But this New Year’s Eve Dad, the King of Fireworks, had abdicated.
I pondered quite a bit on the cause. Whatever it was, I suspected that the consequences would be of major significance. No, it wasn’t a suspicion, I knew.
When it was a few minutes after half past eleven and Mom said perhaps it was time to go out and light the rocket, my jaw dropped.
“The rocket?” I said. “Do we only have one? One rocket?”
“Yes,” Mom said. “Surely that’s enough? It’s a big one. They said in the shop it was the biggest and best they had.”
Dad smirked to himself. He went out after Yngve and me, stood beside us on the terrace at the back of the house where the launch was to take place.
The rocket really was big, she was right about that.
She put it in a bottle, but the bottle was too small, and both the bottle and rocket tipped over. She stood it up and looked around. Her light-colored leather coat was open, the zippers in her high boots were undone, making them seem as if they were unfolding as she moved, like two exotic plants. Around her neck she had wound her thick, rust-brown scarf.
“We could use something bigger to put this rocket in,” she said.
Dad said nothing.
“Dad normally uses the clothes horse,” Yngve said.
“That’s true!” Mom said.
The clothes horse, which was only used in the summer, was made of wood and leaned against the wall. Mom fetched it and set it up in the snow. She crouched down and positioned the rocket against it, but, seeing at once that it wouldn’t work, she stood up with the rocket in her hand. Around us fireworks were going off everywhere. The sky was lit with explosions, which we sensed rather than saw because it was overcast and misty, so of the showers of stars and all the colors and patterns not much more than flashes of light were to be seen.
“What about if you lay it on its side,” Yngve said. “Dad usually does that.”
Mom did as he suggested.
“It’s twelve o’clock now,” Dad said. “Aren’t you going to light our rocket soon?”
“Yes,” Mom said. She took a lighter from her pocket, crouched down, shielded the tiny flame with her hand, and averted her whole body, ready to run. The second the fuse was lit she dashed toward us.
“Happy New Year!” she said.
“Happy New Year,” Yngve said.
I said nothing because the rocket, which the burning fuse had reached now, sounded as if it was going to fizzle out. Then the flame died and the hiss stopped.
“Oh no,” I said. “It didn’t work! It was a dud! And we’ve only got one. Why did you buy only one? How could you do that?”
“That was New Year’s Eve then,” Dad said. “Perhaps I should be in charge of the fireworks next year?”
I had never felt so sorry for Mom as I did then, when we left the rocket and went into the warm, surrounded by neighbors’ exultant shouts and explosions. What hurt most was that she had done the best she could. She couldn’t do any better.
One afternoon two weeks later I was down by Lake Tjenna and my legs were absolutely freezing. Framlaget, the Socialist Party’s children’s organization, which I and almost all the other kids on the estate were in, had arranged a ski race. There were numbers on chests and medals for everyone, but above all else it was numbingly cold standing there and waiting your turn. And when my turn did come, my skis were slippery, I could never really get a decent speed going, and I finished way down the results list. As soon as I had passed the line and received my medal I set course for home. The darkness hung between the branches, the cold chafed at my toes, the skis kept slipping and sliding, I couldn’t even manage the steepest hill using the herringbone technique and had to ascend sideways. But at last the road was there with its illuminated street lamps like a luminous ribbon in the dusk, and our house was on the other side. I staggered across and into the drive, undid my skis and leaned them against the house, opened the door, and stopped.
What was that smell?
Grandma?
Was Grandma here?
No, out of the question, that was impossible.
Perhaps Dad had been to Kristiansand and had brought the fragrance back with him?
No, for Pete’s sake, there was someone talking in the kitchen!
I had my boots off in a flash, registered that my socks were wet, so I couldn’t walk in them, they would leave marks, and I jogged through the hall into the boiler room, where there was a fresh pair hanging from a line, put them on, strode up the stairs as fast as I dared, stopped.
The fragrance was stronger here. There was no doubt: Grandma was here.
“Is that you, champ?” Dad said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Come in here a moment!” he said.
I went into the kitchen.
There was Grandma!
I ran over and hugged her.
She laughed and ruffled my hair.
“How big you’ve grown!” she said.
“What are you doing here?” I said. “Where’s the car? Where’s Grandad?”
“I caught the bus,” she said.
“The bus?” I said.
“Yes. My son is alone with his children, I thought, so I can go and give him a bit of a hand. I’ve already made some dinner for you, as you can see.”
“How long are you staying?”
She laughed.
“Well, I’m catching the bus back tomorrow, I think. Someone has to look after Grandad as well. I can’t leave him alone for too long.”
“No,” I said, hugging her again.
“All right,” Dad said. “You go to your room for a while and I’ll call you when the food’s ready.”
“But he must have his present first,” Grandma said.
“Thank you for my Christmas present, by the way,” I said. “It was great.”
Grandma leaned forward, lifted her bag, and took out a little packet, which she passed to me.
I tore off the paper.
It was an IK Start mug.
It was white, with the Kristiansand club logo on one side and a soccer player in a yellow shirt and black shorts on the other.
“Wow, a Start mug!” I said and gave her another hug.
It was strange having Grandma there. I had hardly ever seen her without Grandad, and hardly ever on her own with Dad. They sat chatting in the kitchen; I could hear them through the door, which I had left ajar. There were intermittent pauses when one of them got up to do something. Then they chatted a bit more, Grandma laughed and told a story, and Dad mumbled. He called us, we ate, he was quite different from how he normally was, coming closer to us and distancing himself all the time. Sometimes he was completely in tune with what Grandma was saying, then he would be gone, looking elsewhere or getting up to do something, then he would look at her again and smile and make a comment that would make her laugh, and then he was gone again.
She left the following evening. She gave Yngve and me a hug, then Dad drove her to the bus station in Arendal. I put on Rubber Soul and lay down with a biography of Madame Curie. When the second song came, Norwegian Wood, I took my eyes off the book and gazed at the ceiling as the mood of the music in some incomprehensible way got into me and raised me to where it was. It was a fantastic feeling. Not only because it was beautiful, there was something else present that had nothing to do with the room I lay in or the world I was surrounded by.