‘The hamster,’ he said decisively and walked to the counter.
The camel followed with the little animal in her hand.
‘You’ll also need a number of things,’ she explained eagerly. ‘Cage. Toys. Food bowl and water bowl. You should get this vitamin supplement which you drip into the drinking water. And they like to make a nest for themselves. You can buy cotton rags at the petrol station next door, they don’t cost much.’ She held a little bottle with a dropper out to him. ‘Here are the vitamins. We also have a powder here, with minerals and such, which you sprinkle over his food every morning. For his bones. You shouldn’t be careless about such things.’
‘No!’ he objected. ‘Leave me alone. I already have a cage. I have everything I need, and I don’t have the money for all that stuff. Jesus, it’s only a hamster. I’m not running a hotel!’
She put the hamster in a box with holes. Squeezed her lips into a thin line and was affronted because he’d rejected her expertise.
But Johnny was content. He paid 250 kroner for the little devil, and left the shop with his new friend under his arm. If she drowns this one, I’ll bring a spider home, he thought.
Or a snake.
When he got home, his mother was wearing a dress.
It happened very rarely, so he stood staring into the kitchen. The dress was dark blue with a white ruche at the hem and, to be honest, resembled something from a bygone era. But it was a change, perhaps even an improvement. For in this outfit she acted completely differently. She wore high-heeled shoes with ankle straps, the heels resembling spools: narrow in the middle and fatter above and below. She had brushed her dark hair, and, at first glance, she could’ve passed for a woman with her life under control, a woman with a certain level of self-discipline, will and decisiveness. But her suffering was just as visible. The affliction, the alcoholism, could be seen in the fierce line of her mouth, the wronged look in her eyes, the trembling in her hands and unsteadiness of her gait. It was obvious she was hardened. She’d been unjustly treated and wasn’t responsible for her own situation; her alcoholism had been out of her control, just as people who are struck by lightning cannot control the lightning. She couldn’t have defended herself against it. She was a victim. She didn’t have a choice; she listened to her body, and her body wrenched her whenever the intoxication began to ebb. The discomfort, she couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t follow through, couldn’t please, couldn’t serve, couldn’t participate. She was a shipwreck, and she was sinking. But now she had put on a dress and was stone-cold sober, or at least that’s what it seemed to him. She had raised her sails. The goal, he thought as he observed her, is money. She tottered around in her high heels, and he held his breath when he saw how her ankles struggled to hold her weight, to keep her upright.
But so far, it was working.
She held her head high. Smoothing her dress, she didn’t see him. He pressed himself against the door frame, holding the box behind his back. The hamster scratched and clawed inside the box, but she didn’t notice it. She looked out of the window, noted the clouds, and grabbed a coat from a wall hook. The coat was ancient, a thin, faux fur, grey-brown with some darker spots.
She put it on before the mirror in the hallway.
Yes, she’s looking for money, Johnny thought. She must have discovered some form of public assistance she might be entitled to. Maybe there was something in the newspaper about new welfare regulations — after all, the government has promised to help the poor. If she looked presentable, if her heels carried her, if people just noticed the ruche on the hem of her dress. Silently he leaned against the wall and listened to her footsteps, the sharp clap. The heels spoke their own language. It is my right, the heels said decisively. It’s not too much to ask for.
Finally she grabbed her bag and left. He ran straight to the window and watched her stalk towards the bus stop. She’s probably going into the city, he thought, to some office or other, where she’ll wipe away tears in her theatrical way. She wobbled slightly in her heels. His cheeks began to burn, because he realised everyone could see her: the neighbours and anyone driving past. The spotted coat made her look like a hyena, and now she was out hunting for carrion. Without wanting to, he felt pity for her. She looked so vulnerable in the harsh light. It tormented and confused him. The empathy weighed him down, made him heavy and sad and despondent. So he tried to muster some anger instead. His anger gave him the energy to act. When she was finally out of sight, he went to his room to get a closer look at the hamster. He decided to call it Butch. Or, put in another way, the Butcher from Askeland. It was doing well. He put it in the cage, and it seemed happy in its new home. After he had eaten a bowl of cereal, he went out and started up his moped again. He put his helmet on and drove on to the road, throwing a glance towards the bus stop.
The hyena was gone.
He checked his fuel gauge and accelerated. He wore his thin riding gloves with the skulls. Speed gave him a feeling of superiority. He felt invincible, faster and smarter than everyone else. Here comes Johnny Beskow, he thought. You can build all you want, but I will tear down your towers. That’s how powerful I am.
The road cut through a landscape of yellow fields, passed the church and Lake Skarve, Bjerkås town centre, headed towards Kirkeby and finally went eastward to Sandberg, Out here people had more money. You could see it in the houses, which were bigger and better kept than they were at Askeland. Swiss-style houses. Double garages. Big gardens. Small, silly fountains, solar-powered lights along the driveways. He neared the centre of Sandberg. To the left was a grassy slope bordering a playing field, and to the right an enormous house. He was on Sandbergveien. When he passed house number 15, something caught his attention. He eased up on the throttle. A couple were sitting outside in the sun, at a table. The man stood out for several reasons.
He was older than the woman.
He was emaciated, his body hunched.
He was in a wheelchair.
Johnny pulled off the road and laid the moped on the slope. Then he squatted down in the grass and stared at the couple. Sensing his presence, they looked at him. So he took out his mobile, pretended to punch in a number and put it to his ear. Then they turned their attention back to each other.
Johnny observed them on the sly. The man in the wheelchair wore shorts; he had bare, bluish-white legs that wouldn’t support him. His hair was thin and matted, and his hands, resting on the wheels, also seemed to be unusable. There must be something more going on than paralysis in his legs, Johnny thought, because as he studied the man he noticed the thick plastic tube in his neck. That meant he needed help breathing. It meant that his illness had spread and reached the muscles around his lungs. The woman scurried about and tended to him, poured drinks, held the cup to his mouth. Wiped his chin and cheek with a napkin, fluffed a pillow behind his back. Aimlessly she rearranged a dish on the table, but neither of them touched the food.
After staring for a long time at the couple in the garden, Johnny wandered a few steps down the road. He stopped at their mailbox, read the name and address, and returned to the slope and sat. The Landmarks. Astrid and Helge Landmark, Sandbergveien 15. He found their number through directory enquiries, and dialled.
The woman heard the telephone ringing through the open patio door, and she disappeared into the house to answer.
The man was now alone in the garden. Helpless in his wheelchair with his ruined legs. He tried to work out where the woman, his helper, the one he was dependent on, had gone. If he needed something, he would have to shout. If he was able to shout. He hardly had the strength to communicate the unrest in his doughy body.