The Last Boat Home

by Dea Brovig

  ‘Watch where you’re going!’ said Petter over the trumpet of a car horn. Else looked up the road to the parade that the boy had been running to meet. Twenty cars or more rolled through the town behind a van. Across its bonnet, the words ‘Circus Leona’ were painted in purple and red.

  ‘They’re here,’ Petter said.

  The van’s horn blared. Several others answered its call.

  ‘Do you hear that?’ he said. ‘Else, do you see them? Come on!’

  He set off at a sprint up the hill, leaving her to stare at the chain of cars that was edging towards her. The van’s driver leaned out of his window to wave and grin at the crowd that was multiplying on the pavement. His face was flushed. The hair on his head crawled onto his cheeks in fat sideburns that fused in a bristly strip under his nose.

  ‘Thursday! Friday! Saturday!’ His letters tripped off his tongue with an exotic trill. ‘Come see the animals and acrobats!’

  The bakery door opened at Else’s back.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Ingrid Berge.

  ‘Thursday! Friday! Saturday!’

  ‘Oh, my,’ she said.

  One after another, the cars passed. Vehicles in all shapes and sizes followed after the van. Volkswagens in various stages of disrepair towed trailers and caravans, while lorries and buses rattled in and out of potholes. From their seats in the cavalcade the circus troupe dealt out smiles to the townspeople, their dark eyes shining in dark faces. Else spotted a muzzle poking through an open window. A pair of nostrils quivered in the air, then disappeared.

  The final car in the procession pulled a caravan whose walls had been mended with sheets of canvas and timber.

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ said Ingrid and bent her knees for a better peek at its driver. He was larger than any man Else had ever seen. His shoulders sprouted arms as thick as two knuckles of meat. He kept his eyes on the lorry ahead of him, not seeming to notice the crowd that inspected him with dropping jaws. Else felt the dip in her belly that always came when she cradled one of onkel Olav’s coffee cups in her palm. Only after he had driven on did she realise that she had been holding her breath.

  ‘Well,’ said Ingrid, ‘and now I’ve seen that, too.’

  Ingrid withdrew into the bakery as soon as the spectators began to scatter. A staunch group made up mainly of children lingered at the rear of the parade, marching after it down Torggata and cheering with each bleat of the van’s horn. Else searched the faces of those who remained and, when she did not find Petter, started to climb, realising with regret that her fingers had crushed the half-eaten raisin bun he had given her. At the top of the street, she looked back at the water. From here, she could see most of the town. White houses with black roofs speckled the hillside that tumbled to the fjord.

  The procession had turned the corner at the Longpier and was now inching along Havneveien. At the end of the harbour, it picked up speed and pulled away from what was left of the crowd. Still the children ran, galloping after the column of cars as it receded from sight, keeping up with each other until, one by one, they fell by the wayside.

  ON THE EVENING of the first circus show, Else walked the distance to Tenvik’s farm with her head down, grateful for the rain that let her shrink under her hood, though water trickled down her jacket in streams that were soaked up by her trouser legs. Two cars sped by before slowing at Tenvik’s gate and she crept after them onto his land, slogging through the mud in front of the farmhouse, whose windows were lit from within. To the right of his barns, a track decorated with red and purple sashes hooked away from the yard. Else’s breath met the air in puffs of steam as she moved towards it.

  Another car bumped onto the path behind her, catching her in its headlights, making her stumble. She turned her face to the bushes until it had driven on, then continued towards the music that was crashing through the dark. The band grew louder the closer she came to the paddock which, by now, she and Lars knew well. They had made the journey through the woods several times since he had first brought her there. As they lay in the shelter of its tall grass, they had tried to imagine what the circus would look like, where the Big Top would stand, where they would keep the animals, where the tickets would be sold.

  Now, as Else stepped onto the field, the colours of the Big Top danced in a mist of white light. A winding queue of would-be ticket holders clutched money in their palms, anxious to escape the rain. She stole away from them, sticking to the shadows behind the generator and skirting the circus vans that were parked to one side of the tent. Between their bumpers she caught glimpses of bodies, a shimmer of costume, a whip of hair.

  Lars was waiting by a row of boulders at the north end of the paddock. He stood with Rune and Petter, who sucked on a cigarette before offering it around. Else let Lars kiss her in front of the others and did not care that Rune swore, or that Petter looked away. She pressed Lars’s hand.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  A voice bellowed inside the Big Top. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ it said, ‘please take your seats.’

  Else ducked into the gap between a car and its trailer, squeezing in behind Lars. He ventured forward and then drew back without a word. Two men hurried by, quarrelling in a language she could not understand. Once they had passed, Lars tried again. He dared a step, then another, and then he charged. From where she stood, Else watched him cover the distance to the Big Top in seconds flat. Next, a shadow darted from the trailer one car along. Rune and Petter were moving. She would have to be quick.

  She took a deep breath. The air stank of horses. With one last peek around the corner, Else launched herself from behind the trailer’s wall. Her shoes splattered mud. She was making too much noise: the whole circus would be able to hear her. She glanced left and right. A group had gathered at the rear of the tent. She could make out the silhouette of an animal, maybe two.

  When she caught up with the boys, Lars was crouched on the ground with his fingers gripping the hem of the tent.

  ‘Here we go,’ he said. He lifted the canvas and crawled into the Big Top.

  Else stooped after him, landing in sawdust which stuck to her palms and wet trouser legs. The band was walloping a tune to compete with the chatter of the audience, whose ankles dangled above her. On their hands and knees, Lars, Petter and Rune scrabbled under rows of shoe soles and scaffolding to the front, where restless feet revealed hints of the ring that lay beyond.

  Lars dropped to his stomach behind a pair of boots and craned his neck to look for Else. She eased herself to the floor between him and Petter and sank into sawdust to meet the chill of the ground. The lights under the Big Top dimmed. A drum roll started.

  ‘Good evening, dear ladies and gentlemen.’

  The voice seemed to echo through the tent. A hush fell over the crowd. Petter’s body stirred beside her. She could feel him trembling. Else found Lars’s hand.

  ‘Please allow me to welcome you. To the one. The only. Circus Leona!’

  The Big Top exploded. First came the horses flashing white around the ring, their necks curved and their riders sparkling white from head to toe. Three sets of hooves thundered by, flicking dirt into Else’s eyes. Next the clowns rolled in red and the acrobats flipped silver, green and blue, like mackerel straight out of the water. And everything was moving – spinning, flipping and rolling – and the colour was so bright, it was like landing on the sun.

  The audience scrambled to their feet and screamed their delight and stamped the scaffolding which shuddered over Else’s head. Cymbals crashed and the riders planted their feet on their saddles, though their horses galloped on. Another smash of the cymbals and the riders jumped and now they were falling in somersaults to the ground. They touched down with a splash in the sawdust and the Big Top shook with the crowd’s jubilation.

  ‘And now. For the first act of the evening.’

  The microphone crackled and Else shivered. In a gap between a pair of legs, she saw the ringmaster stepping in from the wings to the centre of the manège. He wore a re
d top hat and tails embroidered with rhinestones. Even in his costume, Else recognised the driver of the van. The ringmaster smiled a glittering smile.

  ‘I ask you to welcome. Ladies and Gentlemen. From the bottom of your hearts. The Brothers Bezrukov!’

  The spotlight blinked off and on. Now it pointed to the back of the ring, where two men jogged out with their arms open wide. A net as big as a fisherman’s dropped from the ceiling to the floor and the first brother stepped up to wind his ankles in its mesh. The audience gasped as the net jerked, snatching the man into the air. His body twisted and twitched and became ever more tangled until his struggle tore the net in two. It dragged his legs into a split and tipped him upside down and he reached for his brother, who grabbed his wrists. Instead of saving him, he, too, was swept off his feet. He twirled up and over until both brothers were ensnared.

  Else looked past their gymnastics to the spectators across the ring. In the grey light of the stalls, she recognised faces from school and even from church. Ingrid Berge appeared transfixed beside her daughter, Gro, who perched on the edge of her seat and pressed her palms in her lap. Behind them, Astrid Stormo’s two sons had forgotten the blooms of candyfloss gripped in their hands. Tenvik sat in the front row and leaned forward in his chair, his fingers clutching the barrier rail. His eyes never strayed from the performers, though he shook his head from time to time as if unable to believe what they saw.

  One by one, the ringmaster introduced the acts that followed the Brothers Bezrukov, each more wonderful than the last. A contortionist touched his ears with his toes before a clown proposed marriage to Tenvik’s wife. Llamas and camels gave way to a quartet of poodles which sprang through hoops and balanced balls on their noses. A magician drove swords into a chest, while his assistant screamed her terror from inside. Trapeze artists swung and toppled, a juggler threw fire, a tightrope walker pirouetted under a red-and-purple-starred sky. The air smelled of sweat and dung and spun sugar. The tent was all twinkle and feathers and shine.

  ‘And now,’ said the ringmaster, ‘for the night’s final performance.’

  The lights fell. Darkness smothered the murmur of the crowd.

  ‘Prepare yourselves, Ladies and Gentlemen, to be dazzled.’

  Petter inched closer to Else. Lars’s fingers touched her elbow, sending a tingling up her arm.

  ‘Here is the mighty. The unequalled. Please welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen. Valentin Popov!’

  When the spotlight came on, a man was waiting in the middle of the ring, his fists resting on his hips. Above the hose that was moulded to his calves and thighs, his torso glistened in the light. It was the giant from the parade. Else remembered how he had seemed unconcerned by the townspeople gawking at him in his car. Any detachment he had shown then was gone. He glared at the audience, who welcomed him with raucous applause. He kept his stare level when a boy in a military coat led a golden retriever to his side. Valentin Popov noticed the duo and threw his hands into the air before scooping the dog up in his arms. After pumping the animal three times over his head, he put it back on the ground and shooed his partner away.

  The boy returned, yanking a sheep by its collar. Its bleated complaint sent a ripple of laughter through the crowd. The man shook his fist at his accomplice and grabbed him instead of the sheep, using him as a dumb-bell before setting him free.

  From the wings of the manège a honking horn announced the ringmaster, who appeared behind the wheel of a Volkswagen. The band pounded its drums as Valentin Popov knelt by the car’s bumper and, with a groan, hoisted its two front wheels off the floor. He held his load for some seconds before letting it fall. His chest heaved in the spotlight. His forehead gleamed with sweat.

  Behind him, a rider guided a horse into the ring. She whispered into its ear and backed away. Valentin Popov’s gaze swept the crowd and a rising chant from the stalls brought a smile to his lips.

  He turned to the animal. Laying his palms on its underbelly, he jacked his thighs. A cry tore from his throat. He closed his eyes and a vein snaked down his forehead. As he lifted the horse towards the ceiling of the Big Top, a network of blood vessels sprang to the surface of his skin.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Lars under his breath. The strong man’s arms were swollen with mottled lumps of muscles when he opened his eyes and beamed at his supporters. They howled and clapped and stamped their feet while, above him, the horse tossed its mane in the air.

  Now

  Summer, 2009

  ELSE HAS COME as far as the town hall when she spots Marianne and Liv in front of the boathouses. She hides behind the crowd that separates them, feeling foolish but unable to help herself. In the gaps between the couples holding hands and the children white-tongued with licked ice cream, she watches Liv hop into the speedboat. Her granddaughter grins at Andreas and his sister. Lars clutches Marianne’s elbow and she climbs aboard to where Victoria smiles in welcome.

  Else takes a deep breath, swallowing the smells of frying waffle batter and hotdogs sweating in the sun. She presses through the throng towards her family, nodding her greetings at familiar faces as she walks by. Lars sees her first.

  ‘There you are!’ he calls. ‘I was afraid we’d have to leave without you.’

  ‘Mormor, have you seen this boat?’ Liv throws herself onto the sunbed next to Andreas. ‘Isn’t it amazing?’

  ‘I brought a box of white,’ Else says and passes her Wine Monopoly bag to Lars, who places it in the shade. She ignores the hand that he extends, a puerile snub which he does not appear to notice as she steps onto the gunwale, testing her weight on the fibreglass before lowering herself into the boat. Once on deck, she finds a seat between Victoria and Marianne.

  ‘How are you, Else?’ Victoria asks. ‘Oh, Thea, no. Not the steering wheel, darling. I said no, Thea. Come over here.’

  Andreas’s sister slides from the captain’s perch and slots herself between her mother’s knees. She sucks the whistle knotted to the collar of her life vest and gawks at Else, who pretends not to notice. Some hundred metres from the dock, a flotilla of boats waits for the signal to begin. Their flags beat in the breeze, flaunting their colours in a billowing stream across the sky.

  Lars fits a key into the ignition and the speedboat’s motor whirs. ‘Andreas!’ he calls. ‘Get the ropes!’

  His son scrabbles ashore to unpick the moorings and lobs them into the hull. When Andreas has reclaimed his spot next to Liv, Lars pushes off from the pier. They glide into the fjord and merge with the summer solstice parade.

  It starts with a gunshot. A wooden sjekte garlanded with flowers noses out in front, slow-powering parallel to the dock while the rest of the vessels float after it in untidy rows. Trond Rastad shouts from the neighbouring boat.

  ‘Haven’t we been lucky with the day?’ He beams when Lars agrees and tips a brown beer bottle at him. ‘Welcome home!’ he calls.

  The boats putter on, following the line of the harbour. Victoria stands and, squatting by the door to the cabin, gathers up a column of plastic cups from the floor. She serves the first round of drinks: Coke for the kids, white wine for the adults. Else sips and narrows her eyes against the sun. In spite of her mood and the present company, her body responds to the nudge of the water. The motor’s buzz tickles the soles of her feet. Her back teeth hum when she bites them together.

  She takes another gulp of wine and tries to remember when she was last on a boat. It must have been before Tenvik sold his farm. While Liv and Andreas wave at the spectators on land and Victoria raves about her new kitchen, Else distracts herself with thoughts of their summer outings into the skerry when Marianne was a child. She recalls her daughter’s excitement as she chattered in the bow seat, her chest puffed in an orange life preserver while Tenvik piloted his skiff and Else unwound her mackerel line into the deep, taking care not to snag her fingers on its hooks.

  When the flotilla reaches the Longpier, it breaks apart. Lars spins the steering wheel to aim the speedboat at the islands that fend off
the Skagerrak. At the limit of the no wake zone, he jams down the throttle and the prow cants into the air.

  ‘Lars!’ shrieks Victoria. ‘Slow down!’

  The speedboat races towards the sea, careening through a flock of seagulls that bobs on the water, launching them into the sky. The wind scrapes Else’s hair off her forehead and she clutches her handbag close, not even letting go to wipe her leaking eyes. She is too old for this kind of ride. The children scream, thrilled when they slam into the first wave. Spray rains over the deck. Else wants to grab Marianne’s arm, but makes do with gripping her handbag tighter.

  She relaxes her hold when Lars turns into the calmer currents of a fjord and zips past the slower boat traffic to cut a path inland. Here, along the coast, summerhouses with mowed lawns and tended flowerbeds vie for space on the waterfront. Else marvels at the number of new properties, at the giant windows carved into their walls and the monstrous boats docked at their piers. In preparation for the evening’s bonfires, piles of wood have been stacked on outcrops of rock. Already the odd blaze shines in the distance.

  Lars eases back the throttle when the speedboat arrives in the skerry. The search begins for somewhere to drop anchor. Other boats have claimed the spots that are most sheltered from the wind and now their captains hurl ropes to fix their prows before leaping to land. On the islands, their families lay out picnics. Children scamper between the trees and inspect crab corpses dashed by seagulls on the rocks.

  ‘That looks like it’s going to be a good one,’ says Liv, pointing to a tower of driftwood that has yet to be set alight.

  Andreas calls over his shoulder. ‘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.