Beatles

  I had to have three rounds of Black Death before I was myself again. Then Gisle and Seppi came in. He said three words. Cecilie smiled and looked at me.

  ‘He asked if you were Danish,’ she said acidly and rewound the film.

  I gave a good, long shake of my head.

  It began to snow.

  Seppi lay by my legs and licked my shoes clean. Otherwise nothing happened. Outside, it grew dark. The storm hit the house. Gisle looked at us, nodding towards the bottle. I took a shot and passed it to him. He drank without shifting his gaze. His eyes were slow and deep. Seppi settled down in a corner and slept with one ear cocked. Cecilie put on more clothing. Then Gisle brought in some food. He placed a large piece of meat on the table and I remembered that I hadn’t eaten since I had arrived in Iceland. Cecilie turned away, looking ill. Then I saw what it was. It was a sheep’s head with the eyes still in. Gisle cut off a slice and gave it to me. I put it carefully in my mouth and chewed for a long time. It tasted of plimsolls. He cut off another piece. I took it. He looked at me while I was eating. I wanted to say something. I had a tongue in my head. I remembered what Sphinx had chiselled into our brains in the second year.

  I recited in Old Norse:

  Cattle die,

  kinsmen die,

  you too will soon die,

  I know one thing,

  that will never die,

  the reputation of all the dead.

  A beautiful smile spread across Gisle’s face. He passed me the bottle, trotted over to the bookcase and pulled out a big book. Egils Soga was printed on the spine. And then he read aloud to us for the rest of the evening, slowly, but with a clear, child-like voice. I understood nothing and had understood everything.

  Gisle went to bed early. He led us to a room on the first floor and went on his way. There was a narrow bed alongside the wall. We could hear the storm. Cecilie sat down in the corner. I lay on the bed. Cecilie remained sitting. We could feel the storm.

  ‘Don’t you want to lie down?’ I said. ‘Room for two here.’

  She didn’t answer. The rug under me was as stiff as a cactus and smelt of sheep.

  ‘Aren’t you tired?’

  She didn’t answer. She just looked at the bed with disgust. And then some devilry got into me.

  ‘If you mean to fight for the workin’ classes, you should be prepared to sleep in their bloody beds,’ I said.

  She didn’t even meet my eyes, she just got up and reclined on the bed with her back to me.

  I put a hand on her head.

  ‘I’m having my period,’ she whispered.

  And so we lay there until the light transfixed us and Seppi barked the cock’s clarion call.

  Cecilie didn’t want any breakfast. Gisle stood on the doorstep as we drove off into the white countryside. Seppi ran after the car yapping. We could see Hekla in the east. The storm was over. Everything was deserted and quiet. The car engine. We drove for two hours to Reykjavik without uttering a word. After parking outside her house entrance, she said, ‘We can catch the plane if we hurry.’

  ‘Are you goin’ home, too?’

  ‘No.’

  She ran up and collected my few possessions and I put on my boots. And then we left, out of town once again, into the American zone, past the soldiers with machine guns at the ready. Cecilie rolled down the window and spat.

  ‘When are you comin’ to Norway?’ I asked.

  ‘In the summer. Maybe.’

  We approached the airport and I was reminded of an old film we had seen together, in black and white. Parting of the ways beneath the wing in atmospheric fog.

  I got out of the car and received a hug through the window.

  ‘Have you got your ticket?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t wait until the plane has taken off. I’ll be on it. You can be sure.’

  She drove off at once. I was left standing in a cloud of exhaust and snow. A bus full of American soldiers rolled past. A fighter jet screamed above my scalp.

  I stumped into the transit hall, over to the bar. People laughed out loud, held their noses and pointed. A Christmas carol was being played on the loudspeakers. I found a shop with souvenirs.

  At first she began to cry, clung to me and sobbed, then she backed away with a sniffly nose and the questions came so thick and fast that I needed a queue number.

  ‘What’s that smell on you?’

  ‘Think it’s sheep,’ I said, putting my gym bag down in the hall. Dad was in the sitting room decorating the Christmas tree and sent me a quick nod as if I had just been downstairs to collect the post. Pym was sitting on the Christmas star.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Mum shouted.

  ‘Iceland.’

  ‘Iceland? What were you doing in Iceland? Why don’t you tell us anything? Have you completely forgotten about us? Last summer you didn’t say anything when you went to France, either! What’s got into you?’

  I almost about-turned in the doorway, but I was broke and from the kitchen I could smell pork ribs and all the Christmas baking that my mother always did.

  Dad appeared with cotton wool in his hair and glitter down his shirt.

  ‘Where have you been, did you say?’ he asked.

  ‘Cold country, six letters.’

  ‘But what were you doing there?!’ Mum shrieked. ‘What has Iceland got to do with you?’

  ‘I visited Cecilie. She’s studying in Reykjavik. Thought of starting there, too. Geology.’

  The atmosphere changed in an instant. The future shone from her eyes and Mum was all over me again.

  ‘But you could’ve told us, Kim. We’ve been so frightened for you. You have to promise us you won’t go anywhere without telling us.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Do you promise?’

  ‘I promise, Mother.’

  I disinfected myself in the bathtub, then sampled a foretaste of Christmas food, after which, exhausted, I dived between freshly ironed sheets, lay there listening to the train going round the bay and the tram in Drammensveien, took out the Kurér to tune into Europe, but the batteries were dead. I lay there counting sheep, in my boy’s room, on the night of 23 December 1971.

  It was well above zero when we trudged over to see Granddad in the home. Someone must have mixed up the dates. The thermometer was hovering on plus ten. Winter was not what it had once been. Father Christmas was wearing a raffia skirt.

  ‘Indian winter,’ I said.

  All three of us laughed, a family on their way through the warm, wet Christmas streets.

  ‘You could’ve had a haircut,’ Mum teased, tugging my hair.

  ‘I have had a haircut. The year before last.’

  It was fun. But now and then I felt like a tightrope walker. The pole bobbed and the wire vibrated. This could not last, it was impossible. I decided to hold out until next year.

  Granddad sat by the window as usual, he had shrunk, become ancient, his face was so thin there was no room for his dentures. They gaped open in a glass of water on his bedside table. But Granddad laughed, his spirits didn’t seem affected. He leaned forward and produced a picture from the drawer to show me. He spoke indistinctly, it was like listening to Gisle. But I caught the gist. It was a photograph of the railway workers on the Dovre line in 1920. Granddad stood in the middle of the gang with a moustache and a glint in his eye. Mount Snøhetta towered up in the background.

  Granddad waved away Mum’s oranges.

  ‘I’ve been to Iceland,’ I shouted.

  ‘Iceland? By boat?’

  ‘Aeroplane!’

  ‘Haven’t they got any trains in Iceland?’

  ‘No. They haven’t got any trees, either.’

  ‘Sleepers,’ said Granddad. ‘Sleepers.’

  He beckoned me closer.

  ‘They’ve been carrying beams in and out all week, Kim. Is there going to be a war?’

  ‘Not at all. They’re just measuring ceiling heights.’

  Granddad nodded for a good long time. Then he was given his
presents. He was astonished. I had bought him a mug with a picture of the Great Geysir on it. He put it down on the windowsill and looked at us.

  ‘It isn’t my birthday!’

  ‘It’s Christmas Eve,’ Mum explained.

  He looked at us. His eyes had sunk deep into his skull. He pointed to the door.

  ‘When I go out of that door, there’s going to be a party!’

  And then he laughed, he roared with laughter, shook, the tears poured down.

  Mum and Dad went to the four o’clock service in Frogner Church while I went home and drank Black Death. The presents lay under the tree. I took a peep at the labels. Hubert hadn’t sent anything. Nor Nina. I slumped to the floor and at that moment music sounded from the flat above. It gave me a start and instantly I remembered all the things I had been missing. It was the new family who had moved in, children singing a Christmas carol with squeaky voices.

  Mum and Dad returned from the church and as we were eating they asked me to tell them about Iceland. I told them everything I could remember, about the volcanoes, the lava, the hot springs and the Great Geysir.

  ‘And you’ve thought about studying geology there, have you?’ Dad enquired.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Has to be the place for it.’

  ‘You’re not studying philosophy any more?’

  I was in trouble, I lost my balance and had to grab the wire tightrope. Then Mum suddenly asked, ‘Did you visit Hubert this summer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can’t understand why he doesn’t get in touch!’

  Dad sat huddled over his plate. It was empty. The silence impaled us, as if with a harpoon.

  Mum went to the kitchen to fill the dish.

  Dad and I looked at each other.

  ‘I said you’d forgiven him,’ I breathed. ‘I asked him to come home.’

  Dad continued to look at me.

  ‘Think that was generous of you,’ I said.

  Pym landed on his shoulder, the green crow, Dad smiled briefly and Mum returned with more food.

  Afterwards we opened the presents. For Dad I had bought a true-to-life model sheep. I think Pym became jealous, it fluttered round the room wildly and would not stop until Dad put the fleecy wooden model in the pile of paper. For Mum I had a plate with Hekla volcano on it. I didn’t get a microphone, but new skis. And so Christmas Eve, with its glad tidings, faded out as the Christmas holidays brought slush and bombs. I dragged myself across the slopes and the Americans dropped their presents over Vietnam. The angels were burned, baby Jesus experienced the world in a dank air-raid shelter. Mum served cakes and Dad did crosswords. One evening when I could hear the explosions and the screams close by, I had a peek at one of his magazines. The crosswords were finished, but there weren’t any words, just letters. He had been scribbling letters into the boxes at random. We were alone in the sitting room and he looked away.

  ‘Don’t think any more about it,’ I said in despair. ‘It’s over now!’

  Don’t know if he heard me. Pine needles were falling from the tree already.

  ‘I admire you, Dad!’ I said quickly, and I meant it. ‘I admire you!’

  Mum brought in the seven kinds of Christmas biscuits and on December 30 it was announced on the news that the bombing would stop. New Year was round the corner. It was a time for resolutions. I had none. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

  Revolution 9

  Winter/spring/summer ’72

  I stuck out living at home until February. The nest was too small. It was either Pym or me. It was me. When Nixon went to China I packed my gym bag and strolled up to the university. To my great surprise, there was a study loan waiting for me. Four Ibsens and the basic grant. I went to the record shop, listened to some heavy stuff, but it didn’t do anything for me, instead I bought a record by Little Walter, went for a beer at the barn and counted the money on my fingers. Then I took a taxi to Munchsgate.

  It wasn’t Seb who opened the door. It was a girl. It was Guri.

  ‘Wow,’ I said. It was all I could say.

  ‘Hiya, Kim. Come in!’

  I did just that, had a squint around, things had changed. There was calm and orderliness, the aroma of tea and soap, a blanket on the mattress, green plants on the windowsill, two freshly washed pairs of pyjamas drying on a clothesline.

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Where’s Seb?’

  ‘He’ll be here soon. He’s out buying something for lunch.’

  I sat down. Guri filled the kettle. I was so glad to see her, she looked so strong, her body seemed to radiate with health.

  She pre-empted me: ‘I live here,’ she said.

  ‘Nice.’

  She looked at my gym bag.

  ‘How are you doing?

  ‘Makin’ progress. And you?’

  ‘Started law.’

  ‘Wow. Cool.’

  The water boiled and Guri scientifically infused the leaves. It was quiet as the tea brewed. I wondered what to do now.

  ‘Terrific plants,’ I said, pointing to the windowsill. ‘Brighten the place up.’

  ‘Those are Seb’s,’ she smiled. ‘His new hobby.’

  She poured the tea, golden brown, sat opposite me. I was beginning to find my bearings.

  ‘How’s Sidsel?’

  ‘Think she’s training to be a secretary.’

  The tea went down like a glowing peach.

  ‘Have you heard anythin’ from Nina?’

  Guri put down her cup.

  ‘She’s come back home,’ she said in a soft voice, and the tea spilt over my hands, scalding me. ‘To Denmark. She’s at… at a rehab clinic.’

  ‘Where… where’d she been?’

  ‘Her father found her in Afghanistan. Through the embassy… he works at the embassy, you know.’

  I had to put down my cup. My hands were burning.

  ‘So she did go there,’ I mumbled.

  The door burst open and there was Seb with a big cod fish on his arm. He looked down at me and broke into a huge grin.

  ‘Been out jiggin’, have you?’ I essayed, but my voice seemed to get stuck, my vocal cords got entangled.

  He offloaded the fish into the basin and sat astride a chair looking very happy and freshly-shaven.

  ‘Thought you’d fallen down a volcano! How was Iceland then?’

  ‘Alright. I might start studyin’ there. Geology. Gotta be the right place.’

  ‘Have you heard about Nina, by the way?’ He glanced at Guri. ‘Deep shit, but she’ll manage, Kim. She’ll be as right as rain. A couple of months off dope and her skin will be as smooth as a baby’s bottom.’

  Seb was on form, hadn’t seen him like that since the day he left to go to sea. Hoped the passage would be better this time.

  ‘What happened to Goose?’ I asked.

  Seb grinned and averted his gaze.

  ‘That was a dead end, that was, Kim. Well, you know, he thought the end of the world was nigh and he was countin’ and crossin’ the days off the calendar and so on. When there was one day left, he was on his knees all night mumblin’ furiously. You got a mention too, by the way. And the old fella in the shop. Pretty gruellin’ night. And when morning came he crawled over to the window and took a tentative peep outside. Christ knows what he was expectin’ to see. Enormous hole maybe. But everythin’ was as you would expect it to be. And then he lost the plot. Went mad, packed his bag and scooted off. Haven’t seen ’im since.’

  We chuckled and Guri poured more tea.

  ‘And then I appeared on the scene,’ she said. ‘Met Seb in town on New Year’s Eve.’

  They gave each other a lingering kiss. It was time to make tracks. I pulled out the record and passed it to Seb. His face lit up.

  ‘Hate To See You Go!’ Wowee. Little Walter!’

  ‘Keep it,’ I said, standing by the door.

  ‘Thanks, Kim. Far out. Drop by one evenin’ and we’ll ride the grooves.’

  Guri looked at me.

  ‘If you hear anythin’ from N
ina… or write to her, say hello from me,’ I said.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Say hello from me. Will you do that?’

  ‘Yes, Kim.’

  I stumbled down to Gjestgiveriet wrapping a lukewarm compress round my thoughts. Don’t know what I felt, I was empty, inactive like the volcano I had pissed in. It was too much for me, in the end it was too much for me, the doorman dragged me outside, gave me the usual bollocks about long-haired chimps. Stortorget was a dark hole with scaffolding round it. The cold was turning my pores inside out. I took a taxi up to Gunnar’s in Sogn. He was mildly surprised and invited me into his digs, twelve square metres, lamp, sofabed and books.

  ‘Long time no see, comrade. How’s it goin’?’

  ‘That’s the thing, Gunnar. Reckon I could stay here for a while?’

  He immediately called a general meeting in the kitchen and four others turned up, two blokes and two girls, one of them Merete, whom I had met before. Gunnar explained the situation and said it was fine if I kipped down in the hall, provided that I took my turn washing up, put fifty oncers in the kitty and kept a beady eye open for the cleaner. Passed unanimously. The others drifted back to their rooms, Gunnar and Merete stayed. Gunnar grabbed a beer and poured, even though it was only Wednesday, and Merete showed me the washing-up roster. Already I felt at home. Mao was hanging over the kitchen table, I never understood why he hadn’t had that revolting wart removed.