Beatles (64 page)

It was fun. But now and then I felt like a tightrope walker. The pole bobbed and the wire vibrated. This could not last, it was impossible. I decided to hold out until next year.

Granddad sat by the window as usual, he had shrunk, become ancient, his face was so thin there was no room for his dentures. They gaped open in a glass of water on his bedside table. But Granddad laughed, his spirits didn’t seem affected. He leaned forward and produced a picture from the drawer to show me. He spoke indistinctly, it was like listening to Gisle. But I caught the gist. It was a photograph of the railway workers on the Dovre line in 1920. Granddad stood in the middle of the gang with a moustache and a glint in his eye. Mount Snøhetta towered up in the background.

Granddad waved away Mum’s oranges.

‘I’ve been to Iceland,’ I shouted.

‘Iceland? By boat?’

‘Aeroplane!’

‘Haven’t they got any trains in Iceland?’

‘No. They haven’t got any trees, either.’

‘Sleepers,’ said Granddad. ‘Sleepers.’

He beckoned me closer.

‘They’ve been carrying beams in and out all week, Kim. Is there going to be a war?’

‘Not at all. They’re just measuring ceiling heights.’

Granddad nodded for a good long time. Then he was given his presents. He was astonished. I had bought him a mug with a picture of the Great Geysir on it. He put it down on the windowsill and looked at us.

‘It isn’t my birthday!’

‘It’s Christmas Eve,’ Mum explained.

He looked at us. His eyes had sunk deep into his skull. He pointed to the door.

‘When I go out of that door, there’s going to be a party!’

And then he laughed, he roared with laughter, shook, the tears poured down.

Mum and Dad went to the four o’clock service in Frogner Church while I went home and drank Black Death. The presents lay under the tree. I took a peep at the labels. Hubert hadn’t sent anything. Nor Nina. I slumped to the floor and at that moment music sounded from the flat above. It gave me a start and instantly I remembered all the things I had been missing. It was the new family who had moved in, children singing a Christmas carol with squeaky voices.

Mum and Dad returned from the church and as we were eating they asked me to tell them about Iceland. I told them everything I could remember, about the volcanoes, the lava, the hot springs and the Great Geysir.

‘And you’ve thought about studying geology there, have you?’ Dad enquired.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Has to be the place for it.’

‘You’re not studying philosophy any more?’

I was in trouble, I lost my balance and had to grab the wire tightrope. Then Mum suddenly asked, ‘Did you visit Hubert this summer?’

‘No.’

‘I can’t understand why he doesn’t get in touch!’

Dad sat huddled over his plate. It was empty. The silence impaled us, as if with a harpoon.

Mum went to the kitchen to fill the dish.

Dad and I looked at each other.

‘I said you’d forgiven him,’ I breathed. ‘I asked him to come home.’

Dad continued to look at me.

‘Think that was generous of you,’ I said.

Pym landed on his shoulder, the green crow, Dad smiled briefly and Mum returned with more food.

Afterwards we opened the presents. For Dad I had bought a true-to-life model sheep. I think Pym became jealous, it fluttered round the room wildly and would not stop until Dad put the fleecy wooden model in the pile of paper. For Mum I had a plate with Hekla volcano on it. I didn’t get a microphone, but new skis. And so Christmas Eve,
with its glad tidings, faded out as the Christmas holidays brought slush and bombs. I dragged myself across the slopes and the
Americans
dropped their presents over Vietnam. The angels were burned, baby Jesus experienced the world in a dank air-raid shelter. Mum served cakes and Dad did crosswords. One evening when I could hear the explosions and the screams close by, I had a peek at one of his magazines. The crosswords were finished, but there weren’t any words, just letters. He had been scribbling letters into the boxes at random. We were alone in the sitting room and he looked away.

‘Don’t think any more about it,’ I said in despair. ‘It’s over now!’

Don’t know if he heard me. Pine needles were falling from the tree already.

‘I admire you, Dad!’ I said quickly, and I meant it. ‘I admire you!’

Mum brought in the seven kinds of Christmas biscuits and on December 30 it was announced on the news that the bombing would stop. New Year was round the corner. It was a time for resolutions. I had none. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I stuck out living at home until February. The nest was too small. It was either Pym or me. It was me. When Nixon went to China I packed my gym bag and strolled up to the university. To my great surprise, there was a study loan waiting for me. Four Ibsens and the basic grant. I went to the record shop, listened to some heavy stuff, but it didn’t do anything for me, instead I bought a record by Little Walter, went for a beer at the barn and counted the money on my fingers. Then I took a taxi to Munchsgate.

It wasn’t Seb who opened the door. It was a girl. It was Guri.

‘Wow,’ I said. It was all I could say.

‘Hiya, Kim. Come in!’

I did just that, had a squint around, things had changed. There was calm and orderliness, the aroma of tea and soap, a blanket on the mattress, green plants on the windowsill, two freshly washed pairs of pyjamas drying on a clothesline.

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Where’s Seb?’

‘He’ll be here soon. He’s out buying something for lunch.’

I sat down. Guri filled the kettle. I was so glad to see her, she looked so strong, her body seemed to radiate with health.

She pre-empted me: ‘I live here,’ she said.

‘Nice.’

She looked at my gym bag.

‘How are you doing?

‘Makin’ progress. And you?’

‘Started law.’

‘Wow. Cool.’

The water boiled and Guri scientifically infused the leaves. It was quiet as the tea brewed. I wondered what to do now.

‘Terrific plants,’ I said, pointing to the windowsill. ‘Brighten the place up.’

‘Those are Seb’s,’ she smiled. ‘His new hobby.’

She poured the tea, golden brown, sat opposite me. I was beginning to find my bearings.

‘How’s Sidsel?’

‘Think she’s training to be a secretary.’

The tea went down like a glowing peach.

‘Have you heard anythin’ from Nina?’

Guri put down her cup.

‘She’s come back home,’ she said in a soft voice, and the tea spilt over my hands, scalding me. ‘To Denmark. She’s at… at a rehab clinic.’

‘Where… where’d she been?’

‘Her father found her in Afghanistan. Through the embassy… he works at the embassy, you know.’

I had to put down my cup. My hands were burning.

‘So she did go there,’ I mumbled.

The door burst open and there was Seb with a big cod fish on his arm. He looked down at me and broke into a huge grin.

‘Been out jiggin’, have you?’ I essayed, but my voice seemed to get stuck, my vocal cords got entangled.

He offloaded the fish into the basin and sat astride a chair looking very happy and freshly-shaven.

‘Thought you’d fallen down a volcano! How was Iceland then?’

‘Alright. I might start studyin’ there. Geology. Gotta be the right place.’

‘Have you heard about Nina, by the way?’ He glanced at Guri. ‘Deep shit, but she’ll manage, Kim. She’ll be as right as rain. A couple of months off dope and her skin will be as smooth as a baby’s bottom.’

Seb was on form, hadn’t seen him like that since the day he left to go to sea. Hoped the passage would be better this time.

‘What happened to Goose?’ I asked.

Seb grinned and averted his gaze.

‘That was a dead end, that was, Kim. Well, you know, he thought the end of the world was nigh and he was countin’ and crossin’ the days off the calendar and so on. When there was one day left, he
was on his knees all night mumblin’ furiously. You got a mention too, by the way. And the old fella in the shop. Pretty gruellin’ night. And when morning came he crawled over to the window and took a tentative peep outside. Christ knows what he was expectin’ to see. Enormous hole maybe. But everythin’ was as you would expect it to be. And then he lost the plot. Went mad, packed his bag and scooted off. Haven’t seen ’im since.’

We chuckled and Guri poured more tea.

‘And then I appeared on the scene,’ she said. ‘Met Seb in town on New Year’s Eve.’

They gave each other a lingering kiss. It was time to make tracks. I pulled out the record and passed it to Seb. His face lit up.

‘
Hate To See You Go
!’ Wowee. Little Walter!’

‘Keep it,’ I said, standing by the door.

‘Thanks, Kim. Far out. Drop by one evenin’ and we’ll ride the grooves.’

Guri looked at me.

‘If you hear anythin’ from Nina… or write to her, say hello from me,’ I said.

‘Right.’

‘Say hello from me. Will you do that?’

‘Yes, Kim.’

I stumbled down to Gjestgiveriet wrapping a lukewarm compress round my thoughts. Don’t know what I felt, I was empty, inactive like the volcano I had pissed in. It was too much for me, in the end it was too much for me, the doorman dragged me outside, gave me the usual bollocks about long-haired chimps. Stortorget was a dark hole with scaffolding round it. The cold was turning my pores inside out. I took a taxi up to Gunnar’s in Sogn. He was mildly surprised and invited me into his digs, twelve square metres, lamp, sofabed and books.

‘Long time no see, comrade. How’s it goin’?’

‘That’s the thing, Gunnar. Reckon I could stay here for a while?’

He immediately called a general meeting in the kitchen and four others turned up, two blokes and two girls, one of them Merete, whom I had met before. Gunnar explained the situation and said it was fine if I kipped down in the hall, provided that I took my
turn washing up, put fifty oncers in the kitty and kept a beady eye open for the cleaner. Passed unanimously. The others drifted back to their rooms, Gunnar and Merete stayed. Gunnar grabbed a beer and poured, even though it was only Wednesday, and Merete showed me the washing-up roster. Already I felt at home. Mao was hanging over the kitchen table, I never understood why he hadn’t had that revolting wart removed.

‘What are you up to now?’ I asked.

‘Political science. And you?’

‘Goin’ to try to bag the prelim. Might start studyin’ in Reykjavik by the way. Geology.’

‘You can borrow my philosophy notes,’ Merete offered.

‘That’s very kind of you.’

Then we went to bed. Shortly afterwards five alarm clocks went off. I was a student.

And so the winter passed. I sat in Gunnar’s room reading while he was at university. Merete had weighed me down with folders and I sat taking notes from notes with an alert mind, counting lines and jotting down the time of the day in the margin. I made spaghetti and washed and scrubbed. Everything went well. The only thing I didn’t like was the view. Above Sognsveien, behind the allotments, across the green forest dotted with white I could see the spire of Gaustad and the tall chimney.

I drew the curtains.

One day news came from Trondheim. Ola had a son and they were going to call him Rikard. We thought that was very moving and had to nip down to the restaurant to crack open a bottle, even though it was the middle of the week. Usually we went to Samfunnet in Chateau Neuf on Saturdays and I could never enter the bunker without thinking about straps and blushing at the thought. I sat at the back, at the top, with a beer, and could feel the weight of the concert grand while the political speakers murdered each other on the rostrum. Afterwards we crunched home on the snow through the cold of the night via Tørtberg, Gunnar, Merete and I, Gunnar talked about the debate, reviling the anarchists, he talked all the way, past Blindern, we crossed Ringveien, he talked about his brother who lived in the agricultural collective in Gudbrandsdalen, they
refused to use a tractor, it polluted the potatoes, a sidetrack from the workers’ struggle, Gunnar said with contempt, he talked about the referendum in September, said that Bratteli had already dropped a clanger, Gunnar disappeared in a cloud of icy breath, talking about impatience, the revolution, Gunnar and Merete, I felt a little left out, a gooseberry, a spanner in the works.

On nights like this I usually borrowed Gunnar’s bed. And on Sundays I went to see my mother and father, if I had time and didn’t have to study, shovelled down a hamburger and was off. They had a colour TV and watched Ashton, talked only about
Ashton
, even my father was wondering how Ashton was getting on. I took my leave after watching two minutes of the lurid faces. They didn’t seem to notice that I had gone. I slammed the door. On occasion I walked down to Munchsgate, but then changed my mind, dithered for a while and slogged all the way back to Sogn, slowly.

Everything went fine. I read Merete’s notes and took more notes, got through the syllabus, put money in the kitty and hid from the housekeeper. The only thing I didn’t like was the view. The spire. The chimney.

Drew the curtains.

Winter thawed, Easter, the world melted. Something was up with Gunnar. He was beating round the bush. I was the bush. Him and Merete. They had meetings, people came, one by one, left later that evening, one by one. Gunnar didn’t ask if I wanted to take part, didn’t even breathe a word about it. But he was thinking about something, about giving me another chance. It came on the day before May 1.

‘Comin’ to the workers’ party tonight?’ he asked.

‘Party?’

‘We’re goin’ to do a bit of hammerin’ and paintin’ for tomorrow. And knock back a few beers. West Oslo.’

‘Don’t know if I’ll have time. Got to read a few chapters.’

It took him ten seconds to persuade me. And at seven o’clock we turned up at the house in Ekely equipped with wooden boards and paintbrushes. Work was already under way. The various sections had each occupied a room. Gunnar and Merete disappeared into the cellar, I was left standing in the third world. A girl gave me a hammer and I banged. Later there was stew and beer. I could feel
it inside, I was being sucked along by the mood, the optimism, the community, the devilry, the fight, the glow, the happiness, there was a sudden rush to my head, I felt it, I was being dragged along, I think my face was shining, for Gunnar and Merete were laughing at me. A guy was standing on a crate of beer and reading Brecht’s
Questions From A Worker Who Reads
, a girl strummed a chord and everyone sang ‘Move Aside, EEC, You’re Standing In The Sun’. The walls swelled, my heart was under a ridge of high pressure, the roof rose, the heat, the solidarity, I must have lost control, I clambered onto a table and the gathering fell hush.

‘Comrades!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve just been to Iceland and bring greetings from our comrades there. The people are fighting against the American base, brainwashing and suppression. The reactionary government has dropped its mask! They kowtow to the USA and have committed Iceland to worldwide American imperialism. They are making Iceland dependent on the USA, they’re forcing Icelandic workers to work for the Americans, but the fight has only just begun! And it is the same fight we are taking to the EEC! One day I went into the countryside and met a farmer called Gisle. He read to me from
Das Kapital
and asked me to pass on his greetings to the Norwegian nation. Our struggle is their struggle. Their struggle is our struggle!’

I almost fainted. Sweat was pouring off me, then the cheering broke out, I fell off the table and was met by pats and embraces, soft cheeks and clenched fists.

It was past midnight when the paste group had finished stirring five buckets of flour and water. The placards were covered in glue and rolled in newspapers, and the company was divided into nine pairs to cover West Oslo. I was entrusted with Skillebekk and district, a dangerous area, crawling with cop cars circling embassies, it needed someone with local knowledge. Gunnar sent me an appreciative nod, and together with a little red-haired number I set out into the May night with five bags of
No To Selling Norway
. We cycled past Hoff and up to Bygdøy Allé, parked our bikes by Thomas Heftyesgate and continued on foot.

‘Where shall we begin?’ asked Little Red Riding Hood.

I stopped outside Bonus.

‘Here,’ I said.

I unfurled the placards and plastered the windows. It was a terrible mess. I had paste all over me. But it looked impressive when I had finished. There was no room for advertising any offers. It would take years to scrape them off.

‘We can’t stick them all here,’ Red Riding Hood whispered.

‘Right,’ I said.

We worked our way down towards Skillebekk, from lamp post to lamp post, Red Riding Hood was calculating and systematic. We crossed Drammensveien, Red Riding Hood wanted to head for the Russian embassy, I managed to point her towards Svolder. There, I pasted every lamp post and gateway, my flesh tingled when I saw Dad’s Saab. Then we made our way back to the tramlines.

‘Important area,’ I whispered to Red Riding Hood. ‘A lot of floatin’ voters. I know that. Grew up here.’

‘The petite bourgeoisie are a stubborn lot,’ she said.

We had three bags left and pasted our way out of Drammensveien. Red Riding Hood had the knack. She could stick the placards without spilling a drop. I looked like a tube of Karlsen’s glue. But all went well. Up to the moment we saw the cop car gliding down Fredrik Stangsgate to bear left.

Red Riding Hood took command.

‘Let’s split up!’ she shouted and was gone, like a red wind.

I swivelled and ran, dragging the bags after me, hurtled up Gabelsgate, felt the sour breath of the law on my neck and panicked. My legs were like wheels beneath me. Sirens. The scream of tyres on a bend. I shot into a backyard, jumped over a fence and was in the country. The brown grass was wet. Pale green trees in the cool darkness. The storehouse on pillars. The stable. I heard brakes and reversing and car doors being slammed. I had no choice. I groped my way towards the air-raid shelter and crept down, not completely, halfway, sat on the steps. I heard voices. I listened for dogs and held my breath. Don’t know how long I had been sitting there. I heard nothing, just my own staccato pulse. The steps were cold and dark. I thought I could see eyes down there, at the bottom in the dark. I couldn’t stand up. I was sitting in a quagmire of glue and placards and newspapers. I thought I saw something move. I thought I heard the sound of a gate locking. I shouted. My voice zigzagged between
the musty walls as if there were a line of people screaming back at me. I shouted, I summoned all the powers, I shouted to the badger and Mao, to Jesus and Marx, to Lenin and Mum and Dad, I shouted in terror, sitting in the glue, but it was not a prayer, it was not a prayer.