“Oh, please!” Else says. “Don’t make a bigger fool of yourself than you have to, all I was asking for was a little respect,” she says. “Is that too much to expect?” she asks. “Respect?” Trond cries. “Do you think you’re showing respect for me, talking like that about what I’ve chosen to dedicate my life to?” he says, staring straight at Else. “Do you think you’re showing respect when you insinuate that the rest of us at this table, who have chosen to do something different with our lives, are less alive than you?” Else says. “I’m the one who actually finances this choice of yours,” she adds. “A-ha,” Trond says. “So that’s it. I knew it,” he says and he shakes his head, grinning furiously. “Well, one thing’s for sure,” he says. “Gone are the days when capitalists still had a certain refinement,” he says. “Oh, please,” Else says, making a face designed to let Trond know he has said something stupid. “I know you miss your father, but now you’re being pathetic,” she says. “I miss my father?” Trond cries. “I know you miss your father, but if you think he was more refined than anyone else here, then you’re wrong,” Else says. “The time he spent tapping away at an old typewriter up in his study had very little to do with refinement,” she says. “He did it because he was always too drunk to work,” she says. “Yes, and is it any wonder?” Trond says. “So it was my fault he drank, was it?” Else says. “No, not just your fault, I’m sure,” Trond says. “But it wasn’t without its ups and downs, your marriage, was it?” he adds, looking Else straight in the eye and grinning, and Else glares at him and I simply sit there looking at them. I might as well not be here at all, they’re talking so fast and so fiercely, they seem almost to have forgotten that I’m here, they’re so engrossed in one another, it’s like they don’t even see me, and neither of them will back down, they just keep going.
“Oh, apropos relationships, Trond,” Egil says, suddenly breaking in, and now he’s the one who’s grinning. “D’you think we’ll get to meet the new woman in your life before she, too, is history?” he asks. “I’m not sure I want to subject her to that?” Trond says. “I happen to care about her, you see,” he adds. “Yes, well, a culture shock like that – it’s no joke,” Egil says. “No, for once I have to agree with you,” Trond says. “What was it you said she does?” Egil asks, looking at Trond and grinning, and Trond stares at Egil, grins angrily back at him and I simply sit there looking at them, I’m a spectator, I’m their audience. “Do you really think I’m embarrassed by the fact that she works as a waitress?” Trond says. “Do you really think I care what she does for a living?” he says. “Good heavens, no,” Egil says. “I really don’t think you do?” Egil says. “I’ll tell you something,” Trond says, “she’s a far better person than you are. I can’t even begin to describe how much better,” he says, and he glares at Egil and Egil looks at him, and Egil forms his lips into a big “O”. “Ohhh,” he says. “True love,” he says, and he gives a little laugh. “Now I understand,” he says. “I doubt that,” Trond says. “I doubt if you’re capable of understanding any of it,” he says. “Ah no, of course, only writers like yourself can do that,” Egil says, grinning again and shaking his head, then his expression suddenly changes to one of weary disdain. “Dear, oh dear,” he sighs, his face falling into heavy folds: “When are you going to leave adolescence behind?” he says. “When are you going to grow up?” he says. “When am I going to become like you, you mean?” Trond says. “Never,” he says, giving Egil a steely, indignant smile and Egil laughs and shakes his head again. “Never,” Egil echoes. “I want to live my own life,” he says, putting on a funny voice. “I want to be free,” he says and he grins again.
“You know what,” Trond exclaims, glaring at Egil, “you’re so fucked up you simply can’t imagine how anyone wouldn’t want to be like you,” he says. “That’s right,” Egil says. “I’ve been corrupted by filthy lucre and lost sight of what really matters in life,” he says, still grinning. “Yes, you have,” Trond says. “And your saying it in that sarcastic tone won’t make it any the less true,” he says, glaring furiously at Egil and Egil grins furiously back at him. “For God’s sake, Trond,” Egil says, staring at Trond and shaking his head, “You’re the one who’s lost all focus in your life,” he says. “Oh yes?” Trond says. “Yes,” Egil says. “You’ve no goals in life,” he says. “Or no long-term goals at any rate,” he says. “Listen to Mr MBA, listen to him!” Trond says. “Long-term goals,” he says. “Yes, well, you keep chopping and changing,” Egil says. “One minute you’re working in the firm with Mum and me, the next you decide to study medicine and become a doctor, and now suddenly you want to be writer,” he says. “You can’t make up your mind. And it’s the same with women, you change your women as often as other people change their socks,” he says.
“Egil’s right, Trond,” Else says quietly. “And it’s high time you realized that,” she says. “Well, well, don’t tell me you agree with Egil,” Trond cries. “You and Egil?” he says, with a wry bark of laughter. “Well, there’s a turn-up for the books,” he says. “Oh, dear,” Else sighs. “Don’t you see what’s going on here?” Egil says. “Don’t you see that you’re trying to be Dad?” he says. “Don’t you see that you’re trying to carry on where he left off … with this pathetic Bohemian lifestyle of yours?” he says. “You miss Dad, Trond,” Else says, and a moment passes, and I’m still sitting here, staring at them, being their audience, while they sit around the table, acting out their family drama, their chamber play and I sit there, acting as spectator.
“Know what,” Trond growls. “I’ve never heard such a load of pop-psycho bullshit,” he says, shaking his head, then he takes a large swig of his wine, puts his glass down and shakes his head again, kind of smiling to himself. But Else doesn’t back down and Egil doesn’t back down, and I stare at them and it’s almost unreal, I think, how they can behave like this at Sunday dinner, it’s almost beyond belief. “You’d do better to carry on from where your strong, healthy father left off,” Else says. “If you’re going to be like your dad, you should try to be the way he was before he started drinking,” Egil says, and he eyes Trond solemnly and Else eyes Trond solemnly and I stare open-mouthed at them, they’re like a two-headed troll, lashing out at Trond, laying into him and I just sit here watching. “You know,” Else says, “I feel much the same now as I felt that time when we almost lost you,” she says. “We see you fading away, slowly but surely, before our eyes and it’s so hard to watch,” she says. “I can’t just sit and watch you go the same way as your father,” she says, nodding at Trond’s wineglass and smiling sadly. “Look,” she says. “We’ve each had one glass and you’ve drunk almost a full bottle,” she says. “This can’t go on, Trond,” she says, and then there’s silence and Trond is angrier than ever, he lowers his knife and fork, straightens up and looks straight at Else.
“What the hell is all this?” he cries and I flinch slightly as he says it. “We care about you, Trond,” Else says softly. “We’re worried about you,” she says, and I look at Trond and I can see how mad he is and he nods curtly, angrily at Else. “Well, stop it,” he cries. “I’m a grown man, for Christ’s sake,” he says. “I’m still your mother, Trond,” Else says. “And it worries me when I can see that you’re not all right,” she says. “But I am all right,” Trond says. “It is possible to lead a different life from you and still be perfectly all right,” he says, then there’s silence again and a moment passes.
“Well, I can tell how mad it makes you if we suggest that you drink too much, Trond,” Egil says, suddenly dropping the sarcastic tone. “What are we supposed to make of that, do you think?” he asks calmly. “I don’t give a fuck what you make of it,” Trond roars suddenly and I jump in my chair. I stare at Trond and Trond stares at his plate, and he eats quickly, angrily, grinning desperately, and he gives a faint shake of his head, he’s losing it now and I simply sit here staring at him, sit as if stunned, and I feel my mouth fall open. I close my mouth and swallow, never taking my eyes off Trond. Th
is is almost unreal, this is almost beyond belief. “What a sorry bunch you are,” Trond says, speaking with his mouth full, and his voice quivers as he says it. “Take it easy now, Trond,” Egil says calmly. “Don’t you tell me to take it easy!” Trond roars, making me jump in my chair again and I stare wide-eyed at Trond, because he’s losing it now, I can tell by his face, he can no longer control himself, now there’s going to be trouble.
“Know what …” he says, then he pauses, shakes his head and grins fiercely, grinning with his mouth full, and I gape at him. “Know what,” he says again, and his voice is shaking more and more, “Sometimes I find myself thinking that you two are actually miserable,” he says. “You’re miserable and you simply can’t understand why,” he says. “You’ve followed the recipe for happiness and the perfect life to the letter and you can’t understand why your solid, respectable middle-class existence doesn’t taste better than it does,” he says, shaking his head and sneering, getting himself more and more worked up, and I stare wide-eyed at him. “And then,” he says. “And then,” he says again, “when you see me following another recipe and you see that, unlike you, I’m pleased with the result, it pisses you off, you start attacking me and the life I choose to live, you start making out that I’m sick. It would be too hard for you to admit that there might be something wrong with your recipe, and then you start psychoanalysing me and saying there’s something wrong with me,” he says. “That’s so bloody typical of you two, making out that everything you don’t agree with is actually the result of some trauma or problem of mine, that way you don’t have to have a sensible discussion about it, that way no one can get at you, you put yourself above reproach,” he says, his voice quivering more and more, and he nods curtly at Egil and he nods curtly at Else. “It’s you two that are sick,” he says. “It’s not me, it’s you,” he says.
There’s silence again, and I don’t take my eyes off Trond, and a moment passes, and then suddenly Trond starts to laugh and he shakes his head incredulously as he laughs. “Well, that shut you up,” he says. “Look at you, picking at your food and looking so bloody serious,” he says. “You’ve put on those bloody oh-so-concerned masks of yours and now it’s supposed to dawn on me that I’m running off at the mouth again,” he says. “You act all concerned, and I’m supposed to think that there’s good reason to be concerned about me, and that … and that …” he says. “It makes me so fucking mad!” he roars, spraying spittle, and I jump yet again.
And there’s silence. And the moments pass. “You need help, Trond,” Egil says softly. “I’m fine!” Trond roars, a roar that comes from deep in his stomach, and his eyes widen as he roars and I feel my mouth fall open again and I simply sit there staring at him. “Can’t you get that into your head?” he roars. “I don’t need help, I’m fine!” And there’s silence again and the moments pass. “We love you, Trond,” Else says suddenly. “And we’re here for you,” she says, and I look at Trond and Trond stares fixedly at his plate and his mouth falls slowly open and he doesn’t look up from his plate. I stare at him open-mouthed and suddenly I feel a ripple of fear run through me, because he’s about to lose it completely, he’s gone so far now that he no longer knows what he’s doing, and there’s silence, then Trond looks up, and stares straight at Egil, and Else and I just sit there watching. A moment passes, but Trond doesn’t lose it, he takes a deep breath and lets it out with a little sigh, then he bows his head, looks down at the table and shakes his head despairingly.
“God Almighty,” Trond says, and he puts a hand to his head and runs his fingers through his long, thick hair, then he raises his eyes and regards Egil and Else despairingly, and there’s silence, and a moment passes. “It’s hard for us to know how you’re feeling,” Egil says. “But we realize that you’re hurting and we want to help you,” he says, looking at Trond. And Trond holds his eye as he slides his hand out of his hair and lets it drop down into his lap, then he he looks at Egil and shakes his head and gives a sad little laugh. “Amen,” Trond murmurs. “What?” Egil says. “You’re dyed-in-the-wool fundamentalists, the pair of you,” Trond says, and a moment passes, then Egil sighs helplessly, and he looks at Else and Else looks at Trond and then she sighs. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Else says. “The whole point of life is to turn ten øre into twenty øre and anyone who believes otherwise is a heretic,” Trond says, and he laughs that sad little laugh again and shakes his head yet again and Else looks at him and frowns. “Oh, honestly,” Else says and she opens her mouth again, about to say more, but she doesn’t have the chance. “Don’t,” Trond sighs, raising his hand then lowering it and resting it on the table again. “This is getting us nowhere anyway,” he says, then he carries on eating, and a moment passes, then Else lets out a sigh and Egil shakes his head gently and they too carry on eating. Me, I carry on not eating. I’m still sitting looking at them and there is total silence. It’s like being in a cinema just after the end of a very powerful film, and the moments pass, then all at once I seem to wake up and come to my senses, all at once I see what has just happened, what exactly has been going on: they’ve turned me into a guest in my own house, this is my house and they act like I’m not even here, they’ve made me a spectator, their audience, and I simply let it happen, I’m sitting here putting up with it. A moment passes, and I feel so humiliated. Another moment passes, then I suddenly place my knife and fork on my plate, looking down at my hands as I do so, and my mouth suddenly widens into a little smile. I feel cold and angry. I look up at Egil and he’s already looking at me and frowning.
“What’s the matter?” he asks and he looks at me, but I don’t reply, I just sit there smiling and looking at him and there’s silence. “Silje,” he says, but I don’t reply this time, either. “For goodness sake, Silje,” he says, looking almost scared now, and he never takes his eyes off me. “What’s the matter with you?” he says, but I still don’t reply. “Silje?” Egil says, a little louder.
Then: “Would you excuse me?” I say. It just comes out. “What?” Egil says, looking as if he can’t quite believe his ears and I feel a bubble of laughter breaking free inside me when I say this, and I look at him, still smiling, and Egil just sits there staring at me, and a moment passes, then he shakes his head. “Honestly,” Egil says, and a moment passes, then I get up from my chair and I realize how surprised I am that I’m doing this, that I’m leaving the table in the middle of dinner. I pick up my wineglass, place it on my plate, pick up my plate with both hands, look at Egil and smile and he sits there with his mouth hanging open and the laughter rings out inside me, I can scarcely believe that I’m doing what I’m doing right now, it’s almost as if someone else were doing it.
“Silje,” he says. “Yes,” I say. “We’re not finished yet,” he says. “I can see that,” I say and I stand there bolt upright, smiling, and he looks at Else and he looks at Trond, then he looks at me again. “No, really, what’s the matter?” he says, and a moment passes and I look at him and I’m on the verge of replying, but I don’t, I don’t know how to reply, nor do I need to reply. “Silje,” he says. “Yes,” I say lightly and I feel so airy and indifferent, all of a sudden I feel strangely happy. “What is the matter with you?” Egil asks, looking confused, looking genuinely concerned, and his reaction delights me. I smile at him. “Oh, Egil, pet,” I say, and my voice is light and happy. “There’s nothing the matter with me.”
“This is all our fault,” Else bursts out and she gives a little cough. “I’m sorry, Silje,” she says. “We shouldn’t have brought this up now, it wasn’t the right moment,” she says. “And just after Oddrun’s funeral, too,” she says. “But Trond and I will go now,” she says, and I look at her and I smile that airy, indifferent smile. “No, don’t even think about it, Else,” I say, and I look at her and she gives me a funny look and it delights me to be doing this. “You haven’t finished dinner yet,” I say. “And besides, I’m going out anyway,” I say. It just comes out, and I hear what I’m saying and this strange feeling
of delight grows and grows inside me. “You’re going out?” Egil says, widening his eyes and creasing his brow. “And where, might I ask, are you off to?” he says, and I look at him, and I smile that airy smile. “Oh, just out,” I say and my voice is light and happy. I say it as if it were the most natural thing in the world and I give a little shrug as I say it. “Silje,” he says. “You’re scaring me,” he says. “I’m scaring you?” I say and I look at Egil and he eyes me in astonishment and Else gazes solemnly at the table, and a moment passes and then I walk off. I carry my plate and cutlery through to the kitchen, set it all down on the worktop and I come back out of the kitchen again with a smile on my face, step into the living room, then out into the hall. I slip on my shoes, hardly able to believe that I’m doing this, it’s almost as if someone else were doing it.
“Silje,” I hear Egil shout, but I don’t answer. I open the door and walk out onto the front steps, then I walk down the steps and out onto the drive and as I set off down the drive I hear the door opening behind me. “Silje,” I hear Egil say, but I just keep walking, I don’t look back, I walk past the rubbish bins and out onto the pavement, feeling strangely light and happy, then I hear Egil running after me and I stop, and I look at him and smile.
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