Aftermath

by Carl Frode Tiller

  “Shall we go inside,” Ingrid says. “It’s a bit chilly out here.”

  “Okay.”

  We climb down the ladder and join Rikard in the cabin.

  “Come and have some coffee,” he says.

  “Ooh, coffee sounds wonderful,” Ingrid says. She peels off her gloves, cups her hands around her mouth, and blows on them. “Brrr.”

  “There’re mugs in that rucksack,” Rikard says to me, with a nod toward a black-and-red rucksack hanging over one of the chairs. I pull off my gloves, take two mugs from the rucksack, grab the thermos off the table in front of the banquette, look out toward Survika as I sit down, and unscrew the cap.

  “Do we have time to take a run past my old childhood home, do you think? It’s not far from here. Just around that point and down a bit,” I add, motioning out of the window as I pour coffee into one mug and hand it to Ingrid.

  “Sure,” he says.

  “Great,” I say. I pour coffee for myself, put down the thermos, and curl my hands around the mug, feel the warmth spread through my fingers. I take a sip and stand there looking out of the window, watching the landscape of my early childhood unfold before me: the bare rocks appearing and disappearing in the rough gray sea, the islets with their clumps of juniper trees, dwarf birches, and small pines blown sideways by the wind whipping down from Folda and along Namsos Fjord. And the scattering of houses and cottages on Otterøy itself, of course. There are a lot of new buildings since I was last here, one tract of summer cottages after another has sprung up, all over the island apparently. Well, cottages—but what passes for a cottage nowadays would have been described as a villa thirty years ago, so I don’t really know what to call them. There certainly seems to be plenty of money around, you can tell from these properties: there may not be too many single-family homes here, but a lot of the old houses appear to have been extended and given dramatic face-lifts. When we were kids, the house where Eva lived was just a standard seventies catalog house, but now it looks like a palace: the front has been completely redone and two new wings have been added, with acres of glass and the sort of oriel windows that always remind me of Dynasty for some reason.

  “You see the woods up there, below that stretch of scree? That’s where we had our Indian camp,” I say. I think of telling her what it was like to be a little Indian from Otterøya, but I decide against it, there are so many memories, I wouldn’t know where to begin. I take a sip of coffee. “That’s where I grew up, on that headland.”

  “Amazing,” Ingrid says.

  I smile at her, try to look cool and unaffected, but I feel my pulse quicken as we round the point and slip into the bay where our old house lies. It’s so weird, I haven’t been back here since I grew up. I helped to clear out the house after Grandpa died, but that must have been the last time. I don’t know why I’ve never taken a trip over, I’ve almost nothing but good memories of this place, so it’s not that, I just never got around to it. I swallow, it’s so strange to be here, it feels both familiar and foreign, I know every nook and cranny of our old house and yet it’s so much smaller than I remember. I feel a bit like the central character in Hamsun’s Victoria, returning to his parents’ home after many years in the city and being struck by how small the miller’s house is.

  “Is it that white one there?” Ingrid asks.

  I don’t say anything, just nod, not taking my eyes off the house. Rikard slows down even more, the drone of the engine fades to almost nothing, and we glide quietly up to Grandpa’s old jetty. Only now do I see how dilapidated the house is, the roof is green with moss and has sunk in the middle, the windows are broken and someone has sprayed the word dick on the wall facing the water, it even looks as though there’s been an attempt to set fire to the porch, there are black, sooty trails where flames have licked the walls. I swallow again, no one has lived here since Grandpa died and it has become the sort of hangout I remember from when I was thirteen or fourteen and living in Namsos: abandoned, derelict, slightly out of the way, the kind of place frequented by teenagers looking for somewhere private where they can do things they don’t want the grown-ups to know about; where some kids will run riot, some seize the chance to smoke their first cigarette and have their first drink, to read porn mags or feel up the only girl they know who’s willing to be felt up. I sip my coffee, consider asking whether we could go ashore for a little while, then think better of it, there are so many memories attached to this place and I would rather see it alone, I don’t quite know why, I just would. I’d like more time to look around, it’d be better to take a drive over before we go back to Trondheim. I lower my coffee mug and run an eye over the farm. The barn door has come loose and dangles lopsidedly from the top hinge, yellow grass and spindly aspens have grown through the planks of the deck where we used to sit in the summer, and the big cherry tree my swing once hung from has been uprooted and has toppled backward onto Grandpa’s old HiAce—the car has lost its wheels and the tree seems almost to have pressed it into the ground when it fell, it looks really funny.

  “Oh, my God, look, there’s somebody over there,” Ingrid says, pointing. She gives a little laugh: “I nearly jumped out of my skin.”

  I look where she’s pointing. There’s a man down on the shore with his back to us, only a few yards away. He’s wearing a black-and-blue snowsuit that blends with the rocks and the hillside behind, rendering him also invisible. He’s gutting fish on a board set on a large rock. After a moment the man turns and peers at us, the gaunt, chalk-white face is framed by the black hood and at first glance he resembles an older version of Death in Bergman’s The Seventh Seal. Holy shit, it’s old Uncle Albert. I thought he died years ago, but it’s him, no doubt about it. Grandpa would have been ninety-one now had he lived, so Albert must be in his late eighties. He stares at us, he never did like strangers and he certainly doesn’t seem to have changed in that regard.

  I open the biggest window, hook it back on the hasp, and stick my head out.

  “Hi, Albert.”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “Don’t you know who I am?” I ask.

  “Should I?”

  “It’s David, Erik’s grandson.”

  “Aw, Christ. I thought it was the warden. I didn’t recognize you right away.”

  “Yeah, well, time leaves its mark, you know,” I say.

  “Eh?”

  “Time flies,” I say, a little louder.

  “Aye, it’s goin’ by faster and faster,” he says. “We’ll soon have no time for anythin’ but chopping down fuckin’ Christmas trees.”

  I laugh. “So how are you?”

  “Aw, mustn’t grumble,” he says.

  “You’re looking great, anyway.”

  He considers me for a moment, then snorts and grins.

  “Aye, the specs fair steam up when I walk into a room full of women,” he says, and he lifts another pollack out of the bucket and slaps it onto the chopping board. I laugh and shake my head, he hasn’t changed in that regard either, old Albert, that’s just how he and Grandpa and their cronies used to talk and joke when I was young and it does my heart good to hear him. I shoot a glance at Rikard and Ingrid: Rikard’s busy plotting something on the GPS and Ingrid is just standing there smiling politely, she doesn’t look as if she finds Albert the least bit funny, she thinks he’s common, I suppose. I turn back to the window, in time to see Albert slit open the belly of the fish, rip out the guts, and toss them into the water, only inches away from the boat. A split second later a great black-backed gull dives down out of nowhere, snaps up the entrails, swallows the lot in one big gulp, and rises up again in a gentle arc.

  “I think we may have to move along soon,” Rikard says. “It gets dark quickly these days.”

  I nod, turn, and see Albert chop the head off the pollack and toss this too into the water. There’s a little splash and the next instant I hear the gull screech, it’s worked out what’s going on here and it swoops in again from the other side of the bay.

  “We
have to go now, Albert,” I say, smiling at him. I’d like to stay and talk to him some more and I almost add that I might pop over to see him soon, but I don’t get that far.

  “Ach, I wouldn’t have paid the fine anyway,” he says.

  “Huh?”

  “I’m ninety,” he says. “I’ve never worn a life vest in my life and I’ll be damned if I’m goin’ to start now.” He sticks his hand into the bucket and pulls out another pollack, lays it on the board, and starts to clean it. What the fuck, he still thinks we’re the wardens, didn’t he hear what I said?

  “It’s not the wardens, Albert,” I say. “It’s me, David, Erik’s grandson.”

  He eyes me for a moment or two, then lifts his chin the way people often do when something finally dawns on them.

  “Ah, so it is,” he says. “I didn’t recognize you right away.”

  I just look at him—shit, the man’s fucking senile, I didn’t realize it at first, but it’s obvious now.

  “Yeah, time flies,” I hear Ingrid giggle, repeating what I said to Albert only moments ago, bringing our conversation around in a loop, as it were, in an illustration of Albert’s senility. Behind me I hear Rikard laugh—well, it was quite funny so I can see why he’s laughing, but I’m not laughing, there’s something painful about all this and I can’t bring myself to laugh. Besides which, I’m rather annoyed at them for laughing.

  “Bye, Albert,” I shout.

  No reply. He doesn’t even look around, merely raises a hand in farewell, holds it over his head for a second or two, then carries on cleaning the fish. Rikard reverses a little as he brings the boat around to starboard and I stand there gazing through the porthole in the door, slowly swiveling to the left until the stern is pointing landward and the bow aiming out into the fjord, never taking my eyes off Albert and my childhood home.

  There’s a little jerk and then we start to move.

  “Is it far to the plant?” Ingrid asks.

  “No, no,” Rikard says.

  I simply stand there, watching Albert and my childhood home grow smaller and smaller, until Albert is gone and the house is just a tiny dot. I give it a moment longer, then turn and look across to Jøa, am about to say something about the realm of Olav Duun and Odin in Fairyland, but I don’t get the chance.

  “So, communications advisor?” Ingrid says, harking back to Rikard’s job offer. They must have been discussing it earlier on when I was outside, it sounds like it anyway, from the way she’s talking, it sounds as if she’s taking up where they left off. “I understand that it involves promotion and image building. But more specifically … ?”

  Rikard gives a little wag of his head.

  “Well, that particular department has a wide range of responsibilities,” he says. “The job involves writing press releases and information sheets, drafting speeches when the occasion calls for it, acting as spokesman for the company. And then there are our websites, of course. They’ve been neglected for far too long and I think we need to initiate a project to redesign them fairly soon. I see that as a good place for you to start,” he says. He turns and smiles at me, then faces front again. “If you’re at all interested, that is?”

  “I’m sure you would have a lot to contribute, David,” Ingrid says.

  “But I don’t have the relevant experience or the right qualifications,” I say.

  “We have people with experience and the right qualifications already,” Rikard says. “We’re looking for people from other backgrounds, with another sort of ballast. Someone who can think outside of the box. And you would be given proper training in all the working of the firm, of course.”

  “Hm,” I say, looking at him and smiling, still not sure why he’s making this offer, maybe Ingrid’s right, maybe I could do a good job here, I actually think so too, but Rikard has no way of knowing that, so there must be some other reason for this move on his part. I don’t think she’s right, though, when she says he’s doing it because we’re brothers and he has my best interests at heart, I mean he knew about me for years but never got in touch, so that doesn’t seem very likely, yeah, what do I know, maybe he’s offering me this job because he wants me on his side from now on, maybe he’s afraid I might use my clout as an heir to the company to put a spoke in his wheel and this is his way of making me his ally, maybe this is simply a sop to me to keep me happy and possibly even to teach me to think like him and follow the same line as him on the running of the firm. I gather that Kåre doesn’t approve of some of the things Rikard and the other members of the board are doing so maybe Rikard is afraid I might turn out to be a rival and serious contender for the ownership and, hence, control of the company when the time comes. Or maybe he’s simply jockeying for position. Because it’s not necessarily the case that an estate is always equally apportioned in such settlements. As far as I know the law requires that each heir receives a minimum share of the estate, but other than that Kåre can choose to favor whomever he deems best equipped to assume ownership, so maybe Rikard is actually afraid of being sidelined. Although, if that were his thinking, surely it would be more sensible not to let me have anything whatsoever to do with the company. In that case surely the obvious thing would be to get rid of me. And maybe that’s what he’s planning to do—plenty of people have killed for a fraction of the assets we’re talking about here, so who knows, maybe Marius was right when he warned me earlier, maybe that wasn’t Marius the paranoiac talking after all, maybe I have good reason to be wary of Rikard. I look at him, feel a sudden ripple of unease because, well, maybe I am in danger—it sounds unreal, but it’s not entirely unlikely. So perhaps I should turn down his offer, to prove that I don’t pose any sort of a threat, it’s actually quite tempting to say yes, but maybe it’s best not to have anything whatsoever to do with the company. Oh, fuck, I’ve got to stop this, it’s no use, I mustn’t think like this, it’s fine that I’m entitled to inherit something and it’s fine that Kåre is critical of the way Rikard runs the company, but for fuck’s sake, that doesn’t make me a serious contender for the top job. Rikard was born and raised to succeed Kåre and I know nothing about running a business, the mere thought that he might regard me as a rival is ridiculous. Unless it’s Ingrid he’s worried about, maybe that’s it, she’s the daughter of a business magnate and entrepreneur and she’s shown herself to be an adept businesswoman over the past few years, so maybe he sees her as the biggest potential threat, maybe he’s afraid that she’ll exploit the situation and use me to gain control of the whole concern. Oh, but no, this is no use, I mustn’t think like this, I need to stop speculating and stick to what I actually know.

  “There it is, over there,” Rikard says suddenly. He points to a cluster of tall, round, brightly lit silos on the other side of the bay.

  “It looks like a palace,” Ingrid says.

  “I’ve never thought about it, but so it does,” Rikard says.

  Pause.

  Then: “I think I’ll give it a go,” I blurt.

  Ingrid and Rikard turn to me, but neither of them says anything.

  “I’ll take the job,” I say. “I wouldn’t mind trying something new.

  “That’s great!” Rikard says, although I don’t know if he means it, he’s smiling, but he’s taking it pretty calmly, he doesn’t look exactly overjoyed.

  “Oh, I’m so glad,” Ingrid says, trying to play it cool but not succeeding very well, she gazes at me for a second, eyes glowing and lips compressed, as if she’s struggling to stop herself from cheering out loud, then she takes my hand, turns, and looks out toward the fish vaccine plant. She doesn’t say a word, merely squeezes my hand, to emphasize how happy she is, I suppose, and I’m happy too, happy and relieved, but I’m also apprehensive and a little daunted, not that I think I have anything to fear, because I’m pretty certain I don’t, I think it’s more the idea of embarking on something so different that I find daunting, this is a new and unknown world after all. It’s unbelievable really, that I should have wound up here, in this situati
on. I mean, when you think about it, it’s absolutely unreal, pure fairy tale.

  CARL FRODE TILLER is the author of five novels—the last three forming The Encircling Trilogy—and four plays; all of them are written in the distinctive language of Nynorsk (“new Norwegian”). One of the most acclaimed Scandinavian authors of his generation, Tiller has received multiple prizes, including the EU Prize for Literature and the Nordic Critics Prize, and his Encircling Trilogy has been twice nominated for the Nordic Council’s prize.

  Tiller was born in 1970 in Namsos, Norway. He now lives in Trondheim with his wife and three daughters. He was, until recently, a member of the rock band Kong Ler.

  BARBARA J. HAVELAND is a leading translator of Norwegian and Danish fiction, drama, and poetry. Other Norwegian writers translated by her include Henrik Ibsen, Jan Kjaerstad, and Linn Ullman. She lives in Copenhagen.

  The text of Encircling 3: Aftermath is set in Trump Mediaeval and SansSemiLight to a design by Henry Iles. Composition by Bookmobile Design & Digital Publisher Services, Minneapolis, Minnesota. Manufactured by Friesens on acid-free, 100 percent postconsumer wastepaper.

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