Grandfather didn’t look at Arvid as he spoke, but slightly to the right, past his ear. ‘That’s what I had to say,’ he said, and turned and walked back up the path to join the others. The path was rugged and full of stones and he placed one foot carefully in front of the other. Grandfather was an old man.
The others weren’t sitting any more, they had stood up from the blanket and were now bending over a heap of stones studying rare flowers. Arvid had seen them himself on his way down, but you couldn’t pick them because all flowers on this island were protected, the skipper had told them that before they got off the boat.
He looked back at the coast. It was a long way off, and the town was a rust-red stripe of south-facing roofs, with the church spire and the water tower that looked like Uncle Scrooge’s money bin in the early Donald Duck comics. At least that’s what he had always imagined and had said so, and everyone thought that was a funny thing to say. He wondered whether it was possible to swim all the way to land. It probably was, but not for him, he would have had to train and train for many years and when those years had passed the point of it would have gone with them.
‘You keep away from the boy!’ he heard his mother say from above and Grandfather lifted his empty palms, still holding the cigar, and looked up at the sky.
Gry and Mogens had changed into their swimming gear and came running, but they didn’t stop by him, they just kept running and jumped into the water, went under and came up again and Mogens no longer looked like Tommy Steele.
‘Come on in, Arvid,’ he shouted. ‘It’s great!’
Arvid shook his head. ‘Watch out for the riptides,’ he said.
‘Don’t talk rubbish. There are no riptides here,’ Gry said, smacking her hand down hard on the water, sending the spray all the way up to the shore. Arvid shrugged and walked along the water’s edge round to the headland until he came to a bay on the far side of the island. He couldn’t see the coast from here, only the sea stretching out towards Sweden and a sailing boat far in the distance. The sun was baking down and he lay in the shade of a bush, closed his eyes and fell asleep at once.
When he awoke he was no longer in the shade, the skin on his face felt like cardboard and he heard someone shouting. He sat up and looked around, he was on the island, but in his dream he had been in Italy and the sun had been a burning globe.
‘Is that you there?’ Mogens called. He came walking along the beach, in his palm-tree shirt and his hair was dry. ‘We’ve been looking all over for you. We have to go now. The others are waiting on the jetty.’
‘I fell asleep.’
‘Jesus. Is there anything wrong?’
‘No, no, I just fell asleep.’
‘Everything’s OK? Are you sure?’
‘Yes, for Christ’s sake. Didn’t you hear what I just said?’
‘Sure I did. Anyway, we’ll have to run now. The boat should’ve left ages ago.’
They sprinted across the island, over rocks and lyme grass and in between the trees and past the houses, past the chapel with the ship and past the lighthouse that he wouldn’t be going up now and down to the little harbour. The whole family was waiting on the wooden jetty, the post boat had started the engine and his father looked furious. The Swedish yacht was gone.
When everyone was on board and the boat chugged out of the harbour his father came over and took Arvid’s arm, spun him round, and it hurt, for his father was strong and his grip was tight. Arvid slipped on the deck and fell to his knees.
‘Why is there always trouble with you? Why can’t you be like other people just for once? Why can’t you behave normally? Christ, it’s as if you came from a different planet! Answer me, boy!’
Arvid stared at the planks of the deck, the yellow paint was peeling off and underneath he could see the blue coming through. There was no answer to give and his father shook Arvid’s shoulder and shouted: ‘Have you gone deaf? Answer me, goddamn it!’ Arvid looked up. His father’s face was white. He felt a knot in his stomach, like a stone and the stone grew and made everything hard and still inside him. No one could hurt him, no one could reach him, he could go wherever he wanted. He stood up, words formed in his mouth, clear as fragments of glass, but suddenly his mother was between them and the words crunched between his teeth and turned to powder.
‘What are you doing? Keep away from Arvid. Have you got that? You keep well away from him!’ She pushed his father in the chest and he stepped back and his mother pushed him again until he was standing with his back to the wall of the wheelhouse and he couldn’t retreat any further.
The skipper stuck his head out and said: ‘What’s going on?’ Gry took Mogens’ hand and held it so hard her knuckles went white, the skipper cut the engines and came out, everyone looked at his father and there was a silence, except for the water lapping against the side of the boat. The wind was gentle and full of sea, the sun lit up the yellow boat and his father’s white face. Suddenly his father was standing on the railing, holding the rigging with one hand, and he laughed.
‘I’m not needed here, am I? I might just as well jump into the sea, isn’t that right?’
‘Don’t be childish, Frank. Come back down,’ his mother said. ‘We can talk about this later. Don’t ruin everything.’
But his father laughed. ‘I might just as well jump,’ he said again.
Arvid screwed up his eyes and could feel how the stone had filled him completely. ‘Go on, jump then,’ he said in a low voice, but everyone heard him and turned. ‘Just jump. I’ll help you out. I can swim like a fish. Just jump!’
His father looked down into the water and back at Arvid, he bit his lip and his face slowly turned red.
‘So jump then!’ Arvid shouted. ‘It’s not dangerous. Just jump! Don’t you see you have to? You can’t just say it and do nothing!’
His father held one hand to his face, he seemed unsteady now and scared and when he climbed down it was as if from a great height. He walked across the deck like a drunk. The skipper started the engine, the boat was shaking and his father’s whole body was shaking too and then his mother put her arms around him and held him tight. Gry burst into tears and Mogens stroked her hair, leaned over and whispered into her ear.
When they docked at the jetty Arvid jumped ashore at once. He was about to run, but his father came after him and grabbed him by the shoulder.
‘Hang on, Arvid.’
Hands off!’ he shouted, tore himself free and quickly walked along the footpath. He could hear them behind him, but he didn’t listen to what they were saying any more, it was just noise and he took his bike from the stand by the beach hut, got on it and pedalled on to the road. When he had enough speed up he let go of the handlebars. When that went well he closed his eyes. At first there was a nasty bang against the wheel and he realised he was too close to the kerb, so he leaned over to the right and then the bike was in the middle of the road. Now he just listened. He heard the wind and the gulls screaming and the distant putter of a tractor in a field far off and small birds in the poplars, there had to be hundreds of them, and then he heard a car. Not very loud at first, but it was coming closer and closer behind him, and it gave him a shock when it hooted. The bike lurched, he grabbed the handlebars, still with his eyes closed, there was the scream of brakes and he felt a startling blow to the body and he thought, if I hold the handlebars tight and I don’t open my eyes, I can cycle all the way to Italy.
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/> Harvill Secker, an imprint of Vintage,
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Copyright © Forlaget Oktober, Oslo 1989
English translation copyright © Don Bartlett 2016
Cover photographs © Getty Images
Per Petterson has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
First published with the title Ekkoland in Norway by Forlaget Oktober in 1989
This book was published with the financial assistance of NORLA
Published with the support of the Creative Europe Programme of the European Union
The European Commission support for the production of this publication does not constitute an endorsement of the contents which reflects the views only of the author, and the Commission cannot be held responsible for any use which may be made of the information contained therein
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781846554490
Per Petterson, Echoland
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