roasted, and salted. Emil always bought un-shelled peanuts. He was particularly sullen today, she thought. He never spoke to her, but he normally allowed himself plenty of time, as though the business of shopping was an important one, a ritual he enjoyed. This time he paid as fast as he could, his fingers trembling a little as he searched for change in his wallet. He stuffed his shopping into the old backpack. Then he left without touching his cap as a good-bye. The door slammed behind him. She could see him through the window as he mounted his three-wheeler. How offhand he seemed today, she thought, and immediately wondered how she could think that, given that he had never exchanged a single word with her.
Emil started the engine. Once more he kept a steady pace, and headed for the racetrack. As he approached Laila's Kiosk he spotted a police car and a couple of officers. Emil tightened like a coil. Clenched the handlebars and stared deliberately right ahead of him. One of the officers looked up and noticed the strange vehicle. Emil had never had any contact with the police, but he had a profound respect for anyone who wore a uniform. Besides, the condition of his vehicle was such that he really ought to have it serviced, but his only income was his disability benefit and he could not afford it. He often thought that sooner or later someone would turn up with a pair of pliers and remove the license plates. Fortunately, the police were otherwise engaged. They were looking for this girl, Ida. He knew that and concentrated deeply so as not to distract them. He drove past them still staring rigidly ahead of him, but he sensed that he was being watched. Then he turned right. A few minutes later he took a left and reached Brenneriveien 12, where he lived. He parked and covered the vehicle with the black tarpaulin. His garage was full of junk; there was no longer any room for the three-wheeler.
He entered the house. In the kitchen he stopped and listened. Alert like a cat. He put down his backpack on the table and took out his shopping. Opened the bag of peanuts and emptied a few into the palm of his hand. Softly he went into the living room. The door to the bedroom was ajar. He kicked it shut and stood for a while breathing heavily. The peanuts grew moist in his clenched fist. Finally he went over to the window. Emil kept a birdcage in which a gray parrot the size of a pigeon sat on a perch. It began singing a pretty, low tune to earn the peanuts. Emil stuck his fingers through the bars and dropped the nuts into the feeding tray. Immediately the bird ducked, grabbed a nut with its claw and sank its beak into it. A dry, cracking sound was heard as the nut split. At that moment the telephone rang.
It was his mother.
"Well," she said. "The thing is that I'm busy tomorrow and the day after, so we'd better do the cleaning today."
Emil began chewing. But his mouth was empty and he had nothing to chew on.
"I can't stay long," she went on. "I've got my sewing circle at Tulla's tonight and I missed the last one, so I really want to go this evening. I'll start the washing machine for you and then you'll have to hang up the clothes yourself. You can manage that, can't you? Just make sure you reshape them before you hang them on the line, otherwise they get crumpled. And we both know you're not very good at ironing. I'm just about to wash my own floors, so I'll be with you in about an hour."
"No," Emil said, frightened.
He regarded his mother as a cleaning machine, and now she would want access to every corner of his house. He visualized splashing water, foaming soap and his mother's face slowly turning red. He recalled the strong smell of Ajax, the upset when the furniture was moved from its usual place, fresh air coming in from the windows, which she insisted on opening, the nasty draught, the unfamiliar smell of freshly washed bed linen. He imagined—
"You know I have to," his mother insisted. "We've talked about this." Her voice
Emil started the engine. Once more he kept a steady pace, and headed for the racetrack. As he approached Laila's Kiosk he spotted a police car and a couple of officers. Emil tightened like a coil. Clenched the handlebars and stared deliberately right ahead of him. One of the officers looked up and noticed the strange vehicle. Emil had never had any contact with the police, but he had a profound respect for anyone who wore a uniform. Besides, the condition of his vehicle was such that he really ought to have it serviced, but his only income was his disability benefit and he could not afford it. He often thought that sooner or later someone would turn up with a pair of pliers and remove the license plates. Fortunately, the police were otherwise engaged. They were looking for this girl, Ida. He knew that and concentrated deeply so as not to distract them. He drove past them still staring rigidly ahead of him, but he sensed that he was being watched. Then he turned right. A few minutes later he took a left and reached Brenneriveien 12, where he lived. He parked and covered the vehicle with the black tarpaulin. His garage was full of junk; there was no longer any room for the three-wheeler.
He entered the house. In the kitchen he stopped and listened. Alert like a cat. He put down his backpack on the table and took out his shopping. Opened the bag of peanuts and emptied a few into the palm of his hand. Softly he went into the living room. The door to the bedroom was ajar. He kicked it shut and stood for a while breathing heavily. The peanuts grew moist in his clenched fist. Finally he went over to the window. Emil kept a birdcage in which a gray parrot the size of a pigeon sat on a perch. It began singing a pretty, low tune to earn the peanuts. Emil stuck his fingers through the bars and dropped the nuts into the feeding tray. Immediately the bird ducked, grabbed a nut with its claw and sank its beak into it. A dry, cracking sound was heard as the nut split. At that moment the telephone rang.
It was his mother.
"Well," she said. "The thing is that I'm busy tomorrow and the day after, so we'd better do the cleaning today."
Emil began chewing. But his mouth was empty and he had nothing to chew on.
"I can't stay long," she went on. "I've got my sewing circle at Tulla's tonight and I missed the last one, so I really want to go this evening. I'll start the washing machine for you and then you'll have to hang up the clothes yourself. You can manage that, can't you? Just make sure you reshape them before you hang them on the line, otherwise they get crumpled. And we both know you're not very good at ironing. I'm just about to wash my own floors, so I'll be with you in about an hour."
"No," Emil said, frightened.
He regarded his mother as a cleaning machine, and now she would want access to every corner of his house. He visualized splashing water, foaming soap and his mother's face slowly turning red. He recalled the strong smell of Ajax, the upset when the furniture was moved from its usual place, fresh air coming in from the windows, which she insisted on opening, the nasty draught, the unfamiliar smell of freshly washed bed linen. He imagined—
"You know I have to," his mother insisted. "We've talked about this." Her voice
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