Beatles (56 page)

‘Forget your packed lunch, did you?’ he wheezed, offering his hand. And I accepted it, smoked the Moroccan kif, in my lunch break, in Slottsparken, in the summer of 70.

That was probably the moment my career as a gardener came to an end. I worked slowly through the flower bed, dozed off again and dreamt about Afghanistan and Nina, and when I was awoken for the third time, it was the last time. There was pandemonium. The fuzz had arrived with three black Mariahs and were running around with truncheons and slavering Alsatians. Suddenly I was staring into steaming red jaws and I got to my feet very smartly. A bloody cop was hitting out at me with his erect baton. I ran over to the flower bed and held the fork in the air. He bounded after me with the beast on a tight lead.

‘I work here!’ I shouted.

They were slinging people into the paddy wagon. I saw a truncheon hit Pelle over the ear and glimpsed blood spurting from his nose before the animal sank its teeth into my trousers and tore off a chunk of material

I swung the fork aloft.

‘I’m a gardener!’ I yelled.

There was a sudden scrum around me. They stood in a semi-circle and approached with stealth. I held the fork in front of me and retreated towards a bush. The Alsatian lay flat on the ground and its saliva shone in the sunlight. Then they were on me and I don’t remember anything else until I was lying on my stomach in the black Mariah, my arms shackled behind me. The floor hit my face, we drove off.

‘He threatened us with a fork,’ a voice said.

‘He? You sure it’s not a girl?’

I was yanked over, a boot kicked me between the legs. I screamed, but the sound was strangled by the vomit that spewed forth. I saw blood. I saw only blood. My eyes were red balloons.

‘Boy,’ grinned the man. ‘Reckon that’s a boy alright.’

‘Tried to kill us with a pitch fork, didn’t he,’ another voice said. ‘Very dangerous individual.’

I was given a kick in the ribs, then someone stood on my back and ground my face into the jolting, lurching floor. Don’t know how long it was before the van came to a halt, and a furious head came close to mine, his spittle flew as he roared, ‘You’re getting off lightly, you long-haired homo. We could report you for police assault.’

‘I’m a gardener,’ I said meekly. ‘For City Parks and Gardens.’

He was deaf in that ear.

‘And you were in possession of cannabis!’ he shouted.

‘Was I hell!’ I said.

He smiled. The policeman smiled, but it was not sincere.

‘Right, sweetie pie. We found this on you.’

He produced a dark brown slab.

‘Didn’t we, boys. We found this on our missie here.’

The others were in total agreement.

‘But we’ll turn a blind eye this time. Just want to teach you a lesson.’

Chortles and chuckles all round. Then I was held from the back and the bastard policeman conjured up a pair of scissors. His stinking yellow teeth moistened with saliva. Four sweaty hands twisted my head into position. And then he hacked at my hair from all sides. I screamed, I yelled, but to no avail, my hair flew around the van and their grins grew wider and wider.

‘Now he looks good,’ the pig sang. ‘I was right, see. It is a boy.’

‘You cocksucker!’ I howled and spat a juicy gobbet into his face, it ran down his cheek, thick and yellow.

Now they came to life, they assaulted me from all angles, in the end I didn’t feel the kicks and punches, I was outside my abused body and the pain was only a dream.

Then the door was opened and I was rolled out, heard the engine roar and saw the black Mariah race down a path between tall trees. I lay on a path in the middle of a forest and had no idea which. Was it Kongsskogen or Norwegian Wood? It was neither. I stayed on the ground until my soul had regained its place in my body. The pains launched themselves over me anew and into the dry earth I cried bitter and burning tears.

I tried to walk, to walk the way the pigs had driven. My legs buckled beneath me like grass. I had to rest on a rock. The sun looked like scrambled eggs gone stiff. The forest floated in a haze. I forced my legs to go on. They carried me for a while. Then I spotted a river, crawled down to the edge and stuck my head under the water.

When I emerged someone shouted at me.

‘Hey, you gnome, you’re frightening the fish!’

I looked around. In the middle of the rapids stood a fly-fisher in wading boots with a cap covered in hooks.

‘Where am I?’ I shouted back.

‘Can’t you see I’m fishing, you troll! Clear off!’

‘Where am I?’ I repeated.

‘Are you a complete idiot? You’re in Åborbekken.’

He must have had a bite, he fought with the huge rod and the long line, cursed and swore, until finally he got himself tied up in a huge tangle with a pile of twigs on the hook.

‘That’s your doing!’ he screamed. ‘Everything was going fine until you arrived on the scene! You hobgoblin!’

‘Which way to town?’

He couldn’t point, so he had to nod. He nodded eastwards, or southwards, pulled at the line as the water poured over the top of his waders. I gingerly picked myself up and continued on the forest path.

I walked for several hours without seeing a single person. Then I
came to a large expanse of water. At first I thought it was the sea, but I realised that it was fresh water. I was alongside a lake in Norway and walking along the bank. Walking there, exhausted and sore, battered and bruised, I began to hate all the parks in Oslo. Parks just caused disasters, parks persecuted me, ever since I went to the skitraining school in Frogner Park, parks had been after me. I would never go to another park again. I would ask the foreman to put me on churchyards instead, that would suit me better, I would apply to do that. All of a sudden a rock-hard ball hit me in the forehead and I almost went down for the count. At the same time I heard a cry, it didn’t come from me, and, some distance away, behind a sandbank stood a weird-looking type in checked trousers, tearing his hair. Beside him there was a little person with a trolley full of clubs.

‘Watch out, you idiot!’ I shouted.

He sank to his knees and began to pull at the grass.

Then, of course, I knew where I was.

‘Is this Bogstad golf course?’ I asked, relieved.

The man stood up with whitened knuckles around the club.

‘Where do you think you are, you halfwit? At the circus? At a funfair? Do you think, do you think I was
trying
to hit you? Do you think I was aiming? Are you out of your mind? Are you mad!’

‘You should be a bit careful with that ball!’ I responded. ‘You could have smashed my head in.’

He changed clubs and tried to hit me. I had to take to my heels. He followed me while shouting something about the eighth hole. I pulled out a couple of flags as I sped past and emerged through a gate into an elegant road of detached houses. I sat down on the kerb and felt my forehead. Another bump was on its way. I was being persecuted. But now at any rate I knew roughly where I was. I wandered around until I found the direction, over Røa, past Njård sports hall, across Majorstuen, straight into town as the sun lit the forests in the west and the light let the darkness in. And I met Vigdis in the lift again. She let out a squeal of fright when she saw me, I was unable to meet my own gaze in the lift mirror.

We went up to the fourth floor.

‘What happened to you?’ she exclaimed.

‘Long story. You would never believe it.’

I followed Vigdis into her room. It was traditional with embroideries on the walls, photographs of her parents on a bookshelf and oranges in a woven basket on the table, felt at home immediately.

She patched me up with plasters and gauze. Vigdis’s hands were chunky and red and light as feathers.

‘Your hair,’ she laughed. ‘What have you done to your lovely hair?’

I glanced at a mirror. There was nothing to laugh at. I looked worse than Ola had the time his father ran amok with his scissors. Ola had been elegant in comparison with me. I was a marked man.

‘Could I have an orange?’ I asked.

‘As many as you like,’ Vigdis smiled, clearing the operating table.

Then something strange happened. But I was not very surprised, for the whole day had been against me anyway. I peeled the orange and there was nothing inside. It was empty. I peeled and peeled and there was no orange. I said nothing to Vigdis. I just put the peel on a plate and wiped my mouth.

Vigdis turned.

‘That was quick,’ she said.

‘Oranges are a speciality of mine,’ I said.

‘You can have another.’

‘Only eat one a day.’

I got to my feet and took a step towards the door. All of a sudden Vigdis was holding a full bottle of gin in front of her.

‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked mischievously.

And for once I was sensible, for nowhere was it written that this day could not throw up any more disasters.

I swallowed hard and did not tempt fate.

‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘Another time. Another time.’

And then I was given the sack. When I turned up for work on the following day I received a real rollicking and they refused to give my story the time of day. I had abandoned my tools and cleared off during working hours, I was scum, I only had to look in the mirror, there was nothing to discuss. I was given the sack and my wages, three hundred kroner, which were burning a hole in my pocket as I stood in the middle of Oslo wondering what the hell to do next. I went to Pernille. Later I rang Jørgen. His mother answered and said
in a hazy voice that Jørgen had left for London two days before. She didn’t know when he would be back. She slammed down the phone. The day after, I was broke again.

I lay on the mattress with a thick head, listing badly. My brain cells clung together like sticky rice. But one of the grains was fitter than the others and transmitted a brilliant message: Go to the bank and empty your account. I soaked my head under the tap and trudged off to St Olavsgate, to the bank where Dad was the branch manager, the bank that was robbed by someone who was never apprehended. It was many years since I had been there, but the smell was the same, mint and a freshly waxed floor, and the sounds, the crackle of banknotes, as though there was a little fire alight the whole time. And it was dark. I was almost blinded as I entered from the white light outside, into the crackling, clean darkness. Dad used to sit at the counter, I remember he was always very careful to cut his nails every morning. Now he had an office at the back of the building. A lady led me through. Dad was not in the least bit surprised to see me. He just looked friendly and a bit tired, his slowness was almost the worst thing of all, he didn’t notice my clothes, or my hair, he didn’t even see my crazy haircut.

‘Is that you?’ was all he said.

‘How’s Nesodden?’ I asked.

‘Fine. Not a good year for apples though.’

‘Redcurrants?’

‘I think the redcurrants will be okay. And the gooseberries. But the plums don’t look at all good.’

The office was cramped and oppressive, the walls dark, papers filed in binders on the desk in neat piles. Dad looked up at me, rested his chin in his hands.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

Dad smiled.

‘Nothing.’

I sniggered. It struck me that it should have been him asking me that question and I would have answered the same way he had.

‘I need money,’ I said. ‘Thought I might withdraw some from my account.’

Dad nodded and stood up.

‘That should be alright,’ he said.

Then he went to speak to a cashier and a quarter of an hour later I was standing on the pavement with 850 kroner in my back pocket and the world, or Oslo at least, lay before me like a swing door. I stocked up with white wine at the
vinmonopol
and carried the goods back to my room. But another surprise was waiting for me there, a handsome bill for Seb in the postbox, he hadn’t paid the rent for ten months. I would be evicted if the money was not paid within three days. There was no option but to pay up and as a result I was left with seventy-eight kroner. I wondered whether to catch the first boat to Nesodden, but heroically I resisted. And so the summer passed, I was broke and living on crusts and lukewarm water, but one day I met Vigdis in the lift again, she saw how the land lay and took care of me, feeding me with thick vegetable broth and full-fat buttermilk and waffles. Vigdis took care of me for the rest of the summer, kept me alive for some reason and I realised that The Great Revolutionary Feat was not meant for the likes of me, I wasn’t cut out for that sort of task. I realised that one evening, leaning back against the windowsill, satiated after having eaten thirty of Vigdis’s waffles. It was Dragon who had accomplished the Great Revolutionary Feat, I saw him swimming through foaming water, a knife between his teeth and sharks on all sides. Dragon, I thought, you have avenged Fred, you have avenged Jørgen, Dragon the Avenger!

Standing on the auditorium steps with my matriculation papers in hand, I was aware that autumn had already begun, even though the sun was hanging over the National Theatre and filtering through the trees, it was an Indian summer, just as Dad had said once when we were going to pick apples, it was September and I thought that soon they would probably be nailing down the boards over the fountain again. I stood on the auditorium steps as people ran past me. I didn’t see anyone I knew. Some wore black hats. Some were in traditional costume or suits. Some turned up in denim, like me. I peered around for familiar faces, but saw none. I wondered what to do now. I walked down the steps over to the bench where Mum and Dad were sitting. They squeezed my hand and were proud, had needed to hold the stiff diploma with the red stamp, one after the other. Mum glared at my clothes, but refrained from making a comment. She said, ‘Are you going to stay in your room, Kim?’

‘Thought I would.’

‘But isn’t Sebastian coming back soon?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Are you coping on your own?’

‘Oh, yes.’

The conversation stalled. We smiled at each other, but at that moment Dad woke up, as though he had found his old self in his suit.

‘And you’re sure you’ve chosen the right subject?’ he asked in loud, clear tones.

‘Think so. But I have to take the prelim first anyway.’

‘Philosophy,’ Mum said slowly. ‘What sort of job can you do with that?’

We stood shifting feet again, then Dad took out a crisp hundred note, hot off the press from Norges Bank.

‘To celebrate with, in moderation, though,’ he said, nudging my shoulder.

‘Wow,’ I smiled. ‘Wow.’

Stood there with the crisp banknote while Mum and Dad walked arm in arm under the trees, didn’t quite know what to do with myself, sat down on the bench and lit a cigarette. A girl walked past distributing anti-EEC leaflets. Afterwards a boy from the Action Committee gave me another. I stuffed them in my pocket, looked around, no familiar faces. So I took the tram to Blindern, browsed around in the bookshop, examined a few set books and felt weary. It was better in the record shop, self-service, could listen to whatever records I liked. I flipped through a few jazz LPs, Davis, Coltrane, Mingus, but couldn’t somehow find my rhythm. I strolled over to Frederikke, bought myself a cup of toxic coffee and sat alone at a table in the huge barn. No familiar faces there, either. I smoked too much and had to go to the loo. On the floor below there was a line of student stands. The students launched themselves at me, stuffed me full of paper. Eventually I found the toilet, there was a man standing at the urinal, and he began to speak the moment I appeared, asked whether I was a member of the People’s Movement or the Action Committee. I beat a retreat, ran past the stands and emerged between the red tower blocks. People were sprawled over the grass, I walked past, slowly, but I didn’t know a soul. I headed for town again, via Tørtberg, some young lads playing football in blue and white, stood watching them, Åge was on the sidelines, yes, it was Åge, he had filled out a bit, but it was Åge, recognised his yells. The leather ball seemed so comical among the thin legs. I trudged on, chuckling, and then I was back in Karl Johan. What to do now, I wondered. I went to Pernille and had the last beer of the year. The glass in my hands was cold. That was when I realised. I had lost my matriculation papers. Must have left them in the record shop. Couldn’t be bothered to go back now. I sat until my back became cold. No one I knew in Pernille that day. I mooched around again, down to the quayside and watched the Nesodden boat reverse out and turn. On the way back, I stopped by Klingenberg cinema. Long queue and excited atmosphere.
Woodstock
. Had nothing else to do, queued, and then I sat in the auditorium, the lights went out and the images and the music assaulted my
senses. Soon the whole room was illuminated by lighters, rows of them burst into flame and the thick, sweet smell wafted through the air. My neighbour nudged me and passed a glowing spliff. I accepted. There were four pictures on the screen at once. From behind I was given a chillum. A few guards patrolled the sides scratching their heads. A girl gave me a lozenge. Country Joe sang. The rain. The rain at Woodstock. I will never forget it. Then it was over and we shuffled into the streets. I ran a hand through my pockets. I was broke. The darkness reflected off the tarmac and I didn’t like the film that was crossing the sky, didn’t like the images at all. I ran home, to Munchsgate. The lift took me up. I stood with my back to the mirror. I exited on the fourth and rang Vigdis’s bell. She was at home and let me in. Afterwards I could only remember that I woke up in her tiny bath in my underpants, my head a quarry. I dragged myself up to my full height and when I saw my face in the mirror, I screamed, I screamed, for there was a stripe of blood across my face, my face was divided into two, it was ripped open, I screamed, and then Vigdis was there, chubby and naked, with pendulous breasts touching my back.

‘You’re weird,’ she said.

I ran my hands across my face, turned on the tap and bent down. I had to rub damned hard, it wouldn’t all come off, a dark shadow across my face remained.

‘You owe me three things,’ Vigdis said.

I looked at us in the mirror.

‘What?’

‘A bottle of gin.’

I nodded cautiously. Couldn’t complain about that.

‘Lipstick.’

The empty tube was on the floor. We looked at each other in the mirror.

‘And the third?’ I asked.

Vigdis ran her finger down my spine.

‘I don’t want to say.’

She had to work and I had to go home. I went up a floor, stumbled into my room, vomited into the waste paper basket and dived onto the mattress, as though from the ten-metre board, ten metres into an empty pool, and slept for nine months.