“It was a she,” I said.
“Oh,” Mom said.
When, four days later, I was walking up through the forest with Geir, Leif Tore, and Trond, after the brief and unsuccessful hunt for treasure at the end of the rainbow, the fantasy of being able to swim among the trees there made me pause to wonder whether I would ever be able to swim at all. Grandad couldn’t swim, and at one time he had even been a fisherman. I didn’t know if Grandma could, but I found it difficult to imagine her swimming.
Behind the swaying pine trees clouds scudded across the sky.
What was the time, I wondered.
“Do you have your watch on, Geir?” I said.
He shook his head.
“I do,” Trond said, thrusting his hand forward and up, making his sleeve glide back, so that his watch was visible.
“Twenty-five past one, no, past two,” he said.
“Twenty-five past two?” I said.
He nodded and my stomach churned. On Saturdays we had rice pudding at one.
Oh no, oh no.
I broke into a run, as if that would help.
“Got a rocket up your ass, or what?” said Leif Tore behind me. I craned my head.
“Lunch was supposed to be at one,” I said. “I’d better go.”
Up the soft fir-needle-strewn incline, over the little algae-green stream, past the tall spruce and up the slope to the road. Both Mom’s and Dad’s cars were there. But not Yngve’s bike. Had he been home, eaten, and cycled off again? Or he was he late as well?
The thought, unlikely though it was, kept a little hope burning within me.
Across the road, into the drive. Dad might be behind the house, might come round the corner at any second. Might be waiting for me in the hall, might be in his study, and tear the door open when he heard me. Might be standing at the kitchen window waiting for me to appear.
I closed the door gently behind me and stood still for a couple of seconds. Footsteps on the kitchen floor above me. Dad’s. I took off my boots, placed them by the wall, unbuttoned my waterproof jacket, pulled down my waterproof trousers, took them into the boiler room, and hung them on the line there. Stopped and glanced at myself in the mirror above the chest of drawers. My cheeks were red, my hair was a mess, there was some shiny snot under my nose. My teeth stuck out as always. Buckteeth, as people called them. I went upstairs and into the kitchen. Mom was doing the dishes; Dad was sitting at the table eating crab claws. Both looked at me. The pot of rice was on the stove, the orange plastic ladle protruding.
“I lost track of time,” I said. “Sorry. We were having a lot of fun.”
“Sit down,” Dad said. “You must be hungry, I imagine.”
Mom took a dish from the cupboard, filled it with rice pudding, and put a bowl of sugar, a packet of margarine, and a cinnamon shaker, which hadn’t been put away with the other spices, beside it.
“What have you been up to?” she said. “Oh, you need a spoon as well.”
“This and that,” I said.
“You and …?” Dad said, without looking at me. He folded the small white bits that stuck out from the end of the hairy orange claw to the side and put the claw to his mouth. Sucked at it with a short slurp. I could hear the meat being released and sliding into his mouth.
“Geir, Leif Tore, and Trond,” I said. He broke the empty claw at the joint and began to suck on the next. I put a knob of margarine on the rice, even though it wasn’t warm enough to melt, and sprinkled some cinnamon and sugar on it.
“I’ve cleaned the roof gutters,” he said. “You should have been here.”
“Oh, yes,” I said.
“But now I’m going to chop a bit of wood. As soon as you’ve eaten up, you can join me.”
I nodded and tried to look happy, but he could read my thoughts. “We’ll be finished in time for the match,” he said. “Who’s playing today?”
“Stoke and Norwich,” I said.
“Noritsch,” he said, correcting my pronunciation.
“Nowitsch,” I said.
I liked Norwich, I liked their yellow-and-green uniforms. I liked Stoke, too, with their red-and-white-striped shirts. But best of all I liked the Wolverhampton Wanderers, who played in gold and black and whose mascot was a wolf’s head. Wolves, that was my team.
I would have preferred to lie down and read until the match started, but I couldn’t say no to Dad, and bearing in mind what could have happened I had to count myself lucky.
The rice was so cold that I ate it in a couple of minutes.
“Are you full?” Dad said.
I nodded.
“Let’s go then,” he said.
He scooped the empty crab shells into the trash can, put the plates on the counter, and went out, with me hard on his heels. From Yngve’s room came the sound of music. I looked at the door, nonplussed. How could that be? His bike wasn’t there.
“Come on,” Dad said, already on the landing. I followed him. On with my jacket and boots, out onto the gravel, wait for him. He came a few minutes later with an ax in his hand and a playful glint in his eye. Follow him over the flagstones, then across the waterlogged lawn. We weren’t allowed to walk on the grass, but when I was with him, such edicts could be lifted.
Quite a long time ago he had chopped down a birch tree by the fence in the kitchen garden. All that remained of it was a pile of logs that he wanted to split now. I wasn’t supposed to do anything, just stand there and watch, to “keep him company,” as he called it.
He removed the tarpaulin, took a log, and placed it on the chopping block.
“Well?” he said, raising the ax above his shoulder, concentrating for a second, and letting fly. The blade bit into the white wood. “Everything going well at school?”
“Yes,” I said.
He lifted the log with the ax wedged in and hit it against the block a few times until it split into two. Held the parts and split them, placed them on the ground by the rock face, wiped his brow with his hand, and straightened up. I could see from his body that he was happy.
“And Frøken?” he said. “Torgersen was her name, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “She’s nice.”
“Nice?” he said, taking a new log and repeating the procedure.
“Yes,” I said.
“Is there anyone who isn’t nice?” he said.
I hesitated. He suspended his chopping activities for a moment.
“Well, since you say that she’s nice, there must be someone who isn’t nice. Otherwise the word loses all its meaning. Do you understand?”
He resumed his work.
“I think so,” I said.
There was a silence. I turned away and saw the water rising above the grass beyond the path.
“Myklebust, he’s not so nice,” I said, turning back.
“Myklebust!” Dad said. “I know him.”
“Do you?” I said.
“Sure. He comes to the meetings at the Teachers’ Association. Next time I see him, I’ll tell him you said he wasn’t nice to your class.”
“No, please don’t do that!” I said.
He smiled.
“Of course I won’t,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
Then there was another silence. Dad worked, I stood there with my arms hanging down by my sides, motionless, watching. My feet were beginning to get cold. I wasn’t wearing thick socks. And my fingers were beginning to get cold.
There was no one out. Apart from the occasional car that went past, there wasn’t a soul around. The lights in the houses were beginning to get brighter, apparently regulated and intensified by the nascent twilight, which, in contrast with the open sky, seemed to rise from the ground. As though beneath us there was a reservoir of darkness that seeped through thousands, no, millions of tiny holes in the ground every afternoon.
I watched Dad. Sweat was running down his forehead. I rubbed my palms against each other several times. He leaned forward. Just as he was grabbing the log and about to straighten up, he farted. Caught in the act.