My Struggle: Book 3 (35 page)

One autumn I fell ill, during the day I lay in bed and was bored and one morning before going to work Dad brought me some books. He’d had them in the cellar, they were from his childhood in the fifties and I was free to borrow them. A handful had been published by a Christian company and for some reason they were the ones that made the strongest impression on me, one of them indelibly. It was about a boy whose father had died and who stayed at home to look after his sick mother; they lived in poverty and were completely dependent on the boy’s efforts to make ends meet. He was confronted by a group, or a gang more like, of boys. Not only did they hound and beat up this boy who was so different from them, they swore and stole as well and the inequity of this gang’s successes, in the light of the constant setbacks suffered by the honest, loving, and upright protagonist, was almost impossible to bear. I cried at the unfairness of it, I cried at the evil of it, and the dynamics of a situation whereby good was suppressed and the pressures of injustice were approaching bursting point shook me to the core of my soul and made me decide to become a good person. From then on I would perform good deeds, help where I could, and never do anything wrong. I began to call myself a Christian. I was nine years old, there was no one else in my close vicinity who called himself a Christian, neither Mom nor Dad nor the parents of any of the other kids – apart from Øyvind Sundt’s parents, who warned him off Coke and candy and watching TV and going to the cinema – and of course no young people, so it was a fairly solitary undertaking I initiated in Tybakken at the end of the seventies. I began to pray to God last thing at night and first thing in the morning. When, in the autumn, the others gathered to go apple scrumping down in Gamle Tybakken I told them not to go, I told them stealing was wrong. I never said this to all of them at once, I didn’t dare, I was well aware of the difference between group reactions, when everyone incited each other to do something or other, and individual reactions, when each person was forced to confront an issue head-on with no hiding place in a deindividuated crowd, so that was what I did, I went to those I knew best, my peers, and said to each one that apple scrumping was wrong, think about it, you don’t have to do it. But I didn’t want to be alone, so I accompanied them, stopped by the gate, and watched them sneak across the age-old fields in the dusk, walked beside them as they scoffed apples on the way back, their winter jackets bulging with fruit, and if anyone offered me anything I always refused, because dealing was no better than stealing.

When one Easter I made a new friend while visiting my grandparents in Sørbøvåg, I implored him again and again to stop swearing. I can remember how afraid I was that he would disobey my instructions when he came in with me and said hello to Grandma and Grandad, and how many times I had told him to promise not to swear. Afterward he avoided me and I coped with this by thinking that I had done the right thing. I offered my seat to elderly people on the bus, asked if I could carry something for them when they came out of supermarkets, never held on to the back of cars, never broke anything, never fired a slingshot at birds, looked where I walked so as not to tread on ants or beetles, and even when I picked flowers in the spring with Geir or anyone else to give to Mom or Dad, my heart sank at the thought of the lives I was taking.

In winter, after snowfalls, I wanted to help old people shovel it away. On one such day – it was a Monday after school and it had snowed heavily all night – I tried to persuade Geir to come with me to clear someone’s drive. It was only by hinting that the old man would probably give us a tip for helping him out that I managed to get Geir to join me. Dad had just bought a new snow shovel, the type called the Sørland shovel, red and shiny, and as he had shoveled our drive that morning I assumed he wouldn’t need it any more that day, so I went off with it, side by side with Geir, who was pushing his family’s green Sørland shovel in front of him. The house I had chosen was on the bend and, when we rang, the face of the old man opening the door lit up when he realized that we weren’t there to throw snowballs at his house, which many did, but to help him clear his drive. It was heavy work but fun; we dug a channel along which we could push the snow, over the edge into the ditch, we tipped it here and it rushed down like mini avalanches. The sky was a leaden gray, the snow so wet that water ran from it if you packed it together. From Torungen we heard the blare of the foghorn. Children raced downhill on sleds or skis, cars going up the hill on their way home from work skidded and spun. It took us an hour to finish the drive. We went to the front door and told the old man, he thanked us, and then he closed the door. Geir sent me an accusatory look.

“Weren’t we supposed to get money for this?” he said.

“Ye-es. Actually we were. But it’s not my fault he didn’t give us any …”

“Have we done all this for nothing?”

“Looks like it,” I said. “Doesn’t matter. Come on, let’s go.”

He followed me, grumbling. As we reached the road in front of our house I saw Dad standing in the doorway. My heart felt as though it had stopped beating. My stomach contracted and I could hardly breathe. His eyes were wild.

“Now you come here this minute!” he shouted when I was in the drive. I fixed my eyes on the ground over the last few steps.

“Look at me!” he said.

I raised my head.

He slapped my face.

I gasped.

Then he grabbed the lapels of my jacket and pressed me against the wall.

“Did you take my Sørland shovel?” he said. “It’s brand new! And it’s mine! Don’t touch my things! Do you understand? You didn’t ask me for permission! I thought it had been stolen!”

I was crying and sobbing so much I barely heard what he said. He grabbed my jacket again, pushed me through the door, and sent me flying into the wall on the other side.

“Don’t you ever do that again! Never! Go up to your room and stay there until I tell you otherwise! Have you understood?”

“Yes, Dad,” I said.

He slammed his study door and I began to remove my outdoor clothes. My hands were shaking. I took off my mittens and hat, I wriggled out of my boots, then the Puffa pants, then the jacket, then the thick sweater. In my room I lay down on my bed. Everything inside me was red raw. I sobbed and tears streamed down over my pillow as a fearful anger took hold of me, tore me this way and that, I didn’t know what to do with it. I hated him and I had to get my revenge. I would get my revenge. He’d soon see. I would crush him. Crush him.

Then it struck me: what would a nice boy do? What would a true Christian do?

He would forgive.

Once the thought was there, a warmth spread through me.

I would forgive him.

It was a big thought.

And it made me a big person.

But only when I was alone. When I was in the same room as him it was as though he swallowed up everything inside me, there was only him left, I couldn’t think about anything else.

The first day alone with Dad was to form a pattern for all the other days of the year to follow. Breakfast ready on the table, packed lunch in the fridge, off shopping when I came home, sitting and answering questions while he cooked, interspersed with little jibes followed by the constant
Straighten your
back, boy –
sometimes I had to stay there until he had finished, sometimes he could suddenly say,
Off you go,
as though he did actually understand what a torment I found these half-hour sessions where I was supposed to keep him company – then we ate and for the rest of the evening I was alone with Yngve upstairs, or outdoors, while he was either at meetings or working in his study. Once a week we went to Stoa after school to do a big shop. In the evenings he would sometimes watch TV with us. We gave him nothing: we sat stiff-backed, without moving and without speaking. If he asked us something we answered in monosyllables.

Gradually he began to turn away from Yngve and spend more and more time with me. I never dared to be as sullen and tight-lipped as my brother.

But it didn’t always work.

His footsteps on the stairs, they were an ominous sign. If I was playing music I kept it down low. If I was reading on my bed I sat up so as not to seem too casual.

Was he coming here?

He was.

The door opened, there he stood.

It was eight o’clock; he hadn’t been upstairs since the meal at four.

His eyes took in the room. And stopped at the desk.

“What have you got there?” he said. Came in, lifted the pack of cards. “Shall we play?”

“Yes, if you like,” I said, putting down my book.

He sat beside me on the bed.

“I’ll teach you a new game,” he said. Lifted the pack and threw all the cards around the room.

“Fifty-two card pick-up, it’s called,” he said. “Away you go. Pick them up!”

I had thought he really wanted to play cards and was so disappointed he was only messing around and I had to go down on my knees and pick up all the cards while he sat on the bed laughing that I muttered an expletive.

I would never have said it if I had been thinking.

But I hadn’t been, and it slipped out.

“Bloomin’ heck!” I said. “Why did you do that?”

He stiffened. Grabbed my ear and stood up as he twisted.

“Are you swearing at your own father?” he said and twisted harder and harder until I burst into tears.

“Now you pick the cards up, boy!” he said, keeping hold of my ear while I bent down and started picking up the cards.

Once it was done he let go and left. When it was time for supper he was in his study and when we went into the kitchen he had prepared everything.

The next day he didn’t call me in while he was cooking, as he usually did. A call from the kitchen only came when the food was ready. We sat down, helped ourselves without a word, whale steak with gravy and onions and potatoes, we ate in total silence, thanked him, and left the table. Dad washed up, ate an orange in the living room, I could tell by the aroma, and drank a cup of coffee, I could hear from the hiss of the coffee pot, went down to his study, where he played some music before putting on his coat, going to the car, and driving off.

As the drone of the car faded down the hill, I opened the door and went into the living room. Draped myself over the brown leather chair and put my feet on the table. Got up, went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and looked inside: two plates of sandwiches, ready-made, that was our supper. Opened the cupboard next to it, took out the box of raisins, filled my hand, and tossed them into my mouth with one hand while flattening the level of the raisins in the box with the other. Munching, I walked into the living room and switched on the TV. At half past six there was a repeat of
Blindpassasjer.
It was a series about a spaceship, unbelievably scary, broadcast on Friday night, and we weren’t allowed to watch, but neither Mom nor Dad knew anything about the repeats, which, to our great good fortune, were on when they weren’t here.

Yngve came in and reclined on the sofa.

“What are you eating?” he said.

“Raisins,” I said.

“I want some, too,” he said.

“Don’t take too many,” I said as he got up, “or Dad’ll notice.”

“All right,” Yngve said. He opened the cupboard door.

“Do you want some almonds as well?” he called.

“Yes, please,” I said. “But not many.”

The street lamp outside shone orange in the darkness. The tarmac beneath glistened the same color. And some of the spruce tree behind it. But the forest behind that was as dark as the grave. From the steepest part of the hill came the whine of a moped.

“There you go,” Yngve said, releasing some almonds into my palm. I could clearly recognize his odor. It was acrid yet faint, almost metallic. Not his sweat, that smelled different, but his skin. It smelled of metal. When we wrestled I could smell it, when he tickled me I could smell it, and sometimes when he was lying down and reading, for example, I could put my nose to his arm and breathe in the smell. I loved him, I loved Yngve.

Five minutes before
Blindpassasjer
started, Yngve got up.

“Let’s lock the front door,” he said. “And then let’s switch off all the lights to make it scary.”

“No!” I said. “Don’t do that!”

Yngve laughed.

“Are you scared already?”

I got up and stood in his way. He fastened his arms around me, lifted me up, and sat me back down and continued toward the stairs.

“Don’t!” I said. “Please!”

He laughed again.

“I’m going downstairs now to lock the door,” he said from the stairs.

I ran after him.

“I mean it, Yngve,” I said.

“I know you do,” he said. Locked the door and stood by it. “But I’m in charge when we’re on our own.”

He switched off the light.

In the murk, illuminated only by the light from the adjacent room, there was something satanic about his smile. I ran upstairs and sat in the chair. Listened to him switching off light after light. The hall, the lamp over the living-room table, the ceiling lamp in the kitchen. Then the four small wall lamps above the sofa and, finally, the lamp on top of the television. Apart from the faint shimmer from the outside lamp and the blue flickering glow from the screen it was completely dark when the episode began. It was scary right from the opening scene, a man was standing and swinging a scythe somewhere, and then he turned, and his face wasn’t a face but a mask. I felt a tingle at the very tips of my fingers and toes and my innards were taut with fear. But I watched, I had to watch. When it was over, half an hour later, Yngve got up behind me.

“Don’t say anything,” I pleaded. “Don’t do anything!”

“Do you know what, Karl Ove?” he said.

“Oh, no!” I said.

“I’m not who you think I am,” he said, coming toward me.

“Yes, you are!” I said.

“I’m not Yngve,” he said. “I am another.”

“No, you’re not!” I said. “You’re Yngve! Tell me you’re Yngve.”

“I’m a cyborg,” he said. “And this …” He stretched out his hand and lifted his sweater. “This is not flesh and blood. This is metal and cables. It looks like flesh and blood, but it isn’t. I am not a human being.”