‘What’ve you done to your finger!’ my mother shouted, leaning over the table.
‘Sprained it when I tripped that night,’ I said.
Dad peered over his paper.
‘You should’ve gone to casualty,’ he said.
‘Casualty! It doesn’t hurt at all!’
But the first week my finger had glowed with pain, I could have used it as a reading lamp in the evenings. Every single night I lay there feeling, just feeling, and it taught me something about pain. Then the pain subsided bit by bit, it was like falling asleep or waking, and in the end the finger stuck out like a question mark, a refugee on my hand.
I said nothing about what happened in Frogner Park to the others, either. Don’t know quite why not. Perhaps it had something to do with the stone, that I had thrown a stone. Or that I liked having a secret. I said nothing. But I couldn’t get away from the finger. Even if I kept my hand in my pocket somebody would see it.
‘What’ve you done to your finger?’ Gunnar asked one day at the baker’s in the lunch break.
‘Picked my nose,’ I said.
‘Don’t take the piss! It looks like a bent paper clip!’
‘I was finger wrestling with my uncle,’ I said.
Fortunately the bell rang and we shot up Skovveien. Then it was Kerr’s Pink’s turn. He refused to correct my essay. What it Means to be Courageous was the title and I was very pleased, I had written five pages about how it wasn’t possible to be courageous unless you were frightened first.
‘A mess!’ Kerr’s Pink yelled, smacking my essay book down on the table. ‘Do you think I’m a trained palaeographer! Eh! The Dead Sea scrolls are easier to read than this scribble.’
‘What’s a palaeographer?’ I asked.
‘Now you’re stretching my patience, Kim,’ he shouted. ‘Now you’re stretching my patience beyond all reason!’
I showed him my finger. He stared at it in astonishment, held it up to the light. The whole class strained across their desks to stare at my finger.
Kerr’s Pink became silky smooth again.
‘Why didn’t you say that to begin with, Kim?’
I retracted my finger and put it in my pocket. Afterwards I showed it to Skinke and was let off the gym lesson. I decided my finger would hurt until we did gym outdoors.
The finger had its advantages.
But one day Ola came to school with something that outdid my finger by some distance. He came with his hat pulled down over his ears, his eyes barely visible.
He tried to walk past unnoticed.
‘Hi, Ola!’ we yelled. ‘You wearin’ a hat, are you?’
He stopped with his back to us.
‘Looks like it, doesn’t it!’
We crowded round him. It was a terrific woollen hat with a big tassel and a red border with skiers all the way round his head.
‘Did you knit it yourself?’ Seb asked, trying to goad him.
Ola twisted away with a roar.
‘You cold, Ola?’ Gunnar asked.
He tried to make off. We ran after him and hauled him back to the shed.
‘Isn’t it a bit warm to be wearin’ a hat?’ I wondered.
Ola pointed all around him.
‘Still s-s-snow on the ground,’ he said.
‘Slush,’ we corrected. ‘No one goes around with a hat on now.’
‘I do!’ Ola yelled.
‘Not any more,’ we said.
It was not easy taking off his hat. He pulled it down over his face with both hands as we yanked at the tassel. He flailed around him and shouted a lot, but in the end he had to surrender.
We stood there with his hat in our hands.
We stared at Ola, horror pumping through us in furious surges.
We went closer.
‘What’ve you done?’ we asked.
‘Me!’ Ola screamed. ‘I’ve done sod all! It was my dad.’
We gave him back his hat.
‘How?’
‘Last night,’ Ola mumbled. ‘W-w-woke up this mornin’ and it’d happened. He’d cut my hair while I was s-s-sleepin’.’
An all-over cut. It was worse than a basin cut and a crop at the same time. His skull was shiny round his ears and at the back, and his fringe was non-existent.
We clenched our fists and stood in silence for a long time, it was the worst thing that had happened on the home front since Dragon ate the firecrackers.
The bell rang. We didn’t care.
Ola pulled down his hat.
‘I’m not takin’ it off for the l-l-lesson! I’m not bloody takin’ it off for the l-l-lesson. I’ll say I’ve got eczema!’
‘You do that!’ we said.
‘Buggered if I’m goin’ home today. Sod ’em!’
Ola forced his hat down further.
We went to my place after school. Sweat was running down Ola’s neck, but he kept his hat on until we were safely inside the door. Then he flung it off and breathed a sigh of relief.
Mum peeped in, saw Ola and smiled.
‘Hair looks nice,’ she said.
She glanced at me.
‘You see, Kim. You could have a haircut like that, too.’
We froze her out.
‘Parents,’ Seb said. ‘Parents are bastards.’
‘My dad’s refused to give Stig any pocket money until he gets a haircut,’ Gunnar told us.
‘Shouldn’t be allowed,’ I said.
‘They’re pissed off because they haven’t got any hair,’ Gunnar said.
‘I’m never g-g-goin’ home,’ Ola said.
Mum came in with some tea and the last Christmas biscuits, four gingerbread men. Weren’t quite sure if we should take food from the enemy, but we relented in the end.
‘I’m never g-g-goin’ home again,’ Ola repeated.
He meant it.
Ola stayed where he was.
Gunnar and Seb looked at their watches. They stayed, too.
Dad came home from the bank, we heard him whistling in the hall.
Mum poked her head in.
‘Aren’t you going to eat?’ she asked.
‘Full,’ I said.
Ola didn’t move.
It was evening.
Then the telephone rang.
‘If it’s for me, I’m not here,’ Ola hissed.
Mum was at the door again.
‘Your parents are on the phone, Gunnar.’
Gunnar got up slowly and Mum waited.
‘Is there something up?’ she asked.
We didn’t answer. Gunnar stared at us, nonplussed. Then he left with my mother.
‘H-h-hope he doesn’t s-s-say anythin’,’ Ola muttered.
After a while Gunnar returned.
‘Gotta go home,’ he said. ‘Gotta help Dad carry some sacks of spuds. Stig’s gone on strike because he doesn’t get any pocket money.’
‘You didn’t s-s-say anythin’, did you?’ Ola asked.
‘What about?’
‘That I was h-h-here, of course!’
‘Yes, I did. Why?’
‘That’s what you shouldn’t’ve said!’ I pointed out.
‘It was only my mum!’
‘Yes, and why do you think she asked, eh?’
Gunnar realised he had put his foot in it. He collapsed on the sofa with a bright red face.
Straight after, there was a ring at the door. We sat and waited. If it was Ola’s dad, we would barricade the door. We listened. A girl’s voice. For a moment my stomach contracted and all my blood raced into my finger. Then it passed. It was Åse, Ola’s sister.
Wow. She had grown. Hardly recognised her. We sat gaping at her. Ola stared out of the window, his ears glowing.
‘Aren’t you coming home?’ Åse asked.
‘N-n-no!’ said Ola.
‘It’s chops today. We’re waiting for you.’
Ola turned slowly.
‘Chops?’
‘Yes, are you coming?’
Ola didn’t answer.
Seb and Gunnar began to put on their coats. Åse stood in the doorway smiling at her big brother.
‘There’s a letter for you from Trondheim,’ she said.
Ola’s ears glowed again, his hands fidgeted.
‘Trondheim,’ he echoed.
Gunnar, Seb and I exchanged glances. Trondheim?
‘Are you coming soon or what?’
Ola pulled on the rucksack and pressed the hat down over his head.
‘On one c-c-condition,’ he said. ‘That I don’t have to sit at the s-s-same table as Dad!’
Then we wandered out. We were pretty hungry, all of us. Ola repeated the condition in a loud voice.
‘I’m not sittin’ at the s-s-same table as Dad! That’s f-f-final!’
It was a fight to the death, either or. Either Ola or the desperado hairdresser from Solli.
Ola wore his hat for a long time that year. We went out quite a lot, there was a restlessness that drove us out in the evening, even though it was slushy and the record player had new batteries. Outside were the streets. That was where we were.
One evening Gunnar said, ‘Beginnin’ to get fed up.’
‘Fed up with what?’
‘With walkin’.’
But we continued. Especially on Saturday evenings when we wandered all over, listening to music from open windows where someone was having a party. Then we stopped, looked up, hurried on. Unpleasant stories about these parties were doing the rounds, about bouncers being struck down with crowbars, TVs being chucked out of windows, walls being painted black, books being burned in the bath. We shuddered. We listened to music from open windows, The Rolling Stones, The Who, The Animals, The Beatles, The Beatles, the echo of laughter, bawling, sometimes crying. We hurried home.
But it was not long before we were out and about again. It was only a sleepy Wednesday evening, there was no music in the streets and the snow lay in the gutters, grey slush. As usual Seb was with Guri, hadn’t seen much of him in recent weeks. We walked past the shop where Goose had been caught. Closed due to illness. A wooden board had been nailed up inside the doorway. I felt the backwash and for a moment I saw Goose standing in the gleam of the street lamp, motionless in the circle of light, and all around was all the darkness he would have to enter sooner or later.
‘There’s S-S-Seb!’ Ola shouted.
It was Seb and Guri and another girl. They were on their way up to Urra Park. We called and they stopped.
Two girls. Seb looked a bit wild to our eyes. He was holding Guri’s hand and the other girl leaning against the railing had long, brown hair, her face was tanned, it seemed to glow like a Red Indian’s.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘My name’s Sidsel. I’m in the same class as Guri at Fagerborg.’
We mumbled our names and the conversation ground to a halt.
Guri giggled. Seb whistled. We stood stamping and shuffling our feet.
‘I’m cold,’ Sidsel said.
And then we continued walking together.
‘You must be cold, too,’ Sidsel said, looking at Ola.
He pulled down his hat.
‘N-n-no, I’ve g-g-got eczema.’
Sidsel moved over to the other side, next to Gunnar. Ola cursed and gnashed his teeth.
Seb offered cigarettes round. I produced some matches and lit up for Guri. In the light she noticed my finger.
‘What happened to your finger?’ she asked.
‘Got it stuck in a pencil sharpener,’ I said.
‘Rubbish!’
‘Fell in gym.’
Gunnar looked at me, said nothing.
We walked to Vestkanttorget. The monkeys and the parrots shrieked behind the windows in Naranja. Gunnar grimaced and made the monkeys stand on their heads. Sidsel laughed so much she had to lean on him.
Didn’t know Gunnar was that funny.
We went on to Majorstuen, did a tour of Valkyrie plass, had a look at the record shop in Jacob Aallsgate. Monkees in the window there, too. Gunnar and Sidsel were lagging behind a little. Ola looked sour.
‘Do you know what Dragon’s gone and done?’ Guri burst out. ‘He’s gone to sea!’
‘How do you know?’
‘Someone in the class knows his brother.’
‘I will, too,’ Seb said.
‘You will what?’
‘Go to sea.’
‘You will not,’ said Guri.
‘I will. In the summer.’
She retracted her hand. It took Seb quite a long time to regain it. And only after he had promised solemnly that he would not go to sea.
‘Word of honour,’ Seb said with his legs crossed.
‘G-g-gotta be off,’ Ola said and just went, rounded the corner and was gone.
‘Hang on,’ I shouted, but he didn’t hear.
Guri suddenly remembered something and rummaged through her pockets. She found a small, pink envelope.
‘Nina asked me to give you this,’ she said.
I stuffed it into my back pocket without any emotion. Stuffed it in my back pocket and played cool.
Gunnar and Sidsel eventually caught up, with their fingers entwined. They were not particularly talkative, staring at the ground or at each other.
I felt superfluous.
But my back pocket was on fire.
Seb took Guri home. Sidsel lived in Professor Dahls gate. She came with us, or I went with them. They didn’t say a word on the way, shoulder to shoulder, their hands interlaced. I pottered on down to the fountain while they said their goodbyes. I sat there waiting and thinking that it would not be long until the planks would be taken off and the jet of water surged into life.
When Gunnar came, his face was blank.
He walked with me to Drammensveien. Must have needed some fresh air.
‘That was quick,’ I said.
‘Sidsel,’ he said. ‘Her name’s Sidsel. With a “d”.’
‘Get lucky?’
He set off running, jumped over a fence, vaulted back again.
‘Think so,’ he said. ‘Think I’m in.’
That was as far as he went. Padlock on his tongue.
‘There you go, then,’ I said, punching him in the stomach.
I’m not saying what was in the letter. Except that she was coming over this summer. Outside I heard the trains pounding through the night. I turned on the radio and searched through Europe until I found Copenhagen and burrowed under the duvet with it.
Gunnar snooped around Professor Dahls gate night after night. Ola’s hair grew back. Seb was hardly ever around. My finger didn’t hurt any longer, but it stuck up like a curly twig and didn’t look like any of the other fingers. I bought new batteries for the Kurér and listened in the evening.
Then came the news. It came via Seb, was whispered in the shed during the lunch break one gloomy Tuesday: Party.
‘Sidsel’s alone this weekend,’ Seb whispered.
Gunnar’s eyes grew like plums.
‘There are a few from their class coming,’ Seb went on.
He looked around nervously. No spies in sight.
‘Don’t say a word to anyone.’
We each went our own way, letting the news sink in. It was almost unreal. We would be where the music was and others would be walking in the streets listening to us, listening to us inside.
We met at Gunnar’s before leaving on the Saturday. Seb smuggled in a half bottle of Bordeaux up the sleeve of a large tweed jacket he must have pinched off his father.
‘The beer’s under the stairs,’ he whispered.
‘How will we open the wine?’ Gunnar whispered nervously.
‘Get a corkscrew, you numbskull,’ said Seb.
‘Mum and Dad’ll notice!’
Ola pulled at his roll neck sweater and breathed out. It was brand new, woollen, burgundy, itched like hell and his chin was sweaty already.
‘You can open the bottle, can’t you, you being so c-c-clever,’ he grinned at Gunnar.
‘Eh?’
‘After spending so m-m-
much time in Professor Dahls gate!’
We chuckled at that for quite some time. Gunnar returned the favour.
‘And the letter your sister enticed you home with, what was all that about, then, eh?’
Ola stretched the neck of his sweater to get some air.
‘Åse’s pen pal,’ he mumbled.
‘And you read the letters that come to her, do you?’
Gunnar had the upper hand. Ola was on his way back down the roll neck. Two blue eyes were visible. He was speaking through wool.
‘R-r-really nice g-g-girl! Two years older than Åse.’
‘You’ve seen her then, have you?’
‘J-j-just in p-p-pictures. Bit of alright. Name’s Kirsten.’
Seb was becoming impatient. He found a pencil and forced the cork down. The wine splashed all over his forehead. Gunnar was by the door listening to hear if the reptiles were on their way up. They were in the sitting room watching TV.
‘Skål,’ said Seb, taking a swig and passing the bottle round.
When I drank, nothing came, the cork was stuck. I passed the bottle round.
Gunnar put on ‘Strawberry Fields’ and Saturday had lift-off. We opened the window so that passers-by could hear us. The bottle went round, but I got the cork. We smoked a bit on the windowsill, not saying much, just savouring the feeling, not quite knowing whether we were looking forward to the party or dreading it. The bottle went round without a murmur. When it reached Ola, there was a knock at the door. Gunnar panicked and stuffed the bottle down Ola’s roll neck.
It was just Stig.
‘Relax, boys. The CIA are in the sitting room eating peanuts. Nice sweater, Ola. Breast pocket on the inside?’
Ola took out the bottle as the sweat poured off him. Gunnar took it and hid it behind a cushion.
‘Pre-party’s under way, I can see,’ said Stig.
We nodded. Pre-party. That’s what it was.
‘There are rumours going round that the Frogner gang have smashed up a flat in Colbjørnsens gate,’ he said.
Bloody hell. Gunnar ground his teeth. Ola developed a twitch in both eyes. Seb went white.
‘Got past three bouncers. Rolled a piano down the stairs, shredded a Persian carpet and poured ketchup on the parents’ bed.’
Bloody hell. We were unable to articulate a word. Fear chafed at our Adam’s apples.
‘You know an American battleship has attacked North Vietnam, don’t you? And it’s dead sure they have nuclear weapons on board. And you know what that means. It means number three, boys. Deep shit. That’s why the Vietnamese war against imperialists is our war, isn’t it. Do you understand? And it’s about bloody time someone started a solidarity committee at Vestheim so that the Young Conservatives can’t keep pumping that shite of theirs. Do you hear?’