‘Bon appétit,’ she said.
‘Thank you. It’ll do me good,’ I answered, and she said:
‘I hope so,’ and started walking back to the counter. I watched her leave.
‘Excuse me,’ I said.
She stopped and turned.
‘Would it be very impolite,’ I said, ‘if I asked you what your name is.’
She hadn’t been smiling when she crossed the floor with her back to me. There could have been several reasons for that, not only that she had finished with me and was resting her lips for the next male customer.
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it would be impolite. Berit,’ she said. ‘My name is Berit.’
‘Berit,’ I said. ‘Thank you. That’s good. I’m glad you told me. It was kind of you.’
It wasn’t easy to explain, but I am sure it was her skin, her neck, that made me ask. I would have liked to put my hand on it so much, to touch it, again, you could almost say.
‘Kind of me. Maybe,’ she said, and still she didn’t smile, she was looking quite serious now, as though there was something seriously wrong. With her name perhaps. Or something else. How could I know. But she was pretty. I liked looking at her.
‘I hope there’s nothing wrong,’ I said.
‘I guess not,’ she said.
I nodded. Something was definitely wrong, and somehow we were in the same boat now, that was it, that’s where we were heading, and I nodded again, as warmly as possible, but not so warmly I would have to add something to bring us even closer, we were close enough already. It was my own fault. I could have kept my mouth shut. I’ll let it stop there, I thought. There is no other way out of this than politely letting it die of its own accord, what had emerged between us, from lack of oxygen, or will, or maybe even courage, yes, maybe even that, and so I said nothing. I dropped my head slowly to the table and the plate of food I still hadn’t touched. She turned away just as slowly, and in a short glimpse I could see she looked older now. She looked older when she didn’t smile. But she was still attractive.
I ate without once looking up. I should have had a newspaper in front of me, I thought, Aftenposten, preferably, or Dagens Næringsliv, that would have looked better, it wasn’t natural to sit so hunched over the table like this for such a long time. But what else could I do, I thought, and then I thought, where is Jim right now. I didn’t know where he lived, how could I. He was on the bridge this morning, but it was not likely he lived anywhere nearby. No one fishing on the bridge lived nearby, everyone in Ulvøya knew that, you could see them in the half-dark of the night, or the early morning, and otherwise they were wiped off the face of the earth, and who knew who they were. Not me. So Jim could be living anywhere, in Oslo, or further out, Enebakk, Nesodden or Drøbak. No, not Drøbak. But anything was possible. He moved from Mørk when we were eighteen. We had known each other for almost all those years, he was a year old when his mother came to Mørk with her rolling ‘r’s and Jim wrapped in her arms and a big bag and very little else, it’s what I’d heard. Nevertheless, it was a long time ago. A whole life came to an end that day at the Central Hospital, that was how it felt then, and it still felt that way, even after thirty years. And all of a sudden it was impossible to comprehend. How could I have lived without him for so long. How could I have. And with my face turned to the table, I started to cry, and I thought, how could I have lived without Jim. I tried to cry quietly into the plate, which was almost empty now, just a couple of rashers of bacon left, but it wasn’t easy. I squeezed my eyes to hold back the tears, I squeezed my mouth to hold back my breath, but then my shoulders started to shake, and I could not stop them. In one of my pockets I had a handkerchief. I searched my trouser pockets, but it wasn’t there, and then my jacket pockets, and then the coat hanging over the back of the chair. It was all a bit awkward and clumsy, for I couldn’t raise my head or turn, but instead had to twist my right hand hard behind my back, and finally I found the handkerchief at the bottom of the inside pocket on the left, and what on earth was it doing there, but I fished it out and wiped my face thoroughly and blew my nose so it would seem as if I had a cold, which in fact I did, I’d had one for several days, that was why I had a handkerchief in the first place, I didn’t normally carry one. This time I put it in my trouser pocket, and then I raised my head, and there she was, giving me her full attention from behind the counter between the coffee machine and the cash till. There was no one between us, no one at the till or the tables around me, and there was something about the way she was standing, with her one hand on the counter, and then the other placed itself next to the first, and neither hand had a finger with a ring on it. She wasn’t smiling. It was my fault. I could have kept my mouth shut. It was almost unbearable. I looked down at the table again and wiped my nose with the back of my hand, the way I did when I was a child, and stood up and took the purple coat from the chair. It was a heavy coat. I glanced over at her and nodded briefly, letting my gaze drop, and thought, God, am I glad you have to pay upfront. And then I left the café with the coat over my arm.
I took the escalator down and walked to the nearest swing doors and past the sign on the wall that said: Social Security 2nd Floor, by a stairwell with a glass door and a lift on the inside, and out into the high street. I stopped on the pavement. The railway station and the bus terminal were to the left down the long street and round the bend by the Art Centre, but I couldn’t see them from here. To the right, behind the shopping centre, was my car, by the building which I also couldn’t see, that no longer had a Wine Monopoly on the ground floor but a horror restaurant. I didn’t know where the Wine Monopoly was now, but I was certain they still had one here in Lillestrøm. You bet they did. It was chilly. The raw autumn air stole down the street from the Nitelva river and the big lake. It was as it had always been, it was always a little colder in Lillestrøm, and in the winter it was really bad when damp, icy, air clung to your skin and burned, I could remember it all too well. And on this September day it wasn’t any different. I put on my coat and buttoned it to the very top. I looked right and left, looked up the street, looked down, and my eyes found nothing to settle on. I didn’t know where the hell to go.
I stood still. I couldn’t take the first step. A woman came out of the swing doors behind me. I couldn’t see her, but the strong scent of her perfume hit me in the back of my head, and I must have been standing in her way as she came out, for she knocked into me with such force it almost sent me flying, it happened so suddenly.
‘What the hell,’ I said aloud.
‘Shift yourself,’ she said sharply into my ear, she was chewing gum, I was a dog, there wasn’t anything I couldn’t scent. I was sure she would look terrible, and I turned to see that I was right, but I was dead wrong. She looked great, but in a harsh way, a made-up, slightly scornful way, and I knew the type, they didn’t come from Oslo, they came from the country, I grew up among them, and I knew them so well, they gave me a feeling of comfort and safety.
I put my hands on my hips and said:
‘For Christ’s sake, calm down.’
‘The hell I will,’ she said. ‘You were in my way.’ She was so self-confident, so provocative.
‘I guess maybe I was,’ I said, and then I had to laugh. ‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘No need to be,’ she said. ‘It’s just that the door hit me, and it hurt like hell, right here,’ she said, and slapped her bottom, and then she said: ‘That’s quite a coat, that is. It’s got style.’