Хьелль Аскильдсен - The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat and Other Stories from the North

He lay down.

“Sit!”

He sat up.

We carried on like this for a while and at an ever-increasing tempo, until he was panting, sweating, and his face began to turn white; this was terrible. I couldn’t bear it, I wasn’t able to stop and I didn’t know how I would be able to resist finally whipping him up into the frenzy of excitement like a dog, so I forced myself to say, “Dad, for heaven’s sake.”

He crept laboriously over to the sofa, and lay down there, just panting.

“Dad, just what the hell do you want from me anyway?”

He didn’t answer. He lay there, wheezing, as if he was thinking of dying.

I spent the rest of the day at a big art gallery nearby, in order to avoid seeing him.

It’s true I’ve never liked looking at paintings, as you know. While I was wondering around amongst all the Madonnas with sheepish faces, I suddenly got the feeling I had done this before with Dad. At the same time, I remembered I’d once had a dark blue winter overcoat with a furry collar. The coat sort of tumbled into my consciousness, as if it had been lurking there for years, just waiting to make itself noticed, and suddenly there it was, with its golden-brown collar, chequered lining, deep pockets and shiny metal buttons, which Dad was trying to do up, but I didn’t want him to and began to scream. We were standing on a wide flight of stairs with a lot of large paintings on the walls and it echoed when I screamed, and strange people stared at us.

Did he used to take me along to galleries at some point in the distant past?

By the way, you haven’t got any photographs of us, pictures from that time. That seems strange. Have you hidden them away somewhere?

I stopped in front of a painting and stayed there a good while.

It was called Leda and the Swan , and portrays a naked woman with her arm around a swan, which is sensuously holding onto her one nipple with its beak. Zeus has disguised himself in one of his tricks. The woman looks lecherously pleased, as if she very well knows who she’s fawning upon.

Zeus turned into a swan in order to fulfil his desires.

Had Dad turned into a dog in order to get what he wanted?

Melaine didn’t come home until towards midnight. Dad kept out of the way all evening, to my great joy. I opened the door to their bedroom slightly and saw him lying in his basket. (She’s put a big round basket in one corner, where he huddles under an old blanket.) I sneaked up to him. He had pulled the blanket over his head. There was no movement at all. What the hell do you do here in town if an old dog goes and dies? I thought, carefully pulling the blanket back over his face, and suddenly I felt something wet rub against my fingers.

He had licked my hand.

And there he lay, smiling like an idiot.

I sat down in the lounge and opened a bottle of gin. I managed to consume a great deal before she returned.

“Greetings from Washington,” she said gaily and lit up a fresh cigar from the stub-end of the old one.

“What on earth is this really all about?”

She undid her bow, and unbuttoned her shirt right down to her stomach, loosening her belt, gasped and said, “Is what about?”

“Dad, for heaven’s sake. Things can’t go on as they are.”

“What do you mean?”

“But he’s ill, can’t you see that?”

She nodded.

“You’ve got to get hold of a doctor.”

She puffed away at her cigar and suddenly burst out laughing. “A vet, you mean?”

She laughed so much, she was on the verge of choking. “Actually, it was a good job he turned into a dog,” she said, “and not a seal, for instance, otherwise I should’ve had to keep him in the bath for the remainder of his days.”

She was also beginning to irritate me.

“It’s strange that you don’t put him on a lead and take him out to the park,” I said.

She looked at me in surprise. “Well, I’m damned,” she said, “I never thought of that.”

The following morning, before I’d had time to get up, she knocked on my door.

“Rise and shine,” she called out gaily, “we’re going out for a walk.”

Dad was on all fours in the hall. She had secured a collar around his neck, and fastened a lead to it. It looked stupid, and seemed like a dream.

I went back into my room and pulled the covers over my head.

After a while, I heard scratching at the door. I hid my head under the pillow. The scratching sound went on and on. Suddenly the pillow was lifted from my face.

“He won’t go anywhere without you,” said Melaine.

I just stared at her. “You must both be stark, raving mad.”

But she just laughed as usual. “You take him down. I’ll bring the car around.”

An old lady was in the lift, glancing through a newspaper. Dad crawled in on all fours. I kept hold of the leash. Please, I thought, say this is totally insane. However, the old lady didn’t take any notice. She glanced at us, without seeing us.

The doorman smiled in a kindly way, as we passed by his desk. “Lovely weather we’re having,” he said. “Everything OK?”

“Yes, certainly,” I replied. “This is just my father who’s turned into a dog.”

“Oh really,” he said. “Have a nice day.”

The weather in this city is just as mad. It had suddenly become glorious high summer. People were lying half-naked, sun-bathing on the lawn in Central Park.

“The police will come and take him away,” I said.

“They’ve got other things to do,” she replied.

Dad crawled out of the back seat, down on the ground, and put his nose to the wind, sniffing with a contented expression. She took the lead and guided him to an expanse of grass.

I lagged a few paces behind.

A set of fat, bald twins rushed past, each holding a stopwatch.

“What wonderful weather,” Melaine called out over her shoulder.

“I don’t know you,” I muttered, and imagined a group of people gathering around them before long, and at least I wasn’t going to be standing there in the middle, looking ridiculous.

But no one took a blind bit of notice. People just glanced at Dad in a preoccupied manner and went on with their walks, as if dads who have turned into dogs are a completely commonplace phenomenon in this crazy city.

A few small children pointed at him and giggled, but that was all.

The only person who took an interest in him was the park keeper.

“Dogs are prohibited on the grass, Madam,” he informed us.

“Dear me,” said Melaine.

The keeper bent down and scratched Dad behind the ear. “What breed is it?”

“Mongrel.”

“Beautiful coat,” said the keeper, patting Dad on his thinning fringe. “Has he been castrated?”

“I don’t know,” said Melaine, “I got him from a lady who didn’t want him any more.”

“Yes,” said the keeper. “Dogs are loyal. It’s a different matter when it comes to women.”

Melaine nodded.

“Just imagine,” said the keeper thoughtfully, “and I thought I’d seen every possible kind of madness. Madam had better make sure he doesn’t foul the grass.”

I made off. I can’t stand it, Mum. I’ve got to get away from here.

All day I wandered around this big city where logic seems to exist only on the map. I had dearly wanted to ring you, but all the telephones were either being used or were out of order.

“Can I make a call to Finland?” I asked at a bar, but the bartender looked as though I’d asked for a call to the moon.

There’s a permanent shadow down here on the streets. The sky looks its best in the reflections of skyscrapers. I wandered aimlessly on and suddenly noticed I had arrived at the gallery again. Leda looks directly at each person looking at the picture. She has such a remarkable expression on her face; she is so perfectly aware of the person concealing himself in the guise of a swan. She knows what’s happening. She understands what he’s doing.