Tears coursed down his cheeks. I glanced quickly at Unni; she watched him and squeezed his hand.
‘We had no money either,’ he said. ‘We had to go out and pick berries, and I had to go fishing to make ends meet. Can you remember that? You think about that when you think about how we were. I did my best, you mustn’t believe anything else.’
‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘A lot happened, but it doesn’t matter any more.’
His head shot up.
‘YES, IT DOES!’ he said. ‘Don’t say that!’
Then he noticed the cigarette between his fingers. Took the lighter from the table, lit it and sat back.
‘But now we’re having a cosy time anyway,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was a wonderful meal.’
‘Unni’s got a son as well, you know,’ dad said. ‘He’s almost as old as you.’
‘Let’s not talk about him now,’ Unni said. ‘We’ve got Karl Ove here.’
‘But I’m sure Karl Ove would like to hear,’ dad said. ‘They’ll be like brothers. Won’t they. Don’t you agree, Karl Ove?’
I nodded.
‘He’s a fine lad. I met him here a week ago,’ he said.
I filled my glass as inconspicuously as I could.
The telephone in the living room rang. Dad got up to answer it.
‘Whoops!’ he said, almost losing his balance, and then to the phone, ‘Yes, yes, I’m coming.’
He lifted the receiver.
‘Hi, Arne!’ he said.
He spoke loudly, I could have listened to every word if I had wanted to.
‘He’s been under enormous strain recently,’ Unni whispered. ‘He needs to let off some steam.’
‘I see,’ I said.
‘It’s a shame Yngve couldn’t come,’ she said.
Yngve?
‘He had to go back to Bergen,’ I said.
‘Yes, my dear friend, I’m sure you understand!’ dad said.
‘Who’s Arne?’ I said.
‘A relative of mine,’ she said. ‘We met them in the summer. They’re so nice. You’re bound to meet them.’
‘OK,’ I said.
Dad came back in and saw the bottle was nearly empty.
‘Let’s have a little brandy, shall we?’ he said. ‘A digestif?’
‘You don’t drink brandy, do you?’ Unni asked, looking at me.
‘No, the boy can’t have spirits,’ dad said.
‘I’ve had brandy before,’ I said. ‘In the summer. At the football training camp.’
Dad eyed me. ‘Does mum know?’ he said.
‘Mum?’ Unni said.
‘You can have one glass, but no more,’ dad said, staring straight at Unni. ‘Is that all right?’
‘Yes, it is,’ she said.
He fetched the brandy and a glass, poured and leaned back in the deep white sofa under the windows facing the road, where the dusk now hung like a veil over the white walls of the houses opposite.
Unni put her arm round him and one hand on his chest. Dad smiled.
‘See how lucky I am, Karl Ove,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said and shuddered as the brandy met my tongue. My shoulders trembled.
‘But she’s got temperament too, you know,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that true?’
‘Certainly is,’ she said with a smile.
‘Once she threw the alarm clock against this wall,’ he said.
‘I like to get things off my chest straight away,’ Unni said.
‘Not like your mother,’ he said.
‘Do you have to talk about her the whole time?’ Unni said.
‘No, no, no, not at all,’ dad said. ‘Don’t be so touchy. After all, I had him with her,’ he said, nodding towards me. ‘This is my son. We have to be able to talk as well.’
‘OK,’ Unni said. ‘You just talk. I’m going to bed.’ She got up.
‘But, Unni. .’ dad said.
She went into the next room. He stood up and slowly followed her without a further look.
I heard their voices, muted and angry. Finished the brandy, refilled my glass and carefully put the bottle back in exactly the same place.
Oh dear.
He yelled.
Immediately afterwards he returned.
‘When did the last bus go, did you say?’ he said.
‘Ten past eleven,’ I said.
‘It’s almost that now,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’s best if you go now. You don’t want to miss it.’
‘OK,’ I said and got up. Had to place one foot well apart from the other so as not to sway. I smiled. ‘Thanks for everything.’
‘Let’s keep in touch,’ he said. ‘Even though we don’t live together any more nothing must change between us. That’s important.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes. It’s important we keep in touch,’ I said.
‘You’re not being flippant with me, are you?’ he said.
‘No, no, of course not,’ I said. ‘It’s important now that you’re divorced.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll ring. Just drop by when you’re in town. All right?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
While putting on my shoes I almost toppled over and had to hold on to the wall. Dad sat on the sofa drinking and noticed nothing.
‘Bye!’ I shouted as I opened the door.
‘Bye, Karl Ove,’ dad said from inside, and then I went out into the darkness and headed for the bus stop.
I waited for about a quarter of an hour until the bus arrived, sitting on a step smoking and watching the stars while thinking about Hanne.
I could see her face in front of me.
She was laughing; her eyes were gleaming.
I could hear her laughter.
She was almost always laughing. And when she wasn’t, laughter bubbled in her voice.
Brilliant! she would say when something was absurd or comical.
I thought about what she was like when she turned serious. Then it was as if she was on my home ground, and I felt I was an enormous black cloud wrapped around her, always greater than her. But only when she was serious, not otherwise.
When I was with Hanne I laughed almost all the time.
Her little nose!
She was more girl than woman in the same way that I was more boy than man. I used to say she was like a cat. And it was true there was something feline about her, in her movements, but also a kind of softness that wanted to be close to you.
I could hear her laughter, and I smoked and peered up at the stars. Then I heard the deep growl of the bus approaching between the houses, flicked the cigarette into the road, stood up, counted the coins in my pocket and handed them to the driver when I stepped on board.
Oh, the muted lights in buses at night and the muted sounds. The few passengers, all in their own worlds. The countryside gliding past in the darkness. The drone of the engine. Sitting there and thinking about the best that you know, that which is dearest to your heart, wanting only to be there, out of this world as it were, in transit from one place to another, isn’t it only then you are really present in this world? Isn’t it only then you really experience the world?
Oh, this is the song about the young man who loves a young woman. Has he the right to use such a word as ‘love’? He knows nothing about life, he knows nothing about her, he knows nothing about himself. All he knows is that he has never felt anything with such force and clarity before. Everything hurts, but nothing is as good. Oh, this is the song about being sixteen years old and sitting on a bus and thinking about her, the one, not knowing that feelings will slowly, slowly, weaken and fade, that life, that which is now so vast and so all-embracing, will inexorably dwindle and shrink until it is a manageable entity which doesn’t hurt so much, but nor is it as good.