Read The Ringmaster's Daughter Page 3

was nothing more than a minor key variation of a Russian

  folk melody. I also suspected Chaplin of stealing some

  musical ideas from Puccini, who was capable of being just

  as melodramatic. But it was all to the good that Chaplin had

  found inspiration in other composers, because I loved both

  Tchaikovsky and Puccini, and so did my mother. We went

  to the opera and saw Madam Butterfly. I tried not to cry, but

  it wasn't easy. My throat didn't choke with sobs because

  Pinkerton leaves Madam Butterfly, or because she kills

  herself in the end ? I knew she was going to do that from

  the start of act two. It was the music that had me fighting

  back the tears, right from the moment in the first act when

  Madam Butterfly comes over the crest of the hill with the

  great choir of women. I was only twelve at the time, but the

  picture of all those women with their colourful parasols

  singing on the path up from Nagasaki, haunts me still.

  At home we played La Boheme with Jussi Bj?rling and

  Victoria de los Angeles on the gramophone, and my mother

  always began sniffling when Musetta drags in the sick Mimi

  in act four. Then I'd go into another room, leaving the door

  open behind me. Not because I wanted to hear my mother

  crying, but because I was listening to the music. And then I

  could shed some tears of delight, too.

  Before I'd seen Chaplin's Limelight, Puccini and Tchai-

  kovsky were the only real geniuses I'd encountered. When I

  was at home by myself, I would play the final movement of

  the Symphonic Pathetique. It would have been very embarrass-

  ing if my mother had found me out. I was big enough to

  like capers, but even I had to admit that I was a bit young to

  be in raptures over classical music. I tried to play the music at

  full volume whilst keeping an ear out for my mother on the

  stairs. Sometimes the little man would stand by the front

  door and listen for footsteps down in the lobby.

  I had read about Tchaikovsky in the encyclopaedia. He

  had died of cholera just a few days after he'd given the

  first performance of the Symphonic Pathetique. His life's work

  was complete. After the first performance of the Symphonic

  Pathetique he no longer bothered to sterilise his drinking

  water. He'd written his own requiem, and now he had no

  more tunes left inside him. He was finished with this world.

  I, too, felt rather finished with the world when the last

  chords of the Symphonic Pathetique faded away.

  Death was something my mother and I never talked

  about. I never talked to her about girls either. I was just as

  careful to conceal a Playboy magazine as I'd been to cover up

  listening to the Symphonic Pathetique.

  I was only seven when we saw East of Eden with James Dean

  as Cal. My mother almost broke down at the end of the film

  when Cal's girlfriend has to beg his father to love him. 'It

  hurts not to be loved,' she said. 'It makes people evil. Show

  him that you love him. Try! Please!'

  Cal's father hated his son because he thought the boy had

  taken his mother's part when she'd left her husband and

  children and become a steely brothel-keeper. Before he died

  he did manage a reconciliation with his son. He told him to

  send the nurse away. 'I want you to look after me,' he said. It

  was the same as saying that he loved his son.

  My mother found it hard to speak about that film. I

  realised she was the one who'd told my father to move out.

  That wasn't normal in those days. It was rare for a mother

  with a small child to throw the father out of their flat.

  As I was going to bed that evening, she suggested we ask

  my father to Sunday lunch. It was all right by me, but

  nothing came of it, and I wasn't going to nag her into

  picking up the phone and inviting him.

  I had certain vague, almost dreamlike impressions of

  things that had happened in the flat before my father left. It

  is possible to remember the atmosphere of a dream without

  actually being able to break the dream itself. I knew there

  was something cold and hard that I was trying to repress, and

  so well did I consign it to oblivion that I could no longer

  remember what it was I was trying to forget.

  The only thing I recalled about that time was some

  mysterious things I'd dreamt about a man who was exactly

  my height, but who was nevertheless a real, grown-up man

  with a hat and a stick and that, suddenly one morning, he'd

  appeared in the flat in broad daylight. He'd moved into our

  flat around the same time my father moved out.

  I imagined that perhaps there was someone out in

  dreamland who was missing him. Possibly the little man

  had left his wife and children too, or perhaps he'd been

  kicked out of the fairy tale where he belonged because he'd

  misbehaved. But it was also feasible that he commuted

  between two realities. I wondered whether the little man

  sneaked back to dreamland during the night while I was

  asleep. That wouldn't be so strange, because I certainly went

  there when I slept. The really odd thing was that the little

  fellow was capable of swaggering about the flat in the middle

  of the day.

  *

  I was the only person in my class with divorced parents. But

  the father of one of the girls was a communist, and Hans

  Olav's dad had been in prison.

  Having divorced parents wasn't a problem. I preferred

  being with them one at a time. I also think I got better

  Christmas presents from my mother and father than other

  children got from their parents. I always got two presents.

  My mother and father couldn't even co-operate over gifts.

  On the contrary, I think they vied to give me the nicer

  present. They never gave anything to each other.

  My father took me to watch skating heats and ski-

  jumping. He was an expert on lap times and form ratings.

  It's not his fault I've turned out the way I have. We went to

  Holmenkollen to watch the three ski-jumping Ts: Toralf

  Engan, Torbjorn Yggeseth and Torgeir Brandtzasg. They

  jumped before Wirkola, the supreme champion. That was

  easy. Jumping before Wirkola wasn't difficult.

  When I was eight, my father and I took the boat to

  Copenhagen. We only spent one night there, but that even-

  ing we went to the Tivoli Gardens. I thought I'd been to an

  amusement park before, but the Tivoli in Copenhagen was

  worlds away from 'Ivar's Tivoli' in Oslo. I felt like a tourist

  from some Third World country. What must Danish

  children think of us Norwegians when they go to 'Ivar's

  Tivoli' in Oslo, I wondered in horror and dismay.

  My father was in high spirits. I think he was feeling rather

  proud of himself for getting me out of the country and a safe

  distance away from my mother. On the ship he'd said in a

  man-to-man sort of way that a few days to herself would do

  my mother the world of good. It wasn't true, I felt sure she

  wanted to come to Copenhagen with me, but it had

&n
bsp; obviously been out of the question once my father had

  proposed that he and I should go. I think my father knew

  that I'd really rather have gone to the Tivoli Gardens with

  my mother. Then my mother and I could have strolled

  amongst the crowds and gossiped about the things we saw

  and thought. My mother and I often had identical notions.

  Or we could have gone to a caf? and had a nice chat.

  My father's trouser pockets were full of Danish money

  and he wanted us to ride the dodgems and the ghost train,

  the merry-go-round and the big dipper, the Ferris wheel

  and the tunnel of love. I was only eight, but I was acutely

  aware of the embarrassment of having to do the tunnel of

  love with my father, bad breath and all. It was awful being

  jammed in a little boat with him, listening to artificial

  birdsong in a tunnel full of paper flowers and pastel shades.

  I think my father felt pretty pained as well, because he didn't

  utter a word. I was scared he might suddenly put his arm

  around me and say something like: 'Isn't this lovely, son?

  Don't you think so, Petter?' The worst thing of all was that I

  felt convinced it was just what he wanted to do, only he

  didn't dare put his arm round my shoulders because he knew

  I wouldn't like it. Perhaps that was why neither of us spoke.

  It was mainly for my father's sake that I went on all the

  rides. I was more interested in going round looking at

  everything the Tivoli Gardens contained. I'd made up my

  mind to note every detail, right down to each little tombola

  and hot-dog stand. From the very first instant I'd known

  that this visit would entail a lot of work when I got back, I'd

  been seriously inspired. I walked around thinking that soon

  I'd be going home to create the world's finest amusement

  park. This was after I'd given up drawing, so I had to make

  an effort to remember exactly how everything was. In the

  end I succeeded in forming a detailed picture of Copen-

  hagen's Tivoli Gardens, but I had to draw it in my head, I

  had to get it all off pat. It wasn't easy to concentrate, because

  now and then I had to look up at my father and say

  something to him too ? he mustn't think I was moping.

  Just before we left, I won a soft toy in the shape of a red

  tiger. I gave it to a little girl who was crying. My father

  thought I was being kind, he didn't realise that I wasn't

  interested in red, cuddly tigers. If my mother had seen me

  win such a thing, she'd have given one of her characteristic

  peals of laughter.

  Even before our visit to the Gardens had come to an end,

  I'd mentally constructed a ghost train with everything from

  dangling skeletons to ghosts and monsters. But I'd also

  positioned a real live man in the middle of my tunnel, a

  perfectly ordinary man in a hat and coat, who might, for

  instance, be eating a carrot. I imagined that the people riding

  the ghost train would give an extra, ear-piercing scream

  when they suddenly caught sight of a real person in the

  tunnel.

  In certain situations the sight of a live person can be as

  scary as that of a ghost, especially in a ghost tunnel. Ghosts

  inhabit the imagination, and if something real enters the

  imagination, it can seem almost as eerie as if some fantasy

  figure had suddenly loomed up in real life.

  I was truly frightened the first time I saw that little man

  with his bamboo stick outside the confines of a dream, but

  the novelty soon wore off. If elves and trolls began to stream

  out of the woods all of a sudden, we'd naturally be alarmed,

  but sooner or later we would get used to them. We'd have

  to.

  Once I dreamt I'd found a purse containing four silver

  dollars. I'd have been pretty shaken if I'd woken up and

  found myself holding that same purse in my hand. I'd have

  had to try to convince myself that I was still asleep, and then

  make another attempt to wake up.

  We think we're awake even when we're dreaming, but

  we know we're awake when we're not sleeping. I had a

  theory that the little man with the walking-stick lay sleeping

  somewhere in dreamland and only dreamt that he inhabited

  reality. Even at the time of my visit to the Tivoli Gardens I

  was a good bit taller than him. I'd begun to call him Metre

  Man because he was only a metre tall.

  I said nothing about these new rides to my father; I wasn't

  trying to complain. Perhaps it was a bit unfair that the result

  of all this inspiration was to blossom in my mother's vicinity:

  she became more and more jealous because my father was

  the one who'd taken me to Copenhagen. 'You've got

  amusement parks on the brain,' she said a few days after I

  got home. I observed that perhaps that was because I'd been

  a huge tivoli in a previous life. My mother laughed. 'You

  mean you worked in a huge tivoli in a previous life,' she

  said. I shook my head and emphasised that I'd actually been

  an entire amusement park.

  *

  I took plenty of punishment as a child. It was never my

  father who hit me, or my mother.

  I reckoned that the reason I never got smacked by them,

  was that they were divorced. Because they didn't share the

  same house they could never agree about when I deserved

  punishment. My mother was only too painfully aware that if

  she were hard on me, my father would be the first to hear

  about it. Sometimes I'd ring my father and ask if I could stay

  up an hour or two longer than my mother had decreed. He

  always supported me when he glimpsed an opportunity of

  making me happy and my mother cross at the same time,

  thus completing his satisfaction. And when I needed more

  money than my mother was willing to give me, I would also

  ring my father. My father was never angry. He only saw me

  once a week. We agreed this was enough.

  It was the boys at school who beat me up, and that wasn't

  much to boast about, because I wasn't big or strong. They

  called me Little Petter Spider. When I'd been younger, my

  father and I had visited the Geological Museum and we'd

  seen a piece of amber with a spider, millions of years old,

  embedded in it, and I'd mentioned this spider at school on

  one occasion. We'd been learning about electricity and I

  informed the class that the word 'electricity' was derived

  from the Greek word for 'amber'. From then on I was

  known only as Little Petter Spider.

  Though small in stature, I had a big mouth. That was why

  I got beaten up. I was especially glib when there were adults

  close by or when I was just about to hop on a bus or lock

  myself into the flats. I could get so carried away at moments

  like these that I never gave a thought to the following day. I

  wasn't good at what is now called forward-planning, I never

  took the trouble to make a risk assessment. I would come

  face to face with the boys again, of course, and when I did

  there wasn't always a grown-up about.

  I was much more s
kilful with words than my peers, and

  better at telling stories too. I found it easier to express myself

  than many of the pupils who were three and four classes

  above me. This brought me many a bruise. There was too

  little emphasis on freedom of speech in those days. We'd

  learnt about human rights at school, but we were never

  reminded that freedom of speech applies just as much to

  children and amongst children.

  On one occasion, Ragnar sent me hurtling into a drying

  rack so hard that it cut my head open. As soon as I began to

  bleed I found the courage to say a whole lot of things I'd

  otherwise have kept to myself. I dished up some startling

  home truths about Ragnar's family - for example, that his

  father was always getting drunk with down-and-outs ? and

  Ragnar didn't retaliate now. He could at least have

  answered my accusations, but Ragnar wasn't much good at

  talking, he just stood there and stared at me bleeding. So I

  called him a cowardy custard who didn't dare shut me up

  because everything I said was true. I claimed to have once

  seen him devouring dog turds. Next, I said that his mother

  had to wash him on a big changing mat in the living-room

  because he pissed and shitted in his trousers. Everyone knew

  his mother bought nappies at the shop, I observed. She

  bought so many she got a discount. Blood was pouring from

  my head. Four or five boys stood watching me solemnly.

  My hand told me that my hair was all wet. I felt cold. I said

  that the whole street knew that Ragnar's father was a

  country bumpkin. I also knew, I said, why he'd moved to

  the city. It was a secret that even Ragnar might not be privy

  to, but one that I would willingly divulge now. Ragnar's

  father had to move to Oslo because he'd been arrested by

  the police, and the reason he'd been arrested was that he'd

  been screwing sheep. He screwed them so much that many

  of the sheep got ill, I said. They got screwing sickness, acute

  screwing sickness, and one of the sheep had even died of it.

  That sort of thing's not too popular, I revealed, not even

  north of Oslo. After this last piece of information they all ran

  off. I wasn't quite sure if this was due to the sheep north of

  Oslo or the blood pouring from my head. But now there

  was a big pool of it on the tarmac at my feet. It surprised me

  that the blood near my brain was so viscous and sticky. I'd

  imagined it to be a shade brighter and a little thinner than

  other blood. For some moments my gaze shifted to a

  luminous sign over the basement entrance. BOMB SHEL-

  TER it said in large, green letters, and I tried to read the

  words backwards, but the green letters just made me feel

  queasy. Suddenly Metre Man came rushing round the

  corner of the building. I was already a head and a half taller

  than him. He looked up at me with a startled expression,

  pointed up at my hair with his bamboo stick and exclaimed:

  ' Well, well! What now?'

  I felt unhappy about returning to my mother, because I

  knew she hated the sight of blood, and especially mine. But

  I had no choice. As soon as I got in, my mother wrapped my

  head in cotton towels until I looked like an Arab, and we

  took a taxi to Accident & Emergency. I had to have twelve

  stitches. The doctor said that was the record for the day.

  Afterwards we went home and had pancakes.

  This is recalled reality. I still have a broad scar on my

  forehead. It's not the only scar I incurred. I've got several

  similar 'distinguishing marks'. Now, at least, they've stopped

  noting that sort of thing on my passport.

  Of course my mother wanted to know what had hap-

  pened. I said I'd got into a fight with a boy I didn't know

  because he said that my dad screwed sheep. For once my

  mother took pity on my father. She was usually the first to

  slag him off behind his back, but a line had to be drawn

  somewhere. I think she saw something noble in my defence

  of my father's honour. 'I can see why you got angry, Petter,'

  was all she said. 'One doesn't say that sort of thing. I quite

  agree.'

  I never told tales. Telling tales was like mimicking real

  events. It was far too banal. Squealing or lashing out was