Naïve Super (2 page)

I cycled back to town and put an end to the rest of my old existence. I visited the paper where I had from time to time submitted material, and told them I wouldn’t be writing any more for a while. Maybe never. I also cancelled my bedsit, the telephone and the newspaper subscription. And I sold my books, and the TV set.

The rest of my belongings I fitted into a rucksack and two cardboard boxes. I placed the boxes in my parents’ attic and put the rucksack on my back, and cycled home to my brother’s place.

There I sat sweating.

I had performed a feat.

No nonsense here.

This was not
Sesame Street.

A few weeks have passed.

I am sitting in my brother’s flat.

Once a day I go down to buy some food. And if there is any mail, I open it and fax it to my brother. It is an amazingly long fax number. I feel increasingly sure he is in Africa.

I’ve been looking for the note on which I wrote down his address, but I can’t find it.

Besides this I hardly do anything at all.

I flip through the newspaper or lie on the couch staring into space.

I have no plans.

I still have the feeling that it’s all pretty meaningless.

It’s no inspiring feeling.

I’ve turned the tempo all the way down. To zero.

I am thinking that I need to start from scratch. How does one start from scratch?

Yesterday I made a list of what I have and what I don’t have.

This is what I have:

Every time I have looked at the list today, I’ve noticed that I have more than what I don’t have. I have 11 things. I lack 6 things. This ought to be a source of optimism.

But having read the list closely it has become clear to me that it is an altogether unbalanced and bad piece of arithmetic.

It won’t even out.

Some of what I have I could easily do without, and several of the things I don’t have appear to me as central to living the way I’d like to live.

For example, I’d swap my bad friend for some enthusiasm anytime. Or a girlfriend.

Anytime.

But I know just as well as everybody else that it doesn’t

work that way.

I played around adding together the numbers on the lists.

11 + 6.

It makes 17. Quite a large number when dealing with essential things in a person’s life. For a few seconds I was quite proud. But it makes no sense whatsoever. It’s stupid to add together things one has and things one doesn’t have. And besides, some of those things are less essential. The watch for example. I wish I had a watch, but I wouldn’t claim that it’s essential. I just fancy having one. To pay more attention to time. As I’ve said, I have a problem dealing with time, and I think it’s better to confront one’s problems than to avoid them. But the watch as essential? Hardly.

It’s the same with the trainers. They’re not essential either, but I have them. Maybe I could say the watch and the trainers cancel each other out. That makes it 10 + 5. Which is 15. Also quite a big number in this context. But regrettably also useless, and as devoid of meaning as 17.

I must try to think about something else.

I am lying on the couch dozing when I hear a fax coming. I wait for it to come through and for the machine to cut the sheet. It takes about a minute. Now the sheet is falling to the floor. I get up to fetch it.

It’s from Kim.

Kim is my good friend. I’ve known him for a few years. He’s a good guy, and in the process of becoming a meteorologist. He is doing his practical on an island up north. As far as I have understood he is alone on the island. He reads a few gauges and calculates something or other. Then he calls the Meteorological Institute at Blindern a couple of times every 24 hours.

I think he is a little lonely up there.

He faxes me all the time. I have trouble keeping up with his pace. I’ve told him I’m not capable of faxing him as often as he faxes me. He says it’s OK, but I know it weighs heavily on him. Without having said the words, we’ve kind of reached an agreement where he can fax me as much as he likes, while I only reply when I feel up to it.

It’s an agreement I can live with.

I can see from the fax that Kim has been watching some programme or other on TV. He quotes: 1. Quit your job. 2. Go travelling. 3. Make new friends.

I have told Kim how I am doing these days. He’s trying to help me. That’s good of him. Under my brother’s desk I have a box on which I’ve written Kim. In it, I put all the faxes he sends me. The box is already almost full. After Kim learned that I am staying somewhere with a fax, there’s hardly been a quiet moment.

Now I’m lying down on the couch again. Something is going to have to happen. Not necessarily something big. Just something.

I decide to go out and buy something that will make me think about nice things, or preferably just smile.

I visit several shops, but can’t find anything that I like.

I try to define some criteria for what I seek.

For some reason I’ve become caught up in this thing about lists. Lists are a good thing. I’ll be making many of them in the time to come. I’m making one now.

After a bit of thinking it becomes apparent that I’m looking for an object which:

I sit down on a bench and take a closer look at the list. For a long time. It is an honest list. I am happy with it. Maybe a suitable object exists, and maybe it doesn’t. It’s not that important. But the list is important. This is a discovery to me. This has value.

I sit there pondering which objects will fulfil my desires.

It could be several. But I just want one thing.

Suddenly it is clear to me that what I seek is a ball.

A ball, plain and simple. I feel a sting of eagerness.

It’s been a long time since I thought about balls. I’m happy that it came to mind. This is the way to go. Now I just have to find a ball. How does one choose a ball?

The world is full of balls. People use them all the time. For fun, games and probably other things. It all comes down to choosing the right one.

I visit a sports shop.

They have an overwhelming selection of balls. Nice, expensive balls. Made from leather and other durable materials. I examine them, but find them too demanding. I’ll be feeling a lot of pressure to perform if I buy a ball like that. The time is not ripe for a quality ball. The element of competition must be downplayed right now. Recreation is the key word. I need a plain, basic ball. And preferably a plastic one.

I go to a toy store. Here the selection is more sensible. Fortunately they only have a handful of models. In a few different sizes and colours. I weigh a few of them in my hand and bounce a couple of them on the floor. In the end I make it simple and choose a red plastic ball of average size. It costs just under fifty kroner.

They give me a bag to carry it in. Then I cycle home.

I fax Kim: In the best of moods. Bought a red ball.

I lie down on the couch with the ball resting on my chest.

Now I’m waiting for evening to come.

When it gets dark I’m going to go down into the courtyard and throw the ball against a wall. I look forward to that.

I’ve been throwing the ball in the courtyard several nights in a row now.

Usually I go down after the late news and place myself in a corner where there are no windows. It is a little-used patch, illuminated only by a single light bulb.

There’s something very good about throwing. I don’t quite know what it is. More people ought to throw. We ought to be throwing, every one of us. Things would look different then. We would be happier.

I throw the ball against the wall and let it bounce off the ground once before catching it. It’s a good ball. It always comes back. And it fits comfortably in my hand. I had forgotten how good it is to feel a ball. To hold it. It’s so round. It makes me forget about time.

I’m throwing again now.

The red plastic ball hits the wall and emits a little tone. Then it bounces off the ground and emits another tone. Then I catch it, hold it for a moment and throw it again. I do it automatically. Without thinking about what I’m doing. I can think about other things.

Tonight I’m thinking about my grandfather. A few weeks ago he told me a story. It’s a story about a good world.

My grandparents live in a yellow wooden house they built a long time ago. They have a big garden that they’ve always spent a lot of time on. Flowers and trees and bushes mean a lot to them. They know all the names and when things are supposed to be planted and when they have to be watered and pruned. They often talk about plants and give flowers to friends and family. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. When they built the house, my grandfather planted an apple tree. At the bottom of the garden. I have never seen that tree. It was gone when I was born. But I’ve heard about it.

When the tree had grown for many years, it started to yield apples. A lot of apples. My grandmother used to make juice and preserves from the apples.

It was a good apple tree.

But then something happened.

It had been a good summer and the apples were nice and big. They were about to be picked.

But one morning the tree had been destroyed. Several thick branches were lying on the ground. My grandfather said it looked bad. It would not grow apples again. The tree was going to die.

My grandfather went inside to give my grandmother the sad news. Then he took off his work clothes, put on something more appropriate, and went down the lane past the cemetery and down to the college.

There he spoke to the principal.

The college acted, and after some time three young students came forward.

They had been out pinching apples and things had got a little out of control.

They had very guilty consciences.

It was a prank. Not a big thing, but serious enough. And both my grandfather and the principal were concerned with sorting things out fair and square.

A new apple tree cost 150 kroner in those days. It was agreed that the boys should pay for a new tree.

They would pay 50 kroner each.

My grandfather told me it was a lot of money back then.

The boys would pay a weekly sum the rest of that autumn and well into spring, until everything was paid back and they were even.

My grandfather had himself been to that college and he knew the boys didn’t have a lot to get by on. They were boarders, some of them were far away from home and their families had already dug deep into their pockets in order to send them to college. They had to take the money for the apple tree out of their own allowances. That probably meant any expensive and boyish activities had to be limited considerably. They could hardly buy anything, not go to the cinema, not treat the girls to a soda, pretty much nothing at all.

Every Saturday the boys came dejectedly to my grandparents’ door to pay. They said very little. They just held out their hands and dropped the coins into my grandfather’s huge palm. He nodded gravely and confirmed thereby that things were going the way they should. It went on that way. Winter came and went, and then spring.

In May the garden was once again in bloom and the polytechnic was about to go on vacation. The boys were going home for summer. When they came by for the last time, they were all dressed up. It was something of an occasion for them. They rang the doorbell and my grandmother invited them in. She had made coffee and waffles. The boys were served and they made the last payment and shook my grandparents’ hands.

The case was closed.

The boys were relieved. They cheered up, and for the first time they talked with my grandparents. They told them about school and summer. They told them where they came from. Their faces were happy. The debt was paid. They were cleansed and could finally hold their heads high.

After a while the boys got up to leave. Goodbyes were said, and they walked towards the door.

Then my grandfather got up.

Hang on, he said, there was one more thing.

And the boys stopped. My grandfather crossed the floor. He went over to the big kitchen dresser and opened it. He stuck his hand deep inside it and came out with three envelopes. Then he walked over to the boys and gave one to each of them.

The boys couldn’t quite understand. They looked at each other. Then they opened the envelopes and tears started running down their cheeks.

My grandfather had given them their money back.

I’m still standing here throwing the ball. I’ve really got into the rhythm of it. I can’t see any reason to stop, even though the going is good. This game won’t go bad. No matter how long I keep at it, it can’t possibly go bad.

My grandfather told me he had been planning to give the money back all the time. It wasn’t about the money, he said.

I’m thinking about the boys. They’re grown-ups today. Probably over fifty years old. They must have had the feeling that the world was good. That things fitted together. That something meant something.

I wonder what they are doing now. They probably have families themselves, and gardens with apple trees.

My grandfather is a really good guy.