And then he shouted insults at Arvid to make him angry. But Arvid didn’t get angry, he just felt sad, and one time when he wouldn’t hit his dad on the chin although he stuck it out as far as he could, his dad was so annoyed he pushed Arvid in the chest and sent him flying under the sofa. When he refused to come out, his dad got even more annoyed and went into the kitchen cursing and slamming the door and stayed there for a whole hour.
‘You’re quick on your feet, it’s not that,’ Dad said, ‘but you’re too light. You don’t have the weight behind your fists. But it will come. Perhaps. Shall we have one more round?’
Dad swung Arvid round, raised his fists and began to dance round the floor. Arvid raised his hands mechanically, without enthusiasm, and they were heavy as lead and he felt empty inside.
‘Stop that nonsense, Frank. Leave the boy in peace!’ Mum dropped Dad’s huge rucksack onto the floor and snapped, ‘Here’s your stuff. It’s time you left. Are you ready, Arvid?’
He was: warm clothes, boots, the Huckleberry Finn book, fishing tackle. He had packed it all before he went to bed.
Uncle Rolf and Dad were going to the cabin by the Bunne Fjord and Arvid was going with them. At first Dad wasn’t too pleased about it, but Mum’s voice was frosty and clear:
‘Arvid is going with you, he needs to get away for a bit and it won’t kill you, Frank!’ And Dad had to agree that Arvid could use some wind in his hair and a mackerel or two on the hook. The boy was getting slack.
It was still early, the sun was up, the sky blue, and he liked to walk behind Dad and see his broad back carrying the rucksack as far up the hill as Trondhjemsveien to catch the bus to town. The air was cold and fresh and Mum ruffled his hair as they said goodbye at the door and pulled his blue woolly cap down over his ears.
It would be good to go fishing, it would be good to see Dad and Uncle Rolf do their work, it would be good to sit on the bus, for he liked riding on the bus, and it arrived almost immediately and was yellow with green stripes, and the sun gleamed on its shiny windows, and behind it was a long trail of white exhaust fumes.
There was standing room only, and Arvid was allowed to sit on the engine casing and talk to the driver, whom he knew from before, and the driver spoke to him as though he were a grown-up and also asked him about all kinds of things and laughed and joked, and his voice circled round Arvid’s head like a gentle cloud. The shuddering of the engine shook his body in a pleasant way, and he felt light and good.
They passed Linderud Manor and Bjerke Trotting Stadium and Aker Hospital, where he was born, and crossed the Sinsen intersection on their way downhill towards Carl Berners Square, where the trolley buses ran. At Carl Berners a lot of passengers got off to change to the tram or another bus and then Arvid had to sit on one of the free seats, but it didn’t matter now, and he sat down beside his dad.
‘I’m sure the fish will bite today. Perhaps at long last we should give the canoe a run-out? That would be great, wouldn’t it?’
Every time they went to the cabin Dad said the same thing, and Arvid knew that nothing would come of it. It never did. But that didn’t matter, they could fish from one of the rocks by the shore.
Uncle Rolf had a rowing boat, but Dad didn’t want to use it, he didn’t need it because in his opinion the canoe belonged to him. Uncle Rolf did not agree. It had been handed down to both of them, he said, and then Dad got angry and would not use the canoe either, so it just lay there.
Sometimes Arvid went in the rowing boat, and Uncle Rolf liked that, for then he could teach Arvid how to talk to the fish to make them bite. Come on then, Jakob, he said, come on, but more often than not Arvid fished from the shore so his dad would not give him that Judas look.
The sun was high and beginning to warm the air as they left the bus in Storgata by Ankertorget and caught the one for Bekkensten. Arvid sat on the long seat at the back, and off they went. At Mosseveien Uncle Rolf was waiting at the stop there, he too had a rucksack, the fishing rod was sticking up from one side and Arvid saw him flag down the bus. As he boarded he gave him his broadest smile.
‘Hi, Arvid, you’re up and not crying? That’s good. Today we’re gonna get ourselves a few mackerel.’
‘Sure,’ Arvid said.
The grown-ups sat together to talk about the job they were going to do, the concrete steps on the path down to the jetty were falling apart, so they had to be fixed, and that was the sort of thing Dad liked to busy himself with. He explained to Uncle Rolf how it should be done and Uncle Rolf nodded and looked at Dad and then glanced out of the window at the Oslo Fjord, calm and shining in the autumn sun, and he probably didn’t hear half of it.
Arvid leaned his head back against the rear window and let the vibrations run through his body, tickle his ears, and he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He was dreaming when his dad stroked his hair and pinched his nose a little to wake him up. He opened his eyes and looked into his dad’s teasing smile. At first he couldn’t tell who he was and he panicked, but then he sighed with relief and smiled and they had reached Bekkensten and had to get out. They left the bus and it turned up the hill towards Svartskog and they began to walk up to the cabin. It was off the road beyond two large gateposts that Dad had set in before the war, the old hinges screaming as they opened the gate and went into the drive past the flagpole.
They were standing at the top of the steps and Dad was about to unlock the door when it just glided open of its own accord and there was no lock at all, the door had been forced and Dad pushed it carefully. Inside the porch there was a mess, one chair was smashed, the table was upside down, and in the living room all the dresser drawers were pulled out and the contents strewn across the floor.
‘Fucking farmers!’ Uncle Rolf shouted and ran round picking things off the floor and dropping them again, and Dad asked what the hell farmers had to do with anything and if he shouldn’t curse the Russians as well, but he was just as angry as Uncle Rolf, Arvid could see by his face, his jaws were so taut he seemed younger than he was. And when they saw that the one who had been there unannounced had done his business in a corner of the living room he started kicking the staircase to the first floor. He kicked and kicked without saying a word, just whacking one foot against the stairs until the paint started to come off in big flakes. Then he stopped and began to clear up without another word. Arvid and Uncle Rolf helped, and after half an hour’s work it didn’t look too bad.
Uncle Rolf made some coffee, and cocoa for Arvid, they took out their packed lunches and sat at the table in the porch eating. Dad had to sit on a stool because the other chair had been smashed into kindling. When they had finished, Dad went out into the shed and found all the things they needed to patch up the steps.
Arvid went to greet the sea, he had his high boots on and he waded in the shallow water picking mussels, there were lots of them, until his fingers were blue. He tried skimming stones across the water instead, but even that didn’t go so well. He blew on his fingers and held them against his stomach under his jumper. His stomach was smooth and firm and warm, and he shuddered as his cold hands met his skin.
He went back up. The canoe lay on two stands under a spruce tree, and had been there since Granddad died. He ran his finger along the side. The red paint was peeling and when he pressed hard his finger sank into the woodwork. It was a creepy feeling.
Further up the steep hill he heard his dad and Uncle Rolf arguing. Mostly it was his dad’s voice he heard. He was on his knees with a bricklayer’s trowel, Uncle Rolf was standing beside him with a bucket of cement, looking forlorn. Uncle Rolf wasn’t very practical, he preferred to talk. Most of the time this was fine, for Dad loved to work with his hands, but now he was in a bad mood and said:
‘You’re not much use, you never have been. I remember before the war when we were putting up this whole mess, you weren’t much use then either. The old man and I had to do just about everything alone. You always had to be helped. Jesus, I even had to fight your fights at scho
ol!’
Uncle Rolf said nothing, and Arvid passed them on the way up to the cabin. He went into the living room and unpacked the fishing tackle from his rucksack, assembled the fishing rod, fixed the line and spinner, put on a warm jacket and went back out. Dad and Uncle Rolf were coming up. Arvid met them on the steps.
‘Where are you going?’ Dad asked.
‘Aren’t we going fishing now?’
Dad looked at his watch. ‘It’s too late. Perhaps we’ll have time tomorrow. We’ll see.’
Arvid turned, went in, dismantled the rod, stuffed the two parts into the bag and put everything back in the rucksack. He took out Huckleberry Finn and sat on the divan and began to read. It was the third time he had read it. It was the finest book ever written and he knew he would read it many more times. He only had to wait a few weeks until the next time, then the desire would return, but now it wasn’t easy to concentrate. He kept looking up at his dad, who had been to the well and fetched a bucket of water. Dad always washed with ice-cold water when he was at the cabin, and he tried to make Arvid do the same, but Arvid turned blue all over and had started to refuse.
‘Cold water toughens you up,’ Dad said. ‘You have to harden yourself, if you don’t want to be a sissy. When I was young, before the war, I always had a shiver bath in the morning. It helped me endure most things.’
Arvid looked at his dad bent over the bucket, he had filled a pitcher and poured the water over the back of his neck, and it ran down his shoulders, and he stood without moving or shivering and Arvid realised that it was true. He could endure most things.
And suddenly he was as gentle as butter again.
‘Would you like something to drink, Arvid?’ he asked, taking a bottle of Asina from his rucksack. Asina was good, it tasted like Solo lemonade, but Asina was cheaper. Dad poured a glass and set the bottle and the glass on the table the way they did in cafés. Another bottle was produced from the rucksack, and Arvid knew what it was, it was aquavit. Dad smacked the bottle down on the table.
‘Now we grown-ups will have ourselves a dram, for this has been one shit day!’ Uncle Rolf fetched two glasses and poured and then they had a shot each and began to talk about the old days, and Arvid sat on the divan reading Huckleberry Finn and drinking Asina. He had come to the part where Huck and Jim are on the shipwrecked boat and run into a gang of robbers and it was exciting, but then he was tired again and had to put the book down and sleep a little.
It was Uncle Rolf’s voice that woke him. He glanced over at the table where there was almost nothing left in the bottle, the paraffin lamp was lit and Uncle Rolf was shouting:
‘You think you’re so damn clever at everything, you and the old man were always like that, but none of us ever made anything of ourselves, we’re just plain workers. And you think you’re so damn tough and strong, but you don’t even use your head, you know nothing, you never understood the old man was a bastard!’
‘Don’t talk like that about my father!’
‘He was my father too, but he was still a bastard! What do you think it was like for me living alone in Vålerenga with that quarrelsome character after you and your wife moved out? But you were the golden boy, weren’t you? You two and the cabin and the damned canoe and all the things the two of you did.’
‘The canoe’s mine! He always said I was the one who should have it!’
‘OK, have it then, for Christ’s sake! Take the crappy old canoe, be my guest!’
Uncle Rolf stared furiously at Dad, and then he grinned and turned to Arvid. He leaned forward, went to prop one elbow on the table but missed, and his head knocked the glass over and the aquavit ran down his trousers, he was drunk as a skunk, but he was still grinning.
‘Do you know what, Arvid?’ he said. ‘Do you know what your father used to say? He said he probably isn’t your father at all. Actually it was an Italian plumber calling on your mother one morning while he was at work. Heh, heh.’ Uncle Rolf sniggered, and Arvid froze and looked at his dad, who looked back with a dull expression in his eyes, he was just as drunk and he frowned and had to concentrate, and then his face darkened and from out of the blue he planted a straight left on Uncle Rolf’s nose. Uncle Rolf fell from his chair onto the floor with a thud, his nose began to bleed at once, but he was still sniggering. Arvid could feel his stomach churning faster and faster, he looked from one to the other, Dad was standing with his fist raised and was about to strike again.
‘I am not Italian!’ Arvid screamed. ‘I’m Norwegian! I speak Norwegian and you’re both pissed. Don’t you think I know?’
Uncle Rolf peered up at Dad and wiped his nose and there was blood all over his hand.
‘Christ, Arvid, I was only joking.’
‘Don’t joke about that sort of thing, you fat oaf,’ Dad said, with a lurch. ‘And now you’re going to get a beating like you haven’t had since before the war!’ And with that he went at Uncle Rolf, and Uncle Rolf was scared and said:
‘Are you out of your mind?’
Dad looked dangerous, with his shoulders raised and fists clenched in front of him and his chin stuck out like a knife. Arvid took aim and punched that chin for all he was worth, and his dad snapped back and shook his head and turned, but Arvid was running up the stairs to the first floor. He heard a thud from below, and he crawled under a bed.
‘You’re out of your mind!’ Uncle Rolf shouted again, and then something was knocked over in the living room, the front door slammed and Arvid heard the heavy footsteps across the drive and the hinges of the gate screeching as it was thrust open.
‘Arvid!’ Dad shouted from the living room, but Arvid did not answer, he just huddled up against the wall.
‘Dammit,’ Dad said. ‘Dammit!’ And it sounded as if he were crying, but he couldn’t have been, and anyway it was difficult to tell when you were under a bed on the first floor.
The aquavit bottle clinked and the front door slammed again and there was total silence. Arvid crept out from under the bed and went to the stairs and listened. He tiptoed halfway down and looked around the sitting room. The bottle was lying empty on the table and the room was deserted. He went all the way down. There was no one in the cabin any more, he was alone. The front door was ajar and he went out onto the steps. It was pitch black now, it was night, there was forest around the cabin on all sides and it bore down on the walls.
‘Dad,’ he shouted, but it wasn’t much of a shout, he could barely hear it himself, and no one answered. Then there was a proper shout from the jetty. It was his dad’s voice, but it did not sound as it usually did, it was high-pitched and piercing, and Arvid ran down between the trees that stood like a wall and wanted to block his path, but he didn’t pay them any heed, he just ran in the darkness, down, down. The roots criss-crossing the path knocked against his feet, but he managed to stay upright, he didn’t want to stumble and so he didn’t. He took the concrete steps in great leaps and bounds, and he was good at jumping, he flew through the autumn night panting for breath, but it was not he who was panting, the panting was driving him, in heavy rasping gasps, and he could hear them from a distance as though they were not his, and once he had to turn and look back, but he was alone.
‘Dad!’ he shouted. ‘Where are you?’ No one answered, but then he heard his dad cursing and then there was a loud splash.
Arvid raced all the way down, his legs flashing like drumsticks while his gaze scanned the shore searching for something that was not as it should be, but at night nothing is as it should be, he ought to have known, and then he was on the jetty and just managed to stop before he fell head first into the water. On the edge of the jetty was a paddle and a few metres into the fjord was the canoe, upside down. There was a big hole at one end, and the jagged edges sticking up were brown and rotten, and suddenly everything was silent, the night and the forest behind him, the glistening fjord.
A roar splintered the silence and a face broke the surface right in front of Arvid. He jumped back and it felt like a cold finger scrapin
g down his spine, he covered his eyes, for he thought it might be a water sprite, but it wasn’t, it was his dad, and he was roaring:
‘Jesus! The damned tub’s rotten to the core! I stepped right through it!’
Arvid jumped down into the water and waded a few metres and grabbed Dad’s one hand and pulled and tugged so hard his arm almost came off, and Dad crawled and spat and at last he was up. But then he slipped on the seaweed, for it was low tide, and they both fell, and Dad landed with his head in Arvid’s lap. Arvid could feel the weight on his thigh, and he held the head tight. He was trembling with cold now, for he was wet up to his waist, and then he saw for the first time that Dad was turning bald. He stroked the thinning wet hair and said:
‘Shhh, Dad, it will be fine, everything’ll be fine, right?’ Dad turned his head up to look at him and then he was sick, it gushed from his mouth and down Arvid’s legs.
‘It’s OK, Dad,’ Arvid said.
Dad spat in despair and said:
‘This would never have happened before the war.’
‘I know,’ Arvid said. ‘I know.’
PER PETTERSON was born in Oslo in 1952 and worked for several years as an unskilled laborer and a bookseller. He made his literary breakthrough in 2003 with the novel Out Stealing Horses, which has been published in forty-nine languages and won the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize.
DON BARTLETT lives in Norfolk, England, and works as a freelance translator of Scandinavian literature. He has translated, or co-translated, Norwegian novels by Gaute Heivoll, Karl Ove Knausgaard, Lars Saabye Christensen, Roy Jacobsen, and Jo Nesbø.
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The Scattered Papers of Penelope
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