Dancing in the Dark: My Struggle Book 4 (44 page)

In Sørbøvåg the patients are as fragile as ever – helpless, destitute, with an indomitable will to live, an inextinguishable determination to cope, to manage at all costs. It’s good to be there in the sense that it’s good to have people close to me. But the conditions there eat away at your own will and zest for life. I don’t know how they keep going. Their lives are full of difficulty just managing their daily existences – like getting up, putting their clothes on, cooking, etc. – and yet they have this energy and determination.

Grandad thinks he’s going to live to be a hundred. That makes him happy! Grandma, even with her physical and mental problems, follows what’s going on, or perhaps more what went on, she mixes up the past and the present. The distinction is not always that clear for grandad either. It’s depressing to witness their frailties, but without them life would be very empty. Talking to Auntie Borghild is often a solace and a comfort though, she is clever and wise, has experienced a lot in life and is secure – on top of that, she’s a good talker. I’ve been thinking about going to see her one evening this week for a chat.

I can see writing is an earnest business for you. It must be good to have found something you want to invest time and effort in. The possibilities are endless if you have the courage. That’s what I believe.

As for the jumper, I’ve bought a pattern that can be adapted to suit you. But at the moment I have no desire to either knit or crochet. I might buy one here or send you the money. Have to see. Good luck with everything!

Love, mum.

Could it be true that Kjartan had said I had talent? And that I should send my short story to a publisher?

She would never have written it if it wasn’t.

But what did she mean by my
personal development
? Either the texts were
good
or they
weren’t
?

I opened the letter from Hilde. As expected, I was showered with superlatives. She was looking forward to reading more, she wrote in that open-hearted passionate way only she had.

I put it aside and sat down in front of the typewriter. As soon as I had plugged it in I knew what should happen in the bonfire stories.

They were burning dead bodies! All the fires across the whole of the unending plain were funeral pyres! At first he didn’t understand, but then he went closer and that was when he saw. They were pushing a kind of flat wooden spade under each body and
lifting
it into the flames.

I finished the story in an hour,
tore
the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and hurried up to the school to copy it.

Three days later Irene stood at my door.

I invited her in.

The mood was tense, she tried to handle it as well as she could, we drank tea and chatted, nothing happened.

When she was about to go, she put her arms around me and as she looked up at me I bent down and kissed her.

She was warm and soft and full of life.

‘When will we see each other again?’ she said.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘When would suit you?’

‘Tomorrow?’ she said. ‘Are you at home then? I can get someone to drive me here.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Come tomorrow.’

I stood in the doorway and watched her walk towards the car. My member ached with desire. She turned and waved, then she got into the car and I closed the door, went in and sat on the sofa. I was full of feelings for her, but they were not unambivalent, I liked her and wanted her, but did I like her
enough
? She had been wearing blue jeans and a blue denim jacket, surely everyone knew that didn’t go? At least girls knew? And her note, all the dialect, I hadn’t really liked that.

We should get drunk together, then all the ambivalence would be gone. And if I was drunk
enough
would I be able to see her naked without . . . well, without
that
happening?

I was asleep when she rang the next evening. I dashed into the hall and opened the door. She had her thumbs in her pockets and was smiling at me. Behind her a car was waiting with the engine idling.

‘Fancy a trip to Finnsnes?’ she said.

‘Definitely,’ I said.

The same friend who had been with her the first time, and whose name I had forgotten, was sitting next to the driver, a young man of my age, perhaps her boyfriend, perhaps not. I got in beside Irene, and then we were off. Like everyone here, he drove fast. The music was loud, Creedence Clearwater Revival, obviously a local favourite, and by the bottom of the hill I had a bottle of beer pressed into my hand. All the way there I wanted her, she was so close to me, especially when she laid her arms on the seat in front and leaned forward to chat with the others. They asked me some questions, I answered and asked them some questions, and Irene filled the subsequent silence by chatting with the two at the front. Occasionally she turned to me and explained the background to what they were talking about, her face constantly alternating between a smile and a great tremulous earnestness the times our eyes met.

After around an hour the driver parked in front of the discotheque in Finnsnes, we went in, found a table and ordered some wine, which we shared. We danced, she pressed against me, I wanted her so much I didn’t know where to start. Bloody small talk, what good was that? I knocked back the wine to fill the abyss in me, my pulse accelerated, soon we were dancing all the time. On the way home, at a hundred and twenty over the long flats, we sat in the back smooching. When ‘Stand by Your Man’ came on, I leaned back and laughed, I would write about this in my letters, that’s how redneck this place was, this was what my life was like now. She asked me what had made me laugh, nothing, I said, I’m just happy.

At the turn-off to Håfjord the car stopped.

‘You’ll have to walk from here,’ the driver said. ‘We’re going on to Hellevika.’

‘Isn’t that a hell of a distance?’ I said.

‘No, it’ll take you an hour max,’ he said. ‘If you walk quickly you’ll make it in three-quarters of an hour.’

I kissed Irene one last time, opened the door and stepped out.

In the car they were laughing, I turned, she stuck her head out of the window.

‘We were just kidding. Jump in. Of course we’ll drive you all the way home.’

Through the tunnel, along the fjord. The sea and the mountains lay quite still, wrapped in the grey, equally still, night air.

‘Would you like to sleep here?’ I whispered to Irene as we approached.

‘Love to,’ she whispered back. ‘But I can’t. I have to go home. But I can next weekend. Are you here then?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Then I’ll come,’ she said.

On Mondays I had got into the habit of walking up to the school an hour before lessons started, I ran my eye over what had to be done that day, and when the bell rang I was more often than not sitting at my desk waiting for the pupils to come in. I would talk to them about what they had done since I last saw them.

On this Monday something was brewing, I could sense it as soon as they entered the room. They sat down on their seats in their usual clumsy way. Andrea looked at Vivian, who put her hand up.

‘Is it true you’re going out with Irene from Hellevika?’ she said.

The other girls giggled. Kai Roald rolled his eyes, but he was grinning too.

‘What I do when I’m not at school is none of your business,’ I said.

‘But you normally ask us what we did at the weekend,’ Andrea said.

‘Yes, I do,’ I said. ‘And you may ask me what I did. I’ll tell you.’

‘What did you do?’ Kai Roald said.

‘On Saturday I was at home all day. In the evening I was in Finnsnes. On Sunday I was at home.’

‘Ooh!’ said Vivian. ‘And who were you
with
in Finnsnes then?’

‘That’s got nothing to do with you,’ I said. ‘Shall we make a start?’

‘No!’

I raised my arms in mock frustration.

‘Have you got any more to tell me then?’

‘
Are
you going out with Irene?’ Andrea said.

I smiled, didn’t answer, put the box I had brought in on the desk and handed out the books. We had Norwegian now, the novel they were going to read was
Poison
by Alexander Kielland, one of the few class sets we had. I had started on it the previous Monday, their reading was so bad, I had told the mentor about this in the session I had with her, she advised me to read a book with the class, and that was what we were doing.

‘Oh no,’ they said when they saw the green 1970s cover. ‘Not that one! We don’t understand a word!’

‘It’s in Norwegian,’ I said. ‘Don’t you understand Norwegian?’

‘But it’s so old-fashioned! We really don’t understand it.’

‘Kai Roald, you set the ball rolling.’

Oh, how painful it was to listen to. First of all, he was a bad reader anyway, but Kielland’s style and the dated language destroyed any flow there was and reduced everything to single syllables, hesitation, coughing and stammering. None of them had any idea about the plot. I regretted having chosen this book, but it wouldn’t look good if I just gave up, so I continued to torment them right the way through the lesson, and would do the same the following Monday.

I was on playground duty in the break, so I went to the vestibule in the staffroom to fetch my coat while the pupils ran into the yard behind me.

‘Your father phoned, Karl Ove,’ Hege said, coming towards me with a note in her hand. ‘He said to ring him back. Here’s the number.’

She passed me the note, I hesitated for a moment. The pupils shouldn’t be outside unsupervised. On the other hand, dad was a teacher himself, and if he rang during working hours it was bound to be important.

Oh, of course. The baby must have been born.

I went in and dialled the number.

‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Hi, Dad, this is Karl Ove. I was told you’d rung.’

‘Yes, you’re a big brother now,’ he said.

‘Oh great!’ I said. ‘Boy or girl?’

‘A little girl,’ he said.

Was he drunk or just very happy?

‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘That’s wonderful.’

‘Yes, it’s wonderful. We’ve just come home. I’d better look after them now.’

‘Everything OK with Unni?’

‘Oh yes. Talk later. Bye.’

‘Bye. And congratulations once again!’

I put down the phone and went out, smiled at Hege, who sent me a look, buttoned up my coat and hurried through the vestibule into the playground. I had hardly emerged before Reidar slunk up to me. He could be unbearably clingy and exploited every situation to make sure he was the centre of attention. In the classroom he would answer everything, comment on everything, always know better, always want to be the best. With me and the other teachers he was always ingratiating. He was a particularly detestable boy. He reminded me of myself when I was younger. I took every opportunity to try to eradicate this behaviour as it would make his life difficult later, but there was scant reward for my efforts, after every harsh word there he was, back like a bouncing ball.

When I found out that he was the brother of Andrea in my class I felt slightly better disposed towards him, she was my favourite student, and their being siblings touched me in a way, although I didn’t really understand why it should.

‘Karl Ove, Karl Ove,’ he said, tugging at my coat.

‘Yes, what is it?’ I said. ‘And don’t pull at my coat!’

‘Can I go back into the classroom?’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘I forgot my flubber. I just want to get it. Please, please, please!’

‘No,’ I said, walking towards the football pitch.

He followed me.

‘If Torill had been on playground duty she would have let me,’ he said.

‘Do I look like Torill?’ I said.

He laughed. ‘No!’

‘Run along now,’ I said. ‘Scram!’

He ran off, slowed to a walk and stopped by five other children in his class, who were skipping just beyond the school wall.

A gust of wind blew across the pitch, whirled up sand and dust from the road, I blinked a few times to clear my eyes.

It was strange to think that dad had become a father again.

I turned and looked towards the school building. Two ninth-year girls came out of the door and set off down the hill. Both wearing tight blue jeans, white trainers and big jackets. One with dark hair pinned up at the back, the other with light brown permed hair and big curls that kept falling in front of her eyes and making her toss her head. She had such an elegant neck, long and white and slender. And such a fantastic bum.

No, I couldn’t walk around with such thoughts in my mind, I would end up going crazy or in prison.

I smiled, turned back and looked towards the usual gang playing football, across at the kids skipping, who seemed to be fine.

Oh no, Fatty was making a beeline for me.

‘Hi!’ he said, fixing me with his sad and happy eyes.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Have you been skipping?’

‘Yes, but I was out straight away.’

‘Life’s like that,’ I said.

‘Can I come to your flat today?’ he said.

‘My flat? Why?’

‘A little visit would be nice, wouldn’t it?’ he said.

I smiled. ‘Yes, that’s true. But today isn’t so good. I have to work, you see. But bring a friend along and drop by another day.’

‘OK,’ he said.

I took the watch from my pocket and checked the time.

‘Two minutes to the bell,’ I said. ‘If we walk slowly we’ll be at the door by the time it rings.’

He held my hand and we walked to the entrance together.

Andrea and Hildegunn were standing with their hands in their back pockets under Richard’s window and watched us as we approached.

‘
Poison
’s so boring,’ Andrea said. ‘Can we do something else?’

‘It’s a Norwegian literary classic,’ I said.

‘We don’t give a shit what it is,’ Hildegunn said.

I raised an admonitory finger to them.

They laughed and the bell rang.

On Saturday I played my first home game. Our strip was green with thin white stripes, white shorts and green socks. I played centre back while Nils Erik, wearing tights under his shorts, shuffled up and down the touchline.