Read Online I Refuse by Per Petterson - Free Book Online
Authors: Per Petterson
Tags: Norway
Ads: Link
It was just gone.
He lay under the duvet with his hands behind his head looking up at the the ceiling. He closed his eyes. It’ll come to me, he thought, and then I can call the hotel, or perhaps not, perhaps I should drive out to Hemnes for the seventh time and continue my search there. How many houses could there possibly be in Hemnes. And then he fell asleep and woke up again thinking, it
was
the woman from Hemnes. I’d tried to explain to her that I was dying. A more telling sign I have never had, he thought, and then he thought, that man this morning, in the dark, down Herregårdsveien, why did it strike me it was my father. Most people who suddenly remember their fathers would they not picture a younger man, a more handsome man with his face settled in a very special place in their memory, physically imprinted in the brain, you could see it on an X-ray, no doubt, and if everything had been as it should have been, that man would still be walking among them, a man so badly needed in his wholeness and consequence, but then one day he would just be gone, to sea, maybe, and was last observed on some other continent rounding the corner of a warehouse on the waterfront of a town like Shanghai, or Port Said, or he was killed in a dreadful accident, a car crash, a collision at a hundred kilometres an hour on the E6 between Jessheim and Kløfta; camera flashes and ambulances everywhere, and police cars and the constant clamour of journalists and photographers, who left no patch of white on the map of this district, Upper Romerike, and so life was twisted and distorted for the boy left behind, with his achingly empty hands, robbed of his masculine model, the football-playing man, the cross-country skiing man, a man who stood his ground, who never let his gaze drop, but looked everyone boldly in the eye. And now this man was gone or dead and was already a legend it was hard for the boy to handle. And yet, in some form that man would still be hidden somewhere in the mind and might suddenly rise in some situations, like the situation this morning on the way down Herregårdsveien. But in Jim’s mind there was nothing stored, nothing you could see on an X-ray, inside his brain everything was as it had always been, and he had never had a father like that, or any father at all, and then this empty room in his life must have weakened him and feminised him, for the simple reason that he grew up alone with a woman as his guardian and role model, who on top of everything was openly Christian and a member of the Christian Democrats and high on the party’s list at the local elections and who taught Christianity at the very school that he had to attend.
Jim didn’t know who he was supposed to miss, or if it was possible to miss someone he didn’t know, that he had never seen, who left no trace, no hollow in his life, no vacuum for him to fill, he didn’t know if the feeling he had when he thought about all this was the feeling of
loss
, but it was clear enough that Tommy had something Jim didn’t have. Tommy’s father was as visible as you could wish, and the women could see him every single day running up and down the road with the dustbins on his shoulder, and the men took part in his rough games, but then Tommy was given his beatings, and surely there was nothing there to mourn. No one had ever beaten Jim, not yet, and his mother didn’t beat him, she didn’t believe in beatings, she didn’t want to chastise her own son.
He got out of bed and went to the kitchen, and there he saw the clock above the door, bulging, quivering like a jellyfish, oh, Christ, I’m in a tight spot now, he said aloud and spun round in the doorway and ran into the bathroom instead, into the shower cabinet, and stood there for three minutes to the second with the ice cold water hammering against his head. He looked at the clock again, a different clock, and from behind the steam it had moved on a good deal further than the one in the kitchen and ended
He lay under the duvet with his hands behind his head looking up at the the ceiling. He closed his eyes. It’ll come to me, he thought, and then I can call the hotel, or perhaps not, perhaps I should drive out to Hemnes for the seventh time and continue my search there. How many houses could there possibly be in Hemnes. And then he fell asleep and woke up again thinking, it
was
the woman from Hemnes. I’d tried to explain to her that I was dying. A more telling sign I have never had, he thought, and then he thought, that man this morning, in the dark, down Herregårdsveien, why did it strike me it was my father. Most people who suddenly remember their fathers would they not picture a younger man, a more handsome man with his face settled in a very special place in their memory, physically imprinted in the brain, you could see it on an X-ray, no doubt, and if everything had been as it should have been, that man would still be walking among them, a man so badly needed in his wholeness and consequence, but then one day he would just be gone, to sea, maybe, and was last observed on some other continent rounding the corner of a warehouse on the waterfront of a town like Shanghai, or Port Said, or he was killed in a dreadful accident, a car crash, a collision at a hundred kilometres an hour on the E6 between Jessheim and Kløfta; camera flashes and ambulances everywhere, and police cars and the constant clamour of journalists and photographers, who left no patch of white on the map of this district, Upper Romerike, and so life was twisted and distorted for the boy left behind, with his achingly empty hands, robbed of his masculine model, the football-playing man, the cross-country skiing man, a man who stood his ground, who never let his gaze drop, but looked everyone boldly in the eye. And now this man was gone or dead and was already a legend it was hard for the boy to handle. And yet, in some form that man would still be hidden somewhere in the mind and might suddenly rise in some situations, like the situation this morning on the way down Herregårdsveien. But in Jim’s mind there was nothing stored, nothing you could see on an X-ray, inside his brain everything was as it had always been, and he had never had a father like that, or any father at all, and then this empty room in his life must have weakened him and feminised him, for the simple reason that he grew up alone with a woman as his guardian and role model, who on top of everything was openly Christian and a member of the Christian Democrats and high on the party’s list at the local elections and who taught Christianity at the very school that he had to attend.
Jim didn’t know who he was supposed to miss, or if it was possible to miss someone he didn’t know, that he had never seen, who left no trace, no hollow in his life, no vacuum for him to fill, he didn’t know if the feeling he had when he thought about all this was the feeling of
loss
, but it was clear enough that Tommy had something Jim didn’t have. Tommy’s father was as visible as you could wish, and the women could see him every single day running up and down the road with the dustbins on his shoulder, and the men took part in his rough games, but then Tommy was given his beatings, and surely there was nothing there to mourn. No one had ever beaten Jim, not yet, and his mother didn’t beat him, she didn’t believe in beatings, she didn’t want to chastise her own son.
He got out of bed and went to the kitchen, and there he saw the clock above the door, bulging, quivering like a jellyfish, oh, Christ, I’m in a tight spot now, he said aloud and spun round in the doorway and ran into the bathroom instead, into the shower cabinet, and stood there for three minutes to the second with the ice cold water hammering against his head. He looked at the clock again, a different clock, and from behind the steam it had moved on a good deal further than the one in the kitchen and ended
Similar Books
