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Authors: Dea Brovig
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‘Pappa! That looks like a good one!’
‘I see it,’ says Lars. He guides the speedboat to the island and scouts its perimeter for a vacant space. On his second sweep, he settles on a slice of water between a sailing boat and a Winrace.
‘There isn’t room for you there,’ says Else.
‘Andreas,’ says Lars, ‘take the rope at the prow.’
Andreas crawls to the speedboat’s prow and crouches with a rope in hand, preparing to jump while Lars manoeuvres them into the slot. He brings the boat in too quickly, then yanks the throttle into reverse and whirls the steering wheel. The seething of the engine attracts an audience on land.
‘You’re doing it wrong!’ says Thea.
‘There isn’t room for you there,’ says a man on the sailing boat. Petter Skoland is sitting alone in the cockpit, his eyes fixed on the speedboat that is threatening to ram him.
‘Petter?’ calls Lars. ‘Is it you? How about a little help?’
Still watching the prow where Andreas clings to his rope, Petter gets to his feet and dips his upper body under the sailing boat’s guardrail. He reaches out his bare arms and his palms connect with the fibreglass in time to save his hull. His biceps tighten as he leans his weight against the oncoming vessel’s nose and Lars pushes a button on the pilot panel, releasing the anchor with a rumble from the speedboat’s belly.
‘You should have dropped the anchor earlier,’ Petter says. ‘Right her up. Right her up, I said!’
Petter heaves and Andreas throws himself onto land. The onlookers shake their heads and turn away as the speedboat wedges into place.
Lars directs his son in making the boat fast. When they have knotted the fenders and lifted their provisions ashore, he meets Petter on firm ground.
‘It’s been a while,’ he says.
‘Are you down for the summer?’ asks Petter.
‘We’ve moved here. We’ve taken over my parents’ old house.’
‘I hadn’t heard,’ Petter says. He nods at Else, then at Marianne. ‘Enjoy yourselves.’
He climbs back onto his sailing boat and Lars leads the way to the centre of the island. With bags in hand, he navigates rock pools and fissures spattered with seagull droppings. Liv, Andreas and Thea wander off from the adults to a group of children in the shallows between this island and the next. A handful wade naked in the water, while others dangle crushed mussels and snail shells at the crabs. Liv peers into a bucket and beckons to Andreas, who stops at her side and peeks over the bucket’s rim.
Close to the foot of the bonfire pile, Victoria finds an unclaimed patch of rock on which to set out the Tupperware containers that she pulls from an insulated bag. Marianne plucks the lids off smoked salmon, cured meats, scrambled eggs. Lars sees to the drinks, readying the nozzle of Else’s wine box while she passes around cushions from an open rucksack. She hands out paper plates and arranges herself on a boulder slightly apart from the rest of her party.
Marianne digs into the scrambled egg with a plastic fork.
‘Where’s your boyfriend tonight, then?’ asks Lars. ‘I thought you’d be bringing him along.’
‘He has a show,’ Marianne says. ‘He’s in Grimstad tonight. He’ll be in Kristiansand this weekend.’
‘Does he usually travel so much?’ asks Lars.
‘He’s a dancer,’ she says.
‘Ah. That explains it, I suppose.’
The boulder’s stone is cold through Else’s cushion. She fidgets with a tissue in her pocket, tearing it to pieces while her daughter answers Lars’s questions about Mads. She has no appetite. She watches Lars rip the cover from a disposable barbecue and take a lighter from his pocket.
‘So is he any good?’ he asks.
‘At dancing?’ says Marianne. ‘Mads is great at everything he does.’ She bats lashes as thick as beetles’ legs with mascara. Else rolls her eyes. She prods a slice of ham with her fork.
‘Mamma doesn’t like him,’ says Marianne. ‘She hasn’t even met
‘I see it,’ says Lars. He guides the speedboat to the island and scouts its perimeter for a vacant space. On his second sweep, he settles on a slice of water between a sailing boat and a Winrace.
‘There isn’t room for you there,’ says Else.
‘Andreas,’ says Lars, ‘take the rope at the prow.’
Andreas crawls to the speedboat’s prow and crouches with a rope in hand, preparing to jump while Lars manoeuvres them into the slot. He brings the boat in too quickly, then yanks the throttle into reverse and whirls the steering wheel. The seething of the engine attracts an audience on land.
‘You’re doing it wrong!’ says Thea.
‘There isn’t room for you there,’ says a man on the sailing boat. Petter Skoland is sitting alone in the cockpit, his eyes fixed on the speedboat that is threatening to ram him.
‘Petter?’ calls Lars. ‘Is it you? How about a little help?’
Still watching the prow where Andreas clings to his rope, Petter gets to his feet and dips his upper body under the sailing boat’s guardrail. He reaches out his bare arms and his palms connect with the fibreglass in time to save his hull. His biceps tighten as he leans his weight against the oncoming vessel’s nose and Lars pushes a button on the pilot panel, releasing the anchor with a rumble from the speedboat’s belly.
‘You should have dropped the anchor earlier,’ Petter says. ‘Right her up. Right her up, I said!’
Petter heaves and Andreas throws himself onto land. The onlookers shake their heads and turn away as the speedboat wedges into place.
Lars directs his son in making the boat fast. When they have knotted the fenders and lifted their provisions ashore, he meets Petter on firm ground.
‘It’s been a while,’ he says.
‘Are you down for the summer?’ asks Petter.
‘We’ve moved here. We’ve taken over my parents’ old house.’
‘I hadn’t heard,’ Petter says. He nods at Else, then at Marianne. ‘Enjoy yourselves.’
He climbs back onto his sailing boat and Lars leads the way to the centre of the island. With bags in hand, he navigates rock pools and fissures spattered with seagull droppings. Liv, Andreas and Thea wander off from the adults to a group of children in the shallows between this island and the next. A handful wade naked in the water, while others dangle crushed mussels and snail shells at the crabs. Liv peers into a bucket and beckons to Andreas, who stops at her side and peeks over the bucket’s rim.
Close to the foot of the bonfire pile, Victoria finds an unclaimed patch of rock on which to set out the Tupperware containers that she pulls from an insulated bag. Marianne plucks the lids off smoked salmon, cured meats, scrambled eggs. Lars sees to the drinks, readying the nozzle of Else’s wine box while she passes around cushions from an open rucksack. She hands out paper plates and arranges herself on a boulder slightly apart from the rest of her party.
Marianne digs into the scrambled egg with a plastic fork.
‘Where’s your boyfriend tonight, then?’ asks Lars. ‘I thought you’d be bringing him along.’
‘He has a show,’ Marianne says. ‘He’s in Grimstad tonight. He’ll be in Kristiansand this weekend.’
‘Does he usually travel so much?’ asks Lars.
‘He’s a dancer,’ she says.
‘Ah. That explains it, I suppose.’
The boulder’s stone is cold through Else’s cushion. She fidgets with a tissue in her pocket, tearing it to pieces while her daughter answers Lars’s questions about Mads. She has no appetite. She watches Lars rip the cover from a disposable barbecue and take a lighter from his pocket.
‘So is he any good?’ he asks.
‘At dancing?’ says Marianne. ‘Mads is great at everything he does.’ She bats lashes as thick as beetles’ legs with mascara. Else rolls her eyes. She prods a slice of ham with her fork.
‘Mamma doesn’t like him,’ says Marianne. ‘She hasn’t even met
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