When Swedish Things Happen to Good People
An epic tale by Harry Flashman
I strolled into Irene's Tea Room in Lindsborg because it was the only joint in
town open on a Sunday. I hadn't planned on being in Lindsborg on Sunday, but I needed a
drink and I'm not talking about a beer.
The Swedes colonized Lindsborg, Kansas around 1870 or so, and there is still a
thriving population of Swedes there. They're good people, for the most part, and owing to
the fact they're genetically hardwired for nine months of mind-numbing sub-arctic weather
at
the absolute tip of nowhere, the Svenkses know how to drink. There's a bar in town called
the Ol' Stuga, and I'd love to tell you that the Swedish word Stuga actually means
something - I'm sure it does, but I'll be damned if I can remember it.
I actually came into town on Saturday night to interview two honest-to-God Swedes
for a local on-line mag. They were at the Garry Kasparov International School of Chess in
the center of town. I heard a rumor that a big international match was going to be held on
Saturday night, so I called the press agent for the club and he set up an interview with
one of the Swedish organizers - fellow named Stromberg. So I rolled into town about 4:30,
parked in front of the Ol' Stuga which is smack dab downtown and directly across from the
chess joint, and headed inside.
It was dark and smoky inside and pretty much deserted except for the barmaid who
looked like she put cigarettes out on her kid's hands just for the fun of it, and a man
and a woman in the corner drinking and kibitzing boisterously. They looked up when the
door slammed shut and the man stood up. He was an older fellow, mid-fifties probably, a
mountain of a man with grizzled longish hair and ice-blue eyes. He had a goatee and he was
decked out in a tweed sporting jacket and trousers that looked like an English
hunting rig. She was maybe half his age, tall, with black hair and dark eyes, vivid red
lipstick and sizzlingly hot.
"You must be Herr Flaschmann," he said in heavily accented English.
"God kväl," she said extending a long white hand. "Talar du
svenska?"
"No, sorry, I don't speak Swedish," I said, assuming that is what she
asked.
"It's ok," she said airily in a Euro-tone, "I love to speak
English; it is a sexy language."
"Uh, yes," I said, "I suppose it is."
He introduced himself as Dr. Nicanor Stromberg of Stockholm, and his companion, in
a slinky black little number, as his friend and colleague, Jutta Volksstrum.
"Please to sit," Dr. Stromberg said, motioning toward the vacant chair
in the corner, "Tre Absolut, var snäll!" he said loudly in the barmaid's
direction.
I caught the Absolut bit, but the rest was just gibberish to me - I've got no head
for foreign languages at all. I told them I was anxious to hear about the Kasparov School
of Chess, but the good Doctor waved at me dismissively.
"Too much business," he said cryptically, "we should talk, be
friends, have interview later."
"Ja, interview later," Jutta intoned, staring at me fixedly.
"Ok, I'm game," I said.
In half a moment the serving wench appeared bearing a tray with three bottles of
Absolut, and ceremoniously set one in front of each of us.
"Tack," Stromberg told her, while solemnly pouring me a drink, "You
do like the vodka, do you not, Herr Flaschmann?" he asked.
"Well, I usually stick to scotch…" I started to say, but Jutta
laughed loudly at my statement and spoke a blizzard of Swedish to the Doctor before I
could finish.
"Please forgive her," the Doctor said gravely, "but you see we had
a wager before you came in and Jutta correctly divined that you would be a scotch
drinker."
"Americans drink beer or scotch," she said primly, "but scotch is
for … how do you say it … suckling babes," she said pressing her breasts
forward and holding them in both hands.
Dr. Stromberg spoke sharply to her in Swedish, "you must forgive her Herr
Flashmann, but she is a prodigy."
"A prodigy?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," he said, "She is an international grandmaster, and has
been since she was seven years old."
I'd never met an international grand master before, and certainly never had one
point her breasts at me provocatively, but taking a drink of Absolut, I inquired of her.
"That's quite an achievement," I said to her, "to what do you
attribute your success?"
"I began with the chess when I was four," she said abstractly, running
her finger around the rim of the tiny glass, "for twenty years with me, it has been
nothing but chess and more of the chess."
"You could not know it Herr Flaschmann, but you have come at -- how you say -
a fortuitous moment." Stromberg said , leaning forward in confidence. "Tomorrow
there is a surprise exhibition."
"Oh?" I said, drinking another glass of Absolut.
"Oh yes," he said, scanning the empty bar for observers, "for
tonight Herr Karpov arrives and tomorrow morning the match begins."
"You do know who Anatoly Karpov is, do you not?" said Jutta toying with
a strand of jet hair.
"Well," I said, "He is…."
"He is thirteen time World Grandmaster from the old Soviet system and a most
formidable opponent, " he said pouring me another drink.
At this, Jutta slammed down her shot glass with a huff.
"He is an addled schoolboy, and his breath stinks of onions," she said.
"I have beaten him four times…"
"But you have also lost to him seven times, Älskling," Stromberg said
over his glass.
"Anfakta och anamma!" she said, punishing the Absolut three times.
When the bottle was drained, Jutta began a spirited rant, entirely in Swedish, to
which the Doctor replied by snapping his fingers at the barmaid, and another tray of vodka
appeared at his elbow. The two Swedes exchanged curious glances, but neither of them spoke
as the bottles went back and forth between us. At last the Doctor excused himself and
brought back a mixed drink from the bar.
"This is for you," he told me and it is a special drink for honored
guests, he said. "Jutta has behaved quite badly, with her furious temper as you can
see, and she has asked me to present this to you as a token of friendship."
Jutta reached across the table and took my hand, stroking it with her long
fingers.
"I misbehave sometimes," she said in a husky voice.
The drink was served in a highball glass, and it was black as pitch. It looked as
though it had stout in it, but I asked the good Doctor was it was.
"We call this a drakkar in my country," he said. "It is a special
drink."
I tasted it; and this wasn't my first rodeo, as they say around here. It was a
black velvet - champagne and stout - and pretty good, too after the barge-load of vodka
I'd put down in the last hour.
"Skoal," I said to them both. A strange aftertaste, but what the hell I
thought, and drained it.
Jutta smiled, still holding my hand. At this the Doctor excused himself,
mentioning the need to be on hand to greet Herr Karpov and his people.
After Stromberg left, things began to get a little hazy. At one point, Jutta
produced a traveling chess set from a black leather case, and clearing the bottles from
the table, announced that we should play a match, so I could tell my children that I had
played
chess with a grandmaster.
With a hiccup, I agreed. The match lasted about eight minutes and was roughly the
equivalent of the Denver Broncos playing your junior high school second string.
I was struck, however, by the unusual nature of the chess set. It was in classical Greek
motif, with a Grecian God theme - all of the pieces portrayed stark naked men, and most of
them in a turgid state.
"Do you admire the chess set?" she asked holding the black king to her
lips and blowing on it.
"Well, er, yes," I said through a fog of puggle, "they are
surprisingly well hung, er, I mean, well done. Are they ivory?" I asked, trying to
recover.
"They are oosik," she said significantly.
"Oosik?"
"Oosik is petrified walrus penis," she said with a wink. "Do you
not find that exciting, particularly the bishop?"
When I woke up about 12 hours later, I was in a small suite at the Lindsborg
Gasthaus, stark naked and with a raging headache. Climbing out of bed, I noticed my
clothes neatly folded on a side chair, keys and wallet, everything in place. There were
two leather straps tied to the bedposts, and oddly my wrists hurt.
On the bathroom mirror was a red lipstick kiss and the black oosik king on the
shelf.
The gal at the Tea Shop told me that Ms. Volksstrum beat Karpov three games to
none.
I may be slow but from the assorted marks on my body and the after-effects of a
vigorous noctural workout, I started putting two and two together and decided that all of
a sudden I was a big fan of international chess.
I contacted the Swedish Chess Federation in Stockholm, spoke to a Konrad Viggen,
some director or something, and strangely he had never heard of a grandmaster named Jutta
Volksstrum.
"Then she is not a grand master associated with the Swedish Chess
Federation?"
"No," he said in passable English, "and I've been following chess
for forty years - I have never heard of her -- and let me assure you mynheer, my mother's
name was Volkssturm -- this name of course I would recognize."
"You must be joking," I said, "I met this woman and she assured me
she was a grandmaster."
"Sir," he said with slight irritation, "I never joke about chess.
Good day to you."
THE END
