“We’re at a party nearby. Then I saw you up here and thought I would wish you a happy New Year. Happy New Year!’
“Happy New Year!” she said. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Certainly am!” I said. “And you?”
“Yes, having a great time.”
There was a brief silence.
“You’re throwing a party, aren’t you?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Anywhere near?”
“Yes, I live over there.”
She pointed up the hill.
“In that house?” I said, nodding in the same direction.
“No, behind it. You can’t see it from the road.”
“I couldn’t tag along, could I?” I said. “Then we could chat a bit more. That would be nice.”
She shook her head and wrinkled her nose.
“Don’t think so,” she said. “It isn’t a class party, you see.”
“I know,” I said. “But just for a little chat? Nothing more. I’m at a party quite close by.”
“Go there then!” she said. “We can see each other at school in the New Year!”
She had completely out-maneuvered me. There was nothing else to say.
“Nice to see you,” I said. “I’ve always liked you.”
Then I about-faced and walked back. It had been hard to articulate the stuff about always liking her, because it was not true, but at least it would deflect her attention from the fact that I had tried to cadge an invitation to her party. Now she would think I asked because I was coming on to her. And I was coming on to her because I was drunk. Who doesn’t do that on New Year’s Eve?
Bitch. Fucking bitch.
Jan Vidar looked up at me when I got back.
“There won’t be any party,” I said. “We’re not invited.”
“Why not? Thought you said you knew them.”
“Invited guests only. And we’re not. Assholes.”
Jan Vidar snorted.
“We’ll just go back. It was great there, wasn’t it.”
I sent him a vacant stare and yawned, to let him know how great it was. But we had no choice. We couldn’t call his father before two o’clock. We couldn’t very well call at ten minutes past twelve on New Year’s Eve. So once again it was the crowd of pimply schoolkids dressed in everyday clothes that I walked ahead of through the residential district of Søm on that windblown New Year’s Eve of 1984/1985.
At twenty past two Jan Vidar’s father pulled up outside the house. We were ready and waiting. I, who was less drunk, sat in the front while Jan Vidar, who only one hour earlier had been jumping around with a lampshade on his head, sat in the back, as we had planned. Fortunately, after he had thrown up and after drinking a few glasses of water and washing his face thoroughly under the tap, he was in a state to phone his father and tell him where we were. Not very convincingly. I stood beside him and heard him almost spewing up the first part of the word, then swallowing the last, but he did manage to spit out the address, and I don’t suppose our parents imagined we were nowhere near alcohol on occasions such as these.
“Happy New Year, boys!” his father said as we got in. “Have you had a good time?”
“Yes,” I said. “Lots of people out and about at twelve. Quite a scene. How was it in Tveit?”
“Fine,” he said, stretching his arm along the back of my seat and craning his neck to reverse. “Whose house was it, actually?”
“Someone Øyvind knows. The one who plays drums in the band.”
“Oh yes,” the father said, changing gear and driving back the way he had just come. The snow in some of the gardens was stained with fireworks. A few couples were walking along the road. The occasional taxi passed. Otherwise all was quiet and peaceful. There was something I had always liked about gliding through the darkness with the dashboard illuminated beside a man who was confident and calm in his movements. Jan Vidar’s father was a good man. He was friendly and interested, but also left us in peace when Jan Vidar indicated we had had enough. He took us on fishing trips, he repaired things for us — once when my bike had been punctured on the way there he had fixed the tire for me, without a word, it was all ready when I had to leave — and when they went on family holidays they invited me. He asked after my parents, as did Jan Vidar’s mother, and whenever he drove me home, which was not so seldom, he always had a chat with Mom or Dad, if they were around, and he invited them over to his place. It wasn’t his fault that they never went. But he also had a temper, I knew that, even though I had never seen any evidence of it, and hatred was also among the many feelings Jan Vidar had for him.
“So it’s 1985,” I said as we joined the E18 by Varodd Bridge.
“Indeed,” Jan Vidar’s father said. “Or what do you say in the back?”
Jan Vidar didn’t say anything. And he hadn’t when his father got there either. He had just stared straight ahead and got in. I twisted around in my seat and looked at him. He was sitting with his head transfixed and his eyes focused on a point in the neck rest.
“Lost your tongue?” his father asked, smiling at me.
Still total silence from the rear.
“Your parents,” his father went on. “Did they stay at home tonight?”
I nodded.
“My grandparents and my uncle came over. Lutefisk and aquavit.”
“Glad you weren’t there?”
“Yes.”
Onto the Kjevik road, past Hamresanden, along Ryensletta. Dark, peaceful, nice and warm. I could sit like this for the rest of my life, I thought. Past their house, into the bends up by Kragebo, down to the bridge on the other side, up the hill. It hadn’t been cleared and was covered with five centimeters of fresh snow. Jan Vidar’s father drove more slowly over the last stretch. Past the house where Susann and Elise lived, the two sisters who had moved here from Canada, and no one could quite figure out, past the bend where William lived, down the hill, and up the last bit.
“I’ll drop you here,” he said. “Then we won’t wake them if they’re asleep. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “And thank you very much for the ride. See you, Jayvee!”
Jan Vidar blinked, then opened his eyes wide.
“See you, yes,” he said.
“Are you going to sit in the front?” Jan Vidar’s father asked.
“I don’t,” Jan Vidar said. I closed the door, raised my hand to wave goodbye and heard the car reversing behind me as I walked up the road to the house. “Jayvee”! Why had I said that? The nickname that signaled a friendship I didn’t need to signal; I had never used it before since, in fact, we were friends.
The windows in the house were unlit. So they must have gone to bed. I was glad, not because I had anything to hide, but because I wanted to be left in peace. After hanging up my outdoor clothes in the hall I went into the living room. All traces of the party had been removed. In the kitchen the dishwasher was humming softly. I sat down on the sofa and peeled an orange. Although the fire had gone out you could still feel the heat from the wood burner. Mom was right, it was good living here. On the wicker chair the cat lazily raised its head. Meeting my gaze, it got up, padded across the floor and jumped onto my lap. I got rid of the orange peel, which the cat hated.
“You can lie here for a bit,” I said, stroking it. “You can. But not all night, you know. I’m going to bed soon.”
It began to purr as it curled up on me. Its head sank slowly, resting on one paw, and its eyes, which first had closed with pleasure, were closed in sleep within seconds.
“It’s alright for some,” I said.
The next morning I awoke to the radio in the kitchen, but stayed where I was, there was nothing to get up for anyway today, and I soon fell sleep again. The next time I awoke it was half past eleven. I got dressed and went downstairs. Mom was sitting at the kitchen table reading and looked up as I came in.