The Blue Room (Coming of Age Series)

by Hanne Ørstavik

  During the reading, which the theology student took, someone came in, letting the door close with a slam, and I heard the sound of shoes coming down the stone steps. Mum. I looked towards the entrance of the chapel. She’d dyed her hair. So that was what she’d been up to when I left. She was wearing her verdigris imitation fur and it gleamed against the copper colour of her hair. She was looking up at the altar. From the moment she’d come into view, her eyes were turned upwards. Looking at the pastor. Staring at him. I’d suggested she should be more discreet, but she hadn’t listened. Terje crept over and handed her a hymn book and service sheet. His own, no doubt, since with so many people they must have run out long ago. She gave him a fleeting smile, before focusing again on the pastor. Finding an empty seat at the back, she sat down and leant against the wall. I turned again to the altar. I tried to forget she was there and to remember what I’d been thinking before she arrived.

  I am sitting next to Edward. He is grinning, showing his broken tooth. My front teeth have just started to come through. Mum and Dad stand behind us. All four of us are smiling out of a grainy black and white photograph in the Parish Newsletter: The congregation’s family of the month. Ready for the forest ramble. Happy and sociable. I remembered a man who cried when he received Communion. He sat four pews in front of us, tears rolling down his cheeks. I thought he must have committed an awful crime, since he was so relieved to be saved.

  Whenever the pastor spoke I felt important, of value, as though he’d placed a glowing rock inside me that warmed my whole body. When the time came to take Holy Communion I waited for the others to empty the pew before taking my place in the queue for the altar, and joining in the hymn, so beautiful, so familiar, filling the chapel, weaving among us, and everyone sang, without stop, until all those who wanted to had been up to the pastor and received the bread and wine. On my way back, I passed Mum. She always waits until the very end. She grabbed me by the arm. Wasn’t that a beautiful sermon? So beautiful? She spoke slowly, giving every word equal weight, and looked at me, eyes gleaming. Suddenly I couldn’t remember a thing the pastor had said. It was completely gone. My head was empty. The rock had lost its warmth. I felt a tightening in my eyebrow, I wanted to get back to my seat, I was blocking the aisle. I nodded. Yes, I said. I stroked her cheek cursorily, before continuing, slipping behind the back pew and round to the chairs along the side. And white light spilt in from the palace courtyard.

  She looks at the bars on the window. At the patterns that form across the floor as the sun moves. Later, afterwards, she gazes into the street below. With her chain pulled out as far as it will go, she stands at the window and looks down on the dust, the bodies, the traffic. The small boy has sung a brief, melancholy song. A hymn set to an old folk tune. The procession has passed from the altar and down the aisle. When he disappears into the backroom, I thought, he’ll be tied to the radiator, his tunic yanked up under his belly. He is singing this plaintive song to send us a message. In the hope we’ll decipher its meaning. I tried to think of something else, but the film was rolling unstoppably in my head. A tight little-boy-hole. The chapel doesn’t have a bell, so there’s silence when the service is finished. Complete silence. I tried to think about something else. I looked at the pastor’s back. He was tall, slender, dark. Mum often talked about him after church, as we walked home arm in arm. He has wise eyes. I can see why she’s drawn to him. And, like Ivar, when he wears white it emphasizes his eyes even more and they look really large. I had to smile at myself for thinking about him in those terms. God! Whoops. I said it aloud. Someone turned and looked at me.

  All I had to do was keep to my plan, I thought, and everything would fall into place. But I’m not so sure now. I should bang on the door, open the window and yell out into the backyard so they hear me. But what should I say? That I’m locked in? They’ll think I’m mad. They’ll call the emergency psychiatric unit, if, that is, they can be bothered. I think about Kitty Genovese, attacked by a madman as she walked home from work at three in the morning in Kew Gardens, New York. Thirty-eight neighbours heard her cries and watched from their windows, but not a single person called the police, even though it took half an hour for her to die. I don’t need a pee any more. Perhaps I’m getting dehydrated. Or perhaps the fluid has returned to the organs in my body that need it most. I think about the time Edward zipped me into a sleeping bag, upside down, before going off on a bicycle trip with his mates. Their aim was to stop me following them. I try to recall the sensation of lying shut in that sleeping bag, the lack of air, the feeling of being unable to move. I know I lay in there for several hours, but I don’t remember how it felt to be released again.

  Mum stood on the edge of the lawn, where there was still some sunshine, smoking, deep in conversation with Karin. They were both smiling, Karin was nodding and Mum was waving her arms. I walked across to them. Hi, Karin, I didn’t see you in church, I said. We hugged. Karin said she’d arrived late and had had to squeeze in between two of the designer-label set. Unni’s been telling me about her latest project at work, she said. About art and faith. Right, I said. You haven’t said anything about it to me, Mum. Oh, haven’t I? she said. It’s such a broad subject. Oh? I said. What do you mean? Mum’s gaze wandered towards the entrance of the chapel. So what do the two of you think then, about art and faith, Mum? She turned and looked at me. It’s a question of devotion. Both art and faith require devotion. A surrendering to the pain of life. She spoke very slowly, as though searching for the exact words to express her thoughts. In what way? I asked. Pain, she said, is what enables growth. Karin nodded. And what exactly, I asked, is the meaning of this pain? Don’t we grow when we’re happy? Mum looked at me; she seemed angry and said nothing. She leant her head back, exhaled and stared into the sky. I turned to Karin. She was looking at a young woman. She had a shaved head like Karin’s. Mum was looking at the chapel door again. It’s a nondescript door, you have to know about it to find it, or be taken to it by somebody who knows the way. The pastor had just come out. He was talking to a little group, committee members, no doubt. He was dressed entirely in black, with a lightweight coat that went just over the knee and a long black scarf. Where was the little boy? Mum turned to me, looked at me seriously, she seemed to be searching my face for an answer. Her hand trembled slightly. She dropped her cigarette to the ground, nodded to herself and headed across the square. Shall we go for a coffee? asked Karin. Sure, I said, why not? I felt tired. What I really wanted was to go home to bed, to sleep through Sunday and fast-forward to Monday, to campus, to the canteen. Oh, Ivar. I can see his hand around a cup as he passes it to me, those large, oblong nails, every little joint, each perfectly formed knuckle. Shouldn’t we wait for Unni? asked Karin. Mum had gone over to the pastor and we saw them greet one another. The three students said goodbye to him, he followed them momentarily with his eyes as they went off, presumably in the direction of Lorry, their favourite café. Mum was talking, waving one hand in the air, while the other rummaged in her handbag for a packet of cigarettes. We might be some time then, I said. I didn’t want to call out to Mum with so many people about. Let’s go, I said. We wouldn’t have to stay long, Mum and I could still go to the cinema later. Karin and I headed towards Hegdehaugsveien. I looked down at the paving, at the withered leaves and grass. I think I felt a heavy sadness, and yet an unbelievable lightness, as though I were happy. I didn’t know why. I looked up at the sky and the pale autumn sun. Everything was so intense, so real. A thought came to me. I’d finally found something to say that was unique to me. You know something, I said, I always find it strange to think about God when I look at nature. He seems somehow more present indoors, in a room, in a social space, rather than out in the fresh air, in the trees or the clouds. Karin didn’t seem to understand. Or she didn’t agree. My forehead, eyebrows and temples ached, the stress of my studies, no doubt, or my eternally bad conscience.

  Footsteps through the park. The trees, the fresh air. I think of us, Ivar, you and me. We were lean
ing out of the window, it was cold, the middle of the night, we were naked and said nothing, you were smoking, and we looked east over the city, and at the illuminated sky. I wanted to tell you how my life had suddenly changed. Each time we planned to meet, I felt sure everything would disintegrate, vanish, be gone: that the momentum would cease and everything come to a standstill, leaving a vacuum. But here we were. Standing at the window together. And with each moment, a new and ever truer pattern emerged; in what we saw, and inside too. I wanted to tell you that, when you’re with me, everything of beauty comes into focus. But you’ve gone now and I can’t talk to you. Maybe you’ll never come back. And now I’m crying again, Ivar. You’d have called me a cry-baby, wouldn’t you? And you’d have kissed the tears from my cheeks, wouldn’t you? And held me, Ivar, held me tight. Tight. You would, wouldn’t you, Ivar? That’s true, isn’t it? Isn’t it?

  I stood in front of the hallway mirror. My hair hung around my face. I was trying to make it lie flat, so it wouldn’t fall into my eyes without being tucked behind my ears. You should wear it up, Mum said. She’d come up behind me from the kitchen. We’d had eggs on toast for lunch, and I’d persuaded her to come and see Betty Blue with me. It was showing at Frogner Cinema again. You’ve got a flat back to your head, she said, so you should wear your hair up to balance it out. She demonstrated what she meant with her own hair. I watched her in the mirror, turning her head this way and that, gazing at her reflection. A girl on my course had told me in a lecture break that I should wear it loose. I’d taken my hairclip out and was putting it back in when she said I should leave my hair down. I’d never considered it before. I look like a nice, sensible girl with it pinned back. Pretty and sweet. You’re so intelligent, Mum said suddenly, our eyes meeting in the mirror. It sounded as though the thought had never crossed her mind before, as though it took her by surprise. What do you mean? I said. Intelligent? She nodded to herself, frowning. I put my hairclip in as usual, tugging out a few strands around my ears, nineteenth-century costume drama style. I looked at myself. You’re so strong and beautiful, Karin had said in the café. So wise and knowledgeable. I remember looking at her across the table. It was a nice thing to say. I smiled, but it didn’t sink in, it seemed meaningless, an insult almost. A tram had passed the café window. I remember the face of a little girl on the tram. She was wearing a red woolly hat, and she’d placed her gloves between her cheek and the window. I remember thinking how desolate she looked, gazing out; perhaps she’d taken the tram alone, or hadn’t pressed the bell when she should. Karin was saying something about our never discussing God, about it being too big and personal a subject. But that for her, as a pastor, it was vital to formulate things, even if they seemed unclear. I need to be able to talk about God with conviction, she said. I never know what to say when people go on about God like that. I feel guilty that I don’t think about Him or Her more, but whenever I do, it just slips away from me. There’s something in the idea that if we understood everything, God would cease to be bigger than us, and we would no longer need Him. It’s an argument I fall back on; even if it doesn’t really stand up, it helps momentarily. Forgive me, Father, show me the right path, and give me the strength to believe without doubt. We’ve got to go now, Mum, I said, turning away from the mirror. The seating isn’t numbered. I’m not quite ready, she said. I’ll be quick. She disappeared into the bathroom. I heard her sit on the toilet. Nothing was happening. Mum! I said. I stood there in that empty apartment. That’s how I remember it, empty, even though we all lived here then, the entire family. It was the middle of the day and I’d sneaked back home from nursery, to tell Mum about a toy I really wanted, a plastic red bus conductor’s bag, with multicoloured paper tickets. She walked into the lounge, a cigarette in her mouth. She looked so happy. But the instant she saw me, her face dropped. I don’t remember what I said, just that I clambered back over the fence into the nursery garden and that nobody had noticed my absence. Mum, I said, are you coming? I heard her sigh, then a few drops of pee, toilet paper being pulled out, an excessively long strip. You use much too much loo roll, I said through the door. Mum? I open the bathroom door and she’s lying on the floor, beaten unconscious, clumps of hair on the purple mat, black bruises on her neck, two oval shaped thumb marks. Mum opened the bathroom door with her trousers round her ankles. I was just thinking… she said. She took the plastic off a tampon while she talked. What? I said. She stuck the tampon in, still looking at me. Well, she said as she bent down to grab her panties and then pull her trousers up, the tight variety she favours. Well, I was thinking we could maybe write a card. Who to? I asked. She went over to the mirror and began to comb her hair thoughtfully. To your brother. To Edvard, she said. Sure, I said.

  We walked arm in arm in the street under the autumn trees. Are you sure this movie’s my kind of thing? said Mum. Yes, I said. It’s French and it’s a love film. And does it have a happy ending? Not exactly, but it’s a good movie and worth seeing. Are you sure? Yes, Mum, and it’s just a movie. You should at least give it a chance. I held the door open for her when we arrived at the cinema. Mum bought the tickets. She was paying. We exchanged glances as we walked past the confectionery counter and shook our heads in unison. No treats tonight. We entered the dark auditorium. I wanted to go to the front, Mum preferred to stay further back; we sat halfway, in the middle of a row. We ought to have been closer to the screen. I tried telling myself not to waste any more energy on it. You’re sitting here now, Johanne, just relax, I thought. At least you’re not in chains. I had to smile at my method of consoling myself. I thought about the opening scene of the movie. Karin told me she walked out, because they were at it so long. But after that there are all those beach huts they’re going to paint. That’s the best bit, with the best shots, I just love it, and I think that the tempestuous Betty, who flings everything out of the window and comes down the stairs with her suitcases, ready to leave – well, she’s me.

  She couldn’t get enough air. Wasn’t breathing into her stomach. She stood frozen, her mouth gaping, however hard she tried to close it. Her hand trembled as she struggled to light her cigarette. You are so unkind, she said. You knew that wasn’t my kind of film. She started to walk on. Mum, I said, not moving. I didn’t know what to say. She was never angry, never shouted, she was the kind of mum who understood and tolerated most things, the perfect pedagogue. It wasn’t meant like that, I said. I thought you’d enjoy it, the beginning at least. She turned on me and screamed, The beginning! Do you have any idea, Johanne? Do you have any idea what love is? Have you any concept of what it can be? Sex is not the same as love. You can’t just show off your breasts and think that that’ll make men love you. She pouted and half closed her eyes. She was clearly poking fun at Betty, but it felt as if she was imitating me. That film portrays women in the most appalling way, she said. What does that girl have to contribute other than her body? She’s nothing but a mirror for the man. And if that’s what you think love is, then you’re welcome to it, darling. That film knows nothing about women or women’s sexuality. Nothing. She took several deep drags on her cigarette. People stared at us as they were leaving the cinema. I didn’t know what to say. She was probably right. I should have realized it wasn’t her kind of film. A love film! she said. That is sex, covert violence and rape. Murder, Mum said. And you knew it. You deceived me, tricked me into coming. You’re not nice. Her voice seemed to stick to the walls, so its imprint would be permanent and I’d hear it whenever I walked past, Mum’s voice screaming at me, echoing between the walls, like the noise of a helicopter scouring the terrain, nothing escaping its scrutiny. I can’t accept your deceiving me, said Mum. I didn’t think she’d ever been so angry. I put up with a lot of things, she said, you know I do, but this I will not tolerate. What do you mean? I said. She didn’t reply. I thought about my plan, my finances, my future. Had I ruined it all by taking her to this movie? Perhaps I’d have to move out and get a student loan. Perhaps I’d never be able to afford an apartment. You mean The
Barns won’t happen? I asked. She said nothing, just stared at me. I don’t know, she answered. Her voice was faint. Maybe, maybe not. I just can’t stand any more manipulation, she said. I want things to be real between us. What do you mean real? I asked. We should be honest in everything we say to each other. I should be honest and you should be honest. God keeps our actions in his heart, Johanne. I’ll never let anyone deceive me again. Not even you. She turned and started to walk away. Her back suddenly seemed round and stooped, her steps slow, and I felt so sorry for her. She looked so small and lonely. Mum! I yelled, but she didn’t turn. I’ve never wanted to lie to you, I thought. I’ve only ever wanted to be kind. I do try to be nice, Mum. But maybe I hadn’t been. Maybe I couldn’t see myself from the outside. Maybe I was terrible. A despicable lump of nothing, wicked and manipulative. It was calculating of me to use her the way I did, living off her. My plan, my entire life was based on endless scheming, I’d even calculated on going to heaven when I died. You’re sly and exploitative, Johanne. She’s right, I thought, you’re not nice. I followed her for a few steps and then stopped. She turned right at Frognerveien and I lost sight of her. And there I stood. It’s true, Johanne, you’re a pig. A pig that gorges on other people’s food and money. But that’s how she wants it. She wants me to live with her. She’s the one who talks about The Barns. It was her idea. I was getting cold and started to walk. I had to face up to the fact that I had no valid defence. It was even true that I’d been unsure that she’d like the movie. My back ached. It was stiffer than ever. I tried to stretch it a bit as I walked, but it hurt even more.