In The Wake (8 page)

I lie perfectly still. I know I am freezing, that the cold is just about to grab me, but if I do not move I can keep it at bay, let it stay out in my body and away from that which is me. I could lie here like a Zen Buddhist bundle
in
a blue pea jacket and be pure spirit. That would
have been something. But it won’t work. Once I have thought of movement there is no way back. I
have
to raise my arm. And then I can’t do it, the link is broken, I must concentrate and use all my will, and the moment I see my arm go up, I start to shudder. First in the hand, it vibrates, and then the arm vibrates, and it spreads to my hips and on to my legs and back again at full strength so that
my teeth start to chatter and my head beats against the ground, there is epilepsy in all my muscles, and I let out a howl so horrible and cut up that I stop at once. Down there is the road, behind my head up the hill are the blocks of flats. Who heard me howl? There are wolves in the forest, bar all your doors.

I struggle to my knees, my body shuddering as if it knew no shame, there is ice in
my spine and it is dark between the trees now the helicopter has gone, and the hill rises vertically before me. Then I get to my feet and start to climb. I do not know how long it takes me. But anyway it does not matter, for time is the same in both directions, and all is the same on my way up the hill, I could go on like this for ever. I take up lot of space and lose the path and bump into trees
and stumble over stones, and I imagine someone standing there, looking at all this and laughing, for I am good entertainment. I would have liked to have seen me myself and I laugh too, between my chattering teeth. Ho, ho, ho, I laugh, ho, ho, ho, and suddenly I am standing close to the
nearest
block. Where did that come from? But it is not my one. They look alike, but it isn’t mine. I have to
go round this one and on past two more blocks, and then I am home. I can do that. I move on again, and finally get round the last corner. There is light in one window in the block up to the right. That is my window, and I stop and lean on my knees and I puff and I shake and I stare up at the window thinking: that is where I live. And I consider what I think of that, and then it all turns empty. In
the block to the left there is light in a window right opposite mine, and Mrs Grinde is probably standing there looking across at me. But I am not home, I’m standing right here. And I shall stand here as long as I have the strength.

A lamp is alight above the door to my entrance. I take the last steps over there and suddenly it seems a nice light to me, a wonderful light, and with frozen fingers
I fumble in my trouser pockets, searching for my keys, and then they are not there. But I always keep my keys in my right-hand pocket. I have travelled all over the country and in England and the USA and always kept my keys in the same pocket, for no matter how ingenious a place I find I always manage to forget where it is. But they are not in my trouser pockets, nor my jacket pockets, there are
no keys in any pocket. I lean against the door. I am freezing. I look at my watch. It says half past three. I look at the doorbells and name plates by each bell push. His name has been written
with
a ball-pen on a scrap of cardboard. Naim Hajo. One favour is worth another, is what I think, about to press the bell push. But then I remember the brass bowl. We are quits, he does not owe me anything.
Besides, he has children, it would wake the whole family. I can’t do that, and I realise that even if I freeze until I can no longer think I shall not ring that bell. So I go to the only place that comes to mind.

The door to her block’s entrance is not locked, and the stairwell is painted the same as mine is, a cheerful blue in two shades in accordance with strict rules, with stencils of flowers
on every third step to make it cosy, and it is so cosy that goose pimples spread on my skin as the cold strikes out from the walls, and it should have been spring now, but it is all a mess. I walk upstairs to the second floor of this stairwell that looks like mine but is not mine at all, and I push the bell where it says
G. GRINDE
on a small green plate above the bell, and I figure she must be
called Gudrun Grinde, like an auntie on children’s television, or Grete, or Guri, or Gunilla Grinde, maybe she’s actually Swedish.

There is a long silence. I know she is there, but she does not come to the door. My legs are shaking, I can’t stand up much longer, so I sit down on the lowest step of the stairs going up to the top floor facing G. Grinde’s door and listen. Finally, I hear footsteps
on linoleum, the door handle turns and the door slowly opens. Out sticks a mop of brown hair and a frightened face I have
only
seen in the shop and sometimes behind her window, but then she’s had her glasses on. Her eyes are nothing like as severe as I remember them. She ought perhaps to change glasses or get herself some contact lenses. I can see the collar of a dressing gown, dark blue with
red stripes, it is quite shabby, and I can see the skin of her neck in soft shadow. She stares at me blankly. Through the crack in the door I can glimpse the room that looks out on to the grounds and on to my block. There is a bed in there. It is not the kitchen. I do not know why I thought it was the kitchen. There is a light on by the window, and a coat-stand at the end of the bed. There are no
binoculars that I can see.

“Did I wake you?” I say. And I suddenly realise I have done just that, but she makes no reply. She does not understand anything.

“I hope you were awake,” I say, “I saw the light was on. It was the only light in the whole block, so I came here. I didn’t know where else to go,” I say, and as I speak I try to get up from where I am sitting without shaking. It’s not so
damned easy, and she swallows quite visibly, and then she says in a surprisingly deep voice: “I always sleep with the light on.”

“Oh,” I say, and her eyes slowly focus. Now she is really staring at me, she recognises me, and I am on my feet now, I am standing straight, if not steadfast. But my teeth are chattering.

“Hell, you’ll have to forgive me,” I say. “I don’t know
what
I’m doing. I saw
the light was on, and I just came up here. That’s all. I’m sorry to have woken you up. I’ll go away now.” And I start to walk, but I can’t stop shaking, and there is a clattering in my mouth, that step I sat on was far from warm, and I must look pretty weird.

“Are you ill?” she asks.

“I don’t know. I’m freezing, I can tell you that. I’m as cold as hell,” I say, and laugh, “ho, ho, ho.”

She
is awake now, and my laughter confuses her. She bites her lip.

“So why are you so terribly cold?”

“I fell asleep down on the hillside. Luckily something woke me up.”

“An angel, maybe,” she says, and suddenly smiles such a sweet smile that I could have fallen to my knees and kissed her dressing gown, but that would have been way too much for me in the state that I am in, and certainly for her.
She is younger than I had imagined, or rather, certainly younger than
me
, which is not saying much at present, for everyone I see these days who is definitely a grown-up is younger than I am, and it doesn’t help no matter how long I look at myself in the mirror. I see the same person I have always seen, whereas everyone else keeps changing, and I have a shock each time I realise that this is not
how it is.

There is a vein in her neck that pulses almost
unnoticeably
. She doesn’t know that herself, but
I
can see it and that is where I keep my eyes fixed.

“It was a helicopter,” I say.

“A modern angel then,” she says and laughs softly in her deep voice, and then I know I don’t want to leave.

“Maybe it was,” I say. I shiver and hang in there, she might laugh once more, she might ask me
in, anything might happen on a night like this when no-one else is awake except perhaps a nurse who at certain intervals walks down a corridor to check a curve on a screen. I wish she would ask me in. I cannot just stand here indefinitely.

She bites her lip again and says: “Maybe you had better come in for a while. You don’t look too well.” She opens the door wider and steps aside. I can see
into the hall and straight into the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. If that is me in the mirror by God I don’t look well, my face white and unfamiliar, my hair sticking out in all directions and there are big stains on my jacket and the knees of my trousers. How does she dare, I wonder.

She keeps it nice and warm in her place. I feel it on my face as I cross the threshold. There is a chair
just to the right of the door. I sit down on that. I do not want to intrude, I don’t know
what
I am doing here really, it is just that I can’t find my keys. But I have not told her that yet. She stands barefoot in the middle of the hall with a dressing gown tied tightly round her waist with
a
leather belt, like a paramilitary dressing gown, I think, and she runs her hand through her hair and bites
her lip, and I close my eyes and let the heat ooze gently in through my clothes, through my skin until my hands and feet start to tingle so sharply that it hurts, and I could not have moved if I wanted to. But I do not want to. I want to sit right here.

When I open my eyes again she looks different. Her hair has been brushed back from her face.

“I can’t see very well without glasses,” she says.
“I thought you were drunk, you frightened me a bit.”

I nod. “I’m not drunk,” I say.

“No,” she says. “You’re not drunk. I can see that now.”

She stands short-sighted in front of me, and I sit on the chair. We are waiting for something. Here in the no man’s land right inside her door; the to-and-fro place, but no place really. Finally, she sits down on the chest underneath the mirror. She is
tired.

“Could I just sit here for a bit?” I say. “Then I’ll go away. You go back to bed. I’ll be fine.”

She runs her hand through her hair. “Oh, but I can’t do that,” she says.

No, of course she can’t. We wait again. She thinks my eyes are closed, and they are, in a way, at least very nearly, but I can see her all the same and I like her and I like the skin of her throat and know how warm it
is just there and then on and on into extents and
roundings
beyond comprehension. But
she
doesn’t know that, I can see she does not, and I would have to talk her out of that belt and that dressing gown and into her bed and then do what I had to do, which I honestly have nothing against, but really am not up to right now, to get into that warmth and thaw myself out as Erik Lagus did in the Stockholm
of
The Class Warrior
thirty-three years ago when I was only ten and knew all there was to know about skin without even giving it a thought, for the warmth was everywhere then, in the walls of houses and rough stones and in the bark of the tall pine tree by the path down to Dumpa and in the hoods of black cars and in my father’s blue T-shirt and what was inside that shirt. But all that was lost
long ago, and I do not have the strength to try. It is hard work. It would take me at least an hour to get her there even if it was at all possible, and I only have a few minutes left before I must leave. It is too late now to say I have no keys.

I open my eyes wide, looking straight at her, and then she gets up from the chest, not impatiently, but restlessly maybe, at a loss.

“May I tell you
something?” I ask.

“About what?”

“Something about my father.”

She bites her lip again and does not know what to say, and then she says: “I suppose you may. Will it take long?”

“Oh, no,” I say.

*

Only six months before my father died he had to go to hospital. He had been there earlier for a minor operation. Now they were afraid he had cancer. He was seventy-six, but on the few occasions I
saw him he looked the same as he had always done. Maybe I was being dim. I don’t know. There were so many other things. My head was full of cotton wool. I was always tired. My first book had just been published. Almost everything in that book was about him, and I knew he had read it, my mother said he had, but he never mentioned it when I went home to visit. Their neighbours too had read it and the
other old chaps stopped him on the road in front of the house and said: “Well, well, Frank, we didn’t know you used to be such a tough guy,” and then he just smiled secretively and would not say a word. Perhaps he was a little proud, or he smiled because he had no choice. I will never know. But he and I could not talk.

Then my mother called one day.

“Your father has been in hospital for several
days,” she said. “You have to go and see him.”

I’m sure I knew he was there. One of my brothers must have told me, but I hadn’t taken it in. It was nothing to do with me. I had never been to see anyone in hospital before. But now I did go.

It took less than half an hour to drive to Aker Hospital. It was early October and the rowan berries
hung
in heavy clusters at the edge of the forest alongside
Gamleveien on the journey in. All the leaves had blown away in a few nights, all the colour was gone, and the berries hung as the only decorations, and had ripened and fermented in the cold weather and were about to split, and I had heard the thrushes liked them especially just then. They gobbled them up and afterwards were so intoxicated they were not able to fly straight. They could not get
enough of them. It’s the truth. Someone I trust had told me, and that was what I was thinking about as I drove in to the hospital along Gamleveien, past Lørenskog station and on to Økern and Sinsen; how the thrushes ate fermented rowan berries and got drunk. I had never seen it myself, but I could picture it clearly, and I remember I wished the road to Aker Hospital would be longer than that half-hour.
But it was not, and there was hardly any traffic, so it took even less time. So I stayed in the car in the car park for more than ten minutes. Several more cars arrived as I sat there, and almost everyone who got out carried flowers or nicely wrapped boxes of chocolate, and some had brought books for the people they were visiting. I hadn’t brought anything.