‘No,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Not really. Think that’s what they call poems. The Stunt Poets, you know. One of them said something like that.’
I didn’t know but said nothing.
‘But you can still come with me on walks, can’t you? A couple of weekends anyway. There’s a fantastic nature reserve only an hour away from here.’
‘I don’t think so. If anything’s going to come of my writing I have to work.’
‘But the nature, man! God’s wondrous creation! All the colours! All the plants! That’s what you have to write about!’
I laughed in derision.
‘I don’t believe in nature,’ I said. ‘It’s a cliché.’
‘What do you write about then?’
I shrugged. ‘I’ve just started. But you can read it if you want.’
‘Love to!’
‘I’ll bring it in with me tomorrow.’
We returned to the village at around eight in the evening. It was as light as day. The sky above the sea was so magnificent that I stood by the porch staring for several minutes before going in. It was empty, there was nothing there, yet it seemed gentle and friendly and as if it wished those who lived beneath it well. Perhaps because the mountains for their part were so hard and barren?
I had some supper, lit a cigarette and drank tea as I went through the exercise my pupils had done.
My name’s Vivian an I’m thirteen years old. I live in a village called Håfjord. I’m happy here. I have a sis called Liv. Dad’s a fisherman ‘n’ mam’s a housewife. My best freind is Andrea. We do a lotta things together. School is boring. Sometimes we work at the fish factory. We cut the tungs off cod. With the money I’m gonna buy a stereo.
So Vivian and Liv were sisters!
For some reason this gave me a lift. There was also something about the awkwardness she showed that touched me. Or perhaps it was her openness?
I decided not to correct the words. That would be far too demoralising, so instead I wrote a little comment in red underneath: ‘Well done, Vivian! But remember it’s “and” not “‘n’”, “a lot of” not “lotta” and “going to” not “gonna”.’
Then I leafed through the next exercise book.
My name is Andrea. I’m a thirteen-year-old girl and I live on the far side of an island in northern norway. I have a brother who is ten and a sister who is five. Dad goes fishing and mum is at home with Camilla. I like listening to music and watching films. My favourite is Champ. And I like moochin’ round the village with my friends, Vivian and Hildegunn and Live. It’s a bit boring here, but it will be better when we’re old enough to go to partys!
I had thought of Andrea and Vivian as two of a kind — I had barely been able to tell them apart on the two occasions I had seen them — but from their answers I could see there was quite a difference, or was it just that one of them was more used to expressing herself in written form?
I wrote a similar comment in Andrea’s book, read the three last ones, which all fell somewhere between the first two, made a comment in each, slipped the pile in my bag, put on ‘My Bag’ by Lloyd Cole and gazed across the village as the music made the hairs on my arms stand on end. Slowly I began to move to the beat, a shoulder here, a foot there at first, then, after switching off the light so that no one below could see me, I danced away with my eyes closed and sang from the bottom of my heart.
That night I came in my sleep. A wave of pleasure washed through me, carried me up towards the surface, where I did not want to go at any price, and nor did I, for just before I reached consciousness and the vague notion of who I was, how happy I was, became a reality, I sank back down into dark, heavy slumber, where I stayed until the alarm clock rang and I opened my eyes to a room full of light and to underpants that were sticky with semen.
At first I had feelings of guilt. God knows what I had been dreaming about. Then, when I remembered where I was and what I was doing, the pressure in the pit of my stomach returned. I got up and went into the bathroom telling myself there was nothing to be nervous about, the class was small, the pupils children, but it didn’t help, it felt as if I had to walk out onto a stage without any lines to deliver. I tried to recapture the wonderful mood I had been in previously, when I had been enjoying marking the presentations and the new sensation the role of teacher gave me, seeing pupils, planning what could be done to help them, but as I stood there, surrounded by steam, drying myself, all of that was gone, for I was not a teacher, I wasn’t even an adult, I was just a ridiculous teenager who knew nothing about anything.
‘Oh, hell!’ I shouted. Wiped the condensation from the mirror with the towel and studied my face in the few seconds it took before the glass was covered with moisture again.
I looked damned good, I did.
That was something after all.
I’d had the long hair at the back of my neck cut just before I left. Now my hair stood in a thick, maybe three-centimetre-high carpet across my skull, layered down to my temples and neck. From my left ear hung a cross.
I smiled.
My teeth were white and even. There was a glint in my eyes that I liked to see, until the incredible indignity of the situation, a person smiling and what was tantamount to winking at himself in the mirror, made my stomach constrict again.
For Christ’s sake.
I put on my Dream of the Blue Turtles T-shirt, my black Levi’s, a pair of white tube socks, stood in front of the mirror wearing alternately the thin green military jacket and the blue denim jacket, choosing in the end the former, tried on the beret, it didn’t go, and two minutes later trotted bare-headed up to the school with a white Ali coffee bag full of books and materials hanging from my hand.
The third and fourth years, who had been put together in one class for all their lessons, numbered twelve pupils: five girls and seven boys. It seemed like more, they were always roaming around, running and shouting, and would never sit still. Once they had finally sat down on their chairs, there were legs twisting and turning here, arms twisting and turning there, their minds, like agitated dogs, were forever on the move.
They hadn’t had me before, they had only heard about me and seen me from a distance, so when I loomed up in their part of the school all eyes were fixed on me.
I smiled and put my bag down on the teacher’s desk.
‘What have you got in there?’ one of them said. ‘What’s in your bag?’
I looked at him. White puppy-dog skin, brown eyes, extremely short hair.
‘What’s your name?’ I said.
‘Reidar,’ he said.
‘My name’s Karl Ove,’ I said. ‘And there’s one thing you may as well learn right from the start. You have to put up your hand before you say anything.’
Reidar put up his hand.
A smart-arse.
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘What have you got in your bag, Karl Ove?’
‘It’s a secret,’ I said. ‘But you’ll soon find out. First of all, though, I have to know what your names are.’
The boy behind Reidar, a little squirt with fair hair and hard — for his age — pale blue eyes put up his hand.
‘What’s your name?’ I said.
‘Stig,’ he said. ‘Are you strict?’
‘Strict? No!’ I said.
‘My mum says you’re too young to be a teacher!’ he said, looking around for a reaction.
They laughed, all of them.
‘I’m older than you at any rate!’ I said. ‘So I think everything will be fine.’
‘Why have you got a cross in your ear?’ Reidar said. ‘Are you a Christian?’
‘What did I just say about putting up your hand?’
‘Whoops!’ He laughed and put up his hand.