When I look out of the window now, as I write this, I can see Dad sitting on the porch of the cottage eating his supper and Mom is out in the yard, getting ready to mow a lawn that really doesn’t need mowing at all; it strikes me that she’s never been entirely well, that her illness is still there inside her, working on her. At other times it occurs to me that her behavior is simply a sign of what it was like to be a woman in the sort of macho society that Otterøya was back then. Everyone needs to be in charge of themselves and their own life and when both a person’s spouse and the society they are a part of try to hinder them in this, he or she may well seek other, more subtle, ways of gaining power. This may have had a lot to do with Mom’s manner and her behavior, in fact one might even say there was a link between this and her illness, I don’t know.
As I say, shortly afterwards you and Berit moved to Namsos. You came back to Otterøya now and again to visit Erik and we saw each other then, of course, but since his death sometime in the late 1980s I’ve only seen you once and that was at the Namsos Fair in 2003. I remember I’d been to a D.D.E concert and I was pretty drunk. I was standing in the middle of the festival ground, fumbling with my mobile, trying to call for a taxi when you walked by. Our eyes met and you immediately looked the other way and made to walk on like you hadn’t seen me, but as I say I was drunk so that didn’t bother me.
“David,” I shouted, way too loudly of course, so loudly that people turned to look at me and at you. You weren’t happy about this, I could tell, but you tried to smile and put a good face on it as you strolled over to me, and once we’d exchanged the necessary pleasantries I asked if you’d like to go over to Uncle Oscar’s Bar for a beer, and you actually said yes. And one beer was all we had—well, it was understandable really. Not only was I way too drunk to be able to carry on a decent conversation, I’d also just been given the brush-off by a woman I really liked and who I had thought liked me too, so I was in a pretty maudlin frame of mind and you got the brunt of it, there’s no denying. I poured out all my sorrows to you, went on and on about much I loved this woman and about all the things I’d done to make her see that I was the only one for her. I had done everything right, or so I thought. I was always bright and cheerful when we met and genuinely interested in everything she said. I’d given her to understand that I was comfortably off and led a settled, steady life, and I behaved like a true gentleman, pulling out chairs, lighting her cigarettes, opening doors for her.
But she’d still given me the brush-off, I told you. While D.D.E. were playing “E6” at that. Could you believe that? And did you know how hurt I had been? While up on the stage Bjarne Brøndbo sang that beautiful love song, I had tried to take her hand for the first time and she had given me the brush-off. She had smiled wanly, pulled her hand away and said: “No, I don’t think so, Ole.” Had you any idea how much that had hurt? That’s how I went on, I was drunk, maudlin and shamelessly self-centered and in your situation plenty of people would have made some excuse to get up and move to another table as soon as they saw where this was going. But you stayed put. You tried to console me by saying there were “plenty more fish in the sea” and by letting me know that you were single and childless yourself, but that didn’t mean your life was empty and meaningless. What you had to do, you said, was to focus instead on all the things life had to offer, all the things we could do that guys with wives and children couldn’t. “The freedom we have,” as you said, “think of that.” But I was inconsolable. “You may be free, but I’m not,” I remember saying. “Because you have a choice, David, you could get a girl any time. So I can see why you might look at it that way, the single life, when you can opt out of it any time you choose,” I said. “But look at me, I’m skinny and bald and my head’s way too big for my body. When it comes to women I can’t pick and choose the way you can, so I feel like I’m stuck with being single, I’m not free at all.”
I could tell that it embarrassed you to hear me speaking so frankly, being so upfront, but that still didn’t stop me. I talked and talked and talked until eventually—surprise, surprise—you’d had enough. You pretended to have spotted an old friend up at the bar and just like that you were gone, without me having learned much about how you were and what you were doing with your life. Or, at least, a few details had come out during our conversation. You were single and childless, as I said, and you were living in Trondheim where you had a job as a parking attendant of all things. I seem to remember that you said yes when I asked if it was true that you’d had a novel published under a pseudonym a year or two earlier. It embarrasses me now, David, as I sit here writing this, to think of all we had to talk about, all we had been through together, all the things I had wondered about and all the things you must have wondered about. Here was our chance to talk about all of that and I blew it with my sentimental, drunken ramblings. Oh, well, I hope this letter will repair at least some of the damage.
Tom Roger
Namsos, July 4th, 2006. Can’t we just get shit-faced?
WE’RE WALKING HAND IN HAND DOWN THE STREET, me and Mona. I finish my ice pop, lick both sides of the stick and chuck it away. We walk past the hotel, past Aakervik the fishmonger’s. Christ, it’s hot. I put my hand to the back of my neck. It’s running with sweat, and there’s patches of sweat on my vest as well, I see—fuck, I’ve hardly walked any distance and it’s soaked through already. I slip my hand off my neck as we cross the road, pinch my vest between thumb and forefinger, pull it out from my chest to let some air in. It’s so fucking hot I can feel the asphalt burning the soles of my shoes. Look down. Look up again. And then I see Mona’s mother. I jump at the sight of her. She’s heading straight for us. Looking right at us, smiling that oh-so-sweet smile of hers, sweet and ice-cold. Ice-smile. Then Mona spots her. Her hand tightens around mine and she stops dead. It’s pure instinct. She wants to steer clear of her mother, go another way. But it’s too late. Their eyes have met, she can’t escape. She takes off her shoe and holds it up. Tries to disguise the brief break in her stride by pretending she’s got something in her shoe. Just for a second, then she slips her shoe back on and starts walking again. Tries to act casual, lifts her chin a bit, tries to smile as confidently as her mother. But she can’t quite manage it. She’s rattled. I can tell by her face. And it doesn’t help that she’s chewing gum. She can’t look as cool as she’d like.
“Well, hello,” Anne says.
She adjusts her bag on her shoulder as she says it. Look straight at Mona. Doesn’t look at me. Making a point of not saying hello to me, like. Only saying hello to Mona. Bitch, she’s fucking unbelievable.
“Hi,” Mona says.
“Hi,” I say as well.
Say hi to Anne even though she’s made a big show of not saying hello to me. Say it loud and clear. Lift my sunglasses up onto my forehead, look her straight in the face and smile. I know she’s used to pushing people around and doing what she likes with them, but that won’t work with me. No fucking way does she get to treat me like I don’t exist. But she still doesn’t look at me.
“Out for a little stroll, are you?” Anne asks.
She’s still talking as if Mona’s on her own. As if I’m not fucking well here at all. It’s so far out it’s almost funny, so it is. I look straight at her. That fat, pasty pug-face of hers. Puffy, powder-caked face with the fan of fine smoker’s wrinkles on her upper lip. She sticks her thumb under the strap of her shoulder bag, it’s pressing against her tit, I notice. Her tit’s bulging out on either side of the strap. She shifts the bag slightly, still not taking her eyes off Mona. I look at her and give a little grin. Can’t help it. Just have to show her how ridiculous she is, how ridiculous it is her treating me like this. But she takes no notice of me.
“Yeah, we’ve been out to eat,” Mona says, trying to make the point that I’m here as well. She looks at Anne and chews her gum. Trying to look blasé by chewing a bit harder on her gum. Chomping.
“Oh, really,” Anne says. “Where?”
“Ro
ndo’s,” Mona says.
“Oh,” Anne says, “do they do proper meals there?”
She raises her eyebrows, acting surprised. As if to say Rondo’s isn’t good enough. Not fancy enough.
“I thought they only did fast food,” she says.
“Yeah, well we happen to like fast food, you see,” Mona says.
She blinks slowly and gives a kind of weary smile, to show her mother how fed up she is of this crap, this farce.
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” Anne says.
And she gives a little laugh. Trying to make out that she didn’t mean to criticize, but she can’t resist criticizing and then when people get upset she always makes out that they’ve misunderstood or they’re overreacting.
“And we’re all allowed to eat junk now and again,” she adds.
She adjusts her shoulder bag again, looks at Mona and gives her that cold, charming smile again. Acting like she doesn’t know we eat fast food all the time. Talking like it would be so terrible if we hardly ever ate anything but junk food and Mona’s supposed to feel guilty and embarrassed because it’s actually true. She doesn’t. What a bitch, she’s so fucking sly, a total fucking psycho.
“And anyway, you’re so skinny, you don’t need to worry about putting on weight,” she goes on, and she nods at Mona, still with that ice-cold smile on her face. “I think you might’ve got even thinner lately,” she says.
Christ, what a bitch, she’s un-fucking-believable. She knows Mona has this huge complex about being so thin, and yet she goes and says something like that. Reminding her of the one thing she hates most about herself.
“Yeah, maybe so, Mom,” Mona says.
She shuts her eyes as she says this. Showing Anne she doesn’t want to hear this. Trying to show her that she’s sick of it. But she’s hurt. I can tell by her face. She goes on chewing her gum, trying to look like she doesn’t care, but she’s hurt.
“Maybe you should see the doctor, get checked out?” Anne says. “Just to be on the safe side.”
Mona raises her thin, penciled eyebrows and sighs. Doesn’t say anything. And Anne lays her pudgy fingers lightly on her arm. A broad gold bracelet slips out of her shirt sleeve as she does so. She keeps smiling that oh-so-sweet smile of hers.
“Oh, dear, now I’ve offended you, I can tell,” she says with a little laugh, and she pulls her hand away, gives it a little shake, sliding the bracelet back up inside her sleeve. She looks at Mona. “But I worry about you, you know. You’re my daughter and I really want you to be happy.”
“I am happy, Mom,” Mona says. “I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time.”
“Hmm,” Anne says.
And that’s all she says. Just stands there looking at Mona. As if to show her that she has her own thoughts on that score. Like Mona can’t possibly be happy with me. Like she knows more about how Mona feels than Mona herself. Fucking unbelievable, what a bitch. What a fucking psycho.
I stare at her.
“Well, you seem to be thriving, anyway, Anne,” I say.
I nod at her and sneer. I can’t resist it. If she can talk about how thin Mona is, we should be able to talk about how fat she is, shouldn’t we? That puffy pug-face of hers, cheeks sagging on either side of her face. Pale powdery cheeks dotted with little red freckles. I glance at Mona and grin, and Mona grins back. I turn to Anne again. Sneer. She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even look at me. Keeps her eyes fixed on Mona, smiling her ice-cold smile. She’s raging, but trying to look unaffected.
“Oh, by the way, I met Olav and Vilde this morning,” she says, not taking her eyes off Mona. “They were on their way up to the family park in Namsos Forest,” she adds.
She flashes that cold, hard smile. Un-fucking-believable—the bitch. Trying to make Mona feel guilty by mentioning Vilde now. Just to remind her, like, of where she really ought to be. As if to say she shouldn’t be here with me. She should be with her husband and her kid up at the family park in Namsos Forest. That’s what she wants Mona to think when she says this, wants to make Mona feel guilty for leaving her husband and her kid.
“So, only me missing, then,” Mona says.
She looks up at me and grins, she knows exactly what her mother’s up to and she’s grinning at how ridiculous she is. And I grin back.
“Well, you said it, not me,” Anne says.
She looks Mona straight in the eye, still smiling that cold, hard smile. She’s raging, but she’s doing her best to look as if she’s not that easily rattled. And Mona looks at her and chews her gum. Like they do in films sometimes. Trying to look cool by chewing gum. Trying to show Anne that she doesn’t give a shit what she says, that she won’t be manipulated.
“Oh, well,” Anne says, looking at her watch, expensive gold watch on her pasty, pudgy, red-freckled wrist. “We’ve got people coming for dinner, so I’d better be getting home,” she says. She glances up at Mona again. “But it would be so nice if you could come and see us soon,” she says.
Again that “you” directed only at Mona. Not a word to me. She’s constantly making the point that I’m not welcome. Fucking cunt.
“I think your dad would really appreciate it if you came over,” she says, her voice suddenly serious now. She holds Mona’s eye.
“Oh?” Mona says.
She’s still trying to look like she couldn’t give a shit, but it’s not quite working. Now she’s wondering what’s up with her dad. I can tell by her face. The cocky, laid-back pose kind of falls away. A flicker of unease comes into her eyes. A flash of panic.
“Oh, but we can talk more about that when you come over,” Anne says.
She lays her pudgy fingers on Mona’s arm again. Blinks steadily. Opens her eyes and gazes solemnly at Mona. Gives it a second. Then slides her hand off Mona’s arm.
“Well, bye for now,” she says. “You know where we live,” she adds.
And off she goes. Like she hasn’t got time to stand here talking any longer. Bitch—she’s so fucking sly. Letting us think she’s in a hurry, when what she really wants is to leave Mona in the dark. I know that’s what she’s trying to do. She wants Mona to be left wondering what’s wrong with her dad, that way she’ll have to go back on her word. She wants to force Mona to come home—and on her own, without me. That bitch, she’s so fucking sly. I bet there’s not a blind thing the matter with Mona’s dad. She just wants Mona to think there is.
“C’mon, Mona,” I say.
I put my arm around her shoulders. Look down at her as we walk on. She’s trying to act like it hasn’t got to her. She knows full well that Anne’s trying to manipulate her and she’s doing her best to fight it, to just shrug it off, but she can’t. I can tell by her face. She looks up at me and smiles, but it’s a sad smile. She’s worried about her dad. I can tell by her face. And maybe she thinks it’s her fault he’s not well. Maybe she thinks her dad’s in a state because of her. That all the worry about her has told on his nerves, that he’s depressed or something. What the fuck do I know, it’s hard to say, but that’s definitely what Anne wants her to think. I pull Mona a little bit closer. Curl my hand around her skinny upper arm. Just over the snake tattoo. We carry on down the street, past Karoliussen’s bookshop. Cross the road and walk past Haagensen Photo. Walk along side by side, neither of us saying a word. And then Mona starts to cry. Cries softly, keeping her eyes on the sidewalk. After a moment I stop, hug her close. Put one hand behind her head, the other on her back and gently press her face into the hollow of my shoulder. Stand there stroking her back and watching a truck reverse into the car park at Bailiff’s Manor, stroke and stroke as I watch the driver switching between checking in his mirror and leaning out of the open window.
“Maybe you should stop over there anyway, Mona,” I say.
I fondle her hair. Fine, fair hair. Long hair. Tuck it behind her ear. Lightly finger the three little ear studs in her earlobe.
“No,” she sniffs.
I bend my head, bury my nose in her hair, it smell
s earthy. I stay like that for a moment then start stroking her back again. Feel her knobby spine under my fingertips.
“Mona,” I say, “I think it’s fucking brilliant that you don’t let her run your life any more, but … I need to know that you’re doing it for your own sake and not for mine.
“I’m doing it for our sake, Tom Roger.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say. “I just mean that you shouldn’t stop going to see them because you think I want you to. I wouldn’t think you were any less loyal to me if you went to see them,” I say.
I hear what I’m saying. I’m not really sure I mean it. At any rate there’s a bit of me that likes the fact that Mona refuses to go and see them as long as they refuse to let her bring me with her.
“Oh, God,” she says.
And then she starts to cry again. Buries her face in my shoulder.
“You’re so good, Tom Roger.”
“Don’t say that,” I say.
“But you are.”
“Well, I care about you, anyway,” I say.
“And I love you,” she says.
She sniffs. Gives it a moment, then straightens up and wipes away the tears. Stands with her mouth half-open, drying her eyes.
Then: “What the fuck are you gawking at,” she says.
That loud, in-your-face voice of hers.
I turn around and see two men walking by. Two suntanned thirty-somethings with short, spiky hair; hair glossy with hair gel. I’ve seen them before, but I don’t know them. I don’t know their names, but they know who I am, I’ll bet. They look shit-scared, at any rate. I eyeball them, flex my biceps a bit and curl my lip, showing both my muscles and my broken front tooth. I’ve always felt that that broken tooth makes me look dangerous, that I look like a man with a past when I bare that tooth. They eye me, just for a second, then quickly look the other way, like they’re trying to let me see that they don’t want to get involved, they don’t want any trouble.
Encircling 2 Page 17