I cannot possibly lose to this old man, I can’t. He’s 30 years older and smokes and boozes. It cannot happen. Panic grows in my body, the racket feels heavy in my right arm. This is starting to get embarrassing now. I fall for his tricks every time, he’s feinting a clear but in some incomprehensible way he manages — with a sensitive hand and light touch — to get the shuttle to sail down just over the net, unreachable. His strategic sense of play is impressive. It feels as if he is snatching a few points through pure trickery before we’ve even begun playing. The scores rack up, I start to imagine what everyone else will think.
In the end, we manage to put together a tournament, made a serious game schedule, everyone plays everyone. Harald does not belong to our generation at all, but we invite him as a fun thing. He likes to compete, just like us. We run the old points system, where you have to win the serve before you get any points. I have not got a single point. I’ve won the serve a few times but not a single point. I try to catch my breath — focus now, come on!
He wins the first set 15-0.
My first meeting with Harald was at Blå Tornet, Drottninggatan. I bought a Gary Burton record from him; he was moderately enthusiastic about my choice. The second time we met he had moved to Rörstrandsgatan, it smelled of cigarette smoke, coffee and records. Vinyl everywhere, from floor to ceiling. Books at the very top, CDs at the checkout. I was looking for ECM records on vinyl. He pointed — “down there”, and then I had to crawl along the floor and flip through. He was pretty clear about what he liked and did not like.
Harald often blindfolded his visitors in the shop. Who can it be on tenor sax here? Which year? Who is the pianist? I remember that on one occasion I saw my chance to show that I not only listened to ECM, but actually knew a thing or two.
“Maybe Red Garland, the boxer?”
I chipped in, when he was testing another customer.
“Interesting, very interesting...”
Harald replied, looking at me with new eyes, and I felt initiated, approved.
We invited him to our own blindfold evenings. Harald was happy to come, bringing some beers in a plastic bag. We had an advanced points system with minus deductions and multiple choice questions. At first he probably thought it was a bit silly, but he soon took the game very seriously and fought tooth and nail. Always a break for apple pie and custard. Harald took home win after win while broadening the horizons for the rest of us. A high priest of jazz, keen to play and with a competitive edge. During a visit to his shop, coffee and chess were served. Always with a chess clock, otherwise it made no sense.
Music is by no means a competition but can be a cherished game. He was good at showing this, Harald. Not discounting the darkness or seriousness, he was god damn fantastic at child-like play.
In the second set, I manage to get on the front foot, finally managing to disarm his cunning game, make him start running, crack the code. I take home the second and third sets, and I can breathe again, things were about to go downhill there. Harald buys a coffee and a plastic wrapped liver paté sandwich — the best in town according to him — and sits down at the tables beside the courts, to watch better players, learn new tricks. He calls a week later, no small talk, straight to the point:
“Hi, it’s Harald. Badminton?”
(Translation from Swedish: Jasmine Hinks)