You remember we moved from Bjølsen out to the provinces, I said. That was in 1979. It was after the blow on Bentsebrua bridge. Of course I remember you moved, Audun said. But which blow are we talking about here. Forget it, I said. Turid was supposed to stay with her grandfather in Trondheim for nearly two weeks, and we had to spend the night at her parents’ in the suburbs. We hadn’t bought the first Mazda yet, we were young, we didn’t need one, not inside Oslo, but there was still no bus to the city on Sundays from the place we had moved to. There weren’t many on weekdays either. I remember that, Audun said.
I woke up when the alarm rang, a little before six in the morning, and the room I was lying in was unfamiliar. It had been her room before we moved in with each other, her home, but I didn’t feel comfortable, I didn’t like to sleep anywhere without my things around me, my books, my records.
I sat up on the edge of the bed, the sun was already out. I glanced out the window straight over at the Underground station where I had stood waiting for her so many times, looking over at this block of flats at the bottom of the slope and straight in through this very window on the third floor when she didn’t know I was there. I liked it, I liked to watch her moving around when she thought herself unseen. She was so fine, it was like watching a dance, you could sense the music.
Her father was up wearing slippers and pyjamas and had breakfast ready for us when we came out into the kitchen. He was an older, taciturn man who occasionally burst into sudden attacks of rage. It always had to do with the war, but he never took it out on me, and I was glad he didn’t, but others got an earful. He had been active in the resistance and had to flee his home when the Gestapo stood on the doorstep, the wrong doorstep, fortunately, it gave him the few minutes he needed. When the war was over and he returned from exile, a former member of the Norwegian Nazi Party was living in his house, and he didn’t get it back.
Now he was just silent. He had got up at five o’clock and had breakfast ready for us, and it surprised me, I was touched, I hadn’t expected it.
We ate the food, we were tired and didn’t say much to each other, but still we sat there for too long and had to take a taxi to catch the train.
It was going to be warm. It was only a little past seven as we sat in the car on the way downtown, but it was already twenty degrees. I’d seen it on the thermometer before we left.
The concourse of the Central station was dark and gloomy after the sun-bleached streets outside and yet full of hustle and bustle, there were lots of tourists in there under the tall ceiling, Germans and Americans talking loudly as they waited for the train to Bergen or Trondheim over the Dovre mountains, barricaded behind their huge bags and suitcases, fortress-like behind their sunglasses.
She searched the sign above the barriers for her train, and found it at once. She was always fast that way, thorough, as opposed to me, who had a restless mind. I walked ahead of her along the platform in the shadows with her suitcase in my hand, and then out of the shadows from under the big glass vault into the sun, the light was blinding, and there was a lot she had to bring with her, papers, books, rain clothes, that kind of thing, which made the suitcase pretty heavy. I thought maybe I should say something, but every time I opened my mouth, my mind went blank. I didn’t know why. So instead I walked ahead of her.
We checked the carriage number on the ticket, and when we got in, I lifted the suitcase with both hands and pushed it all the way in on the baggage shelf by the door. Then we walked together between the rows of seats. The carriage was half full, and a woman was sitting in her place. We compared tickets, and she had got it wrong and moved one row further back, she blushed and apologised, and I said thanks for taking the trouble, and then we walked out again onto the platform.
We stood there in the sun which was shining intensely, making every detail stand out. I could see the tiniest fleck on the train windows. The woodwork in the carriage behind us oozed tar in the heat, and the iron fittings on the door were rusty, the whole station vibrated and yet she was trying to button her jacket, it was a habit she had developed in the last month, but it was not possible any longer, her belly had grown too big, and I said, you should have had a new jacket. I know, she said, but it’s just for a short while, in three months this one will fit again, and it’s summer, I can easily do without a jacket if I have to. You still should have had one, I said. Maybe so, she said, but it won’t be long now, and anyway it’s so warm. Besides we can’t afford it, a jacket like this costs over four hundred kroner. I know, I said, it was me who bought it for you. I knew we couldn’t afford it, but I didn’t like the way she put it. Caringly. I wanted none of it. That’s true, she said and smiled.
The train was leaving in a few minutes, it was announced over the loudspeakers. First in Norwegian, then in poor English. You have to get in now, I said. Yes, she said. She climbed up on the first step, turned around and held my hand. Arvid, she said. Yes, I said. I won’t be gone long, she said. I’ll be back in no time at all, and then we’ll go on holiday, right. It wasn’t no time at all, it was fourteen days, to me that was a lot, and I couldn’t understand how she could talk like that, as if we were okay, but then so did I, and I said, that will be nice. She leaned forward and gave me a hug. Her cheek was soft and warm, and I swallowed hard as one’s supposed to do in railway stations. Take care, she said. Take care, I said. You could write a postcard, I said, but it was just something I said. Frankly I didn’t give a damn. It was a strange feeling. Of course I can, she said.
The conductor blew his whistle and came over and closed the heavy door right in my face. He didn’t even bother to look at me. I saw her walk into the carriage, it was dark in there and a sharp light outside and there was a windowpane between us. Yet I could see she was waving, she was smiling, but most of all I saw my own face reflected in the glass. I could have been anyone. I waved back, and the train shuttered and began to roll, and I left.
The local train to Lillestrøm didn’t leave for another twenty minutes, so I bought a newspaper in the Narvesen kiosk and sat down on a bench to read away the time. When my train pulled in, I found a seat by the window. We hadn’t lived out there for more than one long month, and there was plenty to see along the route, but I wasn’t interested.
I got off at Strømmen station, but there was no bus on Sundays. I had already forgotten. I started walking, but quickly changed my mind and walked back again. It was a four-kilometre climb, and I just didn’t have the energy for it now. There was a solitary taxi parked by the station, I got in and said, the Eagle’s Nest. The driver grinned, the Eagle’s Nest. That’s a good one. You don’t like it up there, then, he said. Those who do, call it Soria Moria, even though it’s not called either of those things. He was Pakistani, or Indian. I know, I said. Of course you do, he said, and after that he didn’t say anything, and neither did I.
The flat was completely silent when I came in. I heard the alarm clock ticking in the bedroom. I turned on the radio to fill the living room with sound, but it was the Sunday service, so I switched it off and put on a record instead. The first Led Zeppelin, the first track. ‘Good Times Bad Times’.
It smelled empty. As if someone had been there who was not there any more. To feel that empty there must have been someone there first. It didn’t cross my mind that it was us. I walked through the living room and out into the kitchen and put the kettle on for coffee. I tried to think of her. I sat down at the living-room table with the cup of coffee and thought about how I looked forward to her coming home again, but I didn’t know if I did. On the table there was a list of things I was supposed to do while she was away. She had made it, I picked it up, sat like that for a while, as if I was reading, and put it down again.
I emptied the cup and went out into the kitchen. The counter was spotless, she had cleared away all the dishes before we left. I set the cup down on the metal top, dried my hand on my trousers and picked it up again and threw it hard into the sink. It exploded. I leaned forward and looked at all the tiny shards and thought of her mother, how she used to stand in the doorway every time we came to visit for weekends. Her happy smile. Dammit, I said aloud. Then I went into the bedroom and took the rucksack from the top of the wardrobe, opened the wardrobe door and stood there for a long time with a pair of trousers in my hand, it was brand new, and put it into the rucksack and took out a few other random pieces of clothing, a couple of books and a bottle of Upper Ten whisky we hadn’t touched yet because she was pregnant. I turned off the record player, I didn’t like Led Zeppelin any more, I didn’t know why, I’d always liked them. I pulled out all the plugs except the one for the fridge and turned the knob on the boiler to zero.
Some way down the hill I saw a taxi heading up, and barely a few minutes later it came back down again having fulfilled its mission. I raised my arm and waved. The driver slowed down, pulled to the side and stopped the car just a few metres ahead of me. I took my rucksack off and opened the back door. I threw the rucksack on to the seat and slid in after it. Strømmen station, I said. Strømmen station it is, he said. Our eyes met in the rear-view mirror, it was the same driver.
I sat quietly as we drove through the housing development at Løvenstad and peered out the window as we crossed the junction at Gamle Strømsvei and down Stasjonsveien where later they converted the Strømmen steel factory into a big shopping centre down on the plain before the railway, not far from the shoe factory where my father worked after Salomon had gone bankrupt. There was no trace of it now.
We drove along the tracks, then across the narrow bridge, and turned in behind the station building on the opposite side. He took it for granted I wanted to travel towards Oslo, and maybe he was right.
I paid and wriggled out of the seat dragging the rucksack after me, slammed the door shut and began walking towards the platform. The driver got out too. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the open door, smoking. He left the engine running. I stood there. I had no idea when the train was coming. If it was coming. There was a timetable posted on the wall of the station building, but I didn’t go over to look. I saw the driver flick his cigarette butt to the ground and get in behind the wheel. He revved the engine and put it in first gear, I could hear it click into place, and the car slowly began to move, and I turned and started to run and caught up with it just when it was about to enter the road towards the bridge. I banged hard on the windowpane with my fist, and the driver hit the brakes, flung his arms into the air and slammed the back of his head against the headrest and sat staring up at the roof. Then he leaned over and rolled down the window and said, yes, what is it now, in a rather irritated tone of voice. I’m not taking the train, I said. You’re not, he said, and I said, no, I’m not. So what do you want, then, he said. I need a taxi, I said. He sighed, he said, this is a taxi. I know, I said. I opened the back door and tossed the rucksack in and practically threw myself in after it and sat down heavily on the seat. I didn’t feel all that well.
He turned around, his elbow over the back of his seat, and looked at me. Suddenly he wasn’t irritated any more, on the contrary he looked friendly. So, where are we going, he said. I thought for a moment, but I couldn’t come up with anywhere. I don’t know, I said. He ran his hand through his hair a couple of times. I could swear his eyes were moist. He turned away and looked out the windscreen. Then he turned back again. His eyes were still moist. Maybe we could just drive around a little, he said. Yes, I said, maybe we’ll just drive around a little, that’s fine, I said. Let’s do that. He started the car again and drove out of the station area, across the bridge and down the gentle slope towards Lillestrøm. I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes. We’ll just drive around a little, I thought, then something will come to mind.
But nothing came to mind. We drove along the countless minor roads of Nedre Romerike, and after a while the driver became frustrated, it was so obvious he wanted to help me and had believed that after a few kilometres on the road I would see the light. But I didn’t see the light. Finally I asked him to drive back up the hills again.
We parked at the bus stop right by the high-rise. He switched the engine off, we sat there, and suddenly he didn’t want to take any payment. You must, I said, no, he said, I don’t want your money. He had clearly been driving me on the principle of no cure, no pay. But I insisted, and in the end he took the money, without enthusiasm. Then I got out of the car and said, thanks for the drive. I hesitated, and then I added, and thanks for your concern.
And then it passed. I did everything that was on the list. After a few days I started to long for her. It might have been something else, something other than longing, but I didn’t really think so. It was longing.
Right, Audun said, so that’s what you wanted to tell me. I don’t know, I said. I couldn’t think of anything else just now. That’s fine, he said, in fact it was pretty interesting, you never told me about that incident. No, I said, actually I haven’t thought about it much since then myself. I suppose I found it difficult. I can understand that, Audun said, though you could have told me. I would have liked that. I heard him take a sip from his glass. Whatever it was he had in it, the glass was not empty. Mine was. But is it really true, he said, all that detail, it’s quite a while ago, is that how you felt back then. The part with the taxi driver may not have been one hundred per cent accurate, I said, but I thought it was rather nice, so I put it in. I’m glad you did, Audun said, it was very nice. And then he said, you know Arvid, it’s already late, I really must get some sleep, I have to go to work early, there aren’t that many hours left. But you’ve been drinking, I said, that’s not so good, is it, if there are only a few hours left. It was a soft drink, he said, Pepsi. Oh, I see, I said. But it’s a good place to stop. And it was true, my head was drooping over the desk. The last part of the story I had told with my eyes closed. We can talk more tomorrow, if you like, Audun said. I’d like that, I said. Great, he said, goodnight, then Arvid. Goodnight Audun, and thanks for calling. You’re welcome, he said, and then we hung up, and I rose heavily from the desk and thought maybe I should have another glass of wine, there was more in the bottle, but then I let it be.