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

The next time he passed, I heard him say: “Some men run in shorts, although they own trousers.”

It sounded apologetic, as though he knew that he was inconveniencing me.

I went home, dragging my feet along with me.

I fixed myself something to eat, but felt like I was chewing paper.

“Stop it, woman. Stop it!” I shouted and startled myself.

I lay down in bed and fell asleep. When I woke up, it was pitch black.

I checked my watch. Two thirty. I had slept enough. I got up, wrapped a blanket around myself, took a CD and put it on. I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes and tried to enjoy the music, but was interrupted by beats, which weren’t supposed to be there. My heart was pounding in my chest and blood was boiling in my ears. Thump. Thump. I listened: that wasn’t just my heart. There was also a knocking at the door.

Who the hell could that be, disturbing people in the middle of the night? I ignored the knocking, but whoever it was, it was not someone easily discouraged. It sounded as though someone was pounding on the door with both fists. I flicked on the light and stood up. I could make out a shape through the pane in the front door. I didn’t like this one bit. I wanted one of those peepholes. I wrapped the blanket tighter around me.

When I unlocked the door, there he was.

I felt immensely relieved, and took a deep breath. He finally stopped. I gave him a tender look and sighed.

He looked exhausted. His face ashen, dark circles under his eyes and drenched in sweat. He was trembling. He had worn out his shoes and his toes were sticking out. I suddenly realized that he was running on the spot. He could barely lift his feet, but he was running. Behind him snow had started to fall.

He tried to say something, but couldn’t speak. Then he cleared his throat a few times.

“Can you lend me your thoughts, so I can escape this?” he asked hoarsely with pleading eyes.

“Yes. If that’s all it takes, then, by all means, do take my thoughts.”

He stopped dead, thanked me and left, and I have to admit that since then I haven’t had a single thought.

But I have taken up running.

IN THE SUMMER OF 1974, my mother fell in love with a man named Lars Paalgaard. On Midsummer Night’s Eve he showed up at our cabin in a white, open Ford T-Bird. He took us on a drive along the coast, over the bridges and out towards the ocean. My brother and I sat in the back seat, staring at this man who had unexpectedly come into our lives. He was dressed in a black suit and white shirt. Around his neck he wore a string tie with a silver heart. He smoked Winston cigarettes and sang along to the music on the car radio. Mother explained that Lars Paalgaard loved convertibles; he almost always drove with the top down, never mind the wind and weather. She said he wanted to see the sky above him, feel the hot or cold air, inhale the scent of the ocean. Or the smell of shit, Paalgaard added, turning halfway around towards us. I love the smell of shit, he said.

We drove out into a landscape I couldn’t remember ever having been in before. We whizzed up hills and alongside meadows, past small holdings that sprawled into inlets and coves. There were new houses here and there with gardens and lawns that hadn’t yet been sown. A sweet aroma rose from the car seat, so different from our Opel. This car didn’t even have a seat in the back, it was more like a couch. Now and then mother pushed her sunglasses up on her head—she wanted to show the driver that she was watching him. Her blonde hair fluttered in the wind; she tried to get it under control with a blue shawl. She no longer looked like our mother. I could hear the noise of the tyres and feel the warmth of the evening air against my face. My little brother sat with his mouth open, like he was singing along too. I asked him to shut up, he looked like a retard.

After driving for half an hour, Lars Paalgaard slowed down and pulled over on the roadside. There were several cars parked along the road and a man wearing white shorts waved the T-Bird into place. On the gravel pitch down by the shore, I could see merry-go-rounds and a Ferris wheel. I heard shouts and laughter. It wasn’t until we came closer that we discovered how jam-packed it was. People bustled back and forth, ran around aimlessly or stood in groups and in lines. Children walked around holding balloons and candyfloss in their fists. Fathers tried to fish up prizes with small metal clamps. Some tried their luck on the wheel of fortune, others shot air rifles or threw balls at cans. Shouts came from the merry-go-rounds, and over by the roller coaster there was a sign that read: Do you dare?

You have to take some chances in life, Lars Paalgaard said and tickled my mother’s ribs flirtatiously. Not in a million years, she said and pulled free. She took her wallet out of her handbag. Why don’t we meet back at the car in an hour? she asked and gave me a five-dollar bill. I accepted it and didn’t know whether to thank her or give the bill back. My parents had never given me so much money before. I want to ride the bumper cars, my little brother said and stuck to me like glue. Fredrik was six years younger than me. He’d been born prematurely and that was probably why my mother had made him her favourite; she’d told me that she’d been sure she would lose him. The summer weeks we were at the cabin, Fredrik always latched onto me. He trotted behind me, always had to know where I was. He was teased by the older boys because he was tiny and thin. I boxed and was a loudmouth, nobody dared mess with me. At the fair the roles were switched: I trotted after Fredrik, I let him do whatever he wanted. A lot of girls made eyes at me and giggled, but I didn’t have the strength to think of anything except whether my father knew about this deal with Lars Paalgaard. I refused to believe it. Father was at home in Odda working and the plan was that he would come join us next weekend.

When we walked back up the gravel road an hour later, Lars Paalgaard and my mother were leaning against the T-Bird. He looked relaxed, had his hands in his pockets and a smoke in his mouth. She waved a huge teddy bear at us. Just before we reached the top, I noticed Paalgaard checking his fly. He tugged at the zip and laughed with my mother while he whispered something into her ear. She leaned against him, giggling in a way that seemed wrong to me. At that moment I understood that I was not in any sense out of danger. I could be hurt or injured in a way that would be fatal, not just because of my own actions, but also because of the bad decisions of others.

Mother asked if we’d had a good time and if we’d spent the five dollars. I didn’t answer. Fredrik said that we’d gone on the Kamikaze, where we’d been shot 20 metres up into the air before it dropped us down again. We got into the car without saying anything else. The last of the evening sun tinted the T-Bird pink. Paalgaard stepped on the gas and the car pitched into the twilight. I turned around and looked back at the fair where the blinking lights were now just starting to appear. At different places along the highway, out on headlands and down on beaches, people had lit bonfires. The T-Bird slid mightily away. It bore no resemblance to any cars I’d ridden in previously. The wind was hot against my face, even at 70–80 kilometres an hour. It was around eleven by the time we turned into the road to the cabin. People were still outside, nobody wanted to go to bed and maybe miss the most beautiful night of the summer. The sound of the usual gang rose up into the night like a yellow wave. They sat smoking outside the cabins; they were playing football over on the grass; but most of them had gathered around a bonfire down by the fjord. On the days before Midsummer Night’s Eve, we’d gathered up branches and kindling left by the loggers, we’d even got hold of an old rowing boat. We were outsiders, but always had to have the biggest bonfire in the village.