My Struggle: Book One (20 page)

We stood on the perimeter of the noise. Øyvind, who had brought along fireworks, took out a huge, dynamite-shaped stick and placed it in front of his feet. He seemed to be swaying to and fro as he did so. Jan Vidar was jabbering away, as he did when he was drunk, with a permanent smile on his lips. At the moment he was talking to Rune. They had found a common theme in kickboxing. His glasses were still misted up, but he could no longer be bothered to remove or wipe them. I was standing a few steps away and allowed my gaze to wander through the crowd. When the stick exploded for the first time and a red light was eructated right next to me I jumped out of my skin. Øyvind burst out laughing.

“Not bad!” he shouted. “Shall we try it again?” he said, putting down another firework and lighting it, without waiting for an answer. It immediately began to spew forth balls of light, and this, the steady succession of the explosions, excited him so much that he rummaged around in feverish haste for a third even before this one had died.

He couldn't contain his laughter.

Beside us, a man in a light-blue jacket, white shirt and red leather tie tumbled headlong into a snowdrift. A woman ran over to him in her high heels and pulled at his arm, not hard enough to lift him but enough to motivate him to stand up under his own steam. He brushed himself down while staring straight ahead as though he had not just been lying in the snow but had merely stopped to get a better overall view of the situation. Two boys were standing on the bus shelter roof, each holding a rocket at an angle; they lit them, and with their faces averted, gripped them in their hands as they hissed and fizzed until the rockets took off, flew a couple of meters and exploded with such intensity and power that all the bystanders looked round.

“Hey, Jan Vidar,” I said. “Can you open this one as well?”

With a smile, he flipped the top off the bottle I passed him. At last I could feel something, but not pleasure nor a somberness, more a rapidly increasing blunting of the senses. I drank, lit a cigarette, looked at my watch. Ten to twelve.

“Ten minutes to go!” I said.

Jan Vidar nodded, went on chatting with Rune. I had decided not to look for Irene until after twelve. Those at the party would stick together until twelve, I was sure of that, then they would hug and wish one another a happy New Year, they already knew one another, they were friends, a clique, like everyone at my school they had their own, and I was too far outside this one to mingle. But after twelve, things would loosen up, they would stand around drinking, they would not return right away, and with the clique in this vaguely spontaneous, loose state, I would be able to make contact, chat and casually, or at least without revealing any obvious intentions, wheedle my way in and stay.

The problem was Jan Vidar. Would he want to come with me? They were all people he didn't know, people I had more in common with than he did. He seemed to be enjoying himself where he was, didn't he?

I would have to ask him. If he didn't want to come with me, that was up to him. But I would definitely never set foot in that damn cellar again, that was for certain.

And there she was.

Some distance away, perhaps thirty meters from us, surrounded by her party guests. I tried to count them, but outside the inner circle it was difficult to work out who belonged to her party and who belonged elsewhere. I was sure it was somewhere between ten and twelve people. I had seen almost all the faces before; she hung out with them during the breaks. She was not beautiful, I suppose, she had a bit of a double chin and chubby cheeks – although she was not in any way fat – blue eyes and blond hair. She was short and there was something duck like about her. But none of this mattered one bit in my judgment of her, for she had something else, which was more important: she was a focal point. No matter where she went or what she said, people paid attention. She was out every weekend, in Kristiansand or at private parties, unless she was staying in a chalet at a skiing center or in some other big town. Always with her clique. I hated these cliques, I really did, and when I stood listening to her going on about all the things she had done recently I hated her too.

Tonight she was wearing a dark-blue, knee-length coat. Underneath I glimpsed a light-blue dress and skin-colored tights. On her head she had . . . well, yes, it was a diadem, wasn't it? Like some little princess?

Around me the intensity had gradually increased. Now all you could hear was bangs and explosions and shouting on all sides. Then, as if from above, as though it was God himself making his pleasure known at the advent of the New Year, the sirens began to sound. The cheering around us rose in volume. I looked at my watch. Twelve.

Jan Vidar met my gaze.

“It's twelve o'clock!” he shouted. “Happy New Year!”

He started to trudge toward me.

No, shit, he wasn't going to hug me, was he?

No, no, no!

But over he came, put his arms around me and pressed his cheek against mine.

“Happy New Year, Karl Ove,” he said. “And thanks for everything in the old one!”

“Happy New Year,” I said. His stubble rubbed against my smooth cheek. He thumped me on the back twice, then took a step back.

“Øyvind!” he said, going toward him.

Why the hell did he have to hug me? What was the point? We never hugged. We weren't the sort of guys who would hug.

What a pile of shit this was.

“Happy New Year, Karl Ove!” said Lene. She smiled at me, and I leaned forward and gave her a hug.

“Happy New Year,” I said. “You're so beautiful.”

Her face, which seconds before had floated around and been part of everything else that was happening, froze.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “Thank you for the old year.”

She smiled.

“I heard what you said,” she said. “Happy New Year too.”

As she moved away, I had a stiffy.

Oh, not that as well.

I drank the rest of my beer. There were only three left in the bag. I ought to have saved them, but I needed something to occupy myself with, so I took one, opened it with my teeth and gulped it down. I lit a cigarette as well. They were my tools; with those in my hands I was equipped and ready to go. A cigarette in the left hand, a bottle of beer in the right. So I stood there lifting them to my mouth, first one, then the other. Cigarette, beer, cigarette, beer.

At ten past, I slapped Jan Vidar on the back and said I was going to join some friends, would be back soon, don't go away, he nodded, and I made my way through to Irene. At first she didn't notice me, she was standing with her back to me talking to some people.

“Hi, Irene!” I said.

As she didn't turn, presumably because my voice could not be heard over the ambient noise, I felt obliged to tap her on the shoulder. This was not good, this approach was too direct, tapping someone on the shoulder is not the same as bumping into them, but I would have to take a chance.

At any event, she did turn.

“Karl Ove,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“We're at a party nearby. Then I saw you up here and thought I would wish you a happy New Year. Happy New Year!'

“Happy New Year!” she said. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Certainly am!” I said. “And you?”

“Yes, having a great time.”

There was a brief silence.

“You're throwing a party, aren't you?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Anywhere near?”

“Yes, I live over there.”

She pointed up the hill.

“In that house?” I said, nodding in the same direction.

“No, behind it. You can't see it from the road.”

“I couldn't tag along, could I?” I said. “Then we could chat a bit more. That would be nice.”

She shook her head and wrinkled her nose.

“Don't think so,” she said. “It isn't a class party, you see.”

“I know,” I said. “But just for a little chat? Nothing more. I'm at a party quite close by.”

“Go there then!” she said. “We can see each other at school in the New Year!”

She had completely out-maneuvered me. There was nothing else to say.

“Nice to see you,” I said. “I've always liked you.”

Then I about-faced and walked back. It had been hard to articulate the stuff about always liking her, because it was not true, but at least it would deflect her attention from the fact that I had tried to cadge an invitation to her party. Now she would think I asked because I was coming on to her. And I was coming on to her because I was drunk. Who doesn't do that on New Year's Eve?

Bitch. Fucking bitch.

Jan Vidar looked up at me when I got back.

“There won't be any party,” I said. “We're not invited.”

“Why not? Thought you said you knew them.”

“Invited guests only. And we're not. Assholes.”

Jan Vidar snorted.

“We'll just go back. It was great there, wasn't it.”

I sent him a vacant stare and yawned, to let him know how great it was. But we had no choice. We couldn't call his father before two o'clock. We couldn't very well call at ten minutes past twelve on New Year's Eve. So once again it was the crowd of pimply schoolkids dressed in everyday clothes that I walked ahead of through the residential district of Søm on that windblown New Year's Eve of 1984/1985.

At twenty past two Jan Vidar's father pulled up outside the house. We were ready and waiting. I, who was less drunk, sat in the front while Jan Vidar,
who only one hour earlier had been jumping around with a lampshade on his head, sat in the back, as we had planned. Fortunately, after he had thrown up and after drinking a few glasses of water and washing his face thoroughly under the tap, he was in a state to phone his father and tell him where we were. Not very convincingly. I stood beside him and heard him almost spewing up the first part of the word, then swallowing the last, but he did manage to spit out the address, and I don't suppose our parents imagined we were nowhere near alcohol on occasions such as these.

“Happy New Year, boys!” his father said as we got in. “Have you had a good time?”

“Yes,” I said. “Lots of people out and about at twelve. Quite a scene. How was it in Tveit?”

“Fine,” he said, stretching his arm along the back of my seat and craning his neck to reverse. “Whose house was it, actually?”

“Someone Øyvind knows. The one who plays drums in the band.”

“Oh yes,” the father said, changing gear and driving back the way he had just come. The snow in some of the gardens was stained with fireworks. A few couples were walking along the road. The occasional taxi passed. Otherwise all was quiet and peaceful. There was something I had always liked about gliding through the darkness with the dashboard illuminated beside a man who was confident and calm in his movements. Jan Vidar's father was a good man. He was friendly and interested, but also left us in peace when Jan Vidar indicated we had had enough. He took us on fishing trips, he repaired things for us – once when my bike had been punctured on the way there he had fixed the tire for me, without a word, it was all ready when I had to leave – and when they went on family holidays they invited me. He asked after my parents, as did Jan Vidar's mother, and whenever he drove me home, which was not so seldom, he always had a chat with Mom or Dad, if they were around, and he invited them over to his place. It wasn't his fault that they never went. But he also had a temper, I knew that, even though I had never seen any evidence of it, and hatred was also among the many feelings Jan Vidar had for him.

“So it's 1985,” I said as we joined the E18 by Varodd Bridge.

“Indeed,” Jan Vidar's father said. “Or what do you say in the back?”

Jan Vidar didn't say anything. And he hadn't when his father got there either. He had just stared straight ahead and got in. I twisted around in my seat and looked at him. He was sitting with his head transfixed and his eyes focused on a point in the neck rest.

“Lost your tongue?” his father asked, smiling at me.

Still total silence from the rear.

“Your parents,” his father went on. “Did they stay at home tonight?”

I nodded.

“My grandparents and my uncle came over. Lutefisk and aquavit.”

“Glad you weren't there?”

“Yes.”

Onto the Kjevik road, past Hamresanden, along Ryensletta. Dark, peaceful, nice and warm. I could sit like this for the rest of my life, I thought. Past their house, into the bends up by Kragebo, down to the bridge on the other side, up the hill. It hadn't been cleared and was covered with five centimeters of fresh snow. Jan Vidar's father drove more slowly over the last stretch. Past the house where Susann and Elise lived, the two sisters who had moved here from Canada, and no one could quite figure out, past the bend where William lived, down the hill, and up the last bit.