Otterøya, July 2nd, 2006. An old acquaintance
I SPLASH A LITTLE AFTERSHAVE ONTO MY PALM and pat it lightly over my cheeks. The weekend at last. Oh, it’s going to be good. It’s been a hard week, I’m totally wasted, aching in just about every bone in my body. I lean over the sink till I’m almost touching the mirror, pluck a long black hair out of one nostril and straighten up again. “But now it’s the weekend,” I murmur, and I look at myself in the mirror and smile, hold it for a moment, smiling and trying to look bright and cheerful, and I feel this strategy starting to work: seeing yourself as brighter and more cheerful than you actually are really does make you feel brighter and more cheerful. I feel that weight starting to slip from my shoulders. I do up the last button on my shirt, straighten the collar, humming softly to myself—another way of fooling yourself into believing that you’re in slightly more sparkling form than you actually are. Humming is associated with light-heartedness and when you hear yourself humming you tend to believe that you’re feeling more light-hearted than you actually are. Even when you know very well it’s a form of self-deception, you happily go along with it. “Or, you do anyway, Ole,” I murmur.
I stand there smiling at myself for a moment longer, then with a nod at my reflection I turn and and walk out of the bathroom. I’m looking forward to switching off now and doing absolutely nothing, except get mildly drunk with Helen and watch TV, maybe listen to some music or read a bit of Growth of the Soil, thought I’d remembered more of that book than I had, so I’d better finish reading it before the book circle meeting next Sunday. If there’s one thing I hate it’s turning up unprepared for the book circle, so I’ll just have to keep going. I walk down the hall and into the kitchen. All’s quiet in here, but Helen’s sandals are outside the terrace door so she must have got back from wherever she’s been. I wander into the living room and there she is, sitting hunched over her gossip mag and rolling a cigarette. I stop, smile at her.
“Hi,” I say. She doesn’t answer right away. “Hi,” I say again.
“Hi,” she mumbles, without looking up from her magazine.
A moment passes and still she doesn’t look up at me. I stay where I am, looking at her. Have to watch what I say now, she’s not in the best of moods it seems, the pain’s probably bad again, maybe she didn’t sleep too well either, it’s hard to say.
“So, how’s your day been, then?” I ask, regretting it as soon as I’ve said it. Now she’s sure to make out that I know she’s had a rotten day and that I ought to know better than to ask something like that. I’m getting to know her now, I know she takes just about everything in the worst possible way and on days like this she never misses a chance to take offense, maybe it’s her way of justifying the fact that she’s in a bad mood: shifting the blame for her misery onto me or something, I don’t know. I look at her, feel myself preparing mentally for some sort of outburst, an attack. But it doesn’t come.
“Same as usual,” is all she says, again speaking without looking up. She smooths the roll-up, raises it to her lips, moistens the wafer-thin paper with the tip of her tongue, turning the end from white to shiny gray. I smile and nod, relieved that she didn’t seize the opportunity to take offence.
“It’s going to be good to have a couple of days off now,” I say. I make my voice sound brighter and more cheerful than usual, trying somehow to cheer her up along with me.
“Mm,” she says, still not looking up from her magazine. She pops the cigarette into her mouth and gropes for the lighter that’s lying on the table, finds it, lights up and inhales.
“Will I open a bottle of wine?” I ask, eyeing her and smiling. She glances up at me, juts out her upper lip and exhales downwards. The gray column of smoke breaks as it hits the tabletop and swirls slowly up to the ceiling.
“Not for my sake,” she says, looking down at her magazine again.
“I bought that Australian one,” I say.
“No, thanks,” she says, taking a puff of her cigarette and flicking over a couple of pages.
“That one you really liked,” I say.
“Yeah, but no thanks,” she says, putting a hand to her mouth and picking off a shred of tobacco that’s stuck to her lip.
“Fair enough,” I say. It’s kind of heavy going when she’s like this, I mean I know she’d like to have a couple of glasses of wine with me. I don’t know many people who enjoy a little drink as much as Helen, and I know she’s forcing herself to say and do the opposite of what she really wants to do right now. It’s always the same when she’s in this mood, maybe she wants to punish herself or something like that, I don’t really know, it’s not always easy to figure her out. Ah well, I’m not going to let her drag me down along with her, she often tries to do that when she’s in this mood, so I have to watch my step. I just stand there for a moment or two, then I turn and stroll out of the living room. It’s best to leave her alone for now, give her a little time and she’ll come around, I’m sure she will. I can’t see her staying sober on a Friday night, she’ll help herself to some wine eventually, and whisky too. I go into the kitchen, take the whisky bottle out of the shopping bag and pour myself a shot, then I wander through to the computer room, pick Growth of the Soil off the desk and wander back through to the living room. I might as well grab the chance to do some reading since she’s not in the mood to talk.
“Where’s Daniel, by the way?” I ask. I raise my glass to my lips and take a sip as I sit down in the armchair. I feel everything in me gradually relax as the spirit burns its way down.
She looks at me, lowers her eyes again.
“Your mother asked if she could keep him till tomorrow,” she says.
I feel a little ripple of pleasure run through me as she says this, feel like getting more than just mildly drunk tonight, I could do with it. Great to have a babysitter, it couldn’t have worked out better.
“Oh, right,” I say. I look at her and smile, but she doesn’t glance up from her magazine so I open my book at the page I’ve turned down and start to read.
Silence. Then: “Ole, have you been reading my diary?” she asks.
I look up from my book, stare at her open-mouthed. What did she say? What did she just ask me? Does she really think I’ve been reading her diary. I keep my eyes fixed on her, but she just sits there smoking and gazing at her magazine.
“Oh, honestly, Helen. Do you really think I’m that bad?”
“I don’t think anything at all,” she says, still not looking up from the magazine. “All I know is that somebody’s been reading my diary, or handling it at least. I left it on my bedside table after I’d been writing in it the other day, I’m quite sure I did. But that’s not where I found it this morning. I thought maybe it had fallen down behind the table, but it was in the drawer,” she says. “And that seems a bit odd to me.”
And then she looks up from the magazine, fixes her eyes on mine and gives a hard little smile. She holds my gaze for a moment, then looks down at the magazine again. There’s total silence. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that I haven’t seen her diary and that I know nothing about it, but I don’t, because it must have been Jørgen of course. Jørgen’s been reading her diary to try to find out if I’ve told her about him selling hash. He knows that if I had told her Helen would be bound to write about it in her diary and he’s fallen for the temptation to sneak a peek at it. He’s scared, poor kid, of course, that has to be it. I can’t tell her that, though, because if I do she’ll know I went behind her back, and I don’t want that, she’ll just use that as an excuse to explode on me and I can’t face that right now.
“Well, maybe it fell on the floor and I picked it up and put it in the drawer?” I say.
“Ah, and you just happened to remember that now?”
Silence.
“I haven’t been reading your diary, Helen,” I say, trying to sound as sincere as I can. “Christ, do you really think I’d do that?”
“I told you, I don’t think anything at all,” she says
, slowly turning the pages of her magazine.
Long silence.
Then: “How about taking a run over to Sweden first thing tomorrow?” Helen says. I glance up from my book, she’s looking at me with that hard little smile on her face. “We could pick up cigarettes, stock up the freezer a bit,” she adds. I say nothing for a moment or two, just stare at her: she’s out to torment me now, she knows I feel like getting drunk tonight and that I won’t be fit to drive first thing tomorrow, that’s exactly why she’s suggesting this, suggesting it so as to make me feel guilty, make me despise myself, see myself as a bad husband, a bad father who’d rather get drunk than take his family on a trip to Sweden. She thinks I’ve been reading her diary and she wants to punish me for that, maybe she noticed that I looked pleased when she said Mom was going to keep Daniel for the night, she must have done, and this is her way of spoiling that pleasure. “Hmm?” she says, still with that smile on her face, making herself look happy to make it even harder for me to say no, I know that’s why she’s doing this, she hasn’t the slightest notion of going to Sweden, she’s just pretending she wants to so she can act even more disappointed and annoyed if I say no.
“We’ll see,” I mutter. I feel my good mood starting to melt away. After a moment I lift my book, act like I’m going to carry on reading. But she’s not about to give in, she keeps goading me.
“Yeah, but don’t you think it would be nice with a day out?” she asks. “I’m sure Jørgen wouldn’t mind a trip to Sweden either. To pick up some snus if nothing else. And I’m sure you’re mother would be only be too happy to have Daniel to herself tomorrow as well,” she adds, looking at me and smiling.
“We’ll see,” I say again. My voice is strained now, bordering on angry, and I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing me angry, because that’s just what she wants, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I fix my eyes on my book, try to read, but I can’t concentrate and she can see right through me, I know she can, she knows exactly how I’m feeling right now. I don’t take my eyes off the book, but I can tell that she’s sitting there looking at me. I wait a couple of seconds and then I glance up at her as casually as I can. She holds my gaze for a moment or two then she snorts and gives a little sneer, looks down at her magazine again, as if to say: that’s put you in your box, as if to say she’s shown me up for what I am: a drunk, an irresponsible father who puts getting drunk before taking his family for a day out in the car. Or something along those lines. I’m not like that, I’m not like that at all, but she makes me feel as if I am when she carries on like this. Moments pass and then I feel my cheeks start to burn, feel my blood starting to boil. It never fails, she always has to bring me down when she’s having one of her days, it’s like she has to drag me down into the black hole along with her. I get so sick of it, I mean I know it’s not easy being her, of course it isn’t, she’s been through so much in her life it’s a wonder it hasn’t left more of a mark on her than it has—neglected throughout her childhood, beaten half to death by Jørgen’s father and on top of all that she’s in pain and not getting enough sleep, so I can well understand if she has her bad moments but still, it’s hard going being around her when she’s like this. I have to be as supportive and sympathetic as I can, but God knows it’s not always easy.
I pick up my whisky glass, drain it, feel like getting myself a refill, but decide against it. If I pour myself another drink now she’ll only use that as an excuse to get even more uptight; she’ll hold it up as proof that I really am the no-good drunk she’s making me out to be and I can’t take that, so I simply sit here, gazing at my book, but the words are just a blur and I find it impossible to read.
Silence.
Then Jørgen suddenly turns up the music in his room, I hear the thud of the bass and the voice of some rap singer blaring out up there again.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Helen mutters.
I raise my eyes from my book and look at her, but she doesn’t look at me, she sits there staring at the ceiling. I watch her for a moment or two, then carry on reading.
We sit for a couple of seconds. Then:
“Does he have to play it so fucking loud?” she mutters.
I glance up from my book again, she’s still staring at the ceiling, her mouth is tight, her lips narrower than usual and she’s breathing quickly through her nose, looks like she’s getting herself worked up. The music’s not that loud, in fact he’s got the volume turned down lower than normal, so she’s got no reason to get worked up about it, but she is, she’s going to vent her anger and frustration on Jørgen. Either that or this is some sort of attempt to make it up with me, it could just as easily be that, yeah, that’s probably it. If she’d really been mad at Jørgen she would be on her feet yelling at him to turn it down. Either that or she would have found something to bang on the ceiling with, but she just sits there, letting me know that she’s mad at him, so this is probably more an attempt to make it up with me. She’s complaining about him so we can find common ground in our irritation over the loudness of Jørgen’s music. That’s what she’s trying to do. First she dragged me down, now she wants to build me up again, it’s always the same when she’s having one of her days, she does everything she can to put me in as foul a temper as herself and no sooner has she done that than she starts working to lighten the mood. I don’t like it when she does this. I don’t like it when she tries to control my mood like this, because that’s what she’s doing here, it’s got nothing to do with her feeling sorry for being angry, at least I don’t think it has, it’s more like an attempt to gain control or something, an attempt to control me, something like that, yeah, unless it’s the wine that’s doing it, yeah, that could be it, she wants to have a drink every bit as much as I did and if she’s to be able to have a drink without looking too foolish, she has to make it up with me first. What do I know. I look down at my book again, don’t say a word, I don’t feel like softening and meeting her halfway.
“You’d think he’d have a little consideration for the rest of us,” she says.
I look at her again, hesitate, don’t really feel like meeting her halfway but there’s no point in getting all self-righteous about it either, can’t face ruining our Friday evening just for that.
“Let him play his music,” I say, looking at her and wagging my head, standing up for Jørgen a bit. That means even more to her than me getting upset along with her, I know it does. I suppose she sees it as proof of a sort that I like her son, that must be it.
“Yes, but listen to it,” she says.
“I know, I know,” I say, wagging my head again, still making light of Jørgen’s loud music. “Why don’t we put on some music ourselves,” I say, with a nod towards the sound system. “It would save us having to listen to rap music at least,” I add. I look at her, she doesn’t say anything, but she gives a little shrug, letting me know that that’s fine by her. I pick up my empty whisky glass and cross to the sound system, run a finger along the row of albums.
There’s silence for a moment or two.
“Sure you won’t have a glass of wine?” I ask, trying to sound offhand, keeping my eyes on the albums. I yawn and try to look as if I don’t care one way or the other. I have to be careful not to smile and seem too upbeat now, mustn’t rush it, because if I do I’ll only disturb her rhythm, I know her well enough to know that. If I suddenly start sounding too bright and upbeat she’s liable to lose the feeling that she’s in control of the mood and then she could take it into her head to spoil everything again. “Hmm?” I say, glancing over at her. She screws up her nose and waggles her head, trying to look as if she can’t decide but I know she’s made up her mind to say yes.
“Oh, all right, maybe I will have a glass after all,” she says.
“One second,” I say. “I just have to find a record first.”
“Just as long as you don’t put on any of that Swedish golden oldies crap of yours,” she says.
I look at her, give a little laugh, it’s
probably safe to laugh now.
“I don’t know why you’ve got so much against old Swedish pop music,” I say. “There’s a lot of good Swedish pop music. Listen to this, for example.” I pull out a record by Sven-Ingvars, teasing her a little by pretending I’m going to put on a golden oldie from the 1950s.
“Don’t you dare,” she cries, putting her head on one side and eyeing me darkly.
“Okay, okay,” I say, laughing a little as I put the record back, I feel my spirits lifting, we’re getting along fine now, we’re starting to climb out of the black mood and into a brighter frame of mind and that’s good. I pull out a Creedence Clearwater Revival album and slip it into the CD player. There aren’t all that many records of mine that she likes, but she thinks Creedence is good, she’s even been known to put on one of their records herself, I’ve noticed. I stand up, eye her questioningly as John Fogerty’s gravelly voice issues from the speakers.
“Nice one,” she says, nodding approvingly. I look at her and smile, step into the kitchen and pour myself a whisky, then I open one of the bottles of wine, get a glass out of the cupboard and go back to the living room. I set both glasses on the table and start to pour wine into the wine glass.
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