Beatles (65 page)

It was early morning when I reached Sogn. Gunnar and Merete were sitting up waiting for me, they had set the table for a big breakfast in the hall. They were ecstatic, thought I had been chucked into the clink and was being given the third degree. Then they started laughing. And when I saw myself in the mirror I understood why. I was a mobile advertising pillar. The others were woken by the laughter and the history student said I looked like a cubist collage-sculpture and wanted to enter me for the Autumn Exhibition. I took off my rags and put on the only clean clothes I had left. Then I packed my gym bag and carried my books under my arm.

‘I’m off,’ I said.

‘Aren’t you stayin’ for breakfast?’

‘Don’t think so.’

The table was covered with red flags and the Norwegian flag.

‘Great speech you gave about Iceland,’ said Merete.

Gunnar came over to me.

‘See you soon,’ he said. ‘Good luck with the exam!’

Then he shook my hand.

‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ I said.

He gave me a strange look. Then he understood. Our hands were glued together. We pulled and pulled, we tugged from all angles, but it didn’t help.

‘Good glue they make in West Oslo,’ Gunnar grinned, and we had to put our hands under the tap.

Then I left Sogn’s student village. It was spring and a gentle fragrance of perfume wafted through the air. Large red flags hung from windows and there was music everywhere.

It was all change at Seb’s again. It took him three quarters of an hour to crawl from mattress to door, and there he stood, swaying, two metres of stained underpants and pigeon breast. I was relieved.

‘Right bloody time to come visitin’!’

We stepped inside and Seb wrenched the window open. There weren’t any green plants on the sill any longer. Pyjamas were hanging out to dry.

‘Where’s Guri?’

He dropped onto the mattress and lit up.

‘She’s gone and left me,’ Seb said in English with a sigh.

‘Looked pretty lovey-dovey last time I was here.’

‘Exactly, hawkeye. Remember the botanical garden I had on the windowsill, do you? Well, Guri thought it was hyacinths and bulbs and stuff, but then one day she found out it was hardy cannabis from the high plains. Got ’em off a guy in the park at Christmas. She took the whole crop with her and slung her hook.’

‘You were growin’ hash on your windowsill?’

‘Course. Had the oil-fired central heating on full blast and was just waitin’ for the spring sun. South-facin’ window. Greenhouse conditions, Kim.’

‘You’re out of your mind.’

‘Bloody hell, Kim. People brew their own moonshine, don’t they?’

He put on some water for coffee, gave me his smoke and burrowed down into a pile of clothing.

‘Have you moved out of Sogn or what?’ I heard.

‘Yep. Too much naggin’. Thought I might stay here and study for my exams.’

He reappeared with frayed denim jeans and a faded sweater.

‘Don’t think much of this exam trip of yours, Kim. Your eyes are like two slits! But stay here. As long as you like.’

We drank instant coffee. It tasted of fungus.

‘Have you got anythin’ to drink?’ I asked.

‘Good idea, professor. Let’s go and see Grandma. She’s got a cellar full of booze from Grandpa.’

She lived by Sankthanshaugen and was eating breakfast when we arrived. There was a smell of toast and marmalade. She gave us both a hug and wanted to open a can of Norway-famous snurring when she saw how thin he had become, but Seb went straight to the heart of the matter.

‘Could we borrow a few bottles of juice from you, Grandma? It’s May 1 and the shops are closed.’

She sent him a sceptical look, winked with one wrinkled eyelid and fetched the cellar key.

‘Don’t take much of the blackcurrant juice, boys, because there’s only a little left.’

It was dog eat dog. We trundled down and opened her storeroom. The long wall was covered in bottles, each in their own slot.

‘Grandpa was a collector, and Grandma drinks ’em,’ Seb grinned. ‘Fair deal. She won’t be able to knock all this back before she dies.’

We took ten bottles of white wine and an excellent cognac with us. Grandma gave us a few general warnings when we returned the key, but she could rely on us, we wouldn’t spill a drop. And then we made our way back, past the Cathedral School and Vår Frelsers cemetery, and people were in the streets. The janissary bands could be heard round the corner and we speeded up. At the Experimental School it was all go, banners hanging from the windows and carnival atmosphere. We pressed down a cork and treated the midgets and the religion teacher to a sip. Then we padded home and put the provisions in the freezer.

We started on the cognac to ensure a solid base.

‘You goin’ to the procession?’ I asked.

‘Nope. Been thrown out before. I’m goin’ to Hjelmsgate.’

‘D’you know how Nina is?’ I asked quickly.

‘Think she’s gettin’ better. But she was well gone. Worse than me.’

‘She made it to Afghanistan,’ I said softly.

‘She did.’

We opened a bottle of chilled white and the town beneath us was in ferment.

‘Dad’s back home,’ Seb said. ‘He’s stayin’ with my mum.’

We shut up for a while, mulling things over.

‘Heard anythin’ from Ola?’ I asked.

Seb grinned and lay down flat.

‘Rikard’s growin’. Was born three weeks late, you know. Had a fringe and front teeth when he finally arrived!’

We smiled at that for a while and dived into the wine.

‘Have to visit him,’ I said. ‘Hell, let’s go to Trondheim. After the exams!’

‘Terrific idea! We’ll surprise the Jensen family with a lightnin’ raid from the urban guerrillas!’

We drank to it and opened another bottle.

‘What the hell are you learnin’ at that dated university, eh?’

‘That we’ve got to the oral phase. Talkin’ and drinkin’.’

All of a sudden I was utterly exhausted. Seb faded in the mists and my brain ceased to exist. He bent forward and shook me.

‘Comrade Kim! We’re hittin’ the town!’

‘Don’t think I can be bothered,’ I mumbled.

And that was the last thing I can remember before he returned and it was a new day.

He dragged me out of my slumbers.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve been asleep since I last saw you!’

I didn’t know where I was, I was everywhere, in all the rooms I knew of, and people were sitting in each of them trying to wake me. At last I caught sight of Seb.

‘Somethin’ happened?’ I mumbled.

‘The whole town was out, Kim! Standing room only! We set up darts games in the university square. With Stalin as the target! There was a real buzz in the atmosphere.’

He stretched out on the mattress as I was getting to my feet.

‘Met Stig by the way. We’re invited to the farm. When are we goin’?’

‘After the exams.’

‘You’re completely hooked on that dope, aren’t you!’

Then it was Seb’s turn to sleep, and I sat down to do some studying. It was a good arrangement. We were never in the same rhythm. When I was asleep Seb was busy somewhere in and around Oslo. When he was asleep, I was sitting over my books and one morning in the middle of May it was finally exam time. My nerves were as calm as Mum’s balls of wool and my brain was on full alert. Seb walked in the door with nine bottles of wine he had picked up at his grandmother’s, wished me luck and passed out on the mattress. I wandered through the weightless rain to Blindern, found the gym hall and took my seat by the wall bars. Around me sat groups of fringes with knotted brows. I was Buddha. I was the wind and the sea. I laid newly sharpened pencils, rubbers and biros in front of me. I knew everything by heart, had it all at my fingertips, apart from one, the crooked finger, the ugly one, that was my only gap.
Then a door slammed, an ill wind ran through the room, and the superannuated teachers distributed the exam questions. But before I managed to read them, another old man came up demanding to see my student card. He took it. I read on. It looked easy. It looked ridiculously easy. No pencil necessary here. I grabbed my biro and felt a hand on my shoulder.

‘Your name’s not on the list,’ the man whispered in my ear.

‘Which list?’

‘The exam list. Did you register?’

‘Register?’

I had to accompany him to the invigilator at the desk. There the matter was quickly and ruthlessly clarified. I had not registered for the exam. They regretted to inform me. Kim Karlsen was obliged to capitulate after four minutes. Everyone stared at me. I couldn’t be bothered to collect my pencils. I went to Frederikke and bought myself a beer. It was the finger’s fault. I hated the finger, banged it on the table, felt like stamping on it, chewing it to bits, tearing it off. Three girls in the corner were watching me. I scurried out, ran down to Munchsgate and woke up Seb.

‘How did it go?’ he gurgled.

‘Got chucked out. Had forgotten to register.’

He stumbled to his feet with a grin splitting his face.

‘Nice one, Kim. Nice one. The best thing that could’ve happened. This has to be celebrated!’ He pulled the white wine out of the fridge and filled half-litre glasses.

‘Afterwards we’ll go to the harbour and buy shrimps and lie under the trees in Akershus. Does that sound good or what, Kim?’

‘And tomorrow we’ll go and see Ola!’

‘Exactly.’

But we didn’t leave the day after, we didn’t get our fingers out until mid-June, but then one warm morning we were standing on the Trondheim road with our thumbs aloft and our heads pretty fuzzy. Gunnar couldn’t join us, he was on an agitprop tour in Sørlandet. To compensate, he had furnished us with a pillowcase full of leaflets and folders.

‘Weird,’ I said to Seb. ‘Recently, time, the last six months, just seem to have flown by. Haven’t had time to put two thoughts together.’

‘That’s what it was like in Amsterdam when I was goin’ through the mill. Another time. You blinked with your right eye and a week had gone.’

‘Makes me bloody nervous! It’s like you’re losin’ control.’

‘Cool down now, Kim. We’re on holiday.’

Cars tore past us to the Sinsen intersection. The town lay wreathed in mist. The fjord was like a blue floor. Nesoddlandet was a green slope leading to the sky.

‘Sure we shouldn’t ring and say we’re on our way?’ I said.

‘Take it easy! There’d just be organisin’ and panic. The boy has a
family
! Don’t forget that.’

A throaty car skidded onto the pavement in front of us and a door flew open.

‘Hop in, lads! I’m on my way to work.’

We scrambled onto the back seat and the man had left the outskirts of Oslo before we closed the door.

‘Going to Trondheim, are you? Guessed as much. With you standing in Trondheimsveien. Ha ha. Met a bloke thumbing in
Stavangergata
, in the city centre, once. You’re lost, I said. Way off course.’

We laughed politely and he watched us in the mirror.

‘Did you get it?’ he asked.

We laughed even louder and the Brylcreemed fatty performed a wild overtaking manoeuvre, slinging the car between a bus and a trailer with a second to spare.

‘Usually comes off,’ he grinned, and Seb took out a big roll-up and we lit up.

‘Don’t know that tobacco, lads. New brand?’

‘Pakistani menthol,’ Seb said.

‘That’s what I keep saying. These foreign workers are sneaking in everywhere. What’s wrong with Teddy, lads? Tell me that! Can’t walk through town without bumping into a horde of bush men. I’ll tell you something, boys. I was in Lillesand last week and met an Arab who spoke with a perfect Sørland accent! What d’you think about that then? Can I have a try by the way?’

He leaned back and snatched the joint out of the air, sucked, inhaled and spluttered over the steering wheel. The car swerved into the left lane, he yelled and swung it back with a scream.

‘Tastes terrible,’ he coughed. ‘Menthol did you say? There you go! They call it menthol and it’s absolute shite. Donkey shit. I know all about that. And when we’re in the EEC, the dagoes will invade the country with their rubbish. What do you think the Espagnolos and the Eyeties know about soap and perfume and make-up? Nothing, boys. But they sell their crap cheap and ruin everything for us, the honest guys. It’ll be a disaster. All Norway will stink of sweat. Agreed?’

‘You a rep?’ I asked.

‘Hole in one. I make women more beautiful. Pedersen’s
Pretty-bags
. That’s me. Perfume, polish and powder. Plus, plus. That’s me. Got any more of those cigarettes by the way? Run out of baccy.’

Seb gave him a spliff, he puffed away, rolled down the window and whistled as he barrelled along at 120. Mjøsa lay to the left. The clock on the dashboard was going as fast as the speedometer. We approached the mountains. He rolled up the window. I looked at his face. It had turned black since we left Oslo. He groped around in the glove compartment for an electric shaver and it buzzed across his face.

‘My heat-seeking missile,’ he smirked. ‘That’s another thing women like. Especially the single ones. You get my meaning?’

Seb had fallen asleep. Pedersen’s eyes were popping out of his head. The road was his. He just hooted and cruised past if anyone was in his way. By a hair’s breadth. The hours and kilometres behind us mounted up. I watched Pedersen’s beard grow, I
saw
it, the black stubble sprouted out of his face and the machine droned across it as we zigzagged through Norway and hit Trondheim right in the navel coming to an abrupt halt. Seb awoke with a gasp.

‘Here we are, lads.’

We were in the middle of a bridge. Nidaros Cathedral cast its shadow over us.

We thanked him for the lift and opened the door. He stopped me with a smooth hand.

‘No one can say that Pedersen is tight-fisted,’ he slurred.

And then he produced two packets from the box on the front seat and gave them to us.

‘
Pedersen’s Pretty-bags
,’ he said. ‘There you are. You both look absolutely dreadful.’

We stood on the bridge over the river watching him drive away
in the dusk. There was a smell of scorched Brylcreem. At the first crossroads there was a collision. The cop car came from the right and Pedersen accelerated. The uniforms surrounded the car and dragged out a ranting Pedersen.