Dag Solstad - Novel 11, Book 18

Bjørn Hansen came to feel strongly ambivalent both about Dr Schiøtz and the plan as the doctor became more and more absorbed in its preparation. He was provoked by the doctor’s clinical way of discussing a future event that would leave his life fundamentally altered, indeed, catastrophically altered; it was about a descent into the unknown and the absolutely irrevocable, and since Bjørn Hansen suspected Dr Schiøtz of eagerly espousing this plan despite the fact that he, as a physician, must consider it to be not only stupid but self-destructive, well, ‘sick,’ it must mean that the doctor was trying to make him ‘fall’, because only then could they become equals, beyond everything, each with his own secret suffering. Nevertheless he became so fascinated by the plan, not least its possible execution, that he often thought: ‘I’ll do it. I’ll do it, God help me! Nobody can stop me from doing it, at last. But it is insane, of course, insanely tempting, it is madness!’ And in the end, when he understood that he was gambling so desperately with his own life that he considered, in all seriousness, to go through with this enterprise, he exclaimed aloud if he was by himself, ‘No, no, this isn’t true! This isn’t me!’

But then he had a letter from his son. It arrived at the end of May and took him completely by surprise. He had not seen his son since he was fourteen, when Peter, who lived with his mother and stepfather in Narvik, stopped seeing him in the summer, since it did not fit into the youth’s other, more exciting plans. But they had not been completely out of contact. They talked on the telephone several times a year, at Christmas and on birthdays. And Peter had often called him when he had something exceptionally joyful to tell him, as when he had received particularly good marks in school, or his team, or he himself, had excelled on the sports ground. But this was the first time Bjørn had received a letter from him.

Peter Korpi Hansen was now twenty years old. He was in the army and was to be discharged in a few weeks, at the beginning of June. The letter had been posted from his barracks and on the back of the envelope his son had entered his service number before his name, along with the troop and the company to which he belonged. He wrote that come autumn he would start at Kongsberg Engineering College, where he had been admitted to the optics programme. In that connection he wondered whether he could stay with his father during the first term, or at least until he had found suitable lodgings at a reasonable price.

Bjørn Hansen was moved. He immediately sat down at his desk and wrote back. Of course Peter could stay with him, nothing would give him more pleasure. He had space enough, so he didn’t have to look around for lodgings, unless he preferred to live elsewhere than with his father; if so, he would not be hurt, because he knew that many young men did.

Afterwards — because the letter was a bit short, he thought — he added a few lines about his everyday life as town treasurer at Kongsberg. He explained how the hard times had led to an increased workload for him, as people who had lived beyond their means during the good times were unable to meet their obligations when the turnaround came, with the result that the number of bankruptcies had greatly increased, which was regrettable, of course, but something he could do nothing about. Still, don’t imagine it’s pleasant for me to put my name to a document that takes away the homes of ordinary people who can no longer meet their obligations, he wrote. To tell the truth, it breaks my heart; but my face reveals none of that, because my feelings cannot help those involved anyway.

After adding a few words to the effect that he looked forward to seeing Peter here at Kongsberg, he signed the letter Your father , put it in an envelope and sealed it. He looked about him in the flat. There was space enough for more than one person. It consisted of four rooms. A large living room, which served as parlour and dining room and had a broad sliding door onto a friendly balcony with evening sunlight. He had a kitchen with all modern facilities, except for a microwave, which was only good for preparing junk food anyway. In addition there were two large bedrooms, one of which Bjørn Hansen had furnished as a library, where he was now writing to his son. To keep the flat clean, he had employed a young girl, who was in her next-to-last year in secondary school. She was the daughter of Mrs Johansen at the Treasury and was called Mari Ann. Strictly speaking, he could very well have kept the flat tidy by himself. But Mrs Johansen had complained that the pressure on young people was so strong today, they must have both this and that, expensive sports equipment as well as brand-name clothing, so that most of them had a part-time job besides going to school, except for her own Mari Ann, which caused her daughter to feel like an outsider, and consequently Bjørn Hansen, Mrs Johansen’s boss, had proposed that her daughter could earn some extra cash cleaning his flat.

And so Mari Ann came and cleaned for him. She was given a set of keys and let herself in whenever it suited her. It didn’t matter to him when she came, as long as she came once a week and did the work he paid her to do. Sometimes she was there in the afternoon when he let himself into the flat. She would stand bent over her bucket. It gave off a smell of green soap. She was dressed in tight blue jeans. Entering the living room, he saw her stand there, bent over, wringing out her rag. Absorbed by her work, she presented a round, girlish bottom. She was quite unaffected by his entering the room and observing her. ‘Hey,’ she just said, without looking up. Bjørn Hansen couldn’t help smiling (rather sadly?) at this youthful unconcern and naivety, unconcern at any rate about his gaze, which, incidentally, he quickly turned away. At first she was extremely dutiful and thorough, and consequently the job took her a long time. But then she began to rush through her work. One day he had complained about it. He pointed out that the corners, where the dust collects, had not been washed thoroughly enough. Not under the sofa either. Then she blushed. She turned crimson, and the colour spread across her cheeks to her very earlobes. It was a strange sight and Bjørn Hansen had become confused. At the same time he was worried that she would tell her mother, and he had no idea how to tackle that. So he said that he had not meant to be nit-picking and difficult, but he really did think a flat wasn’t clean unless the whole floor had been washed — so come on, he would help her move the sofa. They moved it together, but the redness did not go away from her earlobes. He did not think, however, that she had said anything at home about it; at any rate, Mrs Johansen showed no telltale signs in the office.

Bjørn had by this time lived by himself for four years. In this flat. Now he would have to make some changes. First of all, his son would have to be given the library as his room. This meant that the books must be moved into the living room, and he would have to find a place there for reading. Anyway, some of the bookshelves could remain, for Peter’s books. Also, he had to buy a bed, or perhaps preferably a sofa bed, turning the room into a kind of sitting room, where his son could receive visitors. No, that could be misunderstood. His son should, of course, receive his visitors in the large living room, for then he could go to his bedroom, where he would fit up a reading nook and arrange a little library in miniature, yes, that was how it must be done. Though his son ought to have a sofa bed all the same — after all, he could receive his friends in the living room even if he had a sofa bed, hell yes, a bed would make it feel too bedroomish. And then he had to consider buying a microwave in spite of everything. True, he maintained that you couldn’t possibly prepare really good food in a microwave, but for a busy young student who was likely to want a bite of something in a hurry, it was probably an excellent arrangement, he thought.