Per Petterson - It's Fine By Me

‘FUCK FUCK OH FUCK I GOTTA FIND MY FINGERS!’

People rush in from all sides and crowd around the A press, and we look for Elk’s fingers, but they are nowhere to be found, and to be honest, I’d prefer not to find them.

Goliath tries to catch the eye of the man with the large face that is the same colour now as his hair, and his hand just bleeds and bleeds.

‘Hello Kjartan. Kjartan.’ For once Goliath speaks gently. ‘Hello, Kjartan, take it easy now. Let’s get out of here. I’ll drive you to casualty. Come on now, Kjartan!’

Elk stares at Goliath with a strange, distant look in his eyes and then he shouts: ‘BUT DON’T YOU GET IT I HAVE TO FIND MY FUCKING FINGERS THEY HAVE TO BE SEWN BACK ON!’

But we can’t find his fingers, and Goliath forces Elk to go with him. He has lost so much blood that his knees are giving way, and he doesn’t look so tall any more. On their way out, they pass the foreman, who looks around him. Goliath doesn’t even turn his head, and as I am the one standing closest to the foreman, he asks me:

‘What’s going on here?’

‘Kjartan’s lost three fingers.’

‘Oh. Jesus!’ The manager sees all the blood and says Jesus again. Then he looks at me.

‘What happened to you? Your ear is bleeding.’ I touch my earlobe, and there is blood on my fingers.

‘The spatula knife,’ I say.

‘The spatula?’ Then it dawns on him. ‘So where the hell were you standing?’

‘By the stacker.’ Everyone looks back at the belt. In the wall behind the half-filled pallet is Elk’s spatula knife, centimetres into the plaster.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ the foreman says. ‘You could have had your skull sliced in two!’ He runs his hand through the hair he has left and leaves the concourse smoking nervously and goes up to the office where he spends most of the day flicking through pornographic magazines.

We wash off the blood, remove the ripped rubber blanket and stretch a new one around the drum, and we can go home.

In the cloakroom, the ever-hip Trond says: ‘At least I’m no longer the only one here with a pierced ear.’

The next day Trond calls me over. He is behind the press cleaning up. We have finished the print run and have to wash everything down before we start afresh.

‘Just look there,’ he says.

In the water tank, Elk’s fingers are floating. They are swollen and look like big snails. I throw up straight into the tank. The foreman, who is doing his inspection tour has recovered well from yesterday’s ordeal and says:

‘You’ll have to clean that up yourself, Sletten!’ And I have to wash the tank and remove my vomit and Elk’s three fingers.

‘I don’t want to watch this,’ Trond says, making himself scarce. I don’t really know what to do with the fingers. In the end I wrap them in some waste paper and throw them in the rubbish container. And then I go to the toilet and throw up once more.

It’s dark on my way home from the late shift. No one lives in this area. Along the road down to the Metro station there are nothing but factories and warehouses, and in a few offices the lights are still on. The old street lamps are hanging on rotting posts and swing in the wind and creak in their rusting metal holders, and most of them are smashed anyway. I am walking alone. There is no one else going my way that I feel like talking to. Trond lives in Lørenskog, and he has a car and all, and besides, I have fallen out with plenty of people.

The early winter gloom devours everything. Litter blows down the gravel road, through the grey I can see the white of it rolling along the ditches, and it’s so quiet I can hear the rustle and the echo of my footsteps. Beneath the railway bridge it is totally dark, but then I see the lights from the Metro station, so I walk the last stretch a little faster. I pay at the barrier where a sleepy ticket collector sits reading the magazine I work on every day. He could have saved himself the trouble, it won’t make him any smarter. Down the steps I can hear my heart beating.

The train arrives on schedule. Inside the carriage I try to read, but I am tired, and before I am even able to concentrate, I see Linderud station disappearing behind me, so I just have to put the book in my bag.

I am the only person to get off at Veitvet. There is a hollow echo between the concrete walls on my way down the stairs, and another sleepy ticket collector is sitting at the barrier reading the same magazine. Perhaps Oslo Transport Company buys up remaindered copies, hell, I don’t know, but I am about to drop a remark. I decide not to. It’s half-past eleven, and my whole body is aching. When I close my eyes, I can see the fingers in the tank.

I go out through the glass door by the Narvesen kiosk, and as I’m about to start down the steps to Veitvetveien, someone behind me shouts softly.

‘Hi, Audun!’ I turn. And there are Dole and Willy plus two others. Dole is smiling. I am a dead man. Quickly and quietly they spread out: they know how to do this, they have seen it in films, and there is no point trying to escape. I rest the bag against the railings. This is the moment I have to rise out of myself and become someone else: Martin Eden or Jean-Paul Belmondo or Albert Finney in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning . I too have seen the films. It will be all right. Arvid and I used to talk about it, it’s the only way to keep your dignity. Or else they own you. I smile at Dole and splay my hands.

‘Out late?’ I say. He smiles back, There’s one thing we both know: I am finished. And then the film unravels. A man in dark clothes comes skulking along the walls from the shopping centre. Geir’s bar has just closed, and he is not too steady on his feet, but still he can probably make it wherever he wants to go. I don’t know if it’s him, his face is shrouded in the darkness by the station, and I am not used to seeing him here among the houses and streets and shopping centres, but it looks like his walk, and as he slips by, I say to Dole:

‘Just wait a moment!’ and take a few steps after the man and shout: ‘Hey, you! Stop,’ although I am not really sure I want him to stop. But anyway, he doesn’t stop. I am about to run after him, and his back melts into the shadows up towards Trondhjemsveien and the woods on the other side, and Dole leaps out and blocks my way.

‘That was a new one,’ he says, ‘but it won’t fuckin’ work, Audun, you’re goin’ nowhere.’ And then he lashes out. I am not prepared for it, my guard isn’t up yet, and he hits me in the mouth. I am about to shout ‘Wait!’ but it hurts so much the word doesn’t reach my lips, and they are all over me, the four of them, punching and kicking, and I get my beating, with no dignity, Martin Eden and Albert Finney are over the hills and long gone. Finally, I am on the asphalt and all I can do is protect my face. Dole gives me a last kick and says:

‘Goodnight, Audun,’ and clatters down the stairs with the others. I hear Willy’s laughter, and then they are gone.

I am not sure I’m able to stand up. There is a smell of dust and beer and tarmac. I lick my lips. I can’t feel my mouth, but it tastes of blood. It hurts to breathe, I cough and the pain shoots across my ribcage. Dole’s last kick was vicious. I lift myself up, I can just about do it, my arms stiff and sore, and finally I get on my feet. Straight ahead is the sign for the bowling alley. It’s dark inside, but the sign is luminous. I look towards the stairs. There is my bag. I walk slowly over and pick it up. It’s painful. I can hardly bend down. I look around. Everything is quiet by the Metro. If anyone saw what happened, they have legged it. I look in through the station windows. The ticket collector is hunched over a crossword. He is deaf and blind. How he can even see that crossword is beyond me. He can go to hell.