Beatles (12 page)

The lightning had split open a rock. And it was not just any rock, it weighed a good hundred kilos. Dad told us that his father had carried it up here from the quay with his own hands. It had been a bet. And Granddad had won.

Now the lightning had cracked it open like an egg.

We jogged back down and thanked our lucky stars that the House had not been hit. But the electricity had gone. We lit the fire and lots of candles, sat anxiously listening to the crashes of thunder and counting the seconds to work out where the lightning was. The storm was moving westwards. Those who said anything at all spoke in hushed tones, as though the air around us was highly explosive. Hubert lost control of his left eyelid for a while, had to go into the kitchen to calm down. Henny sat on the sofa with her feet curled up beneath her. Mum cleared the table, Dad stood by the balcony door, looking out.

‘Let’s go and play some records!’ Henny cried, so loud that everyone jumped. She rose to her feet and gave me her hand.

We played my lousy records. Henny sat still, listening, or thinking about something else, must have been doing that, flicking through a Beatles magazine I had brought,
Meet The Beatles
, with pictures of The Beatles in Paris. She said she wanted to go there, to Paris, that was where it was all happening, she said. Oslo was so boring. She smiled. I changed records. Old Cliff. Henny laughed. She’d been in love with Cliff at one time, she confided. ‘Summer Holiday’. ‘Lucky Lips’. She lit up a cigarette and gave me a drag. The filter tasted of raw skin. And the oblique rain drove past the window.

The lights came back on, our faces were pale and shiny. The stylus scratched on the inner groove. The batteries were on their last legs. I blew out the candle, looked at her, the way I see her now, like a negative on the membrane of my eyes, branded by the flashes of the summer’s night.

Henny and Hubert went home, and the days drifted past like on a conveyor belt, the same day all the time, but one day was different, quite different. It was when Dad’s holiday was over and he was back at work as usual. And Mum had to sell lottery tickets at Sunnaa’s Sykehus, a rehabilitation hospital, and caught the bus as soon as Dad had left.

There I was, with twenty kroner in my pocket and one whole day to myself.

I caught the ferry from Nesodden to town.

I could see if anyone was in, ran past Oslo West station and Ruseløkka, rang the bell at Ola’s and Seb’s. No one at home. Headed for Gunnar’s. Same result. The shop was closed. A sign in the window said: We are on holiday until August 7.

An odd, empty feeling. Everything was different. I mooched down Drammensveien, towards Skillebekk, no one outdoors, no one inside, a new alien smell had invaded the district. It had some similarity with the one in our flat when we returned home in August, sweet, repugnant, it reeked of something dead, of neglect, and it was like we had to start using the rooms anew, breathe life into them, talk to them, repossess them. My street was not what it had been. I stood there, all on my own, not a person around, empty windows, a wind sweeping towards me, blowing sand into my eyes.

I walked into town. At least it was populated. And there was ice cream. I queued for half an hour at Studenten and bought myself a strawberry milkshake. The voices around me were speaking in foreign tongues. I soon left.

All I could do was mooch back and forth. Had a quick look in record shops, but didn’t see any of the names Henny had mentioned. I crossed the road, it was better there, in the shade under the trees. The tarmac was steaming. An old lady was feeding a flock of pigeons. A man walking in front of me stamped hard on the ground,
the pigeons took off with a squawk, flapped around the woman and disappeared over Wergeland.

And then she, too, was gone from the bench. The man in front of me turned, shrugged and ambled on.

That was not the strangest thing, though.

Below Stortinget, the Norwegian parliament building, a crowd of people stood looking at a picture exhibited in a glass case.
Picture of the Month
I read on a sign. I thought about Henny. Perhaps she had painted it. I made my way through, but it wasn’t Henny’s picture, not at all. An extraordinary name I could hardly spell was written there. And the picture was weird. I had never seen anything like it. There was a doll in the middle of the picture, almost completely destroyed, just as though it had been melted over a bonfire. And then there was a whole load of red paint, but not as you would expect to see in normal paintings, this was like blood, thick blood that coagulates on the surface of a large wound. And the red paint dripped down onto a flag, the American flag. And behind the picture, yes, it was kind of three-dimensional, not like the flat landscapes Mum and Dad had on the wall, behind the picture someone had written VIETNAM. I read the title, the longest title I had ever read.
A report from Vietnam. Children have burning napalm dropped on them. Their skin burns, leaving black sores and they die
.

Burns under water. That was what Stig had talked about. ‘Masters Of War’. The sun stung my neck. My head began to buzz, the doll screamed at me, just like the girl staggering out of the ruins, the blood flowed in front of me, the sun was roasting, the blood clotted into grotesque shapes.

Then something happened. I heard a yell. A hand grabbed my shoulder and pushed me aside. I could not believe my own eyes. A man of my father’s age stood in front of the picture, wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase from which he took an axe, an axe, and then he heaved away at the display case. The glass smashed and with one blow he shattered the doll and ripped the canvas. And then something happened which was even stranger. Those standing around watching clapped, they didn’t stop him, they clapped. I held my head in my hands, wanting to scream, and moved backwards, scared. And when the man had finally destroyed the whole picture, two policemen came and gently escorted him away.

I went down to the quay and waited for my boat. I did not understand. Something had collapsed. Something had disintegrated. I was frightened.

I said nothing to Mum and Dad. But the man with the axe often appeared at night, he killed small children, he walked round killing small children.

On the radio I listened to reports about bombings, offensives, defeats, victories. I felt so strangely distant and alien sitting on the balcony and eating supper, wholegrain bread, soft goat’s cheese and HaPå spread.

The sun was sinking. August had come with a touch of autumn. Signs of departure were everywhere. I seemed to have outgrown myself.

On the last day my mother said I had grown a lot that summer, at least three centimetres.

‘Violins,’ Gunnar muttered. ‘Violins?’

Mogga Park, the evening before school started. We bent over cycle handlebars examining the LP Seb had bought in Sweden. At first I thought it said
eple
, Norwegian for apple. Then I untangled my eyes.
Help
.

‘String quartet,’ Seb corrected.

‘So you mean
violins
, right?’

‘Right. Dead cool!’

We were dying to hear it, but Ola hadn’t turned up yet, should have been there half an hour ago. We lit up some evil-tasting dog-ends. Above us a flock of birds was ploughing its way out of the country.

‘Where the hell’s Ola?’ Gunnar said impatiently.

We waited a bit more, until we could wait no longer, and pedalled to Observatoriegata. His mother opened the door, suntanned and light on her feet, but with two wrinkles at the corners of her mouth forcing her lips downwards.

‘Ola’s had an accident,’ she said softly.

We stiffened in our shirts. Accident?

‘He’s in his room. You can go in and see him.’

Ola was sitting by the window. He had broken both arms. They were hanging in two slings with plastercasts to well above the elbows. He grimaced because inside it itched like hell, and how the hell would he be able to scratch?

‘Crashed a tractor in T-T-Toten,’ he whispered in a depressed tone. ‘H-h-hit the ground with my h-h-hands.’

Gunnar cleared his throat, his voice cracked a little, tried again.

‘How… how d’you eat?’

Ola’s eyes were narrow and dull.

‘My mother feeds me,’ he said in a whisper.

We exchanged glances, but turned away immediately because laughter was bubbling behind our serious faces, and Ola was not ready for that yet.

Seb cleared his throat, he cleared his throat for an unnaturally long time.

‘But how… how d’you go to the toilet?’

Gunnar’s cheeks billowed out like two sails, and Seb stared at his hands and then he opened his mouth wide but swallowed the howl at birth, all that was heard was a tiny gasp, and there he sat with a silent roar of laughter on his face, very red from the forehead downwards.

‘You call yourselves f-f-friends!’ Ola growled.

‘But how d’you do it?’

Ola lowered his head.

‘M-M-Mum does it,’ he said unhappily, and the room was silent for quite a time.

Seb fidgeted with his cycle bag. We studied the floor. Seb rediscovered his voice.

‘We’ve brought you something,’ he said. ‘Hope the batteries on your record player are alright.’

Seb took out the record and Ola sucked in his breath with a whistle.

And then we played
Help
for the rest of the evening as the darkness descended from the sky like a grey curtain and inside us the summer seemed to live on. Autumn had already begun, and for the first time we liked violins.

Before leaving, we signed his plaster cast: John, George and Paul.

We had been put in the same school, Vestheim, but we were in different classes. We sneaked past the
gymnas
students standing by the gate in Skovveien, and we wondered when they would initiate us, at least it didn’t look as if they would strike today. They didn’t look at us, they didn’t even look down on us. There were several more pale faces by the wire fence in Oscarsgate. Guri and Nina were in another group, Nina’s kneecaps were dark brown, she obviously hadn’t seen me.

Then the bell went. We shook each other’s hand and parted company: Gunnar with me, Seb with Ola. Slowly the playground emptied as though the broad, dark doors were sucking us in.

Gunnar and I had to fight for places at the back in the middle row. His back was bigger than ever, the teachers would never catch sight of me. Goose was sitting right at the front, hair plastered down and creases freshly pressed. And the girls, there were girls in the class too, sat in the window row, big and unapproachable, and when the sun shone on them their hair looked like candy floss and their faces went soft and white.

Then the door opened and in walked the form teacher, Iversen, known as Kerr’s Pink – he had a plot of agricultural land outside his terraced house in Tåsen. He was a shrimp of a man in a factory overall, but he had large, hairy hands and a voice that rose from floor level and oozed out of his mouth like liquid iron.

He called out our names, and everyone scrutinised everyone else, some were familiar, some came from other parts of town, some stared down at their desk lids, some whispered their names as though they were imparting important, dangerous confidences.

Afterwards the other teachers came in and presented themselves. It was a fairly normal collection, no hunchbacks, no clubfeet, noses in the centre of the face and ears on either side of the head. The German teacher’s name was Hammer, a plump little lady with lots of square words in her mouth, who sang a couple of impromptu lieder and chattered away in German. And I can remember the gym teacher, Skinke, ham in Norwegian, a real beanpole with a narrow head, thick glasses, a crew cut and three national race-walking championships to his name. He popped in and squeaked that the boys should bring their gym kit the following day, then race-walked out, rotating his hips like a well-greased globe. Last to come was the headteacher, wow, I can remember him, he looked a bit like Hitler, or Arnulf Øverland, the same moustache, the super-compact tuft under his nose, and he rolled his ‘r’s, it tickled our ears and a round-shouldered boy by the door had a sneezing fit from all the ‘r’s, it was quite a show.

Then it was over, the first day at
realskole
. We put our new books in our new rucksacks and slouched out. Seb and Ola were waiting by the drinking fountain. They were in the same class as Nina and Guri.

As we stood there making fun of the teachers, a gang came towards us, a shifty-looking lot we didn’t know.

Ola began to twitch inside his plaster.

‘Now they’re goin’ to i-i-initiate us,’ he stuttered. ‘S-s-stick our h-h-heads in the p-p-pisser!’

‘They’re not
gymnas
kids,’ Seb whispered.

They stopped in front of us, seemed pretty full of themselves, tie, chewing gum and cigarette packet in shirt pocket.

‘You been feelin’ girls, have you?’ one said, pointing to Ola.

Ola went bright red and his fringe stiffened.

‘Or overdone the wanking?’ another asked with a leer.

We said nothing. Those still remaining in the playground came closer.

‘What do you do when you have to shit, shortie? Your mummy have to wipe your arse, does she?’

Gunnar dropped his rucksack. This was something we could joke about, but no one else. He placed his rucksack calmly on the ground, stood three centimetres from the bastard, stared into the whites of his eyes and said, ‘Say that again.’

The boy fidgeted, was suddenly less sure of himself, the knot of his tie quivered against his neck.

‘Say that again,’ Gunnar said.

His jaw locked.

‘Say that again,’ Gunnar said for the third time, went two centimetres closer and the boy had already cracked. He retreated, tried a Parthian shot but it plopped to the ground like a tired spitball. Gunnar eyed them until they were out of sight.

‘Pricks,’ he said between clenched teeth.

I laughed inside, a big sinister laugh, and at this moment I loved Gunnar, felt like hugging him.

We ran out of the playground and as we reached the steps a small boy brushed past us, to all appearances sidling along the fence, pale, thin, wearing wide grey trousers and an oversized anorak with a zip, even though it was very hot. He walked with his head bent, then shot up the street, as if afraid of someone. He was in the same class as Gunnar and I. I had noticed someone grinning when he had said his name.

I couldn’t remember what his name was.

His name was Fred Hansen.

We ambled down to Filipstad, stood on the bridge over Strandpromenaden watching the cars thundering past below.

‘When do you think we’ll be i-i-initiated?’ Ola asked.

‘Don’t know,’ Gunnar said. ‘Perhaps they’ll wait until winter.’

‘I’d rather my head was shoved in the snow than dipped in piss,’ Seb muttered.

‘Don’t think I’ll ever figure out German,’ Gunnar sighed, sending a gobbet of spit over the railing.

‘Dad says it would be better if we were learnin’ Spanish,’ Seb said.

‘Spanish?’

‘Lots more people speak Spanish than German. All seamen do. And there’s South America.’

Ola sat down on his rucksack.

‘How… how d’you think I’ll get on with d-d-drummin’ now? D’you think I’ll be able to play the d-d-drums again?’

‘Course,’ Seb said. ‘Why wouldn’t you be able to?’

‘Wondered if my arms would be too w-w-weak.’

‘Charlie Watts broke his arm ice skatin’,’ Gunnar interposed.

‘Did Charlie Watts break his arm?!’ Ola whispered, standing up with difficulty.

Gunnar nodded.

‘Ice skatin’?’ Seb asked.

‘Yeah, fell flat on his face. Twisted his arm as he fell.’

Gunnar was flushed, tired.

‘They don’t have ice skatin’ in England, do they?’

Gunnar looked to me, he was snookered.

‘Yes, they do,’ I said. ‘London has a great ice hockey team.’

‘And he was ok-k-kay?’

‘Sounds like it, doesn’t it,’ Gunnar crowed.

‘But he only b-b-broke one arm!’

Gunnar was on sinking ground again, sent me a look, but found his way out alone.

‘Better to break both arms,’ he said quickly, his face hot and red. ‘Then it’s easier to keep the rhythm afterwards!’

That quietened Ola down. And then we didn’t say much for a while. The sun crept back behind a cloud, the fjord darkened, a cigarette did the rounds, a lukewarm Kent Seb had snaffled from his mother.

‘This year I’ll do home work,’ he said. ‘Dead cert.’

‘Same here,’ Gunnar said.

‘Same here,’ I said.

‘Have to be off,’ Ola said, his face pinched, legs wobbly.

‘What about goin’ to the Matthiessen buildin’?’ Seb suggested.

‘Have to go,’ Ola repeated, skipping from one foot to the other.

We all watched him.

‘Need a piss,’ Ola said.

‘Can’t you just…?’ Gunnar started to say, then stopped.

We looked at each other.

‘Let’s go,’ Gunnar said.

And so we sauntered off towards the centre with the sun on our backs, dragging our rucksacks behind us.

Gymnastics was indoors next day because the rain was pouring down. We were sitting in the sweaty changing room. Skinke peered down at us, flexing his abdominal muscles. All of a sudden he roared in an uncommonly high voice:

‘Remember! You can
fail
gymnastics! Do you hear? You can
fail
gymnastics.’

In Indian file we ran into the gymnasium. Skinke directed us into a variety of formations and when he had us where he wanted us, he thundered in his reedy voice:

‘And let’s get one thing straight. Warm-ups! Warm-ups are the basis of all great performances! Warm-ups are the reverse side of the gold medal!’

He came to an abrupt halt, put a hand to his head, his magnified eyes behind his glasses roaming like planets off orbit. We exchanged looks and some boys put a finger to their temples and stuck out their tongues.

‘Now let’s run!’ he shouted, and we ran, round and round, with Skinke in the middle, as if we were a wheel and he an unlubricated hub.

At last he stopped us, ordered us to the wall-bars where we dangled for a few minutes. Then he pulled the biggest vaulting horse onto the floor, positioned the mat and springboard, pointed to us and said:

‘Now let’s try a somersault, shall we!’

A groan ran through the acrobats. Skinke came towards us, removed his glasses and flexed his thighs.

‘I’ll show you first! Watch!’

His feet stormed down, smashed onto the springboard, he swung over the horse in an elegant arc and landed softly on the mat. Then he turned just as quickly and beamed at us:

‘That’s how to do it, boys! Now it’s your turn.’

There was a sort of line. Everyone wanted to be at the back, the bell would ring soon. And in an instant I found myself at the front. I breathed in and ran as fast as I could. I completely forgot where I was, it was like running through a sweat-filled dream, I landed on the springboard with an enormous bang, launched myself at the brown beast, swung myself upwards and pushed off with everything I had, I shot out into space like an astronaut, and straight afterwards, or at the same time, there I was, standing like a fence post on the mat with Skinke shouting in my ear:

‘Good! Good lad! What’s your name?’

‘Kim,’ I whispered.

‘Good! That was good, Kim.’

Now it was Gunnar’s turn. He ran in great bounds across the floor, swung himself over the horse, but failed to get enough air under his legs. He dragged Skinke down with him in the fall. They both lay on the mat, gasping for breath.

‘You have to work on height!’ Skinke shouted. ‘On height! Otherwise it was fine.’

Then they came one by one, all the boys I have forgotten, who have forgotten me: Frode, round-shouldered and fat, landed astride the horse with a hideous scream. Ottar bounded over the horse but seemed to capitulate in mid-flight and performed a belly-landing. Rune, who rolled his ‘r’s because he came from Ris, managed to land on his back on the horse and slide down onto the floor. But then there was a pause. No one moved. It was Fred Hansen’s turn.

‘Come on!’ Skinke shouted.

Fred Hansen did not come on. He stood down the other end, a wan matchstick in huge shorts. Everything he wore was huge, he must have had a huge brother from whom he inherited all his clothes. Now he was at the front of the queue and luminescent.

‘Get a move on!’ Skinke yelled.

Fred Hansen stood with his hands down by his side, hollowbacked and a little knock-kneed, his bony legs banging against each other.

‘He won’t make it,’ Gunnar whispered. ‘He’s scared out of his wits.’

Light thunder on the floor. Fred Hansen was on his way, stifflegged, his elbows at right angles.

‘Good! That’s good!’ Skinke encouraged.