But on May 1 I did not want to stand, cap in hand, on the sidelines. I turned out at Grønlands Torg ten minutes before the start and saw Gunnar waving a large placard in the wind. NO TO THE FIVE-DAY WEEK! He grinned on seeing me, asked me to hold the placard and disappeared into the crowd. There must have been several thousand people present. I stood in the middle of Grønlands Torg, in a cauldron, swaying with the placard in the wind. Some began to sing the Internationale, elsewhere a chorus was chanting: USA OUT OF VIETNAM! Behind me there was the rattle of tins. In front of me stood a girl with a screaming infant in her arms. A megaphone crackled through the ether. The crowd began to move. I hung on tight to the placard and looked around for Gunnar. He had gone. I was in the middle of people moving forward slowly, purposefully, finding their positions. Gunnar had disappeared. I couldn’t see Seb, either. The wind almost sent me flying. A man with a red armband said I should pick my way over to the schools section. He pointed to the back of the procession. Obediently, I staggered that way. I could hear music. Hands clapping. A bruiser with a drooping moustache held up a large picture of Stalin. I struggled onwards. Those at the front had already started to move off. I was walking in the wrong direction. I was dragged into the ranks and found myself standing beside a man carrying a portrait of Mao on the beach.
Gunnar was not there, either. A girl asked me to stand still. And then it was our turn. Shouts from various sections mingled, formed themselves into a higher unity, into a shout that merged all the slogans and thoughts into one, the revolution’s Esperanto, just like the orchestras on May 17, Constitution Day. This sounded much better. I joined in the shouting, could not hear my own voice, I shouted with the others, as loud as I was able and still couldn’t hear my own voice.
Then something happened. Just as we were leaving the market square. The cops formed a chain and forced a scattered bunch of demonstrators onto the pavement. They were hollering and screaming and waving red and black flags. One of them broke through, ran across the street with a big poster above his head: STALIN=MURDERER. It was Stig. Stig at speed. Two stewards tackled him from behind, brought him down and tore the poster to pieces. Then the cops dragged away what was left of Stig. The mood was turning nasty. Red Front stewards closed ranks to keep out the anarchists. I saw Seb, too. Then we were past them. I understood nothing. I stuffed the pole of the placard into the hands of a man behind me, skipped out of the line and ran to the head of the procession. I had to find Gunnar. I thought I caught a glimpse of Cecilie, but was not sure. I ran on, was soon at the front, by the flag-bearers. Crowds lined the pavements. Shouts resounded down Storgata, were cast to and fro between the house walls. I found Gunnar in the anti-imperialist section.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ I panted.
‘Had to take over here. What did you do with the placard?’
‘Gave to it some bloke. See what happened?’
‘No, what happened?’
‘The anarchists were chased away. The cops kicked them out. Along with the stewards. The cops workin’ with the stewards!’
‘No place for anarchists here!’
‘This was Stig, though! And Seb. Seb and your brother!’
Gunnar looked straight ahead. I was the seventh in the row and out of step.
‘The revolution’s no vicarage tea party,’ said Gunnar.
I stopped. The procession streamed towards me. Then someone pushed me to the side. I started walking back, I jogged, back again, headed down towards the square. Those at the end passed me and the square was empty. A red flag rested against a post, abandoned. The sand crunched beneath my feet. The square was deserted. Leaflets and hot dog wrappers fluttered in the wind. I stood in the middle of Grønlands Torg and looked all around me.
Four students were mown down at Kent University. I remember the picture of a girl in tears collapsing beside a bloodstained body. It has left a scar on my eyes. I remember Gunnar’s father, the runner, standing in the vegetables section at Bonus in his blue coat with a name tab on his chest. He had had to give up his grocery business. I remember him standing there the day I went to stock up on beer after the exams were over. I was unable to meet his eyes, did an abrupt about-turn and saw in the mirror over the meat counter a stooped, beaten man weighing lemons, potatoes and tomatoes. I hurried out with the crate of beer and got stuck into the mammoth booze-up I had been looking forward to for twelve years, for the exams were over and the sluice gates were open. Yes, I remember the exams too, a sweaty affair, a clammy funeral in the gym where we sat dotted across the freshly polished floor. The teachers tiptoed around in black suits and ironed ties, and the superannuated invigilators who accompanied us into the toilets, they sat there with their creaking shoes and sweets individually wrapped in sandwich paper, I remember all that. I had to write about Nansen again, but this time I didn’t mix up Nansen and Schweitzer. I wrote about what Nansen had said about living in a town, and it was pretty wild. The exercise was entitled People in Boxes, and Nansen compared people with animals living in boxes, sleeping in boxes, eating in boxes, not sure if I quite caught the point. And he wrote about those societies where people just sit in big communal boxes and drink themselves stupid. ‘I understand they’re called parties,’ Nansen wrote, and I added that when we die we end up in another box, but to be frank I doubted whether the North Pole had anything better to offer, I wrote in Nynorsk and was reasonably satisfied with my effort. And I wrote in Bokmål about a poem by André Bjerke, The Adults’ Party, it made me think about opera on the radio, which I always listened to in years gone by, lying with the door ajar and my ears on stalks, and there was a world out there that became alive after I had gone to bed, something mysterious, something that was intended to be kept hidden from me. Now I knew it was just a bluff. And I wrote that. In English I guessed correctly. I had a miniature version of the Magna Carta under a Kvikklunsj wrapper, and the Magna Carta came up. In the history oral I was tested on the Napoleonic wars. I rounded it off with my line: Napoleon’s coming! and was awarded a solid B. Then I tore down to Bonus and ran into Gunnar’s father, pretended I hadn’t seen him and rushed out with a crate of beer feeling more or less like Armstrong when he landed on the green cheese.
I didn’t see much of Gunnar, met him on May 17 when he was handing out leaflets condemning prommers’ celebrations, he didn’t ask me if I wanted to give him a hand. Ola was doing double shifts to save up money for the navy. One night I dropped in at the hotel to have the last or the first beer of the day when I detected a gloomy expression on his rotund face.
‘I’ll try and take my final exams next year,’ he whispered, looking away.
‘How’s it goin’ with Vigdis?’ I wondered, idiot that I am.
He put a finger to his lips.
‘Not Vigdis. Kirsten.’
I nodded sagely.
‘You do know Vigdis lives in the same block as Seb, don’t you?’
An ugly twitch developed across his forehead.
‘Even if I did drop Nina’s name to Kåre the Creep that time, that doesn’t mean you have to exact your revenge now!’
‘Take it easy,’ I reassured him. ‘Take it easy. I have no idea who Vigdis is. I’ve never heard anythin’ about her.’
Ola unfurled a smile and slumped back on the camping bed behind the counter. I leaned across.
‘You alright?’ I whispered.
Ola gave a wry grin and we clinked bottles and drank.
‘What’s it like bein’ a prommer?’ he mumbled.
‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘Haven’t noticed much.’
Then Ola went to sleep at his post. I went out into the May night thinking about all the things that were in the past now.
Seb had his orals at the Experimental School and he flew through them on Buddha’s back, the time of miracles was not over. I lay in his room sweating my way through the hot days, drinking beer and tea and planning nothing. Mostly I thought about Nina and when I dreamt about her, I always dreamt she was somewhere in the world where it was wi
nter now, and night-time when it was daytime here in Oslo, June, 1970.
One morning I asked Seb, ‘Are you sure you’re goin’ to sea?’
He tried to scratch away the sunlight that burst through the window and landed on his navel.
‘Yep. Just waitin’ for a letter from Dad. And where I should meet him.’
‘Alright if I use your room while you’re away?’
‘Course it is, man. Of course.’
He stretched out a hand and grabbed a half-full bottle of Export.
‘Got the feelin’,’ he mumbled. ‘Got the feelin’ somethin’s about to happen.’
And we shared the rest of the beer and a new day had started.
A few days before the results were announced I nipped home to put some food in my system and report in. My mother was like a cat on hot bricks wondering where I was staying at the moment and Dad was in the sitting room with Pym on his shoulder. I went for a snooze in my room and was woken by the telephone. Jørgen was on the line. We agreed to meet for a beer at the Herregård in Frogner Park. So I was off again. Mum ran after me with a fresh shirt and trousers with a crease, but those days were gone. I went as I was. I had been doing that for three weeks.
Jørgen was sitting at the table with the most sun. He was leaning against the yellow wall with a foaming glass of lager in front of him, it was a world of orange light. But soon the sun would sink behind the ridge and turn into a red blood orange. Jørgen waved to me.
I took a beer too, we toasted, squinted at the prom blazers scattered around, the geese waddling down the lawn, heard the monotonous fall of water through the buzz of conversation, didn’t know quite what we should say, it was a long time since Jørgen and I had talked, there seemed to be a barrier.
‘How’s it goin’?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, fine.’
‘Have you been to Denmark?’
He shook his head.
‘Haven’t done anything special. You?’
‘Alternative celebrations,’ I grinned. ‘Stayin’ away from bars.’
We ordered another round and the sun crept behind a branch. A group of exhausted merry-makers in crumpled outfits and green caps staggered through the landscape. We were served beers and drank in silence.
‘What are you going to do now?’ Jørgen asked at length.
‘Don’t know. Try to find a summer job. Earn myself some bread. And you? The military?’
‘No. I got out of it.’
‘Terrific! Me too! Said I was crazy. How did you wangle it?’
‘Told them the truth,’ Jørgen answered.
The beer tasted flat on the palate. I was beginning to feel I had had my fill. I was beginning to be run down. I was tired to the core. I ordered another half litre.
‘Going to England when the results are out,’ said Jørgen. ‘If I pass.’
‘Course you’ll pass! Will you be spendin’ the whole summer there?’
‘I’m going to live there. In London.’
There was a barrier between us, a bar. We finished our beers. People were leaving. We shuffled off as well. We stopped on the bridge and looked down into the water. It smelt of sewage. We went on. I had nowhere else to go, so walked with Jørgen some of the way.
‘Did War and Peace give you a taste for more theatre?’
I laughed.
‘Not at all. The stage is not the place for me.’
‘I’m going to apply for a place at a drama school in London. Where my friend is a student.’
The Monolith towered over us. I thought it seemed luminescent in the pitch dark. Couples were frolicking on white benches, there was the sound of activity behind the trees and bushes, the whole park was steaming, it was almost impossible to breathe.
We crossed over to Dogland and were suddenly alone. I needed a pee and stood by a post. Jørgen stood behind me scraping his shoes on the shingle.
‘Like to come and visit me in London?’
‘Course I would. If I’m passin’ that way.’
‘I’ll send you the address.’
We mooched onwards. And then we were not alone any more. They came from behind us, we turned and they encircled us. There were seven or eight of them, and I recognised some of the faces, from another time when I was crossing Dogland and it was winter.
I showed them my finger, but it didn’t work.
‘Bloody bum bandits!’ hissed one of them, grabbing Jørgen. ‘Filthy buttfuckers!’
Jørgen stood mouth agape, his arms down by his side. One of them slapped him. Jørgen didn’t react, he stared into the distance with dry, terror-stricken eyes. One of the others jabbed me. Their faces shone. They had dog-eyes.
‘And you do the Nordic combined, do you, sweetie? Which do you like best, cross country or ski jumping?’
I thumped him even though I knew it was useless. I got a knee in my back and a ringed fist scraped across my nose.
Jørgen tried to run for it. They caught him like a lobster in a trap. He lashed out in all directions, just swung, without aiming, without hitting anyone, he was like a windmill. They laughed and kicked him backwards and forwards. Then I heard an ugly sound. The ringleader stood there with a flick knife in his hand, the blade shot out, long, thin, pointed. The others retreated a little. Jørgen stood crying with his hands over his ears. I didn’t react until it had happened. Blood gushed from Jørgen’s face and his cheek opened like a caesarean section. Then I tasted an iron fist and kissed the grass.
Someone was shaking me. Someone was sniffing at me and whimpering. I thrust open my eyes and stared into the black face of a poodle. Above me, an old man stood shaking his head. Then he poked me with his stick. I rolled over and caught sight of Jørgen. He was lying on his stomach with his arms outstretched in the grass, motionless.
‘Ambulance,’ I snuffled. ‘Ring the hospital!’
I crawled on all fours across to Jørgen, turned him carefully. His face was slashed from temple to chin. My hand was drenched. Blood was pouring out of his fly.
Seb’s room smelt freshly washed and clean. His grandmother had been there to tidy up, chuck out all the mouldy crusts and empty the bins. The results were out. We had passed. Ola had received his pay and holiday money and laid on Upper Ten Scotch and bock beer. The new Beatles record lay on the windowsill. ‘Let It Be’. But it was not new, it had been recorded long before Abbey Road, it was over a year old.
We toasted each other.
‘How’s your snitch?’ Gunnar asked.
‘Can feel it’s there,’ I said, carefully feeling it with my hand, pain shot through my head like a scimitar.
‘Why did they go for Jørgen with a knife then?’ Seb enquired.
‘Christ knows,’ I said.
I had been to hospital to visit him, but I hadn’t been allowed in. I had not been allowed in. Jørgen did not let anyone in. His mother stood outside crying. He had been given fifty-one stitches. I had to leave. I was not allowed in to see Jørgen.
Seb put on ‘Morrison Hotel’. We mixed lukewarm water with the whisky. We didn’t say much. It was as though we knew it was the last evening we would be together for a long time.
‘When are you goin’?’ I asked Seb at length.
‘When I get a letter from my dad.’
‘What will you do when we’ve gone our separate ways?’ Gunnar asked.
I hummed and hawed, I had no idea.
‘Start studyin’ or somethin’.’
‘Are we goin’ to play ‘Let It Be’ then?’ Ola said.
We opened a few beers, couldn’t be bothered to go into the corridor to pee, took turns to have a leak in the sink.
‘What’s your brother goin’ to do this summer?’ Seb asked.
‘Goin’ to Mardøla,’ Gunnar said. ‘Would’ve gone there myself if I could have.’
‘Bloody great talk he gave about anarchism, by the way. Got to agree with a lot of what he says, haven’t you?’
‘Well, some. But the basic thrust is wrong. You think monopoly capitalist
s are good boys who will release the production means without a fight.’
‘That’s not true,’ Seb interrupted. ‘We just think that the socialism you support is so bloody authoritarian. Isn’t it. People should be able to choose. What did Stalin do, eh? Smashed the faces of all those who disagreed. How many was it he buried, Gunnar? Ten million or thirty million?’
‘Stalin had good and bad sides,’ Gunnar said. ‘And how many Russians fell in the battle against Nazism, eh? If it hadn’t been for Stalin we’d be lyin’ in ovens, the whole lot of us. Wouldn’t we.’
But this was not the night for confrontations. We drank slowly and stayed cool. We talked about May 1, when Stig and Seb were booted out of the procession. We sat reminiscing and became a little sentimental and grinned into our beer.
‘Put The Beatles single on now, will you!’ said Ola.
‘Vigdis asked after you the other day,’ Seb said.
Ola cowered and looked like an angry bull.
‘Shall we go and get her?’ I suggested.
‘Don’t arse about, boys!’ Ola shouted. ‘Don’t arse about! I can’t help it that Kirsten lives in Trondheim, can I. I’m gonna visit her when I’m on leave!’
We patted him on the back and served him some bock and Upper Ten. He calmed down. Then we were quiet for a long time, it was a strange evening.
‘Dad had to give up his shop,’ Gunnar said apropos of nothing. ‘Workin’ in Bonus now.’
He said no more than that. I didn’t say that I had seen him. Gunnar mixed a red-coloured drink and knocked it back.
‘Have you heard McCartney’s solo album?’ Seb asked.
I shook my head.
‘And you who thought he’d snuffed it!’
‘I bloody did not!’
Seb grinned and leaned against the wall.
‘You bloody did! You were on your knees.’
Ola and Gunnar chortled.
‘Did you believe it?’
‘I’m not a complete bonehead, am I. Course I didn’t think McCartney was dead!’