her body spurts across the ground. âYeah, yeah, Zitha. Go on!â What he likes most is standing on top of Limahaugen, close to the old cairn, and looking down at Hafrsfjord. The three islands, Prestøy, Somsøy and Kobbholmen, lyingthere like three brothers. He and a mate used to go out there when they were small, to Sømsøy, except they called it Bunny Island on account of all the rabbits running around. Long time ago now.
This is what he likes best. Him, with the dog by his side. If anyone was ever going to paint a portrait of him, then this is what would fill the canvas.
But no one, he thinks, has any idea what Iâm up to.
Getting close to nine oâclock.
This isnât going to work out, is it?
Below him lies the forest.
He has the blocks of flats to his right, Limahaugen to his left, and on the horizon the telecom tower at Ullandhaug. Once past the flats, the primary school comes into view. Madlavoll. The one he went to so many years ago. The gym, football pitch, the school building. Brand new in the eighties, seems old now, run-down and out of date. Happens to everything. Everything that was modern, forced to become so faded. PÃ¥l looks over at the schoolyard. Thatâs where they played football, where the girls jumped rope, they were there, all of them. Jørgen, Lise, Thomas, Jarle, Bülent, Susanne, Anna and Prince. Prince. What a character. Thatâs all we called him, Prince. He was a damn good breakdancer. Him and Inge. They were the first ones in school to do handstands, had to beat the women off with a stick. Then the girls of course, Hilde, Marianne, ah, she was gorgeous. Funny about the girls you never get. They can haunt you for the rest of your life. And Anne Mette, she became an actor, she did, and then there was Odd ⦠Odd Jonas, no ⦠Odd Roger, the guy with the forehead covered in zits, big guy. Yeah, Odd Roger. Something screwed-up there. Wasnât right in the head. Just filled up with hate ⦠and Pesi ⦠He died, didnât he? Yeah, junkie. Popped his clogs.
Strange thinking about the old gang.
Feels painful. And it feels good.
And Hasse â imagine, they were so close in secondary school, for a while they were together day and night, and now? Theyâre embarrassed when they meet. Hasse has become a bit of a minor celebrity, works for the Minister of Culture in Oslo. What would he have said if he knew what PÃ¥l was doing now?
Jesus, PÃ¥l. Youâre
playing with fire. Jesus Christ, PÃ¥l, youâre heading into the depths of the forest.
The dog tugs at the leash.
âYeah, come on, Zitha,â he says, âCome on.â
Heâs thought a lot about that school reunion. They arrived one by one, face after face, half-forgotten memories dancing in front of his eyes. à dne from Class 6B worked for the national health service and had lost his wife to cancer. Bjarne from 6C had MS. Kjartan from 6A had become a multi-millionaire, something to do with selling equipment to the oil business. Tine, Mimi and Anja tottered on high heels, drank gin & tonics and white wine and talked about Thomas Dybdahl, Karl Ove KnausgÃ¥rd and George Clooney, and were on the razz for the first time in ages. A lot of the lads turned up with pear-shaped bodies and potbellies and tried as well as they could to chat about football and the old days. All PÃ¥l could think about was how everyone had lost. Everyone, including me, has lost. Weâre losing all the time, and weâre losing hard, but at the same time our helplessness shines like small, blushing suns.
PÃ¥l passes the kindergarten. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a moped parked over by the old substation. He speeds up, continues down towards Madlamarkveien, crosses over it and enters the wood on the other side. He doesnât take the tarmac path through the wood, he goes into the pitch darkness. He walks carefully through the ferns, the overgrown scrub, the twisted roots,
This is what he likes best. Him, with the dog by his side. If anyone was ever going to paint a portrait of him, then this is what would fill the canvas.
But no one, he thinks, has any idea what Iâm up to.
Getting close to nine oâclock.
This isnât going to work out, is it?
Below him lies the forest.
He has the blocks of flats to his right, Limahaugen to his left, and on the horizon the telecom tower at Ullandhaug. Once past the flats, the primary school comes into view. Madlavoll. The one he went to so many years ago. The gym, football pitch, the school building. Brand new in the eighties, seems old now, run-down and out of date. Happens to everything. Everything that was modern, forced to become so faded. PÃ¥l looks over at the schoolyard. Thatâs where they played football, where the girls jumped rope, they were there, all of them. Jørgen, Lise, Thomas, Jarle, Bülent, Susanne, Anna and Prince. Prince. What a character. Thatâs all we called him, Prince. He was a damn good breakdancer. Him and Inge. They were the first ones in school to do handstands, had to beat the women off with a stick. Then the girls of course, Hilde, Marianne, ah, she was gorgeous. Funny about the girls you never get. They can haunt you for the rest of your life. And Anne Mette, she became an actor, she did, and then there was Odd ⦠Odd Jonas, no ⦠Odd Roger, the guy with the forehead covered in zits, big guy. Yeah, Odd Roger. Something screwed-up there. Wasnât right in the head. Just filled up with hate ⦠and Pesi ⦠He died, didnât he? Yeah, junkie. Popped his clogs.
Strange thinking about the old gang.
Feels painful. And it feels good.
And Hasse â imagine, they were so close in secondary school, for a while they were together day and night, and now? Theyâre embarrassed when they meet. Hasse has become a bit of a minor celebrity, works for the Minister of Culture in Oslo. What would he have said if he knew what PÃ¥l was doing now?
Jesus, PÃ¥l. Youâre
playing with fire. Jesus Christ, PÃ¥l, youâre heading into the depths of the forest.
The dog tugs at the leash.
âYeah, come on, Zitha,â he says, âCome on.â
Heâs thought a lot about that school reunion. They arrived one by one, face after face, half-forgotten memories dancing in front of his eyes. à dne from Class 6B worked for the national health service and had lost his wife to cancer. Bjarne from 6C had MS. Kjartan from 6A had become a multi-millionaire, something to do with selling equipment to the oil business. Tine, Mimi and Anja tottered on high heels, drank gin & tonics and white wine and talked about Thomas Dybdahl, Karl Ove KnausgÃ¥rd and George Clooney, and were on the razz for the first time in ages. A lot of the lads turned up with pear-shaped bodies and potbellies and tried as well as they could to chat about football and the old days. All PÃ¥l could think about was how everyone had lost. Everyone, including me, has lost. Weâre losing all the time, and weâre losing hard, but at the same time our helplessness shines like small, blushing suns.
PÃ¥l passes the kindergarten. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a moped parked over by the old substation. He speeds up, continues down towards Madlamarkveien, crosses over it and enters the wood on the other side. He doesnât take the tarmac path through the wood, he goes into the pitch darkness. He walks carefully through the ferns, the overgrown scrub, the twisted roots,
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