Encircling (23 page)

“Hey!” Egil snaps, jerking his head at Trond. “We didn’t invite you dinner just so you could flash that mocking grin of yours,” Egil says. “I didn’t exactly come here for a laugh, either,” Trond says, still grinning. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Egil asks. “What do you think it means?” Trond asks. “You can leave whenever you like, you know,” Egil says. “Oh, thanks,” Trond says. “But if I can just finish eating first. I’m hungry,” he says, and a moment passes and I just sit there gazing at them and Egil is looking daggers at Trond and Trond drinks the rest of his wine, tucks his long, thick hair behind his ear, picks up the wine bottle and refills his glass, and Egil snorts, shakes his head angrily, leans over his plate and carries on eating and for a little while everyone concentrates on their food and there’s silence.

Then: “Trond, do you mind!” Egil snaps, eyeing Trond sharply. “Huh?” Trond says. “Do you think you could possibly show some manners,” Egil says. “Oh, what now?” Trond asks. “You’re smacking your lips,” Egil says. “Oops, sorry, I forgot where I was,” Trond retorts sarcastically.
“Spare me your sarcasm,” Egil says. “Sarcasm?” Trond says. “I wasn’t meaning to be sarcastic, it’s just that for a second there I actually felt at home,” he says. “But it won’t happen again, brother mine,” he says and I simply sit there listening to them, simply sit there looking at them and I see how angry Egil is and Egil glances wearily at Else as if signalling to her to take over, and Else takes over.

“Trond, I think you should apologize,” Else says. “What for?” Trond asks, and he looks at Else and smiles and Else glares at him. “You’re getting more and more like your father,” Else says. “Well, thank heavens for that,” Trond says. “At least he lived till he died,” he says. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Else demands. “Oh, nothing,” Trond says. “No, go on, say it,” Else says. “It was nothing, I said,” Trond says. “Lived till he died,” Else says, and she sniffs. “If you mean to say that he was, and you are, more alive than anyone else in this family, may I just remind you that it’s us and the work we’ve put into that shop that made it possible for him to live the way he did, the way you would so like to live. If it weren’t for us there wouldn’t have been so much as a peep from either of you, because you’d have had to work and earn your living,” she says. “Like other people have to,” she adds. “Yeah, right,” Trond says. “Yeah, right?” she says. “Are you saying that’s not true?” she says. “Oh, sure,” Trond says. “Keep a civil tongue in your head when you talk to me,” Else says. “I was only saying you’re right,” Trond says. “If it weren’t for you I’d have had to work,” he says. “I mean, what I do isn’t work, is it?” he says smiling at Else, and Else is getting more and more het up. “You keep a civil tongue in your head,” she says again. “I’m only saying you’re right,” Trond says. “I’m a layabout and a leech, and I should be eternally
grateful to you and Egil for the fact that I even exist,” he says. “To you especially, of course,” he adds.

“Oh, please!” Else says. “Don’t make a bigger fool of yourself than you have to, all I was asking for was a little respect,” she says. “Is that too much to expect?” she asks. “Respect?” Trond cries. “Do you think you’re showing respect for me, talking like that about what I’ve chosen to dedicate my life to?” he says, staring straight at Else. “Do you think you’re showing respect when you insinuate that the rest of us at this table, who have chosen to do something different with our lives, are less alive than you?” Else says. “I’m the one who actually finances this choice of yours,” she adds. “A-ha,” Trond says. “So that’s it. I knew it,” he says and he shakes his head, grinning furiously. “Well, one thing’s for sure,” he says. “Gone are the days when capitalists still had a certain refinement,” he says. “Oh, please,” Else says, making a face designed to let Trond know he has said something stupid. “I know you miss your father, but now you’re being pathetic,” she says. “I miss my father?” Trond cries. “I know you miss your father, but if you think he was more refined than anyone else here, then you’re wrong,” Else says. “The time he spent tapping away at an old typewriter up in his study had very little to do with refinement,” she says. “He did it because he was always too drunk to work,” she says. “Yes, and is it any wonder?” Trond says. “So it was my fault he drank, was it?” Else says. “No, not just your fault, I’m sure,” Trond says. “But it wasn’t without its ups and downs, your marriage, was it?” he adds, looking Else straight in the eye and grinning, and Else glares at him and I simply sit there looking at them. I might as well not be here at all, they’re talking so fast and so fiercely, they seem almost to have
forgotten that I’m here, they’re so engrossed in one another, it’s like they don’t even see me, and neither of them will back down, they just keep going.

“Oh, apropos relationships, Trond,” Egil says, suddenly breaking in, and now he’s the one who’s grinning. “D’you think we’ll get to meet the new woman in your life before she, too, is history?” he asks. “I’m not sure I want to subject her to that?” Trond says. “I happen to care about her, you see,” he adds. “Yes, well, a culture shock like that – it’s no joke,” Egil says. “No, for once I have to agree with you,” Trond says. “What was it you said she does?” Egil asks, looking at Trond and grinning, and Trond stares at Egil, grins angrily back at him and I simply sit there looking at them, I’m a spectator, I’m their audience. “Do you really think I’m embarrassed by the fact that she works as a waitress?” Trond says. “Do you really think I care what she does for a living?” he says. “Good heavens, no,” Egil says. “I really don’t think you do?” Egil says. “I’ll tell you something,” Trond says, “she’s a far better person than you are. I can’t even begin to describe how much better,” he says, and he glares at Egil and Egil looks at him, and Egil forms his lips into a big “O”. “Ohhh,” he says. “True love,” he says, and he gives a little laugh. “Now I understand,” he says. “I doubt that,” Trond says. “I doubt if you’re capable of understanding any of it,” he says. “Ah no, of course, only writers like yourself can do that,” Egil says, grinning again and shaking his head, then his expression suddenly changes to one of weary disdain. “Dear, oh dear,” he sighs, his face falling into heavy folds: “When are you going to leave adolescence behind?” he says. “When are you going to grow up?” he says. “When am I going to become like you, you mean?” Trond says.
“Never,” he says, giving Egil a steely, indignant smile and Egil laughs and shakes his head again. “Never,” Egil echoes. “I want to live my own life,” he says, putting on a funny voice. “I want to be free,” he says and he grins again.

“You know what,” Trond exclaims, glaring at Egil, “you’re so fucked up you simply can’t imagine how anyone wouldn’t want to be like you,” he says. “That’s right,” Egil says. “I’ve been corrupted by filthy lucre and lost sight of what really matters in life,” he says, still grinning. “Yes, you have,” Trond says. “And your saying it in that sarcastic tone won’t make it any the less true,” he says, glaring furiously at Egil and Egil grins furiously back at him. “For God’s sake, Trond,” Egil says, staring at Trond and shaking his head, “You’re the one who’s lost all focus in your life,” he says. “Oh yes?” Trond says. “Yes,” Egil says. “You’ve no goals in life,” he says. “Or no long-term goals at any rate,” he says. “Listen to Mr MBA, listen to him!” Trond says. “Long-term goals,” he says. “Yes, well, you keep chopping and changing,” Egil says. “One minute you’re working in the firm with Mum and me, the next you decide to study medicine and become a doctor, and now suddenly you want to be writer,” he says. “You can’t make up your mind. And it’s the same with women, you change your women as often as other people change their socks,” he says.

“Egil’s right, Trond,” Else says quietly. “And it’s high time you realized that,” she says. “Well, well, don’t tell me you agree with Egil,” Trond cries. “You and Egil?” he says, with a wry bark of laughter. “Well, there’s a turn-up for the books,” he says. “Oh, dear,” Else sighs. “Don’t you see what’s going on here?” Egil says. “Don’t you see that you’re trying to be Dad?” he says. “Don’t you see that you’re trying to carry on where he left off … with this pathetic Bohemian
lifestyle of yours?” he says. “You miss Dad, Trond,” Else says, and a moment passes, and I’m still sitting here, staring at them, being their audience, while they sit around the table, acting out their family drama, their chamber play and I sit there, acting as spectator.

“Know what,” Trond growls. “I’ve never heard such a load of pop-psycho bullshit,” he says, shaking his head, then he takes a large swig of his wine, puts his glass down and shakes his head again, kind of smiling to himself. But Else doesn’t back down and Egil doesn’t back down, and I stare at them and it’s almost unreal, I think, how they can behave like this at Sunday dinner, it’s almost beyond belief. “You’d do better to carry on from where your strong, healthy father left off,” Else says. “If you’re going to be like your dad, you should try to be the way he was before he started drinking,” Egil says, and he eyes Trond solemnly and Else eyes Trond solemnly and I stare open-mouthed at them, they’re like a two-headed troll, lashing out at Trond, laying into him and I just sit here watching. “You know,” Else says, “I feel much the same now as I felt that time when we almost lost you,” she says. “We see you fading away, slowly but surely, before our eyes and it’s so hard to watch,” she says. “I can’t just sit and watch you go the same way as your father,” she says, nodding at Trond’s wineglass and smiling sadly. “Look,” she says. “We’ve each had one glass and you’ve drunk almost a full bottle,” she says. “This can’t go on, Trond,” she says, and then there’s silence and Trond is angrier than ever, he lowers his knife and fork, straightens up and looks straight at Else.

“What the hell is all this?” he cries and I flinch slightly as he says it. “We care about you, Trond,” Else says softly. “We’re worried about you,” she says, and I look at Trond
and I can see how mad he is and he nods curtly, angrily at Else. “Well, stop it,” he cries. “I’m a grown man, for Christ’s sake,” he says. “I’m still your mother, Trond,” Else says. “And it worries me when I can see that you’re not all right,” she says. “But I am all right,” Trond says. “It is possible to lead a different life from you and still be perfectly all right,” he says, then there’s silence again and a moment passes.

“Well, I can tell how mad it makes you if we suggest that you drink too much, Trond,” Egil says, suddenly dropping the sarcastic tone. “What are we supposed to make of that, do you think?” he asks calmly. “I don’t give a fuck what you make of it,” Trond roars suddenly and I jump in my chair. I stare at Trond and Trond stares at his plate, and he eats quickly, angrily, grinning desperately, and he gives a faint shake of his head, he’s losing it now and I simply sit here staring at him, sit as if stunned, and I feel my mouth fall open. I close my mouth and swallow, never taking my eyes off Trond. This is almost unreal, this is almost beyond belief. “What a sorry bunch you are,” Trond says, speaking with his mouth full, and his voice quivers as he says it. “Take it easy now, Trond,” Egil says calmly. “Don’t you tell me to take it easy!” Trond roars, making me jump in my chair again and I stare wide-eyed at Trond, because he’s losing it now, I can tell by his face, he can no longer control himself, now there’s going to be trouble.

“Know what …” he says, then he pauses, shakes his head and grins fiercely, grinning with his mouth full, and I gape at him. “Know what,” he says again, and his voice is shaking more and more, “Sometimes I find myself thinking that you two are actually miserable,” he says. “You’re miserable and you simply can’t understand why,” he says. “You’ve followed the recipe for happiness and the
perfect life to the letter and you can’t understand why your solid, respectable middle-class existence doesn’t taste better than it does,” he says, shaking his head and sneering, getting himself more and more worked up, and I stare wide-eyed at him. “And then,” he says. “And then,” he says again, “when you see me following another recipe and you see that, unlike you, I’m pleased with the result, it pisses you off, you start attacking me and the life I choose to live, you start making out that I’m sick. It would be too hard for you to admit that there might be something wrong with your recipe, and then you start psychoanalysing me and saying there’s something wrong with me,” he says. “That’s so bloody typical of you two, making out that everything you don’t agree with is actually the result of some trauma or problem of mine, that way you don’t have to have a sensible discussion about it, that way no one can get at you, you put yourself above reproach,” he says, his voice quivering more and more, and he nods curtly at Egil and he nods curtly at Else. “It’s you two that are sick,” he says. “It’s not me, it’s you,” he says.

There’s silence again, and I don’t take my eyes off Trond, and a moment passes, and then suddenly Trond starts to laugh and he shakes his head incredulously as he laughs. “Well, that shut you up,” he says. “Look at you, picking at your food and looking so bloody serious,” he says. “You’ve put on those bloody oh-so-concerned masks of yours and now it’s supposed to dawn on me that I’m running off at the mouth again,” he says. “You act all concerned, and I’m supposed to think that there’s good reason to be concerned about me, and that … and that …” he says. “It makes me so fucking mad!” he roars, spraying spittle, and I jump yet again.

And there’s silence. And the moments pass. “You need help, Trond,” Egil says softly. “I’m fine!” Trond roars, a roar that comes from deep in his stomach, and his eyes widen as he roars and I feel my mouth fall open again and I simply sit there staring at him. “Can’t you get that into your head?” he roars. “I don’t need help, I’m fine!” And there’s silence again and the moments pass. “We love you, Trond,” Else says suddenly. “And we’re here for you,” she says, and I look at Trond and Trond stares fixedly at his plate and his mouth falls slowly open and he doesn’t look up from his plate. I stare at him open-mouthed and suddenly I feel a ripple of fear run through me, because he’s about to lose it completely, he’s gone so far now that he no longer knows what he’s doing, and there’s silence, then Trond looks up, and stares straight at Egil, and Else and I just sit there watching. A moment passes, but Trond doesn’t lose it, he takes a deep breath and lets it out with a little sigh, then he bows his head, looks down at the table and shakes his head despairingly.