Per Petterson - It's Fine By Me

‘Right, shall we go in then?’ I say a bit roughly, but he just looks at me and has no idea what I am talking about.

‘What’s up with him?’ Rita asks. ‘Did you have a fight?’

‘He’s upset about his dad. Don’t come with me now.’

I walk towards the bar door. As I’m about to go in, it’s pushed open from the inside, and one of the local drunks comes staggering out. I stand back, and Dole looks up and sees me through the window. He knows who I am, but not what I want. I push the drunk aside and clear the way, and inside I head straight for the table where Dole is sitting. He is pretty hammered, he grins and says:

‘Hello, Audun, old boy,’ but I don’t answer, I just go up to him, lean down and grab his leg and pull. He hits the floor with a bang, the chair tips forward and hits him on the back of the head, the glass is knocked over and all the beer splashes down on his crew cut. He lashes out with the other leg but I skip to the side, and with his ankle in a firm grip, I drag him to the door.

‘Fuck you, Audun! Have you flipped or what!’ he yells, and I say nothing, for there is nothing to say, I just drag him along the floor. He flails out on all sides, crashes into chairs and tables, holds on to someone’s foot and shouts:

‘For fuck’s sake, help me!’ But no one lifts a finger. I bang open the door with my back, and outside in the square I let go of his leg. He gets to his feet with a groan. Once he has straightened up, I punch him hard in the stomach. I know what I’m doing. I have seen it before. He jack-knifes, and all the beer spurts from his mouth, and it floods out on to the ground between us, and I step away. I stand at the ready. But he coughs and splutters and stares at the tarmac.

‘You know what, Audun?’ he mumbles. ‘You’re a dead man.’ And then he opens the bar door and walks in bent double.

I turn back to the square. Rita is there alone, watching me with a look in her eyes I could have done without.

‘Where’s Arvid?’ I say.

‘He took off. The wrong way, I think.’

Right. I don’t know why I did what I did, but I don’t think it was for his sake.

‘Right,’ I say, running my fingers through my hair. I look at her. ‘How’s Tommy doing?’

‘Fine. He’s much better now. He really is.’

‘Good,’ I say, and start towards the stairs.

‘Audun?’ she says behind me. I turn round. She is wearing a brown leather jacket that must have been passed down from her father, that’s how it looks, and she seems older now than I’d thought before.

‘Nothing. It’s nothing.’

‘OK, that’s fine then.’

I walk down the spiral staircase and down the slope by the post office and the music school and along the terraced houses in Grevlingveien. It’s so quiet. I am breathing calmly. I just feel a little warm in the pit of my stomach. I cross Veitvetveien without looking left or right. A car brakes suddenly, but my eyes are fixed ahead, and I walk the footpath between the houses until I come out on Beverveien and down to the block where I live.

My mother’s in the living room. She is watching TV. On the table there is half a bottle of Upper Ten whisky, and she has her fingers round a glass while she watches Fred Astaire dancing solo across the screen. I have never seen her drunk, but I know she drinks. There are empty bottles stacked behind her winter boots at the back of the cupboard in the hall.

‘Hi,’ she says without taking her eyes from the TV. ‘You’re home early. I thought you were going to the youth club?’

‘It was boring.’

I’m about to go to my room, but I change my mind and plump down on the sofa. Fred Astaire is sitting in a telephone booth now, talking to Ginger Rogers. He has turned on the French accent, and she doesn’t know it’s him she is talking to. He gives her some good advice with heavy French ‘r’s. He pouts. I don’t see the point. I get up from the sofa and go over to the cabinet beside the TV and fetch a glass. On the wall above the cabinet is the signed photograph of Jussi Björling.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ I say in a straight voice. Now she looks up.

‘Don’t you think we’ve had enough of that?’

‘You’re drinking.’

‘It’s Friday. I’ve earned it. Well, you’re eighteen. You have to find out things for yourself. But be careful. Have some water in it. Here,’ she says, pushing over a jug of water. I pour myself a fair amount of Upper Ten and add some water.

‘That’s Fred Astaire,’ she says. ‘He could dance with the phone book, and I would watch.’ She smiles. She likes having me there. When I am not out, I usually sit in my room listening to records or reading, and she watches TV or listens to an opera in the living room. If she has her music on loud, I turn up the volume as well. I lean back and take a sip. I have never tried whisky before. It doesn’t taste good, but it does warm you right down to your feet. I shiver a little. I could get used to this, I think, and then I watch the film. It’s completely without meaning, but Ginger Rogers is attractive. She looks intelligent, much more intelligent than the stupid part she is playing. The glass is empty. I am fine now, the shivering has gone. I carefully reach for the bottle and pour myself another one, and she just watches the film. I may as well tell her now.

‘I’m quitting school,’ I say.

‘What?’ She tears her eyes from the screen.

‘I’m stopping school.’

‘Over my dead body.’

‘There’s nothing to discuss. I have made up my mind.’ I take a large swig from the glass, there is not a lot of water in it this time, I swallow and it flows all through my body. I like it, I could sleep now, and Fred Astaire is singing. Ginger Rogers is looking at him, she is smiling, they will find each other in the end. That’s good.

I pull myself together.

‘We don’t have a lot of money, do we,’ I say, ‘but I can’t do both the paper round and school any more. If I start working full time, we’ll be a lot better off.’

‘You don’t understand. I get money so you can go to school.’

‘What sort of money?’

‘It’s a state allowance. It’s for helping bright children from disadvantaged homes. Or something like that. I don’t remember exactly what it’s called.’ She blushes.

‘What! And you’ve never told me! Why didn’t you?’

‘That’s my business,’ she says, glancing at the TV where the credits are rolling. She missed the end of the film.

‘I don’t care what it’s called,’ I say, ‘I’m going to stop anyway. What’s there for me at school? I’m not like the others.’

‘Rubbish! What others? Your best friend, Arvid, he’s in your class, isn’t he? Is he suddenly different from you?’

‘Hell, of course he is. Do you want to know what I’m like? Do you want to know what I’m really like?’ I get up from the sofa, the room is swaying, I hold on to the table and close my eyes.

‘But Audun, are you drunk? How much have you had?’ She takes the bottle and checks the contents. The whiskies I took must have been pretty stiff, because there is not much left.

‘Forget it,’ I say, and let go of the table and head for my room. I trip over the door sill and land on my knees, but that’s fine, I was going down there anyway. I pull the accordion out from under my bed and open the case and there it is: black and white with red stripes on the bellows. A Paolo Soprani. I hold it up, put my arms under the straps, loosen the catches on both sides and go back into the living room.

‘Goddamnit, now you’re going to hear what I’m like,’ I say and pull out the bellows and squeeze the keys and the buttons hard at the same time. The accordion sends out a howl that fills the room. I pull and squeeze again, and my mother covers her ears and shouts: