A Fool, Free

by Beate Grimsrud

  I’m also in the middle of working on a documentary film about my life as a football player. I’ve written the script, and am going to direct and play myself in the film. We’ve auditioned and filmed lots of little girls to find the right one who can play me as a child. Most of them were too complete. They had been in countless adverts and were confident in the wrong way. Then I found a little girl with fair hair and big dark eyes and a mischievous smile and something that I perceived as a crack in her lovely face. She walks around in the film with a ball under her arm, as though it were a doll. Difficult to direct, but absolutely right. It’s a huge challenge for me, as I’m not used to directing.

  Everything goes well to begin with. But before the summer break, the producer gets nervous and wants to replace the cinematographer, who I like a lot. She wants a more experienced head of photography. We leave it for the moment and I hope that she’ll forget what the problem is.

  I get staphylococcus in one of the cuts on my forehead which won’t heal. It turns into a visible scar above my right eye. Erik is happy. ‘Now your doll-like face looks like it’s lived a bit,’ he says.

  Lolo and I go to Italy with a big group of people. Lolo and I share a double room and a double bed. One of the group is called Alexander. He plays the guitar and sings Russian songs. He grew up in Sweden but has a Russian mother and a Greek father. I would love to have that cultural heritage. I can see that Lolo is attracted to him. The three of us sit at the same table for breakfast and I get the feeling I’m invisible. I move table. Sit down and talk to another guy from the group, a composer from Norway.

  One evening I come back to the hotel and am just about to put the key in the lock when I hear moaning from inside the room. Someone’s fucking in there. And I know who it is.

  I clutch my key and slide down to the floor. I don’t know where to go, suddenly feel completely adrift. It’s the end. The end of everything I know. I think of leaving immediately, leaving everything and everyone behind and never going back to Sweden or Norway or Italy. I don’t know where to go. Out into the world. Out in the empty nothing. Away. Alone. Out into the air. Run away. Australia. Not Australia. I will never come back to anything I know.

  The feeling of a completely empty present and a totally unknown future is so powerful that I start to shake. I’m going to pack my bags and go. Not tell anyone who I am ever again. Not let anyone save me from taking my own life like Lolo did ever again. I listen to the sounds behind the door. I will only ever be an observer in the world. Invisible.

  Then there is silence. I don’t knock on the door. I stay sitting where I am and fall asleep, leaning against the wall.

  I wake in the morning, my whole body is stiff. Is it time to leave now? I go to the restaurant to get a cup of coffee. There I meet the composer from Norway. He has plans for some new projects we can do together. I can’t plan, can’t think about anything in the future. After all, I’m going to leave. He says we can go to a hot spring and swim. I say no, but then go all the same. My stiff body could do with some warm water. There’s no sign of Lolo and Alexander.

  It’s not until early evening that I can talk to Lolo. I cry and say that I’m going to go out into the world, anywhere, and I’m never coming back. She, of all people, manages to persuade me to stay.

  It’s the weekend and Jonathan’s not working. I send him a text all the same. ‘Help,’ I write. Get a swift reply. ‘Fight for your life,’ it says. ‘I’m with you.’

  At the end of the summer, we start filming again. The producer forces through a change of cinematographer. The new cinematographer and producer are a team, they know each other from before. I’m inexperienced and full of ideas, but no one supports me. When I act in front of the camera, the cinematographer says I’m too stiff. Which makes me even stiffer. But I don’t give up. This is going to be a good film.

  I show them my drawings, thoughts and texts. We film the winter training sessions and things get a bit better. I’m awake at night and write Ball in the Eye and another screenplay, which is set in the mountains in the fifties. I’m caught on a wheel and work day and night. I end up in conflict with the producer about payment for the film script, and meet her together with a lawyer. Two strong women. Or are they mad? They shout at each other, and it’s about me.

  I feel warm and my whole body is shaking. The walls are radiating. I’m falling. Breaking up. When I come out from the negotiations, everything has somehow changed. People are like shadows. They walk in front of me on the pavement, not to be trusted. They want something from me.

  I sit on the metro and see that they’re all staring. Even the ones looking down are staring. They whisper to each other when they think I can’t hear. Everything they say and everything they do is to confuse me. They communicate in sign language and think I don’t see.

  *

  One day at the psychologist’s I get really frightened. Something is released inside me and everything is dangerous. I have to hide. Think that the psychologist is going to hit me. I run out into the tiny waiting room and hide behind an armchair. She comes out. ‘Don’t hit me,’ I scream. ‘Don’t hit me.’

  She doesn’t hit me. In a gentle voice, she says: ‘No one’s going to hit you any more.’ I walk home on unsteady legs. She phones and says that we need to take a break in the therapy. She says that I’m not well enough. She wants me to get more help than she can give. It’s the last time we speak.

  I’ve baked the traditional saffron buns and celebrated St Lucia’s Day with my colleagues at the workspace, to mark the winter solstice. Drunk a lot of glögg. I go home in a taxi. Wake up on the kitchen floor with my clothes on.

  Today I’m going to the dentist, and then travelling to Oslo to receive a prize and then hold a thank you speech at the dinner. My head is splitting: I can feel the two separate halves pulling each to one side, the blood spurting. My hair is warm and wet. I have to find a hat. I left my special hat at the party. I have to have that one, the snowboard hat. As protection.

  I phone Tim, who has a car. Can’t move naturally until the hat is in place. He doesn’t answer. I creep out into the hall and tie a scarf round my head, put on my jacket and leave the flat. The air has changed. Banks of thicker and lighter air drift around each other. I crash into them and have to zigzag my way forward in order to avoid them.

  When I’m lying in the dangerous chair, which today doesn’t seem to be so dangerous, the dentist asks in a friendly voice if I’m not going to take my scarf off my head. ‘No,’ I reply, and open my mouth. I’ve got other things to think about. Have to prepare my speech for this evening. I’m giving an after-dinner speech at my publisher’s big Christmas party. I call Tim again. ‘I have to go to Arlanda airport via my work to pick up a hat.’

  Tim is long and lean. He is one of the smartest people I know. I met him at the creative writing course at the folk high school. He gives me a hug. I feel like I’m floating through his body. That it’s not a real hug, but rather an examination. A test I have to pass. I rattle around in the flat. I have to pack. I’m not packing, not changing my clothes. What will be will be.

  The workspace looks as it did when we left it. Bottles, glasses, saffron buns and cigarette butts everywhere. I find my hat, take off the scarf and pull on the hat. ‘Eli, how are you feeling?’ Tim asks. I think he’s changed. I don’t know if he’s real. If he’s here. I tell him that my head has split in two and the blood keeps pumping out. He says that maybe we shouldn’t go to Arlanda. That perhaps I should cancel the whole trip. I fly into a rage. What’s been agreed has been agreed.

  Then Lisen comes in, who has the room next to me. We sit on the sofa. I massage a raisin between my fingers. Lisen talks to Tim. At first I don’t understand what they’re saying. They fall silent every now and then and listen to my chatter. I’ve started on my speech, and compare a man with a pair of slalom skis. ‘Shall we go?’ I say, and get up. ‘Or should I write down some key words first?’ ‘Forget your speech,’ Lisen says. ‘Did you sleep at all last night?
Are you hungover?’ ‘I slept on the floor.’ Tim takes my hand and looks into my eyes. I look down. ‘Have you been smoking hash?’ he asks. I shake my head. ‘What is it then?’ ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What day is it today?’ I shout from the back seat. I’ve pulled my hat right down over my eyes. They’re talking together in the front, whispering. Suddenly they pull off the motorway and turn around. When the car stops we’re back at Södermalm. ‘We think it’s best if you stay with Lolo tonight.’ ‘What do you mean, I have to catch the plane.’ ‘No go,’ Tim says. ‘I don’t know, but I think you’re ill.’ I reluctantly follow them up. Lolo is surprised to see us. ‘Are you not in Oslo?’ They talk in the kitchen while I lie down on the big bed in the living room. I’ve taken off everything except my hat and underpants, and Lolo has lent me a vest.

  ‘Should we not contact the hospital?’ Tim asks. ‘Absolutely not,’ Lisen says. ‘They only make things worse.’ ‘But what are we going to do?’ Lolo says. ‘I think we just need to be there.’ ‘But I’ve got work tomorrow,’ Lolo says. ‘Then I’ll come over,’ says Tim. ‘We can make a rota so that there’s always someone here. She just needs to sleep and rest,’ Lisen says. ‘Then it will pass.’

  Lolo comes into living room with some fortifying tea for me. I sit up in bed. I’ve become someone else. My right ear is itching. A new voice has taken root there. Two voices. Two women who are not me. Three voices. Right at the bottom of my ear there’s a tiny man shouting. I don’t say a word about it.

  The day after, Tim comes back, and Sonja and Harald. I’ve got lots of friends. They take turns. Someone watches over me the whole time.

  What I know is that I missed the party at the publishers and didn’t hold my after-dinner speech. What I don’t know is that my friends are starting to disagree about how to look after me. That Lisen is consistently the one who is most opposed to medication. She’s a vegan and doesn’t trust conventional medicine. My other friends are uncertain. They want the old Eli back. The smart, funny one.

  How can someone change in this way? It’s frightening, both for them and me. Is there a kind of security in them being with me all the time, or doesn’t it matter? Can they face it? Should I have medication and professional help? Would it not be better to have me admitted to hospital? Sonja thinks so. Lolo is not sure. She so desperately wants their love to be enough to make me well.

  Harald gives me a massage. Sonja sits on the edge of the bed and holds my hand. ‘Why have you withdrawn? I want you to share my world with me. Why have you locked yourself away in a world where we can’t get in? Wake up, Eli, wake up, be here with us. Please. I need you. Don’t let go, I won’t let go,’ she says, and squeezes my hand.

  One evening when Lisen is not there, we go to the hospital all the same, five of us in a people carrier. I still feel like my head is splitting in two. The first question the staff ask is who is ill. We all laugh. After a short conversation with the doctor, I’m admitted. And won’t be released for nine months.

  But my friends don’t let go. They make up another rota and I get at least one visitor every day. But I’m not very good at having visitors. Can’t concentrate for even four minutes at a time. They pretend to leave, wait outside the hospital for twenty minutes and then come back for another four minutes.

  What is there to talk about? There’s nothing here. Except beds. The cold walls, the corridor, the others’ bodies, ramblings and screams and tears and movements. I don’t care what it looks like here. Wouldn’t want it to be pretty. Just quiet. Think that the few paintings out there in the corridor are disturbing. I have enough colours, shapes and voices inside.

  Lolo says that she regrets that they didn’t take me to hospital sooner. She was quite simply not sure. My friends meet to talk to each other, support each other. Something breaks in some of them too when they realise that something is broken in me. The hospital doesn’t consider them to be family, so they have no contact with the medical staff. They come to visit, but the staff won’t talk to them and hide behind professional confidentiality.

  I have a longer conversation with a chatty doctor. I draw an ear and explain where the voices are sitting. Two women at the top and a man at the bottom. It’s not the boys this time, Espen, Emil and Erik. I don’t mention them. And unlike them, these voices are not me. They come from outside, not from within. They don’t have names or know me. They shout at me, call me different things. They think that I’m some kind of superhuman. Maybe even God.

  The doctor listens. Then suddenly he says: ‘You’ve got an open toilet seat to the dream world, it’s open all the time. For most people, it’s closed during the day, and only opens at night.’ An open toilet seat? I think I understand.

  It’s Christmas Eve. There are mainly locums working on the ward. I’ve been asking all day if I can go to midnight mass at the local church. The answer is no. Then I ask the night shift and the answer is: we’ll think about it. We’re served slim pickings for Christmas dinner, not even low-alcohol beer. There are hardly any patients here. Most of them have been allowed out to spend Christmas with their families.

  I put on my coat and sit by the door. At half past ten, a student lets me out into the snow storm. I walk between the buildings to the church. Groups of people hurry on their way, all in black, brown and navy. All in the same direction. It’s quiet. The snow swirls around on the pavement. Then a Santa Claus comes towards me. He’s wearing a mask and a beard and red hat and waving stiffly with one hand. I wave back. Turn round and watch him stagger on. The church bells start to ring. It’s possible to hear a faint ringing of bells from other churches too. I press on against the wind. The silent dark patchwork of dressed-up families heading towards the church doors. Everyone has someone except me.

  I accept the psalm book. The church is already full. I find a seat in the middle. An old man kindly moves his coat and I slip into place. I normally never go to church. I had an overdose of religious meetings at the folk high school in Norway. But something stuck. A longing. I fold my hands. It’s magical and beautiful inside the church. There are decorations everywhere. A huge crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling with real candles. ‘I hope that you’ve prepared for Christmas within as well,’ the minister says.

  She reads the Christmas story from St Luke. My right leg is shaking. Can’t sit still. Can’t stay here. Luckily it’s time to sing a carol and everyone stands up. I join in the chorus. We sit down again and the sermon begins. It’s beautiful and festive, but far too long to sit still. The minister thanks the Lord for sending us his beloved Son. She gives thanks for the fact that we are gathered here tonight to celebrate the birth of Jesus, Son of God, conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary. She gives thanks to the Lord that he sees each and every one of us. At this point I stand up and then sit down again. Haven’t heard those words since I was at folk high school. He can’t possibly see me now, when I’m in church hidden amongst all these families.

  I want the living to see me. The minister to come down to me. Push her way through the people on the pews, lift me up in her cape and carry me back to the hospital. I long to be back in the unit, the staff who turn their backs, the ugly, tired yellow walls. In the smoking room with a lighter on a chain and a TV that’s fixed to the floor, the torn beige faux leather sofa and armchairs.

  The bells start to ring again. Everyone stands up, pretends not to rush, but still presses forwards a little too forcefully out of the church. I wait until it’s almost empty. The minister is standing by the door and shakes everyone by the hand. She says ‘God bless you.’ I go to her. Lots of people want to stop for a word. Some come back after they’ve already gone out, having mustered their courage to come in again. To be near the minister. This is the minister’s parish. She has a small smile on her lips. But no sign of doubt. She wants to greet everyone and then go home to her own family. I’m at the front of the queue now. What shall I say? I’m the one who doubts. I don’t need to say anything, just hold out my hand and nod
. But I need something more.

  The minister is gentle and masculine in her wide gown. I stammer. ‘Yes, well, I, we, we just wanted an intercession.’ ‘I don’t have time right now. Could you perhaps come back another day?’ I shake my head. I’m never coming back. The minister has more hands to shake, but she can’t say no. She points to the nearest pew. God has ordered her. God has seen me this night. I rest my head against my knees and both my legs are shaking. I’m forced to be alive. If God is so idiotic as to give people free will and they then abuse it, isn’t it all then a fabulous failure? God is shaking me.

  Eventually the minister comes over and prods me. I promptly sit up. ‘What’s your name?’ she asks. ‘Eli.’ She places her hand on my head, asks what it is that I want her to pray for. I had thought of saying peace. But instead say: ‘I want you to pray for the new year. That I will feel at home in myself. That I will start writing. That I will find someone to live with. That I will have a family. That I will feel free. That I am the only one who rules me. That I will never hear Erik, Emil and Espen talking in my head again. That I won’t need to lie down and spend hours with them. That the new voices will disappear. That the air won’t settle in front of me like an impenetrable sheet of ice. That I won’t go to pieces. That my family in Norway won’t find out about anything and that they think that I’m on holiday in Portugal right now. Pray to God that I won’t need to fight against him any more. Pray to him that I won’t turn all religious. That he should close his eyes when he sees me and fix everything with his invisible hands. That my head will be emptied of all my brooding. That I won’t get lost. I want to go home, but not be lonely.’