‘Look, Audun,’ he says, and I turn and he says: ‘Well Audun, I’ve watched you walking this round for several years, and I was wondering. How are you really doing?’ He blushes, the old man, and I blush, too, I don’t know how to answer a question like that, so I shrug and wait. He scratches his chin, and there is a rasping sound.
‘Well, if there is ever anything, you know where I live.’ He is relieved; he has said what he wanted to say. He opens the newspaper, and now suddenly he has all the time in the world, and he strolls up the hill past the red telephone booth, and I think to myself, I really don’t get this man. He reads while he is walking, he must have radar or sonar navigation, like a bat at night, because he moves between the posts and the bushes by the kerb without once looking up.
I finish off Veitvetsvingen as quickly as I can, and only Grevlingveien is left. People are standing on their steps, waiting, and they are not happy. But I don’t look at them or apologise or anything, just push the paper into their hands and hurry on. At the end of the route, by the last house, Fru Karlsen is standing by her door. The dress she is wearing is really something, her shoulders still tanned after the summer have a faint glow, warm, as though she is just out of bed, and I have pictured it white and white, and myself in it, and my own skin close to the skin I can see now, her hands everywhere, and my hands everywhere, where she is soft and different, and the dizzying fragrance of Fru Karlsen, but straight away I can see that there is something amiss, for her arm is rigid as she runs her hand through her hair, and I just want to turn and get the hell out of there. But I can’t, I have to give her the newspaper, it’s my job, and I walk slowly towards her on the flagstone footpath.
‘Well, if it isn’t Speedy Gonzales,’ she says. Her mouth is distorted in a way I have never seen before, and I pass her the newspaper. She doesn’t take it, doesn’t look at it, her eyes are glaring straight at me. It makes me feel uncomfortable.
‘What the hell do you mean by being late when you know I am waiting for you! Can’t you see I’m all dressed up?’ She seems a little drunk, but she can’t have been drinking, it’s barely half-past six, and yet, there is this shine in her eyes, and she looks cold wearing that dress well into October. She is freezing, and she has dressed herself up for me.
‘Things happened on the way round, I had to sort that out first. You’re not the only person who is pissed off.’
‘The only person! You foolish boy! You could have had anything you liked! Do you understand what I’m saying? I could have given you anything you liked! But I am not waiting for anyone, especially not a baby like you!’ And then she slaps me. There is no time to duck, and it stings like hell. I back a few steps, squeeze the newspaper hard, it’s thick today, and heavy, and I sling it at her. It hits her where she is really soft. Whether it hurts or not I cannot tell, but she is startled, her eyes change colour, and I say in a low voice:
‘You old hag! Get back inside to that old man of yours! I wouldn’t touch your wrinkled skin if you paid me!’
8
WE HAVE FRENCH for the first lesson. Henrik has to read aloud from the text we’ve had to prepare. He sits at the very back. He can’t do French, neither reading nor writing it, but he is a good imitator. That’s what he can do, and with a little help he has bluffed his way through two years, and is close to the abyss. If we have a French oral, he is done for. But Starheim is hard of hearing, he leans forward with a cautious smile, his eyes glued to Henrik’s face. It sounds like French, he is almost certain. Everyone can see he really doesn’t catch what Henrik is reading, but it does sound French, and Henrik throws his whole body into it, so it looks French as well. Henrik really doesn’t say anything, it’s just babble, but Starheim is vain, he won’t be caught saying what? or eh? so he just goes for it:
‘Très bien, merci, Henri. Audun, you can take it from there.’
I have no idea where Starheim thinks Henrik stopped reading, so I choose a place at random and keep going. Henrik’s face is like a mask, and Starheim does not bat an eyelid. I used to think this was funny. I have done my homework, I understand what I am reading, but my pronunciation is not great, and it’s enough for Starheim to smile with relief and say:
‘Pas mal, Audun. A little more practice on your pronunciation, and you’ll be fine.’ Henrik looks triumphant, this is killing him, his face tense and almost desperate and his eyes filled with tears. Tiny sounds come from his mouth. He can’t hold it back much longer. A few students have to look out the window.
‘Not bloody likely,’ I say under my breath, so only those next to me can hear.
On our way out Arvid says:
‘Henrik’s skating on thin ice. I don’t think the examiners are quite as deaf. But it’s funny.’
‘I don’t understand why he bothers.’
‘What’s the matter with you? You knew your stuff, didn’t you.’
‘Nothing’s the matter with me. I’m just a little tired.’ I close my eyes and see Fru Karlsen and her face when the newspaper hit her. Arvid pats my shoulder. I feel like telling him about Fru Karlsen, but all that’s another world.
‘Have you heard about the Stakhanov Prize?’ he says. ‘It was a prize Stalin gave to the most industrious workers during the first five-year plan. It was named after a man who worked his ass off. You’re in the semi-finals.’
We walk across the schoolyard between students from our class, and we stand in the sun with our backs to the gymnasium. I look around me, and then I turn the corner where there is nothing but trees and sit down on the grassy slope leading up to the teachers’ houses and fish out half a cigarette from my pocket and light it up. I sit smoking in the strip of sunlight with my eyes closed. Arvid follows me.
‘Give us a drag,’ he says. I pass him the cigarette. He inhales, and then he slowly blows out smoke and looks at me.
‘Seen any more of your dad?’
I shake my head.
‘Weird business,’ he says, and that’s all he can say, because it’s something he doesn’t understand. It’s not his fault, I know that, but still it’s irritating.
‘It’ll be fine,’ I say.
‘I hope so.’ He gives me back my cigarette, and I take the final drag just before I burn my fingertips, and I am about to throw it away, when a head pokes round the corner.
‘Gotcha!’ I drop the butt and stamp on it. It’s Twisty, one of our teachers. He is called Twisty because of the way he walks, but it is meant kindly, he is well liked by all the students. He walks all the way round and says:
‘Shit, do you have to smoke when I’m on duty? You’ll get me into trouble. Look here,’ he says, putting a hand up his jacket, ‘the new polec booklets have come.’
He is a SUF-er, a Young Socialist member, they have their own lingo and ‘polec’ means political economy. Arvid has joined a study group. He is eager, he grabs the booklet, and Twisty reaches for another.
‘Are you joining as well?’ he says to me. ‘We start on Tuesday.’
I shake my head.
‘He’s not ripe yet,’ Arvid says, ‘but he will be, don’t push him.’
‘That would be great,’ Twisty says. ‘Do you know, Arvid, the membership of the NLF group has doubled since the stunt with the flag? That was a class act.’ Arvid blushes, and I agree. It was a class act.
‘I have to be off. The bell will go in a couple of minutes. No more smoking, please.’ He twists back around the corner, and we get up and brush the pine needles off our trousers.