Beatles (11 page)

‘Now they’re all there!’ Seb shouted.

Five shadows on the seventh floor of the Viking Hotel. A curtain was drawn to, like the last frame of a film. The screams continued for a while, then the noise sank back into our bodies.

‘Well, they’ve got to rest, haven’t they,’ Ola said objectively. ‘Before the c-c-concert in Sjølyst.’

‘Course,’ Gunnar said. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a ticket.’

‘The Pussycats are doin’ the warm-up,’ I said.

‘Far out!’

There was someone standing behind us. It was Dragon. It was the first time he had come so close. Gunnar looked away.

‘H-h-hiya,’ Ola stammered.

Dragon could not grin with his mouth any more. Instead he grinned with his eyes. He had no inhibitions about showing his disfigured face.

He smelt of beer.

‘What’s goin’ on here then?’ he asked in a surprisingly clear voice.

‘Don’t you know!’ Seb said. ‘The Rolling Stones are stayin’ at the Vikin’!’

Dragon looked around. His mutilated face made him seem almost inhuman.

‘They’re not stayin’ at the Vikin’,’ Dragon said.

‘Eh?’

‘They’re not stayin’ at the Vikin’,’ he repeated. A warm breeze of beer wafted towards us.

‘What d’you mean?’ Gunnar almost shouted. ‘Of course they’re stayin’ at the Vikin’.’

‘We’ve s-s-seen ’em!’ Ola said.

‘False trail,’ Dragon snuffled. His eyes were narrow and red. ‘They’re stayin’ somewhere completely different.’

‘How do you know, eh?’ Gunnar asked in a slightly milder tone.

‘I know,’ Dragon said.

‘Where are they stayin’ then?’ I asked. ‘Smart-arse.’

‘Can’t tell you. Secret.’

That was too much for Gunnar.

‘Secret! Are you out of your mind or what!’

Dragon was unshakable.

‘Secret between me and Mick.’

We stared at him in silence. His disfigured face did not yield an inch.

‘You’re bluffin’!’ Gunnar shouted. ‘You’re bloody bluffin’!’

Dragon stuffed his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small notepad.

‘Look at this,’ he said in what came over as a formal tone.

We gawped at the top sheet. There was a name written there. Mick. Mick Jagger. Flat, loopy writing. Dragon could not possibly have done that himself. He got a Below Standard in handwriting, he could never ever have formed such flawless Gs.

Gunnar’s face went green, his chin fell two floors. He couldn’t force out a sound.

‘D’you believe me now?’ Dragon gloated, putting his hand in his pocket again and pulling out something else. ‘Got it for keepin’ my
gob shut.’ He waved it in front of our noses and plunged it back in his pocket. It was a ticket to the Sjølyst concert.

‘You’re bluffin’!’ Gunnar said for the last time.

‘You can believe what you like,’ Dragon said in a low, a spookily low, voice.

Then he turned on his heel and left, larger than life, Dragon who had had to repeat the seventh class, who had tried to kill Lue and later did other, worse things, he was cleverer than we thought, Dragon was, leaving us like that, just staring at a big, fat back, a huge head and trousers which were much too short.

‘What do you reckon?’ Seb asked after a while.

‘Buggered if I know!’ I said.

‘We saw ’em, didn’t we!’ Gunnar persisted. ‘We saw ’em with our own eyes!’

We raised our gaze to the seventh floor. It was a long way up.

‘Might’ve been someone pretendin’ to be the Rollin’ Stones,’ Seb said quietly.

We shrugged and ambled off, crossed Karl Johan, which was teeming with people. All the restaurant terraces were packed. Girls in bright skirts made of thin, thin material like butterfly wings, everyone was laughing, there was nothing to laugh at, but everyone was laughing anyway, and the darkness was beginning to filter down from the sky, flake by flake, and there was the smell of cigarettes and lilac.

We walked down to Oslo West station. We didn’t say a word, just wandered off, out towards Filipstad, past the world’s largest banana on Matthiessen’s building, and by Kongen Sailing Club we sat down on a bench and looked across Frogner Bay. The yachts were coming in. People dressed in casual clothes were making their way over the bridge to Club 7.

‘We’re off tomorrow, Mum and me,’ said Seb. ‘Meetin’ my dad in Gothenburg.’

‘M-m-me, too,’ Ola sighed. ‘We’re goin’ to my grandma’s in Toten. Gonna be deadly d-d-dull.’

Behind us a train groaned, dragged sound after it, westbound, disappeared behind Skarpsno.

‘We’re off to Arendal,’ Gunnar said gloomily. ‘Stig’s not comin’. He’s rented a mountain cabin with some friends.’

‘I’m off tomorrow,’ I said. ‘To Nesodden.’

We didn’t say any more. But we were all thinking the same, that it was by no means certain we would all be in the same class in the autumn, or the same school. We didn’t say a word, but we knew we were all thinking about it and that whatever happened we would never abandon the others.

The darkness was more palpable now. A wind enclosed us, warm and gentle.

And so summer began, first of all with a scream, then with a long, green silence that slowly changed to blue.

It was the coldest summer since the war. I was lying in my room on the first floor playing records, reading old magazines or doing nothing, just listening to the magpie cackling hysterically in the tree outside and then watching it flutter off like a pair of black scissors in the rain.

These are the things I can recall: plimsolls going green and shrinking in the wet grass, a snail leaving a slimy trail across the steps, the oval shape of gooseberries, with their horrible hairy surface (which reminded me of something I had not yet done), white currants and stomach-ache, the outside loo and a faded photograph of great-grandfather who bought the House in 1920. And the silence. The silence in the rain, under the duvet and beneath my skin, a heavy charged silence. Dad took the ferry to town every day and came back at five on the dot, before he, too, was on holiday. And Mum shuffled around on noiseless slippers with a large shawl around her, she was always cold and bored, just like me.

On one such day, with walls of rain outside the windowpanes, she hit on a crazy idea.

‘I’m so bored,’ she said out of the blue, clutching her head with both hands. ‘It’s so dark here. Can’t we think of something to do!’

‘Won’t Dad be back soon?’ I said.

She stood up and paced the floor restlessly.

‘He’s staying in town until tomorrow,’ she sighed, staring out at the rain. ‘A meeting.’

‘We can play cards,’ I suggested feebly.

‘No, ugh! I hate cards! And you know that!’

I wondered whether to head for the quay and try casting with the new lure.

Mum was ahead of me.

‘I’ve got it!’ she exclaimed. ‘We’ll dress up! Let’s play dressing up!’

‘Fancy dress?’ I mumbled. ‘Where would we find the costumes?’

‘There are loads of old clothes in the wardrobe in the loft!’

She skipped out of the room and was gone for quite a long time. Most of all I wanted to be outside, maybe go and pick some strawberries in the fields, they would be ripe now, with all that sun and rain. But I didn’t move from my chair and Mum returned with a pile of gear over her arm.

‘Here,’ she beamed, tossing everything onto the large table in the middle of the room.

The clothing had a strange smell, mothballs, dust, dead people, I imagined, something a little sinister. Mum rummaged through the heap, putting aside the things she liked, laughing all the time, she hadn’t laughed like that all summer. I found an old double-breasted jacket and hung it over a chair.

Mum undressed. I looked at her in shock and turned away.

Mum laughed behind my back.

‘Are you embarrassed, Kim?’

There was a rustle of silk. I spun round and looked at her again. She met my eyes in the sombre room, there was a lot of fear and tenderness in those eyes, the skin on her arms was covered in goose pimples, she stood there naked, the silence lingered, she must have known she was losing me bit by bit now.

Afterwards she strutted around the floor in a straight, tight-fitting raven black dress which reached down to her ankles, and around her forehead she wore a ribbon, also raven black, with a large yellow feather protruding from her hair. She pouted and her lips were bright red. I stood with my legs apart in great-grandfather’s old flax jacket and must have looked like a gardener or a deckhand. Then my mother recited verse to me and told me about parts she had rehearsed a long time ago, before she had met Dad, but had never had any use for. And I could see that the line between laughter and tears was wafer-thin, for even though she was cheerful and did a lot of funny things, it was a lonely performance, lonely and frenetic.

I clapped for all I was worth.

That night I had a nightmare: I was lying in total darkness, darker than I had ever imagined. As I struck out with my hand, I hit
something hard close by. I struck out again and again and felt blood beginning to flow. Then I heard something outside in the darkness, voices at first, the low buzz of voices but no clear words, followed by music. I struck out against the darkness, screamed as loud as I could, but nothing helped. Then I heard a new sound as I began to sink: the sound of earth falling on boards, three times.

The following day I knew it was time. In the evening, when Dad had come back from town, I took my swimming trunks and meandered down to the beach. The weather was fine, but there was a strong wind coming off the fjord, thrusting the water forward in white, choppy waves. I changed clothes and toddled out to the diving board, hesitated, then hurled myself off. The water entwined me in its cold grey depths. The current and the waves carried me out and I had to use all my strength to resist. For a moment I panicked, was on the point of shouting for help, but no one would have been there to hear me if I had. Then my self-control returned, I swam at an angle to the current and dragged myself ashore.

I was frozen stiff as I emerged, the wind tore at my body, I walked across the slope of bare rock shivering. At a point where I had the wind and the waves facing me I stopped. I breathed in several times, filled my lungs and then I screamed. I screamed until tears flowed, but I was scarcely audible above the wind because it had greater lungs than I. Inside me, things were beginning to loosen, an avalanche was on its way, I screamed and screamed, howled, and in between I sang, stumbled on some lyrics I sang over and over again, tunelessly:

After a short while I was completely worn out. Exhausted and happy, I slumped down onto the wet rocks. I was drained of sound. I had screamed it out for the first time, now my screams, my singing, were on their way into space, like a sputnik orbiting the earth.

One day they would return.

I put on my clothes, staggered home stiff-legged. My father was standing on the balcony, keeping a lookout, he looked furious.

‘And where have you been?’ he shouted.

‘Swimming,’ I said.

‘You know you’re not allowed to swim on your own!’

I didn’t have the energy to answer.

Mum came out too, with a suspicious glance at me, she had felt a little awkward all day.

‘Now you’ll catch a cold, Kim,’ was all she said.

And I did. I was in bed for six days with a fever and mild hallucinations while the magpie cackled in the tree outside. And when I got up, gaunt and hungry on the seventh day, the sun was on fire, summer had arrived at long last. We sat on the balcony in the morning and ate, and in walked Uncle Hubert. And he was not alone. He had a girl with him.

Well, well. Dad turned into a lobster and Mum into a canary. And me? I had butterflies. In my stomach. They plodded and groaned their way up to us, sweaty and hot after the walk from the quay. The atmosphere was at breaking point.

She was the most attractive-looking girl I had ever seen.

And she greeted me first.

‘Hiya, I’m Henny,’ she said, shaking my hand.

And the hands did the whole round, and Mum said something about having to fetch more cups so that they could have some tea or coffee, but Uncle Hubert shouted that he wanted beer and he and Henny disappeared into the bedroom under the stairs.

Mum and Dad stood looking at each other.

‘It’s nice to have visitors,’ Mum said. ‘And the girl looked so sweet.’

Dad sat down without answering, found a newspaper to riffle through. Mum fetched a beer from the cellar.

And I carried deckchairs onto the grass.

I counted 123 yachts in the fjord, and sixteen gulls flew over my head, and the ants were extra busy that Saturday, around my shoes alone there were 468 of them and they were all carrying pine needles. And the rhododendron had twenty-nine flowers, but eight of them were withering.

It was a strange day.

The others drank beer. I had Solo lemonade. It was funny to see Dad drinking beer straight from the bottle. Henny looked up at the sky with large, closed eyes. Uncle Hubert was stretched out in the deckchair with a peaked cap over his face. Mum sat with her back to the sun, her shoulders were red.

Henny said, ‘We’ve brought lots of shrimps with us!’

‘And white wine,’ Hubert added. ‘I put the bottles in the fridge.’

‘How long are you staying?’ Dad asked suddenly. Mum sent him a dirty look.

‘We’re going tomorrow, my dear brother. Don’t you worry.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Dad laughed, looking very relieved.

‘That’s fine, brother.’

Red faces in the sun. Empty beer bottles on the grass. I had never seen Uncle Hubert so relaxed, he was like a soft cushion in the chair, emitting noises from time to time, just fair-weather noises, mutterings and contented sighs. All the knots had been loosened, I visualised all the fibres in his head, smooth and silky in tidy lines.

Dad said, ‘I think there’s going to be some thunder tonight. It’s muggy.’

‘Suppose there will be,’ Hubert sighed. His face was streaming with sweat.

Across the horizon, clouds were building up on all sides.

‘I feel like swimming,’ Henny exclaimed.

‘I don’t,’ came the response from deep in Hubert’s chair. ‘Take Kim with you.’

She studied me. From that one look, I got a suntan.

‘Would you like to?’

The beach was deserted now. Just paper, empty bottles and orange peel left behind. And a red beach ball bouncing over the rocks. Wind. I dived in, plunged to the bottom, water gushed past my eyes, a wrasse darted away, a jellyfish floated along my thigh. I moved upwards, saw the thin line between sea and sky, broken by the sun.

Henny was staggering through the clusters of seaweed. Bikini. White and scantier than a blade of grass. Her body was lightly tanned and shiny. She had tied her hair up into a blonde bun behind her neck. She lowered herself into the water with a scream.

And the clouds gathered from the horizon, enveloping us.

Henny was beside me.

‘Let’s swim out,’ she said, pulling away from me with long, powerful strokes.

I followed her like a barge, wondering what sort of things you talked about in the water, or whether it was normal to talk in the water at all, but then what would you talk about on land?

‘Do you live here all summer, Kim?’ Henny asked.

‘Yes,’ I gulped.

We must have been in the middle of the fjord at least. The wind picked up. Small, choppy waves beat against my face. Above us the sky was becoming overcast. Clouds rolled in dark formations. The air was colder than the water.

‘Shouldn’t we turn around soon?’ I said in a low voice.

Henny stopped swimming, looked at me and laughed.

‘I forgot where I was,’ she said. ‘Of course we should turn back now.’

We swam towards the shore. A multitude of questions lay on my tongue, but I couldn’t get them out, my mouth was a barrier net. I would have liked to ask about Hubert, about whether they were, whether they were lovers, whether they were going to marry, and if so, why, when she was so much younger than he, and about what went on in Hubert’s head, about the knots, about Henny, about everything.

We were approaching land.

I asked, ‘Do you like The Beatles?’

‘They’re sweet,’ she answered.

I almost sank. Sweet. The seawater frothed out of my nose. I watched her. Her profile cut through the waves like a shark’s fin.

‘Who do you like most?’ I stuttered.

‘There are so many. Miles Davis. Charlie Parker. Lester Young. And John Coltrane.’

Who was that? I was over moving sands, had swum myself into a corner, my arms withered, my chin sagged in the water.

‘Aha,’ I said. ‘But Bob Dylan is good!’ I added.

‘Fantastic. And Woody Guthrie. Dylan learnt from him.’

I was a bubble of air and a cork. I clenched my teeth and strained to keep up.

Then we scrambled onto the shore and I ran for our towels. The sun had gone in now. Henny was huddled up.

‘It’s cold,’ she shivered.

At that moment it began to rain. Henny jumped up.

‘Let’s go in the shed,’ I shouted.

She was already off. The rain came hammering down like nails and we found shelter in the ramshackle wooden shed, where the smell from the adjacent toilet was less than welcoming and where there was some writing and drawing on the walls that was not exactly prescribed reading.

Henny leaned against the door, out of breath.

‘I’m sure it won’t last too long,’ she said.

‘No,’ I said, hoping it would last for the rest of the summer.

‘You shouldn’t stand around in wet trunks,’ she went on. ‘You’ll be ill.’

And then she took off her bikini and stood naked in front of me. It was only for a second, before she put on some jeans and a shirt. Everything inside me plunged to the soles of my feet. I must have been gawping because she laughed and undid her hair and shook it into place. With a great deal of effort and movement I struggled into my clothes. Everything was pounding, my skin was a size too small, too tight, my blood was throbbing from inside and the rain beat down on the roof.

‘Are you starting
realskole
this autumn?’ Henny asked.

‘Yes,’ I managed to utter.

Now it was my turn. Had to say something. Said something:

‘What do you do?’

‘I draw. For the same magazine as your uncle.’

‘Uhuh.’

‘But it’s just something I’m doing for now, to earn some money. I start at the art academy next year.’

‘Are you going to be an artist!’ I burst out.

Henny laughed.

‘I’m going to paint pictures,’ she said.

The drumming on the roof became fainter and fainter. Either the rain was subsiding or I was fading away. Henny opened the door and decided the matter.

‘It’s let up now,’ she said. ‘Shall we go back?’

Dad was right with his weather forecast. While we sat peeling the shrimps, the room was lit up by a flame-yellow flash, and at the same time we heard one hell of a bang. We rushed out onto the balcony and up by the flagpole we saw a strange sight. Something on the hill was glowing. Uncle Hubert thought a meteor had hit the earth, Mum thought it was men from Mars, and Dad didn’t have his thinking cap on, either. Henny squeezed my arm. After a while the glow died, like a large cigarette. We donned rain jackets and all trudged up to the place together.