They contented themselves with that. The hours ebbed away. It was dark, but not completely dark. Seb closed the window.
‘My dad’s goin’ on about my taking the final school exams,’ Ola said. ‘One-year course. Do you think that’d work?’
Of course it would. Nothing was impossible. Then we talked a bit about all the pressure on us to be something, all the plans that were being made for us, we were going to be bank directors, shop managers, hotel proprietors and ship owners if our parents’ dreams were to come true.
We chuckled and drank a toast to the future.
‘Put “Let It Be” on before we fall asleep,’ Ola said.
But we fell asleep anyway, all four of us, each in a corner while the room went blue and the town beneath us became quieter and the alcohol in the brain relaxed its grip and goldfish swam in front of our red eyes. And so we slept on the last evening, the last night, for a long time.
We were awoken by banging and shouting. It was Seb, who had fetched the post. There was a letter from his father. He stood among the bottles and read aloud while we straightened our hair, swallowed bad breath and peered around for cigarettes and beer dregs. Seb was supposed to meet his father in Bordeaux where the Bolero was moored for unloading. He just had to pack his kitbag. Seb’s face shone with pleasure. Then he turned the sheet over, went all serious, sat down on the floor and stared at each of us.
‘Listen here, boys. Listen here! Dad’s written about Dragon!’
We were awake at once and leaned closer.
‘Dad’s written about Dragon! Wow! Listen here! Dragon was on board a ship sailin’ round South America. Christ. And some prick of an American officer kept takin’ the piss out of him because of his face. And do you know what Dragon did! Dragon stabbed ’im. Stabbed and killed the bastard. And then he jumped overboard! Dragon jumped into the sea and was gone!’
‘Must’ve drowned, I suppose?’ Ola whispered.
Seb went quiet.
‘Says here there are loads of sharks in the waters. Must’ve been eaten by a bloody shark.’
We thought about May 17 when the firework had exploded in Dragon’s face. We didn’t utter another word for a long time. Then Gunnar said, ‘Wonder if his Mick Jagger signature was genuine.’
And then they departed, the seaman and the soldiers, while I was left behind in the hot, stinking town where the tarmac melted beneath your feet, June 1970, when the cinemas were the coolest places to be and the beer was never cold enough.
I moved my things down to Seb’s, namely, a few records, a few books, a change of clothing. My mother asked whether I was going to Nesodden, I doubted it, and she cried a little as the taxi drove off, I sat in the back seat with a sleeping bag and cardboard boxes, went down Svoldergate without a care. I bought a cold chicken and white wine for the evening, celebrated the occasion on my own, considered going to see Vigdis, but changed my mind, this evening was mine. I hung my clothes in the wardrobe, put away my records, propped my books against the wall, Mao’s Little Red Book, The Anarchistic Reader, The New Testament, Kykelipi and Victoria, didn’t quite know why I had brought that particular one, had to be a huge mistake, was given it by Grandma at Christmas 1965, old edition, smelt a bit of Bible when I sniffed it. It said ‘A Love Story’ on the cover and inside there was a faded drawing of a man sitting with bowed head crying while flowers and blood rained down over him, pretty slushy, I hadn’t even read it. Then the book opened at some random page and out fell a flower, a flower, a pressed red poppy, I was sure that I had thrown it away, it fell to the floor and disintegrated, turned to dust, it was so dry. I collected the remains as well as I could, put them in a cup, and I was sure that if I made tea in the cup now, a spirit would emerge in the room, and if I drank it, I would go wherever Nina was.
I was a bit dismayed when I woke up the next morning, woke up alone, sweating from the heat, in my own room for the first time. I opened the window and heard the City Hall clock strike eleven. It was a pleasure and a delight. I was free. I let out a huge howl across the town, a mating cry, a call for mischief. Then a window shot open beneath me and a girl peered out. It was Vigdis from the lift.
‘Hiya,’ she said.
‘Is that an invitation?’ I said.
She laughed and looked up at me.
‘Are you livin’ there now?’
‘Yep. Old Seb has gone to sea.’
‘Is Ola in the military?’
‘Madla naval base. Yellow Submarine.’
Then we retreated to our respective rooms and a problem announced its presence with undreamed of potency. Money. I didn’t have any money for breakfast. I gave the matter some deep thought over a coffee. When I had finished cogitating I went out to find a telephone box and rang City Parks and Gardens. I could begin the following day.
And so I became a gardener. I planted tulips in St Hanshaugen Park and drank lukewarm beer at Friluften. I watered the grass in Frogner Park and threw a Frisbee with a dozy bunch high on booze and spliffs. These were days on a slack leash. I was on nodding terms with all the bums and freaks in the whole of Oslo. But one morning I was sent to Slottsparken with a hoe and a fork to turn the soil. The sun spread like a crushed plum across the blind, light blue sky, there was not a breath of wind and life passed in slow motion. I dug the earth and turned it over for about half an hour, then I reckoned that was enough, knotted my shirt around my head and sat behind a tree. I must have fallen asleep. For when I awoke Pelle was there with his piglets behind him. The park had come to life, people were lying all over the scorched grass, a record player was playing a warped Fleetwood Mac LP, a thin guitar sound competed with a couple of sleepy birds, smoke from pipes of peace rose into the air.
‘Horizontal council worker,’ Pelle grinned. ‘Got any bread goin’ spare?’
Hard to refuse anyone on a day like this, even though Pelle was an uncouth bastard. I forked out a couple of tens and they made their way over to another group. They were sitting and blowing smoke skywards. I closed my eyes to recharge myself for another spell with the fork. Then Pelle was there again, a smoking joint hidden behind his cupped fingers.
‘Forget your packed lunch, did you?’ he wheezed, offering his hand. And I accepted it, smoked the Moroccan kif, in my lunch break, in Slottsparken, in the summer of 70.
That was probably the moment my career as a gardener came to an end. I worked slowly through the flower bed, dozed off again and dreamt about Afghanistan and Nina, and when I was awoken for the third time, it was the last time. There was pandemonium. The fuzz had arrived with three black Mariahs and were running around with truncheons and slavering Alsatians. Suddenly I was staring into steaming red jaws and I got to my feet very smartly. A bloody cop was hitting out at me with his erect baton. I ran over to the flower bed and held the fork in the air. He bounded after me with the beast on a tight lead.
‘I work here!’ I shouted.
They were slinging people into the paddy wagon. I saw a truncheon hit Pelle over the ear and glimpsed blood spurting from his nose before the animal sank its teeth into my trousers and tore off a chunk of material
I swung the fork aloft.
‘I’m a gardener!’ I yelled.
There was a sudden scrum around me. They stood in a semi-circle and approached with stealth. I held the fork in front of me and retreated towards a bush. The Alsatian lay flat on the ground and its saliva shone in the sunlight. Then they were on me and I don’t remember anything else until I was lying on my stomach in the black Mariah, my arms shackled behind me. The floor hit my face, we drove off.
‘He threatened us with a fork,’ a voice said.
‘He? You sure it’s not a girl?’
I was yanked over, a boot kicked me between the legs. I screamed, but the sound was strangled by the vomit that spewed forth. I saw blood. I saw only blood. My eyes were red balloons.
‘Boy,’ grinned the man. ‘Reckon that’s a boy alright.’
‘Tried to kill us with a pitch fork, didn’t he,??
? another voice said. ‘Very dangerous individual.’
I was given a kick in the ribs, then someone stood on my back and ground my face into the jolting, lurching floor. Don’t know how long it was before the van came to a halt, and a furious head came close to mine, his spittle flew as he roared, ‘You’re getting off lightly, you long-haired homo. We could report you for police assault.’
‘I’m a gardener,’ I said meekly. ‘For City Parks and Gardens.’
He was deaf in that ear.
‘And you were in possession of cannabis!’ he shouted.
‘Was I hell!’ I said.
He smiled. The policeman smiled, but it was not sincere.
‘Right, sweetie pie. We found this on you.’
He produced a dark brown slab.
‘Didn’t we, boys. We found this on our missie here.’
The others were in total agreement.
‘But we’ll turn a blind eye this time. Just want to teach you a lesson.’
Chortles and chuckles all round. Then I was held from the back and the bastard policeman conjured up a pair of scissors. His stinking yellow teeth moistened with saliva. Four sweaty hands twisted my head into position. And then he hacked at my hair from all sides. I screamed, I yelled, but to no avail, my hair flew around the van and their grins grew wider and wider.
‘Now he looks good,’ the pig sang. ‘I was right, see. It is a boy.’
‘You cocksucker!’ I howled and spat a juicy gobbet into his face, it ran down his cheek, thick and yellow.
Now they came to life, they assaulted me from all angles, in the end I didn’t feel the kicks and punches, I was outside my abused body and the pain was only a dream.
Then the door was opened and I was rolled out, heard the engine roar and saw the black Mariah race down a path between tall trees. I lay on a path in the middle of a forest and had no idea which. Was it Kongsskogen or Norwegian Wood? It was neither. I stayed on the ground until my soul had regained its place in my body. The pains launched themselves over me anew and into the dry earth I cried bitter and burning tears.
I tried to walk, to walk the way the pigs had driven. My legs buckled beneath me like grass. I had to rest on a rock. The sun looked like scrambled eggs gone stiff. The forest floated in a haze. I forced my legs to go on. They carried me for a while. Then I spotted a river, crawled down to the edge and stuck my head under the water.
When I emerged someone shouted at me.
‘Hey, you gnome, you’re frightening the fish!’
I looked around. In the middle of the rapids stood a fly-fisher in wading boots with a cap covered in hooks.
‘Where am I?’ I shouted back.
‘Can’t you see I’m fishing, you troll! Clear off!’
‘Where am I?’ I repeated.
‘Are you a complete idiot? You’re in Åborbekken.’
He must have had a bite, he fought with the huge rod and the long line, cursed and swore, until finally he got himself tied up in a huge tangle with a pile of twigs on the hook.
‘That’s your doing!’ he screamed. ‘Everything was going fine until you arrived on the scene! You hobgoblin!’
‘Which way to town?’
He couldn’t point, so he had to nod. He nodded eastwards, or southwards, pulled at the line as the water poured over the top of his waders. I gingerly picked myself up and continued on the forest path.
I walked for several hours without seeing a single person. Then I came to a large expanse of water. At first I thought it was the sea, but I realised that it was fresh water. I was alongside a lake in Norway and walking along the bank. Walking there, exhausted and sore, battered and bruised, I began to hate all the parks in Oslo. Parks just caused disasters, parks persecuted me, ever since I went to the skitraining school in Frogner Park, parks had been after me. I would never go to another park again. I would ask the foreman to put me on churchyards instead, that would suit me better, I would apply to do that. All of a sudden a rock-hard ball hit me in the forehead and I almost went down for the count. At the same time I heard a cry, it didn’t come from me, and, some distance away, behind a sandbank stood a weird-looking type in checked trousers, tearing his hair. Beside him there was a little person with a trolley full of clubs.
‘Watch out, you idiot!’ I shouted.
He sank to his knees and began to pull at the grass.
Then, of course, I knew where I was.
‘Is this Bogstad golf course?’ I asked, relieved.
The man stood up with whitened knuckles around the club.
‘Where do you think you are, you halfwit? At the circus? At a funfair? Do you think, do you think I was trying to hit you? Do you think I was aiming? Are you out of your mind? Are you mad!’
‘You should be a bit careful with that ball!’ I responded. ‘You could have smashed my head in.’
He changed clubs and tried to hit me. I had to take to my heels. He followed me while shouting something about the eighth hole. I pulled out a couple of flags as I sped past and emerged through a gate into an elegant road of detached houses. I sat down on the kerb and felt my forehead. Another bump was on its way. I was being persecuted. But now at any rate I knew roughly where I was. I wandered around until I found the direction, over Røa, past Njård sports hall, across Majorstuen, straight into town as the sun lit the forests in the west and the light let the darkness in. And I met Vigdis in the lift again. She let out a squeal of fright when she saw me, I was unable to meet my own gaze in the lift mirror.
We went up to the fourth floor.
‘What happened to you?’ she exclaimed.
‘Long story. You would never believe it.’
I followed Vigdis into her room. It was traditional with embroideries on the walls, photographs of her parents on a bookshelf and oranges in a woven basket on the table, felt at home immediately.
She patched me up with plasters and gauze. Vigdis’s hands were chunky and red and light as feathers.
‘Your hair,’ she laughed. ‘What have you done to your lovely hair?’
I glanced at a mirror. There was nothing to laugh at. I looked worse than Ola had the time his father ran amok with his scissors. Ola had been elegant in comparison with me. I was a marked man.
‘Could I have an orange?’ I asked.
‘As many as you like,’ Vigdis smiled, clearing the operating table.
Then something strange happened. But I was not very surprised, for the whole day had been against me anyway. I peeled the orange and there was nothing inside. It was empty. I peeled and peeled and there was no orange. I said nothing to Vigdis. I just put the peel on a plate and wiped my mouth.
Vigdis turned.
‘That was quick,’ she said.
‘Oranges are a speciality of mine,’ I said.
‘You can have another.’
‘Only eat one a day.’
I got to my feet and took a step towards the door. All of a sudden Vigdis was holding a full bottle of gin in front of her.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked mischievously.
And for once I was sensible, for nowhere was it written that this day could not throw up any more disasters.
I swallowed hard and did not tempt fate.
‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘Another time. Another time.’
And then I was given the sack. When I turned up for work on the following day I received a real rollicking and they refused to give my story the time of day. I had abandoned my tools and cleared off during working hours, I was scum, I only had to look in the mirror, there was nothing to discuss. I was given the sack and my wages, three hundred kroner, which were burning a hole in my pocket as I stood in the middle of Oslo wondering what the hell to do next. I went to Pernille. Later I rang Jørgen. His mother answered and said in a hazy voice that Jørgen had left for London two days before. She didn’t know when he would be back. She slammed down the phone. The day after, I was broke again.
I lay on the mattress with a thick head, listing badly. M
y brain cells clung together like sticky rice. But one of the grains was fitter than the others and transmitted a brilliant message: Go to the bank and empty your account. I soaked my head under the tap and trudged off to St Olavsgate, to the bank where Dad was the branch manager, the bank that was robbed by someone who was never apprehended. It was many years since I had been there, but the smell was the same, mint and a freshly waxed floor, and the sounds, the crackle of banknotes, as though there was a little fire alight the whole time. And it was dark. I was almost blinded as I entered from the white light outside, into the crackling, clean darkness. Dad used to sit at the counter, I remember he was always very careful to cut his nails every morning. Now he had an office at the back of the building. A lady led me through. Dad was not in the least bit surprised to see me. He just looked friendly and a bit tired, his slowness was almost the worst thing of all, he didn’t notice my clothes, or my hair, he didn’t even see my crazy haircut.
‘Is that you?’ was all he said.
‘How’s Nesodden?’ I asked.
‘Fine. Not a good year for apples though.’
‘Redcurrants?’
‘I think the redcurrants will be okay. And the gooseberries. But the plums don’t look at all good.’
The office was cramped and oppressive, the walls dark, papers filed in binders on the desk in neat piles. Dad looked up at me, rested his chin in his hands.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
Dad smiled.
‘Nothing.’
I sniggered. It struck me that it should have been him asking me that question and I would have answered the same way he had.
‘I need money,’ I said. ‘Thought I might withdraw some from my account.’
Dad nodded and stood up.
‘That should be alright,’ he said.
Then he went to speak to a cashier and a quarter of an hour later I was standing on the pavement with 850 kroner in my back pocket and the world, or Oslo at least, lay before me like a swing door. I stocked up with white wine at the vinmonopol and carried the goods back to my room. But another surprise was waiting for me there, a handsome bill for Seb in the postbox, he hadn’t paid the rent for ten months. I would be evicted if the money was not paid within three days. There was no option but to pay up and as a result I was left with seventy-eight kroner. I wondered whether to catch the first boat to Nesodden, but heroically I resisted. And so the summer passed, I was broke and living on crusts and lukewarm water, but one day I met Vigdis in the lift again, she saw how the land lay and took care of me, feeding me with thick vegetable broth and full-fat buttermilk and waffles. Vigdis took care of me for the rest of the summer, kept me alive for some reason and I realised that The Great Revolutionary Feat was not meant for the likes of me, I wasn’t cut out for that sort of task. I realised that one evening, leaning back against the windowsill, satiated after having eaten thirty of Vigdis’s waffles. It was Dragon who had accomplished the Great Revolutionary Feat, I saw him swimming through foaming water, a knife between his teeth and sharks on all sides. Dragon, I thought, you have avenged Fred, you have avenged Jørgen, Dragon the Avenger!