‘You haven’t got a drink, by any chance?’ he asked feebly.
The asking had cost him dear, he was now staring at the ground, but his need was too great, he had to bite the bullet and beg.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a drink. I’ve got a bottle of vodka. And, you know, it could be for you.’
I took hold of his arm and hauled him up. He was as unmanageable as a sack of potatoes. At that moment I caught his smell, a mixture of mildew and drunkenness. He hung heavily on my arm, and I was scared he’d fall on the path and lie there floundering. But he managed. Walking like a wounded soldier, heading for vodka and salvation. I was used to doing this, of course, walking and supporting someone on my arm, like the patients at Løkka, the few who were able to get about.
‘A drink,’ I reiterated. ‘To put you back together again.’
He replied with a few snuffling noises. Keeping on the move was occupying all his efforts, but he was driven on by the thought of relief. As we walked, I tried to come to terms with what I was doing, and what my plan was, why I’d followed this sudden impulse to take him home with me. And treat him to my vodka. It must have had something to do with an intractable loneliness. I tried to recall the last time someone had sat on my sofa, but I couldn’t think of anyone, apart from a vacuum-cleaner salesman long ago, and he was only interested in demonstrating his fantastic machine. Which, by the way, I didn’t buy because it was far too expensive. Apart from him, a few Poles had come to the door with drawings, which they tried to sell, to help pay for their education here in Norway. But I never bought any of the drawings, either. To be honest, I was never very impressed with them, and I thought I could have done better myself, had I taken the trouble to sit down with a pencil and paper. There’d just never been the opportunity, but I suspected I might have a hidden talent in that department. I hauled and steered and supported Arnfinn along the paved path past Woman Weeping and the Dixie Café. We met no one on our shuffling progress, nor did we speak. We walked, ponderous and unsteady, a sorry sight in the gloaming, and it was as if both of us understood our goaclass="underline" a drink and a bit of pleasant company.
Several times he almost fell.
Once, he lurched out into the road, and then almost slipped into the ditch, while I gripped his arm and tried to steer him in the right direction. The journey from the park to Jordahl, which usually takes half an hour, took us forty-five minutes. When at last he realised we’d arrived, he seemed unspeakably relieved, he clumped up the steps, all five of them, leaning heavily on the handrail. He stood clinging to it as I unlocked the door, then staggered into the hall, and on into my small, spartan living room. It felt odd bringing someone home with me. A stranger within my private domain, breathing my air, gazing at my things, my furniture, and experiencing my taste for meticulous order. For no one came to my house, and that was entirely my own fault. Now the habit was about to be broken, I had a guest. An alcoholic from the park by Lake Mester, but he was better than nothing.
‘You mentioned something about a drink,’ said Arnfinn.
He coughed, putting a hand up to his mouth. He had taken a seat on the sofa, pressed himself into the corner, his large hands lying motionless in his lap.
‘Yes.’ I said. ‘You’ll get your drink. But I’m not having any. I think it’s a dreadful habit and I don’t drink.’
He laughed a little uncertainly at this. He tried to curb his violent trembling and peered about him as if searching for the bottle I’d been tempting him with. Perhaps they’re communing, I thought, on some special frequency. Perhaps the bottle is transmitting an almost imperceptible signal from the cupboard, and it’s striking Arnfinn’s aura.
‘We could play “You’re getting hot”,’ I suggested, and smiled agreeably.
All of a sudden he looked shamefaced and stared down at his hands. His nails had dark edges, and there wasn’t much doubt that those hands had done their fair share of hard work.
‘Not playing,’ he mumbled reluctantly.
He sat there with his windcheater on, refusing to take it off.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I was just joking. You’re not a child. You’re unemployed, aren’t you? Are you on Social Security? I’m not trying to be rude, I’m simply interested. Are you on the dole, Arnfinn? You needn’t be afraid of divulging things to me, I’m a member of one of the caring professions. I’m used to all that. I mean, people needing help.’
He shrugged his shoulders and turned away slightly, trying to get comfortable in the corner of the sofa. His gaze had begun to wander, as if he regretted coming and wanted to go again. Perhaps now he couldn’t quite grasp how he’d ended up in my living room. He felt his pocket again, but remembered that the hip flask was empty.
‘Is there something you want?’ he asked.
I sat looking at him for a long time before I replied.
‘Company,’ I said simply. ‘Not many people come to this house. But I’ve always got a bottle in the cupboard,’ I added, ‘just in case. A case like yours. And it’s nice to have something to offer. Of course you’ll get a drink. I’m feeling generous. I don’t often feel that way, but you’ve caught me on a good day.’
He managed a brave smile. His cheeks flushed with pleasure. Then I rose and went to the cupboard, fetched the bottle and glass. He heard the chink, and immediately it brought him to life; light shone at last in his sombre gaze. I held the bottle out to him and pointed to the label.
‘Perhaps this isn’t the sort you’re used to?’
I set it on the table in front of him.
He nodded eagerly and assured me that the brand was absolutely excellent, then he leant forward. His hands began creeping in the direction of the bottle, like a brace of starving animals. But he pulled himself together and straightened his back as if, from somewhere deep in his mind, where his reason lay, he realised I was playing a game, and that he would have to play along whether he wanted to or not. If he wanted his reward, the assuaging liquor. He smiled, showing yellow, somewhat worn teeth, clasped his hands in his lap and waited. So, I poured out some vodka for him, and he drank. He held the glass in both hands like a small child. The effect was like pouring oil into a machine that has ground to a halt. Immediately his head came up, and his eyes sparkled with new lustre, his hand became steady, it was a miracle.
I let him sit in peace for a while and drink. I watched him as he raised the glass and put it to his lips.
‘What’s the situation?’ I asked, when I saw that he’d achieved a bit of equilibrium, and the warmth of the spirit had spread through his body. ‘Is there someone waiting for you at home? Have you got a family?’
He made no reply to this, but drank more vodka. He was only focused on the glass. He’d already forgotten that I was sitting there, or so it seemed; only the intoxication was important now. At all costs he had to arrive at a state of oblivion, and he wasn’t the slightest bit concerned that there would be a witness to his shame.
‘I’ve never married,’ I explained. ‘I can’t seem to manage it. Everyone else can, but I only end up knocking about here on my own. I’ve been on my own for years, it’s extraordinary, isn’t it? I mean, how can it be that difficult?’
He remembered I was there. He sat studying me with glistening eyes. All the while clasping his glass in both hands, like a predator guarding its prey.
‘You can’t go to expensive shops if you haven’t got money,’ he declared.