I didn’t give this a moment’s thought, however, which the diary I was keeping at the time made absolutely clear, the only thing I attached any importance to was a feeling of happiness.
Now I had burned all the diaries and notes I’d written, there was barely a trace left of the person I was until I turned twenty-five, perhaps for the better; no good ever came of that phase.
The air had become cooler now, and being so hot from work, I was aware of it enveloping me, pressing against my skin, and wafting into my mouth. Of it enveloping the trees in front of me, the houses, the cars, the mountain sides. Of it streaming somewhere as the temperature fell, these constant avalanches in the sky which we could not see, drifting in over us like enormous breakers, always in flux, descending slowly, swirling fast, in and out of all these lungs, meeting all these walls and edges, always invisible, always present.
But Dad was no longer breathing. That was what had happened to him, the connection with the air had been broken, now it pushed against him like any other object, a log, a gasoline can, a sofa. He no longer poached air, because that is what you do when you breathe, you trespass, again and again you trespass on the world.
He was lying somewhere in town now.
I turned and went in, someone opened a window on the other side of the street, and music and loud voices poured out.
Although the second bathroom was smaller, and not quite as filthy, it took me just as long to clean it. When I had finished I took the detergents, cloths, gloves, and the bucket and went up to the second floor. Yngve and Grandma were sitting by the kitchen table. The wall clock showed half past nine.
“You must have finished washing by now!” Grandma said.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve finished for the evening.”
I glanced at Yngve.
“Did you talk to Mom today?”
He shook his head.
“I did yesterday.”
“I promised to call today. But I don’t think I have the energy. Perhaps it’s a bit late too.”
“Do it tomorrow,” Yngve said.
“I do have to talk to Tonje, though. I’ll do it now.”
I went into the dining room and closed the kitchen door behind me. Sat in the chair for a moment to collect myself. Then I dialed our home number. She answered at once, as though she had been sitting by the phone, waiting. I knew all the cadences of her voice, and they were what I was listening to now, not to what she was saying. First the warmth and the sympathy and the longing, then her voice seemed to contract into something small, as if it wanted to snuggle up to me. My own was filled with distance. She came closer to me, and I needed that, but I didn’t go closer to her, I could not. Briefly I described what had been happening down here, without going into any detail, just said it was awful, and that I was crying all the time. Then we talked a little about what she had been doing, although at first she was reluctant, and then we discussed when she should travel down. After hanging up I went to the kitchen, which was empty, and drank a glass of water. Grandma was back in the TV chair. I went over to her:
“Do you know where Yngve is?”
“No,” she said. “Isn’t he in the kitchen?”
“No,” I said.
The stench of urine tore at my nostrils.
I stood there not knowing what to do. The evacuation was easy to explain. He had been so drunk he had lost control of his bodily functions.
But where had she been? What had she been doing?
I felt like going over to the television and kicking in the screen.
“You and Yngve don’t drink, do you?” she said out of the blue, without looking at me.
I shook my head.
“No, that is, it does happen on the odd occasion, but just a drop. Never much more.”
“Not tonight then?”
“No, are you out of your mind!” I said. “No, that would be unthinkable. For Yngve as well.”
“What would be unthinkable for me?” Yngve said from behind me. I turned. He walked up the two steps that separated the lower living room from the upper.
“Grandma’s asking if we drink.”
“I suppose, it does happen now and then,” Yngve said. “But not often. I’ve got two small children now, you know.”
“Have you got two?” Grandma exclaimed.
Yngve smiled. I smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “Ylva and Torje. You’ve met Ylva, haven’t you. You’ll meet Torje at the funeral.”
The flicker of life that had risen in Grandma’s face died. I met Yngve’s eyes.
“It’s been a long day,” I said. “Time to hit the hay?”
“I’m going outside first,” he said. “Want to join me on the veranda?” I nodded. He went into the kitchen.
“Do you usually stay up late?” I asked.
“What?”
“We were thinking of going to bed soon,” I said. “Are you going to stay up?”
“No. Oh no. I’ll go too,” Grandma said.
She looked up at me.
“Are you boys sleeping downstairs, in our old bedroom? It’s free.”
I shook my head and arched my eyebrows in apology.
“We were thinking of sleeping upstairs,” I said. “In the loft. We’ve already unpacked our things there.”
“Well, that’s fine too,” she said.
“Are you coming?” Yngve said, standing in the lower living room with a glass of beer in one hand.
When I went out to the veranda Yngve was sitting on a wooden seat by a matching table.
“Where did you find it?” I said.
“Hidden under here,” he said. “I seemed to remember seeing it at some point.”
I leaned against the railing. The ferry to Denmark was glittering in the distance. It was on its way across. The few small boats I could see all had lanterns lit.
“We’ll have to get hold of one of those electric scythes or whatever they’re called,” I said. “A standard lawn mower won’t be any good here.”
“We’ll find a rental firm in the Yellow Pages on Monday,” he said. Looking at me.
“Did you talk to Tonje?”
I nodded.
“Well, there won’t be many of us,” Yngve said. “Us, Gunnar, Erling, Alf, and Grandma. Sixteen including the children.”
“Nope, it won’t exactly be a state funeral.”
Yngve put his glass down and leaned back in his chair. High above the trees, a bat careered around the gray, shadowy sky.
“Have you thought any more about how we should do it?” he asked.
“The funeral?”
“Yes.”
“No, not really. But I certainly don’t want any damned humanist funeral.”
“Agreed. Church then.”
“Yes, there aren’t any alternatives, are there? But he wasn’t a member of the Church of Norway.”
“Wasn’t he?” Yngve said. “I knew he wasn’t a Christian, but not that he had left the church.”
“Yes, he said so once. I left the church on my sixteenth birthday and then I told him at some dinner he was giving on Elvegata. He was furious. And then Unni said he had left the church, so he couldn’t be angry at me for doing the same.”
“He wouldn’t have liked it,” Yngve said. “He didn’t want anything to do with the church.”
“But he’s dead,” I countered. “And, anyway, I like it. I don’t want to be part of some trumped-up pseudoritual with poetry readings. I want it to be decent. Dignified.”
“I agree,” Yngve said.
I turned around again and surveyed the town, a constant hum in the background, sometimes drowned by the sudden revving of an engine, often from the bridge where kids amused themselves racing up and down at this time of night, also on the long stretch along Dronningens gate.