You think that I’m getting carried away with this, don’t you? my mother asked. I don’t know what you’re doing, I replied. She stood up and walked over to the window with a view of the fjord. She said that she was going to give me some advice. Nobody will really help you in this life, she said. People just help themselves, she said. You get help only if you have a common goal with someone. And that is the closest you will come to happiness. She went over to the kitchen with her coffee cup, then she came back and caressed me through my hair. Why do you think men do stupid things? my mother asked. She said that men either messed up for their own sake or else they did terrible things because of women. Often they do both at the same time. But what do you know about this? she said. How can you know, you’re fifteen, you haven’t done anything at all yet.
My little brother came down while we were standing there; he was still half asleep. He walked straight over to our mother, who hugged him and sat him on her lap. She asked if he’d slept all right. Fredrik had been awake when I came up to the room last night. It was hot and stuffy and he was lying on top of the quilt wearing only his pants. How much do you think that car costs? he’d asked me. Don’t you understand? I’d said to him. She’s fucking him, you know? Fredrik hadn’t said anything. A little later I’d heard him crying in the semi-darkness. Mother rocked Fredrik on her lap and kissed him on the head. When is Dad coming? he asked. Next Friday, mother answered. She waited a bit, then she added: But it’s not certain that he’s coming. Why not? Fredrik asked. We’ll see, mother said.
Lars Paalgaard showed up again in the T-Bird that same evening. This time he was wearing a pale suit and sunglasses on his nose. We were playing football in the meadow when I saw him come driving up. Mother went up to greet him. Fredrik wanted to follow her. He asked if I thought we could go for a drive in the T-Bird today too. I held him back. Don’t, I said. Fredrik looked at me, then he pulled free; he was irritated and disappointed. Don’t, I said again when I saw he was on his way up the hill. Paalgaard and my mother were laughing between themselves. He stroked her neck and she let him do it. I didn’t understand why they were so careless: they were broadcasting what they were up to, showing it off so any old idiot would have to get it. I didn’t understand why my mother wanted to risk so much; she behaved as if nothing meant anything any longer, or as if losing everything could be satisfying in its own right. She was willing to give up everything because she wanted something else so intensely.
A good hour later they came out of the cabin, and Mother introduced Lars Paalgaard to the others who were outside barbecuing. Everyone tried to behave normally, but they’d seen what they’d seen and the usual chatter fell silent and the atmosphere grew confused. Nobody really knew what to say, or how to stand or look or move. We were about to start eating pork chops and potato salad when I heard the sound of a motorcycle coming down towards the cabins. My mother heard it too; she spun around suddenly. I peeked over at Lars Paalgaard. He got up out of the folding chair he was sitting in. He looked up towards the motorcycle and then over at Mother. She laid her hand on one of his arms.
The motorcyclist parked beside the T-Bird. I recognized the body type and the vehicle, but prayed to God that it wasn’t him. I prayed that it was anyone else but my own father who was standing there and slowly pulling off his gloves and helmet. Fredrik was already on his way up the hill; he received a hug and was lifted up high in the air. Then the two of them came walking down the path, hand in hand. Somebody handed my father a bottle of beer as soon as he came down to us. His co-workers made a toast and welcomed him, greeting him in a way that was both heartfelt and anxious. Later I understood that it must have been one or more of these co-workers who’d called and told him. They’d probably thought this had gone too far. Now he was here and nobody had any idea of what was going to happen. My father went over to my mother, kissed her on the cheek and put his arm around her waist. Mother didn’t say anything. Then he greeted Lars Paalgaard politely. They both said their names and then Father said: What a nice day. What did you do? He nodded towards the food that was prepared. He said that he’d come home to dinner on the table, he said that he felt like a king. He lifted his bottle and smiled. Well, cheers then! The fathers raised their bottles in reply and drank. The mothers threw themselves with relief into the job of serving.
While we were eating, the men discussed the World Cup match between the GDR and West Germany. Everyone loved Jürgen Sparwasser, the way the centre forward got around the defence and drilled the ball up into the top of the net. Most of them believed it proved Communism was completely superior to Capitalism. I stared at Lars Paalgaard while I was eating. He didn’t say anything. Either he had no clue about football or his mind was far, far away. After we’d eaten—I ate quickly and ravenously—my father turned towards Lars Paalgaard: The two of us should have a talk. What do you think? Paalgaard turned to Mother questioningly, but she just looked down into the drink she held in her lap. Are you coming? my father said to Paalgaard. He’d got to his feet. The two of them walked up towards the road: a tall man in a pale suit and a stocky guy in T-shirt and flared jeans.
They stood there up by the T-Bird, almost in the same way Paalgaard and my mother had been standing on the shore the night before. After a little while the two of them got in and sat in their respective seats. It didn’t seem like they were talking. To me, it looked as if they were just sitting there, staring straight ahead through the windscreen. Lars Paalgaard had both of his hands on the steering wheel. My father had lit a cigarette. It was comical, it was as if they were just playing that they were driving at full speed down the highway. If somebody had taken a picture of them from a distance, it would have looked like an idyllic image of two men taking a drive through a beautiful summer landscape.
Mother had risen to her feet now and was standing with her back to the others; she smoked and stared almost demonstratively out towards the fjord. The neighbour family’s dog ran around with a ball in its mouth and tried to get people to play, but everyone was watching those two up in the T-Bird. I saw people rolling their eyes and some of them whispering among themselves. After a couple of minutes, Paalgaard twisted the key in the ignition and the car began rolling slowly out onto the gravel road. Somebody sighed; my mother turned around. She called Paalgaard’s name, but the car didn’t stop. She started walking up the hill, at first quickly, then more slowly. She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest as if warding off a fit of the shivers. The car drove through the aggregation of cabins and disappeared between the pine trees. That was the last time I saw Lars Paalgaard alive and, had I known it then, I would have said something to him. I don’t know what, but I would have said something or other.
Father came back around 12.30 that night. I was sitting by the window in the cabin, waiting for him.
Fredrik had gone to bed. My mother said I should get away from the window, but she didn’t have any kind of sensible reply when I asked her why. You should do it because I tell you to, she said. I couldn’t see anything unusual about my father when he came walking up under the street lights and cut across the way up towards the cabin. As he approached, he was met by a co-worker, a dark-haired guy they called Elvis, but I don’t know why. He neither looked like Elvis nor could he sing like Elvis.