Dag Solstad - Novel 11, Book 18

Bjørn Hansen was struck by the fact that most of those who got off the South Country Express today were young people, especially young men. All with luggage. It was obviously because a new academic year was at hand, and the students were now arriving at Kongsberg after a well-earned holiday, or for the first time. But for Bjørn Hansen this was an unforeseen obstacle, because how could he locate his son among this multitude of young men, all of whom were students! As he watched them coming down the platform towards him, he suddenly felt an intense fear that he would greet the wrong one by mistake. Pick out the wrong son. In the presence of Dr Schiøtz. It would have laid him low, as the saying goes, as if lightning were suddenly to strike from a clear sky and hit him, on purpose. ‘There he is,’ he heard Dr Schiøtz say. ‘Your spitting image.’

It was Peter. In the row of young men who were just now coming towards him and Dr Schiøtz he was the only one who moved with a purpose, lugging two heavy suitcases as he steered straight at Bjørn. Of course! Peter recognised him, he hadn’t changed that much over the years. He noticed his son’s purposeful steps and his eyes fixed on him, then walked forward to put some distance between himself and Dr Schiøtz when he welcomed his son. As he took these steps, Peter stopped, put down his luggage and smiled. Bjørn Hansen gave a start. It was a younger version of himself. What a naked face, he thought. My own flesh and blood. Such a naked face! It’s almost obscene.

By now Bjørn Hansen had reached him. They were facing each other. He resolutely held out his hand. He wanted to shake his son’s hand. This because he was afraid that Peter had put down his suitcases so that he would to have his arms free to embrace his father, something that Bjørn Hansen wished to avoid. His son had popped up so suddenly! It would be too intimate to embrace. So he held out his hand. Peter shook it. ‘Welcome!’ the father said. ‘Hello!’ said the son, smiling.

They looked at one another. Apart from the fact that he was a younger version of himself, Peter Korpi Hansen did in no way stand out from the other students who had got off the train here in Kongsberg; indeed, had he not directed his steps so purposefully towards Bjørn Hansen and instead hurried past like the others, Bjørn Hansen might not have singled him out as the son he was there to meet. He was dressed in a T-shirt under a light jacket of some thin synthetic material, which gave him a slightly casual and carefree air. The T-shirt had some letters printed on it, which was probably the case with all T-shirts nowadays. Peter’s shirt read, voice of europe. Oddly enough, Bjørn Hansen knew that this was the brand name of a new Norwegian textile manufacturer of fashionable garments for young people, and he knew this because, as treasurer, he was often the State or municipal representative on estate boards, after bankruptcies; in Kongsberg, too, there had been a number of bankruptcies among fashionable shops during the last year, so he knew Voice of Europe, because the firm had filed its claims with the bankrupt party in Kongsberg, and Bjørn Hansen’s task was to see to it that the State secured its rightful due, nearly always concerning non-payment of VAT, which had to be collected before the private creditors took their cut; thus viewed, he was actually a competitor of the firm that his son so naively advertised on his chest, something Peter, naturally, couldn’t know, he thought with a small inward smile. He observed his modern young son, who for the rest was dressed in grey summer slacks of a soft, slightly downy stuff, which gave every impression of being pleasant to wear, as even such an untrained eye as Bjørn Hansen had in this branch of business could see. Peter’s feet sported heavy, complacent track shoes.

The young man made a tremendous impression on Bjørn Hansen. Because he was his son. Peter’s youthfulness struck him so strongly he could scarcely breathe. Youth and all its glories! Prizes to be plucked, a life to be lived, all of this so self-importantly represented in his own son’s get-up. Bjørn Hansen knew, of course, that his son came across as something of a stereotype. All young men dressed like this nowadays. Youths like Peter Korpi Hansen were ten a penny. All of them radiated the same intoxicating nonchalance, self-indulgence and idleness. Nevertheless it was strange to encounter it in his own son. He had a son who belonged to the youth culture. That son, in all his youthfulness, had adapted to the demands of his own generation.

The young man at once began to tell him about his long journey. He had been travelling for more than forty-eight hours by bus and train. Straight through most of Norway. Recumbent in a reclining chair at night, feeling the characteristic nocturnal rhythm of the train. Passing through changing landscapes during the day. Mountains and hillsides. Lakes and small villages. But none of this occupied him now. Travelling was obviously no great experience. He spoke in a loud voice, in a rather preachy manner, his father thought. Peter informed him that he had been the object of an insult. He did not say ‘insult’, but used another, more youthful word. They had tried to dump on him, it must have been. It had happened on the last lap of his journey, from Oslo to Kongsberg. Someone had taken his seat. His reserved seat. His father bent over the suitcases and said, ‘Well, let’s go then.’ He took them both and Peter did not protest. That seemed, in and of itself, to be a bit strange, but he took it to mean that his son thought he would only be carrying the suitcases to his car, just in front of the station. But when he said, ‘I didn’t take the car, because it’s right nearby,’ his son made no move to relieve him of one of the suitcases, leaving him to carry them both — they were not as heavy as he had imagined, by the way — while Peter went on and on about the insult he had suffered. Well, yeah, when he boarded the train in Oslo, at the carriage indicated, and went to the assigned seat, a lady was sitting there. To be on the safe side, he checked his ticket again before speaking up, informing her that this seat was taken. But the lady said it was not. He showed her his ticket, but she held her own. The train started moving and Peter just stood there, without a seat. The lady refused to budge; she said the reserved seats were marked on the back. There was no such mark on the back of this seat, consequently the seat was not reserved, and so she was entitled to sit there, because she got there first. Peter decided not to temper justice with mercy. He stood bolt upright before the lady occupying his seat, waiting for the conductor. Eventually, when the train was entering Drammen Station, the conductor arrived. Peter handed him the ticket and pointed at his reservation. The conductor looked at it and said, sure, that was correct. But why couldn’t he take another seat, since there were several empty ones? Peter had looked at the conductor in amazement. Did he hear correctly? Yes, he heard correctly. All he had to do was take another seat. After all, there were plenty of vacant seats. ‘But this is my seat. This is the one I’ve paid for!’ The conductor looked at him, annoyed. ‘Listen, this is nothing to make a fuss about. Sit down, or you can remain standing. You’ll be there in just half an hour. Do what you like.’ And with that he had left. The lady who had taken Peter’s seat tossed her head. But Peter had remained standing. All the way to Kongsberg. Without sitting down. Right next to his seat. The conductor had come through that long, narrow carriage once again and Peter had just stood there. The conductor had hurried past without saying a word. The lady had smiled at the conductor, and Peter had seen the conductor return her smile. But he had remained standing.