For a moment there, it’s difficult to be the one who is approaching. I almost turn and go back. He stands quite still watching me. Someone is watching me, and I don’t know what he expects. I feel like going back. This has never happened before. Not with Arvid. He is my friend, we have been friends for five years, since the first break on the first day at school in the autumn of 1965, and hardly a day has passed when we haven’t talked, and now here he is, watching me approach, and I do not know who it is that he sees.
But it’s only a moment, and then things fall back into place, he raises the hand holding the book and I wave back, and what I’m thinking is, I will always get by on my own.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Hi.’ He climbs down from the rock.
‘It’s damn cold.’
‘Hell, yes,’ he says, a bit uncertain, because, in fact, it isn’t cold any more, but it was this morning, and nothing else occurs to me just then, and the only sound is the sound of the horse snorting in the field. It’s restless and tosses its head and backs away. We can’t see what it is it’s afraid of, but now it is prancing on stiff legs and suddenly rears round and gallops towards where we are standing. It all happens so fast, it is sudden and violent and now the horse does look remarkable, for it is a thing of beauty, and even though there are many beautiful things in this world, it is always
a strange feeling when you actually
see
them. And what we see is this animal with ears pinned back, its brown skin steaming and legs like shadows beneath its belly, and the hooves hammering the ground like a train over jointed tracks. I feel Arvid go stiff. I grab his shoulder and go stiff myself, although I have grown up among horses, and the instant before it hits us, I can see everything around me with brilliant clarity: the brilliant blue autumn sky, the yellow ridges, yes, every leaf up close and binocular-sharp in the limpid air. I suck the air down and howl WAAAHH! The horse turns in a flash and veers to the right and comes to a halt another twenty metres down the field, its flanks quivering, and then lowers its neck and snatches a mouthful of grass as though nothing has happened.
‘Goddamnit,’ Arvid says, ‘that was something. Do you think it would have knocked us down?’
‘What? No, I’ve never heard of anything like that. I don’t know what spooked it, but I knew it would stop.’
‘You screamed.’
‘Because it was so damn beautiful.’
Arvid throws himself down on to the grass with his arms stretched wide and bursts into laughter, and I too have to laugh, because what was awkward between us has evaporated in the wake of the horse. I sit down on a boulder and roll myself a cigarette.
‘How are you? Your mother said you got a week.’
‘I don’t know, really. It was lousy being expelled, but now I have time to read more.’ He waves his book. ‘Strong stuff. Do you know it?’
It’s Jan Myrdal’s
Confessions of a Disloyal European,
that
has just been published by Pax. I know Jan Myrdal. Arvid has been taking the Metro to Oslo East every weekend to buy the Swedish paper
Aftonbladet
where Myrdal has a column, but this book I haven’t seen.
‘You can have it when I’ve finished.’
‘I can buy it myself. I guess I have more money than you have. How’s Henrik?’
‘We planned it together, but of course I was the one who hoisted the flag, and that’s what I told them, so it was me who got expelled. But listen to this,’ he says, and reads:
‘“In Ceylon I talk to a nice European tea planter.
‘“‘So how many people live in this district?’ I ask.
‘“‘We are only four families,’ he says.
‘“‘That’s not very many,’ I say.
‘“‘And twenty-five thousand Tamils, of course,’ he says.”’
‘Shit, let me see.’ He hands me the book, and I read the page, and the next; it’s pure, concise writing about things that you walk around turning over in your mind. I have to have this book, there is something different here, open, bold. I give it back.
‘Come along,’ I say, climbing the rock to the highest point and Arvid comes with me. From where we stand, we can see past the fields to Rødtvet and Kaldbakken and a tiny slice of Trondhjemsveien where the footpath descends to the houses in Veitvet. I point.
‘Do you know who I saw there yesterday morning?’
‘How would I know?’
‘My father.’
‘Your father? Hell, isn’t he dead?’
‘Did I ever say that?’
He thought for a moment. ‘No, I guess you haven’t. As far as I remember, you haven’t said a thing about him, ever. That’s why I thought he was dead.’
‘No. He isn’t dead.’
‘I see,’ Arvid says. He looks bewildered, and looks down at Trondhjemsveien as if there was something he could find there.
So now I’ve said it. I shouldn’t have, because then I may have to tell him more. Arvid is my friend, and now he looks at me, and my mind goes dim, and all around me it’s getting dark, the forest is dark, it’s late in the day and no longer possible to see in between the trees. It’s all shadows. I turn my back, but that doesn’t make it any better, a chill runs up my spine, and I can’t stand still. I start to move down the rock, jumping from boulder to boulder as fast as I can, and Arvid is behind me.
‘Hey, you, wait, for Christ’s sake.’
But I don’t.
4
THERE IS A
man dressed in black wandering the paths in the great forest. He walks day and night with a grey rucksack on his back. In the rucksack he has a pistol. Sometimes there is a metallic clink when it knocks against other things he carries with him. But no one hears. Only he is walking these paths. His pace is even, confident and not too fast, he has all the time in the world. He walks twenty kilometres a day, and when evening falls, he lights a fire close to water. The flames illuminate his weather-beaten face and when he bends down to throw more wood on the fire, the black fringe falls across his forehead. He lies down to sleep a few hours, and then, in the night, he walks another ten kilometres. His blue eyes sparkle in the dark, an owl sits blinking on a branch, and he never takes a wrong turn. He wears brown rubber boots, and he crosses streams and bogs when he has to, and he climbs the ridges. On the last ridge he halts and looks about him with a thin smile. From the top he can see a broad valley with terraced houses and high-rises and a big road leading north. He has arrived now. He drops his rucksack in the heather and sits down on a rock. He rolls a cigarette, there is a hiss as he lights up, both the sun and moon are out and he sits there watching for a long time. His hands are large and brown and rough, and there are deep furrows down both his cheeks. From his rucksack
he pulls out a bottle and takes a long swig; he screws up his eyes, tightens the top and puts the green bottle back. There is a clink, and again he smiles. He finishes his cigarette and stubs it out on the rock where he is sitting. He gets up and without looking back, he walks into the forest until he finds a place that feels right. There, he rests the rucksack against a tree, takes an axe and starts to build a shelter. He is working on it all day. It is small, but it’s waterproof and solid: he has done this many times before. As night falls, he takes out a primus stove, pumps paraffin into the burner head, lights a match and puts a frying pan on top. He tosses bacon in the pan and sits on a tree stump to wait. He has all the time in the world.
The alarm clock glows half-past one and I have no idea what woke me up, but now I cannot sleep. Outside, the rain is falling, even and solid as a wall, a shushing wall. The street lamps flicker as I lean against the windowsill and look out. The grey Sing-Sing houses out there have sunk into the ground, been washed away. Just this rain and the street lamps.
I have been dreaming. I am trembling, my forehead feels heavy and there is sand behind my eyelids. I am still drunk and cannot collect my thoughts. The only thing I remember is the dream and Arvid in the doorway. I am on my way out and he is about to tell me something important, his arms cut the air, but we have drunk too much, there is a rushing in my ears and I cannot hear what he is saying. There is a warm glow from inside the living room, he is
alone, his sister and his parents have taken the night ferry to Denmark. They are going to a funeral. He stands dark against the light and is the best friend I have ever had and it doesn’t matter that I cannot hear what he is saying.
In the room the air is stale and clammy. I open the window, and the October night seeps in, heavy, moist, you can almost touch it, and I stand in front of the open window wearing only my underpants and feel like screaming. The skin down my thighs and stomach feels tight, and I beat my hand on the sill until it hurts.
In the dark I grope for my sweater and a pair of trousers, pull them on and sit in the armchair I got from the old three-piece we used to have in the living room. I fumble my way and find the tobacco and matches on the table. I roll a smoke and light up. The match flares, and for a split second the room is illuminated, a little shock to the eye, and then it goes dark again; darker, even.
I sit smoking, hearing the drumming from outside, then I get up and go to my desk, switch on the lamp that only gives off a muted light, open a drawer and take out a battered copy of
Penthouse
. I have seen it before, many times, I am sick of it, and yet I leaf through it. There is a sequence with two girls. They are so naked their skin gleams and must be so soft to the touch, they are touching each other and it does look genuine. I know it’s not, but I look anyway. I thumb through and the two girls touch each other more, slim hands on shiny skin, their mouths half open, eyes half open, and then they are all over each other, and I close my eyes and think about Fru Karlsen, the skin on her neck down to her shoulders and then further down,
and I unbutton my trousers and touch myself, my right hand firmly round my dick. And while I’m doing this, I think how sad it is to be sitting alone in a room in the middle of the night like this, and my own thoughts distract me, and I have to concentrate, have to look at the magazine again and it takes longer than usual and afterwards the room is empty and there is a draught from the open window. I throw the
Penthouse
out into the rain and close the window with a bang. Then I go into the bathroom and wash.
Back in the room, I switch off the lamp and light the cigarette that’s gone out in the ashtray. Now only the glow of the cigarette is visible and the faint square that is the window. When I feel I’m tired, I lie on the bed with my clothes on. I am almost asleep when I hear a sound I have not heard for years. I get out of bed and tiptoe across the floor, into the hall and over to the door of my mother’s bedroom. Through a crack in the doorway I can see the white back of a man moving. I do not know him, and I quickly turn round. He must have been in the house the whole time as there was no one up when I returned from Arvid’s. This time I undress and lie close to the wall with the duvet tight around me.
I wake up and the sun is shining straight into my face. Someone has been in here and opened the curtains. I get out of bed, feel my head hurting a bit, but everything in the room is bright, and it’s a bright blue morning, Sunday morning, and of course I can’t remember my plan for the day. I roll a cigarette although it’s stupid to smoke before
breakfast, but I don’t want to go downstairs yet. I watch the blue smoke curl under the ceiling, look at myself in the mirror above the dressing table, put my old sunglasses on and keep them on while I look at myself smoking. I hear the church bells chime from the top of the shopping centre.
I take a book from the shelf over my desk. It is worn, dog-eared with stains on the jacket, and then I get into bed and start reading. It was Arvid’s father who said we ought to read that book, but Arvid had already read it, he has read all the books that are worth a damn, and his father must have known that. He only said it so he could add:
‘Read this one, boys, then perhaps you’ll understand what it’s like to toil and sweat for the things you want!’ Arvid groaned, but I read the book, and this is the third time now. It is called
Martin Eden
and was written by Jack London. I had read
The Call of the Wild
and
The Sea Wolf
, almost everyone we know has read them, but only Arvid and I have read
Martin Eden,
and we keep it to ourselves.
There is something about this book, and there is something about his struggle, and as soon as I had read it I knew I wanted to be a writer, and if I didn’t make it, I would be an unhappy person.
I hear them talking down in the kitchen. There is a smell of fried bacon and coffee, but I don’t want to go downstairs, and now that I have heard them, I find it difficult to concentrate on the book. I put it down and go over to the weights bench, which I have placed between the bed and the chest of drawers, lie down flat on my back and raise the bar from
the stand and quickly pump it twenty times. I get up and add ten kilos on each side and do twenty more. I feel warm now, it’s really too early in the day, but I don’t care. I am really eager, and I double the weights, do quick, rhythmic lifts and feel my chest tighten, and my biceps, and my stomach is working like it should, going smooth and easy as a ball bearing. I know who I am, I am drenched and this is my sweat. Only my mother and I live here now, and that suits me fine.
I shower, splash and make a lot of noise, and as I turn the water off I hear the front door slam. I’m in no hurry, and when I come downstairs to the kitchen, she is alone, standing by the stove, looking out of the window with her mind somewhere else. I sit down at the table and look at her. She is forty-three years old. Then she turns and looks at me.
‘When did
you
get home last night?’ she says. Not a word about the man who has just left.
‘I don’t know, twelve, maybe half-past. I don’t know. Anyway, you weren’t up.’
‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘Of course you weren’t.’
She blushes, but refuses to say anything about the man who has left. ‘You were at Arvid’s, weren’t you?’ I nod and help myself to what’s left of the bacon and a slice of bread.