“You’ll have some more, right?” I hear Helen say. She’s dressed now and she’s sat down next to Per. She leans across the table and grabs the whisky bottle.
“Yes, please,” Per says.
I feel like saying that it’s actually my whisky, not hers, but I bite my tongue. I gaze up at the two eagles and listen to the glug-glug of whisky being poured. After a moment or two I hear the sound of the bottle being set back down on the table. She might have asked if I wanted a top-up as well, but no. I turn and look at my glass: just as I thought, she didn’t pour any for me either, only for Per. I turn away again, stare at the fire, feel myself growing angrier and angrier, but I try to look as if everything’s fine. A couple the conversation they were having while I was up at the house fetching the towel. Per’s talking about some apprentice who’s apparently as thick as two short planks. He’s not the brightest spark himself, Per. That’s probably why he’s brought up the subject of this apprentice, in an attempt to seem smarter than he actually is.
“I asked him to run down to the ironmongers and buy three kilos’ worth of anvil clangs and he actually fuckin’ fell for it,” Per says, and he roars that coarse laugh of his again. And Helen gives him what he wants, she screams with laughter at this story, although she doesn’t think it’s funny, I know she doesn’t, but she laughs anyway. I shoot a glance at them, feel like coming right out and saying that that story’s as old as the hills, it’s not something that ever happened to Per, but I don’t, I just turn away and stare at the fire. I can’t be bothered pretending I think it’s funny, so instead I try to look as if I’m miles away. I might as well be, they’re both pretty plastered and we’ve slipped further and further apart, so I’m not really with them any more. After a minute or so I turn to to look at them, they’re sitting there gazing into each other’s eyes, looking like they have some kind of understanding, and it stabs at my heart. It only lasts a second then their eyes unlock and they pick up their glasses. I don’t say anything, but it stabs at my heart, tears at my gut and my resentment smolders more and more fiercely. I don’t let it show, though. I won’t let her see it, no fucking way am I going to give her the satisfaction of seeing that I’m jealous, because that’s just what she wants, but there’s no way I’m going to indulge her. Moments pass and then they start talking again. I should probably say something too, ought to take some part in the conversation, but I don’t, I can’t. The talk flows so easily between them, their words weaving together so naturally and it seems more and more difficult to say something that wouldn’t be out of place, so I just sit here, slipping further and further away from them. I’m about to refill my glass, but I think better of it, I’m not in the mood to drink any more, I think it’s time to bring this party to a close. I give it a moment or two then I stretch my arms above my head and yawn. I’m not tired, but I open my mouth wide and give a big, long yawn, as a hint to Per that it’s about time to call it a night, that the party’s over and it’s time he went home.
“Aa-ah,” I say, yawning and sighing.
“Tired?” Per asks.
“Hmm?” I say, acting as if my mind was elsewhere, acting a little woozy.
“Are you tired?”
“No, no,” I say, but I rub my eye with my knuckle to make him think that I am. I wait a moment and then I turn and meet Helen’s eye. She’s onto me, I can tell, she knows what I’m up to. She flashes me a rather contemptuous little grin, then turns back to Per. She has a big smile on her face, acting even more bright and bubbly than she’s been up till now, speaking even more animatedly, laughing even louder. Moments pass, then she suddenly edges even closer to Per, does it as if purely by accident, does it in a way that she can excuse later, if I confront her with it, by saying that she was just so caught up in the conversation. I feel my stomach turn at the sight, feel a silent scream slice through me, but I just sit here, trying to look as if there’s nothing amiss, sit here acting as if I don’t care, and I don’t want to care. I wish I didn’t feel what I’m feeling now, but I’m not made that way, my stomach turns and a moment passes and then Helen lays her hand on top of Per’s, this too as if by accident, puts her hand on his as she leans forward, about to emphasize something she has said, and desperation grows and grows inside me. I just sit here yawning faintly, but it’s tearing me apart.
“Gotta take a piss,” Per says suddenly. A moment passes, but Helen doesn’t remove her hand straight away, keeps it there a second longer than necessary before letting it slide slowly off his. “What goes in, must come out,” Per says, with another laugh. He plants his hands on his thighs, gets up and walks off.
I look at Helen, give her a pained smile.
“Having fun?” I ask.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I am,” she says. “Or is that not allowed?”
“No, of course not,” I say.
“Great,”
Silence. She picks up her wine glass, drains it in one gulp, then she grabs the bottle and refills her glass.
“Don’t you want any more?” she asks, not looking at me.
“No,” I say.
“And why not?”
I shrug, give a smile that’s a little feebler than I’d like.
“I thought it might be a good idea to have an early night if we’re going to Sweden tomorrow,” I blurt.
Her eyes bore into me.
“Ah, so we are going to Sweden now?” she says.
“Well, I thought you wanted to,” I say, still with that feeble smile on my lips. “For Jørgen’s sake, if nothing else,” I add.
“Trying to make me feel guilty now, are you?” she asks.
“What?” I ask.
She looks me straight in the eye and grins.
“Christ. Using Jørgen to make me feel guilty,” she says.
“Well, it was you who suggested we take a run over to Sweden, for Jørgen’s sake,” I say.
“Oh, ha ha,” she cries.
“Keep your voice down,” I say.
“Why should I?” she asks, her voice every bit as loud as before. She’s drunk and spoiling for a fight and she’s staring at me contemptuously.
I shut my eyes and clench my teeth for a second. I’m torn by indecision, don’t want Per to hear this.
“Helen, please,” I say under my breath.
I open my eyes and look at her. She holds my gaze for a second, then she sniffs and shakes her head.
“Okay, okay,” she says airily. “Fine by me. I’m just a passenger, though, so I don’t need to turn in yet. But just you go to bed, Ole, you want to be fresh and rested for the drive tomorrow,” she says. “I’ll stay up a while longer,” she adds, looking at me and giving me that cold, hard smile of hers. She’s goading me, she knows how much this hurts and it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her if she’s enjoying this, but I don’t, I just sit there doing my damnedest not to look as desperate as I’m feeling. One second, two, and then suddenly it’s as if another person is looking out of her eyes, there’s no longer any hint of anger or contempt in them. It’s like a switch being turned on and off, now she’s got that kittenish look about her again, she tilts her head to one side and flashes me a winning smile.
“My, but you were magnificent this evening,” she says.
“Magnificent?” I murmur.
“Yes,” she says, still giving me that winning smile.
“Well you certainly weren’t,” I retort.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think?”
We sit like that, eye to eye for a second or two, then I look down at the table, run a hand over the top of my head and breathe a sigh. Then I look up at her beseechingly.
“Can’t we go to bed soon, Helen. I’m getting kind of tired.”
“I’m not,” she says, and suddenly that hard smile is back on her face. She holds my eye, pauses, then: “And anyway, who is it who goes on at me about having a threesome every time we have sex?” she says. “Who is it who dreams about seeing me being screwed by anothe
r man?”
My stomach turns at her words and I feel a wave of despair wash over me, feel my face reddening.
“Helen, please,” I murmur. “You’re drunk. Can’t we just go to bed?”
And then Per comes back. He strides across the wet, blue-black rocks, looking at us and smiling, and Helen smiles back at him. Then she turns to me again.
“What did you say?” she asked, pretending not to have heard me, she knows I won’t ask again, not when Per can hear.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Oh, right,” she says, and she turns to Per as he sits down on the bench. “Ole’s off to bed,” she says in that butter-wouldn’t-melt voice of hers, she knows how hard it’ll be for me to go off to bed without her, but she doesn’t let on. “But there’s nothing to stop us staying up a bit longer is there?” she says.
“Not at all. We can’t go to bed now, not when we’re just getting into our stride,” Per says, grinning and looking at me as he bends down and picks up a stick entangled in dry, brownish-black bladderwrack. “Hitting the sack already?” he asks, chucking the stick onto the fire.
I swallow.
“Yeah,” I say, “it’s been a long week and a long day and I’m knackered.” I feel desperation tear at my gut as I say it. I don’t want to go to bed without Helen, but I’ve said several times now that I’m off to bed and I can’t bring myself to change my mind. And anyway, I’m not going to humiliate myself by sitting here watching her antics, I won’t give her the satisfaction. I’m going to bed, she can do what she likes and take the consequences.
“Okay,” Per says, he doesn’t even try to talk me out of it, lets me go just like that. “Goodnight, then,” he says.
“Goodnight,” I say, letting out a yawn as I get up from the bench.
“Goodnight,” Helen says, not even looking at me as she says it. I stand for a moment, stretching. No one says anything, the seaweed that Per threw on the fire pops and cracks and out on the skerry a gull cries, other than that all is quiet. I try to catch Helen’s eye, but she’s careful not to look my way. I don’t say a word, just look at Per and give a rather feeble smile and he looks me in the eye and smirks back at me, the sort of smirk that says he know what’s going on between Helen and me, he knows how I’m feeling right now and he does nothing to ease my pain, he does the exact opposite, he smirks, hinting at what he and Helen could get up to once I’m out of sight. I suppose he wants to pay me back for brushing him off earlier on. Either that or he misses having a woman of his own so much that he takes a sort of perverse delight in finding that other people’s relationships aren’t perfect—I’m sure that’s it. I feel like saying something mean to him, something that’ll hit him where it hurts most, maybe something about those panic attacks he was talking about, something that’ll put a little dent in that tough guy image of his at any rate. I stand there looking at him for a second and then I just start to walk away, I don’t say a word, I won’t sink to their level.
Otterøya, July 9th, 2006
Things gradually improved for the Albrigtsens. Most of the islanders condemned the attack on them and their home and those people who didn’t openly express support and sympathy for Lasse and Lene tended to adopt a different and more pleasant tone when speaking of the “hippie family” after that incident. The headmaster of our school, Harald Hansen, even suggested throwing a big party for the Albrigtsens to show that the ordinary people of Otterøya did not want to be classed with Albert and the other yobs who had vandalized the townies’ vegetable plot. This party didn’t come to anything, it’s true, partly because Lasse and Lene let it be known that they found the idea a bit tacky and over-the-top, and partly because its initiator and organizer, Harald Hansen, was forced to resign when he was struck by what could be called a personal tragedy. It came to light that he had faked his CV before his appointment as headmaster of Otterøya Primary and Lower Secondary School. Not only that, but in the course of the subsequent inquiry it came out that he had also falsified several of the main and most important sources cited in his university dissertation. Poor Mr. Hansen, he lost his wife, his job and his good name because of this and pretty much all of his life from then on was spent trying to make amends and prove to himself and everyone else that he was, nonetheless, a decent and honorable person. Well, why else would he force himself to go on living here on the island, as my Dad always says, and why else would he invest all his time and energy in helping others?
But enough of that.
Another reason why people changed their opinion of the Albrigtsens, and possibly a more important one than their neighbors’ desire to dissociate themselves from the attack and the vandalism, was that Lasse and Lene proved to be of much stronger stuff than the islanders could have imagined when the family first moved to Otterøya. As I’ve said, there were a lot of people on the island, my dad and Erik included, who had almost been looking forward to seeing Lasse and Lene struggle and eventually have to admit defeat. It wasn’t that they were in any way spiteful, they simply wanted to be proved right in their belief that country life was far too tough and demanding for two fancy-pants Oslo types with romantic notions of living off the land. This in turn would make them feel better about themselves. Contrary to all expectations, however, Lasse and Lene proved to be every bit as enterprising, hard-working and tough as they needed to be in order to be accepted as “good people” by the locals. They were a bit disorganized, it’s true, and they had way too many projects going on at one time, with the result that a lot of things were left half-done or unfinished, but they stuck at it and never gave up, not even when one particularly bad year was topped off by a gale that ripped off the new roof on the old farmhouse and smashed it to smithereens on the beach—and that despite the fact that they weren’t insured, because for some reason the Albrigtsens were against insurance.
That Lasse and Lene were always cheerful and smiling if you ran into them at the Co-op, that they had a sense of humor and could laugh at themselves, these qualities also had a lot to do with their gradual acceptance by the community. Take the day when you and I were over at Hauk’s and Dad came to collect me. Lene was out on the lawn, emptying some bottles of home-made elderberry cordial that had gone moldy and was undrinkable and Lasse told Dad that she was making a libation to Mother Nature, asking her to grant them a bountiful harvest. Dad just stood there gawking. But when Lasse could no longer hold back his laughter and Dad realized that he’d been pulling his leg he roared with laughter himself and called Lasse a “rotten bastard”—a clear sign that Lasse had been welcomed into the fold and was almost considered his equal.
It wasn’t long before you and Hauk and I were like the Three Musketeers, and as I say we spent a lot of time at the Albrigtsens’ place back then. Although we were a bit scared of Grim, it’s true. I don’t know if he was ever diagnosed as being mentally disabled, but even though he was a big, lanky lout of sixteen he was happiest in the company of the Bruun boy, a young thug of just twelve years old, and your mother wasn’t overstating it when she said he was “a bit simple.” He couldn’t concentrate on anything for long, his mind tended to wander and he had a hard time taking in the most basic, straightforward information. No matter how many times we tried to explain to him the punchline of some joke we had told, he would still come out with a comment or a question that showed he just hadn’t got it. It was probably to compensate for the sense of inferiority this must have given him that he was so “physical,” as Lene used to say. He was all right most of the time, but if for any reason he was reminded of how simple-minded he was he could turn really nasty.
Hauk was the same age as you and me, but very different in nature. He was tall and slightly built with long fair hair, blue eyes and clean-cut, almost feminine features—looks that made him infuriatingly popular with the girls. When he was thinking hard he always raised one eyebrow and this gave him a slightly hawkish appearance, which for some reason I felt fitted with his being as intelligent as he actually was. He soon showed himself to be the
best in the class at math, I remember, and on his wall, next to a picture of the 1977 Liverpool team, hung a diploma certifying that he had won the Junior Chess Championship in Oslo in 1978—we were very impressed by that, you and I. This last, along with the fact that he was an exceptionally good football player, won him a lot of respect and made him popular with us and our friends, but even more importantly he was “such a nice boy,” as your mom was always saying. He was the kind of kid who brought us grapes when we were sick or who could get upset and start to cry if he saw or heard about someone being unfairly treated or suffering some other misfortune.
But still there could be long spells of time when we had nothing to do with him at all. For one thing he never joined us in our favorite pastime: playing up at our camp. Even though building huts, climbing trees and running around in the forest were all things that Lasse and Lene encouraged him to do, they would not allow him to play with us up there because, as pacifists and members of the peace movement and CND, they felt that all games which involved fighting, violence or weapons could damage the fragile mind of a child.
A little of Hauk could go a long way, though. You used to get particularly sick of what you called his girly tantrums: his habit of sulking and moaning and resorting to tears whenever things didn’t go his way, for example, or running telling tales to the grown-ups if somebody so much as laughed at him or slung some remark at him, and—not least—the way he sucked up to the teachers and was totally shameless when it came to boasting about his own achievements. All of this could make you and I so fed up with him that we would give him a wide berth. In fact that was why we eventually fell out with him completely. We were in your living room one day, playing some board game. He always got really mad and childishly determined to get his own back if we beat him at something he felt he was really good at, like nine men’s morris or draughts or four in a row, especially if his parents could see that he was losing a game. His eyes would glisten with panic and desperation and if he didn’t pretend to tip over the board by accident, scattering counters all over the floor and making it impossible to carry on with the game, he would either try to convince everybody that he had let us win or he would be overcome by a kind of pent-up rage that he couldn’t control and that almost always led him to try to hurt us in some way.
Encircling 2 Page 11