Beatles

  A door opened and I expected to see Hubert. But a girl came out of a bedroom, she undulated across the floor, naked, and embraced Henny, they kissed lovingly, for a long time, right there, in front of me. I turned slowly and averted my eyes, my cheeks burning.

  ‘This is Françoise,’ Henny said at length. ‘And this is Kim.’

  Françoise kissed me on the cheek fourteen times and retreated into a corner.

  I had to speak.

  ‘Where’s Hubert?’ I asked.

  Henny found herself a chair and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Hubert lives on the Ile de Ré,’ she said. ‘An island on the Atlantic coast.’

  I slumped into a chair, too. My hangover was receding.

  ‘I have to get hold of him. Is it far away?’

  ‘You’ll have to take the train to La Rochelle and the ferry from there,’ Henny explained.

  I told her about Seb. I told her we needed cash for the train tickets home.

  ‘Come with us to Coupole!’ Henny said.

  Françoise and Henny disappeared into the bedroom and were gone for some time, I sat there in the greenhouse sweating, my brain in a whirl, then finally they emerged and we walked to Coupole, a hangar-sized restaurant, and as soon as we had sat down, the table was surrounded by smooth types with water-combed hair and crumpled, double-breasted suits and white shoes. Françoise and Henny ordered eggs and tea, I ordered a beer and all the greasers wanted to say hello and spoke close to my ear. Then Henny prattled away in French and the snails each put a banknote on the table and patted me on the shoulder and I no longer thought they were so greasy, in fact I have never been a good judge of people, in fact I’m a bit dense.

  ‘Françoise and I are broke, you see,’ Henny said, pushing the money over to me.

  I was embarrassed and drank up my beer.

  ‘I can easily hitch,’ I said.

  ‘Take the money,’ she insisted ‘And say hello to Hubert.’

  She jotted down his address and explained to me where the railway station was. Three quarters of an hour later I was sitting on a train westwards in a compartment full of sleeping Frenchmen. I just had to sit quite still and allow my thoughts to settle, but my head was a dustbin and I was unable to empty it. Instead I fell asleep, too, and perhaps that was the best thing that could have happened. But at twelve I was awoken by a terrible noise. The other passengers in the compartment were opening bottles of wine, wolfing down blood-red tomatoes, eating ham and chicken, putting rotten cheese in their laps and I escaped into the corridor, yanked down the window and let the wind double-cleanse my head. Villages. Fields. Vineyards. Over a river, on a sudden impulse, I threw out the photos I had been carrying in my back pocket.

  I trekked onwards from La Rochelle by bus and ferry and docked on the Ile de Ré at the onset of night. There, I had to take another bus and jumped off in Le Flotte half an hour later, a tiny harbour where the breeze came in off the Atlantic. I heard fishing boats rolling on the waves and saw the lights of two bars. I entered one and showed them the address. They knew where it was, I was given a beer on the house and then a young lad accompanied me over the last part. He stopped outside a gate, pointed and went on his way. An old woman came out and subjected me to closer examination. I showed her the slip of paper and said Norvège. She clapped her hands and nudged me into a courtyard where there was a low wall with a veranda in front.

  ‘Yber!’ she bawled. ‘Monsieur Yber!’

  And then out he came, leaned over the balustrade and peered down at us. I ran up the stairs. Hubert was standing there in his belted dressing gown seeming quite unsurprised. He had a beard.

  ‘You’ve hidden yourself well,’ I said.

  He laid his hands on my shoulder.

  ‘Come in,’ he said softly.

  It was a fairly spartan room. In the middle of the floor there was a table. In the corner a pile of canvas stretchers. The walls were bare.

  In the harsh light I could see the fear. After such a long time, I was suddenly unprepared.

  ‘That was not a great move,’ I said.

  ‘Life here’s cheap, Kim. I can live here for the rest of my life.’

  He went into the kitchen and poured mussels into a saucepan. He stood with his back to me. I could hear the crashing of the sea.

  ‘Do you get any painting done here?’ I asked.

  Hubert didn’t answer. He poured white wine over the mussels, chopped onions and took a swig. He stood with his back to me. I spotted a picture of a man with a bloodstained bandage round his head. I smelt the aroma from the wine and the mussels.

  ‘That was not a great move,’ I repeated.

  ‘Has your father forgiven me?’

  His voice sounded like one of my mother’s old records.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  We sat up for the rest of the night eating mussels and drinking white wine. Hubert told me that La Flotte meant the sea, and when he was a bit drunk he said that moule, mussel, also meant pussy. I couldn’t face any more mussels.

  ‘Regards from Henny,’ I said.

  Hubert stood up to fetch another bottle.

  ‘It didn’t work out for us,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I need money,’ I said. ‘Four train tickets to Oslo.’

  Then we polished off a Prince Hubert de Polignac and the sun arose again, as though nothing had happened. We went onto the veranda and heard the fishing smacks chugging out to sea, heard the sea and the wind and people.

  ‘They caught a shark last week,’ Hubert said. ‘A shark.’

  He walked with me to the bus stop by the harbour. There was a smell of fish and salt and seaweed.

  ‘Sure you’ve got enough money now?’ Hubert asked.

  ‘Plenty enough,’ I said.

  ‘Say hello to everyone.’

  ‘Think you should come home soon,’ I said. ‘You can come home now, no problem.’

  He took my hand and would not let go. He shook me and his beard moved from side to side. He could not let go and his eyes were full of saltwater. The driver hooted. He did not let go. All the faces on the bus were turned towards us. So I had to tear myself away.

  I sat at the back and watched Hubert standing alone at the bus stop, and as my mind sped back over a whole life he disappeared behind masts and seagulls.

  At Hôtel Odéon there was mayhem. Seb had done a runner. He had gone to the toilet and had not returned. That was twenty-four hours ago.

  ‘You should’ve gone with him,’ I shouted.

  ‘We’re not bloody nannies, you bonehead! And where the hell’ve you been, eh?’

  Ola stepped between us.

  ‘Don’t quarrel now, boys. We don’t want any bloody quarrellin’.’

  We went to Le Ronsard but didn’t get much further. Evening was drawing in and Paris twinkled and screamed at us and snarled bad breath into our faces. If I started counting people I would go mad. They trudged past, line after line, they stood in big groups at all street corners, they filled shops, cars, houses, bars, they were everywhere, I was reminded of the time we played hide and seek in Nesodden, I had found the perfect place, a little hollow behind a bush, I lay on my stomach, closed my eyes, thought I would be even more invisible like that. Then I felt my legs itch and I realised I was lying in the middle of a path of ants, they were all over me, I didn’t dare move a muscle, I lay still as the ants covered me, and I thought, while I was lying there, about the adder I had seen, the dead adder in the anthill by the fence, as someone far away was slowly counting to a hundred.

  Gunnar unfolded the map on the table. Seb was an addict. Seb had hopped it to get a fix. A girl played ‘Light My Fire’ on the jukebox. Then I knew.

  ‘The cemetery,’ I said. ‘Morrison’s grave.’

  We found Père Lachaise on the map and hailed a taxi.

  ‘If we find him, let’s catch the train tonight,’ I said.

  Père Lachaise was a whole town, a windswept ruin, where stray cats ran between graves and there weren’t only common-or-g
arden gravestones, there were houses, statues, staircases, temples, pillars. I felt ill just being there, it was the other side of Paris, the realm of the dead, just a taxi ride from the tumult of human life.

  We searched up and down, saw women dressed in black standing among the trees in silence, heard cats howling, saw withered flowers and smashed stained glass, smelt the stench of rotting foliage and cellars, we walked our legs off, were scared of getting lost, standing in the middle of an insane labyrinth. Ola was grey-faced and silent, Gunnar searched with vacant eyes, the wind tore right through us, heavy clouds hung in the sky and the first drops fell with a rumble of thunder. Then we heard another sound, coming from the graves close by, an electric piano, bass, drums, thunder, rain and then Jim’s voice. ‘Riders On The Storm’. We ran down the path. Morrison Hotel was written on a wall, we followed the arrow beneath, heard the music clearly, the echo, the rain, the thunder, clambered past a few imposing stones, and there, on a bedraggled piece of land, sat a scattered band of freaks, one of whom was Seb.

  We were struck dumb by the solemnity of the occasion and quietly sat down beside him. A dark-haired, pale girl clung to the cassette player, crying without making a sound. On a wooden board was written Douglas Morrison James. A wine bottle containing a flower protruded from the ground. A circle of mussel shells surrounded the grave.

  ‘We’ve got to go,’ I whispered to Seb. ‘We’re catchin’ the train tonight.’

  He stood up without a word and followed us, without offering any resistance, a substantial, unreal calm seemed to have settled over him, his eyes shone beneath his wide central parting. We returned to the hotel and collected our things, took the metro to Gare du Nord and I bought four tickets to Oslo via Copenhagen. The train left at five minutes to eleven, that was still a couple of hours away. We stocked up with beer at the station buffet and sat down to wait.

  Then Seb started talking. He spoke slowly and clearly as though frightened we would not understand him, as though he were a priest and the capacious arrivals hall his church.

  ‘Jim is not dead,’ he said. ‘Jim is not dead.’

  We bent closer.

  ‘Isn’t Jim dead?’

  ‘He’s just pretendin’ to be dead. He’s gone his own way. To Africa to live with his new soul. It’s his old soul which is buried in Père Lachaise.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ Gunnar enquired.

  ‘No one’s seen the body,’ Seb continued. ‘Pamela was in on the whole thing.’

  ‘Pamela?’

  ‘His woman. Met them at the Rock’n’ Roll Circus and tripped out with Jim for a week. He said he was goin’ away soon.’

  All of a sudden Seb became nervous, cast covert glances in all directions and waved us closer.

  ‘This is a secret, boys. Not a word to anyone else, alright? The FBI’s after him!’

  We drank beer and our train appeared on the electronic information board.

  ‘What’ve you actually got in your shoulder bag?’ Gunnar asked.

  Seb hugged it without answering. There were twenty minutes left to the train’s departure. Gunnar wouldn’t let the matter drop. He grabbed the bag and opened it. Inside was a syringe and a box of matches.

  ‘So you thought you’d take this shite home, did you?’

  ‘Christ, boys, I’ve gotta have a fix before we set off!’

  Gunnar held the bag and sent him dark looks.

  ‘No,’ said Gunnar. ‘We’re chuckin’ this down the bog!’

  He stood up. Seb leapt after him. He screamed.

  ‘Gunnar! For Pete’s sake! You’re killin’ me!’

  ‘I’m not, this is!’ Gunnar said, pointing to the green bag.

  ‘This is not firecrackers and bangers you’re playin’ with now!’ Seb shouted, suddenly clear-headed.

  But Gunnar was on his way down to the toilets. Seb couldn’t believe his eyes.

  ‘He’s doin’ it,’ he murmured. ‘He’s doin’ it.’

  I bought three bottles of brandy from across the road and we jumped on the train at the last second. Then we chugged out of Paris, on our way home, all four of us, through a stinking Europe that lay on our skin like grey dirt.

  Sentimental Journey

  Autumn ’71

  It was autumn. Gunnar started at Oslo University and found himself some digs in Sogn. Seb calmed himself down with milk and honey at his grandmother’s. I turned twenty, was granted a study loan, bought books for the prelim and continued to live in Munchsgate. Ola stayed with his parents in Solli and was accepted at Bjørknes School. Everything in the garden seemed to be rosy until the telegram from Trondheim arrived. That put an immediate end to Ola’s future plans. Kirsten was in her fourth month and a man of honour did not run away from his responsibilities. Ola bought rings and a train ticket and the evening he was due to leave I arranged a big stag night in Munchsgate. The study loan was still hot, so I served up a ton of shrimps, champagne, white wine, beer and gin. And so we sat there, and it was hard to lift the mood. We were chucking it down our necks and Seb, who had been sober since Paris, had obviously cracked big-time. I carried the shrimp shells to the refuse chute and on my return I found Ola crying. He was smoking and drinking and crying and trying to talk at the same time.

  ‘Shit, boys,’ we heard. ‘Shit! Now of all times when we’re together again!’

  ‘Calm down,’ Gunnar said. ‘You’re not goin’ to Alaska.’

  Ola cried even louder.

  ‘This wasn’t how I’d planned it,’ he sobbed. ‘Gettin’ into Bjørknes and all that. Shit!’

  Gunnar shook him with a gentle, but firm hand.

  ‘Listen, bridegroom. You can do your exams in Trondheim, too. And you’ll be able to live with Kirsten. Haven’t you always wanted that, eh?’

  Ola dried his tears and smiled. I passed him a killer cocktail.

  ‘What the hell would I do without you boys!’

  We pounded him on the shoulder and Ola waggled his head.

  ‘Hope it’s a boy,’ he whispered.

  The atmosphere picked up. Ola looked as if he was already the proud father of four and knocked back the drinks at a furious tempo. Then his expression changed, he hunched up, terrified eyes receded into his head.

  ‘Imagine it’s not my child,’ he breathed.

  ‘Now you bloody well pull yourself together!’ Gunnar shouted. ‘We’ll pretend we never heard that.’

  Ola was counting desperately on his fingers, counting and recounting, and with a little sigh and a lightning drum solo on his bottle of booze he slowly fell to the floor.

  ‘June, July, August, September,’ he chanted. ‘It must’ve been the mornin’…’

  ‘Spare us the details,’ I grinned, mixing him a chainsaw of a drink.

  Seb had not exactly been garrulous, but now he made a suggestion and opened a fat black book he took from his pocket.

  ‘Since we won’t be able to join you at your weddin’, I think we should perform a trial ceremony here,’ he said.

  And, so help me God, Seb was sitting with the Bible in his lap and flicking through it.

  ‘Now he’s really gone bonkers!’ Gunnar shouted.

  Seb was not listening.

  ‘Please rise,’ he said to Ola. ‘Kim can be Kirsten.’

  ‘He’s not gettin’ married in Nidaros Cathedral for Christ’s sake!’

  Gunnar was aghast.

  ‘All the more important that we perform this symbolic ceremony,’ Seb said calmly.

  Either he was clean out of his mind or this was a monumental piss-take. But we were with him all the way, we were not going to stand in his way.

  Gunnar sat in his corner, shocked, while Ola and I stood swaying side by side and Seb read slowly and clearly from some chapter in the black book, then we promised to love each other in good times and bad, fumbled with the rings, split our sides laughing and rolled over the floor.

  Seb maintained his mask and we roared even more. However, Gunnar didn’t seem to think it very funny. He took
Mao’s little red book off the shelf and found some solace in ‘Dare To Fight, Dare To Win’. Ola and I regained vertical posture, poured ourselves a drink and hiccupped in unison. The ceremony was over, the priest slammed the book shut and then Ola began to cry again, and this time he seemed inconsolable. The days with the boys were over, now it was nappies, debt, mother-in-law and nagging. No more Snafus, no more gatherings around the grooves and wild drum solos. We sniffled a bit, all of us. Then he fell asleep.

  We transported Ola and his suitcase to Oslo East station in a wheelbarrow we found in the backyard, carried him onto the train and hung a sign around his neck. Silent Homecoming. Then the train departed. It puffed out of the station, past Fred’s window, and we waved as though it were necessary, stood there with empty hands, waving.

  Working Class Hero

  Autumn ’71

  Didn’t see much of Gunnar after he had moved into the student village, and things were quiet for me now that Ola had left and Seb lived like a monk at his grandmother’s. I popped into a couple of lectures about logic, but never really got the point. One day there was a huge hullabaloo in front of the Frederikke building. A fanatical mob stood there waving their fists and screaming at each other, and in the midst of this melee was Gunnar, yelling. I sneaked over, it was the solidarity committee stand for striking pilots. ‘I suppose you think pilots don’t earn enough, eh!’ a guy at the table snapped. ‘You’d probably go around rattling a box in the aid of bosses striking at Aftenposten too, I wouldn’t wonder!’ I think Gunnar was standing on tiptoe, at any rate he seemed taller than I remembered him. ‘We support wage disputes! Wage disputes are a blow against the capitalist state!’ ‘The bloody pilots would do better to give a few thousand to the low-paid!’ ‘So it’s up to individuals to make up the gap between rich and poor in this country, is it! What sort of politics is that, eh!’ And so it went on for almost an hour, then the crowd dispersed and Gunnar was left, sweaty and cheerful, behind the table, rattling the box.

  Then he caught sight of me.

  ‘Long time, no see,’ I said, putting five kroner in the box.