When I came home from school on Friday afternoon, Dad had been in the flat. There was a message on the table.
Karl Ove,
I am at a seminar all this weekend. Coming home Sunday night. There are some fresh shrimp in the fridge and there’s a loaf in the bread basket. Enjoy yourself!
Dad
On top there was a five-hundred-krone note.
Oh, this was just perfect!
Shrimp was what I loved most. I ate them in front of the television that evening, afterward I went for a walk through town, playing my Walkman, first “Lust for Life” by Iggy Pop and then one of the later Roxy Music albums, something to do with the distance between the inside and the outside worlds arose then, something that I liked so much; when I saw all the drunken faces of people who had gathered by the bars it was as if they existed in a different dimension from mine, the same applied to the cars driving by, to the drivers getting in and out of their cars at the gas stations, to the shop assistants standing behind counters with their weary smiles and mechanical movements, and to men out walking their dogs.
The next morning I dropped by my grandparents, ate fresh rolls with them, then went to town, bought three records and a big bag of sweets, a few music magazines and a paperback, Jean Genet, Journal du Voleur. Had two beers while watching a televised English soccer match, one more while showering and changing, another while smoking the last cigarette before going out.
I had arranged to meet Bassen at the Østerveien intersection at seven o’clock. He stood there smiling as I lumbered up with the bag of beer in my hand. He had all his in a backpack, and the second I saw that I felt like smacking my forehead. Of course! That was the way to do it.
We walked along Kuholmsveien, past my grandparents’ place, up the hill and into the residential district around the stadium, where Siv’s house was.
After searching for a few minutes we found the right number and rang the doorbell. Siv opened and let out a loud squeal.
Even before I awoke I knew that something good had happened. It was like a hand stretching down to me where I lay at the bottom of consciousness, watching one image after another rushing past me. A hand I grabbed and let lift me slowly, I came closer and closer to myself until I thrust open my eyes.
Where was I?
Oh, yes, the downstairs living room in the flat. I was lying on the sofa, fully clothed.
I sat up, supported my throbbing head in my hands.
My shirt smelled of perfume.
A heavy, exotic fragrance.
I had been making out with Monica. We had danced, we had drifted to the side, stood under a staircase, I had kissed her. She had kissed me.
But that’s not what it was!
I got up and went into the kitchen, poured water into a glass and gulped it down.
No, it wasn’t that.
Something fantastic had happened, a light had been lit, but it wasn’t Monica. There was something else.
But what?
All the alcohol had created an imbalance in my body. But it knew what I needed to redress the balance. Hamburger, fries, hot dog. Lots of Coke. That’s what I needed. And I needed it now.
I went into the hall, glanced at myself in the mirror while running a hand through my hair. I didn’t look too bad, only slightly bloodshot eyes; I could definitely show my face like this.
I laced my boots, grabbed my jacket and put it on.
But what was it?
A button?
With Smile on it?
Yes, that was it!
That was the good thing!
“No,” I said. “Not at all. I like being alone. And I’m up in Tveit a lot of the time.”
I put on my jacket, still adorned with the Smile button, a scarf, and boots.
“Just have to go to the bathroom, and we’ll be off,” I said. Closed the bathroom door behind me. Heard her singing to herself in a low voice. The walls were thin in this house, perhaps she was trying to drown out what was going on here, perhaps she just wanted to sing.
I put the toilet lid up and tugged out the frankfurter.
All at once I realized it would be impossible to pee while she was outside. The walls were thin, the hall so small. She would even be able to hear that I hadn’t done anything.
Oh hell.
I squeezed as hard as I could.
Not a drop.
She was singing and walking back and forth.
What must she be thinking?
After thirty seconds I gave up, turned on the tap, and let the water run for a few moments, so that at least something had happened in here, then turned it off, opened the door and went out, to meet her embarrassed, downcast eyes.
“Let’s be off then,” I said.
The streets were dark, and the wind was blowing, as it did so often in Kristiansand in winter. We didn’t say much on the way. Talked a bit about school, the people who went there, Bassen, Molle, Siv, Tone, Anne. For some reason she started talking about her father, he was so fantastic. He wasn’t a Christian, she said. That surprised me. Had she become one on her own initiative? She said I would have liked her father. Would have? I wondered. Mm, I mumbled. He sounds nice. Laconic. What does laconic mean? she asked, her green eyes looking at me. Every time she did that I almost fell apart. I could smash all the windows around us, knock all the pedestrians to the ground and jump up and down on them until all signs of life were extinguished, so much energy did her eyes fill me with. I could also grab her around the waist and waltz down the street, throw flowers at everyone we met and sing at the top of my voice. Laconic? I said. It’s hard to describe. A bit dry and matter-of-fact, perhaps exaggeratedly matter-of-fact, I said. Sort of understated. But here it is, isn’t it?
A venue in Dronningens gate, it had said. Yes, this was it, the posters were on the door.
We went in.
The meeting room was on the first floor, chairs, a speaker’s platform at the top end, an overhead projector next to it. A handful of young people, maybe ten, maybe twelve.
Beneath the window there was a large thermos, beside it a small bowl of cookies and a tall stack of plastic cups.
“Would you like some coffee?” I asked.
She shook her head and smiled. “A cookie maybe?”
I poured myself some coffee, took a couple of cookies, and went back to her. We sat down in one of the rows at the very rear.
Five or six more people drifted in, and the meeting started. It was under the auspices of the AUF, the Young Socialists, a kind of recruitment drive. Anyway, the AUF policies were presented, and then there was some discussion of youth politics in general, why it was important to be committed, how much you could actually achieve, and as a little bonus, what you yourself could get out of it.
Had Hanne not been sitting beside me, one leg crossed over the other, so close that inside I was ablaze, I would have got up and left. Beforehand, I had imagined a more traditional arrangement, a packed hall, cigarette smoke, witty speakers, gales of laughter sweeping through the room, a kind of a tub-thumping Agnar Mykle — type event, with the same Mykle-like significance, young men and women who were keen and eager, who burned inside for socialism, this magical fifties word, but not this, boring boys in boring sweaters and hideous trousers talking to a small collection of boys and girls like themselves about boring and uninspiring things.