Beatles (52 page)

Jørgen looked at me.

‘You’re coming back, aren’t you? To the drama group.’

I nodded and felt the wind trying to tear out my eyes.

He patted my shoulder, spoke through the storm as though it had no effect on him.

‘You always come back, don’t you, Kim?’

My eyelids stung, I could no longer see. My head fell forward and I leaned my forehead against Jørgen’s chest. He settled his hand against my neck and held me tight. Then I felt his cheek against mine, his mouth, I put my arm around him, we were in the middle of the storm and I cried on Jørgen’s breast.

The coarse Russian uniform itched all over, it was worse than bathing in rose hip seeds. The sweat piled down my back, my heart palpitated and my nerves began to jangle. I sat forlorn in the dressing room waiting for my cue because, of course, big-titted Minni had decided that I would appear from behind the audience, run up the central aisle, roar my momentous news and disappear behind the stage. I heard Jørgen speaking in the auditorium, his voice was clear and articulate and the audience was hushed. Then Natasha answered, the stuck-up snob, I could hear the swish of silk. I looked through the keyhole, saw all the stiff heads lined in rows. The stage went dark, someone tripped, then the spotlights came back on and there stood Napoleon, in the circle of light, a fat, pasty-faced boy with colourless eyes who had been given the role because he was the smallest in the school, one metre fifty-nine. He stood with his hand on his chest and the insane hat on his skull like a ship, and in the background Jan Johansson was playing ‘The Volga Boatmen’. I went back to the bench. My nerves were stretched to the limit. Fortunately I had brought along some beers for the job. I opened an Export and drank it. It didn’t help. I knocked back another. It was still a long time before I had to make my entrance. I opened the third and it began to hit the mark. My nerves were settling. Just the woollen material itched. Then I needed a leak. The beer had only bubbled up in my head, the rest went straight to my bladder. I had plenty of time and slouched off to the toilet. There, I had quite a job unbuttoning the Russian fly, there were at least twenty metal buttons to undo, and it was worse putting them back, much worse. Panic took hold of me. I grabbed the material and forced the buttons in, my skin itched, my crutch too, the heavy leather boots were like lead. At last I did up the fly
and raced back to the dressing room, stopped, heard nothing, no one was speaking inside, there was just a low whisper, a hollow mumble sweeping along the rows of seats. I peeped through the keyhole. The whole cast was standing there waiting, sending each other nervous glances, waiting, waiting for me. My heart jumped like a salmon making its way upstream, then I breathed in, grabbed the sabre and tore open the door.

From that moment on I don’t remember much, but I must have made quite an impression, because the whole audience screamed as one and there were signs of panic in the back rows. I shrieked my grim news and ran for cover behind the stage. Terje, the lighting manager, slipped me a beer and insisted that my one line must have shown up on the seismograph in Bergen and that I already had my Oscar guaranteed for best male supporting role.

‘That’s for films, you pillock,’ I said under my breath.

‘Same difference, Igor. You’ll get the Eli statuette anyway!’

Then Jan Johansson played ‘Moscow Nights’ and the gym went dark as the stage slaves carried in the pink sofa, fell flat on their faces over a cable, got up and staggered back. The lights went up, Pierre talked about his great love and Natasha cried and people in the audience began to sniffle too, especially one person, had to be my mother, and I cringed over my beer. And then it was all over, the lights dimmed over Pierre’s body, the silence held for a few seconds, then the deafening applause broke out, and we threw ourselves around each other’s necks, the corpse managed to wriggle off the sofa before the lights came back on, and we stood on the stage in a line, holding hands, as the stamping and clapping thundered in our faces and the flashes from the international press corps went off. I spotted my mother in the first row, she was beaming, I hadn’t seen her look like that since
Brand
. And Seb and Gunnar and Ola were sitting at the back grinning and whistling. We had to return to the stage five times before the cossacks would relent.

And afterwards there was the premiere party at Minni’s, a huge house in Bygdøy Allé. I tried to hide in the forest undergrowth, trod carefully with the leaden weights on my feet and the bottle of beer, and I concentrated, just as if I was continuing in a new role, I paid attention to what I said,
thought
about my own thoughts, it was
crazy, but I was scared stiff of turning somersaults or running amok. So the evening passed uneventfully, some slept in a corner, Natasha whispered something in my ear which I didn’t catch, but she had a fit of giggles and went off into another room wearing the large, rustling dress as though she were part of a painting from a previous century. I saw Minni press Pierre up against the wall, then she turned all of a sudden and was gone. I sat in a chair, found a half-f bottle of beer, lit a smoke and stared at Pierre, who was still attached to the wall. Then he smiled and came over to me.

Had hardly spoken to Jørgen since the night of the storm, and Jørgen seemed to change after the Christmas holidays when he was in England. Now he perched on the arm of the chair and placed a hand on my shoulder. Wanted to chat to him now.

‘Went off well,’ I said.

He nodded. Someone was banging away on a piano.

‘You’re gonna be a pro,’ I said.

He didn’t answer, just rubbed my shoulder with his hand.

‘How was it in London by the way?’ I asked.

He looked around as if scared someone might be listening.

‘Fine,’ he said quickly. ‘Great.’

He sat there for a while, looking down at me.

‘Got myself a lover,’ he whispered.

I aimed a soft punch at his stomach.

‘Terrific!’ I said. ‘What’s she look like?’

His sad eyes swept across me, then he stood up and went into the other room. I remained in the chair with the empty bottle and suddenly felt sick.

I was asked to sing. I refused. The girls begged on their knees. I refused point blank. Napoleon wanted me to climb onto the roof, all I had to do was grab the gutter from the balcony. I began to tremble. They wanted me to do things. I knocked over a lamp and went to the toilet, locked the door and rested my forehead against the cool wall tiles. Then, behind me, I heard the sounds of waves and summer. I turned slowly. The bath was full of water and foam. Then I saw her, Minni, lying there with a broad smile and closed eyes, her breasts bobbing around like beach balls. She hadn’t drowned. She spoke to me.

‘You’re a good friend of Jørgen’s, aren’t you, Kim?’

I fiddled with the door lock, it had jammed. The woollen uniform seemed to shrink and itched.

‘Ye-es,’ I said. ‘We’re pals.’

There was a splash as she raised her arm from the foam.

‘Come here,’ she said.

I didn’t.

She opened her eyes and locked them onto me.

‘Come on,’ she said.

I did as the drama coach said. She grasped my hand and held it tight. Then she pulled it towards her, downwards, and she was strong, I could feel the lukewarm water over my fingers, I could feel her soft skin, she pulled harder, pressed my hand between her legs.

Then she let go.

I slowly retrieved my arm. The uniform was wet and heavy.

She smiled.

‘You should have had a bigger role, Kim. I realised that this evening. You should have had… a bigger role.’

I scooted off in a hurry. I was petrified. I peed in the kitchen sink and crept into the living room. A jazz tune drifted across from the record player, couples on the sofa in the dark. There was the sound of clothes rubbing. I took a drink from a bottle, it burned, vodka, and the moment I decided to leave, Natasha was behind me.

‘Are you looking for Pierre?’ she whispered.

‘Was thinkin’ of goin’ home,’ I said.

‘He left ages ago,’ she mumbled close to me.

I found a sofa. She followed, sank down beside me.

‘Your arm’s all wet,’ she said.

‘Dropped my cigarette in a bottle of beer,’ I said.

She sniggered and leaned closer.

‘You’re not as crazy as they all say,’ she said.

I tugged myself free and fell onto the floor.

‘Who says that?’ I gasped.

She looked unhappy.

‘No one,’ she stammered. ‘No one.’

I left. In Bygdøy Allé the windows of Bonus gave off the garish gleam of a brothel. I didn’t want to go home. I plodded through the
snow to Norum Hotel and rang the bell. Ola was on night duty three times a week. He opened the door and stared at me with a condescending air. Then at last he recognised the messenger and waved me in.

‘It’s three o’clock,’ he yawned.

‘Got any beer?’

Ola trotted down to the cellar and fetched two beers. He had unfolded a camp bed behind the counter. We sat down in the lounge. He took a packet of Camel out of the machine.

‘Worst thing I’ve seen,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘The play, you ass! The only time I was awake was when you stormed in.’

I chortled in my uniform, lit another fag.

‘How’s it goin’ with Vigdis?’ I asked.

Ola cast sideways glances, frightened of being caught red-handed, in the middle of the night in a hotel, by Kirsten of Trondheim.

‘Alright,’ he whispered. ‘Alright, but Kirsten’s my girl. There are clear lines drawn.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Clear lines. That’s what Gunnar says, too.’

We sat in silence for a while. I knew that I was drunk. Nothing would stay still. Fear rushed in on me although there was nothing to be afraid of, fear was paid for up front now and I had no idea why I was paying.

I stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray.

‘Better get my head down,’ Ola said. ‘Day before yesterday I forgot to wake an Indian who was flying to Madrid. He tried to burn me alive.’

‘What d’you think… what d’you think will become of us?’ I asked in a soft voice.

Ola looked at me in astonishment, closed one eye and smiled from the other edge of his mouth.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘How will we make out in life?’

He was smiling from both sides now.

‘Fine,’ Ola said. ‘How else?’

The switchboard buzzed and a red light came on. Ola padded
over to the counter and picked up the receiver. It was a CIA agent wanting a Coke.

I dragged myself out into the snow again. The town was as silent as the grave. I stood in the middle of Bygdøy Allé wearing a Russian uniform and high black boots. I drew my sabre, yelled and ran towards Bonus, and fell flat on my face in a snowdrift.

Gunnar dropped by with more leaflets, concealing them on his person in cunning ways, inside newspapers, magazines, Bonus carrier bags, record sleeves. In general, Gunnar had become pretty cunning, cunningly fired up and suspicious. He walked with one eye over his shoulder all the time, seldom or never spoke on the telephone. But he seemed content, in all the political hatred that steamed off him there was pure and obvious happiness, politics was Gunnar’s sauna, I think Gunnar was happy. He spent his evenings at meetings in Ytre Vest, went to the Young Socialist study circle, manned FNL stands and was on the students’ council. When he came by it was to drop off leaflets, and this time they were about the Americans’ plans in Laos. Soon I wouldn’t have any room left for any more leaflets. The drawer was full. Thinking of all the leaflets I had not delivered turned me into an instant insomniac.

He sidled into my room, made sure the door was locked, drew the curtains and pulled out a pile packed in greaseproof paper.

‘Best tomorrow,’ he whispered as if there were a special agent lying under the bed with a telephoto lens and a tape recorder.

‘Okay,’ I said, feeling corrupt, telling lies was one thing, physical deception was quite another, even I understood that.

Gunnar stayed for a quarter of an hour, then he had to move on, had to write an article for the school newspaper about the five-day week and sick leave.

‘How’s Stig?’ I asked.

He didn’t want to talk about that.

‘You remember Cecilie from Vestheim?’ he said instead, getting up. I looked at him blankly. Did I remember Cecilie?

‘Think so,’ I said.

‘She’s in the same study circle as me. She’s the editor of the school newspaper at Ullern.’

‘Cecilie?’

He pulled out a magazine and showed me.
Ulke Hulke
. Editor: Cecilie Ahlsen.

‘She’s in the study circle too?’

Gunnar nodded and flicked open the newspaper.

‘There’s a good article about the Young Socialists and Mao here,’ he said. ‘And the Norwegian
Gymnas
Association. The best damned school newspaper in town.’

Then he had to leave. And Gunnar did not leave the usual way. He took the kitchen stairs, climbed over the back garden fence, swung down holding the rotary dryer and was gone.

That night I was feverish. Cecilie. Cecilie the editor. Cecilie in a study circle. My head was swirling. And the leaflets in the drawer were burning.

Three days later Gunnar returned. One eye observed the other and he had ten copies of
Class Conflict
with him, wrapped in the
Aftenposten
.

‘Could you sell
Class Conflict
in Frogner?’ he asked.

I hesitated, I hesitated a long time, there was no more room for any more, I had come to an impasse, the situation was out of my control.

Suddenly he grabbed my shirt and pulled me closer.

‘You haven’t delivered one bloody leaflet, have you,’ he hissed. ‘Eh? Have you!’

He let me go and I slumped down on the sofabed, holed beneath the waterline. I was about to say something, but Gunnar didn’t give me a chance.

‘Where’ve you put ’em?’

I pulled out the third drawer. It jammed. Gunnar raked the leaflets into his bag. Vietnam. The Kiruna strike. The five-day week. Rationalisation. The Ministry of Education. Laos.

‘And you thought you could trick us!’

‘Didn’t try to trick anyone,’ I insisted.

‘Is that so? What d’you call this then? Filin’?’

‘I’m right behind what they say. I just couldn’t bring myself to deliver them.’

It sounded tame. I was at the end of my tether.

‘That’s sort of the point about leaflets, you know. If you only wanted to
read
them, you wouldn’t need fifty of each! Would you!’

Nothing you could say to that. I was an idiot. I accepted the rebuke.