For Seasons greetings no. 6 ... Thanks John!
================================================
I had been through the tunnel, the Brunkeberg, dozens of times of course. It was as familiar to me as the walks at Skansen. When he asked me down, so as to discuss the particulars for the upcoming photo shoot, I hardly gave the location a thought. It all was important, somehow, to his Himmelstrand sequel, or such was his claim. On a damp mid-December evening, hardly yet 8pm, we met up and soon passed the plaque for Olof Palme, near the Sveavägan entrance, and started our way through. As we walked, we talked about the lighting what would be needed and which rigs to bring. We paused now and then to considered several setup locations. The Brunkeberg tunnel, its yellow side panels shone throughout and the light, as always, played up along the inward learning corrugated steel archway. He said how he wanted to give the shoot a nostalgic sense, including a simple magic act that was somehow set up here in the long corrider, delighting the passersby.
The Brunkeberg is a good length, several hundred meters, which is good enough to give a thrill to most anyone. Its feels like one is somehow cheating to be able to slip in through its doors and discover such a convenient way to abridge the travel between Hötorget and Stureplan. Well, yes, there are other destinations at each end, but as we walked it became our decision to head for drinks at Spy Bar or maybe Laroy over at Stureplan. I had not said it yet, but what I was looking for was an excuse to get over to Ekstedt on Humlegårdsgaten. The restaurant was new to me and the entries had made a considerable impression on me and my wife the prior weekend. We had split the scallop with bacon and row, the one done on tar wood and served so well. The mere thought of it had distracted me several times over the week. Even in that moment, as we paused yet again to ponder a staging, the aroma and taste returned to mind and tempted me. My intention was to capture the entire plate to myself this time, if you don’t mind my admitting to such plans of gluttony. He could get his own – I could suggest the juniper baked lobster or the sourdough pizza.
At this moment, braced in my contemplation, with him at my elbow rattling on about a plot twist he had thought up, the tunnels lights went out. No blink or wavering; simply from light to pitch black. Nay, not for the entire length, but for the span we were in and as well for a solid stretch up ahead. Behind us all was still lit, so the effect was to throw the outline of our figures as shadows forwards into the gloom that now lay up ahead. “Ah, we should go back.” To which I declined with dismay, knowing we had but another 80 meters to press through. But a jarring cacophony followed, perhaps from the entrance we were approaching. He paused, hand on my arm now, and repeated that we should go back. I wanted to agree, yet the potential for returning to the scallops and bacon dish were up ahead and not behind. I hesitated, his pressure on my arm strengthened.
We then, at the same time, heard steps. A lopsided gate, a step and slide, repeated, from far in front. I looked over at him and found him staring and listening, his head cocked a little so as to favor his right ear. The steps continued but then something new: a sound, like that of fluttering wings. Large wings. In here, below street level? Preposterous. But I did hear it. No, them. And then they were gone, replaced again with a resumption of the stagger step. It neared. I drew back a step, staring all the while into that blackness before me. The light behind me, suddenly felt much safer. I longed to see those yellow side panels, pressing upon me from either side, yet reassuring as much as they might seem confining. But the lights ahead remained out.
The steps, the shuffle steps, came to a halt. They were closer now. Shouldn’t there be emergency lighting? Of course, but why had they not come on? His hand still held tight to my elbow as before. “We should go.” I wanted to disagree, but my knees were beginning to design a new plan, one that included an immediate turnabout and hasty retreat. I began to say “No” but was cut off by a low groan, one that come as if from the darkness itself, set low along the floor somewhere out ahead. It resonated down the length of the tube before us, contained within these darkened walls and arch.
I bolted. His hand upon my elbow was gone, so quick was my move. Towards light I ran. Back into the bright corridor length with its yellow panels and vaulted corrugated ceiling. Far ahead lay the entranceway we came through, though not visible at this distance.
And then I heard him laugh. It was a good, strong laugh. I turned, afraid to see what might be happening. Of course the lights were back on. The length all the way to the far end was now lit. He stood there in merry laughter, head raised high and his laughter burst at the ceiling and then down the corridor at me. Beside him two children stood, both bent over in merriment. I did not know them, but it crashed upon me that I had been had. My face burned red, at moment in anger, but much longer in embarrassment for having been so beguiled. The children were clearly in on this for they made it clear with their expressions that this had all been planned. A brace of joyful sneers and the two raced away at top speed, away to the far end of the tunnel. He remained alone and with a smile said “Come, let’s be on. Rich as that was, I do need that drink now.” And I, a bit sheepishly, agreed.
================================================
City Share -- Brunkeberg Tunnel
Spy Bar
Restaruant Ekstedt
