Beatles (31 page)

‘What happened to your finger?’ she asked.

‘Got it stuck in a pencil sharpener,’ I said.

‘Rubbish!’

‘Fell in gym.’

Gunnar looked at me, said nothing.

We walked to Vestkanttorget. The monkeys and the parrots shrieked behind the windows in Naranja. Gunnar grimaced and made the monkeys stand on their heads. Sidsel laughed so much she had to lean on him.

Didn’t know Gunnar was that funny.

We went on to Majorstuen, did a tour of Valkyrie plass, had a look at the record shop in Jacob Aallsgate. Monkees in the window there, too. Gunnar and Sidsel were lagging behind a little. Ola looked sour.

‘Do you know what Dragon’s gone and done?’ Guri burst out. ‘He’s gone to sea!’

‘How do you know?’

‘Someone in the class knows his brother.’

‘I will, too,’ Seb said.

‘You will what?’

‘Go to sea.’

‘You will not,’ said Guri.

‘I will. In the summer.’

She retracted her hand. It took Seb quite a long time to regain it. And only after he had promised solemnly that he would not go to sea.

‘Word of honour,’ Seb said with his legs crossed.

‘G-g-gotta be off,’ Ola said and just went, rounded the corner and was gone.

‘Hang on,’ I shouted, but he didn’t hear.

Guri suddenly remembered something and rummaged through her pockets. She found a small, pink envelope.

‘Nina asked me to give you this,’ she said.

I stuffed it into my back pocket without any emotion. Stuffed it in my back pocket and played cool.

Gunnar and Sidsel eventually caught up, with their fingers
entwined. They were not particularly talkative, staring at the ground or at each other.

I felt superfluous.

But my back pocket was on fire.

Seb took Guri home. Sidsel lived in Professor Dahls gate. She came with us, or I went with them. They didn’t say a word on the way, shoulder to shoulder, their hands interlaced. I pottered on down to the fountain while they said their goodbyes. I sat there waiting and thinking that it would not be long until the planks would be taken off and the jet of water surged into life.

When Gunnar came, his face was blank.

He walked with me to Drammensveien. Must have needed some fresh air.

‘That was quick,’ I said.

‘Sidsel,’ he said. ‘Her name’s Sidsel. With a “d”.’

‘Get lucky?’

He set off running, jumped over a fence, vaulted back again.

‘Think so,’ he said. ‘Think I’m in.’

That was as far as he went. Padlock on his tongue.

‘There you go, then,’ I said, punching him in the stomach.

I’m not saying what was in the letter. Except that she was coming over this summer. Outside I heard the trains pounding through the night. I turned on the radio and searched through Europe until I found Copenhagen and burrowed under the duvet with it.

Gunnar snooped around Professor Dahls gate night after night. Ola’s hair grew back. Seb was hardly ever around. My finger didn’t hurt any longer, but it stuck up like a curly twig and didn’t look like any of the other fingers. I bought new batteries for the Kurér and listened in the evening.

Then came the news. It came via Seb, was whispered in the shed during the lunch break one gloomy Tuesday: Party.

‘Sidsel’s alone this weekend,’ Seb whispered.

Gunnar’s eyes grew like plums.

‘There are a few from their class coming,’ Seb went on.

He looked around nervously. No spies in sight.

‘Don’t say a word to anyone.’

We each went our own way, letting the news sink in. It was almost unreal. We would be where the music was and others would be walking in the streets listening to us, listening to us inside.

We met at Gunnar’s before leaving on the Saturday. Seb smuggled in a half bottle of Bordeaux up the sleeve of a large tweed jacket he must have pinched off his father.

‘The beer’s under the stairs,’ he whispered.

‘How will we open the wine?’ Gunnar whispered nervously.

‘Get a corkscrew, you numbskull,’ said Seb.

‘Mum and Dad’ll notice!’

Ola pulled at his roll neck sweater and breathed out. It was brand new, woollen, burgundy, itched like hell and his chin was sweaty already.

‘You can open the bottle, can’t you, you being so c-c-clever,’ he grinned at Gunnar.

‘Eh?’

‘After spending so m-m-much time in Professor Dahls gate!’

We chuckled at that for quite some time. Gunnar returned the favour.

‘And the letter your sister enticed you home with, what was all that about, then, eh?’

Ola stretched the neck of his sweater to get some air.

‘Åse’s pen pal,’ he mumbled.

‘And you read the letters that come to her, do you?’

Gunnar had the upper hand. Ola was on his way back down the roll neck. Two blue eyes were visible. He was speaking through wool.

‘R-r-really nice g-g-girl! Two years older than Åse.’

‘You’ve seen her then, have you?’

‘J-j-just in p-p-pictures. Bit of alright. Name’s Kirsten.’

Seb was becoming impatient. He found a pencil and forced the cork down. The wine splashed all over his forehead. Gunnar was by the door listening to hear if the reptiles were on their way up. They were in the sitting room watching TV.

‘
Skål
,’ said Seb, taking a swig and passing the bottle round.

When I drank, nothing came, the cork was stuck. I passed the bottle round.

Gunnar put on ‘Strawberry Fields’ and Saturday had lift-off. We opened the window so that passers-by could hear us. The bottle went round, but I got the cork. We smoked a bit on the windowsill, not saying much, just savouring the feeling, not quite knowing whether we were looking forward to the party or dreading it. The bottle went round without a murmur. When it reached Ola, there was a knock at the door. Gunnar panicked and stuffed the bottle down Ola’s roll neck.

It was just Stig.

‘Relax, boys. The CIA are in the sitting room eating peanuts. Nice sweater, Ola. Breast pocket on the inside?’

Ola took out the bottle as the sweat poured off him. Gunnar took it and hid it behind a cushion.

‘Pre-party’s under way, I can see,’ said Stig.

We nodded. Pre-party. That’s what it was.

‘There are rumours going round that the Frogner gang have smashed up a flat in Colbjørnsens gate,’ he said.

Bloody hell. Gunnar ground his teeth. Ola developed a twitch in both eyes. Seb went white.

‘Got past three bouncers. Rolled a piano down the stairs, shredded a Persian carpet and poured ketchup on the parents’ bed.’

Bloody hell. We were unable to articulate a word. Fear chafed at our Adam’s apples.

‘You know an American battleship has attacked North Vietnam, don’t you? And it’s dead sure they have nuclear weapons on board. And you know what that means. It means number three, boys. Deep shit. That’s why the Vietnamese war against imperialists is our war, isn’t it. Do you understand? And it’s about bloody time someone started a solidarity committee at Vestheim so that the Young Conservatives can’t keep pumping that shite of theirs. Do you hear?’

He stood staring down at us for a while, towering against the door frame with hair tucked behind his ears and bobbing up under his earlobes.

‘Where did you get that model?’ he grinned, pointing to my finger.

‘Steen & Strøm department store,’ I said.

He laughed.

‘Have to be goin’, boys. Off to Club 7. Public Enemies are playin’. The water in Frogner Bay’s goin’ to be choppy tonight.’

On his way out he turned round again.

‘Remember what I said, boys. Après nous the bacteria.’

He slammed the door and trotted through the flat. There was a brief but violent confrontation in the sitting room before he went on his way.

The bottle was empty. Seb snapped his fingers and another one appeared from the other sleeve. And slowly we got into the groove again, forgot the Frogner gang, blood swelled back into our hearts and expectations, expectations which rose like boiling milk.

The girls sat on the sofa drinking Coke. We each found a chair and Seb opened the bottles of beer. The girls scowled. There were four of them. Guri and Sidsel. And two others. Eva and Randi. Randi was a tubby version with a very short skirt. Eva was thin and wore a longer skirt. Seb and Gunnar took charge, searched through the records and put on a Hollies LP
For Certain Because
.

‘Won’t Jørgen be coming soon?’ said Eva and Randi, the first thing they had uttered.

Ola glanced at me and mumbled from the corner of his mouth:

‘Jørgen? Who’s J-J-Jørgen?’

‘No idea,’ I whispered.

‘I’m sure he’ll be here soon,’ Sidsel said, drinking through a straw.

‘Jørgen’s in our class,’ Guri explained.

There was a ring at the door. On the sofa Eva and Randi gave a start, went breathless and frantic, pulling out pocket mirrors and eyeliner and busying themselves. Sidsel opened the door and brought in a freshly scrubbed little man who looked a bit like Paul Simon. He gave the girls a brief nod and then blow me down if he didn’t shake hands and do the formal bit.

‘Jørgen Rist,’ he said, softly squeezing my hand and bowing. Jesus.

‘Kim,’ I said. ‘With one “m”.’

He didn’t laugh. His eyelashes curved in a deep, long arc, as though he had curled them like that. The cheekbones in his shiny face were very prominent and his hair was combed straight back
and seemed electric, but the static was probably caused by my acrylic sweater.

Jørgen was not the chatty type. Randi and Eva sat staring chunks out of him, didn’t even notice my finger. Jørgen was looking in a different direction and didn’t seem to be bothered about anything.

Seb went for more beer. There was a smell of burning cheese coming from the kitchen and the girls were whispering together on the sofa. Jørgen sat staring into the air, Ola peered over his roll neck and all of a sudden Seb and Gunnar were nowhere to be seen. Eva put on a Monkees record, ‘A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You’. My ears shrank like currants and Ola dived down his roll neck.

A confrontation was inevitable.

‘Do you know it is actually monkeys singing,’ I said, trying to be funny.

Why did no one laugh?

‘Better than The Beatles at any rate,’ Randi said.

Ola surfaced from the wool. We looked around. Seb and Gunnar had absented themselves and were still absent.

‘You can’t compare The Monkees with The Beatles!’ I shouted.

‘“Strawberry Fields” is crap!’

At last Seb and Gunnar returned, a bit unsteady on their legs. A dangerous smell of burning came from the kitchen. The girls flew out and Jørgen trotted after them. Then Seb brought us together and announced under his breath:

‘There’s a
demijohn
in the cellar! Gunnar and I have found a
demijohn
!’

‘What’s a d-d-demijohn?’

‘Big glass container for making wine, you dope. And it’s full.’

They led the way. We crept after them through another room full of books and paintings and stuff culminating in a hall which led down a steep flight of stairs to the cellar.

Sidsel stood in the doorway.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

‘To play ping pong,’ Seb said gruffly.

‘The food’ll be ready soon.’

‘Won’t be long,’ Gunnar mumbled, his face glowing like a Northern Light.

We tiptoed down the steps. There was in fact a ping pong table in the cellar. There were also two storerooms. In one there was jam. In the other, wine. A rubber tube was attached to the mouth of the demijohn. Seb grinned, knelt down and sucked. It gurgled and bubbled. Then it was Ola’s turn. He got a mouthful down his roll neck and let out a piercing scream. I got nothing at all, must have been sucking wrong, all that came out was foul air.

Gunnar tore the tube off me.

‘Don’t drink it all!’ he grinned, shoving the pipe in his mouth.

Afterwards we staggered up the stairs and found the girls with Jørgen in the kitchen.

The sandwiches were huge and baking hot with loads of cheese and ham. We carried them into the sitting room. Seb opened the last bottles of beer.

Eva put on Herman’s Hermits.

‘Bubblegum pop,’ Seb said, taking a swig.

‘Randi and I were at the Edderkoppen gig,’ Eva announced proudly.

‘And the Vanguards played the pants off them,’ I said.

Eva was annoyed.

‘Herman’s Hermits are much better than The Beatles!’

Seb lowered the bottle.

‘You can’t compare Herman’s Hermits with The Beatles!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because,’ Seb said, scratching his head. ‘Because.’

‘Because you can’t compare the Frogner tram with Apollo 12!’

Ola had a way with words. Cometh the hour, cometh Ola.

We opened the window to air the room, sneaked on a Beatles record, ‘I Don’t Want To Spoil The Party’, and sent the music out in the evening and the streets. That was what it was like to be indoors while others were wearing out shoe leather roaming the streets. Then Sidsel charged in and slammed the window shut, she didn’t want any gatecrashers. We were a trifle embarrassed, of course it was stupid to open the window, and then we chatted about the Frogner gang and we seemed to move closer to each other, stirred by a common enemy, warmed by a common fear. Somewhere in Bygdøy they had sawn down a flag post, driven a scooter through a living room and thrown darts at paintings.

‘I’m sure they’re very nice individuals,’ Sidsel said. ‘But as a group they’re vile.’

‘Don’t think they’re nice in any form,’ I puffed. ‘Think they’re
shit-bags
through and through.’

The girls and Jørgen cleared away the plates and we sneaked back down to the cellar. Ola and I played ping pong while Seb and Gunnar drank. Then we swapped roles. Couldn’t make the tube work for me. Nothing came out. Then we scrambled up the steps bellowing ‘Penny Lane’ and got lost in all the rooms, but finally found the kitchen. Eva and Randi and Jørgen were washing up. We swayed into the living room, Seb and Gunnar were very loud, put the record player on full blast, dimmed the lights and wanted to dance. They were well gone. Then Eva and Randi and Jørgen joined us, but Jørgen didn’t seem to be in a dancing mood even though Eva and Randi were ogling him for all they were worth. Ola and I didn’t exist.