Hunger (16 page)

I walked around the Palace three or four times and then decided to go home, took yet another turn into the park, and finally went back down Karl Johan Street.

It was around eleven. The street was rather dark and people were strolling about everywhere, a jumble of quiet couples and noisy groups. The great moment had arrived, the mating hour when the secret traffic takes place and the jolly adventures begin. Rustling skirts, a few bursts of sensual laughter, heaving breasts, excited, panting breaths; far down, by the Grand Hotel, a voice calling, “Emma!” The entire street was a swamp, with hot vapors rising from it.

I instinctively search my pockets for two kroner. The passion quivering in every movement of the passersby, the dim light of the street lamps, the tranquil, pregnant night—it was all beginning to affect me: this air filled with whispers, embraces, trembling confessions, half-spoken words, little squeals. Some cats are making love amid loud shrieks in Blomquist's entranceway. And I didn't have two kroner. It was a torment, a misery like no other, to be so impoverished. What humiliation, what disgrace! And again I came to think of the poor widow's last mite which I would have stolen, the schoolboy's visored cap or hanky, the beggar's haversack which I would have taken to the rag dealer without any fuss and wasted on drink. To take comfort and make it up to myself, I began to see all sorts of faults in these happy people who were gliding by; I shrugged my shoulders angrily and looked disdainfully at them as they passed by, couple after couple. These easily satisfied, candy-chewing students who thought they were cutting loose in Continental style if they could feel a seamstress' bosom! These young gentry, bank clerks, merchants, boulevard dandies who didn't even turn up their noses at sailors' wives, fat duckies from the cattle market who would flop down in the nearest doorway for a crock of beer! What sirens! The place beside them still warm from last night's fireman or groom, the throne always equally vacant, equally wide-open—please, step right up! . . . I gave a long spit over the sidewalk, without bothering whether it might hit someone, angry with and full of contempt for these people who were rubbing up against one another and pairing off before my very eyes. I lifted my head and felt deep down how blessed I was to be able to follow the straight and narrow.

At Storting Place I met a girl who looked hard at me as I came alongside.

“Good evening,” I said.

“Good evening.” She stopped.

“Hmm.” She was out for a stroll so late? Wasn't it a bit risky for a young lady to walk on Karl Johan Street at this time of night? No? But wasn't she ever accosted or molested—“I mean, to put it bluntly, asked to come home with someone?”

She looked at me in surprise, examining my face to see what I could mean by this. Then she suddenly slipped her hand under my arm and said, “Come along.”

I went with her. When we were a few steps past the cabstand, I stopped, freed my arm and said, “Listen, my friend, I don't have a penny.” And I prepared to go.

At first she refused to believe me, but when she had gone through all my pockets without anything turning up, she got peeved, tossed her head and called me a dry stick.

“Good night,” I said.

“Wait a minute,” she called. “Those are gold-rimmed glasses, aren't they?”

“No.”

“Then go to blazes!”

And I went.

Shortly afterward she came running after me and called me once more. “You can come anyway,” she said.

I felt humiliated by this offer from a poor streetwalker and said no. Besides, it was getting late and I had to be somewhere; nor could she afford such sacrifices.

“No, now I
want
you to come.”

“But I won't go with you under those circumstances.”

“You're on your way to someone else, of course,” she said.

“No,” I answered.

Alas, I had no real bounce in me these days; women had become almost like men to me. Want had dried me up.
¹
But I felt I was cutting a sorry figure vis-à-vis this strange tart and decided to save face.

“What's your name?” I asked. “Marie? Well, listen Ma rie.” And I started explaining my behavior. The girl became more and more astonished. So she had thought that I, too, was one of those types who walked the streets at night chasing little girls? Did she really think that badly of me? Had I by any chance said anything rude to her up to now? Did men behave the way I did if they had something wicked in hand? In short, I had accosted her and walked those few steps with her to see how far she would go. My name, by the way, was such and such, Pastor this or that. “Good night! Go, and sin no more!”

With that I left.

I rubbed my hands in delight at my clever idea and talked aloud to myself. What a joy it was to go around doing good deeds! I might have given this fallen creature a nudge toward redemption for the rest of her life!
²
She would appreciate it when she managed to collect herself; what's more, she would remember me in her dying hour, her heart full of gratitude. Ah, how rewarding it was to be honest and upright! My spirits were absolutely radiant, I felt as fit as could be and game for anything. If only I had a candle, then perhaps I could finish my article. I was dangling my new key in my hand as I walked along, humming, whistling, and pondering a way to procure a candle. I had no choice but to take my writing materials downstairs, out on the street, under the lamp. I opened the gate and went up to get my papers.

When I came back down I locked the gate from the outside and stationed myself under the light from the lamp. It was quiet all around; I could hear only the heavy, clanking footfalls of a policeman in the side street and, far away, in the direction of St. Hanshaugen, a dog barking. There was nothing to disturb me, I pulled my coat collar up around my ears and started thinking with all my might. It would be a wonderful help to me if I were lucky enough to come up with the conclusion to this little monograph. I was at a rather difficult point right now, to be followed by a quite imperceptible transition to something new, and then a muted, gliding finale, a long-drawn-out rumble which would finally end in a climax as bold, as shocking, as a shot or the sound of a cracking rock. Period.

But the words wouldn't come. I read through the entire piece from the beginning, read each sentence aloud, but I just couldn't collect my thoughts for this crashing climax. On top of everything, as I stood there trying to work it out, the policeman came up and planted himself in the middle of the street a little way off, spoiling my entire mood. What business was it of his if at this moment I was working on an excellent climax to an article for the “Commander”! Good God, how absolutely impossible it was for me to keep my head above water, no matter how hard I tried! I stood there for about an hour. The policeman went away. It was getting too cold to be standing still. Crestfallen and discouraged by another wasted effort, I finally opened the gate and went up to my room.

It was very cold up there, and I could barely see my window in the thick darkness. I groped my way over to the bed, pulled off my shoes and set about warming my feet between my hands. Then I lay down—just as I was, fully clothed, as I had been doing now for a long time.

 

The following morning I sat up in bed as soon as it was light and set to work on my article once more. I sat there like that until noon, by which time I had managed to write ten or twenty lines. And I still hadn't reached the finale.

I got up, put on my shoes and started pacing the floor to warm up. The windowpanes were coated with ice; I looked out—it was snowing, and down in the back yard the pavement and the pump were covered by a thick blanket of snow.

I puttered about in my room, took listless turns back and forth, scratched the walls with my fingernails, leaned my forehead carefully against the door, tapped the floor with my forefinger and listened attentively—all without an object, but done quietly and thoughtfully as though I were engaged on a matter of some importance. And all the while I said aloud, time after time, so I could hear it myself, “But good Lord, this is mad!” Still, I carried on as insanely as ever. After a long time, perhaps a couple of hours, I pulled myself sharply together, bit my lips and braced up as best I could. This had to end! I found a sliver to chew on and promptly set about writing again.

A few brief sentences got done with great effort, a dozen or two miserable words that I forced out at all costs simply to make some progress. Then I stopped—my head was empty and I didn't have the strength to go on. When I just couldn't get any further, I began staring with wide-open eyes at those last words, that unfinished sheet of paper, peering at the strange, trembling letters which stared up at me from the paper like small unkempt figures, and at the end I understood nothing at all and didn't have a thought in my head.

Time passed. I could hear the traffic in the street, the noise from carriages and horses. Jens Olai's voice floated up to me from the stable when he talked to the horses. I was completely listless, moistening my lips a little every once in a while but otherwise doing nothing. My chest was in a sorry state.

It began to get dark. I drooped more and more, grew tired and lay back on the bed. To warm my hands a bit, I passed my fingers through my hair, back and forth and crisscross; small tufts of hair trailed along, loosened wisps that stuck to my fingers and spread over the pillow. I didn't stop to think about it right then, it didn't seem to concern me, and besides I had plenty of hair left. I tried once more to shake off this strange drowsiness, sliding like a fog through all my limbs; I sat up, beat my knees with the palms of my hands and coughed as hard as my chest would allow, only to fall back again. Nothing helped; I was fading helplessly away with open eyes, staring straight at the ceiling. Finally I stuck my forefinger in my mouth and took to sucking on it. Something began stirring in my brain, some thought in there scrabbling to get out, a stark-staring mad idea: what if I gave a bite? And without a moment's hesitation I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my teeth together.

I jumped up. I was finally awake. A little blood trickled from my finger, and I licked it off as it came. It didn't hurt, the wound was nothing really, but I was at once brought back to my senses. I shook my head, went over to the window and found a rag for the wound. While I was fiddling with this, my eyes filled with water—I wept softly to myself. The skinny lacerated finger looked so sad. God in heaven, to what extremity I had come!

The darkness grew more impenetrable. If only I had a candle, then I could possibly write the finale in the course of the evening. My head was clear once more. Thoughts came and went as usual and I didn't suffer particularly; I didn't even feel my hunger as badly as a few hours ago, I could surely hold out till the following day. Maybe I could get a candle on credit if I went to the grocery store and explained my situation. I knew the place so well; in the good old days, when I could still afford it, I had bought many a loaf of bread in that store. There wasn't the slightest doubt that they would let me have a candle on the strength of my good name. For the first time in a long while I brushed my clothes a bit and removed the loose hairs on my coat collar, as far as the darkness allowed. Then I groped my way down the stairs.

When I got out on the street, it occurred to me that perhaps I ought to ask for a loaf of bread instead. I grew doubtful and stopped to think. No way! I finally answered myself. I was unfortunately not in a condition to tolerate food right now; it would be the same story all over again, with visions and intimations and crazy ideas, and my article would never get finished. I had to show up at the “Com mander's” before he forgot me again. No way! I decided on a candle. And so I entered the store.

A woman stands at the counter making purchases; several small parcels, wrapped in different kinds of paper, are lying beside me. The clerk, who knows me and knows what I usually buy, leaves the woman, wraps a loaf of bread in a newspaper straightaway and puts it in front of me.

“No—actually it is a candle this evening,” I say. I say it very softly and humbly so as not to irritate him and spoil my chances of getting the candle.

My answer came as a surprise to him, it was the first time I had asked for something other than bread from him.

“Then you'll have to wait a moment,” he says, turning back to the woman.

She gets her things and pays, handing him a five-krone bill on which she receives change, then leaves.

The clerk and I are now alone.

He says, “And then there was your candle.” He tears open a pack of candles and takes one out for me.

He looks at me and I look at him, I cannot bring myself to voice my request.

“Oh, that's right, you paid already,” he says suddenly. He says simply that I had paid, I heard every word. And he begins to count out silver coins from the till, one krone after another, fat shiny coins—he gives me back change on five kroner, the woman's five-krone bill.

“There you are!” he says.

I stare at these coins for a second, feeling that something is wrong; I don't reflect, my mind is a blank, I'm just stunned by all this wealth that lies gleaming before my eyes. I gather up the money automatically.

I stand there outside the counter, dumbfounded, vanquished, annihilated; I take a step toward the door and stop again. I direct my gaze at a certain point on the wall; a little bell in a leather collar hangs there and, beneath it, a bundle of string. I keep staring at these articles.

The clerk, who thinks I would like to strike up a chat, seeing that I'm taking my time, says as he tidies up some wrapping paper floating around on the counter, “It looks like we're going to have winter now.”