Beatles (26 page)

‘Well, if it isn’t Kim,’ he said in Danish, locating an orifice in the beard.

I nodded, unsure quite where I should look.

‘So you’ve come to the theatre,’ he continued blithely, shaking, pointing and holding.

Couldn’t argue with that.

‘Isn’t it dreadful!’ he sighed, performing the final adjustments. ‘I’ve already taken three aspirins.’

We both went to a washbasin.

‘Well, how was the football match?’

‘We won 1–0’.

‘That was fantastic. Come with me and say hello to Nina’s mother. We’re only visiting. Nina isn’t with us.’

He dragged me with him and the mother recognised me at once, grabbed my hand, and it was rather embarrassing because I hadn’t dried my hands. She got wet and had to take out a handkerchief.

‘You disappeared so quickly last time we saw you,’ she smiled.

I stared down at the red floor, noticing that I had laced up my shoes wrongly.

‘Nina was so sorry,’ the mother continued. ‘She’s coming home for summer.’

And then the bell rang again, twice, the interval was over.

I wandered around for some time unable to find the door to the stairs. All the dresses and dinner jackets streamed towards me trying to take me in the opposite direction. I stood like a salmon before a waterfall, slowly beginning to panic, and eventually found the way to the restaurant where Mum was angrily waiting for me.

We got to our seats as the lights were being dimmed. The curtains opened and it was strange, but it is true, that when I saw the stage set and heard the loud voices making the chandelier above us tinkle, I had already switched off, just like at
The Sound of Music
. I could not understand how anyone could be taken in, be so completely fooled for so long. I closed my eyes, turned down the sound and thought of Nina. Pincers nipped at my stomach. She was alone now in Copenhagen. Alone with Jesper. I almost screamed, but caught myself. Did I give a shit? Yes, I did.

On returning home, I went straight to bed, had hot milk with honey and was absent from school for a week. I was exhausted, dreams played tag with me and I couldn’t escape. Images and sounds merged into a red nightmare: Jensenius’s singing, the war on TV, an air alarm, a telephone that no one would answer. And on the walls surrounding me: the pictures of The Beatles. I didn’t recognise them. That wasn’t how they looked any more. We didn’t resemble ourselves any more.

And, when I get up now, just as alien to myself after a disturbed but dreamless night, I can feel the same fever in my skull, the pincers in my midriff. My stomach cannot take water from the well, it’s brown when it comes out of the tap. I have to go outside to melt snow, to boil it. I wrap up in old clothes and shuffle through the room. On the table are white sheets of paper, like windows in the dark. I go out onto the kitchen steps and am blinded, have to shade my eyes, my head is thumping. And I’m cold, my head is cold, that is the worst of it all because my hair won’t grow.

Then I see them: the footprints in the snow. I follow them. They come from the gate. Someone has been here. They lead around the House. They stop by one window where the shutters have been taken off.

Someone has been watching me.

We continued the confirmation classes, sat in the mouldy cellar every Wednesday. We didn’t get around to asking why Fred had drowned or whether God had predetermined it. But one evening our appetite was whetted. John had said that The Beatles were greater than Jesus.
Christ, what a stink! It was worse than Luther. Seb wanted to throw that into the priest’s face. But Father MacKenzie got his oar in first and asked Seb to reel off the table of contents in the New Testament. Seb couldn’t. He got as far as the Acts of the Apostles, but came to a dead halt. The priest’s wrinkles tautened and hardened. The girls in the first bench giggled. I covertly took out the holy book and stole a glance. Next were St Paul’s letters, the letter to the Romans, the letter to the Corinthians, to the Galatians. Seb was sent back to his bench. Then the priest pointed at me.

‘Go on,’ said the priest.

I stood up.

‘Paul’s letter to the Romans. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians.’

‘First!’

‘Eh?’

‘
First
letter to the Corinthians!’

I breathed in.

‘Paul’s letter to the Galatians.’

‘Second letter!’

‘Eh?’

‘Second letter to the Corinthians. Mercy be upon you and the peace of God, our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ.’

‘Eh?’

‘Go on!’

‘Paul’s letter to… to the Galatians. Paul’s letter to the Ephe… Ephesians.’

I got no further. I was almost halfway. The cellar went quiet. I glanced down at Gunnar. Resigned, he shook his head. Seb sat with a huge grin on his face and could not care less. Ola looked as if he were going to explode with laughter at any moment. Mercy be upon him.

‘Haven’t you done today’s homework, either.’

‘Yes. My mind just went blank.’

So the priest tried to elicit it from me. But his skills did not extend that far. He had to turn to one of the plaits on the first bench. She stood erect in her pleated skirt and rattled off the Philippians, the Colossians, Timothy, Titus and Philemon.

After the lesson was over, the priest stopped us and asked us to
remain behind. Seb and I were in detention. We were not allowed to leave until we had learned the homework off by heart. We slogged our way through the crazy names, it went fine at first: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. But the Ephesians and the Colossians finished us off. After twenty minutes the priest told me to have another go. I managed it after three attempts, just got the Colossians and Timothy the wrong way round. But Seb got into a mess again. The hair on his neck stood up like a brush. After the Corinthians his tongue went on strike.

‘You can go,’ the priest told me.

‘I’m waiting for Sebastian,’ I said.

The priest looked at him.

‘Don’t you
want
to learn this?’ he asked.

‘No!’ came the resounding response.

Seb stood up and threw the holy book over to the priest.

‘I don’t want to be confirmed! Do you think anyone believes what you say! They’re doin’ this for the presents!’

The priest stared in disbelief. He could not believe his own ears. Seb marched into the cloakroom. I ran after him. Followed by the priest. He was waving his hands.

‘Aren’t you coming back?’

‘No!’ Seb said, slamming the heavy door after us.

On the street he had a fit of the shakes, fumbled out a cigarette and then burst into laughter. ‘Christ, that was the greatest thing since the resurrection. John Lennon was chicken-feed by comparison.’

Gunnar and Ola were waiting at Gimle.

‘Seb got one up on the priest!’ I shouted.

They came running over.

I told them everything. They listened with mouths agape and huge eyes. Told them again. They stared at Seb in awe and admiration.

‘But w-w-what about the instruments then?’

Seb flicked the cigarette in the gutter.

‘I’ll get presents anyway,’ he said. ‘Mum said so.’

He had worked it out in advance! No chance of my mum and dad agreeing. No point even asking.

‘So you’ve asked for an electric guitar!’ Gunnar said.

‘Yep. Kawai. With a mike and tremolo arm. I can use the radio as an amp. Three hundred spondulicks.’

We traipsed towards Urra. Couldn’t go home now.

Seb went serious.

‘I mean,’ he began. ‘I mean it’s not right to kneel there and be blessed when you don’t believe a word. Is it!’

Gunnar stopped.

‘Kneel? Where?’

‘At the altar. At the confirmation ceremony. You’ve got to receive the blessin’ and say you believe.’

Gunnar was ashen-faced. He gritted his teeth.

‘Do you
have
to?’

‘That’s the whole point of confirmation! A repeat of the baptism. You skip the water though.’

Gunnar’s voice wilted.

‘I won’t get any presents if I’m not confirmed.’

Seb tapped out four Craven As and passed them round. We trudged on. The Man on the Steps was closing. But there was a corner shop further down the street open till half past eight. We turned into Briskebyveien. It always looked like a Wild West town in the evening with its low creaking wooden houses and the yellow light behind the curtains. All it needed was some whinnying and a bloody duel. All of a sudden someone stood in front of us in the darkness between two street lamps.

Came to a halt.

Goose.

‘Hi, Christian,’ we said. ‘What are you doin’ here? Almost midnight, isn’t it!’

He came closer. Looked like he had walked through a car wash. Hair plastered down to his skull. He kept licking round his mouth all the time.

‘Have you had another lesson with the priest?’ he asked.

‘Yep,’ I said.

‘What did he do?’

Seb grinned.

‘He didn’t do anythin’! It’s what we did that counts. Buggered off. For good.’

Goose gasped, his mouth hung open.

‘Bloody hell, he didn’t!’ he said.

We exchanged glances. Goose had sworn.

‘Served him right. The prick!’ Goose went on.

Ola leaned forward.

‘Nothin’ up, is there, Christian?’

He didn’t hear.

‘I can nick a comic from the shop, I can,’ he declared.

Silence. No one said anything.

‘I can nick a comic from the shop, I can,’ he repeated, louder.

‘You don’t dare,’ I said.

Goose came a step closer.

‘Don’t I?’ he whispered.

‘No,’ I said.

‘You don’t think I dare pinch a comic,’ he shouted.

‘You’ll have to get a move on then. The shop closes at half eight.’

Goose looked at us all. Then he turned on his heel and crossed the street to the illuminated shop on the corner. We heard a bell ring as he opened the door.

We saw the silhouettes through the window. There was just an old dear behind the counter and one customer. Goose was by the magazine stand. He unzipped his velveteen jacket. We held our breath. Just so long as he wasn’t stupid enough to run right out. He had to buy at least some sweets first. Shit. Goose was standing with his back to the counter and sliding a little comic into his jacket. Right. That was okay. Zip up again now.

Then the world stopped. A great lump of a man wearing a beret passed the window. He stared at Goose fumbling with his zip.

Gunnar gave a deep, despairing groan.

‘Shit, that’s the owner! That’s the shop-owner!’

He tore open the door, we saw Goose turn, then he was lost to view in the arms of the giant and hoisted up to the ceiling. We saw him scream. Goose screamed like in a silent film and then the comic appeared, a Davy Crockett comic costing fifty øre.

We began to retreat slowly towards Holtegata, cool, without panic, sprinted round the corner, held our breath and waited for Goose.

‘Quite an evenin’,’ Seb said.

‘Shut up!’ said Gunnar.

We listened for sirens. The whole town was dead still.

‘What did he want with a D-D-Davy Crockett magazine?’ Ola mumbled.

Then he appeared. He stumbled out and fell on all fours on the pavement. A voice was cursing and swearing inside the shop. Goose struggled to his feet and teetered alongside the wall like a sick dog. We dragged him into safety round the corner.

‘What happened?’ we asked.

He just shook his head. Shit, the state he was in. His cheeks were burning after the slaps. His lip was split, a trail of blood ran down his chin. His velveteen jacket was half off.

‘What happened for Christ’s sake?’

He was crying without tears. Just hiccupping again and again.

‘He said he would tell my parents and the school,’ he managed to say.

‘Did you give him your name?’

He hid his face in his hands.

‘Bastard,’ Seb snarled. ‘Bastard shop-owner!’

‘He just said that to frighten you,’ I said.

‘I might be expelled,’ Goose hiccupped.

‘For nickin’ a Davy Crockett comic! Like hell you will!’

He began to sob again. It sounded bad, as if he were coughing up barbed wire.

‘It’ll be alright,’ I consoled, patting him on the shoulder.

His eyes met mine. He sent me an almost hateful look. Then his eyes drowned in fresh tears, they streamed down his cheeks.

There was a rank smell coming from somewhere. We looked down. The crease was gone from Goose’s trousers for good. A big wet stain ran down his thigh.

He left. Goose waddled down the street bow-legged. The sobs sounded like explosions to us. And at some point he stopped under a street lamp, just stood there shrieking, and the light enveloped him, a dazzling, yellow circle.

The day afterwards we met Goose on the way to school. He was coming up Frognerveien. We waited by the bakery.

He walked right past us.

We pursued and surrounded him.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

He looked at us with vacant eyes. His mouth was narrow and pink. He swallowed. His pointed Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

‘He didn’t ring.’

‘Danger over!’ Gunnar shouted, taking his arm.

‘Perhaps he’ll ring the school,’ Goose mumbled.

‘Not if he hasn’t rung your home,’ I said. ‘That’s for sure!’

‘He said he would be in touch,’ Goose mumbled. ‘That’s what he said. That I would be hearing from him.’

Goose had a physics oral that day. He was hopeless. No one could believe their ears except for Gunnar and me. Goose collapsed on his desk.

‘Are you ill?’ the teacher asked in a friendly tone.

Goose didn’t answer.

Then Big Mouth was tested and as usual that took the rest of the lesson. I kept an eye on Goose. He was completely out of it. Kept casting glances at the door as if waiting for the cops to storm in with handcuffs and leg irons.

In the break we took him to one side.

‘Nothin’ to be nervous about now,’ I said. ‘If he’s said nothin’ so far, he won’t say anythin’ at all.’

‘He said
perhaps
,’ Goose whispered.

‘Well, so what?’

‘Perhaps he’ll ring tomorrow.’

‘Unlikely to w-w-wait that long!’