Yet Another Empty Table
We took a taxi to Norwegian Film at Jar. This was the day I was to receive my prize. Mom, Boletta and Vivian were with me. They sat in the back, full of pride. I felt equally proud. The driver swung through the wide gates in Wedel Jarlberg Road. Mom paid the driver. I got out. This was Norwegian Film. This was where the studios were. This was my place. From now on this would be my place. I could wander about, follow what was happening on the set, pen a few new scenes, polish odd bits of dialogue, sign contracts and have lunch with the actors. There wasn’t a soul to be seen. Leaves fluttered from the tall trees. It was clouding over again. Vivian took my hand. “Are you nervous?” I shook my head and kissed her. “Just wish Peder was here,” I said. We found the reception area close by. A young girl behind the counter was chatting away on the phone, smoking constantly. I let her finish. She put down the receiver and looked at me. I extended my hand. “I’m Barnum Nilsen,” I told her. “Who?” “Barnum Nilsen,” I repeated. She leafed through some sheets, but that wasn’t to much avail either. “What did you say your name was?” “It’s me who won the competition,” I breathed. Finally she got who I was. “The director would like to have a word with you first,” she said. “Wait here.” We seated ourselves on a rather cramped sofa. We waited. Time passed. Boletta went to sleep. Mom stared at Vivian. “Are you all right?” she asked. Vivian looked at me and smiled instead. “Of course,” she replied. A paper from the day before was lying on the table. I had a read of it. A fine day was forecast. It started raining. “It isn’t the wrong day?” Mom inquired. “It’s the paper that’s old,” I said. “Are you sure?” “Be quiet,” I told her. And we waited. This was the start of my long time of waiting; the great wait that is the destiny of the screenwriter. Soon it got to one o’clock. I saw people disappearing into the building on the other side. One of them looked like Arne Skouen. My tie felt tight at my throat. I leaned close to Vivian. “Arne Skouen’s here,” I murmured. Finally the girl behind the counter got up. “The director’s waiting for you,” she said. I was tempted to point out that it was me who was waiting for him, but let it pass. “Thank you,” I said. His office was up on the second floor. I went up some stairs. There was a forest of posters on the walls. Guest Bardsen. Found. We Die Alone. I was in the very heart of Norwegian Film. Now I myself was a part of Norwegian Film. One day my poster would hang here too, on the stair wall that led to the director’s office: “Fattening.” I got to the right door, combed my hair, took a deep breath, and knocked. I heard a groan. I waited a bit. Then I went in. The director sat behind a table covered with scripts; they were lying in great heaps, on the floor too — everywhere in that cramped room was so stuffed with scripts there was barely room for anything else. The director was sitting reading one of them. I closed the door carefully behind me. I didn’t want to interrupt. I just stood there. The director gave another groan. He was wearing a worn tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. He smoked a pipe and had large, square glasses. I leaned against a bookcase. I shouldn’t even have contemplated it. It was most likely from Ikea. It toppled over toward me, and a whole avalanche of scripts came with it. The director got up and took the pipe from his mouth. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “They’re going out anyway,” he said. He cleared a chair for me. We sat down. He stared hard at me as he got his pipe lit again. “So this is Barnum Nilsen himself,” he said. I nodded. One o’clock had come and gone a good while back. I should be receiving my prize now. “Did I get the time wrong?” I asked. The director shook his head. “It’ll only do them good to wait a bit,” he said. I liked that thought, liked it very much — that there were others who were waiting for me. Everything should be turned to my advantage. Time was on my side. I lit a cigarette. “Tell me a bit about yourself, Barnum.” “There’s not a great deal to tell,” I said. The director became a tad impatient; his teeth clicked in his mouth. “A synopsis, Barnum. Not a whole script.” I mulled it over. And I remembered what Dad had once said, that it was necessary to sow doubt, because the whole truth was dull and made people lazy and forgetful, whereas doubt never loses its hold. “Born and brought up in Oslo,” I said. “A single child. My father died before I was born.” The director shrugged his shoulders. “Is Barnum your real name?” “I use it as a pseudonym,” I replied. The director smiled. “Do you have a sore eye, Barnum?” I tried to blink. “No, no. It’s been like this from birth. I’m blind in that eye.” The director bent forward over the table. “What I really wanted to know was if you’d written any more?” “I have a book full of ideas,” I told him. The director sank in his chair. “We’re glad to have you here, Barnum. Really glad.” “Oh, and one other thing,” I said. “Go on, Barnum. This is your day.” “My wife’s a makeup artist. I’d like her to do the makeup for the film.” The director stared at me a long while. “The film?” he repeated. I was confused for a moment. “Yes, the film. ‘Fattening.’ Have you decided who the director’ll be yet?” The director got up, stood behind me and placed both hands on my shoulders. “Barnum, Barnum,” he said. “It isn’t ever going to be a film.” It was as if I didn’t hear what he said or else heard something else entirely. The subtitles in the room were all wrong. “It won’t be a film?” “Never,” the director said. “Why did I win then?” I asked him. He raised his hands again and gave a sigh. “Let’s go down and become famous instead, Barnum.”