by K. O. Dahl
'Oh dear!' he said, miming a stifled yawn and patting his mouth with his hand. 'Just so long as he doesn't tell the story about the piano stool. Whoops.' He recoiled and added, 'Too late!'
'I was in Hotel Bristol,' Goggen said.'… I went in and saw a quite magnificent piano stool in the bar, and I simply could not resist. I sat down and played a light sonata and I hardly noticed that I was playing until I sensed the silence around me. But, by God, it was too late to stop then - so I kept going, and when
I finished I could feel there was a man standing next to me…'
'A man!' Stork woman shouted in an affected voice. 'So exciting!'
Her neighbour: 'Yes, talking about piano stools and women, have you heard about the fat woman who's so good at playing she breaks two stools every concert!'
Ole grinned. He didn't mind joining in when Goggen was the victim. Ole's eyes shone.
The stork woman winked at Ole. 'Breaks the piano stool?'
'Yes, of course, they're very fragile affairs!'
'I felt…' Goggen screamed with annoyance. 'I felt a hand…'
A voice from the crowd: 'It's not mine!'
Laughter.
Goggen was offended. 'Very droll, very droll. Well,' he continued with everyone's attention back on him again. 'I was sitting there playing and I felt a hand on my shoulder,' his voice entranced, his eyes half- closed, the pale whites gleaming. 'I turned,' he said with dramatic emphasis, 'and I looked up… and was startled to hear a voice say: Nice!
Goggen, who had the audience with him now, paused. 'A beautiful, rounded, warm voice,' Goggen placed a hand on his own shoulder as though trying to feel the same pressure as he had long ago; he twisted in the chair pretending to hold the hand and turn to see who owned it… That was very nice, the voice said and then this man let go and gave me…'
'Come on,' one of the women at the table shouted. She turned round to make sure the others were with her. 'What did he give you?'
A voice from the table: 'Goodness me! With a hand, too!'
'The man,' Goggen, undeterred, continued. 'The man was a venerable man of the theatre. Per Aabel!'
The words had an impact. A wave of deep rapturous sighs passed around the table. Goggen surveyed those around him with a nod of triumph and repeated, 'Per Aabel!'
Katrine noticed Annabeth standing in the doorway. She was drunk as was everyone else. All those self-righteous people who dealt with others' drug abuse problems were pissed. Pissed and horny and old. She felt nauseous.
A man who had not quite got the point of Goggen's story looked at the others with a little grin. 'Christ, Goggen, isn't he the same age as you?'
Everyone burst into laughter.
'Who said that?' Goggen stood up, raising an arm in the air, his bloated cheeks quivering with rage. 'Who said that? I challenge whoever it was to a duel.'
'Sit down, you old goat,' a woman shouted. 'Sit down and tighten the truss!'
More laughter and raised glasses. Katrine turned because she sensed a movement by the door. Annabeth was staggering towards her, and Katrine squeezed Ole's hand and let him take her in tow.
Annabeth blocked their way. She was swaying and struggling to keep her balance. 'Katrine,' she called with warmth in her voice. 'I hope you're having a good time,' cutting off the ends of her words, because she was drunk. Katrine smiled but felt sick. 'The food was lovely, Annabeth. Very nice.'
Annabeth took her hand. Katrine looked down at Annabeth's hand. It was the hand of an ageing woman, pale brown skin, wrinkled fingers covered in rings. She looked up. There was a lot of blusher on her cheeks. And dark shadows under the powder.
'We love you so much, Katrine,' Annabeth said and began to cry.
'Are you crying, Annabeth?'
Even though Katrine wished she were many miles away, she managed to find the right note of sympathy. In front of her stood Annabeth, the director of the rehab centre, completely pissed. The stab of discomfort she had felt in her stomach from the first moment she had set foot in the house, the little stab she had been fighting to keep down freed itself now from the claws in her stomach. Katrine could feel the discomfort and disgust spreading through her body like wildfire, a numbing hot pain that started in her stomach and spread outwards. As her body gradually surrendered to the pain and repulsion, her mind was clear enough to remember the many times she had seen more wretched gatherings than this. She closed her eyes, opened them again and saw Ole. He was standing behind Annabeth and staring at her, rapt. For a few seconds Katrine experienced deep, violent contempt for him and all the people around her: Annabeth and her smug acquaintances knocking back wine, beer and spirits to find the courage to tell each other secrets, to slag each other off, to smooth the path for infidelities and other hypocrisies. And there was Annabeth whispering secrets to her she didn't have the energy to hear. But the painful stabbing in her stomach also numbed her thinking. There was a rushing noise in her ears and she discovered she could not hear what was going on in the room. Annabeth was swaying and her lips were moving. Her teeth were long with black joins. They were the teeth of an old person. A person who has smoked too many cigarettes and uttered too many empty words. Annabeth's eyes were red, wet with tears, swimming with water. In her hand she was holding what looked like an open bottle of red wine. She waved the bottle and teetered again, took an unsteady step to the side and the bottle exploded as it hit the door frame. In slow motion a shower of red wine enveloped Annabeth; it was as though someone had torn off her skin, as though blood were spraying out, wetting her hair, streaming down her face and neck, a naked red wound that had once been a face. At that moment Katrine's hearing returned; it returned as the old woman let out a hoarse scream. The sound was just an undefined rush in Katrine's ears. For one second she gazed into Annabeth's eyes; she stared into two dark, empty tunnels in a brain which was no brain, just a pulsating mass of white worms. Katrine's stomach heaved. She knew she was going to throw up, there was no doubt in her mind; the contents of her stomach were on their way up right now. Her vision became even hazier. The white worms came closer, and the red liquid streamed down Annabeth's neck, like blood, as though from a fountain of blood.
Someone was supporting her. Katrine felt the cool tiles against her knees and knew she was throwing up. She vomited into a toilet bowl. Sounds from the party penetrated the lavatory door. She peered up. Ole was standing over her. His expression was anxious. 'I want you out,' she groaned.
'You fainted,' he said. 'The bitch smashed the bottle of wine and you passed out. Great party. You shouldn't drink so much.'
She looked up at him. 'I don't drink. I haven't touched a drop all evening.'
'Why were you sick then?'
She was unable to answer before the cramps in her stomach started again. This time it wasn't food; it felt like she was disgorging burning hot tea. She groped for toilet paper. Her fingers grabbed some cloth. Ole had passed her a towel.
'Don't know,' she groaned. 'May have been the food.'
He flushed the toilet. The noise drowned out the sounds of the party. She dried the mucus, the snot and the tears from her face. 'Why are you still here?' she asked. 'I want to be alone. I don't want you to see me like this.'
He mumbled: 'Do you think I want to be on my own with that lot outside?'
She nodded and had another violent retch. She brought nothing up. Yes, she did, a drop of caustic bile rolled off her tongue. She felt the draught of the door as he opened and left. That was a relief. She felt better.
Ole was full of lies, too. This place suited him. He slotted in among these people. Ole could make conversation, he could drop small compliments to the ladies and engage in small talk with other men. Ole was at home. Only she was at sea. She had no business being here. And she wanted to go home. She should be with people who made her feel good. That was the solution. Go home. If home existed.
She recovered a little and dragged herself up by the toilet seat. She sat on the bowl staring at herself in a large mirror. In this hous
e you could sit on the toilet and admire yourself. Annabeth's husband, Bjørn Gerhardsen, too. Perhaps he stood here in front of the mirror, jacking himself off before he went to bed. She shook her head to remove the sight from her consciousness. Her stomach was empty. She was not nauseous any longer. But her stomach muscles ached after the attack. She sat like a teenage prostitute after her first OD, before the darkness came. Knees together, mucus running down her chin, watery eyes, sickly pale skin and vomit-stained hair hanging down in two big tangles over her forehead. The tears that had been forced out as she spewed had made her mascara run. She thought about the insane sight of Annabeth spattered with wine. And instantly felt sick again. She swallowed. Sat there with closed eyes, swallowing until the nausea subsided. Now she knew what she should not think about. Slowly she opened her eyes and regarded herself in the mirror. The sounds of music, laughter and screaming carried through the door.
If she had not been a conversation topic for that lot outside before, she was now. Have you ever heard anything like it? The poor welfare case feels unwell and throws up at Annabeth's party - have you ever heard anything like it?
There was a knock at the door.
She wanted to be alone, quite alone. There was another knock. Banging, social-worker-type- banging. I-will-never-give-up-banging. Shall-we-talk- about-it-banging. Old-woman-banging. 'Katrine?' It was Sigrid. 'Katrine? Are you OK?'
Katrine wanted to be alone. No, she wanted to be with Henning, to sit and drink tea with Henning and not to feel the quiver of expectation in the air, or the looks.
'Katrine!' Sigrid kept on banging.
Katrine stood up and opened the door a fraction.
'My God, what do you look like, my little girl!' Sigrid was caring, as always. She pushed her way into the room and began to wash Katrine's face. 'There we are, yes, are you better now?'
'I think I'm going home,' Katrine said, pulling a face at herself in the mirror. 'Could you ask Ole to ring for a taxi?'
'I'll do it for you. Ole's gone into the garden.'
'In the garden?'
'Yes, Annabeth wanted people to swim in the pool. And she has a new fish pond she wants to show off. Just wait and I'll find you a car or see if anyone can take you.'
'There isn't a soul here left sober.'
Sigrid, her brow furrowed: 'It might seem like that, but there are quite a few people who don't touch a drop.'
'Just forget it,' Katrine sighed.
They observed each other in the mirror. Sigrid, middle-aged, slim and grey-haired, attractive and educated, with soft, caring hands. Katrine, young with a somewhat weary expression in her eyes. 'You should have been a nurse,' Katrine said and put Sigrid's arm around her shoulder. Portrait of girlfriends in the reflection. 'I can see it now as large as life.'
'What?'
'You walking round in a white uniform on the night shift with several male clients waiting for you in the dark, waiting for a glimpse of their dream woman tiptoeing through the door.'
Sigrid smiled at Katrine in the mirror, flattered but still with a caring, concerned furrow on her forehead. 'I'm old,' she said.
'Mature,' corrected Katrine, freeing herself, 'but I'm young and don't have the energy for any more tonight. I'll ring someone to pick me up. You go back to the party.'
Katrine felt a sudden desire to have Ole with her, to have him holding her. She wanted Ole to say: Stay here, with me. She stood in the doorway looking. First of all for Sigrid, who had disappeared into the crowd. She stood and watched Ole come in from the terrace. Ole and the long-legged lady from the dinner table. Their intimacy had become more open. Katrine closed her eyes and could see them before her, naked in bed. She could imagine it quite clearly, but felt no jealousy, just a leaden despondency.
What did she want Ole to say? I'm sick of this place. He could say that. He could come here, hold her and say he would take her home and stay with her. She could feel herself becoming angry. Why didn't he do that? Why wasn't he the person she wanted him to be?
At that moment her eyes met his. He was walking towards her. She closed her eyes. She saw it vividly. The row that was coming. All the nasty things she would say; all the nasty things he would say. She opened her eyes again. For every step that Ole took, she wished it were Henning. Henning and no one else.
'How's it going?' he asked.
'Better,' she mumbled. 'You're enjoying yourself too, I can see.'
He followed her gaze, to the woman with the legs watching them. As soon as Ole turned, the long- legged woman left and was lost from view.
'Some people are going to hit town,' Ole said after a pause. 'Smuget. The queer and a few others. Do you feel like joining them?'
'No,' she said. 'Do you?'
'Not sure. Maybe.'
'I'm going home,' she said.
'Home?'
She gave a tired smile. 'You don't need to join me. Relax, stay here. Or go with the others to town.'
He brightened up. 'Quite sure?'
She nodded.
A crowd of noisy guests forced their way between them. Goggen patted Ole on the bottom. 'You going to join us, sweetie?'
Ole grinned.
Goggen grabbed his waist and swung him round in a slow waltz. Katrine retreated to the toilet, locked the door and waited until she was sure the hall was empty. Voices and strident yells penetrated the walls. Someone was mistreating the piano. When she was sure that all those in the corridor had gone, she crept out, lifted the receiver of the telephone hanging on the wall and called Henning's number. She checked her watch. It was not midnight yet. At last she heard a sleepy hello at the other end. 'Katrine here,' she said quickly. 'Are you in bed?' She couldn't restrain herself from asking, and then grimaced, as though frightened he would say yes and be grumpy.
'Me? No.' Henning yawned aloud. So he had been asleep.
'Have you got a car?' she asked.
'My brother's, the big old crate.'
'Can you pick me up? I'm at Annabeth's. Now?'
Thank God for Henning, who never asked any questions. 'Start walking now,' he said. 'And I'll meet you.'
* * *
Chapter Four
Night Drive
Twenty minutes later the house was a hundred metres away and she was alone in the darkness. She strolled down the quiet road. It was grey rather than dark outside, the murky gloom of a summer night. She felt a lot better, but her stomach and diaphragm were still taut. The fresh air caressed her face. She passed under a lamp post. The electric lamp buzzed and projected a pallid gleam, unable to illuminate better than the night itself. She continued on down the road. Her heels echoed on the tarmac. The electric buzz was gone, soon to be replaced by a mosquito next to her ear. Shortly afterwards she heard the drone of a car. Next she saw the beam of headlamps behind the massive trees alongside the road. Oslo opened up far beneath her. The whole town smouldered with lights, like the embers of an enormous dying bonfire. The black sea of the inner Oslo fjord reflected and amplified the glow. The drone of the engine increased in volume and soon she saw the reflection of car headlamps on the trees and a line of cars rounded the bend. The first car was low with an open top. Henning's long hair blew in the gusting side wind, and he had to brush it away from his face. He pulled up and she jumped in.
They sat looking at each other, smiling. 'What's up?' he asked.
Her smile became broader. 'What do you think?'
'Have you won loads of money?'
She grinned. 'No.'
'Tell me what it is!'
She collected herself and closed her eyes.
'Something wonderful has happened to you,' he said.
She nodded, unable to restrain her smile.
'Are you going to tell me what?'
'Later,' she said, squeezing his hand. 'Later,' she repeated, stroking the dashboard with her hand, and asked, 'Where did you find this?'
'It's my brother's,' he said. 'I look after his car while he's abroad.'
'Do you mean that? You've got a broth
er who just lends you this kind of car?'
He gave a lop-sided smile and cocked his head. 'He is my brother after all.'
'Tired?' she asked.
'Not any more.'
'What do you feel like doing?'
He shrugged. 'How much time have you got?'
'All night.'
He leaned his head back so that the little goatee stuck up like a tuft of moss on the end of his pointed chin. 'Then it's as clear as the stars in the sky,' he mumbled. 'I know what we can do.'
'But I want to eat first,' Katrine said. 'I feel like some really greasy, unhealthy food.'
Her hair fluttered in the wind in the open-top car. Henning accelerated past Holmenkollen hill which loomed up in the night like a huge mysterious shadow. They bumped into each other in the hairpin bends going down the ridge, and her hair became tangled and lashed at her eyes. Without hesitating for a second she removed her blouse and tied it around her head like a scarf. Henning glanced across. 'This is like Fellini,' he shouted through the rushing of the air. 'I drive my convertible through the night with a babe in a black bra!'
She leaned forward and turned on the car stereo. The music boomed out as though they were sitting in a concert hall. Leonard Cohen first took Manhattan by storm and then Berlin. They exchanged glances. She turned the volume up louder.
Henning changed down and accelerated. The speedometer showed 130 km as the road levelled out. As the yellow street lamps flashed by like disco lights on Henning's face Katrine felt like they were in a tunnel. The wind against her body, rock 'n' roll and the urge to cleanse yourself of educated manners, of social graces, of double entendres and hidden agendas, of clammy hands and middle- class arrogance. If this party had taken place more than three years ago, she thought to herself, she would already have been sitting on the floor with a needle in her arm. She felt a faint yen for that kind of kick even now. But it was faint, like the longing for a particular kind of sweet you ate when you were young. And so it will ever be, she thought, but three years ago I had no control over things, three years ago I wasn't even able to enjoy the pleasures of rejecting a man I didn't like, of not caring whether people saw me leaving a party alone, of not caring what others thought or of not caring what clothes I wore, especially when sitting in an open car.