To ensure I had more time to write I completely altered my daily routine, it made no difference when you slept and when you were awake, morning and evening, night and day, in practice everything was the same. I started getting up at eleven at night, I worked through until eight in the morning, had a shower, went to school and had a sleep after I finished at around three in the afternoon.
If I couldn’t write I would sometimes put on my coat and go out, wander around the silent village, listen to the roar of the waves beating against the shore, gaze up at the mountainsides, which at first, because of the snow, seemed to be floating in the darkness and then became totally swallowed up by it. Sometimes I went to school. It might have been three or four in the morning, I saw my reflection in the windows I passed, my vacant expression, my vacant eyes. Occasionally I stayed there, read a book on the sofa in the staffroom or watched a film on the TV or simply slept for a few hours, until the sound of a door being opened suddenly woke me, and Richard came in, he was usually the first to appear in the morning. This was all that was needed for a feeling of chaos to come over me, a feeling of not having anything under control, of finding myself on the edge of. . well, of what?
I did my job. Did it make any difference that I worked at the end of my day rather than the beginning?
But there was something about the darkness. There was something about this small enclosed place. There was something about seeing the same faces every day. My class. My colleagues. The assistant at the shop. The occasional mother, the occasional father. Now and then the young fishermen. But always the same people, always the same atmosphere. The snow, the darkness, the harsh light inside the school.
One night I was out walking, on my way to the school, when a bulldozer drove up behind me. It had a snowplough mounted on the front, the snow flew alongside into mounds by the road, an orange light flashed from the roof, thick black smoke belched from an exhaust pipe at the front. The man driving didn’t look at me as he passed. Some way up the hill he stopped, with the engine still running. As I came alongside he set off again. He drove at the same speed as I walked. I watched him, he was staring straight ahead, and I shivered with unease, the vibrating, roaring, scraping, flashing vehicle shook my soul. I walked faster. He drove faster. I turned right, he turned right. I turned round, he drove straight on, then bugger me if he didn’t turn round as well, and as I reached the hill leading to the school he was right behind me again. I set off at a run, this was scary, because around us everything was lifeless and black, the village was asleep, it was just us two outside, me and some mad snowplough man chasing me. I ran, but I was no match for him, he accelerated and followed me right into the school playground. I unlocked the door, my heart pounding in my chest, would he follow me in here as well?
From the staffroom I watched him steadily and methodically clearing the playground of snow, it took him perhaps a quarter of an hour, before he turned and drove back down to the village.
On my way home from school the following afternoon I caught a glimpse of Vivian’s twenty-year-old boyfriend. She was in his car, so overcome by her triumph that she didn’t know where to look as they drove past and our eyes met. He was a puny-looking fair-haired man who — I could see when I met them by the shop shortly afterwards — laughed a lot. He had been unemployed and had moved here when he was offered a job as a crewman on one of the boats. Nothing of the Vivian we saw in the lessons, her childish questions, the teasing and giggling, was on show here, it had to be stowed away, and it was strange to see, she had sat in the front seat of the car like royalty, with a hard-won stateliness that threatened to crack at any moment, held together only by the fragile bonds of vanity, such that the child she also was could reappear at any moment or even take total control. One giggle, one gesture, one blush and there you were. Her boyfriend was not the world’s brightest, to put it mildly, so in this way they were well matched. In class her behaviour changed, she became more self-important, she no longer liked all the childishness the others exhibited. But she was easily led, it didn’t take many comments before she lost the stateliness she had worn around her like a cloak only a few minutes earlier. That didn’t mean that she was really unchanged, really untouched by what was going on around her, only that everything in her was still fluid. She might refuse to laugh at my jokes and say I was stupid, then burst into laughter anyway, and after that she might look at me with a different nuance in her eyes, and this nuance, which was quite new and also present in Andrea’s eyes, although not so clearly, I had to protect myself against, for what it did, insidiously, was to draw me closer to them. Through this look the distance between me and them narrowed, and it wasn’t because I had approached them, quite the contrary, I saw that in this look, which was completely open, half knowing, half unknowing.
Or was I imagining all of this? For when I had seen them in other contexts, such as in Torill’s or Nils Erik’s lessons, or in the shop with their mothers, it was as if this side of them had never existed. They toed the line, and if they didn’t, they tried to rebel with defiance, sulks or protests, and not, as they occasionally did in my lessons, with charged looks.
This wasn’t something I spent tracts of time mulling over, more impressions that blew through me, tiny gusts of pleasure and fear while I was writing during the January and February nights. Nor did I have any concrete basis for these impressions, nothing had been said or done, it was all about moods and feelings triggered by something as intangible as a gaze or a certain way of moving.
As I plodded through the village on my way to the first lesson my feelings were ambivalent — I liked being at school yet I didn’t. Now and then I felt a slight flutter in my chest at the thought that I would be seeing her again the following day.
No one knew, and I hardly knew myself.
One Friday at the beginning of February all these small impressions, which in themselves were insignificant and vague, and as such unexacting, were suddenly intensified. I had as usual got up late in the evening, written through the night, and as the clock passed five in the morning I’d had enough and went out into the darkness. Through the still sleeping village, up to the school, where after a stroll through the teaching block I sat down on the sofa with a book until tiredness overcame me and I leaned back with eyes closed and the book resting on my chest.
The door opened. I sat up with a start, ran a hand through my hair while staring straight into Richard’s eyes with what must have been a guilty expression on my face.
‘Have you spent the night here?’ he said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I came here early to do some preparation. And then I dozed off.’
He scrutinised me carefully.
‘I’ll make some extra strong coffee,’ he said at length. ‘That’ll wake you up.’
‘Make it strong enough for a horseshoe to stand upright in,’ I said and got to my feet.
‘What?’ he said. ‘Who said that?’
‘Lucky Luke, I think.’
He sniggered and poured water into the machine while I sat down at my desk. It was several months since I had prepared a lesson in any other way than with a quick glance at a textbook shortly before I walked into the class. I had ditched most of my alternative teaching methods, now the majority of my lessons consisted of going through whatever topic had to be dealt with, after which I gave them some exercises. The aim was to get through the syllabus in all subjects. Whether they absorbed everything or not no longer bothered me. The main thing was the framework this approach gave and, with it, the distance.