“But tell me, how can a good looking man be ugly?” I hear Havard fiddling with the CD player. “Am I ugly? Would you say I was ugly, for instance?
“I’m not deciding who is ugly and who is handsome. What I am trying to say is that. .”
“But I am asking you, Armann,” Havard interrupts. “Do you think I’m ugly?”
Armann hesitates for a few seconds and then says: “I think you harmonize quite well.”
“Harmonize!” Havard doesn’t think much of this remark; I have to ask myself what his comment means exactly. “What kind of answer is that, Armann! Does it maybe harmonize? Is it some new grammatical term?”
I have to admit that sometimes I am surprised at Havard’s expressions. Perhaps my low opinion of him has blinded me to his ability to express himself, an ability which is of course not confined to the “righteous.” If anything, it has more often been used, or abused, to obstruct the progress of righteousness; I consider myself to be a true spokesman for these virtues, at least compared to the misogynist, alcoholic, compulsive gambler, and, most recently, burglar Havard Knutsson (although he hasn’t stolen anything since he broke into my flat yet).
“What I was trying to tell you,” Armann begins to explain “is that the good looks of the handsome, that is of the most handsome men, very often work against them.”
“You’re talking about me, then!” Havard bursts out laughing.
“They are isolated by their own beauty, is perhaps a better way to put it,” Armann corrects himself. “Not only are their good looks worshipped by others, but they themselves become absorbed in their own admiration. They imagine that their beauty will transport them into some little paradise, but one day, when they are serving a teenager in a fashion shop, they suddenly realize in a flash that they won’t get any further; they have reached their peak, serving penniless teenagers in some fashion store.”
“No, Armann, now I think you’re treading on thin ice. Is there something wrong with working in a fashion shop? For instance, I bought these clothes today and the fellow who sold them to me was nothing spectacular; he wasn’t exactly what you would call Mr. Universe.”
“It’s a fine suit, I must admit, but I don’t think you understand me properly,” Armann replies. “Tell me something, my good. .? Havard, isn’t it? Sorry, I’m not very good at remembering names,” he says. “It is Havard, isn’t it?”
I don’t hear any answer and can’t quite make out what Havard is doing at the moment.
“But in every other respect I think I can state that I have the memory of an elephant,” Armann carries on. “I can remember the birthdays of all the important presidents and kings and, of course, when they died. I even think I remember when your friend Elvis Presley died.”
“Talking about elephants,” Havard interrupts, “Have you heard the joke about the elephant who stepped on an ant hill? Once upon a time there was this gigantic elephant who came tramping along the river bank.”
“Where was that?” Armann enquires, as if the place was of some importance.
“It doesn’t matter,” Havard says. “Let’s just say in India. Then, suddenly, as the elephant is about to have a drink from the stream, he steps on a little ant hill and naturally causes a great commotion for the inhabitants; half of them are killed and those who survive run off to save their lives.”
“Which they certainly do,” Armann adds.
“Then, while the elephant is drinking from the stream one ant climbs up his leg. .”
“Crawls up,” Armann corrects him.
“. . and a group of his friends. . that is friends of the ant who was courageous enough to crawl up the elephant until he got as far as the neck. Just imagine: an ant is only so big.”
I can just imagine Havard measuring out the size of the ant with his thumb and forefinger.
“And then, when the ant reaches the elephant’s neck,” he continued, “one of his friends down on the ground, who is crazy with excitement and thirsty for revenge, shouts: ‘Strangle him, Emil! Strangle him!’”
“What?” I hear Armann say.
“Strangle him, Emil! Strangle him!” Havard repeats.
I don’t know why the name Emil is included in the story, but it is probably because the ant had the same name when I heard the joke some time ago, in primary school. I suspect that the drink is to blame for how long it takes Armann to imagine the tragicomic ant on the broad neck of the elephant (if one can talk about the neck of an elephant). And then — rather quietly to begin with — Armann begins to laugh; he shrieks, like an old, worn out laughter box, it sounds like oil is thrown on a fire or new batteries put in the laughter box. He explodes and between fits of laughter repeats the final sentences of the joke over and over again. I begin to think that he is literally losing his mind, that his mental balance has been endangered by this joke, so that Havard — for the first time in his life — will have to face the consequences of his deeds. But Havard doesn’t seem capable of shouldering much responsibility at this point; instead of joining Armann’s laughter, he starts imitating the voice of the father in the TV series about Emil at Kattholt. He shouts “Emil!” just like the father shouted when his son had gotten into mischief and was running to lock himself in the woodshed. Havard doesn’t just shout once, he carries on almost as if his life depends on it.
I don’t quite know if I should laugh or worry; if someone came across the pair of them in the living room right now, they would be sure that both of them were absolutely mad.
“Here, do you think I may help myself to one of those?” Armann asks when he has almost recovered from his fit of laughter. Havard stops shouting abruptly and says yes, he should help himself if he wants one.
“Emil the ant,” Armann giggles; the Indian elephant was still on his mind.
“Here’s to Emil,” Havard says.
“Here’s to Emil,” Armann says.
They clink their glasses. There is a sound of cellophane, which gets drowned out in the first tones of “Flaming Star” from Elvis Presley. Through the music and the partition I hear Armann groan with pleasure as he has exhales his first puff of cigar smoke.
Part Three. Heaven’s Reward
1
When someone knocks on the front door either Armann or Havard stands up and turns down the music.
“Well, well, do you think it’s the master of the house?” Armann says enthusiastically.
“No, Armann, it’s the other woman,” I hear Havard correct him.
“The other woman?” Armann asks, but he gets no answer. Havard has already opened the door.
“Come in,” he says, and I can just imagine Greta, tall and dressed in black, perhaps wearing a hat to protect her freshly washed hair from the frost. Her daughter is asleep now in her grandmother’s soft bed. Her mother is back and she can’t wait to wake up tomorrow morning to play with her new toys from London.
Greta has clearly felt cold on the way; she shudders and says something about the frost on this iceberg, something I have heard myself say under similar circumstances. However, I feel warm inside when I hear her ask if I have come back, and I imagine I detect a hint of concern in her voice. She must have sensed on the bus that I really wanted to see her again, and though Havard has told her that I came home and went straight out again, she is understandably surprised that I’m not here waiting for her. Instead she is invited in by the last man I would want my girlfriend to be introduced to. I am quite shocked when she asks Havard if she has perhaps seen him somewhere before.
“I don’t think so,” he answers.