‘Yes.’
Ola was alive. I slumped into the nearest chair.
‘Can I speak to him?’ I whispered.
‘He’s in bed. He’s ill.’
‘Ill?’
‘That’s what he says.’
‘Will he be okay tomorrow?’ I asked slyly, cringing beneath my clothes.
‘Why don’t you call and see?’ the high-pitched but somewhat weary voice said. And before she put down the receiver I could swear I heard the sound of scissors cutting in the background. It must have been Valdemar Jensen training for the dry cut in Norway’s Hairdressing Championship in Lillesand, or perhaps it was just my heart pumping blood in short, furious bursts through my head, like the brash first chord of ‘A Hard Day’s Night’.
I had arranged with Gunnar and Seb to meet in Mogga Park at five, but the arrangement would be difficult to keep because Uncle Hubert was coming for a meal. At three he stood in the doorway and from then on everything went at half speed. I don’t really know what it was with Uncle Hubert, there were these knots inside his head that would not loosen and at times they were tighter than at others, and on this Sunday they were unusually rigid. It started in the doorway. He stretched out his hand thirty-four times without saying a word. In the end Dad had to drag him inside and push him into a chair and both of them were red-faced and sweaty, and Mum rushed out and set another place at the table.
Uncle Hubert lived alone in one of the blocks of flats by Marienlyst. He did the illustrations for weekly magazines and women’s novels, so perhaps it was not that strange he was the way he was. Dad was bald, but Hubert had all his hair, and now he was sitting in the chair by the bookshelves. He had regained his composure, his whole body was relaxed and his breathing was heavy and regular. But when he caught sight of me life returned to the bloated body.
‘Come closer, come closer,’ he called, beckoning to me.
I went over to him. He took my hand in both of his, began to shake it and I was calculating that I would have to stand there for a couple of hours. To my great good fortune he let go after just fifteen minutes.
‘Young Kim, the family’s hope for the future, how are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, burying my hands in my pockets.
‘Glad to hear that. Do you think I should get married?’
Dad charged over and interposed a quivering head.
‘Are you going to get married?!’
‘I’ve been considering the matter, dear brother. So, what do you two think?’
Dad straightened up and said between clenched jaws: ‘Kim, go into the kitchen and help Mum!’
There was no alternative. I found my mother bent over a platter of halibut. The steam was rising into her face. It looked like she was crying.
‘Uncle Hubert’s getting married,’ I said.
I had to hold the plate for her.
‘What! What did you say!’
‘He said he wants to get married.’
She was gone in a flash. I was left with the smoking fish plus the parsley butter, the potatoes and the crème caramel. I heard the intense discussion in the sitting room. Dad’s voice was low and vehement, just like when I come home with my grades. Mum’s voice was resigned, but Uncle Hubert just laughed.
Some time later Mum returned and we carried the food onto the table.
At first it was fine. We served ourselves and everything was as it should be, except for Dad’s face, he was as highly strung as a tennis racquet. When we were about to take a second helping I could not restrain myself any longer.
‘Who are you going to marry?’ I asked.
Dad’s voice truncated the sentence. He snarled my name, the ‘i’ vanished completely and two distorted consonants were all that was left. Km! Mum flinched and Uncle Hubert looked from one to the next, and as he helped himself to potatoes his brain jammed. I could see it in him. With his spoon halfway over to the potatoes he stopped, he held it there, he seemed to be fighting with himself, he gritted his teeth and his cheeks quivered, then the spoonful of potatoes began to go back and forth across the table, and at some speed, he had to be at the very least a world potato-balancing champion. Dad was on the verge of exploding, Mum fled into the kitchen and Uncle Hubert sat there transporting potatoes to and fro. I wished I knew what had happened in his head. He looked extremely unhappy, yet determined, and when he was finally finished, after forty-three to-and-fros, he slumped back into his chair, exhausted and content. The tablecloth was green from the parsley, Dad’s face was purple and Mum came in with more white fish.
As the clock moved towards five, and we still had not started dessert, it was impossible to sit still any longer. I took a chance and asked, even though I knew it was a mortal sin to leave the table too soon.
‘I’m meeting Gunnar and Seb,’ I burbled. ‘At five. May I go?’
To my great surprise, Dad seemed quite relieved.
‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Don’t come home late.’
I leapt up, but didn’t dare give Hubert my hand again. Mum issued a few gentle admonitions and everyone seemed happy that I was going. I jumped out of the window, landed softly astride the horse, like Zorro of Frogner, and galloped off to Mogga Park.
John and George sat leaning over the handlebars, each puffing on their Craven A. I freewheeled down to where they were and drew up in a skid on the shingle.
‘Have you heard from Ola?’ John asked.
‘He’s in bed. Says he’s ill.’
George flicked the butt end in a huge arc over the climbing frame, wiped his chops and said:
‘I know how to get him up.’
‘How?’ John sucked at the glow close to his lips and spat out the bits.
‘Wait and see,’ George said.
We turned out of Drammensveien and cycled round the University Library in a closed formation. This was a bold plan. It was not easy to heal the sick, especially when parents were at home. Once you had taken to your bed, for the sake of appearances you had to stay there for a while, otherwise, on subsequent occasions, the consequences could be catastrophic.
His father received us.
‘We have to talk to Ola,’ I said out of breath.
‘He’s in bed.’
‘It’s about homework,’ I persisted.
Then the mother arrived. She stood at the hairdresser’s side.
‘You’ll have to be quick then,’ she determined.
We found Ringo covered with a large light blue duvet. His eyes were barely visible. We closed the door and stood by the bed. There was a smell of camphor.
‘What’ve you done with all the pictures?’ I asked, studying the bare walls.
‘Dad tore ’em down,’ the duvet said. ‘The b-b-bugger!’
He sank even lower in the mattress.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ George asked.
Ringo began to cough. The duvet heaved and fell.
‘I’m s-s-sick,’ he said in a cracked voice. ‘I’ll infect you.’
We were quiet for a while. This was more serious than we had imagined. There was a pile of Donald Duck magazines and a half-chewed bar of milk chocolate on the floor.
‘What got into you?’ John asked with caution.
An answer was not forthcoming. We were all nervous, fine-combed our brains to find something intelligent to say. Then Ringo began to speak, he spoke with an old man’s voice, it was hollow, dry and bitter.
‘The f-f-football field’s a thing of the past for me. It’s g-g-gone. It’s f-f-finished.’
He disappeared completely. We swallowed a lump in our throats, the whole gang, I swear we did. Now the laying on of hands had to start in earnest.
‘Everyone can be unlucky,’ I said. ‘You’re not the first person to score an own goal. And since you’ve gone and done it, it was a bloody fabulous shot!’
We attempted a laugh. Not a sound from the bed.
‘Åge talked with us on the coach back,’ I went on. ‘He’d been talking to Per Pettersen. He wants to
have you as the reserve goalie.’
A tuft of hair hove into view. Something spoke under the duvet, soft but clear.
‘R-r-reserve goalie? D-d-did he say that? Wasn’t he as angry as h-h-hell?’
‘We won 2–1!’
‘W-w-we w-w-won?’
‘John scored,’ I said. ‘Solo effort from the midfield.’
A whole face appeared. Ringo looked at John.
‘Did you s-s-score?’
‘Yup. No big deal. Main thing is we won. Those buggers from Slemmestad couldn’t even score one of their own!’
The laughter broke the ice and we relaxed. Ringo’s bed was shaking, even though he was supposed to be ill. We heard the sound of feet outside the door.
‘Come out with us,’ I said.
‘C-c-can’t. I’m not w-w-well.’
George leaned forward, put his hand on the patient’s shoulder and kept it there.
‘I’ve got a present for you. There’s a… there’s a Volvo 1800S behind the Royal Palace.’
A gasp ran through the room. Ringo was out of bed in a flash.
‘One like… one l-l-like the S-S-Saint had!’ he stuttered, dumbfounded.
‘Right. It’s yours.’
There was nothing more to say. Ringo pulled on his clothes and four desperate men stomped through the flat. The hairdresser, plus wife, were standing in the hall.
‘What are you doing?’ his mother exclaimed in alarm.
‘I’m g-g-going out,’ Ringo said, sweeping all resistance aside.
‘You’re ill,’ his father said.
‘I’m w-w-well,’ Ringo said.
‘Then you’ll have to go to school tomorrow,’ his mother taunted. ‘Just so that you know.’
‘I kn-kn-know,’ Ringo said.
And so we emerged, slid down the banisters and as Ringo’s bike still wasn’t repaired he jumped on behind John and we headed for Parkveien.
‘How did you get home from Slemmestad?’ I shouted.
‘Hitched,’ Ringo enthused. ‘A van. Furniture removal. Got a r-r-roll-up and stuff.’
‘Well, I never.’
‘Had a copy of Cocktail in the glove compartment, he did.’
We cut through the crossroads before the American embassy and slowly pedalled behind the palace.
‘It’s in Riddervoldsgate,’ George said. ‘Saw it when I was walkin’ with my mum today. Swedish reg.’
‘Lots of cops in this area,’ John said.
‘We’ll n-n-nab it, anyway,’ Ringo growled from the luggage carrier. ‘We’ll n-n-nab it!’
There was a hollow in the pit of my stomach that soon filled with anticipation and sweet fear. It grew and grew inside me and felt good. We turned into Riddervoldsgate and there it was, just by the corner of Oscarsgate, a shiny white Volvo 1800S. We jumped off our bikes and stood in a huddle, peering in all directions. A man with a hat walked down the other pavement. We didn’t say a word until he was out of sight. Two crows took off from a tree behind us, we all gave a start. Our hearts, red and large, were pounding on this sultry afternoon.
‘Let’s stand with our bikes on the corner,’ I whispered. ‘When Ringo has the badge, he can jump on John’s and then we’ll cycle down Oscarsgate, past Vestheim and on to Skillebekk. No one can catch us on that route.’
The others nodded. Ringo took the screwdriver from George and we pedalled up to the corner. A cat was lying on a stone wall staring up at us with narrowed eyes, but it would not talk, it was on our side. The tram rattled along Briskebyveien, the church bells began to chime. Then everything went still. We pedalled past the Volvo, Ringo stopped again, waited for a few seconds, then went on the attack. There were a few horrible sounds, like when you scratch your nails on the blackboard. Even the King must have heard it. We didn’t dare turn around and it took for ever, the whole world was on edge. Blood was cascading down from my head like torrential rain. I don’t think I have ever been so nervous before. And I was sure I would not have been anywhere near so frightened if I had been standing by the car instead of Ringo. It was bizarre.
At last something happened behind us. Ringo ran up, we were standing on our pedals, he jumped on the back of John’s bike, we raced down to Skillebekk and were sitting on the bench by the fountain before you could say Simon Templar. We dried our sweat, stared, mouths agape, at the Volvo badge and weighed it in our hands, relieved and happy. George took out his packet of Craven A and passed it round.
‘Best so far,’ John said. ‘Christ, I was nervous.’
‘How come?’ Ringo said, taking a huge drag that made his eyes cross like a pair of scissors.
And so we sat there, it was a Sunday, night closed in around us, turned warm and clammy and before we knew what was going on, the rain was bucketing down. It splashed up to a metre off the ground and the horses behind us whinnied.
‘Let’s go back to my place,’ John shouted. ‘My mum and dad are away.’ We cycled with the mudguards flapping around our ears and squeezed into his room, soaking wet and tired. John placed the record player in the middle of the room and put the latest Beatles record on. ‘Ticket To Ride’. We listened with devout attention, eardrums finely tuned, like bats. We held our breath until the last guitar notes faded and the stylus was scratching across the innermost groove.
Gunnar put it on again. We lay on the floor with our ears in the loudspeaker and our whole bodies throbbing. Our English was good enough for us to understand what it was about and we wondered who the hell would have cleared off like that. The girl must have been pretty stupid. We became embittered and thought nasty things about girls all over the world. The needle skidded into the middle again and we pulled our wet fringes down over our foreheads.
‘We should start a band,’ Seb said.
We looked at each other. A band. Of course. We could start a band and then Nina and Guri and all the chickens in 7C would be right at the back of the queue.
‘What should we c-c-call it?’ Ola wondered.
Gunnar fetched an English-Norwegian dictionary and began to flick through.
‘What about The Evil-Hearted Devils and the Shinin’ Angels,’ Seb suggested.
His English pronunciation was a bit rough, but we understood him.
‘Too long,’ I said. ‘Has to be short so that people can ask for the records. Dirty Fingers is a good one.’
‘Dirty Fingers ’n Clean Girls,’ Seb added.
‘W-we don’t want anythin’ with girls in, do we!’ Ola shouted.
‘I’ve got one,’ Gunnar said, looking up from the dictionary. ‘We should call ourselves The Snafus.’
‘S-s-snow shoes?’ Ola said, looking at Gunnar in bewilderment.
‘Snafus,’ he repeated.
‘What does it mean?’ Seb asked.
‘It stands for Situation Normal All Fouled Up,’ Gunnar read out slowly and clearly.
‘But what does it mean?’ Ola queried.
‘It means mischief and muddle and mess.’
We considered it and were agreed. No one had any better suggestions. It was snappy, distinctive and we felt we could live up to the meaning. The Snafus.
‘I’ll go and nick one of my dad’s cigars,’ Gunnar said. ‘We have to celebrate this!’
He returned with a giant poker with a cummerbund, bit off the tip and spat it out of the window. The room was full of smoke after the first drag. We coughed and spluttered and hung over the windowsill, but everyone was agreed it was really great, the best we had ever tasted.
‘What songs shall we p-p-play?’ Ola said through the fog.
That was a problem. Ola was okay, he played the snare drum in a boys’ marching band. We heard him every May 17. Gunnar knew only two chords on his brother’s guitar, but on the other hand he was quite good at upping the tempo. Seb played the recorder and I played nothing.
‘You can sing,’ said Seb.
‘Sing! I can’t bloody sing.’
‘You can learn,’ said Gunnar.
‘I’m the vocalist then,’
I declared.
‘You’ll have to learn to do a decent howl,’ Seb said. ‘Just like on “I Wanna Be Your Man” and “Twist And Shout”.’
I thought about the school singing lessons. ‘The Hills and the Mountains’. ‘Three Small Drums’. ‘Dawn is Breaking’. Perhaps my voice had never had any decent material to work with. Perhaps Jensenius could teach me to sing.
‘Alright. I’ll be the vocalist!’
Gunnar re-lit the cigar and passed it round. Tears flowed, but no one could see through the smoke. And then we played all the Beatles records, starting with ‘Love Me Do’.
In the middle of ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’ the door burst open. Gunnar was so taken aback that he scratched the record. It was just his brother, Stig, but he wasn’t just a brother, he was about to start gymnas at the Cathedral School, he was one metre eighty-five and his hair came halfway down his ears. He glanced in from the doorway and said:
‘Fidel Castro dropped by, has he?’
We didn’t understand, but we laughed anyway, that much we did understand. Stig closed the door and joined us, he folded up his long body and sat on the floor. We were mute with awe, hardly dared open our mouths because we knew we would fill our pants as soon as our pained tongues uttered a sound. Gunnar looked a little embarrassed but proud, too. Not everyone had a big brother who could be bothered to mingle with little tubers whose shoots had only just emerged from the soil.
Stig looked at us and took a sudden, deep drag on the cigar. Not a wisp of smoke came out of his mouth. We waited and waited, but it stayed down. That was as bad as anything we had seen.
‘You playin’ The Beatles?’ he asked in a friendly tone.
We nodded and mumbled, yes, we were, The Beatles were great, and especially the latest single ‘Ticket To Ride’.
‘Have you heard this?’ he asked, showing us an LP he was carrying. The picture on the cover was of a gawky-looking kid, stiff curls, huge crooked nose, skinny frame. We hadn’t heard it.
‘Bob Dylan,’ Stig elucidated. ‘Best thing ever to have hit this earth.’
He took out the record, carefully placed it on the player, changed the speed to 33 rpm and told us to be quiet, though we were as still as driven snow.
‘Listen to this,’ Stig whispered. ‘Masters Of War’. ‘And think about Vietnam at the same time.’