We toasted with lukewarm beer as the open window brought in the sounds of Oslo city centre and a wilder world outside, waiting and ready, in the frenzied blue light of our planet.
I wrote a letter to Nina. The autumn reminded me of Revolver. A storm was brewing. I thought about Fred and the Trans-Siberian railway. Death came again that autumn, first of all to Grandma. She died in her sleep in September. I had never been to a funeral before. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, I recalled something I had read in The Illustrated Classics a thousand years ago, that when sailors died on board ship they were buried at sea. Don’t know why that of all things came to mind. I thought about Fred. And Dragon. Now Grandma was gone. The wind picked up, shook the heavy branches and swept slowly across the ground, lifting shiny yellow leaves and releasing them again. A storm was brewing.
Mum didn’t cry, she went round in a fragile silence that could crack at any moment, the surface of water, an eggshell. Dad was in his own world, locked in an insoluble crossword. We inherited Grandma’s budgerigar. It was put in my room, but I didn’t want the green creature with me at night. It sang and flapped its wings inside its cage, pecked at the swing and I saw its tiny heart beating under its plumage. I didn’t dream about flying any more. I carried the bird into my father’s room one night and for a second he seemed to wake, it was me, his son, I was bringing him a bird. He smiled, accepted the cage and poked a finger inside, in which Pym instantly pecked a hole. From that day forward Dad was lost to us. He forgot his crosswords, he forgot us, he forgot everything he had forgotten. From now on it was just him and Pym. He experimented with seed mixtures, bought a new cage, made swings and a house, cleaned its beak, served biscuits, he was on hand twenty-four hours a day for that budgerigar. And Mum walked around in her brittle silence observing everything as if we were natural disasters she could do nothing to prevent.
Then one day her silence cracked and the autumnal storm closed in. I was to be carpeted in the sitting room, Dad had his nose between the bars of the cage and Mum had her nose in a handkerchief.
‘Are you taking drugs?’ she sobbed.
‘Drugs? Of course I’m not. Why?’
‘Do you smoke hashish?’ she continued, drying her wet cheeks.
‘Have you gone completely loopy?’ I shouted.
Mum looked at Dad, but Dad couldn’t follow, and it turned out that she had read some insane article about drugs in Nå and it had listed all the symptoms of drug addiction. It was full of crazy things, but after Heaven and Hell people were quite hysterical. It took a lot of earnest explanation to get Mum back on an even keel, and I realised that it was the first time we had spoken for many years. The budgerigar cleaned Dad’s nails, that was his latest trick, and I tried to persuade Mum that she had nothing to fear.
‘Don’t have to be a drug addict just because I pick my nose once in a while, do I,’ I said calmly.
Mum just looked at me. I got a sudden itch in both nostrils, but I didn’t dare stick my finger up, she would only have thought the worst.
‘It says here,’ she said, patting the magazine, ‘that drug addicts often pick their noses and have sores.’
‘Everyone picks their noses, don’t they!’
She bent closer and lifted my eyelid.
‘I think your eyes are red,’ she said, horrified.
‘I’m just a bit tired,’ I said.
Mum went hysterical.
‘That’s what it says here! Tiredness. Listlessness. Kim, what is going on in Seb’s bedsit?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘We play records and drink tea and chat.’
‘Are there lots of addicts at the Experimental School?’
I couldn’t be bothered to answer. We had been through this before. My mother imagined the Experimental as some sort of Indian opium den. My father was imitating one of Pym’s throat sounds. Mum took a deep breath.
‘You smell so strange,’ she said.
‘If there’s any strange smell here, it’s from that zoo over there!’ I shouted, rising angrily from my chair.
Dad turned round.
‘Don’t raise your voice. Pym gets scared.’
I think Mum could have flown at him. She was gripping the sofa tight.
‘You go to the toilet such a lot,’ she burst out.
I started laughing. What else could you do but laugh! The laughter thundered in like a locomotive.
‘Don’t have to be an addict to have a crap, do you!’
‘Kim!’
Mum had stood up, too.
I went into the hall and flung on the military jacket I had bought at the Urra Marching Band flea market.
‘Where are you going?’ Mum said.
‘Out for a walk.’
She came up close and only now could I see how frightened she was, petrified, her hands were trembling and her pulse was throbbing in her neck like a runaway metronome.
‘Trust me,’ I insisted.
I left to the sound of crying and birdsong behind me. Outside, gusts wrapped themselves around my legs, auguring stronger winds, a storm.
I headed for Norum and Ola. His bell boy uniform was better than the school band’s, burgundy with gold buttons and a flat hat. Could see his reflection in his shoes. He smuggled me into the kitchen where a stalwart girl served us coffee and cakes.
Ola sighed with contentment and leaned across the table with crumbs round his mouth.
‘Goin’ to the cinema with her on Saturday,’ he whispered. ‘Name’s Vigdis.’
‘Well I never. Small world. She lives on the floor below Seb.’
Ola’s eyes flickered and the furrow above his nose grew into a roadworker’s trench.
‘Does she?’ was all he said
‘How’s Kirsten then?’
Ola cast wild glances in all directions.
‘Shhh, for Christ’s sake!’
Vigdis returned with the coffee pot and flicked a speck of dust off Ola’s shoulder. He sank beneath the weight of her fingers. I was seriously concerned that he would start stammering again. Vigdis looked at me, smiled, didn’t recognise me.
‘Any news on room 23?’ she asked, laughing behind the words.
Ola shook his head, sending her an arch smile.
Then Vigdis went to the kitchen. A gaggle of chambermaids burst in. We wandered off to the reception desk.
‘What’s 23?’ I asked.
‘A room,’ Ola grinned. ‘A couple from Fredrikstad. Honeymoon. Haven’t left the room for four days.’
A bell rang and Ola had to lend a hand, a taxi packed with fat Germans.
‘You goin’ to Seb’s tonight?’ I asked.
‘No time,’ Ola panted carrying four leather cases and a protective suit cover over his shoulder.
‘Say bye to Vigdis,’ I said and headed for town.
Seb was not at home. I strolled up to the school and found him in the art room. He looked like a full-blooded Red Indian, he had painted his face and plaited his hair.
‘Greetings, Red Fox,’ he intoned, flourishing a brush.
Two girls were busy at the lathe, water and leather flying everywhere. An old man sat carving a piece of wood.
‘Your smoke signals have been received, Yellow Peril,’ I said.
‘Outta sight!’ Seb bleated. ‘Outta sight!’
We shuffled down to the common room where the bridge club was in session. Seb poured cold tea into two grubby mugs.
‘Point of no return,’ he grinned. ‘It was in the Rollin’ Stone. The Beatles have split up.’
The tea lay bitter under my tongue.
‘New LP coming out in a couple of months,’ I said.
‘Oh, yes. It’s all on tape. But there’s nothin’ after that.’ He swallowed the slop. ‘And that’s fine. Should pack it in when you’re at the top. They should’ve stopped after Sergeant Pepper. Fab funeral. Do you agree, Green Eagle?’
‘Seen anythin’ of Gunnar?’ I asked.
Seb pulled a grin and rolled a magical mystery tour.
/> ‘Busy man. Been made big chief of Cathedral School.’
I took a plug of Mac Baren’s.
‘Apparatchik,’ I said. ‘That’s like Gunnar.’
‘Stig was here yesterday lecturin’ on anarchism. A belter.’
‘Wow. Has he shifted course?’
‘Fell foul of the party line. He’s worried about his little brother now. Stalin has blood on his whiskers.’
Seb blew four rings in the air.
‘Gunnar knows what he’s doin’,’ I said.
‘And God won’t forgive him,’ Seb grinned, mashing the dog-end.
Pelle came in and was on an upper. I didn’t like Pelle. There was something about his eyes you couldn’t quite work out. He had black nails and acne. He ignored me.
‘Meetin’ in the park,’ he whispered to Seb.
I walked with them to the Royal Palace. I thought of my mother and my head ached. They stood in groups under the trees, thin, black figures. The wind howled across the bare landscape. A match lit up a yellow face. Pelle went over to someone standing alone by a bush.
‘Sweetie shop’s open for tonight,’ Seb whispered, the paint burning on his face.
‘Dope?’
Seb chuckled.
‘Nothin’ special,’ he said. ‘Nothin’ special. No point goin’ to Bogstad if you can have a free trip to Katmandu.’
Pelle returned with a cupped hand. He nodded to Seb and they began to walk down the steps. I hesitated. Seb turned.
‘Are you comin’ or not?’ he called.
I deliberated. The wind was blowing through the trees, making an unpleasant dry sound.
‘Gotta be off,’ I said.
Seb and Pelle disappeared from view. I stood in the weather-ravaged park. The terrain was hard and rugged. The wind tore at my hair. I saw the lights down Karl Johan, the neon signs, Freia, Idun, Odd Fellow. Behind me matches were lit like staccato fires. I already knew that this autumn had gone off the rails, we were off the rails, I knew that, and what the hell could I do about it?
I went home and wrote another letter to Nina.
All mothers loved Jørgen, except his own. There was a strange atmosphere at his place in the dark flat in Jacob Aallsgate, heavy, gloomy vibes, as though the whole house was guarding a secret that must never be revealed. It smelt of moths and misappropriated funds, the doors creaked and the curtains were always drawn. Deep in despair Jørgen’s mother paced to and fro, with protruding eyes and white knuckles, and in felt slippers. The father was a toiletries sales rep and almost never at home. The first time I went there, it was the Saturday Beate held a class party, but I had decided once and for all that this year I was going to keep a low profile, I didn’t want to risk any more rooftop walks or dances of death happening, so I didn’t go to the get-together, and neither did Jørgen. Instead we stayed at his place sipping strawberry liqueur and getting quite merry and playing The Mothers of Invention. His mother glowered at me with hateful eyes when I arrived, didn’t even shake my hand, just gave me the once-over as though I had come straight from the lab and was radioactive. Now she was padding outside the door releasing tiny whimpers and sighs from between pursed lips. Days were pretty tough at home with my mother in accelerated mode and my father going to seed, but, wow, this was worse, Jørgen should pack his things before he became environmentally damaged. And I told him so.
‘It’ll pass,’ Jørgen smiled.
‘Don’t be so sure,’ I said. ‘The only solution is to get away in time.’
‘Sounds like you’re thinking of making a break for it as well,’ Jørgen joked.
‘After our final exams. Not stayin’ a second longer.’
Jørgen laughed and leaned back, then his mouth tightened and he sat staring at the ceiling.
‘One day they’ll realise,’ he whispered. ‘One day they’ll understand.’
‘Understand what?’ I asked, pouring more pop.
Jørgen didn’t answer. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Behind him there was a large poster of Rudolf Nureyev. He didn’t have such long hair after all. He was perched on the tips of his toes and under his tights his balls bulged out like a cabbage. Jørgen sat under the light from the blue lamp on the desk and for the first time I noticed how handsome he was, the lines of his face were clean and graphic, his cheekbones prominent, the narrow cheeks were in shadow as though he had applied make-up, I couldn’t take my eyes off his face and I understood why the girls were disappointed when they heard that Jørgen wasn’t going to the class party.
Jørgen must have been aware I was watching him. I spilt my drink on my trousers. He wiped it off with his handkerchief. Outside, his mother was pacing the dark corridors.
‘Why didn’t you want to go to the class party?’ Jørgen asked.
I lit a cigarette. It was a funny evening. When he asked like that, I knew I would lay all my cards on the table. It seemed so easy to be frank with Jørgen, in the flat with the dark and hideous secret honesty was not an issue.
‘Tend to get plastered,’ I said. ‘My brain misfires and I lose all sense of proportion. Don’t seem to be myself any more. I’m not in charge. It’s pretty annoyin’.’
‘Does it only happen when you’re drunk?’
‘It’s definitely worse then. Have mild attacks when I’m sober, too. Especially at night. Used to scream. Screamed so much I couldn’t speak the day after.’
‘I get frightened sometimes,’ Jørgen said. ‘Sudden attacks. Dead frightened. And I know there’s nothing to be frightened about. I know that, but I’m still scared out of my wits. Lasts a couple of hours. Then it passes.’
‘Sounds nasty,’ I said.
‘That time at Sidsel’s party,’ he went on, ‘when you chased the Frogner gang away, I was certain you would be my pal and I would never have to be frightened again.’
I held up my hand. The forefinger was an eyesore, a sweaty hook with a nail on it.
‘This is what sorted that out,’ I laughed. ‘They’d broken it a few weeks before after I’d hurled a stone at one of them. Hit ’im in the face.’
Jørgen looked at me bewildered, then he laughed and poured red wine into the glasses.
‘At any rate, I’m fine now, Kim. Haven’t been frightened since the day you entered the classroom.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the party?’ I asked.
‘I get bored. Parties like that bore me.’
I needed a leak and crept out into the chamber of horrors. The mother was there in an instant, my smile was not contagious, she just stood there keeping me in check with her festering suspicion and ominous secret.
‘Loo?’ I slurred and she pointed to the door next to me. She was without language and voice, her eyes were dead, there was something she had seen which had reduced them to ashes.
I went to the loo and emptied my bladder. Afterwards I happened to see my face in the mirror. It was pale and unhealthy-looking. But I had washed my hair and it crackled all the way round my head like black electric wires. I combed it and heard it crackle in my comb as though visions were on their way out of my skull.
Jørgen was sitting on the windowsill flicking through an acting copy.
‘Thought any more about the drama group?’ he asked.
‘No.’
He threw the pages over to me. War and Peace.
‘We’ve got a role for you,’ he said with enthusiasm.
‘Me? Nothin’ doin’. Hate the theatre. Went to see Brand with my mother once and almost had a haemorrhage.’
Jørgen laughed.
‘The theatre is the truth,’ he exclaimed, in all seriousness. ‘Isn’t it? We’re acting all the time, with each other. It makes us lie. We fool each other and pretend not to notice. But on the stage everyone is clear about their role. Only on the stage are we truly honest.’
‘Last time you said you wanted to be an actor because you were bored.’
‘I’m bored with lying,’ Jørgen said. ‘I’m bored with people talking at cross purposes.’ He
sent me a quick glance. ‘And you wanted to be a singer!’
‘Because I wanted to drown out all the bullshit,’ I laughed.
Jørgen sat down beside me.
‘We need to fill one more role,’ he said, flicking through the manuscript. ‘The messenger. We need a powerful voice!’
‘How many lines?’ I asked.
‘One,’ Jørgen said.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.
As I trundled home that night and the wind swept across Vestkanttorvet and the moon crossed the sky like a football, I thought that Jørgen, Jørgen was going to be my fixed point in the time to come, Jørgen was the anchor, Jørgen was the eye of the storm: the circle of calm in the midst of all the chaos.
Gunnar dropped by one evening, with a pile of leaflets as usual. He smuggled them into my room and started sorting them. I had to distribute No To Rationalisation the day after. There was no urgency about the solidarity committee’s reaction to the lie that American troops were being withdrawn. It was fine if I handed them out on Saturday in the lunch break.
Gunnar spoke fast, in a staccato way, didn’t even have time for a cup of tea. Was on his way to a student council meeting.
I started perspiring at the back of my knees.
‘Is there no one else who could distribute them?’ I asked cautiously.
Gunnar’s eyes bored into me like harpoons.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I agree with the content, no question, but I don’t quite get the standin’ in squares and holdin’ speeches.’
Gunnar shuffled the piles of leaflets.
‘I don’t reckon that’s what’s botherin’ you most,’ he said.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Think you’ve yelled in squares quite a few times,’ he went on. ‘At the school dance. At Dolphin.’
‘Right. That’s why I’d been thinkin’ of keepin’ a low profile this year. Takin’ things easy.’
Gunnar’s glare didn’t waver.
‘That’s a pretty weird attitude. It’s fine that you don’t want to make a prat of yourself, but political work is not the bloody same, is it.’
‘Didn’t say it was, but you’re still in the spotlight, aren’t you.’