I thought how much colder the evenings were turning. The sun was low and looked so red and warm when you were inside, but as I cycled off the wind blew down my collar and onto my chest and my nipples. Down at Sagene I saw two drunks in the park. They were standing there yelling into each other’s faces. Granny had told me people rang on her doorbell at night, she’d go to the window and look, but they’d be gone, and then she’d lie half awake for the rest of the night, listening. Mum was trying to persuade her to install a burglar alarm, like the one we have at home. I can’t remember when we got it, whether it was after that incident Mum had told me about, when a man had threatened her – she thought he had a shotgun hidden under his coat – or if it was later. It reminded me of attribution theory: your level of fear, or lack of it, is dependent on how you interpret the situation. An experiment was done in the 1950s designed to substantiate the notion that our feelings are guided by thoughts; that we think before we feel, that we are steered by our thoughts. It was linked to the age of optimism; the more we are controlled by thought, the more we can will ourselves to change. This is the driving force behind modern psychology, which is based on the indoctrination of the self. Through thought I can convince myself that the world is better than how I experience it; my pain will disappear, cease to exist, because I think differently. Just like this cold wind blowing through my clothes, I thought, as I freewheeled down Theresesgate, taking care to avoid the tram tracks, the cars parked either side, the traffic driving past. All I had to do was think that the wind was warm and I wouldn’t notice the cold.
Yes, but Johanne dear, said Mum, a party on a Monday night? You’ve only just got home. I’d told her that Ivar had asked me. I’d decided to go. Maybe the fast cycle ride home and the wind had blown any self-destructive thoughts out of my head. Anyway. I’d picked out what I was going to wear. I was looking forward to seeing him again. Even if it would be from a distance, I wanted to see him; to watch him play, his guitar against his hips, his hands moving across the strings, the way he held it, his neck, his lips, his freckles. I’d show him I was tougher than he thought. That I wasn’t to be messed with. I dared. I wanted. I would go. It wasn’t as if I was asking him for anything. On the contrary, it was by not going that I’d be a bother. That would demand more on his side, feats of persuasion. By going, I’d be carrying my own weight; taking responsibility for myself. Mum sat at the kitchen table. I’d bought fresh unshelled prawns for us to have with French bread and mayonnaise, a taste of summer in this cold windy weather. They were on special offer at the ICA supermarket down in Theresesgate, I’d seen the offer as I cycled past. I’d made a salad too, baby spinach and mushrooms with a lemon dressing. I wanted to make Mum happy by preparing a special meal. I filled a jug with water and I turned to her with it in my hands. I could see prawn juice all around her mouth and on one cheek. She was wearing the tight trousers she always wears for work and a pretty, almost see-through top of woven linen, showing her bra, the delicate lace one, underneath. She seemed tired. It should have occurred to me that it might be irritating to have to bother to peel prawns when your stomach is rumbling with hunger. I suddenly remembered a time when I’d found her with a man; the loud groans, the creaking. I’d assumed they were having sex and I couldn’t resist peeping between the gap in the curtain. He was on his knees by the bed rubbing pressure points under her foot. She had all her clothes on except her socks. Half an hour later he was gone. I imagined the sun coming in stripes through the barred window over the girl in her bed. I leant back against the wall to avoid the glaring lamplight. When Mum said the word party in that tone, it was as though she’d said sex. Sex on a Monday, Johanne? Yes, but Mum, I said, I don’t have to stay late. You know I’m always careful about time. That I like to get enough sleep when I have to attend lectures the next day. Besides, I don’t think Ivar’s that much of a party type, he’s working tonight, playing with his band. But I don’t really know him yet, I thought. Perhaps she’s right and I’ve got him completely wrong. I was lost for words. I cleared the table, rinsed the plates, told her she should leave the washing-up, I’d do it the next day. She didn’t answer. Johanne, she said, there’s been something about you these last few days. Is your period coming? A moment’s silence. And then: You just seem a bit strange. You’re not taking anything, are you? Silence again. There’s an artist we’ve met through a seminar, he’s working as a consultant on a project with us, and he said he… She hesitated. What are you getting at? I said. He told us he takes something, she said, when he’s working. I turned and looked at her. I thought of my dream about the pharmaceuticals factory. Perhaps I’m repressing things, perhaps I’m not always conscious of what I’m doing. But Johanne, I thought, you know that’s nonsense. You’re a proper girl, you’re a Christian, I thought with a smile. God is your happy pill. Mum gazed out of the window, doubtless thinking about this situation at work. She thinks a lot about work. Granny was right, it is a demanding job. She’s head of department. Don’t worry, I said. I went into my room and sat in the big chair. I leant my head back, trying to relax. My back was so stiff again, I couldn’t bend it at all. I closed my eyes and prayed.
I’ve no idea how long I sat there in that chair. I’d normally be going to bed now. But I knew I should be getting ready to leave. I didn’t move. Perhaps he’s just leading me on, I thought. Then the door to my room opened. Mum stood in the doorway. She looked so sad. I think you ought to treat me properly, she said. Now she was talking she just seemed angry. I looked at her. I want you to communicate with me. I’m an adult, an intelligent person, she said. I’m so concerned about you, and I’ve got Mother to worry about too. You should listen to me, not just go flitting off to parties. She stopped to draw breath. For heaven’s sake, Johanne, she said. She looked at me, and lifting her left hand as if she’d gathered everything in her palm, she held it out for me to see, before waving it away. Then she stood there, as though expecting a reply. She put a cigarette in her mouth and took it out again without lighting it. She was wearing a new dress, short, black and tight, low-cut to reveal her delicate neckline. In one hand she had a long viscose leopard-patterned scarf. Had she knotted it around her wrist? Mum, I said gently. Dear, sweet, lovely Mum. I didn’t know what more to say. She turned and went, leaving my door wide open, and I heard her pushing her curtain brusquely aside, signalling that I should follow her to continue the conversation. It was my turn now. I looked at my watch. It was already well past nine. I focused my thoughts on the party, clothes, money, on the possible cost, whether you had to pay to get in, how I’d get there and back. It hit me that I was going to see Ivar again soon. Like a punch of joy. I’d forgotten momentarily and now suddenly I remembered. I noticed myself smile. I was holding things too hard, my comb, my buttons, too hard and yet too loose. Was I shaking? I rushed into the shower, dried myself and slapped on a bit of make-up, shook my hair, it would have to stay loose. I found my dress and the fifty-kroner note I’d decided to put aside. I set it as a limit for myself. Fifty kroner, no more, OK? I chose shoes without laces so as not to have to bend over. My head seemed a white blank. Be with me, O Lord, I thought. Slutty little Johanne. Dear, oh dear. I should go in there now and talk to her, battle it out, but it seemed impossible to talk to her and go to a party. It didn’t feel as though the choice lay with me, rather it lay elsewhere, in the rush of the moment, in my body that moved of its own accord. I grabbed my keys, yelled out a conciliatory goodbye, opened the front door, set the alarm and left.
Fortunately, it wasn’t raining. But the wind was still cold. I stopped my bicycle under a street lamp near Riddervolds Square and spread out the map to see where I was going. These maps are for free, it’s great. I always keep one folded in a plastic bag under my saddle, so I can get about. You’re smiling non-stop, Johanne, I said to myself. I had to bring my fingers up to my face, to touch my lips, to touch the joy. Do I have dimples? Stop this nonsense, I said, becoming stern with myself. I found the street, planned the route in my head, put the map back
, sat on my bike and pedalled off. I sang as I cycled. I wasn’t sure of the lyrics, but it didn’t matter. My home is where my Lord is, that’s where I belong. I was happy. I felt it in every part of me. I wished I could cycle all night and never arrive.
The pee in the bucket is dark and concentrated. It smells. The clouds are gathering outside. I think it’ll rain. I reached 160-something sit-ups, then lost count. I’m taking a break, lying on my back with my legs up doing nothing. You probably have to lie like this to keep the sperm inside when you want to fall pregnant. I should shout from the window now and get somebody to call Mum at work. But I don’t. It’s as though I haven’t got the strength. Perhaps I’m locked in here as part of an experiment. Perhaps somebody’s pumping gases in and changing my consciousness. The very thought of lifting my legs exhausts me. I’m annoyed at Ivar. I think he could have helped me more. He should have fetched me. Made a firmer arrangement. This open invitation was a nonsense. Maybe he’d had second thoughts and decided he didn’t really want me to come after all. So this casual invitation was just a good way of getting out of it.
You must be Johanne, said a girl at the door. Ivar asked me to look out for you. I nodded, said hello and smiled. She didn’t smile back. I wondered what Ivar had said that meant she could recognize me. Slightly plump, red hair, a bit different. Suddenly she broke into a broad smile. She had dimples and was prettier than any girl I’d seen up at Blindern. Happier. Wide trousers, an old faded T-shirt, a greeny-blue colour, and nice round boobs. Still smiling, she looked at me. I looked down at my long baggy dress. We were standing in the doorway of a factory building. A large sheet hung on the wall next to the entrance covered in red writing. It had shone out at me as I came down the hill. There were burning torches on tall stands either side of the door. I locked my bike to a signpost. The girl waited. She had nothing on except her tight top, but didn’t seem to feel the cold. Come on, she said, let’s go. She was so friendly, I didn’t know how to interpret it. I just wanted to see Ivar, to see his hair, his skinny arms, his hands and eyes. I wished everyone else would go away, so he and I could be alone. It hadn’t occurred to me that this party was for anyone else. I’d only imagined the two of us. I wanted this pretty girl to disappear. We went along a black corridor. At the end was a piece of red velvet, draped like a curtain in an arc with a sash. It all felt like a movie, a fantasy: multicoloured drapes, shifting melodies, disparate music, moans and noises. Golden-brown girls, grimy, standing about, leaning on the wall, broad mouths smiling, licking their lips. My nipples were hard. Someone had whipped my back tight. I went over to the entrance and peeped in.
Smoke was making the light foggy, the music invaded my spine, it was all too strident and loud, clumping together to make a tight, broad belt that enclosed everything. People sat about, stood, talked, laughed. Dust everywhere, filling nostrils. Glass rinsers churning. Water splashing into a dirty steel sink. And this hazy light. I couldn’t see any band. The music was on cassette or CD or some kind of tape in an old stereo system, crackling. Wasn’t Ivar meant to play? He’d asked me to come here. He was waiting for me in another room. Or a dark corridor. My breasts burned, as though someone had sliced off my nipples. I thought of Mum and wondered what I’d tell her. Yes, Mum, we all stood in a circle and held hands. I leant against the wall and closed my eyes. Ivar is watching me through a one-way mirror. He can see how useless I am. He’s standing there with a friend. He’s told him all about me. They are holding a beer each. They’re drinking it straight from the bottle. Ivar is smoking. He takes a drag and exhales. Takes another swig. They both look at me, then at each other. Ivar says something and they laugh.
Johanne! It was his voice. I’ve been waiting for you. I began to think you weren’t coming. Then Lise told me you arrived ages ago. He was in a dressing gown, naked underneath. I glimpsed his dark pubic hair, but couldn’t see his dick. Aren’t you well? he asked. Sure, I said. Have you taken something? he said. No, I said. I had to smile: he was at it too now. His voice seemed to float, so deep it felt as though it reached inside me from below. I felt the long, heavy dress around my thighs, a chafing at my skin, a tingling. I didn’t want it to stop. Johanne, he said, can’t you open your eyes and look at me? His eyes were grotesquely big, like one of those dogs in the fairy tale. His hands and lips were swollen. I opened my eyes. He was the same as usual, just more handsome. Kindly, joyous, sad eyes. The band weren’t going to play after all. One of the boys had had to go and see his sister, who’d fallen ill, but Ivar was here with me. He wanted us to dance. His trousers were thin, so was his shirt, all his clothes were thin, and we went into a corner, and he stroked my back, and I let my hands wander over his body, he was like water, like light on a rocky pool, flashing, sharp, abrupt. I’ve never gone to bed with anyone before, I said.
It was dark. I saw the little red light on the TV. We were in his apartment. A studio flat with a big window and a narrow mattress. Ivar stood right in front of me, close to me. My ears were still buzzing from the music. I looked at him. He said nothing, he smiled softly, took my hand and squeezed it, laid it against his cheek. I always thought I’d wait until the time was right. But how do we know when it’s right? I knew I wanted to do it, so it would simply have to be right. We were going to do it and it was as if I’d known for ages, as if it had been decided on that day with the towel. Ivar whispered something in my ear, I didn’t hear what. Then he was in the bathroom, busy with something. I had no idea what. There was light coming through the window, from the street lamp below. I had decided to let tonight be an exception, a parenthesis. I would take time off, a holiday. I had to allow myself this, permit myself these experiences. I might need them in the future, in my work, with some client. Ivar returned to the room and put on some music I didn’t know, a continuation of what we’d danced to at the party, but softer. He took a blue box down from a shelf, opened it and took out a tiny flat packet – a sweet? He walked over to me, looked at me seriously, as though by standing like that he was saying something, as if we were making a new agreement. He tucked the sachet behind his ear, inclined his head and smiled. I saw it was a condom. I didn’t know what to say. I felt them coming over me. The tears. He asked me what the matter was. I don’t know, I said, I just suddenly feel like crying. I sat on the mattress. He went down on his knees in front of me, pushed my legs apart and knelt there between them, close to me. He held my face in his hands, sucked the tears away, began to lick my face, my eyelids, my temples, like the warm tongue of a little dog. That wags its tail, I thought later, as he poked his sex against my entrance and pushed. And I felt how it opened to let him in. It hurt a bit, but every time he withdrew, I was frightened he might never come inside again.
I remember an Easter holiday in the mountains. We were lost and days passed without our knowing where we were. I was skiing behind a pulk sled. It was foggy and windy and all I could see was the triangular patterns my skis made as they touched the back of the sled in front. These imprints, I thought, were the mountains we had to cross, and new ones kept appearing, endlessly. I was nine years old and I was convinced I’d never see my mother again. This would be my last ski trip and Mum wasn’t there. And we had the puppy with us too. It was only a few weeks old, round, fluffy and joyful. It was soon exhausted, padding through the snow with its little paws. I felt so sorry for it. Its little paws in the biting, wet snow. Did it bleed perhaps? I seem to remember that it bled, that tracks of blood appeared in the snow. If only I could go back now, I’d have taken better care of it, made a sling from my scarf and carried it on my back. Or had a rucksack so it could sit and peer out. I wonder if Ivar has ever had a dog. He wanted me to stay already that first night. Just to be there. But it was an impossibility. A brick wall. I had to go home so Mum wouldn’t worry about me, so things didn’t get blown out of proportion. I’d made up my mind that tonight was a holiday. Not tomorrow. Not any other day. Yet it seemed impossible to stop holding this hard, warm body close. I remember staring at the ceiling, everything was a b
lur since I’d taken my glasses off, in the soft light coming in from the street lamp and the cars outside, it shifted, edges melted away. Everything became one. I thought of God, that he was here too. Everything was here. It was like dying, I thought. And I began to cry again, harder this time. I didn’t understand why, why it came over me every time my joy felt complete. Thinking about it now, I cry again. What is it with me? I wanted to do it one more time before I left. I was afraid I might forget how it felt. I have to sleep with you every day, I said, my body needs you. Once an hour, said Ivar, smiling. He was lying on his stomach resting on his elbows, playing with my hair, lining up the curls, until he finally put them in a heap over my eyes so I couldn’t see anything.
Come with me to America, he said. Yes, I said. In two weeks’ time, he said. All right, I said, and laughed at this wild fantasy, this fantastical dream; the two of us in Central Park, on Broadway. We lay on our backs and stared up at the ceiling. There’s dust floating everywhere, I thought, and it is falling on us right now, turning us into a memory. I mean it, said Ivar. Really? I said. I imagined us on a plane together. Taking off. My brother’s studying at MIT, I said, about to tell him more about Edvard. I mean it, Johanne. It’ll be great. You can just bring your books. I’ve saved up some money and we’ll live cheaply in a little place south of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, you can study and I’ll play guitar. I didn’t answer. I was picturing us driving down wide streets, sitting in warm diners, eating muffins and fried eggs, sleeping with each other several times a day, waking up together, laughing, showering, splashing in the bath together. My mouth had gone dry. I got up and went to the kitchen, found a glass in the cupboard, turned on the tap. I looked out of the window into the dark backyard. Everything was so filthy, so run-down. I imagined another kitchen. I was forty and sitting at a Formica table on a hot, dirty Los Angeles day, drinking gin. It was noon. I looked a wreck, my face was saggy; a long-haired black dog lay asleep under the table, my feet resting on its coat. A fly buzzed around. I was looking out of the window at the cars going past. Inside another window, the round one, I saw the slender, clever, beautiful woman, the one with her hand on the telephone receiver, who cast a warm, thoughtful glance towards the garden, and saw her next client coming in through the gate and walking beneath an avenue of birches bursting into leaf. I longed for her, that slim, calm woman, and if I just kept a grip on my plan, I thought, she could become a reality. I would be that woman.
The Blue Room (Coming of Age Series) Page 8