‘And tomorrow we’ll go and see Ola!’
‘Exactly.’
But we didn’t leave the day after, we didn’t get our fingers out until mid-June, but then one warm morning we were standing on the Trondheim road with our thumbs aloft and our heads pretty fuzzy. Gunnar couldn’t join us, he was on an agitprop tour in Sørlandet. To compensate, he had furnished us with a pillowcase full of leaflets and folders.
‘Weird,’ I said to Seb. ‘Recently, time, the last six months, just seem to have flown by. Haven’t had time to put two thoughts together.’
‘That’s what it was like in Amsterdam when I was goin’ through the mill. Another time. You blinked with your right eye and a week had gone.’
‘Makes me bloody nervous! It’s like you’re losin’ control.’
‘Cool down now, Kim. We’re on holiday.’
Cars tore past us to the Sinsen intersection. The town lay wreathed in mist. The fjord was like a blue floor. Nesoddlandet was a green slope leading to the sky.
‘Sure we shouldn’t ring and say we’re on our way?’ I said.
‘Take it easy! There’d just be organisin’ and panic. The boy has a family! Don’t forget that.’
A throaty car skidded onto the pavement in front of us and a door flew open.
‘Hop in, lads! I’m on my way to work.’
We scrambled onto the back seat and the man had left the outskirts of Oslo before we closed the door.
‘Going to Trondheim, are you? Guessed as much. With you standing in Trondheimsveien. Ha ha. Met a bloke thumbing in Stavangergata, in the city centre, once. You’re lost, I said. Way off course.’
We laughed politely and he watched us in the mirror.
‘Did you get it?’ he asked.
We laughed even louder and the Brylcreemed fatty performed a wild overtaking manoeuvre, slinging the car between a bus and a trailer with a second to spare.
‘Usually comes off,’ he grinned, and Seb took out a big roll-up and we lit up.
‘Don’t know that tobacco, lads. New brand?’
‘Pakistani menthol,’ Seb said.
‘That’s what I keep saying. These foreign workers are sneaking in everywhere. What’s wrong with Teddy, lads? Tell me that! Can’t walk through town without bumping into a horde of bush men. I’ll tell you something, boys. I was in Lillesand last week and met an Arab who spoke with a perfect Sørland accent! What d’you think about that then? Can I have a try by the way?’
He leaned back and snatched the joint out of the air, sucked, inhaled and spluttered over the steering wheel. The car swerved into the left lane, he yelled and swung it back with a scream.
‘Tastes terrible,’ he coughed. ‘Menthol did you say? There you go! They call it menthol and it’s absolute shite. Donkey shit. I know all about that. And when we’re in the EEC, the dagoes will invade the country with their rubbish. What do you think the Espagnolos and the Eyeties know about soap and perfume and make-up? Nothing, boys. But they sell their crap cheap and ruin everything for us, the honest guys. It’ll be a disaster. All Norway will stink of sweat. Agreed?’
‘You a rep?’ I asked.
‘Hole in one. I make women more beautiful. Pedersen’s Pretty-bags. That’s me. Perfume, polish and powder. Plus, plus. That’s me. Got any more of those cigarettes by the way? Run out of baccy.’
Seb gave him a spliff, he puffed away, rolled down the window and whistled as he barrelled along at 120. Mjøsa lay to the left. The clock on the dashboard was going as fast as the speedometer. We approached the mountains. He rolled up the window. I looked at his face. It had turned black since we left Oslo. He groped around in the glove compartment for an electric shaver and it buzzed across his face.
‘My heat-seeking missile,’ he smirked. ‘That’s another thing women like. Especially the single ones. You get my meaning?’
Seb had fallen asleep. Pedersen’s eyes were popping out of his head. The road was his. He just hooted and cruised past if anyone was in his way. By a hair’s breadth. The hours and kilometres behind us mounted up. I watched Pedersen’s beard grow, I saw it, the black stubble sprouted out of his face and the machine droned across it as we zigzagged through Norway and hit Trondheim right in the navel coming to an abrupt halt. Seb awoke with a gasp.
‘Here we are, lads.’
We were in the middle of a bridge. Nidaros Cathedral cast its shadow over us.
We thanked him for the lift and opened the door. He stopped me with a smooth hand.
‘No one can say that Pedersen is tight-fisted,’ he slurred.
And then he produced two packets from the box on the front seat and gave them to us.
‘Pedersen’s Pretty-bags,’ he said. ‘There you are. You both look absolutely dreadful.’
We stood on the bridge over the river watching him drive away in the dusk. There was a smell of scorched Brylcreem. At the first crossroads there was a collision. The cop car came from the right and Pedersen accelerated. The uniforms surrounded the car and dragged out a ranting Pedersen.
‘Think we’d better scram,’ said Seb.
We did. We ran as far as a park. There we sat on a bench and opened our make-up bags. Seb had an attack of the giggles and started powdering his sallow face.
‘Have to glam ourselves up!’ he whinnied.
And we did look quite glamorous as we rang the Jensen family doorbell. Mascara, powder, lipstick, perfume and hairspray. Suddenly Ola was in the doorway, his mouth agape. We were men from the moon. We threw ourselves on him and he sank to the floor. He wrestled himself free and staggered back against the wall.
‘Who is it, Ola?’ we heard from the sitting room, must have been the wife.
Ola was unable to utter a word. We opened the door wide and there were three people sitting in the room with lamps and embroideries on the wall, coffee and cakes on the table. Their mouths dropped. They stiffened like statues over their coffee. Ola arrived behind us gesturing with his arms.
‘This is S-S-Seb and K-K-Kim from Oslo,’ he explained maniacally, pointing in all directions. ‘And this is K-K-Kirsten and her p-p-parents.’
‘Where’s Rikard?’ Seb screeched.
We shuffled into the bedroom and there lay a chubby body in a Moses basket. The moment I saw him, the pink sleeping head, I was as clear and transparent as glass and a diamond carved fear right through me.
‘He’s wonderful,’ I whispered. ‘Wow, he’s wonderful.’
I placed a finger on his forehead and Rikard began to scream. Kirsten charged over and lifted him up, rocked him quietly and gently. I couldn’t stop myself gulping. Ola stood there, proud and frightened and unsure what to do. Kisten unbuttoned her blouse and Rikard put out a hand for her breast.
‘Think we should go into the s-s-sittin’ room,’ Ola said in a low voice.
That was where things went downhill. Every time the mother or the father opened their mouths Seb howled with laughter. He sat bent double in his chair spluttering cake everywhere. The atmosphere was taut. Ola crushed a cup between his fingers. In the end, Seb was rolling around on the felt carpet, holding his stomach and laughing till the tears came, smudging the powder on his face. I wiped off the make-up and the sweat and Kirsten came back, her face hardened. Ola sat on the sofa like a mussel.
I felt obliged to give an explanation.
‘We’ve just come from a carnival,’ I smiled weakly. ‘At Oslo university. The semester’s over. That’s why we, that’s why we… are like this.’
Noticed all of a sudden that I couldn’t do it any more, that I was unable to lie. They didn’t believe me. I picked the guffawing Seb off the floor and dragged him to the door. Ola followed and we were alone in the hall.
‘Sorry,’ I said in a soft voice. ‘Sorry. Hope we haven’t ruined anythin’.’
‘Should have s-s-said you were comin’.’
Ola looked away.
‘I envy you,’ I said. ‘Baby and all that.’
‘What are you g-g-gonna do now?’
‘Go home. All the best from Gunnar.’
I gave him the pillowcase with the leaflets. Seb was vertical again and leaned over Ola.
‘Good thing you’re only stammerin’ again,’ he grinned. ‘Trondheim dialect really cracks me up! Ever heard an Arab speaking with a Sørland accent, have you?’
I shoved him into the stairwell and patted Ola.
‘Say hello to Rikard,’ I said. ‘In fifteen years’ time he’ll be playin’ the drums for The Snafus!’
Ola didn’t say anything, but his eyes spoke volumes. I pushed Seb down the stairs and heard a child crying as we stepped out into the sobering June night.
‘For Christ’s sake! Did you have to piss about when the in-laws were there!’
‘Couldn’t help it, Kim. It was too much for me.’
‘You twat!’ I shouted into his face. ‘You twat!’
There was nothing else for us to do in Trondheim. I had enough money to buy a ticket home. The train left at ten and we caught it.
‘Are you comin’ with me to see Stig?’ Seb asked, standing in the corridor and watching the lights whiz past like shooting stars.
‘Nope.’
‘Hell, you’re not angry with me, are you?’
I pressed my face against the window and felt it vibrate. I leaned harder. The jolts banged against my head.
‘Goin’ to Nesodden,’ I said.
Seb jumped off in Oppdal. I went on to Oslo. I saw Fred’s mother standing in the window. I had early morning dew in my eyes.
In Munchsgate the heat was unbearable. The town awoke like a listless lion. I was broke. I couldn’t even afford the Nesodden ferry. I lay on the mattress thinking things through. Later I went out. The sun was high in the sky. Up the street, outside the bakery, a few young shavers were playing football. I ran over to them and latched onto the ball intending to show them some tricks. They were annoyed and dribbled circles round me and shouted at me. I slouched off. I had to get some cash before I could go anywhere. I had a plan. I ambled back to Svolder and let myself in. The smell of holiday. Curtains filtering the light. The dust. Rugs over furniture. I collected all my Beatles LPs, put them in a bag and hurried out. The street was empty. A wind blew sand past me. A gull screamed behind me. I went down to the shop in Skippergata and showed the greedy old hag what I had to offer. With bony fingers, she pulled out the discs, squinted at them and blew.
‘They’re worn,’ she whispered. ‘Scratches. Stains.’
I didn’t answer.
‘Ninety kroner,’ she snapped.
She already had the money in her hand. I took the notes and ran out, stopped for a few seconds, hours, then I walked up Karl Johan. My conscience began to prick. I had sold myself. There was a table free at Sara. I ordered a beer, rolled two tenners together and stuffed them in my back pocket so that I would be sure to be able to get on the boat. I didn’t need to go until the evening. I scanned the restaurant for familiar faces. I finished my beer and went back into Karl Johan. People streamed towards me like slanting, toppling columns, dressed in black in the heat, with white dusty faces. I reached Studenterlunden Park. Someone put a leaflet in my hands. It was Peder with Slippery Leif. HAVE YOU SAID NO TO THE EEC? read a big poster. I threw the paper away and ran on, then came to an abrupt halt. They were all sitting together on the yellow benches under the trees with the green light casting its rays over them like silent rain. My guts rose into my mouth. There was Nina with a syringe in her arm. There was Fred, dripping wet, thinner than ever. There was Dragon with his imploded face and the bleeding remains of a devoured arm. And Jørgen, fat, thinning hair, with a blue cut down his cheek and lifeless eyes. I ran as fast as I could. I heard a car slam on the brakes. The park was deserted. I knelt down in the grass and threw up. The palace was being redecorated. Scaffolding. I sat in the shadow of a tree. A guardsman woke me up and told me to clear off. I walked slowly back down to Karl Johan. No one was sitting on the benches. The green light had turned darker. The parasols at Pernille looked like over-sized amanita mushrooms. Then they came towards me again, the crowds, slanting, toppling columns. I turned on the spot, sprinted towards Club 7. Closed. I had to go down to the harbour. The clocks on the City Hall tower struck. I walked across the concrete graveyard, stopped, looked around, noticed the sky. I remembered the old Vika district and felt a sudden steel-like spasm in my back. I screamed, I screamed, it was the scream I had been waiting for, it had returned, I screamed, and the windows around me broke, I stood in an avalanche of glass, and in every shard I saw the gleam of a red sunset.
Love Me Do
Summer/autumn ’72
I awoke slowly from a pain searing up my arm and settling in my chest. A woman in white laid a cloth on my forehead. Further back was another woman who resembled my mother. She came towards me, stooped over my bed.
‘Does it hurt, Kim?’ I heard weakly.
‘Where am I?’
The woman in white raised my hand with care and placed it over the duvet. That was where the pains were coming from. Bandages. Mum was still there.
‘What happened?’ I whispered.
‘You smashed a shop window,’ she said softly. ‘They had to stitch you up at casualty.’
I was given a glass of water. The nurse supported my head with a strong yet gentle hand.
The room was small with bare, light green walls. Some clothes hung in a wardrobe by the door. My tweed jacket. Confirmation suit.
I looked at my mother.
‘Where am I?’
She turned away.
‘Gaustad.’
I smelt turpentine and went back to sleep.
The next time I awoke several people were there, Dad had come, Mum, the woman in white, and a small, dark man sitting on a chair by my bed. He held his hand inside his jacket, his face came closer, burning eyes, glistening black hair. It was Napoleon. I screamed. I heard lots of voices and Mum stood over me telling me fairy tales. The doctor took my pulse and the woman in white brought me a glass. Dad stood with his back to me. Think the sun was shining through the window. I heard a bird.
‘Why am I here?’
‘Now you just rest, Kim,’ the small man said. ‘You’re here to rest and we’ll help you, all of us. Do you understand?’
There was something else. I could feel it, there was something about my head. They had done something to my head. I felt with my good hand. Bald as a coot. Smooth. Noticed the bump where the skull had healed.
‘What’ve you done to me?’ I shouted. ‘What’ve you done to me?’
‘We’ll talk to you later, Kim,’ said the small doctor. ‘You’re too tired now.’
The nurse rolled up my sleeve and the people disappeared. I was tiny and sat in a keyhole. On one side of the door it was pitch black. On the other, a white sun moved across the floor.
I heard the sound of keys.
Mum was with me almost every day. My hair would not grow. Asked her to bring me a hat. The cold corridor outside the room. The footsteps. The canteen with all the grey faces and the revolting, tasteless meals. I couldn’t eat. Pills in the morning. And in the evening. The visitors’ room with the old radio, the magazines and the tin ashtray. The visitors sitting stiffly clutching their terror and disgust. Someone running amok. The solitary confinement. The muffled screams. A boy who threw himself out of the window. And lay bleeding on the brown earth. The bathtubs, the green chipped enamel. Getting undressed while people in white ran the water and made jokes. Standing there, an emaciated carcass, a laughing stock. Refused to remove my woollen hat. Refused point blank. They had a good laugh. I was not allowed to lock the toilet door. The door to my room was locked from the outside. The view: a dark spruce forest nearby. The other side: the main building. Straight ahead, over the fence and across the road: a field and a clearing, green, open, sun-dappled.
Mum: ‘How’s it going, Kim?’
I looked at her. She had braced herself. I couldn’t detect any weakness in her eyes.
‘Do you talk to Dr Vang
?’ she went on.
Napoleon. I called him Nap. In my cremated mind. I had to go up to his office in the other wing every third day.
‘How do you like it here?’ he always asked, as if it were some tourists’ hotel in the mountains.
Never answered.
He soon lost his patience. A hyper little man.
‘You’re not very cooperative, Karlsen,’ he said with a smile. ‘You don’t even talk to your mother.’
I became more and more convinced that he wore a wig. It lay flat on his head and the parting was one woolly line.
He was always the first to get up.
Didn’t dare say anything. Couldn’t lie any more.
The nurses were decent enough. They discussed the EEC and one of the oldest nutters stood on a chair and screamed that the EEC was the beast in the Book of Revelation, the Treaty of Rome was the work of the Antichrist and the winds of doomsday were already blowing around our ears. What a palaver there was. For the most part I stayed in my room. It was quiet there. I looked out of the window. Summer. Had only one thought: Will I be here for ever? Didn’t know why I was there.
Sometimes I watched TV. The clock. The white second hand going round. If I closed my eyes and had a daydream, I timed the dream, and when I opened my eyes, only half a minute had passed, and I could swear I had been sitting there for several hours. A nutcase who played patience the whole day, of all things, the Idiot, could never finish a game, he sidled up to me.
‘Don’t let the TV fool you,’ he whispered, shuffling the cards quickly and nervously peering round. ‘Have you seen the sports programme? When they replay the goal? The goalkeepers always save it then. In the replay!’
Went to my room. Night always came without my noticing. The line between sleep and day was slowly eroded by a remorselessly conscientious nurse.
Mum: ‘Why don’t you say anything, Kim? We were able to talk together before.’
‘Were we?’
This was hard to take, she tensed the muscles in her face, but in her eyes there was no weakness, only sorrow.