My Struggle: Book One (21 page)

“I'll drop you here,” he said. “Then we won't wake them if they're asleep. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said. “And thank you very much for the ride. See you, Jayvee!”

Jan Vidar blinked, then opened his eyes wide.

“See you, yes,” he said.

“Are you going to sit in the front?” Jan Vidar's father asked.

“I don't,” Jan Vidar said. I closed the door, raised my hand to wave goodbye and heard the car reversing behind me as I walked up the road to the house. “Jayvee”! Why had I said that? The nickname that signaled a friendship I didn't need to signal; I had never used it before since, in fact, we were friends.

The windows in the house were unlit. So they must have gone to bed. I was glad, not because I had anything to hide, but because I wanted to be left in peace. After hanging up my outdoor clothes in the hall I went into the living room. All traces of the party had been removed. In the kitchen the dishwasher was humming softly. I sat down on the sofa and peeled an orange. Although the fire had gone out you could still feel the heat from the wood burner. Mom was right, it was good living here. On the wicker chair the cat lazily raised its head. Meeting my gaze, it got up, padded across the floor and jumped onto my lap. I got rid of the orange peel, which the cat hated.

“You can lie here for a bit,” I said, stroking it. “You can. But not all night, you know. I'm going to bed soon.”

It began to purr as it curled up on me. Its head sank slowly, resting on one paw, and its eyes, which first had closed with pleasure, were closed in sleep within seconds.

“It's alright for some,” I said.

The next morning I awoke to the radio in the kitchen, but stayed where I was, there was nothing to get up for anyway today, and I soon fell sleep again. The next time I awoke it was half past eleven. I got dressed and went downstairs. Mom was sitting at the kitchen table reading and looked up as I came in.

“Hi,” she said. “Did you have a good time last night?”

“Yes,” I said. “It was fun.”

“When did you get home?”

“Half past two-ish. Jan Vidar's Dad brought us back.”

I sat down and spread some liver pâté on a slice of bread, succeeded after several attempts in spearing a pickle with a fork, put it on top, and lifted the teapot to feel if it was empty.

“Is there any left?” Mom asked. “I can boil some more water.”

“Could probably squeeze a little cup out,” I said. “But it might be cold.”

Mom got up.

“Stay where you are,” I said. “I can do it myself.”

“It's fine,” she said. “I'm sitting right by the stove.”

She filled the saucepan and put it on the burner, which soon began to crackle.

“And what did you have to eat?” she asked.

“It was a cold buffet,” I said. “I think the girl's mother made it. It was the usual . . . you know, shrimp and vegetables in jelly, transparent . . .?”

“Shrimp in aspic?” Mom queried.

“Yes, shrimp in aspic. And ordinary shrimp. And crab. Two lobsters, there wasn't enough for everyone, but we all got to taste a bit. And then, oh yeah, some ham and other things.”

“Sounds good,” Mom said.

“Yes, it was,” I said. “Then we went out at twelve, down to the intersection where everyone gathered and let off rockets. Well, we didn't, but lots of the others did.”

“Did you meet anyone new?”

I hesitated. Took another slice of bread, scanned the table for something to put on it. Salami with mayonnaise, that looked good.

“Not exactly,” I said. “Mostly I stuck with people I know.”

I looked at her.

“Where's Dad?”

“In the barn. He's off to Grandma's today. Feel like going?”

“No, I'd rather not,” I said. “There were so many people last night. I feel like being on my own now. Perhaps I'll wander down to Per's. But that's all. What are you going to do?”

“I'm not sure. Read a bit, maybe. And make a start on my packing. The plane leaves early tomorrow morning.”

“That's right,” I said. “When's Yngve off?”

“In a few days, I think. Then it'll be just you and Dad here.”

“Yes,” I said. I clapped my eyes on the brawn Grandma had made. Perhaps brawn wouldn't be a bad idea for the next slice? And then one with lamb sausage.

Half an hour later I was ringing the doorbell at Per's house. His father opened. He appeared to be on his way out: he was wearing a lined, green military jacket over a shiny blue tracksuit and had light-colored boots on; in his hand he had a lead. Their dog, an old Golden Retriever, was wagging its tail between its legs.

“Ah, it's you,” he said. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” I said.

“They're in the living room,” he said. “Just go right in.”

He walked past me, whistling, onto the forecourt and over to the open garage. I kicked off my shoes and went into the house. It was large and open, built not so many years ago, by Per's father, as far as I had understood, and you had a view of the river from almost all the rooms. From the hall there was first the kitchen, where Per's mother was working, she turned her head as I passed, smiled and said hello, then the living room, where Per was sitting with his brother Tom, sister Marit, and best friend Trygve.

“What are you watching?” I asked.

“
Guns of Navarone
,” Per said.

“Been watching it long?”

“No. Half an hour. We can rewind it if you want.”

“Rewind?” said Trygve. “Aw, we don't want to see the beginning again.”

“But Karl Ove hasn't seen it,” Per said. “It won't take long.”

“It won't take long? It'll take half an hour,” Trygve said.

Per went to the video player and knelt down.

“You can't decide that unilaterally,” Tom said.

“Oh?” Per said.

He pressed stop and then
REWIND.

Marit got up and headed for the staircase.

“Call me when we're back to where we were,” she said. Per nodded. The video machine click-clacked a few times while emitting some tiny hydraulic whines until it was ready to start, and the tape began to whir backwards with ever-increasing speed and volume until it came to a stop well before the end, whereafter the last part rotated extremely slowly, in a manner reminiscent
of a plane which after flying at breakneck speed through the air approaches the ground at reduced speed and brakes on the runway, and then calmly and carefully taxis toward the terminal building.

“I suppose you were at home with Mommy and Daddy last night?” I said, looking at Trygve.

“Yes?” he said. “And I suppose you went out drinking?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was having a drinky-winky, but I wish we'd stayed at home. We didn't have a party to go to, so we just trudged around in the storm each lugging a bag of beer bottles. We walked the whole way to Søm. But just wait. Soon it will be your turn to wander around aimlessly with plastic bags at night.”

“Okay,” Per said.

“Oh, this is fun,” Trygve said as the first frames from the film appeared on the screen. Outside, everything was still, as only winter can be. And even though the sky was overcast and gray, the light over the countryside shimmered and was perfectly white. I remember thinking all I wanted to do was sit right there, in a newly built house, in a circle of light in the middle of the forest and be as stupid as I liked.

The next morning Dad drove Mom to the airport. When he returned, the buffer between us was gone, and we resumed the life we had lived all that autumn without further delay. He was back in the flat in the barn, I caught the bus down to Jan Vidar's house where we plugged into his amplifier and sat around playing for a while until we got sick of that and ambled over to the shop, where nothing happened, ambled back and watched some ski-jumping on TV, played a few records, and talked about girls. At around five I caught the bus back up, Dad met me at the door, asked if he could drive me to town. Great, I said. On the way he suggested dropping in on my grandparents, I was probably hungry, we could eat there.

Grandma stuck her head out of the window as Dad parked the car outside the garage.

“Oh, it's you!” she said.

A minute later she unlocked the front door.

“Nice to see you again!” she said. “It was lovely at your house.”

She looked at me.

“And you had a good time too, I heard?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Give me a hug then! You're a big boy now, but you can still give your grandmother a hug, can't you!”

I leaned forward and felt her dry, wrinkled cheek against mine. She smelled good, of the perfume she had always used.

“Have you eaten?” Dad asked.

“We've just had a bite, but I can heat something up for you, that's no problem. Are you hungry?”

“I think we are, aren't we?” Dad said, looking at me with a wry smile.

“I am at any rate,” I said.

In my inner ear I heard how that must have sounded to them.

“At any wate.”

We took our jackets off in the hall, I put my boots neatly at the bottom of the open wardrobe, hung my jacket on one of the ancient, chipped golden clothes hangers, Grandma stood by the stairs watching us with that impatience in her body she had always exhibited. One hand passed over her cheek. Her head twisted to one side. Her weight shifted from one foot to the other. Apparently unaffected by these minor adjustments she kept talking to Dad. Asked whether there was as much snow higher up. Whether Mom had left. When she would be back next. Mm, right, she said each time he said anything. Right.

“And what about you, Karl Ove,” she said, focusing on me. “When do you start school again?”

“In two days.”

“That'll be nice, won't it.”

“Yes, it will.”

Dad snatched a glance at himself in the mirror. His face was calm, but there was a visible shadow of displeasure in his eyes, they seemed cold and
apathetic. He took a step toward Grandma, who turned to climb the stairs, lightly and nimbly. Dad followed, heavy-limbed, and I brought up the rear, eyes fixed on the thick, black hair at the back of his neck.

“Well, I'll be darned!” Grandad said as we entered the kitchen. He was sitting on a chair by the table, leaning back with legs apart, black suspenders over a white shirt buttoned up to the neck. Over his face hung a lock of hair that he pushed back into place with his hand. From his mouth hung an unlit cigarette.

“How were the roads?” he asked. “Icy?”

“They weren't so bad,” Dad said. “Worse on New Year's Eve. And there was no traffic to speak of either.”

“Sit yourselves down,” Grandma said.

“No, then there's no room for you,” Dad said.

“I'll stand,” she said. “I have to heat your food up anyway. I sit all day, I do, you know. Come on, sit down!”

Grandad held a lighter to his cigarette and lit up. Puffed a few times, blew smoke into the room.

Grandma switched on the burners, drummed her fingers on the counter and whistled softly, as was her wont.

In a way Dad was too big to sit at the kitchen table, I thought. Not physically, there was plenty of room for him, it was more that he looked out of place. There was something about him, or whatever he radiated, that distanced itself from this table.

He took out a cigarette and lit it.

Would he have fit better in the living room? If we had been eating in there?

Yes, he would. That would have been better.

“So it's 1985,” I said to break the silence that had already lasted seconds.

“Yes, s'pose it is, my boy,” Grandma said.

“What have you done with your brother?” Grandad said. “Is he back in Bergen?”

“No, he's still in Arendal,” I said.

“Ah yes,” Grandad said. “He's become a real Arendal boy, he has.”

“Yes, he doesn't come by here so often any more,” Grandma said. “We had such fun when he was small.”

She looked at me.

“But you come though.”

“What is it he's studying now?” Grandad asked.

“Isn't it political science?” Dad wondered, looking at me.

“No, he's just started media studies,” I said.

“Don't you know what your own son's studying?” Grandad smiled.

“Yes, I do. I know very well,” Dad said. He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray and turned to Grandma. “I think it'll be ready now, Mother. It doesn't have to be scalding hot. It must be hot enough by now, don't you think?”