Beatles (41 page)

Peder adjusted the net. He hit a few serves. Red sand whirled up into the baking, yellow light. They began to play. Slippery Leif was the ball boy. The ball went to and fro in pat-a-cake fashion. I heard Cecilie breathing heavily. I ate a rosehip. Peder was practising his backhand. A smash made Cecilie give a little scream. Peder laughed. It was Cecilie’s serve. Tossed the ball in the air and lunged after it, lunged into space as if she were going to hit a planet, her short skirt crept up and her panties came into view, her narrow hips, it lasted almost an hour, she stretched out, stretched out the time, Slippery Leif had to polish his glasses, Peder’s racquet hung expectantly in the air, he twitched, then Cecilie struck and it was an ace.

I ate another rosehip. It was Leif ’s turn to show his mettle. Peder was sitting on the bench drying the sweat off his face. My back was beginning to ache and I shifted position. Then Cecilie looked straight at me, through the thin foliage of the bush, through the orange rosehips, straight at me, and there was no surprise detectable in her eyes, she had known the whole time I was lurking there. She held my gaze while returning Leif ’s ball, then she released me, the way you let a fish off the hook, threw me back. Uneatable. I packed
my rucksack and crept away, from the red dirt, the tennis strokes and Cecilie’s white skirt. Humiliation was a fact.

That night I dreamt of sounds. The silence was broken in my sound-proofing and I longed for the silence. I dreamt about sounds, they were near, right inside my ear, and I awoke with a scream, a scream that even Cecilie must have heard, at any rate Mum was sitting there when I opened my eyes, and she had laid a cold cloth on my forehead. I dreamt about the tennis match, about the sound of ball on racquet, the dull, dry thud of the tennis ball against the taut strings, like a heartbeat. Straight after I dreamt about Paris, about the square where all the people were running in all directions, where the police attacked as though they were more frightened than those at whom they lashed out. I dreamt about sounds, the sound of batons hitting skulls, some cracking open, and then the soundless explosion of blood blacking out the world.

I dreamt about batons and tennis strokes.

I squeaked through the exams. Ola had brought the biggest packed lunch in the school with him, he had scratched mathematical formulae in the goat’s cheese. It worked fine and for one very tense day our heads buzzed and then we had finished our first year at the
gymnas
.

‘What do we do now?’ Gunnar said.

‘We won’t go to Studenten, that’s for sure!’ Seb said.

We chucked our revision notes in the nearest litter bin and wended our way home holding only our pencil cases. Mum gave me fifty kroner as a reward and rang Dad to tell him that their son had taken his first step to heaven. The others landed a nice sum too and so we went down to Drammensveien and fought our way to a table at Pernille.

We ordered a round of beers and put the pack of Teddy in the middle of the cloth. Gunnar adjusted the parasol. The waitress brought the glasses. We drank them and ordered another one straightaway. We were thirsty.

‘At last,’ Seb said.

We were right behind him on that.

‘Only two years left,’ Gunnar said.

‘Shut up,’ we said.

The beer came.

‘I’m h-h-hungry,’ Ola said.

We ordered four shrimp smorgasbord.

The place was heaving. They were queuing between the tables. Old people were sitting and sweating beneath the trees in Karl Johan. The beer settled like a blue grotto at the back of our heads.

The shrimps arrived.

We ordered another round of beer.

We ate the shrimps and the woman with the white apron came with a tray of beers.

We lit up and blew four rings, which lay above the table like a secret signal.

‘Snobsville,’ Seb said. ‘All blazers and the Royal Norwegian Yacht Club.’

He pointed behind him with a discreet thumb.

‘I can hear Kåre’s dulcet tones from here,’ he went on. ‘And Slippery Leif ’s athleticism.’

I craned my neck. They were sitting in the far corner, fifteen – twenty of them round a table. Kåre, Peder, Slippery Leif, Beanpole. A whole gang of white shirts, Conservative badges and canned laughter. And Cecilie.

‘How’s it goin’ with Cecilie anyway?’ Gunnar asked.

‘What do you think! Bloody great! We’ve decided to sit at separate tables and only meet at weekends.’

‘Pack it in.’

‘It’s gone tits up,’ I said. ‘It went tits up some time ago.’

I told them about Nina’s unexpected appearance.

‘That’s the blues,’ Seb said. ‘That’s pure blues, man. I got two women, nobody loves me no more.’

He pulled out his harmonica and produced a high-pitched wail.

The other tables listened. Even the Ullern roll necks in the corner shut their gobs. Seb put the harp back in his pocket and drank his beer.

‘All over with Guri too. Can’t compete with water skiin’. Dishonourable discharge.’

We ordered more beer and carried out a lightning check of our finances. There was enough.

The beer arrived.

‘But you two are happy lovebirds,’ Seb smiled, looking at Gunnar and Ola.

‘Goin’ to T-T-Trondheim in July.’

‘Got a date with Sidsel in two hours,’ Gunnar said.

We drank beer and looked at the stream of people passing us, all types, all colours, all smells. Girls’ tanned thighs, creased suit jackets, screaming kids with soft ice all over their faces, beer guts, perfume, the odour of sweat. We drank in the shade under the parasol and had finished the first year at the
gymnas
.

When we had drunk our beers, Ola said, ‘G-g-gotta piss.’

All our bladders were full.

Seb leaned over the table and whispered, ‘Let’s go to
the park,
boys!’

We watered a bush and went up the steps to the hill in Slottsparken. Quite a lot of people were there, sitting in clusters on the trampled yellow grass. Some wandered around peering, others stood up erect staring with narrowed eyes as though waiting for some great event. They had long, greasy hair, longer than Stig’s, flared trousers, frayed at the end, long coats, headbands and sallow skin. It was like going to a party not knowing a living soul. Feeling a bit like four reps from the Salvation Army junior division, we sat down by a peeling tree trunk and fiddled with the grass.

‘What do we do n-n-now?’ Ola asked.

‘Relax,’ said Seb. ‘We wait.’

A hundred metres away, Cecilie was sitting with the poker faces and the sailor boys. We sat with our legs crossed among those who had turned their backs on everything, who had swum in the fountain, who didn’t give a piss about royalty or a shit about the cops.

Our heads buzzed with all the beer.

Now we were here.

An emaciated type strolled over to us and bent down. His eyes were close together, it was almost only one eye, long, narrow and yellow. He fidgeted with a leather pouch hanging from his belt.

‘Peace be unto you, folks,’ he chanted in a strange voice.

We sat as quiet as mice, as though the party host had taken pity on us and said we could stay.

The Cyclops spoke under his breath:

‘The vibes of spring,’ he said. ‘Feel the grass growin’ under your feet. It tickles, folks.’

He was barefoot. He began to snigger.

We sniggered, too.

He bent closer. His face smelt sweet.

‘
This
is the dream, you know. There is no reality. But we’re not dreamin’, either. We
are
the dream. Dig? Do you dig? It’s others who
dream
us. Dig?’

‘Dig,’ said Seb.

The man knelt down.

‘Resources are tight,’ he whispered. ‘But I have two reefers ready, Moroccan, quality guaranteed. David Andersen hallmark.’

He had a coughing fit and rolled over in the grass three times.

He recovered, put his hand in the leather pouch and took out two thin sticks.

‘Fifty spondulicks,’ he whispered.

We looked at each other. Seb produced a few tens and gave them to him.

He placed the reefers in Seb’s hand, slowly got to his feet and moved away as the money disappeared into his trouser waistband.

And as Seb lit the cigarette, I heard the Cyclops shout: Siri! An equally emaciated girl with thin, greasy hair got up from a group of people and went over to him. She whistled and a dog loped over, a bone-bag of an elkhound, mangy and pink, its fur almost all gone and its ribs protruding like an insane harp.

The seller pointed to us and the girl turned.

Seb took the first drag, closed his mouth and kept the smoke down in his lungs.

He passed the reefer on to me.

The three skeletons wandered up to the palace.

Siri was the dog.

I said nothing. I thought about the gnome in Daltjuven: Who would die this time?

Then I inhaled as hard as I could, swallowed the burning smoke as my eyes watered.

Gunnar puffed, blew the smoke out through his nose. Ola sucked and howled.

Afterwards we sat upright in silence and waited. A tape recorder was switched on behind us. Jefferson Airplane.

Seb lit the next reefer. It did the rounds. The music became louder and louder behind us, seemed to be coming from all sides as though the trees were full of speakers.

‘Don’t f-f-feel a thing,’ Ola said.

We sat there for a while. I could hardly stand the music any longer. My head was pounding as if I had the world’s biggest headphones stuck to my ears.

‘Can’t stand the music!’ I hollered as loud as I could to drown it. ‘Put it down!’

The others sent me a strange look.

‘Eh?’ Ola said.

‘The music, for Pete’s sake! I can hardly hear what you’re sayin’!’

Seb patted me on the shoulder.

‘They switched the music off ages ago,’ he said. ‘They’ve gone.’

I turned round. No one was there.

Straight after Gunnar and Ola got up at the same time, staggered over to a tree and puked green vomit. They tottered back with a line of sweat round their forehead like a filthy headband.

‘I’m off,’ Gunnar slurred, trying to locate his watch. He stood there pulling at his trouser leg.

Ola followed him.

I felt like going, too, but I stayed. An insane thought had lodged itself in my brain. That it was Cecilie’s fault I was moping, off my rocker, I was doing this because of her. Now she could enjoy herself with the sailing fraternity’s sons, all the rackets and backhanders.

Strength of will was draining from my spine like water from an open tap.

Seb lit up the reefer.

‘How d’you feel?’ he asked.

‘Dunno. Heavy. Limp.’

Seb lay back in the grass.

‘Nirvana,’ he said. ‘We’re on our way to Nirvana.’

I pulled at the glow by my face until it burned, and spat out the bits. My lungs throbbed in an irregular rhythm. I placed my hand on my heart, but couldn’t find it.

A psychedelic crowd came over to join us. They burned some tobacco in silver paper, packed it into a chillum and fired up like pyromaniacs. Seb was passed the pipe, put his hand over the mouthpiece as they did and sucked. Sweat covered his face like a sheet. I tried it too, it burnt all the way down and I gasped for air. Someone smiled and smacked my back. I unbuttoned my shirt to see if there were burn marks on my skin. Someone put a hand on my stomach and the smell of incense tickled like straw in my nose. I started laughing. And I couldn’t stop. I laughed as I had never laughed before. The others around me laughed, too. I was sitting amid a concert of laughing, a stomach orchestra, a mouth symphony, I laughed louder and louder, and while laughing I heard laughter exploding everywhere like mines, I lay writhing on the grass and then I noticed that everyone was watching me with closed mouths, I was the only person laughing, I stopped laughing.

The girl with the incense bent over me.

‘You tickled my nose,’ I said.

Her hand lay on my stomach like a cold shell.

‘Your shirt’s hideous,’ she said.

I ripped off my shirt and threw it up into the tree.

‘Your trousers are hideous as well,’ she said.

I yanked off my trousers and slung them away.

Another pipe was passed around and after that I remembered nothing until I woke up and it was pitch dark and I was freezing cold. Not far away four candles were burning. Incense hung in the air again. Someone was playing guitar. I heard Seb playing harmonica.

I didn’t understand why I was wearing just swimming trunks. And suede shoes. My head worked maniacally. My neck and chest hurt. Then it struck me, with slow inexorability. Nina. Of course, I had to go to Nina’s. I didn’t have time to say goodbye. I rushed across the grass, past the guardsmen, past wide-eyed evening promenaders with poodles and giraffes on a lead. Had they never seen a person in swimming trunks before? I began to wonder. The ducks lay in the grass like oval statues. I ran through Briskeby, Urra, my old school, past the shop under new management, past The Man on the Steps, down Farmers’ Hill, round the corner where the apple trees shone
like electric lights, passing a fountain that surged into the night like a gentle haemorrhage.

I found Tidemandsgate, I found her house, rushed down the path and rang the bell.

I waited for ages. I rang once again. At last I heard footsteps, the door was torn open and a smoking jacket with a shiny chest stared at me.

‘Nina,’ I said. ‘Nina.’

Several others appeared. Their eyes were so strange, like uncut jewels.

I stood up on my toes.

‘Nina!’ I shouted. ‘I have to talk to Nina!’

‘No one lives here that you would know! Please remove yourself!’

I got a foot inside the door.

‘Nina,’ I cried.

‘Go away!’ the man at the front roared.

I lost my temper.

‘You’re tryin’ to hide her!’ I shrieked. ‘I know she’s here! Nina! Nina!’

I was grabbed. They bundled me into the street. I felt a knee in my kidneys and they twisted my arm behind my back. I thought I heard them laughing.

‘Nina,’ I said meekly, standing in the dark street as the smoking jackets returned indoors, swearing.