Encircling 2

by Carl Frode Tiller

  “What the fuck,” Jørgen says, sitting up in his chair, eyes popping.

  Then something else flies over, sailing over the fence in a graceful arc to land with a clunk on one of the almost overgrown slabs a little further off. It’s a yogurt carton. It shatters on impact, splattering yogurt everywhere, lilac-colored yogurt splashing onto the long, green grass. I look around and there’s Ma’s and Grandpa’s new neighbor. Over by his garden sprinkler. Bending down. Picking up something from the lawn. A carton with something orange inside it, orange peel or something. Trash at any rate. The birds have dragged trash into his garden and now he’s chucking it back at Ma and Grandpa. And Ma turns to me, open-mouthed, stares at me and points at the house next door.

  “He’s chucking trash at us,” she says. “We’re having a barbecue here and he’s fucking well chucking trash at us.”

  I don’t say anything. I just sit there. And she doesn’t take her eyes off me, gazes at me in amazement, she must be wondering what’s keeping me, why I don’t run right over there and sort him out, because that’s what she expects, she expects me to jump over the fence and beat the shit out of the guy, I know that’s what she expects, what they all expect, I can tell by their faces. Grandpa and Jørgen, Sara and Mona, their eyes flick back and forth between the neighbor and me, they don’t understand why I don’t do something. This is so unlike me, I’ve beaten folks up for a lot less than this, and I feel like doing that now too, I’m itching to do it. I ought to run right over to that guy and knock him flat. Fat, pasty-faced fifty-year-old with skinny office-worker fingers. I could put him in a coma with one punch, but I don’t. I just sit there staring at Ma, smiling stiffly at her, punishing her by not helping her. Because that’s what I’m doing by sitting here doing nothing, punishing her for behaving the way she did and for not listening when I asked her to be civil. It’s no good talking to her, but maybe now she’ll understand, maybe she’ll understand what I was talking about now that she’s getting her comeuppance. I stare at her as she realizes why I’m not getting up. I can tell by her eyes that it’s beginning to dawn on her. A more sober look comes into her eyes. I take a kind of grim satisfaction in this. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her if it might actually be an idea not to stuff so much in the bins, but I don’t get that far because suddenly Jørgen jumps up. He puts a hand on Sara’s shoulder, using it as purchase to propel him out of the chair even faster. Then he’s off like a shot, heading for the guy next door. Across the yard and up to the fence. Puts one hand on the fence and vaults over it.

  “Jørgen,” I yell, getting up and going after him.

  And then the neighbor looks up, looks straight at Jørgen. He drops the carton with the orange peel onto the lawn and puts out his hands as if to fend off Jørgen as he takes a flying leap at him—the sort of jump kick you see in karate films, right leg tucked up to his backside and left leg stretched straight out. He rams the neighbor with his left heel, smack in the stomach. And the man hits the ground. Ass first. He lies there for a second or two, flat on his back, then he pushes himself up onto his elbows, puts a hand to his stomach and winces, clearly in pain.

  And Jørgen walks towards him.

  “Jørgen,” I yell, breaking into a run, because he mustn’t do anything stupid now, he mustn’t do anything he’ll regret. I keep my eyes on him as I race over, he’s standing over the guy, standing there looking down at him.

  “Leave him alone,” I yell, yelling as I run. Run flat out, jump the fence without touching it, land on the grass, lightly, run on.

  “Don’t you fucking mess with us, okay,” Jørgen says.

  And he turns away. He does as I say, he leaves the guy alone. Simply turns and walks over to me. Thank Christ. And I stop, lay my hand on his shoulder, look at him, panting slightly. I don’t say a word, I glance across at the neighbor, he puts a hand on the grass and gets up, heaves himself up onto his feet, very slowly.

  “Fucking hell,” he mumbles, obviously in pain, narrowing his eyes. He looks at me, shaking his head. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” he says.

  I slip my hand off Jørgen’s shoulder, saunter over to the neighbor, look at him, flex my biceps, big bulging muscles.

  “I think the best thing you can do is to forget all about this,” I say, looking at him and smiling, flashing my broken front tooth at him. A quiet but menacing smile. “Otherwise you’ll have me to deal with, and that you really don’t want, believe me,” I say.

  He looks at me, says nothing, shakes his head, and then he snorts at me and walks away.

  I turn and walk back. Ma has picked up the trash in our yard and now she comes waddling over to the fence, apparently meaning to toss the trash back into the neighbor’s. I look at her, about to ask if she shouldn’t throw it in the bin instead, so we won’t have any more crap from the neighbor, but I don’t. She feels like she has the upper hand now, so she wouldn’t listen to me anyway. And in any case I don’t want to be the one to stop her from taking revenge, I’ll only look useless and spineless if I do, and I don’t want that, not again. Not that anybody here seriously thinks I’m useless and spineless, but still. I don’t like to seem that way, it goes against the grain. I keep my eye on Ma as I hop back over the fence. She swings the Co-op bag behind her back then hurls it hard as she can into the neighbor’s garden. I watch the trash spilling out of the hole in the bag and scattering over his lawn, a shower of food scraps and empty cartons.

  I head back towards the table, hear three short slaps as Ma dusts off her hands.

  “Sorry, Gran,” Jørgen says. He standing in the middle of the lawn, looking at Ma. He knows Ma appreciates what he just did, but he’s apologizing anyway. “I know I went too far, but I was so fucking mad,” he goes on.

  “You’ve no need to apologize,” Ma says. I look at her as I sit down on the camping chair. She waddles over to us.

  “Far from it,” she says. “You deserve a medal.”

  “A right fucking Bruce Lee, so you are,” Grandpa says, eyeing Jørgen and grinning. Suddenly he’s all bright and cheery, no longer angry.

  I look at Jørgen, see how proud of himself he is. He wags his head and tries to look like it was no big deal, but he’s struggling not to smile and laugh, I can tell by his face, he’s so proud, so pleased.

  “Oh, my God, he was twice your size,” Sara says, gazing open-mouthed at Jørgen as he sits down in his camping chair, showing him how impressed she is.

  “Aw, he was fat and slow,” Jørgen says, trying to play down his achievement now, like he’s not one to boast. He knows we’ll think even more of him for that.

  “Yes, but still,” Sara says.

  “Cheers!” Ma says, “Here’s to Jørgen.” She’s half filled all the tumblers with aquavit, now she grabs one and raises it.

  And then everybody reaches out and grabs a glass. Everybody but me. Something in me resists it. I don’t like this, don’t like us congratulating Jørgen for kicking a guy in the stomach. I don’t really know why I don’t like it, I mean it’s not as though I’ve trained him up to be a pacifist, anything but. I’ve always encouraged him to stand up for himself and not take shit from anyone. I’ve taught him that by word and deed, but still, I don’t like it.

  “Here’s to Jørgen,” they all say together.

  And I pick up my glass too, join in anyway.

  “Cheers,” I say. I down half of the aquavit in one go, lower my glass and glance around the table. Suddenly there’s nothing but happy, smiling faces. That’s so fucking typical of us. Give us a common enemy and suddenly everything’s hunky-dory. I sit back in my chair, curl my hand around the tumbler of aquavit, try to smile and look as happy as the others, but I can’t. I’m angry, I don’t want to be, but I am. I don’t like this, that we’re congratulating Jørgen for behaving the way he did, behaving exactly the way I’ve always done. It was like seeing myself there. And maybe that’s what I don’t like. The sight of myself as a hothead and a thug—maybe that’s what I’m not happy about. Or m
aybe it’s the exact opposite: the fact that I just sat there watching, sat there like an old fucking woman while the neighbor chucked trash at us, maybe that’s what’s pissing me off: the sight of myself as a spineless wimp, that I came over as being powerless, what the fuck do I know. I raise my glass to my lips, knock back the rest in one gulp and put the glass on the table.

  “Thirsty?” Mona asks, looking at me and smiling.

  I glance quickly at her, but don’t smile back, don’t answer her either, can’t be bothered. I just pick up the aquavit bottle and refill my glass, sit back in my chair and run my eye over the overgrown garden. I know that Mona’s sitting there looking at me now, that she’s wondering what’s wrong with me. But I don’t turn to her. I’m angry. I feel like going home, I feel like saying that Mona and I ate at Rondo’s earlier and that we won’t stay for dinner after all. But I can’t do that, I can’t change my mind now. I said I was hungry and that I’d eat here with them. I put the glass to my lips and take a sip. I’ll feel better once I’ve had a bit more to drink, I suppose. A little more aquavit, that’s probably what’s needed to chase away this bad mood.

  Namsos, July 9th, 2006

  So we became friends and from then on we were almost inseparable, in fact there were long spells when you spent more time with my family than with Berit and Arvid. If I’d been allowed to come home with you we would probably have spent some time there too, although when I think about it I’m not so sure about that, because you didn’t get on too well with your mother and your stepfather, and that’s putting it mildly. Arvid was a real slimeball and you couldn’t stand him. Erik used to describe him as a “tolerant tyrant” and he couldn’t have put it any fucking better. You see, Arvid was the sort of person who would always ask your advice and want to hear what you thought, even though he had already decided what he was going to do, and he would go right ahead and put his plans into action with a sanctimonious smile on his face no matter how much you objected. He never tired of discussing Christianity with you, for example, but even though you told him quite clearly that you didn’t believe in God he refused to give you pocket money until you agreed to say grace before meals and clasp your hands and bow your head during prayers at the vicarage. And: “What would you like to do today, David?” he might ask, but there was no point in saying you’d like to go to the cinema or to the swimming pool, because he would already have arranged with members of the congregation to meet out at Framnes to grill sausages, play volleyball and rehearse with the children’s choir he had set up.

  But back then you were even more mad at your mother than you were at Arvid, if that was possible, because it was, after all, her who had decided to leave Erik and move in with the vicar from hell. And this, together with the fact that she never protested and never spoke up for you when Arvid treated you the way he did, made you feel that she had let you down, isn’t that right? Although she meant well, I’m sure. Grandma said one of the reasons why Berit went to live with Arvid was so that you could get on and go up in the world. What this getting on and going up actually involved I’m not quite sure, but according to Grandma she certainly felt it was very fucking important to get you away from hick country before you really took root there and turned into a scruffy, wily mini version of Erik with no ambition except to hang around the barn, smoking roll-ups and making moonshine.

  Your mother was ashamed of being a hick from Otterøya and she did everything she could, from the minute you moved to Namsos, to hide who she was and where she came from. She put away the home-made dresses and jeans so short she looked like she was expecting a flood and took to wearing what she personally thought were very smart outfits, all color-coordinated. She ironed out every trace of her Otterøyan dialect and put on a kind of phony posh Namsos accent. But what was worse, according to what Erik said when he was at our place, was that she wanted less and less to do with him as well. And if he absolutely had to pay you a visit he was requested please to park his vehicle where the neighbors couldn’t see it, especially if he was in the camouflaged Jeep or one of the huge American cars, because they attracted so much damn attention. She took this denial of her own background so far that she wouldn’t admit to any knowledge of things that had been a perfectly natural part of your everyday life on the island, or so Grandpa said. When the Norwegian Farmers’ and Smallholders’ Association arranged a “farmers’ day” at the Namsos Fair one year, for example, she acted like a dumb townie female, asking one of the farmers whether the pigs were dangerous. And nothing would persuade her to taste fresh milk straight from the cow, a treat that she and you and Erik had once fought over, competing to see who could drink the most. Oh, no, that couldn’t possibly be fit for human consumption.

  Naturally she expected you to consider this new life of yours as big a change for the better as she did and she couldn’t understand what you were so damned unhappy about. Didn’t you have your own room? Didn’t you have a stepfather who could help you with your homework and answer all the odd questions you were always asking? And weren’t you living within walking distance of the town, and in a neighborhood where there were at least twenty or thirty kids of your own age? That’s the sort of thing she would ask you and then she would sniff and toss her long, red hair, as if to say she thought you were spoiled and ungrateful and absolutely impossible to please.

  But all her snobbishness only pushed you further and further away from her and the vicar, of course. Having grown up without a father you had become unusually attached to Erik, and this made it fucking hard for you to see your mother suddenly turning her back on him and the life you had led on the island. And since you identified so strongly with Erik and all he stood for I can see how you must have felt that Berit was turning her back on you as much as on him when she wanted nothing more to do with her former life. Not only did such a rejection fill you with even more shame and anger than you had already been feeling, it also made it even more important for you to show who you were and where you came from. And this you did, of course, by acting even more like Erik and distancing yourself even more from everything that the new Berit stood for, particularly anything to do with her new Christian faith and lifestyle, since this was where the conflict between the new and the old life was greatest.

  And once you know that, it’s not so hard to understand why you gravitated towards me and Bendik, since the sort of scrapes we got into must have been about as far from a Christian lifestyle as you could get.

  Anyway. The anger you felt towards Berit and Arvid just grew and grew. Not only did you spend more and more time at our house, after a while you even stopped speaking to your mother and Arvid when you were at home. You simply chose not to say a word. They begged and pleaded with you to speak, but as you said to me if they weren’t interested in what you said or thought then you were going to show them that you weren’t interested in what they said or thought either, and no fucking way were you opening your mouth again until they realized that. And they could get as angry as they liked.

  Bendik and I were really impressed by this and even though we didn’t actually plan it I remember we used this same strategy with the teacher we had at that time. Her name was Frida Iversen, but she had an enormous backside, a bulging stomach and stubby little hands that flapped back and forth as she waddled along the corridor, so we just called her the Duck. Christ, how we hated that woman. Or at least, although we didn’t understand it at the time it probably wasn’t her we hated, but the school that we associated her with. Because not only did the school try to fill our heads with knowledge we knew we’d never have any use for, and not only were we tricked into believing that we were stupid and lazy for not learning what the teacher said we had to learn, but we were even denied the fucking chance to develop the talents that we did actually have. None of the things we knew or that we could do were considered to be worth anything. Take me, for example: by the eighth grade I could have taken apart and reassembled the engine of Duck’s ancient Datsun (which was always misfiring) in just about the same tim
e it took her to get it started, and yet she talked and acted as if, of the two of us, I was the stupid one. Or take Bendik. He was so damn clever with his hands, but at school he was fobbed off with one woodwork period a week and then he had to sit there like a retard, finishing off a breadboard that the woodwork teacher had even gone so far as to cut out for him, because of course he couldn’t be allowed anywhere near the saw. I mean, that could be dangerous, right?

  The point is that school was a nine-year-long insult. It was a nine-fucking-year-long humiliation of those of us who were more practically than academically inclined, and it was probably this, more than anything, that we were protesting against one day when we suddenly decided to adopt your strategy and refused to speak to the Duck. I don’t remember what it was she had asked us, but whatever it was we couldn’t be bothered answering and holy shit was she mad.

  “Bendik! Tom Roger!” she shouted, slamming her hand down on her desk so hard that the pile of exercise books jumped. “For the last time! I’m talking to you, and when I talk to you, you will be so good as to answer.”

  But me and Bendik, we didn’t say a word. We had both resorted to your strategy quite spontaneously and quite independently of one another, but once we realized what we had started it became a game to ignore her for as long as possible.

  “Please yourselves,” the Duck said. She pointed to the door. “Headmaster’s office, now! Quick march!”

  But we didn’t budge. We just sat there, looking indifferent. I chewed my gum and blinked lazily and Bendik let out a long yawn, not so much sitting as sprawled in his seat.

  “Bendik and Tom Roger, did you hear what I said?”

  There was silence for two or three seconds and then I turned slowly to you.