Beatles (47 page)

‘Come on,’ she said.

I followed her. She walked with high, slow steps through the
wet grass as though walking in an airless landscape, swaying, firm, playful movements. Her hair seemed to defy gravity, undulating up and down in gentle, coruscating arcs. I ran after her, but was unable to catch her. It was strange, even though she moved slowly, danced, I was unable to catch her.

Cecilie stretched her arms in the air and laughed.

The smell of sap wafted down from the birch trees.

I stopped, out of breath. I thought without really understanding: this is as far as we can go. Cecilie and I. We can’t get any higher.

But I would catch up with her, that was sure. She seemed to be moving in slow motion. Birds were singing in all the trees. It was already morning and a kitten darted across the shingle.

I would catch her up.

Then Mum called out. I turned slowly, infinitely slowly, saw Mum and Dad coming up the garden path. I closed my eyes and opened them again.

Mum was standing beside me.

‘Aren’t you in bed?’ she said.

‘Been listening to the radio,’ I whispered. ‘Didn’t think you would be here until tomorrow.’

‘Dad wanted to come home,’ Mum sighed. ‘We came in the Saab.’

Then she noticed Cecilie. Cecilie was standing under the plum tree. I started to explain and before I was finished, Cecilie had joined us.

Dad didn’t notice a thing. He just padded round the House and was gone.

Mum looked at us both. I thought it was odd that everything could go smoothly on the moon while the tiniest things on earth came to grief.

‘You can sleep on the divan in the sitting room,’ Mum said to Cecilie, going inside to find bedding.

‘Bloody, sodding hell,’ I said.

Cecilie held my head between her hands.

‘Bloody, sodding hell’s bollocks,’ I said.

She laughed and closed my mouth with hers.

I lay there, suddenly awake, as the room became light and some magpies screeched outside the window. I heard my mother’s voice.
She was whispering hysterically although Dad must have been asleep because he wasn’t answering. In the end, Mum went quiet, too. Then I crept down the stairs and into the sitting room. No one was there. Cecilie was not there. I panicked, found my jeans and gym shoes and rushed out. She wasn’t in the orchard, either. I ran down to the quayside. The motorboat was gone. Fritjof glanced sideways at me, he was standing on the edge, circled the line over his head, let go and the lure flew out into the fjord.

I ambled over to him.

‘Left half an hour ago,’ he said. ‘She almost cut my line.’

I sat down beside him and bummed a roll-up.

‘Mornin’s are best,’ Fritjof said. ‘There’s nothin’ like mornin’s. Before six. The noise starts at six.’

‘Happy landin’ last night,’ I said.

He glanced down at me, winding in the lure.

‘Which one?’

‘The moon.’

‘Oh, that one.’ He cast out. ‘Not interested in that sort of thing.

We’ve got no business there.’

Then Fritjof went silent, let the lure sink, wound back in jerks, stopped, pulled, held his arm still, jerked again, and there it was.

Fritjof beamed with pleasure and rested his brown hand on the taut line.

‘The hardest part comes now, you know,’ he chatted. ‘Anyone can get a bite, but not everyone can get it up.’

He pulled carefully, let the line run.

‘First you have to get to know it, gauge its strength, see through its tricks.’

He let the fish go. It didn’t swim out but across.

‘No two are the same, you see. They have their methods, all of them. Some go straight to the bottom, others come up, some go along with you until you reckon they’re home and dry and then tear themselves free at the last moment. But one thing they have in common. It’s always a fight. Isn’t that right? Always a fight.’

Fritjof held the can tight in his right hand, started to turn the reel gently, felt the resistance with tiny jerks, listened to the line, let it glide between thumb and forefinger.

‘It’s already lost,’ he said, looking almost sad.

With strong sorrowful movements, he reeled in.

Then it came out of the water, a smooth, glistening mackerel, almost a swordfish. Fritjof hauled it over the edge of the wharf with care and as he broke its neck and the thick, red blood flowed over his hands, the sun rose above the ridge behind us and shone on the fish’s dead, vacant eyes.

First day at school and I contrived to be late, thinking I had plenty of time strolling around the fountain, sitting on the edge and letting memories of various kinds pulsate through my brain, wondering if a letter would soon be appropriate, a letter to Nina.

I liked the regular sound of water falling behind me. I ought to write a letter, wouldn’t have to be that long. Could write something about fountains. A sparrow hopped round my feet and was not in the slightest bit intimidated. Anyway, I wasn’t dangerous. I wondered if Dad would ever be the same again. Wondered what the Experimental School and the Cathedral School and Ullern were like, and Ola’s job. He had started as a bell boy at Norum, wondered what this autumn would bring. Then the bell rang at the bottom of Gyldenløvesgate and it sounded angry. I sprinted down the avenue and the caretaker had to show me the way to the classroom. I was the last to arrive and everyone stared at me with curiosity, and the teacher, a beehive hairdo with American glasses, greeted me with a dry handshake and pointed to my desk. My pulse was at an even 150 and everyone glared at the stranger who had burst in. I slumped down on the much too high chair and it was then I spotted him, Jørgen, he was sitting in the window row, bathed in sun with hair like a halo round his head and he was distant and transparent. I had the seat right in front of him, turned sharply, happy to see a familiar face.

‘Great party at Sidsel’s that time,’ I whispered.

The lady banged her pointer on the desk and the lesson began.

In the break Jørgen came over to me, shook my hand and was decorum in person.

‘Recognised you at once,’ he said. ‘Nice to see you again.’

‘Nice class, isn’t it.’

He shrugged.

‘How’s the singing going?’ he asked.

‘Badly,’ I grinned. ‘My voice isn’t up to it.’

‘Fancy joining the drama group?’

I certainly did not.

‘What are you performin’?’ I asked.

‘Tolstoy’s
War and Peace,
’ Jørgen said.

The bell rang and we made our way to the classroom. Jørgen went to the sink and washed his hands. A flock of girls I had never seen before sized me up.

‘Are you the boy who beat up the Frogner gang?’ one asked.

I could hardly believe my ears.

‘And danced with a skeleton at the school party?’

Before I could utter a word, they were on their way into the class and another crazy teacher entered with seven-league boots and a stopwatch.

Jørgen caught my arm and pushed me into the classroom. For the rest of the lesson I felt all eyes were on my body.

Jørgen passed me a note. I heard some of the girls giggling.

‘Don’t forget the drama group,’ he had written.

I already had a clear idea of how the autumn was going to turn out.

In the evening Cecilie rang to say she had two tickets for the premiere of
Heaven and Hell
. And so we sat there in the blue darkness in Klingenberg while Lillebjørn Nilsen dragged his body across the canvas. Cecilie just
had
to pinch my arm every time a face she knew appeared, and that was most of the time because half of West Oslo were extras. My arm was aching all over when the show was finished and we stood waiting for the Bygdøy bus.

‘L was fantastic,’ Cecilie said.

I lit up.

‘Worst gunk I’ve ever seen,’ I said. ‘Have we got time for a beer at Pernille?’

‘I have to go home.’

‘What’s Ullern like?’

‘Good,’ she said, looking past me. ‘And Frogner?’

‘Good,’ I said, flicking the fag-end onto the tramlines.

‘Are you going to Pernille?’ Cecilie asked, her eyes hanging on me for a few seconds and then letting go.

‘I’ll pop by to see Seb,’ I said.

We gave each other a half-hearted hug and she jumped on to the running board, hesitated for a second, but did not look back.

Stood watching the bus. It was belching black exhaust fumes that mingled with the cool, gentle late summer air. It would be a long time before I would see Cecilie again, almost two years, and somewhere in my bones I knew, I knew it was all over.

Seb had moved away from home when the fat bastard had wormed his way into Observatoriegata for good. His grandmother had fixed him up with a student room in Munchsgate, next to the Experimental School. His grandmother took care of everything for him. There was nothing like it this side of fiction.

There were a couple of hundred postboxes on the wall in the hall entrance to the block and on one of them was the word Seb, just Seb. All the boxes were green apart from Seb’s, his was black and red. And that was not all. There were only girls’ names there. Seb was the sole male in the whole caboodle. I took the lift up to the fifth and was accompanied by a chubby girl who grinned from ear to ear and stared at me without any inhibitions.

‘Are you visiting the new guy who’s just moved in?’ she asked.

‘Goin’ to Seb’s,’ I said.

She just kept smiling and jumped off on the fourth.

‘See you,’ she said.

‘See you,’ I said. The metal grille slid shut and the lift continued on its way. I was beginning to envy Seb in a big way.

The corridor was dirty yellow and lined with doors to student rooms. A bizarre smell of a mixture of foods met me, it was like sticking your head in a rucksack filled with uneaten packed lunches on a hot day. Not so hard to find Seb’s room. He had painted the door in psychedelic colours and you only had to follow the noise. He was playing ‘Soft Parade’ at full blast. The door wasn’t locked and there was no point knocking. I strode straight in and saw a motley group of people sitting in lotus position with mugs of peppermint tea and currant buns. A Jim Morrison vocal cut through the fug like a steel comb.

I dropped down beside Seb. He passed me the spliff.

‘Been to
Heaven and Hell,
’ I grinned.

‘Bourgeois crap,’ he said. ‘Alcohol is more dangerous than drugs. Have you ever seen anyone get aggressive on shit, eh?’

A freak called Pelle with a centre parting leaned forward and drawled, ‘Half a million people and not one damn fight. Not one damn fight!’

‘Where was that, did you say?’ I shouted.

‘Woodstock, you retard. Got a chick who has a cousin who was there. It was Peace and Love, man! Half a million!’

He took a swig of tea, staring at me over the cup.

I turned to Seb.

‘It’s all over with Cecilie,’ I said.

‘Dreamt about Guri one night,’ he whispered. ‘Dreamt about the abortion. That it was me she was abortin’.’

He was passed a chillum and clasped his hands around it.

‘Stopped playin’ harmonica, have you?’ I asked.

He sucked and closed his eyes.

‘Listen to it.
Listen
to it. Sharman’s blues.’

He slumped into a smile and sat like that until the stylus scratched to the end. Pelle and the rest of the gang stood up like gangling calves.

‘Goin’ for a walk in the park,’ Pelle said. ‘You comin’?’

‘Goin’ to groove,’ Seb said.

They hurried out, Seb turned over the record and lay back on the mattress. I opened the window and had the town right in my face, looked across the rooftops, wondering how many lonely people there were, how many crazy, stoned, stupid, confused, angry people there were living in this steaming town. The music was hammering me black and blue from behind, I was standing in the firing line, and I remembered a time when we cruised the streets longing to be indoors, that seemed to put a damper on my thoughts.

‘It’s gone quickly, in fact,’ I said.

‘What has?’

‘Time.’

Seb stood up and shook his hair.

‘Time doesn’t go,’ he said. ‘Time just is. Watches are for materialists and social climbers.’

He showed me his thin, bare wrist.

‘It’s all about livin’
now
,’ he said. ‘No point reminiscin’. No point plannin’. Life’s about
now
.’

There was a knock at the door and in walked Gunnar. He was carrying a pile of leaflets under his arm and wandered over to the window to get some fresh air.

‘The crap you buggers smoke,’ he grumbled.

‘The oxygen you’re inhalin’ is full of lead and radioactive shit,’ Seb said, pointing to the sky. ‘You’ll die of cancer if you keep this up.’

‘I know that,’ Gunnar said calmly. ‘But I’ve got no choice, have I. I have to breathe, right. But shit is somethin’ you choose.’

Seb groaned and sat down on a stool.

‘That’s true, Gunnar. I moved to a room to get some peace.’

We boiled some more water and night settled over the town like the tea infusing in our mugs.

‘Don’t like your postbox,’ Gunnar said.

‘No socialism without freedom. No freedom without socialism,’ Seb recited.

Gunnar produced another stencilled leaflet.

‘The fight is against rationalisation now. School bureaucrats want to introduce the five-day week. And who the hell profits from that? The state and monopoly capitalism. The pupils lose out. The pupils and the teachers.’

Seb didn’t have any sugar. The tea tasted bitter. He switched on a red lamp.

‘Anyone spoken to Ola?’ I asked.

‘Got all the suitcases for an American travel company mixed up yesterday,’ Gunnar grinned. ‘Good revolutionary field work.’

‘On purpose?’ Seb gurgled.

‘Makes no difference, does it. Action is action!’

And some time later the man himself turned up, exhausted, with an armful of beers. We flipped off the caps and toasted to the end of summer and the start of autumn.

‘Have you been fightin’ with the chambermaids?’ I asked, pointing to the graze on his forehead.

‘Oh, hell,’ Ola hissed. ‘The lift got stuck today, so I had to carry things up and down the stairs. One of those steep spiral staircases
with iron steps. Fell headlong with five suitcases from Kuwait. Rolled down two flights. The sheik was beside himself. Threatened to turn off the oil pipelines. Had a suitcase full of porn magazines. Scattered everywhere. Shit, hangin’ by a thin thread there, I was.’