The Ringmaster's Daughter

by Jostein Gaarder

would be reunited with her father just after she'd broken her

  neck, and so the old lady might as well take her caravan and

  move to Sweden. She thought it was wonderful that Panina

  Manina was going to be reunited with her father, but not

  quite so wonderful that she had to break her neck before he

  recognised her.'

  I was in a bit of a quandary about how to continue. Not

  because it was difficult, quite the opposite, but simply

  because there were so many possibilities to choose from.

  'Now Panina Manina sells candy-floss at the circus from a

  wheelchair,' I said. 'It's a special kind of candy-floss that

  makes everyone laugh so much at the clowns that they can

  hardly catch their breath. And once there was a boy who

  really couldn't. He thought it was fun to laugh at the

  clowns, but not quite so funny to lose his breath.'

  This was really the end of Panina Manina's story. I'd

  already begun the story of the boy who laughed so much

  that he lost his breath. And there were lots of other circus

  performers to consider. I was responsible for the entire

  circus.

  My mother didn't realise this. 'I suppose Panina Manina

  had a mother too?' she said.

  'No,' I said (or, to be accurate, I think I screamed it). 'She

  was dead as a matter of fact!'

  And then I began to cry. Perhaps I cried for a whole hour.

  As always, it was my mother who comforted me. I didn't cry

  because the story was sad. I cried because I was scared of my

  own imagination. I was also afraid of the little man with the

  bamboo stick. He'd been perched on the Persian pouffe

  during my narrative, looking at my mother's gramophone

  records, but now he'd begun to pace about the room. I was

  the only one who could see him.

  The first time I'd set eyes on the little man in the green

  hat had been in a dream. But he broke out of the dream and

  since then he's followed me all my life. He thinks he's in

  charge of me.

  It was all too easy to make things up, it was like skating on

  thin ice, it was like doing dainty pirouettes on a brittle crust

  over water thousands of fathoms deep. There was always

  something dark and cold that lay beckoning beneath the

  surface.

  *

  I've never had any difficulty telling imagination and reality

  apart. The problem has always been to distinguish between

  recalled fantasy and recalled reality. That's quite another

  matter. I always knew the difference between what I was

  actually observing and what I only imagined I was observing.

  But gradually, as time went by, separating actual occurrences

  from experiences I'd made up, could get tricky. My memory

  hasn't got special compartments for things I've seen and

  heard and things I've simply conjured up. I've only got one

  memory in which to store both the impressions and imagin-

  ings of the past: in glorious unity they combine to form what

  we call recollection. Despite this, I sometimes assume that

  my memory is failing when I occasionally mix up the two

  categories. This is an imperfect description at best. When I

  recollect something as really experienced, that in truth was

  only a dream, it's because my memory is far too good. I've

  always felt it a triumph of memory that I'm capable of

  recalling events that have only taken place in my own head.

  I was often at home alone. My mother was at her job in the

  City Hall until late in the afternoon, and sometimes she

  went out visiting female friends. I never hung about with

  other children, I preferred not to. Activities with friends

  were nothing compared to all the things I could find to do

  on my own.

  I've always liked my own company best. The few boring

  episodes I recall from my childhood were always spent in

  the company of others of my own age. I remember their

  dull, nit-picking games. I sometimes said I had to hurry

  home because we were expecting guests. It wasn't true.

  I remember well the first time some boys rang the

  doorbell and asked if I wanted to come out and play. Their

  clothes were dirty, one of them had a snotty nose, and there

  they were, asking me if I wanted to come out and play

  cowboys and Indians. I pretended I had a stomach ache, or

  gave some other, more plausible excuse. I couldn't see the

  point of playing cowboys and Indians round the cars and

  drying racks. I could play the game far better in my own

  imagination where there were real horses and tomahawks,

  rifles and bows and arrows, cowboys, chiefs and medicine

  men. I could sit in the kitchen or in the living room and,

  without lifting a finger, stage the most colourful battles

  between braves and palefaces, and I was always on the side of

  the Indians. These days almost everyone is on the side of the

  Indians, but it's rather too late now. Even when I was three

  or four years old I made sure the Yankees got some stiff

  resistance. Without my efforts there might not be a single

  Indian reservation around today.

  The boys tried again on several occasions. They wanted

  me to join them in tossing pennies, playing marbles or

  football or shooting peas, but this urge to get me outside

  tailed off pretty quickly. Soon, there were no more scam-

  pering feet on the stairs. I don't think anyone called for me

  after I was eight or nine years old. Now and again, I would

  sit behind the Venetian blind in the kitchen and spy on

  them. It could be amusing at times, but I never felt the need

  for any physical contact with my peers.

  Only the onset of puberty broke this mould. From the

  age of twelve I began to think of lots of things I could

  get up to with a girl of my own age, or one considerably

  older for that matter. Yearning made me restless, but no

  girl ever came and rang our doorbell and asked me if I'd like

  to go out with her. I'd have had little objection to accom-

  panying a girl I liked on a trip to the woods or to the Newt

  Pond.

  I didn't feel lonely until there was something to yearn for.

  Loneliness and longing are two sides of the same coin.

  *

  When I was at home by myself I made regular use of the

  telephone, almost always to make what I called 'silly calls'.

  High up on the list of silly calls were taxis. I once rang for six

  taxis to go to the same address on the other side of the road. It

  was really comical to sit at the kitchen window watching all

  the cabs turning up. Soon all the taxi-drivers jumped out and

  began to talk to one another. They must have thought they

  were picking up guests from some huge coffee morning.

  Finally, one of them went to the entrance of the flats and rang

  the ground floor bell. But there was no Mrs Nielsen living

  there. That was news to them, but not to me. They stood

  there gesticulating, and then clambered back into their taxis

  and drove off at top speed. One of them stayed behind and

  looked around as if he was standing on a great stage. But he

&nb
sp; didn't catch sight of any audience. Perhaps he thought only

  God could see him. I sat there squinting down at him

  through the slats of the Venetian blind, I smiled, I sipped at

  a glass of Simpson's orange juice, but the man didn't stir. He

  might at least have got into his cab and turned the meter off.

  Calling up taxis to go to other parts of town was fun as

  well. It was amusing to think of my taxis setting off and

  driving round the city even though I couldn't actually watch

  them myself. I saw them clearly enough in my head, and

  that was almost as priceless as seeing the real thing. Some-

  times I called up ambulances and fire engines as well. Once I

  phoned the police and said I'd seen a dead man in the nearby

  paddock. I had to give my name, my address and which

  school I went to. It was easy, I just made something up. I

  knew that the police car had to drive past our block to get to

  the paddock. It passed us after only eight minutes, and two

  minutes later an ambulance drove past as well. They were

  my cars.

  I'm quite certain all this is recalled reality. The black

  telephone on the little table in the hall was a constant

  temptation. Sometimes I'd just plonk myself down on the

  spindle-backed chair by the hall table and dial a number at

  random. Until 4 p.m. it was almost invariably women who

  answered, and when I'd got a woman on the line, I'd disguise

  my voice and ask, for example, how often she and her hus-

  band screwed. I'd ask if she'd screwed with other men too.

  Or I'd introduce myself as a Customer Consultant for Saba

  de Luxe. I used to see how long it took the women to hang

  up. As a rule it was over in a few seconds, but I once talked to

  a woman for more than half an hour. After that I couldn't be

  bothered to go on - there were limits - and I asked some-

  thing so impertinent that even she had to give up. 'I've never

  heard the like,' she exclaimed. No, you certainly haven't, I

  thought, as she slammed the phone down. How privileged

  she'd been to speak to me for more than half an hour!

  Sometimes I made up long tales to feed to the women I

  spoke to. For instance, I might spin a yarn about how Mum

  and Dad had taken the boat to England and gone off to

  London, leaving me on my own at home for ten days even

  though I was only seven. I might add that, now we'd got a

  fridge, Mum had left me lots of food, but that I couldn't get

  anything to eat because I was scared of sharp kitchen knives.

  Or I might kick off the conversation by saying that my

  father was away grouse shooting and that my mother was

  desperately ill in bed, too ill to speak. Provided I gave my

  name and address, the offers of emergency aid and assistance

  were limitless. But naturally, I couldn't divulge such sensi-

  tive information. So it was better to say that a little man

  had made me ring just for fun. 'He's only a metre tall and

  he's rushing around the flat,' I might say, 'and if I don't do

  what he says, he'll beat me with his stick.'

  Once my mother complained about the phone bill. She

  was truly distracted, so I owned up at once. I explained that I

  often telephoned the lady who spoke the time even though

  I knew what it was. I said I used to ring the talking clock

  again and again just because I was bored. I pretended I didn't

  know that the voice wasn't that of a real woman. I said I was

  trying to get her to answer me and that was why I phoned

  again and again. By the time I'd finished speaking, my

  mother had forgiven me. I'd been banking on that. We

  agreed that from then on I'd limit myself to two calls per

  day, and it was a promise I kept. I didn't even regard it as a

  curb. Now I had to think carefully about who I wanted to

  talk to. It was even better. Working out who I wanted to

  phone was almost as entertaining as phoning itself. There

  was no waste of call units after that.

  I'm fifty per cent sure that I once spoke to the Prime

  Minister, Einar Gerhardsen. But that could as easily be

  fantasy recall. I am, however, one hundred per cent certain

  that I rang the Nora factory and complained about buying a

  bottle of pop that tasted of vinegar. I know this for a fact,

  because several days later a whole case of the stuff arrived on

  our doorstep. I told my mother I'd won it in a competition

  at the shop. She asked lots of questions, which was good,

  because I had to make up answers all the time. I think my

  mother liked this kind of intelligent conversation too. She

  wouldn't let it drop until she was absolutely convinced I was

  telling the truth.

  On one particular occasion I had an interesting conversa-

  tion with King Olav. We agreed to take a long skiing trip

  together as neither of us knew anyone we enjoyed going out

  with. He told me over the phone that he found being a king

  boring, and then asked me if I thought it was childish of him

  to want to buy a gigantic model railway and set it up in

  the palace ballroom. I said I thought it a marvellous idea

  provided I was allowed to help him build it. He had to

  promise it would be a Marklin train set and at least four

  times the size of the model railway in the Science Museum. I

  knew that the king was far richer than the Science Museum.

  I had a steam engine and a Meccano set, but no Marklin

  model railway.

  I'm ninety-nine per cent certain that this business with

  the king is remembered fantasy. Which doesn't mean it isn't

  true. The model railway that the king and I built at the

  palace in the weeks that followed, was just as real as the sun

  and moon. To this day I retain an exact picture of the final

  layout, I can still see all the tunnels and viaducts, points and

  sidings. In the end we had more than fifty different loco-

  motives, almost all with lights.

  One day the Crown Prince came in and insisted we

  remove the whole lot because he and his young friends

  wanted to use the ballroom for a party. The Crown Prince

  was fifteen years my senior and I respected him deeply, but it

  did seem unreasonable that he should suddenly start giving

  the king orders. It was a breach of tradition, if nothing else.

  When the king and I didn't agree to clear away the layout

  immediately, the Crown Prince quickly returned with a large

  pot of yoghurt which he proceeded to hurl at it. The pot

  disintegrated, of course, and the yoghurt splattered all over

  the layout so that it began to resemble a snowy landscape,

  though it didn't smell much like a winter walk in the woods.

  From then on there was no train service at the palace.

  *

  Because she worked at City Hall, my mother often got free

  tickets to theatres and cinemas. She was always given two

  tickets, and since she and my father couldn't stand the sight of

  each other, I had to go with her. It meant she didn't have to

  track down a baby-sitter. I'd worn out many a baby-sitter.

  We always used to dress up to go to the theatre, and m
y

  mother would often hold a little fashion parade for my

  benefit before making up her mind which costume or dress

  to wear. My mother called me her little escort. It was I

  who'd take off her coat and hand it to the cloakroom

  attendant. It was I who'd keep the matches in my jacket

  pocket and light her cigarettes, and when she found some-

  one to talk to in the interval, it was I who'd stand in the

  queue to get the drinks. On one occasion I was about to buy

  a fizzy orange for myself and a Cinzano for my mother, but

  the woman behind the bar refused to give me the glass of

  Cinzano even though my mother was winking energetically

  at her from only a few feet away. The woman said she

  wasn't allowed to serve Cinzano to children, so would my

  mother please come to the bar and collect the drink herself.

  That made my mother hopping mad. Not many children

  went to adult plays and my mother knew that the woman

  behind the bar recognised me.

  After we'd been to a theatre or cinema, I always used to

  tell my mother how the play or film could have been vastly

  improved. Sometimes I'd say straight out that I thought a

  play was bad. I never said it was boring, I never thought the

  theatre was boring. Even a poor play was fun to watch � if

  nothing else, live people were performing - and if the play

  was really bad, I was in my element, because then we had

  masses to talk about on the way home.

  My mother didn't like me saying that a play was bad. I

  think she'd rather I'd said it was boring.

  When we got home from a theatre or cinema, we quite

  often sat in the kitchen and continued the discussion there.

  My mother would light candles and make something nice to

  eat. It might be something quite ordinary like bread with

  saveloy sausage and pickled gherkins, but my favourite was

  steak tartare sandwich with raw egg yolk and capers. My

  mother thought I was too young to like capers � it was

  something we discussed lots of times - but I believe, deep

  down, she enjoyed the fact that I had a taste for capers at

  such a tender age. The only thing she didn't like was when I

  said a play was bad, or that such and such a director was

  awful.

  I always read the programme thoroughly - after all, it was

  written for me - and naturally I knew the names of the

  principal performers. My mother thought I was taking

  things a bit far, though, when I got to know the names of

  all the designers too. But I was her escort, and so she had to

  accept it. During the performance I might whisper the name

  of the stage manager to her, at least if anything went wrong

  during the show.

  On one occasion, in Ibsen's A Doll's House, Nora's dress

  fell down � it just slid off right in front of Dr Rank. They

  were all alone in the drawing room, and Dr Rank's last line

  made it extra funny that Nora lost her dress in that particular

  scene. 'And what other delights am I to see?' asked Dr

  Rank. 'You'll see nothing more, because you're not nice,'

  replied Nora. She tore herself away from the doctor and just

  then her dress fell off. I leant towards mother and whispered

  the name of the dresser in her ear.

  Once when we'd sat far into the night discussing a play, I

  told my mother that I thought she looked like Jacqueline

  Kennedy. I believe my mother enjoyed hearing that, and it

  wasn't just something I'd hit on to flatter her. I really did

  think my mother was almost the spitting image of Jacqueline

  Kennedy.

  When I was eleven, my mother and I went to see Chaplin's

  film Limelight. Watching that film turned me into an adult.

  The first time I felt the desire to do things to a girl

  considerably older than me was when I saw Claire Bloom

  in the role of the unhappy ballet dancer. The second time

  was when I watched Audrey Hepburn playing Eliza in My

  Fair Lady. My mother had got tickets for the Norwegian

  premiere.

  I was particularly fond of Chaplin, not least because of his

  film music, and especially the well-known theme in Lime-

  light, even though the first few bars were just an inversion of

  the exposition of Tchaikovsky's piano concerto in B minor.

  The melody 'Smile' from Modern Times was little better: it