My Struggle: Book One (58 page)

“I can still feel it,” I said. “Think I'm still a bit drunk in fact.”

He glanced at me as he set off.

“Oh dear,” he said.

“Wasn't such a great idea,” I said.

He smiled thinly, changed down again, came to a halt behind the white line. A white-haired, elderly man, stick-thin with a large nose, crossed in front of us. The corners of his mouth drawn down. His lips dark red. He first looked up at the hills to my right, then to the row of shops across the
road before lowering his gaze to the ground, presumably to be sure where the coming curb was. All of this he did as though completely alone. As though he never took any account of other eyes. This was how Giotto painted people. They never seemed to be aware that they were being watched. Giotto was the only painter to depict the aura of vulnerability this gave them. It was probably something to do with the era because succeeding generations of Italian painters, the great generations, had always interwoven an awareness of watching eyes in their pictures. It made them less naïve, but they also revealed less.

On the other side of the street, a young, redhaired woman with a stroller bustled up. The pelican crossing lights changed from green at that moment, but she was watching the traffic lights, which were still on red, and she ventured across, dashing past us the very next second. Her child, about a year old, with chubby cheeks and a small mouth, sat upright in the stroller, looking around, slightly disorientated, as they rushed past.

Yngve released the clutch and carefully accelerated into the intersection.

“It's two minutes past,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “If we can find a place to park quickly, that's not too bad.”

As we came to the bridge, I looked up at the sky above the sea. It was overcast, so light in some places that the white had taken on a touch of blue, as though a semitransparent membrane had been stretched over it, in other places it was heavier and darker, gray patches, their outer edges drifting across the whiteness like smoke. Wherever the sun was, the cloud cover had a yellowish tinge, though not so strong that the light beneath was anything but muted and seemed to come from all directions. It was one of those days when nothing casts a shadow, when everything holds on tight.

“It's tonight you're going, isn't it?” I said.

Yngve nodded.

“Ah, there's one!” he said.

The very next moment he pulled up to the curb, switched off the engine, and yanked the hand brake. The undertaker's was on the other side of the
street. I would have preferred a slower transition, one in which I could have prepared myself for what was awaiting us, but there was nothing to be done, we just had to throw ourselves into it.

I got out, closed the door, and followed Yngve across the street. In the waiting room the woman behind the counter sent us a smile and said we could go straight in.

The door was open. The stout funeral director got up from behind his desk when he saw us, came over, and shook hands with a courteous but, in the circumstances, less than cordial a smile on his lips.

“So, here we are again,” he said, motioning to the two chairs with his hand. “Please take a seat.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I'm sure you've given the funeral some thought over the weekend,” he said, sitting down, reaching for a thin sheaf of papers on the desk in front of him and flicking through them.

“We have, yes,” Yngve said. “We've decided on a church burial.”

“I see,” said the funeral director. “Then I can give you the phone number of the priest's office. We'll deal with the practical side, but it would be good if you could have a word with him yourselves. As you know, he has to make a little speech about your father and it would be helpful if you could pass on some information.”

He looked up at us. The folds of skin around his neck hung, lizardlike, over his shirt collar. We nodded.

“There are many ways to do this,” he continued. “I have a list here of the various options. Such things as whether you would like music, for example, and if so in what form. Some people like to have live music, others prefer recorded music. But we do have a church singer whom we use a great deal and he can also play several instruments … Live music, of course, has a special atmosphere, a solemnity or dignity … I don't know, have you considered what you would like?”

My eyes met Yngve's.

“That might be good?” I offered.

“Yes,” Yngve replied.

“Shall we go for it then?”

“I think so.”

“So we're agreed then?” probed the funeral director.

We nodded.

He stretched across the desk to hand Yngve a sheet of paper.

“Here are a few options regarding the choice of music. But if you have any particular wishes not on the list it's not a problem, so long as we know a few days in advance.”

I leaned over and Yngve moved the sheet to allow me to see.

“Bach might be good,” Yngve suggested.

“Yes, he was very fond of Bach, wasn't he,” I said.

For the first time in close to twenty-four hours I started to cry again.

Damned if I'm going to use one of his Kleenex tissues, I thought, wiping my eyes on the crook of my arm, took a deep breath, and slowly released it. I noticed Yngve sending me a quick glance.

Was he embarrassed by my tears?

No, he couldn't be.

No.

“I'm fine,” I said. “Where were we?”

“Bach would be good,” Yngve said, looking at the funeral director. “The cello sonata, for example …”

He faced me.

“Do you agree?”

I nodded.

“So that's agreed then,” the funeral director said. “There are usually three musical items. And one or two hymns that everyone sings.”

“
Deilig er jorden
,” I said. “Can we have that one?”

“Naturally,” he said.

Ohhh. Ohhh. Ohhh
.

“Are you alright, Karl Ove?” Yngve asked.

I nodded.

We chose two songs that the church singer would perform, as well as a hymn everyone would sing, plus the cello piece and
Deilig er jorden
. We also agreed that no one would give a speech by the coffin, and with that the funeral was planned, for the other elements were part of the liturgy and fixed.

“Would you like flowers? Apart from the wreaths and so on? Many people think it lends atmosphere. I have a small selection here if you would like to see …”

He passed Yngve another sheet of paper. Yngve pointed to one option, glanced at me and I nodded.

“That's that then,” the funeral director said. “That leaves the coffin … We have a variety of pictures here …”

Another piece of paper crossed the desk.

“White,” I said. “Is that okay with you? That one.”

“Fine by me,” Yngve said.

The funeral director retrieved the sheet and made a note. Then he peered up at us.

“You requested a viewing today, didn't you?”

“Yes,” Yngve said. “Preferably this afternoon, if that's possible.”

“That's fine, of course. But … erm, you are aware of the circumstances he died in, aren't you? That his death was … alcohol-related?”

We nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Sometimes it's just as well to be prepared for what might await one in such situations.”

He shuffled his papers and tapped them on the table.

“I'm afraid I won't be able to receive you myself this afternoon, but my colleague will be there. At the chapel by Oddernes Church. Do you know where it is?”

“I think so,” I said.

“Four o'clock. Is that convenient?”

“Yes, that's fine.”

“So let's say that then. Four o'clock at the chapel by Oddernes Church.
And if there's anything else that occurs to you, or if you wish to change anything, just ring me. You have my number, don't you?”

“Yes, we do,” Yngve said.

“Fine. Oh, there is one more matter. Would you like a funeral announcement in the newspaper?”

“I suppose we would, wouldn't we?” I said, looking at Yngve.

“Yes,” he said. “We've got to do that.”

“But it might be best to spend a bit of time on it,” I said. “To decide what we should say and what names we should mention and all that …”

“No problem,” said the funeral director. “You can just drop by or give a call when you've given it some thought. But don't leave it too late. The newspaper usually needs a couple of days' notice.”

“I can call you tomorrow,” I said. “Is that alright?”

“Excellent,” he said, standing up with another sheet of paper in his hand. “Here's our telephone number and the priest's address. Which of you would like to hold on to it?”

“I will,” I said.

Standing outside on the pavement, Yngve produced a packet of cigarettes and offered me one. I nodded and took it. Actually the thought of smoking was repugnant, as it always was the day after drinking because the smoke, not so much the taste or smell as what it stood for, created a connection between the present day and the previous one, a kind of sensory bridge across which all kinds of things streamed so that everything around me, the grayish-black tarmac, the light gray curbstones, the gray sky, the birds flying beneath it, the black windows in the rows of houses, the red car we were standing beside, Yngve's distracted figure, were permeated by terrifying internal images; at the same time there was something in the sense of destruction and desolation that the smoke in my lungs gave me that I needed, or wanted.

“That went well,” I said.

“There are a few things we still have to sort out,” he said.

“Or rather you
will have to sort out. Like the funeral announcement, for example. But you can just call me while I'm heading back.”

“Mm,” I said.

“Did you notice the word he used, by the way?” Yngve commented. “Viewing?”

I smiled.

“Yes, but then there is something estate agent–like about this industry. Their job is to make things look as good as possible and pocket as much as they can. Did you see how much the coffins cost?”

Yngve nodded.

“Hm, and you can't exactly be a tightwad when you're sitting there,” he said.

“It's a bit like buying wine in a restaurant,” I said. “If you're not a connoisseur, I mean. If you've got a lot of money you take the second-most expensive. If you haven't, you take the second-cheapest. Never the most expensive, nor the cheapest. That's probably the way it is with coffins as well.”

“By the way, you expressed a very firm opinion there,” Yngve said. “The coffin having to be white, I mean.”

I shrugged and threw the glowing cigarette onto the road.

“Purity,” I said. “I suppose that was what I must have been thinking.” Yngve dropped his cigarette on the ground, stepped on it, opened the car door, and got in. I followed.

“I'm dreading seeing him,” Yngve said. He buckled the seat belt with one hand while putting the key in the ignition and twisting with the other. “Are you?”

“Yes. But I have to do it. Unless I do I will never comprehend that he's really dead.”

“Same here,” Yngve said, checking the mirror. Then he signaled and drove off.

“Shall we go home now?” he asked.

“The machines,” I said. “The carpet cleaner and the lawn mower. Would be great if we could get them before you leave.”

“Do you know where the shop is?”

“No, that's just it,” I said. “Gunnar said there was a place to rent them in Grim, but I don't know the precise address.”

“Okay,” Yngve said. “We'll have to find a telephone directory. Do you know if there's a phone booth nearby?”

I shook my head.

“But there's a gas station at the end of Elvegata, we can try there.”

“That's a good idea,” Yngve said. “I have to fill up before I go tonight anyway.”

A minute later we pulled up under the roof of a gas station. Yngve parked beside the pump and while he filled I went into the shop. There was a pay-phone on the wall and below it three boxed directories. After finding the address of the rental firm and memorizing it I went to the till to buy some tobacco. The man ahead of me in the queue turned around as I went up.

“Karl
Ove
?” he said. “Is it you?”

I recognized him. We had been at gymnas together. But I couldn't remember his name.

“Hello, it's been a long time,” I said. “How's it going?”

“Great!” he said. “How are you?”