Reif Larsen - I Am Radar

Kermin looked at her in surprise. She was having trouble breathing. She was overtaken again by the feeling that she had stepped into the life of another. Kermin picked up Radar and took him upstairs to his room.

“You shouldn’t have hit him,” Kermin said when he returned.

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“You are okay?”

She noticed her hands were shaking. She wiped them on a napkin. “He had a tough day at day care. They were calling him names.”

“Okay.”

When he said nothing more, she said, “They called him a monkey, Kerm.”

“He doesn’t look like the monkey.”

“Of course he doesn’t look like a monkey!”

“They are children. They don’t know what they are saying.”

“No, they know exactly what they’re saying,” she said. “I can’t stand that place. Every time I go there, I want to burn it down.”

“Don’t do that.”

“We’re paying a small fortune—”

“We are not paying.”

“—to have our child tortured by snobby little white kids. I can’t go back. I cannot go back. I’ll quit my job if I have to. I can take him.”

“You can’t quit. We need money.”

“We’ll make money, Kerm. I’ll ask for more from my parents if I have to.”

He picked up his knife from both ends, as if it were a fragile specimen. “I think soon I will close my shop,” he said.

“Close? Why?”

“They are raising the rents.” He shook his head. “No one likes these small television anymore.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure they ever did.” She reached for his hand. “We’ll make it work. We can try something new.”

“What new? What can I do? I cannot do anything.”

“That’s not true. You know that’s not true. You’re brilliant, Kerm.”

“In this place, brilliant does not matter. It is lucky asshole who wins. Like Edison. He electrocutes the elephant and says, ‘Screw you, Tesla.’ And he wins. Tesla is brilliant, but he lose. He talks to pigeons and dies like the poor man.”

“But with all the things you know? You could do so many things. .”

“I am not electrocuting the elephant.”

She looked at her husband and then she got up, opening the drawer and retrieving the letter.

“Promise me you won’t be mad,” she said.

“About what?”

“Maybe we’re the lucky ones,” she said and handed him the letter.

Kermin read in silence. Charlene watched him. His faced betrayed no hint of expression.

“What is this?” he said finally.

“I thought maybe it was worth looking into.”

“Looking into what ?”

“If there’s something that maybe can be done, then I think it’s our duty. . to see what we can do.”

He got up suddenly and went to the trash can. He had already opened the lid before Charlene leaped up and grabbed him.

“Don’t!” she pleaded.

“It’s done. I told you. I don’t want any more of this.”

“Don’t do it, please!” she said, holding on to his arm.

“It is done, Charlene.”

He tore the letter in two, three, four pieces. She looked on in horror as he dropped the remnants into the trash.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was in the trash can collecting the fallen pieces, her hands covered in yolk and the thin, wet husk of an onion. She came back to the table and reassembled the sheets. A stain like a sunset.

They sat with the torn-up letter between them for some time.

“Please,” she said quietly. “It’s just to ask for more information.”

He had picked up a radio and was working the dials, though no sound was coming from its speaker.

“I need to,” she said. “I need to. .”

“What?” He turned on her.

“I need to—”

“What exactly do you need to do to our son?” He was shouting. She shrank back. She had never heard him shout before. “I would like you to tell me this, Charlene. I would very much like you to tell me this.”

His face was pink; she could see the whites of his eyes. He looked as though he wanted to kill her, to bash her brains out with his radio. She felt herself adjusting to a world that included such anger.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please. It’s just to find out information.”

“Information? What fucking information could you possibly want?”

“We don’t have to do anything. Just find out. I’ll feel so much better if I just find out .”

The radio suddenly sparked to life. A symphony materialized, much too loud. Charlene winced and put her hands over her ears.

“Kermin!” she yelled. “Shut it off!”

He twisted a knob, but the sound did not go away. An element of whining static was introduced into the whirlpool of woodwinds and strings.

“Kermin!”

The dial turned, and noise engulfed the signal. Static devouring the notes of music. A great wave coming toward them.

“Kermin!” She grabbed at the radio and stabbed wildly at the power button. “Turn it—”

The silence left behind was long and strange, as if the world had been emptied of all sound.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she said finally. “I’ll do it.”

“God gave us this. We did not choose,” he said. “He chose us. We raise him like this. That is our duty.”

“But maybe this letter is a sign—”

“We are not going to make him into some kind of freak, Charlene!”

“He’s already a freak,” she said quietly.

They stared at each other, wondering at the truth of her words.

“Don’t ever say this,” Kermin said quietly. “Don’t you ever say this about my son.”

• • •

SHE COULD NOT SLEEP. She lay in bed listening to the occasional hush of the passing motorist. Wondering where they were going at this hour. Wondering if they, too, could not sleep. At a certain point, she realized it was no use. She got up and made herself some peppermint tea. At the kitchen table, she wrote Brusa Tofte-Jebsen a letter. Dear Mr. Tofte-Jebsen, I am so glad that you. . and the rest. When she was finished and the envelope was sealed, she felt a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Three weeks went by before she received a cream-colored envelope covered in lithographed bear stamps.

24 June 1979

Dear Mrs. Radmanovic,

Greetings. I have spoken with Leif and everything has been arranged for your visit. Enclosed you will find three roundtrip airline tickets to Kirkenes. Don’t worry, Kirkenesferda has offered to cover the cost of your transport. Leif said he will meet you at the airport.

May I just say that I am so glad you are taking this chance. I am sure you will not be disappointed. Unfortunately, I will be unable to join you at the Bjørnens Hule but I will make sure to get a full report.

Kindest Regards,

Brusa Tofte-Jebsen

What had been merely a declaration of interest had apparently turned overnight into a trip to Norway. The departure date listed on the tickets was in two weeks. She still had no idea what went on at this place, but Brusa’s reply served as confirmation enough.

She was just beginning to get excited about the whole venture when, that same day, the doorbell rang. When she opened the door, she found herself staring at a man who resembled something of a disheveled bellhop. He was wearing a burgundy suit and a strange, ill-fitting, fez-like cap that slumped awkwardly down the slope of his forehead, despite the chin strap meant to keep it in place. The man did not look excited in the least to be wearing such an outfit. Before she could say anything, he handed her an envelope and said, “Telegram,” then he walked away.