walked to the coffin with a wreath of forget-me-nots. I
nodded to my father and the priest, and father and the priest
nodded back. As I stepped down to return to my seat, I saw
that the little man in his green felt hat was pacing up and
down in the aisle thrashing the air with his thin cane. He was
irate.
I was over eighteen, and my father thought I should go on
living in the flat despite mother's death. For some time
afterwards we continued to see each other once a week.
Early the following spring we decided that once a month
was enough. We had outgrown skating heats and ski-
jumping and all that. There were to be no more rides
through the tunnel of love. Father lived to be over eighty.
In the weeks following my mother's death I remember
thinking: mother can't see me any more. Who will see me
now?
Maria
I didn't forget my mother, she would never be forgotten,
but I liked having the flat to myself. Few people of my age
had a flat of their own.
For a while I had no one to accompany me to the theatre
or cinema, and that was something I missed, but soon I began
to invite girls out. I didn't feel shy about it, I had no trouble
in going up to a strange girl in the schoolyard and asking her
out to a film or a theatre. Sometimes I met girls on the bus or
in the shops, or in the centre of town. I felt it was better to ask
a stranger out than to approach one of girls in my class.
Asking a girl in my class could easily be misunderstood and,
in addition, it required a certain amount of following up.
Even though I didn't know the girl I was inviting out, her
appearance always gave me some clue as to what she was like,
and I could take a guess at how old she was, too.
It was easy to get talking to girls, and I was rarely turned
down. They laughed, but from the manner in which I put
the question, they didn't think it the slightest bit odd that
I should ask them out, even though we'd never spoken
before. I asked in a way that gave them the feeling of being
chosen. And they had been, too. I didn't invite out every
girl I saw.
The girls liked the fact that I had my own flat. One by
one I brought them home for cheese and wine or om-
elettes and lager. Sometimes they stayed the night, and
only rarely the same girl twice. If I allowed the same girl
to visit several times, it started to engender a sort of
frustration about not being invited even more often.
Occasionally, demands were made that I wasn't in a
position to fulfil, and then I had to explain. I could have
skipped the explanation, but I've always had a facility for
making myself understood.
No one resented being invited to just one play, one
evening out, one overnight stay. The problems only began
after four or six such visits. It was a paradox. A girl with
whom I'd spent a night was usually content with the fun
she'd had. She didn't rush out into town and begin to prattle
about it either. Most of them thought a one-night stand
with a stranger a bit embarrassing. But as soon as their visits
approached double figures, they began to complain, began
to talk to girlfriends about it and to take it virtually for
granted that the number of sleep overs would run into three
and four figures.
I've never pulled the wool over girls' eyes. I never
promised them supper before we'd been to the cinema or
theatre, I never promised them a bed before we'd finished
the meal, and I never held out any expectations of a return
visit. I could be generous with my compliments, because I
really did value such female company, but I never gave the
impression that I wanted, or was even in a position, to
commit myself for a longer period. In order to avoid mis-
understandings I might stress, while lending a girl a towel,
a toothbrush or in certain cases my mother's old dressing-
gown, that even though it was nice to entertain someone
for the night, she mustn't read more into it than that � a
pleasant interlude. If I was especially fond of the girl,
perhaps more fond of her than all the others put together,
I felt it my sacred duty to make clear that I wasn't look-
ing for any commitments. This made an impression, none
of them rushed for the door. It seemed that plain speak-
ing only made an overnight stay all the more exciting.
You often set more store by things you don't expect to
be repeated, than those you believe will go on ad infin-
itum.
It was fun having a succession of girls over for visits, because
each was interested in something different. A few went to
the bookshelf and pulled out particular books that interested
them. A girl called Irene sat flicking through The World of
Art, and another called Randi began reading aloud from
Karl Evang's book on sexual enlightenment. I'd dipped into
it when I was little, but I considered it rather dated now.
One of the girls immediately seated herself at the green
piano and gave a faltering performance of one of Chopin's
nocturnes - she was called Ranveig, I think - while Turid
improvised tunes from the musical Hair by strumming some
basic chords. At least fifty per cent of them just wanted to
put on a record as soon as they entered the living-room. I
had Joan Baez, Janis Joplin, Simon & Garfunkel and Peter,
Paul & Mary. One blue-eyed blonde insisted that we listen
to Karius and Baktus as well, but no one had yet shown any
interest in Tchaikovsky or Puccini. The first time this
happened was when, quite by chance, I met Hege again,
sometime towards the end of May.
Hege had completed the Sixth Form college course in
music, and when she came home after we'd been to the
cinema to see The Graduate, she immediately went to the
piano and played the whole of Rachmaninov's piano
concerto no. 2 in C Minor. The concert lasted over half an
hour and, for a brief moment, before she'd got far into the
Adagio, I was convinced I was in love with her. But as soon
as she began the concluding Allegro, I realised it was the
music that had captivated me and not the pianist. As we
went into the bedroom, she had fits of laughter when I
reminded her of the theft of a red Fiat and the subsequent
romance in a shed. Now we were adults, we hadn't seen
each other since grammar school days.
Hege stayed at my place for three nights, but when she
realised that we weren't proper lovers, she left on the fourth
day and never got in touch again. I didn't find it hard to see
her point of view. We'd known each other since we were
children, and were almost too close to play at adult games
just for the sake of it.
I believe Metre Man felt as I did, because he was par-
ticularly grouchy during the three days Hege was in the flat.
He rushed about the living-room and kitchen and drilled
with his bamboo cane right in front of her eye
s. It was a
mystery to me that she couldn't see him.
Lots of girls wanted to go out on to the veranda. My mother
had always had a nice display in her window-boxes, and I
couldn't bring myself to leave them untended that first
spring after her death. I'd dug out and thrown away
everything that was in the boxes from the previous year
and then filled them to the brim with compost and planted a
mass of bulbs. The result was surprisingly good. That spring
the boxes on the veranda were bursting with lilies, crocuses
and tulips as never before, and many of the girls showed
how impressed they were with my green fingers. When the
weather was fine we sometimes sat on the veranda looking
out across the city with a glass of Martini or Dubonnet in
our hands.
I had, naturally, to explain how I came to live alone, and
as a consequence I showed some of them my mother's
wardrobe. They were often allowed to take away a dress
they fancied, or a suit or a coat. First, they had to try them
on to see if they fitted; every time it was like a little fashion
show. Then, just for fun, I might magic up a pair of gloves, a
shawl or an elegant evening handbag just as they were about
to leave. I was especially fond of the young woman who
inherited the Persian lambskin coat. Her name was Therese
and tears welled in her eyes as I folded the fleece up and
slipped it into a large paper bag. But I don't think it was
mere gratitude for the coat that moved her so much. I
believe she saw the gift as part of some courtship ritual, or at
any rate some deeply felt declaration of love, resonating
with overtones and undertones and so, yet again, I had to
explain myself. I told my father I'd given all the clothes to
the Salvation Army, and he accepted this without demur -
perhaps he'd forgotten the Persian lambskin coat - but it was
the girls who'd helped themselves to most of her wardrobe,
and some of them also made themselves useful by sorting out
the things which just needed throwing away. It was six
months before all of mother's clothes were out of the flat.
Occasionally someone I'd spent the night with would
look the other way when we met in the street, but there
were so many girls in Oslo in those days that it never caused
any recruitment problem. In the early seventies spending a
night with someone was no big deal. I remember thinking
that I'd been born at the right time. For instance, it wouldn't
have been such fun for a man of my age to have had his own
flat twenty years earlier.
I was on nodding terms with many girls in the city even
before I'd left Sixth Form college, but I'd never yet been in
love. I felt too adult for that, I felt I was far too mature for
the girls I associated with. It was here that a certain dualism
was developing. I certainly didn't feel too adult for their
bodies. But a woman isn't merely a body, and clearly a man
isn't either. I was convinced that one day I'd meet a woman
whom I could love with both body and soul. Perhaps that
was the reason I began to go off on long hikes by myself.
One day I'd find her and, if she was like me, it wouldn't be
at a discotheque or in some youth group. A skiing hut was
much more likely. And, in fact, I did meet her at
Ullev�lseter, but that wasn't until the middle of June.
*
At nursery school I'd enjoyed sitting in a corner watching all
the children playing. Now the children were older, almost
grown-up. It wasn't so thrilling to watch big children's
games, or at least not the one called celebrating the end of
school exams. I had a preference for pre- rather than post-
school activities. For some weeks it was harder to find
theatre companions and female visitors. There was too
much going on in town.
Almost every day I set out on long walks in the forests
round the northern suburbs of Oslo. I took the train to Finse
and roamed the Hardanger plateau too, and I walked down
Aurlandsdalen and got the train home from Fl�m. I loved
travelling by train, I enjoyed studying the people on it, and I
found it hugely satisfying to let my mind wander as I moved
through the landscape. School was over, in a few weeks I'd
have certificates to say I'd passed with distinction in all
subjects except gymnastics. I had nothing else to do but go
walking and ride the train. My father was to pay me my
allowance right up until 15 September.
When I was out mooching around on my own, I always
took a notebook and pencil with me. I was particularly fond
of turning things over in my mind as I walked. I thought all
the time, but I found it easier to give free rein to my
imagination while I was outdoors and moving, than sitting
in a chair at home in the flat. Schiller pointed out that when
man plays he is free, for then he follows his own rules. He
had a point, but the thing could just as easily be turned the
other way round: it was easier to play with thoughts and
ideas when I was roaming at will on the Hardanger plateau
than pacing about hour after hour between four walls, like
some dormitory town detainee. And there was another
thing: Metre Man kept to the flat by and large. He would
occasionally appear in town, but it was very seldom that he
turned up in the forest or on the Hardanger plateau.
My thoughts were fresher and bolder when I was
walking, and new subjects and synopses streamed into my
mind. At home I had large catalogues and indexes of my
collection of plots for short stories, novels, plays and films.
I'd typed up my best ideas before filing the pages away in a
ring-binder. Once completed, I hardly ever took a synopsis
out and looked at it again.
The notion of filling out any of my ideas still hadn't
occurred to me. Hatching out tightly worked plots was only
a hobby, little more than a weakness or an idiosyncrasy. Just
as some people collect coins or stamps, I collected my own
thoughts and ideas.
Once, one of the girls began flicking through one of my
binders. She'd taken it off the shelf in my work-room and
began reading it aloud. She didn't get invited to spend the
night, omelettes and lager was enough. From then on I
kept all the binders and indexes securely locked in two
solid cupboards beneath the bookshelves in the living-
room.
As I walked through Aurlandsdalen, an idea came to me. It
was a completely novel one, and was linked to the fact that I'd
just got to know a young author at Club 7. He was only four
or five years older than me. I'd treated him to a bottle of wine,
and we'd spent the whole evening talking in that Mecca of
avant-garde pop music. Despite his tough, John Lennon
glasses, his profusion of hair and beard and a passably shabby
corduroy suit, he was fairly inane, but at least he wasn't as
immature as my contemporaries, celebrating their exams. I
>
pulled out some notes I'd written earlier in the day, three or
four closely written pages comprising the detailed plot of a
novel. I let him skim through it, and he was extremely
impressed. He glanced up at me with an envious look, then
heaped inordinate praise on what I'd shown him. It didn't
surprise me. I knew I'd shown him a brilliant idea for a novel,
but I took no pleasure in being praised, not by such a young
and inexperienced author anyway. That wasn't why I'd
shown him my notes. 'If you pay for the wine, I'll give you
those notes,' I said. He just gawped. 'You're an author, after
all,' I pointed out. 'I promise never to say where you got the
idea from, but you must pay for the wine and give me fifty
kroner.' So he refunded me the money I'd laid out on the
wine, and a hundred kroner on top. At Club 7 you had to pay
for a bottle of wine before it was opened. Just as I was taking
the money, I saw Metre Man on the premises. He was
strutting irritably amongst the caf� tables, then he suddenly
turned towards our table and shook his bamboo cane at me.
Today that young man with the John Lennon glasses is
one of the country's leading authors, and he turned fifty not
long ago. I was to meet him on many subsequent occasions
and now I take ten per cent of everything he earns from his
books. But only he and I know that.
In Aurlandsdalen I stood for a long time in front of a large
pothole called 'Little Hell', and it was here it struck me for
the first time that all those ideas of mine might actually
provide me with a living after all. I was in possession of
a commodity with which certain people weren't over-
endowed. I wasn't vain and had no wish to be famous, but
I was short of money and I didn't plan on getting a summer
job. Nor would I have anything to live on after 15
September. My father had made it crystal clear that after
that date the tap would be turned firmly off. But, as he said, I
would probably go on to study, and every student got a
student loan. What my father didn't realise was that I
couldn't possibly live on such a thing anyway. My female
visitors alone broke any budget that the State Educational
Loan Fund might advance. In addition, if I was short of
money my freedom of movement was curtailed. This was an
idea I didn't like at all.
That sudden inspiration touched me only lightly, the
same way all impulses settled on my consciousness. The
reason I mention it here is merely to show that I can recall
the exact time and place where the idea first was born. It was
as I stood staring down into Little Hell. I remember thinking
it was a good idea, it was a meta-idea, an idea that took a
firm grasp of all the other ideas I'd had and seemed to slot
them into place.
Looking back now, it's rather tempting to regard that
hike through Aurlandsdalen as my pact with the devil.
While I was out walking in the countryside, I often thought
of all the years that had gone by. Something was over, and
something new was just about to begin. I had to find myself
a respectable, but anonymous, place in society.
I was already sometimes unable to distinguish between
recalled reality and recalled fantasy. This was the result of my
special talent for harbouring vivid memories of my imagin-
ary world while at the same time having a somewhat hazy
recollection of real life. It could scare me, it could make me
a trifle nervous, but it is over-simplistic to conclude that I
had a traumatic childhood and that I therefore repressed it.
My mother thought I had an unhappy childhood � she
knew no better. Personally, I regarded my childhood as
particularly rich.
I remember how I once flew over the city. I looked down
on all the houses and was free to choose where to land and
which living-rooms and bedrooms to peep into. Looking
through the windows, I could see how a wide cross-section
of people lived, and there was no secret I couldn't share. I
witnessed everything from various forms of domestic dis-
turbance to the most bizarre sexual deviations. It was like
studying monkeys in a cage, and sometimes I felt ashamed of
my own species. Once I saw a man and a woman having sex
The Ringmaster's Daughter Page 6
