Doppler

  You have no right to stop me, he says.

  Of course not, I say. I’d just like to make the point that I would appreciate it if you took another route next time you went out walking.

  We’ll see about that, he says.

  Who is it, Daddy? Gregus shouts from the tent.

  Just a reactionary, I say. Go back to sleep.

  I’m quite sure that I’ll pass this way again, the man says. And I’ve made a note of today’s date.

  And what date is it? I ask.

  The thirteenth of December, he says.

  And spontaneously I begin to sing. Years of school parties have left such a deep mark inside me that as soon as the date is mentioned I begin to sing.

  Night goes with silent steps, I sing quietly, Round house and cottage. Over the earth that the sun forgot, I continue as I am joined by Gregus’s voice from the other side of the tent, Dark shadows linger, Then on our threshold stands, we sing with increasing passion, Whiteclad with candles in her hair, Saaaaantaalucia, Santa Lucia! We sing all the verses, and as the song fades away the reactionary says he’s going to ring Løvenskiold if the tent’s still here in two days’ time.

  Clearly the Christmas message of love doesn’t have much effect on you, I say.

  He doesn’t answer.

  And I suppose Løvenskiold is a friend of yours, I say.

  Yes, fancy that, says the reactionary.

  But who owns the air we breathe and the trees in the forest? I ask. Who owns the water in the stream and the song of the birds? Shouldn’t I as a citizen of this country have a right to linger in the forest if I so wish?

  Not in this forest, says the reactionary.

  You’re a true guardian of the status quo, I say, whereas I’m an enemy of the people. You want to conserve tradition while I want to break it down. You want everything to stay as it is while I want it to change. You have a dog and I have a moose. You want to buy, I want to barter. There you have some of the differences between us in a nutshell, I say. And you can come here with your dog and kick up a stink, but you should know that I don’t like your way of thinking, I don’t like your clothes, I don’t like your dog and least of all that self-satisfied smirk on your face. It’s a smirk that only immense material security and prolonged right-wing voting can produce. And I not only don’t like it, I can’t stand it, and now you can clear off, I say.

  He goes. But he turns a couple of times and makes it clear to me that this is not the last word and he’s going to check if the tent is still here in a couple of days. Oooh, I’m so scared, I jeer in a childish voice. And it strikes me that six months ago a threat from such a smart reactionary type would have made me profoundly re-think whether in fact I was at fault, but now, in this new silvan life of mine, it makes no difference to me, one way or the other. I feel unassailable. The reactionary and his crowd might constitute the cream of the legislative and executive power structure in this country, but he can’t touch me. Because I have taken the step of moving into the forest and here other rules apply. Out here, it is not Oslo or Norway any more; it’s the forest. And it’s a separate country with separate little laws of logic, and the reactionary and his cronies can govern the rest of the country and sell each other cars and boats and properties and help each other with legal hair-splitting in rows with neighbours, they can shoot each other’s moose quotas, award prizes to each other’s dogs and employ each other’s children as trainees and assistant directors after they’ve studied and travelled abroad, but out here in the forest they have no influence. The forest is not impressed by them. It treats them no differently from anyone else. Out here they can’t touch me.

  Why do you live in this tent? Gregus asks as we’re eating breakfast by the fire.

  Not quite sure, I say. But I felt I had to get away. I needed to be on my own for a bit. It’s been such a long time since I was.

  You moved when Grandad died, he says.

  That’s true, I say. He was my Daddy in the same way that I’m your Daddy and I didn’t like him dying. I was upset.

  Daddies mustn’t die, Gregus says.

  You’re right, I say.

  Nor Mummies, he says.

  Agreed, I say.

  But do you sort of dream when you’re dead, he asks.

  Afraid not, I say. No dreams. You simply don’t exist any more.

  Does it hurt?

  No, I say. You don’t feel anything. All animals and people and plants die when they get old. It’s no big deal.

  Will you and Mummy die? he asks.

  Yes, we will, I say.

  Will I go on living after you’re dead? he asks.

  Yes, I say.

  You know, he says. I hope I die at the same time as you.

  That’s good that you feel like that, I say, but I think you’ll see it differently when you grow up. We can come back to this later.

  The lack of stimulation out here has a positive effect on Gregus. We sit by the fire for long periods and just chat and do nothing in particular. We can hear the faint drone from the town and the occasional whistle of a train. It sounds a little like the Canadian trains I’ve seen on TV. They’re really long over there, I know, and the whistle-blasts sound portentous as they cover hundreds of miles through wasteland, from coast to coast. After a while we go out and try to teach Bongo to fetch sticks we throw, but he can’t see the point, and to tell the truth neither can I, so we go back to the tent and continue to do nothing until we get bored. It’s embedded in our DNA that we constantly have to be doing things. Finding things to do. As long as you’re active that’s fine, in a way, however mindless the activity. We want to avoid boredom at all costs, but I’ve started to notice that I like being bored. Boredom is underrated. I tell Gregus that my plan is to bore myself to happiness. I have no doubt that there is something that approximates satisfaction beyond boredom, but of course I do not expect Gregus to feel the same, so after a few more hours spent listlessly dozing and grilling meat we go out to find ourselves raw materials to make bows and arrows. The season is perhaps not the most suitable, but I’ve heard that ash is the best wood for a bow, so I chop down two branches of what I believe is ash but may well be a different tree, and since Gregus’s patience will not allow us to let the wood dry out for a year, which is the ideal, we get cracking and remove the bark and carve grooves in the ends and make strings by plaiting sinews from Bongo’s mother. I make arrows, too. Good ones with a point. And then we shoot wildly all around us. And upwards. That’s what we both like best, we discover. We fire as high as we can and take care that we don’t get any arrows in our heads when they return to the ground. It’s wonderful when the arrows thwack a deep hole into the ground a few metres away. We pass the hours in this way until Gregus’s body senses it’s time for children’s TV and twitches. Look, Daddy, he says, my arm’s twitching. So it is, I say. Why do you think that is? Don’t know, he says. Well, I certainly don’t know, I say.

  We fire off a few more arrows, but I can see that Gregus has completely lost his enthusiasm. His eyes are glassy and distant. He is struggling and I feel sorry for him.

  It’s children’s TV, I say. That’s why your arm’s twitching. Your body’s trying to tell you to turn on the television. I could feel there was something, Gregus says. But where’s the TV? I don’t have a TV, I explain. It’s not normal to have a TV in the forest. But then can we go somewhere where there is a TV? Gregus asks. No, I say. You’ll have to do without while you’re here with me. I want to see children’s TV, he says. No chance, I say. But I want to, he repeats, and I can see that he’s on the point of losing control, so without any further ado I swing him onto Bongo’s back and we charge down to Düsseldorf’s house.

  Düsseldorf is sitting over a model as usual, probably oblivious to the fact that we are seconds away from children’s TV swooping in over our long and narrow country. I bang on his back door, explain the situation and ask if we can come in for three quarters of an hour to watch TV. Düsseldorf says that’s fine. Bongo and Gregus step c
arefully over the model of the war-ravaged Belgian town and curl up on the sofa as the animated children’s TV jingle rolls over the screen. Gregus hums along. I take a seat at the table with Düsseldorf. He’s still building his German Steyr Type 1500A/A1 and making the figure that will represent his father.

  Looks like it’s taking its time, I say.

  The problem is more that it doesn’t take enough time, Düsseldorf says. I’ve always been a finicky modeller, but I have attained a level of precision now that I’ve never even been near before. I’m together with my father when I do this. And when I’ve finished I can’t be with him any more. I’ve noticed that actually I don’t want to finish.

  You could make some more, I say. You could make other war scenes. You could make the walks in the forest your mother and father took in Oslo.

  No, Düsseldorf says. I know that I’ll never make any more models after this, and within a couple of weeks at the most I’ll have finished. I reckon I’ll be finished by Christmas.

  Perhaps you’re investing too much of yourself into it, I say. After all, this is plastic models we’re talking about.

  I am not investing too much of myself into it, Düsseldorf says. Quite the opposite, I’m investing the exact significance and gravity it deserves. It’s you who are not investing enough into it.

  Possibly, I say.

  And it’s not plastic models we’re talking about, he says. We’re talking about the biggest war the world has ever seen. We’re talking about tens of millions of dead and even more with permanent injuries, myself included. We’re talking about Europe. Poor Europe. And about large parts of the rest of the world. Poor rest of the world. And then we’re talking about my father. We’re talking about him, Düsseldorf says, pointing to the tiny plastic soldier he has attached to a home-made stand under a large magnifying glass and which he is painting now in immense detail. The buttons on the uniform, the shirt sleeves barely poking out of the jacket, fingers, nails, everything in consistent naturalistic colours. Just the face is missing. Düsseldorf’s father’s face hasn’t been painted yet and I realise that now it is its turn. I’ve as good as decided that he’ll be smiling, Düsseldorf says. It hasn’t been an easy decision to make because there are several factors to suggest that he would not be smiling that day, but I still think he’s smiling as he drives through the town on his way to deliver a report to General Manteuffel, and he’s smiling because he’s thinking about his son, in other words me. He’s only seen me in a photograph, but he knows that I exist, and the fact that I exist makes him put on a tentative smile, to himself. It’s important that it shouldn’t be an unqualified beam because that doesn’t tie in with his circumstances. But nor must it be an inscrutable Mona Lisa-like grimace, which might mean anything. The teeth mustn’t show, but there shouldn’t be any doubt that he’s smiling, Düsseldorf says. He should be thinking that I’m learning to walk and feeling confident that the war will soon be over. As the sniper fires he should be sitting in the car and looking forward to seeing me.

  Düsseldorf says all of this while applying a primary coat to his father’s face and without looking up.

  I see, I say. That sounds like a good idea.

  I’m not sure if it’s a good idea, Düsseldorf says, but that’s the way it’s going to be anyway.

  Mm, I say and I notice a pile of empty pizza boxes on the kitchen worktop, and I assume that cooking is not high on the agenda in the Düsseldorf home during the day. By the way, have you had any dinner?

  No dinner, says Düsseldorf.

  Shall I make you some? I ask.

  Thank you for offering, he says, but the only thing that tastes of anything at the moment is pizza, so if you want to ring for one, that would be kind of you. I don’t like to interrupt my work for anything so trivial. The telephone number’s on the fridge. Order the one with pepperoni and garlic, but without pineapple. I’ve never understood what pineapples have got to do with pizzas. It’s a rotten combination. And order one for yourselves if you fancy one.

  I glance over at the sofa where both Gregus and Bongo have fallen asleep entwined, with the light from the TV news flickering over them. They had enjoyed the pleasurable part of the evening’s viewing and fell asleep to all the misery that was now washing over them.

  I think we should be heading home, I say, going into the kitchen and ordering Düsseldorf’s pizza.

  Thereafter I wake Bongo gently and lead him into the garden before carefully carrying Gregus out and placing him on Bongo’s back.

  What are you doing for Christmas? Düsseldorf asks when I go back to thank him.

  For Christmas I’m doing absolutely nothing, I say.

  Then you might be interested in having a simple meal here with me on Christmas Eve, he says.

  Not impossible, I say.

  Let’s say it’s a deal then, Düsseldorf says, waving us off.

  And in biblical fashion we make our way up to the tent. I place my jacket over Gregus and think I’m managing pretty well as a father despite the long break. That’s what I think.

  As I hand over Gregus next day Nora thrusts a print-out into my hands from a website called The Elvish Name Generator. She’s entered my name, Andreas Doppler, and with the help of Tolkien’s I’m sure highly intricate and accurate linguistic logic the program has worked out that my elf name is Valandil Tîwele.

  It sounds clearly Elvish, and I say thank you and ask if there is anything special she’s trying to say by giving me this. She shakes her head. She just wanted me to know, she says. She wanted me to keep at the back of mind that I have an elf name.

  Fine, I say. I’ll certainly keep it at the back of my mind.

  Afterwards I take my leave of Nora, Gregus and my wife who, by the way, had a fantastic long weekend in Rome. She revelled in classical culture and shopped for clothes and accessories, which obviously restored some of her sparkle. It’s astonishing to observe how much clothes and accessories can mean. A new accessory at the right moment can make all the difference. May God bless objects. My wife beams and twitters and for that reason I return to the forest in the dusk almost without a bad conscience. Gregus would have preferred to continue living with me in the tent, I know, but he can forget that. The forest is mine and I have to be alone there if I’m going to achieve what I want, I reflect, even though I’m not quite sure what it is I want.

  You can have him for a bit at weekends, can’t you? my wife says.

  In the forest there’s no difference between weekend and workdays, I say, so the answer’s no, or rather, nothing doing.

  I’ll go up to the tent with him, she says.

  Then you’ll have to be prepared for an arrow through the neck, I say.

  I struggle to maintain motivation for a few days. I sit idly by the fire whittling away at arrows and wondering what I’m doing up there in the forest. From time to time I gently tousle Bongo’s coat and hum without enthusiasm. Going down to the house and being with Gregus has disrupted the good rhythm I had established. Now I’m out of balance again. I reflect that I’ve come a long way from where I was before the forest embraced me, if I can express myself like that. It’s pompous but nonetheless quite true. I was in all the usual places and did the usual things that people in Oslo do, and then all of a sudden the forest opened its arms and embraced me. It adopted me. And it was about time. I can see that now. I was becoming spiteful and annoying to those around me. I wasn’t the sort of person that Oslo would want to have in its streets. I didn’t radiate positive energy. I wasn’t a benefit to anyone. Neither to those nearest to me, nor my job nor the more diffuse greater society around me, nor the economic framework that governs it. I was becoming a burden, and then I was excluded. Nature is set up so ingeniously that it excluded me before I did any real damage. It’s an impressive system. Millennia of nature and culture have refined the mechanism in such a way that the likes of me are removed from the ranks. We are rendered harmless. Enemies of the people who are about to smash the fragile illusion of community and meani
ng are sent away to have another think. To sea, for example, or to the mountains, or behind some locked door, or as in my case: into the forest. It’s a cunning form of punishment which feels like a kind of reward at the same time.

  This and more I think, sitting by the fire.

  I have no idea to what extent these thoughts are rooted in reality. Nor if what we so boldly call reality exists at all. The only thing I can be fairly sure about is that the fire warms me and that a little moose by the name of Bongo lies at my feet purring, if that’s what you call it when moose emit sounds of pleasure.

  And Christmas is upon us.

  I can sense it because the afternoon is quieter than is normally the case. The population down in Oslo stops moving. They have arrived at the places where they are going to spend the next hours and that’s where they stay. I suppose this happens on only this one day of the year. And when it happens less noise reaches the forest from Oslo. The town becomes gentler, in a way. It becomes innocuous and tame. It eats from my hand. And then come the church bells. Ringing out of synch. Gradually they are attuned into one another and Bongo and I take the opportunity to exchange gifts. He gets a nice little hat that I made myself from crepe paper. It was sticking out of a rubbish bin a few days ago when I chanced by, as they say, and so I took it with me and later spent a few hours at night folding it into a cleverly designed hat. As for me, I don’t get a great deal. In fact, I get nothing at all, but my God, Bongo is a moose, I don’t doubt for a second that I would have got a terrific present if he’d understood what Christmas was. You’re a present in yourself, you are, Bongo, I say. Don’t worry your head about it. My present is you being here with me. And Merry Christmas.

  When Düsseldorf opens the door to us I notice that he has enormous bags under his eyes and is wearing the same clothes I saw him in two weeks before.

  Oh sod it, it’s Christmas, is the first thing he says.

  He’s forgotten all about the Christmas dinner, but invites us in anyway, very embarrassed. He directs us to the sofa and nips down to the freezer and finds some cloudberries which he throws into the convector oven without taking them out of the bag. Then he hurriedly takes a seat at the piano and tries to cheer us, and himself, up with a few verses of a Christmas hymn, Beauty Around Us, but it’s just a mess.