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

After we’d slept together, I thought that she was everything I’d ever wanted, and now I’d lost her. She must have known this too when she brought me here. This wasn’t the way to do it. This was a way to end it. We lay there on the moss in the densely wooded forest. She kissed my cheek, I stroked her throat, but there was a definite feeling that was spreading through my body and which penetrated all of me, pumping out into my hands and fingers, into my tongue, making my skin prickle.

In the morning I could see from the cabin window that many people had slept outside. They were lying on lawn chairs and on a green couch that somebody had dragged outside. The smell of grilled meat still hung over the place when I sat down on the steps. The morning sun hit everything they’d abandoned the night before: bottles, glasses, plates, plastic bags. The seagulls squabbled over the leftovers in the meadow between the cabins. Sometimes I would get up early, run through the dewy grass and push the rowing boat that belonged to the smelting works out into the fjord. I loved pan-fried coley for breakfast. This morning I went inside again to pick up and read a newspaper, but ended up sitting there, turning the pages without knowing what I’d read.

Mother came down from the second floor dressed in a bathrobe. Aren’t you going fishing today? she asked. No, I said. Why not? I answered that I didn’t feel like it. Mother went to make coffee, but from the corner of my eye I could see that she was watching me. She stood expectantly, holding the bag of coffee in one hand and the measuring spoon in the other. I could hear her breathing. I didn’t move, I waited for her to turn around and continue. When she’d made the coffee, she came over and stood in front of me. Sometimes you have to do things that are wrong just to feel like you’re alive, she said.

She said it in a way that made me think that this was something she had practised saying, as if she’d lain awake and figured out exactly this sentence, because she knew she had to come up with some kind of defence. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to give her anything back. It’s not what you think, she said. I still didn’t answer. She sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. It’s not what you think, she repeated a bit more faintly. And how do you think I think it is? I asked.

She said that Lars Paalgaard worked in the oil industry. He had money, he could help her start up the beauty parlour she’d dreamed of. She wanted to work in her profession. With a beauty parlour, she could make her own money. Completely by chance Paalgaard had dropped by the clothes shop where she worked. He had driven through Odda and had pulled up outside Prêt-à-Porter to buy lingerie, a gift for the woman he’d been seeing at the time. She said that she liked the guy, he was the type who made things happen around him—he got other people moving. She smiled. That is a bit his style, isn’t it?

What do you think? my mother asked. Isn’t it a good idea? What’s that? I asked. The beauty parlour, she said. Sure, I said, without really having thought about it. But I understood her: my mother was beautiful and slim, with a sense of humour; she was always the centre of attention at parties, her laughter was infectious. When Mother danced, or simply walked across the floor, the needle on the record player at home skipped. She wanted something more. She wanted everything all at once. She had met my father in Bergen, she had cut his hair a couple of times, and later he had asked her out. Finally he’d convinced her to come with him to Odda. She hadn’t wanted to move, she thought it would be lonely living at the end of a fjord. At that time, though, she must have been in love; she must have thought this was a normal life. That was before she acquired this aura that beautiful people often have, as if they bear a grudge against everything around them because the world has failed to keep the promise beautiful people think it has made them. This was before my father’s rage, before he started drinking seriously. It was before he started destroying different rooms at home. Always late, always drunk. He used to limit the damage to one room at a time, so that when we woke up in the morning, before our parents had got up and had the chance to clean up, we could see where his anger had found its particular expression in the course of the night.

You think that I’m getting carried away with this, don’t you? my mother asked. I don’t know what you’re doing, I replied. She stood up and walked over to the window with a view of the fjord. She said that she was going to give me some advice. Nobody will really help you in this life, she said. People just help themselves, she said. You get help only if you have a common goal with someone. And that is the closest you will come to happiness. She went over to the kitchen with her coffee cup, then she came back and caressed me through my hair. Why do you think men do stupid things? my mother asked. She said that men either messed up for their own sake or else they did terrible things because of women. Often they do both at the same time. But what do you know about this? she said. How can you know, you’re fifteen, you haven’t done anything at all yet.

My little brother came down while we were standing there; he was still half asleep. He walked straight over to our mother, who hugged him and sat him on her lap. She asked if he’d slept all right. Fredrik had been awake when I came up to the room last night. It was hot and stuffy and he was lying on top of the quilt wearing only his pants. How much do you think that car costs? he’d asked me. Don’t you understand? I’d said to him. She’s fucking him, you know? Fredrik hadn’t said anything. A little later I’d heard him crying in the semi-darkness. Mother rocked Fredrik on her lap and kissed him on the head. When is Dad coming? he asked. Next Friday, mother answered. She waited a bit, then she added: But it’s not certain that he’s coming. Why not? Fredrik asked. We’ll see, mother said.

Lars Paalgaard showed up again in the T-Bird that same evening. This time he was wearing a pale suit and sunglasses on his nose. We were playing football in the meadow when I saw him come driving up. Mother went up to greet him. Fredrik wanted to follow her. He asked if I thought we could go for a drive in the T-Bird today too. I held him back. Don’t, I said. Fredrik looked at me, then he pulled free; he was irritated and disappointed. Don’t, I said again when I saw he was on his way up the hill. Paalgaard and my mother were laughing between themselves. He stroked her neck and she let him do it. I didn’t understand why they were so careless: they were broadcasting what they were up to, showing it off so any old idiot would have to get it. I didn’t understand why my mother wanted to risk so much; she behaved as if nothing meant anything any longer, or as if losing everything could be satisfying in its own right. She was willing to give up everything because she wanted something else so intensely.

A good hour later they came out of the cabin, and Mother introduced Lars Paalgaard to the others who were outside barbecuing. Everyone tried to behave normally, but they’d seen what they’d seen and the usual chatter fell silent and the atmosphere grew confused. Nobody really knew what to say, or how to stand or look or move. We were about to start eating pork chops and potato salad when I heard the sound of a motorcycle coming down towards the cabins. My mother heard it too; she spun around suddenly. I peeked over at Lars Paalgaard. He got up out of the folding chair he was sitting in. He looked up towards the motorcycle and then over at Mother. She laid her hand on one of his arms.

The motorcyclist parked beside the T-Bird. I recognized the body type and the vehicle, but prayed to God that it wasn’t him. I prayed that it was anyone else but my own father who was standing there and slowly pulling off his gloves and helmet. Fredrik was already on his way up the hill; he received a hug and was lifted up high in the air. Then the two of them came walking down the path, hand in hand. Somebody handed my father a bottle of beer as soon as he came down to us. His co-workers made a toast and welcomed him, greeting him in a way that was both heartfelt and anxious. Later I understood that it must have been one or more of these co-workers who’d called and told him. They’d probably thought this had gone too far. Now he was here and nobody had any idea of what was going to happen. My father went over to my mother, kissed her on the cheek and put his arm around her waist. Mother didn’t say anything. Then he greeted Lars Paalgaard politely. They both said their names and then Father said: What a nice day. What did you do? He nodded towards the food that was prepared. He said that he’d come home to dinner on the table, he said that he felt like a king. He lifted his bottle and smiled. Well, cheers then! The fathers raised their bottles in reply and drank. The mothers threw themselves with relief into the job of serving.