‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Are we going now?’
‘That was the idea.’
I went back up, opened the passenger door and got in. On the rear seat Even leaned forward and spread his arms across the front seats. He had kind blue eyes, dark hair, a small wispy moustache above his upper lip. His voice rose and sank in ways even he could not predict. Tor Einar started the car and drove slowly through the village, waving to the right and left to people on their way to or from the shop. I set about opening the pile of letters I had taken from the post box. The original twenty people I corresponded with had shrunk to twelve, still enough to ensure the post box was seldom empty. One of the letters was from Anne. She had worked as a technician on the radio programmes I had done in Kristiansand. She lived in Molde now, went to the university there or whatever it was, I wasn’t very interested, she was though, the letters I received were rarely less than twenty pages.
I opened it and took out the thick wad of paper. A small brownish lump came with it and fell onto my thigh.
‘What was that?’ Even said.
Christ! It was hashish.
‘What was what?’ I said, placing my hand over it.
‘What fell out. What did you get?’
‘Oh that?’ I said. ‘It was nothing. A friend of mine’s studying horticulture. She’s interested in trees. So she’s sent me a piece of bark off a rare specimen.’
‘Can I see?’ he said.
I stared ahead at the tunnel opening a few metres in front of us. What would he do if he knew what it was? Tell someone? There would be a hell of a fuss then. DRUGS SEIZED ON HÅFJORD TEACHER. They drank like nutters, but they didn’t have anything to do with hashish, marijuana, amphetamines or that sort of thing.
‘Let me see then!’ he said.
‘There’s nothing to see,’ I said. ‘Just a rare specimen of bark.’
‘Why did she send it to you then?’
I shrugged. ‘We had a relationship.’
Tor Einar glanced at me. ‘Tell us about it,’ he said.
‘Nothing to tell,’ I said, putting the lump in my pocket with one hand while grabbing the handle above the door with the other. Not that it was necessary, Tor Einar was driving carefully as always. He and Nils Erik had to be the only motorists in the village who kept to the speed limits.
‘Am I going to see it or not?’ Even said.
Strange how persistent he was.
I turned. ‘Give me a break,’ I said. ‘I’ve put it in my pocket now. It’s just a bit of bloody bark.’
‘But it was rare,’ he said.
‘Are you interested in bark?’ I said.
‘No,’ he said, and laughed.
‘Well, there you are. Now I want some peace and quiet to read if that’s all right with you,’ I said, skimming through Anne’s pages.
~ ~ ~
When we returned a few hours later Tor Einar and Nils Erik were going to go skiing. They asked me if I wanted to join them, as usual I said no, I was going to write. The moment they were out of the door I took out the lump of hashish, warmed it up, mixed it with tobacco and rolled a joint. I drew the curtains, locked the door, sat down on the sofa and smoked it.
On the wall next to my Betty Blue poster Nils Erik had hung one of Charlie Chaplin. Sitting there, I imagined I was him and then I mimicked his walk. With my feet at a quarter to three and a stick happily whirring around in one hand I walked to and fro across the floor. It was a perfect imitation and I didn’t want to stop, I waddled up the stairs into my bedroom, which was bare except for a pile of clothes and a mattress against the wall, down again, did a circuit of the kitchen, back into the sitting room. I laughed several times, not because it was funny but because it felt so good. I was the tramp, I swung my stick and staggered around taking tiny footsteps, sometimes I lifted my hat and made a little pirouette to greet everyone. I could do no wrong. And my insides were lubricated to perfection, every movement rippled through my body, soon I was lying on the sofa and lifting first one shoulder, then the other, tensing my calf muscles, knees, abs, biceps, and it was as if I was both floating in the sea and the waves therein.
I woke up to someone knocking on the door. Outside, it was pitch black. I looked at my watch. It was half past five. I sat up, rubbed my hands over my face several times. There was another knock. The smell of hashish still hung in the air. I considered not answering, but when the third bout of knocking started I thought the person knocking must be sure I was here, I let some air in through a window, closed the sitting-room door behind me, went to the hall and opened up.
A man in his forties was standing outside. He was the father of one of my pupils although offhand I couldn’t say which. I had a faint rushing sound in my ears.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m Jo’s father. I wanted to have a little chat with you. It’s nothing serious, but I’d like to talk about Jo. It’s been on my mind for a while to drop by, but it hasn’t been convenient until now. Is this a suitable time for you? I know this is not exactly school hours but. .’ He laughed.
‘No problem at all,’ I said. ‘Come in. Would you like some coffee?’
‘Please, if it’s on the go. But don’t make any especially for me.’
He walked past me into the kitchen.
‘I was just about to make some,’ I said. ‘I’ve been having a nap. It’s been a long week.’
He sat down at the kitchen table. Hadn’t taken off either his jacket or his boots. I filled the coffee pot with water.
It was always women who took care of everything to do with children and school. They were the ones who went to parents’ evenings, they were the ones who signed the slips children took home, they were the ones who did voluntary work and made sure school trips and so on were paid for.
I switched on the stove and sat down opposite him at the table.
‘Yes, our Jo,’ he said. ‘He’s not happy at school at the moment.’
‘Oh?’ I said.
‘No, he isn’t. He says he doesn’t want to go to school any more, he wants to stay at home. Sometimes he cries as well. If I ask him why, he won’t say. Or else he says it isn’t anything. But we can see there’s something wrong. He really doesn’t want to go. Well, he is. . he always got on fine before, when he was smaller. He liked school then. But now. . no. .’
He looked at me.
‘I’ve come to you. . erm, you aren’t his form teacher. . I know perhaps it would have been more normal to go and see her. . but he talks very warmly about you. He likes you so much. It’s Karl Ove said this and Karl Ove did that all the time. And so I thought I could talk to you about this. After all you know him.’
I was so upset when he said that, I hadn’t been so touched for many years. The trust he showed in me I had already betrayed. Not through anything I had done, but through what I had thought. Now, with him sitting opposite me, his face grave and tormented, it was obvious he loved his son, that for him Jo was unique and precious. I realised that what for me had been a minor matter, a maladjusted boy who cried for nothing, for him was major, it filled his life, indeed it was his life, everything he had.
My guilt burned in me like a forest fire.
I would have to make amends. I would have to make amends now, to the father, who fortunately, oh how fortunately, had no idea what I had been thinking. And then I would have to make amends to Jo. As soon as I saw him I would do that.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘He’s a fine boy.’
‘Have you noticed anything at school? Have there been any incidents?’
‘No, nothing specific. But I’ve noticed he doesn’t fit in. And that sometimes the others don’t want him along, or they make fun of him. Nothing serious though, if you know what I mean. That is, no violence or systematic bullying. I haven’t seen anything like that. I don’t think it happens either.’