‘What are you up to now?’ I asked.
‘Political science. And you?’
‘Goin’ to try to bag the prelim. Might start studyin’ in Reykjavik by the way. Geology.’
‘You can borrow my philosophy notes,’ Merete offered.
‘That’s very kind of you.’
Then we went to bed. Shortly afterwards five alarm clocks went off. I was a student.
And so the winter passed. I sat in Gunnar’s room reading while he was at university. Merete had weighed me down with folders and I sat taking notes from notes with an alert mind, counting lines and jotting down the time of the day in the margin. I made spaghetti and washed and scrubbed. Everything went well. The only thing I didn’t like was the view. Above Sognsveien, behind the allotments, across the green forest dotted with white I could see the spire of Gaustad and the tall chimney.
I drew the curtains.
One day news came from Trondheim. Ola had a son and they were going to call him Rikard. We thought that was very moving and had to nip down to the restaurant to crack open a bottle, even though it was the middle of the week. Usually we went to Samfunnet in Chateau Neuf on Saturdays and I could never enter the bunker without thinking about straps and blushing at the thought. I sat at the back, at the top, with a beer, and could feel the weight of the concert grand while the political speakers murdered each other on the rostrum. Afterwards we crunched home on the snow through the cold of the night via Tørtberg, Gunnar, Merete and I, Gunnar talked about the debate, reviling the anarchists, he talked all the way, past Blindern, we crossed Ringveien, he talked about his brother who lived in the agricultural collective in Gudbrandsdalen, they refused to use a tractor, it polluted the potatoes, a sidetrack from the workers’ struggle, Gunnar said with contempt, he talked about the referendum in September, said that Bratteli had already dropped a clanger, Gunnar disappeared in a cloud of icy breath, talking about impatience, the revolution, Gunnar and Merete, I felt a little left out, a gooseberry, a spanner in the works.
On nights like this I usually borrowed Gunnar’s bed. And on Sundays I went to see my mother and father, if I had time and didn’t have to study, shovelled down a hamburger and was off. They had a colour TV and watched Ashton, talked only about Ashton, even my father was wondering how Ashton was getting on. I took my leave after watching two minutes of the lurid faces. They didn’t seem to notice that I had gone. I slammed the door. On occasion I walked down to Munchsgate, but then changed my mind, dithered for a while and slogged all the way back to Sogn, slowly.
Everything went fine. I read Merete’s notes and took more notes, got through the syllabus, put money in the kitty and hid from the housekeeper. The only thing I didn’t like was the view. The spire. The chimney.
Drew the curtains.
Winter thawed, Easter, the world melted. Something was up with Gunnar. He was beating round the bush. I was the bush. Him and Merete. They had meetings, people came, one by one, left later that evening, one by one. Gunnar didn’t ask if I wanted to take part, didn’t even breathe a word about it. But he was thinking about something, about giving me another chance. It came on the day before May 1.
‘Comin’ to the workers’ party tonight?’ he asked.
‘Party?’
‘We’re goin’ to do a bit of hammerin’ and paintin’ for tomorrow. And knock back a few beers. West Oslo.’
‘Don’t know if I’ll have time. Got to read a few chapters.’
It took him ten seconds to persuade me. And at seven o’clock we turned up at the house in Ekely equipped with wooden boards and paintbrushes. Work was already under way. The various sections had each occupied a room. Gunnar and Merete disappeared into the cellar, I was left standing in the third world. A girl gave me a hammer and I banged. Later there was stew and beer. I could feel it inside, I was being sucked along by the mood, the optimism, the community, the devilry, the fight, the glow, the happiness, there was a sudden rush to my head, I felt it, I was being dragged along, I think my face was shining, for Gunnar and Merete were laughing at me. A guy was standing on a crate of beer and reading Brecht’s Questions From A Worker Who Reads, a girl strummed a chord and everyone sang ‘Move Aside, EEC, You’re Standing In The Sun’. The walls swelled, my heart was under a ridge of high pressure, the roof rose, the heat, the solidarity, I must have lost control, I clambered onto a table and the gathering fell hush.
‘Comrades!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve just been to Iceland and bring greetings from our comrades there. The people are fighting against the American base, brainwashing and suppression. The reactionary government has dropped its mask! They kowtow to the USA and have committed Iceland to worldwide American imperialism. They are making Iceland dependent on the USA, they’re forcing Icelandic workers to work for the Americans, but the fight has only just begun! And it is the same fight we are taking to the EEC! One day I went into the countryside and met a farmer called Gisle. He read to me from Das Kapital and asked me to pass on his greetings to the Norwegian nation. Our struggle is their struggle. Their struggle is our struggle!’
I almost fainted. Sweat was pouring off me, then the cheering broke out, I fell off the table and was met by pats and embraces, soft cheeks and clenched fists.
It was past midnight when the paste group had finished stirring five buckets of flour and water. The placards were covered in glue and rolled in newspapers, and the company was divided into nine pairs to cover West Oslo. I was entrusted with Skillebekk and district, a dangerous area, crawling with cop cars circling embassies, it needed someone with local knowledge. Gunnar sent me an appreciative nod, and together with a little red-haired number I set out into the May night with five bags of No To Selling Norway. We cycled past Hoff and up to Bygdøy Allé, parked our bikes by Thomas Heftyesgate and continued on foot.
‘Where shall we begin?’ asked Little Red Riding Hood.
I stopped outside Bonus.
‘Here,’ I said.
I unfurled the placards and plastered the windows. It was a terrible mess. I had paste all over me. But it looked impressive when I had finished. There was no room for advertising any offers. It would take years to scrape them off.
‘We can’t stick them all here,’ Red Riding Hood whispered.
‘Right,’ I said.
We worked our way down towards Skillebekk, from lamp post to lamp post, Red Riding Hood was calculating and systematic. We crossed Drammensveien, Red Riding Hood wanted to head for the Russian embassy, I managed to point her towards Svolder. There, I pasted every lamp post and gateway, my flesh tingled when I saw Dad’s Saab. Then we made our way back to the tramlines.
‘Important area,’ I whispered to Red Riding Hood. ‘A lot of floatin’ voters. I know that. Grew up here.’
‘The petite bourgeoisie are a stubborn lot,’ she said.
We had three bags left and pasted our way out of Drammensveien. Red Riding Hood had the knack. She could stick the placards without spilling a drop. I looked like a tube of Karlsen’s glue. But all went well. Up to the moment we saw the cop car gliding down Fredrik Stangsgate to bear left.
Red Riding Hood took command.
‘Let’s split up!’ she shouted and was gone, like a red wind.
I swivelled and ran, dragging the bags after me, hurtled up Gabelsgate, felt the sour breath of the law on my neck and panicked. My legs were like wheels beneath me. Sirens. The scream of tyres on a bend. I shot into a backyard, jumped over a fence and was in the country. The brown grass was wet. Pale green trees in the cool darkness. The storehouse on pillars. The stable. I heard brakes and reversing and car doors being slammed. I had no choice. I groped my way towards the air-raid shelter and crept down, not completely, halfway, sat on the steps. I heard voices. I listened for dogs and held my breath. Don’t know how long I had been sitting there. I heard nothing, just my own staccato pulse. The steps were cold and dark. I thought I could see eyes down there, at the bottom in the dark. I couldn’t stand up. I was sitting in a quagmire of glue and placar
ds and newspapers. I thought I saw something move. I thought I heard the sound of a gate locking. I shouted. My voice zigzagged between the musty walls as if there were a line of people screaming back at me. I shouted, I summoned all the powers, I shouted to the badger and Mao, to Jesus and Marx, to Lenin and Mum and Dad, I shouted in terror, sitting in the glue, but it was not a prayer, it was not a prayer.
It was early morning when I reached Sogn. Gunnar and Merete were sitting up waiting for me, they had set the table for a big breakfast in the hall. They were ecstatic, thought I had been chucked into the clink and was being given the third degree. Then they started laughing. And when I saw myself in the mirror I understood why. I was a mobile advertising pillar. The others were woken by the laughter and the history student said I looked like a cubist collage-sculpture and wanted to enter me for the Autumn Exhibition. I took off my rags and put on the only clean clothes I had left. Then I packed my gym bag and carried my books under my arm.
‘I’m off,’ I said.
‘Aren’t you stayin’ for breakfast?’
‘Don’t think so.’
The table was covered with red flags and the Norwegian flag.
‘Great speech you gave about Iceland,’ said Merete.
Gunnar came over to me.
‘See you soon,’ he said. ‘Good luck with the exam!’
Then he shook my hand.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ I said.
He gave me a strange look. Then he understood. Our hands were glued together. We pulled and pulled, we tugged from all angles, but it didn’t help.
‘Good glue they make in West Oslo,’ Gunnar grinned, and we had to put our hands under the tap.
Then I left Sogn’s student village. It was spring and a gentle fragrance of perfume wafted through the air. Large red flags hung from windows and there was music everywhere.
It was all change at Seb’s again. It took him three quarters of an hour to crawl from mattress to door, and there he stood, swaying, two metres of stained underpants and pigeon breast. I was relieved.
‘Right bloody time to come visitin’!’
We stepped inside and Seb wrenched the window open. There weren’t any green plants on the sill any longer. Pyjamas were hanging out to dry.
‘Where’s Guri?’
He dropped onto the mattress and lit up.
‘She’s gone and left me,’ Seb said in English with a sigh.
‘Looked pretty lovey-dovey last time I was here.’
‘Exactly, hawkeye. Remember the botanical garden I had on the windowsill, do you? Well, Guri thought it was hyacinths and bulbs and stuff, but then one day she found out it was hardy cannabis from the high plains. Got ’em off a guy in the park at Christmas. She took the whole crop with her and slung her hook.’
‘You were growin’ hash on your windowsill?’
‘Course. Had the oil-fired central heating on full blast and was just waitin’ for the spring sun. South-facin’ window. Greenhouse conditions, Kim.’
‘You’re out of your mind.’
‘Bloody hell, Kim. People brew their own moonshine, don’t they?’
He put on some water for coffee, gave me his smoke and burrowed down into a pile of clothing.
‘Have you moved out of Sogn or what?’ I heard.
‘Yep. Too much naggin’. Thought I might stay here and study for my exams.’
He reappeared with frayed denim jeans and a faded sweater.
‘Don’t think much of this exam trip of yours, Kim. Your eyes are like two slits! But stay here. As long as you like.’
We drank instant coffee. It tasted of fungus.
‘Have you got anythin’ to drink?’ I asked.
‘Good idea, professor. Let’s go and see Grandma. She’s got a cellar full of booze from Grandpa.’
She lived by Sankthanshaugen and was eating breakfast when we arrived. There was a smell of toast and marmalade. She gave us both a hug and wanted to open a can of Norway-famous snurring when she saw how thin he had become, but Seb went straight to the heart of the matter.
‘Could we borrow a few bottles of juice from you, Grandma? It’s May 1 and the shops are closed.’
She sent him a sceptical look, winked with one wrinkled eyelid and fetched the cellar key.
‘Don’t take much of the blackcurrant juice, boys, because there’s only a little left.’
It was dog eat dog. We trundled down and opened her storeroom. The long wall was covered in bottles, each in their own slot.
‘Grandpa was a collector, and Grandma drinks ’em,’ Seb grinned. ‘Fair deal. She won’t be able to knock all this back before she dies.’
We took ten bottles of white wine and an excellent cognac with us. Grandma gave us a few general warnings when we returned the key, but she could rely on us, we wouldn’t spill a drop. And then we made our way back, past the Cathedral School and Vår Frelsers cemetery, and people were in the streets. The janissary bands could be heard round the corner and we speeded up. At the Experimental School it was all go, banners hanging from the windows and carnival atmosphere. We pressed down a cork and treated the midgets and the religion teacher to a sip. Then we padded home and put the provisions in the freezer.
We started on the cognac to ensure a solid base.
‘You goin’ to the procession?’ I asked.
‘Nope. Been thrown out before. I’m goin’ to Hjelmsgate.’
‘D’you know how Nina is?’ I asked quickly.
‘Think she’s gettin’ better. But she was well gone. Worse than me.’
‘She made it to Afghanistan,’ I said softly.
‘She did.’
We opened a bottle of chilled white and the town beneath us was in ferment.
‘Dad’s back home,’ Seb said. ‘He’s stayin’ with my mum.’
We shut up for a while, mulling things over.
‘Heard anythin’ from Ola?’ I asked.
Seb grinned and lay down flat.
‘Rikard’s growin’. Was born three weeks late, you know. Had a fringe and front teeth when he finally arrived!’
We smiled at that for a while and dived into the wine.
‘Have to visit him,’ I said. ‘Hell, let’s go to Trondheim. After the exams!’
‘Terrific idea! We’ll surprise the Jensen family with a lightnin’ raid from the urban guerrillas!’
We drank to it and opened another bottle.
‘What the hell are you learnin’ at that dated university, eh?’
‘That we’ve got to the oral phase. Talkin’ and drinkin’.’
All of a sudden I was utterly exhausted. Seb faded in the mists and my brain ceased to exist. He bent forward and shook me.
‘Comrade Kim! We’re hittin’ the town!’
‘Don’t think I can be bothered,’ I mumbled.
And that was the last thing I can remember before he returned and it was a new day.
He dragged me out of my slumbers.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve been asleep since I last saw you!’
I didn’t know where I was, I was everywhere, in all the rooms I knew of, and people were sitting in each of them trying to wake me. At last I caught sight of Seb.
‘Somethin’ happened?’ I mumbled.
‘The whole town was out, Kim! Standing room only! We set up darts games in the university square. With Stalin as the target! There was a real buzz in the atmosphere.’
He stretched out on the mattress as I was getting to my feet.
‘Met Stig by the way. We’re invited to the farm. When are we goin’?’
‘After the exams.’
‘You’re completely hooked on that dope, aren’t you!’
Then it was Seb’s turn to sleep, and I sat down to do some studying. It was a good arrangement. We were never in the same rhythm. When I was asleep Seb was busy somewhere in and around Oslo. When he was asleep, I was sitting over my books and one morning in the middle of May it was finally exam time. My nerves were as calm as Mum’s balls o
f wool and my brain was on full alert. Seb walked in the door with nine bottles of wine he had picked up at his grandmother’s, wished me luck and passed out on the mattress. I wandered through the weightless rain to Blindern, found the gym hall and took my seat by the wall bars. Around me sat groups of fringes with knotted brows. I was Buddha. I was the wind and the sea. I laid newly sharpened pencils, rubbers and biros in front of me. I knew everything by heart, had it all at my fingertips, apart from one, the crooked finger, the ugly one, that was my only gap. Then a door slammed, an ill wind ran through the room, and the superannuated teachers distributed the exam questions. But before I managed to read them, another old man came up demanding to see my student card. He took it. I read on. It looked easy. It looked ridiculously easy. No pencil necessary here. I grabbed my biro and felt a hand on my shoulder.
‘Your name’s not on the list,’ the man whispered in my ear.
‘Which list?’
‘The exam list. Did you register?’
‘Register?’
I had to accompany him to the invigilator at the desk. There the matter was quickly and ruthlessly clarified. I had not registered for the exam. They regretted to inform me. Kim Karlsen was obliged to capitulate after four minutes. Everyone stared at me. I couldn’t be bothered to collect my pencils. I went to Frederikke and bought myself a beer. It was the finger’s fault. I hated the finger, banged it on the table, felt like stamping on it, chewing it to bits, tearing it off. Three girls in the corner were watching me. I scurried out, ran down to Munchsgate and woke up Seb.
‘How did it go?’ he gurgled.
‘Got chucked out. Had forgotten to register.’
He stumbled to his feet with a grin splitting his face.
‘Nice one, Kim. Nice one. The best thing that could’ve happened. This has to be celebrated!’ He pulled the white wine out of the fridge and filled half-litre glasses.
‘Afterwards we’ll go to the harbour and buy shrimps and lie under the trees in Akershus. Does that sound good or what, Kim?’