‘Can’t bloody stay here, can we.’
‘Any better ideas?’
‘There must be a hotel nearby.’
‘Loaded with cash, are you?’
‘Didn’t you say we could borrow some money off your uncle?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Let’s find a hotel.’
We found one in Place Odéon. The room cost eight francs each and was on the fifth floor. Ola was bundled off to stock up with wine and came charging back with his arms full. He unscrewed the cap of one bottle, took a lengthy swig, shook his head, screamed and dived for the sink. We smelt the contents, it stung our nostrils.
‘You bought vinegar, you clown!’ I grinned.
‘Vinegar?’
Ola’s face was parchment colour, he slumped onto the bed.
‘Vinaigre,’ I read out to him. ‘Vinaigre!’
So I, being the language specialist, had to go out and exchange the sustenance, I brought home a basket of vin de table. We opened the window, raised the bottles over Paris, caught a glimpse of Notre Dame and drank greedily.
Then all three of us fell asleep in a line on the soft beds. We were woken by the rain coming in onto the floor. I closed the window and opened another bottle of wine.
‘Now it’s time we went to look for Seb,’ I said.
We started with a few beers at a bar across from the hotel, Le Ronsard. It had stopped raining and a carnival of smells arose from the adjacent market stalls. Large women were all shouting at the same time and grinning, displaying rotten stumps of teeth, mangy dogs slunk along the pavements, fat sparrows rolled around like swollen tennis balls, there was the sound of a pinball machine behind us, but what I remember most is the smell of strawberries, big, gleaming, bright red strawberries, they reminded me so much of Nina I had to go over and buy some, managed to blather myself a punnet and shared them with the others, strawberries, wine and beer.
And then we wandered all over Paris, nosed around the Latin Quarter, ate Tunisian bread rolls and almost burned our palates, strolled along the Seine, chatted to a few Dutch freaks, we hadn’t met any Norwegians, watched the old boys fishing in the brown river as black barges and gaudy bateaux mouches glided by. We went to Pont Neuf, but Seb wasn’t there, either, just a bunch of idlers moping around under the chestnuts and the weeping willows, we stood watch at Place St Michel, once I thought I saw Jørgen there, my nerves had sunstroke.
We arrived home at the hotel exhausted every evening, or night, and rounded off the day with a dark beer at Le Ronsard.
‘Aren’t you goin’ to visit your uncle soon?’ Gunnar enquired.
I dreaded it and kept putting it off. I dreaded it like the plague.
‘Ye-es,’ I said.
I went to the bar and ordered another round.
‘Pretty ropey plan, in fact,’ Gunnar said.
‘Why’s that?’ Ola mumbled.
‘Thinking we could find Seb in this anthill. Shit, we aren’t even sure he’s here!
Our heads dropped, we trudged back to the hotel and crashed out to the sound of chirruping cockroaches.
But the next day we sallied forth again. We searched the Jardin du Luxembourg, we took in the right bank and wandered down the Champs Elysées, but saw only snobs and shops, we clambered up the steps to the Sacré Coeur, just Japanese, mooched round Pigalle, whores, live shows and sleazy doormen, we found our way back to the Seine and sauntered by the green boxes of books. It became clearer and clearer to us that we were off course, way off course. Ola reckoned it was time we started using the metro, he had blisters on his knees, but Gunnar insisted, for Christ’s sake, that we couldn’t look for Seb underground.
‘I’m starvin’ anyway,’ Ola moaned.
We found a grubby restaurant down a side street and ordered croque monsieur and beer.
‘But what the hell is he livin’ off?’ Gunnar said.
‘Christ knows. Must be takin’ on odd jobs.’
None of us believed that, though. The food arrived on the table, three burned slices of bread with cheese and ham. There was a terrible smell, but that was probably the foul water in the gutters. The waiter lit a cigarette over our heads, and we got stuck in. In fact, it tasted good. We scraped up every last crumb and wondered if we should order another round. Then I felt something chafing and rubbing against my leg. I lifted up the tablecloth and looked into the whites of the eyes of the ugliest animal I had ever seen. I stood up, knocking my chair over sideways, Gunnar and Ola jumped up and the crossbreed came out, a crazy, scabrous mongrel, poodle at the rear and wolf at the front. It sprang up at me and licked my face with its rough, stinking tongue. I heard someone roar with laughter and it could not have been Gunnar or Ola. Then I caught sight of its dick protruding between its rear legs, stiff and red and thin, saliva dripped onto me and the dog was banging against my trousers like a mad thing. Gunnar came to my rescue and dragged it off. I got to my feet again, but the mongrel wouldn’t give in, it leapt on me, smacked its front paws down on my sweater. I kicked as hard as I could, there was a crunch as my clogs made contact and the furless beast rolled over and crawled along the floor of the restaurant on its stomach. Then something else attacked me, I felt a sweaty, hairy hand on my neck, I twisted round, it was the waiter, he was cursing me in no uncertain terms and spit was flying in all directions. But enough was enough. Gunnar came over with his lifting tackle, raised the little man off the ground and sent him flying into the bar. And then we ran off leaving the bill and the swarthy latino howling. We didn’t stop until we were at Le Ronsard where we collapsed at our regular table, and never was a beer more deserved.
‘There’s rabies in France,’ Gunnar said.
The beer stuck in my throat.
‘Eh?’
‘Learned about in the military. If you’ve got an open wound or a cut and are near a rabid dog you can be infected.’
‘Bloody hell! D’you think the mutt had rabies?’
‘Don’t know,’ Gunnar said seriously.
I began to panic, felt dirty and leprous, relived the animal’s revolting smell, searched feverishly for wounds, found a cut on my hand, but it had almost healed, I itched everywhere, I scratched, lice, scabies, I had the whole lot, all at once.
‘How does rabies work?’ Ola asked.
‘You get thirsty,’ Gunnar explained. ‘Hellish thirsty, but you daren’t drink for fear you’ll drown in what you drink. In the end, you’re scared of drowning in your own saliva. And then you die.’
I leaned on my elbows and tried to remain composed.
‘If you’re thirsty and drink like buggery, you don’t have rabies. Is that right?’
‘Exactly,’ Gunnar said.
I went over to the bar and began to drink. It flowed down. I drank until the taps were dry at Le Ronsard. Then Gunnar and Ola guided me to the hotel. I remember dreaming I was a stray dog.
I woke up alone next morning with a dome bigger than the one on St Sophia’s Church in Istanbul. It was late in the day and the din from the traffic in Boulevard St Germain rose five floors and hammered on the windows and my eyelids. I was thirsty. I had never been so thirsty before, not just in my mouth, but in all of me, one burning drain from my soul to the balls of my feet. I crawled to the sink, turned on the tap and at once remembered the warning about drinking water in Paris. But there was nothing else to drink in the room, I was half-demented, so I stuck my head under the tap, swallowed, spat, fear came with its suckers, the cockroaches grinned, a wild thought settled around my neck and tightened, that no one would notice if I metamorphised into a dog right here, no one would try to stop me if I padded down the stairs with a mangy coat and slobbering jaws, they would just kick me out head first, and I would be another dog in Paris. I tried another time and after a few swallows I got it down, I drank and drank the horrible sewage water, I recovered my equilibrium, my head began to function, I sat on the floor thinking this was going well, gingerly felt my stomach and swore that this would be fine. Then I threw up. I vomited in an arc
into the basin, water and soft pommes frites, I was a fountain. Afterwards I found the note from Gunnar and Ola. Meet you at Ronsard at four.
The waiters clapped when I arrived. I had thought of slowing the revs with Vichy water, but they served me a big beer before I could utter a word and they refused to take payment, just stared at me in awe, almost asked me for an autograph. I drank my beer and it stayed down.
‘What shape are you in?’
‘Poor. Back’s gone all hairy and my arms are growin’.’
We chuckled quietly. Then Ola said, ‘We’ll never find Seb here. Even if he is here. While we’re lookin’ in one place, he’s in another. We’re just circlin’ round each other all the time.’
We pondered that. Ola was right. It was the least successful search party of the century. I had two passport photos in my back pocket and it all seemed so ludicrous. Not even the prospect of going to the market could cheer me up. I saw a huge maggot in the punnet of strawberries.
‘And now you’ve got to shake your bloody uncle out of your shirtsleeves,’ Gunnar hassled. ‘We’re almost out of funds.’
I was aware of that.
‘Let’s move to Le Métro,’ I said. ‘I’m gettin’ edgy sittin’ here. The waiters are starin’ holes into the tables.’
We pootled over to the other corner, stood at the bar and were given three glasses brimful with wine. The waiter, with a yellow cigarette between his front teeth, grinned, added a dash more, until they were filled to overflowing, and we had to bend forward and suck like mammals.
‘French humour,’ said Gunnar.
We were getting stale. On the first day we would have laughed ourselves silly and asked for full glasses. It was time to go home. I had to visit Hubert and Henny.
Then we heard it, through the hubbub at the bar, through the wall of traffic noise, a blues, a rasping blues, a howling harmonica, a tortured wolf, coming from the ground, from the metro station just outside, everything went still around us, the traffic slowed and we heard it, more and more clearly. We stared at each other, eyes as big as plates, then we charged out, ploughed our way through, skated down the steps to the station. There we came to a halt. We couldn’t believe our eyes. Seb was leaning against the filthy yellow tiles beside the green metro map, in the draught from the corridors, in a cloud of stinking piss, he was hardly recognisable, we could only just make out old Seb, he was there somewhere, a long way away. And he could not believe his eyes either, if they were still his. The harmonica fell from his mouth and his lips were full of sores.
‘You here?’ he stuttered.
‘Do bears shit in the woods?’ Ola asked. What would we do without Ola?
We raised a few grins. And then Seb began to smile, turned away and banged his head against the wall as the few onlookers picked up their coins and slunk off.
We got Seb up to our hotel room and put him to bed. He trembled like a flame, in the end we had to hold him, Seb was in a mess, just like his long, greasy hair and dirty, spindly beard.
‘Where’ve you got your things?’ Gunnar asked, straight to the point.
Seb pointed to his little green shoulder bag.
Then he said, lying stiffly in bed and waiting for the next convulsion:
‘Boys, I’ve gotta have… I know where you can get it… a fix.’
We were not that surprised, but nevertheless it was dreadful to hear. Gunnar, ashen-faced, jumped astride Seb and shook him like a match that would not go out.
‘You little bag of shit! Don’t ask us for that! D’you hear me! D’you hear me!’
Then Gunnar peeled off Seb’s jersey and we saw the sailor’s tattoos on his arms, not an anchor and a heart, but a pattern of brown needle marks.
We poured a liqueur into Seb to calm him down. Grimy sweat poured off him. We stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it, hauled him upright and held him against the wall.
‘What happened?’ I whispered.
And so Seb told his story, in fits and starts, it took a whole bottle of Calva and two packets of Gauloises. Seb sat with bowed head and talked through spasms.
Things had already gone awry on the boat to Denmark. On board he had met a dopehead, a chick from Tåsen who was going to the Isle of Wight. When the chick told him that Jim Morrison in person was going to bless the multitudes, that had been too much for Seb to resist. Seb joined the girl, they hitch-hiked to Calais, caught the ferry and found the wind-blown island where there were already a couple of hundred thousand mind-blown Red Indians.
Seb took a break. We sat with sweaty eyes and ears on full alert.
‘Was… was Jim Morrison there?’ I managed to stammer out.
Seb nodded. Ash fell on his bed.
‘He was there. Out of his brain, tall, with a Jesus beard, direct line to the gods. Jerkin’ off the mike like crazy. Greatest thing I’ve ever seen, boys.’
The memories alone were exhausting him. We poured in sustenance and lit soul food.
‘Go on,’ Ola whispered.
When the battle on the Isle of Wight was over, Seb had a week left to meet his father in Bordeaux. The chick from Tåsen persuaded him that he had time to nip over to Amsterdam, it was just over the channel, so Seb joined a multinational gang of freaks to Tulip Town, and there things went wrong big-time. The days passed, but Seb didn’t notice and the first time he caught a haze-free glimpse, it was autumn. The Tåsen chick was over and out and he found himself in a shanty by a stinking canal with twenty other muddle-headed junkies.
‘The worst thing I’ve ever experienced, boys. Head was blown apart. I’d missed the boat. I was skint and stuck in Amsterdam. What the hell d’you do then?’
‘Go to the embassy,’ Gunnar said in a matter-of-fact tone.
‘Stand barefoot at the embassy office with eyes like cannonballs and arms full of holes? Great idea. Next stop, the nick.’
‘But what did you do?’ Ola whispered.
Seb didn’t go to the embassy. He stole a harmonica and played blues in the streets of Amsterdam. The coins came in, but he couldn’t move on or go home. Kicking the habit was too hard. Seb was hooked. He stayed in Amsterdam until the New Year.
‘Know who I bumped into one day, Kim?’ he exclaimed. ‘Nina.’
‘Nina?’
I crumpled, tasted the apple flavour of the liqueur, the essence, the blood of the apple.
‘Nina?’
‘Right. Nina from Vestheim.’
The room went quiet. It was dark outside the window. The pigeons were cooing on the ledge.
‘How was she?’ I asked slowly.
‘What d’you think? She was on dope. Just like all the others.’
Seb stared vacantly through the smoke.
‘Thought she was in Afghanistan,’ I said.
Seb chuckled, a hoarse, jerky laugh.
‘That’s what they all say. That’s what all the hopheads say. That’s what all the mind-blown, broken-down blood-fuckers say.’
He hid his face in his hands and shook. I was petrified. Fear had paralysed me, it was a poison dart in my back, couldn’t even smile.
Seb looked up.
‘But they never get there, you know. She’d been to Paris. Didn’t get any further. Had to go home to the canals.’
I threw up in the basin, the apple blood spurted out and sprayed my face. No one said anything. I didn’t have the energy to ask any more questions.
‘I never saw her again,’ Seb continued. ‘And then I came to Paris. Brought my harmonica and came to Paris.’
‘Where the hell have you been then? We’ve been searchin’ everywhere!’
Seb squeezed the cigarette out, burning his fingers without noticing.
‘This summer I’ve been to the cemetery,’ he said. ‘Père Lachaise.’
‘Eh? In a cemetery?’
‘By Jim’s grave.’
‘Jim?’
‘Jim Morrison.’
Then Seb went out like a light. We kept watch over him. He was as thin as a nail and rusty. Not eve
n the cockroaches noticed him. They crawled across the ceiling. And outside the sun rose through the blue Paris air.
I went to see Henny while Gunnar and Ola kept an eye on Seb. I was too tired and hungover to dread the meeting. I gave the note with the address to a taxi driver and he drove me to rue de la grande Chaumière in Montparnasse. I remembered another time when I was sitting in a taxi in a foreign city on my way to see a girl. I was composure itself. I was foolish enough to believe that after all that had happened, things could not get any worse.
I looked up and down the narrow street until I found the number, a big green door with glass and bars, and a marble slab on which was written in gold letters: Ateliers. Three baguettes had been left at the bottom of the door. But the door was locked and there was no name on it. Abutting the house was a little bookshop with art books and reproductions in the window. Inside some clod was looking out at me with curiosity. I entered, managed to stammer something about a Norwegian girl, pointed to the address on the paper and he beamed the broadest smile I have seen. His hands danced above his head and he kept nodding and jabbered away. It was all Greek to me, but I think he was asking if I was Norwegian, too. I said yes and he went even wilder. He started rummaging around in a crammed drawer and pulled out a card which he pushed into my hands. I looked at it and a blunt knife was turned round in my heart three times: Munch. Piken og døden. The girl and death. Then he led me outside, pressed the button for the second floor, opened the door and waved.
I dragged myself up to the second floor and rang the bell. It was a long time before anyone came, long enough time for me to have cleared off ages ago. But I was standing there when Henny opened up, semi-naked. Then she threw herself around my neck and dragged me inside, stepped back a bit and examined me carefully. She was a bit fatter, there was a softness about her, she was even more attractive.
‘Hope I didn’t wake you,’ I said.
‘Yes, you did,’ she laughed.
She stood studying me, in the huge room with the large window and several green plants winding across the walls and ceiling.
‘You’ve changed,’ she said.