widow, clad in black, and Hickey's father had been a widower looking for a new wife to look after him and his son. Yes, that was probably it. She could make a picture of them in her mind. Hickey's father with the same red hair as his son, and Hickey himself in a sailor suit, and Smith's mother in black with a small boy, Smith, on her arm.
Nodding to herself, Viola thought she had figured them out.
---<-<-<@
Smith sighed as he went to bed. Hickey was already between the sheets, and half asleep. The sound
made him wake up a little though.
"What is it?", Hickey asked Smith with a yawn.
"Nothing... No, not nothing. Just that the typewriter's been sold."
"Oh... Well, there'll be another one."
"Yeah, there'll be."
Then Smith pulled up the cover over them both.
If only you knew, thought Hickey.
If only you knew, thought Smith.
---<-<-<@
It was Christmas eve. Aunt Hedvig had outdone herself with the buffet. The long table alongside one of the walls of the dining room was laden with all sorts of food. Hickey couldn't get his eyes of it. There were pickled herrings, of at least three different kinds, there were stockfish, ham, meatballs, three different kinds of sausages, potatoes, a paté, brawns of different kinds, cheeses, bread, butter, sauces. He had seen such an abundance of food only once before and that was last Christmas. Smith had seen it at the Strozzi table, but there it had been more of a show of wealth, and not a celebration of nature's riches, as it was here.
In the corner was a Christmas tree which had been decorated by Viola and a couple of the tenants. It was full of tinsel, red glass balls, birds of glass, straw dolls and candles.
Aunt Hedvig had invited the tenants of the workman's hotel and her relatives to this Christmas table, among them Per Augustsson with his wife Olga, and their little daughter, Vera, a six months old baby. At least twenty-five people were expected, along with all the tagalongs. So there were enough food for thirty-five people. She had worked hard on preparing all the food before Christmas. But it was Christmas only once a year and therefore one could as well put in the effort needed.
Smith and Hickey were grateful for that effort as they both had worked hard the whole day at the fish church, and were very hungry. The next day was Christmas day and their day off.
---<-<-<@
After the dinner, most of the guests were sitting at the table talking over a cup of coffee and a plate of sweets. Aunt Hedvig's relatives had formed a group at one end of the table, and Father Christmas had come to distribute gifts among the children. Some of the smaller ones were hiding behind their mother's skirts or under the table, while others boldly tried to pull the beard of the presumably old man. One of the tenants was playing Christmas songs on his accordion, and some others sang along. There were shouts of joy mixed with sullen 'thanks' from the children and indulgent comments from the adults.
Hickey was staring out in the blue over his cup of coffee and his plate of candies and nuts. His belly was full, and he didn't want to move until the food had sunk away a bit. Beside him Smith was doing the same thing. They were listening to the music from the accordion, and to the conversations between Father Christmas and the children. Little Vera was babbling away in her own language while her parents listened and cooed at her. She was very interested in the flickering lights in the Christmas tree. Hickey felt warm inside and out. He liked being able to sit like this, among peaceful people who didn't fear him, but allowed him a place among them, as one of them. In short, he felt very comfortable.
Suddenly someone touched Hickey's shoulder. Quickly he turned around, and searched
for his Luger, before he remembered that he was a man of peace now. Viola looked startled.
"Sorry if I surprised you", she said, "I was going to ask if I could fetch your gift for
Mr. Smith now."
"Oh? oh... that's alright", said Hickey, "yes, please do so."
Then Viola turned to Smith.
"Shall I go and fetch your gift for Mr. Hickey?"
"Okay", answered Smith.
"You bought me a Christmas gift?" Hickey asked Smith when Viola had left.
"Yes. You too?" replied Smith.
Hickey nodded yes.
Then Viola returned with two brown plain parcels. She handed one to Hickey and one to Smith.
Smith saw that the parcel in Hickey's hands were big and heavy. And it had a familiar shape.
Hickey noted that Smith's gift looked soft.
Smith handed over his gift to Hickey, who put the parcel in his hands on the table, to receive
his gift.
Smith and Viola watched quietly as Hickey opened his gift. When he saw the familiar gray fabric,
Hickey looked up at Smith.
"Is this what I think it is?", he asked.
"Why don't you check?", replied Smith.
And Hickey did so. When he had removed the last layer of brown paper he gently unfolded the coat
lying among the paper sheets. He looked at it for a long moment, and Smith began to wonder if he
had bought the wrong coat. Then Hickey met Smith's gaze.
"Thanks", he said with a happy smile, "just what I wanted."
Then he stood up and put on his new coat. It fit just perfectly. Smith smiled. Just the right
thing for the right man.
Then Hickey sat down again, with his coat on. He put down his heavy brown parcel on the table
next to Smith.
"Here", he said, "here's your gift. Merry Christmas."
"Really! What is it?"
"Open it!"
And that was what Smith did.
When he saw the big black typewriter, he could only stare at it, speechless.
"I thought someone had bought it", he said eventually.
"I did", said Hickey, "for you."
They looked at each other, seeing the love in each others eyes, and wished they could express it somehow. Then Smith pressed two fingers to his lips. Hickey did the same. And they both knew they'd thank each other properly later, upstairs, in their own room and their own bed.
"Merry Christmas Smith."
"Merry Christmas Hickey."