The Blue Room (Coming of Age Series)

by Hanne Ørstavik

  We were climbing up to the reservoir at the top of the park. Suddenly we broke into a race, leaping up the steps, chests filling with air, mouths gaping. My throat rasped. Fitness, Johanne, I thought, and then I remembered a story I’d heard about women being raped with a sandpaper condom as a punishment. Karin won. We looked at each other and laughed. She was so strong, her back so straight, her head held so high, and such beautiful, clear skin. We stood at the top and the reservoir, with its floor decorated with children’s drawings, lay spread below us. We turned as one and looked out. Karin took my hand and we gazed over the city. Then we went down towards Gamle Aker. Neither of us said anything. Karin seemed almost shy.

  I looked up and down the street at every single crossroads. There was no one. We reached the church. It was softly illuminated. Karin was talking about an injustice that had occurred at the institute. I wasn’t following. With my back to the church, I was scanning all the apartments that might overlook the square. A voice called from a window. I jumped. It was a man’s voice. Karin wanted to go in the churchyard and sit on one of the benches by the wall. I heard footsteps on the narrow gravel path behind us. I turned. There he was. Ivar. A guitar case in one hand and a large bag in the other. I was suddenly frightened that he might be leaving, going away. That I’d never see him again. I could think of nothing else, as Karin talked on. Johanne, she said, tugging at my arm. I was just looking at Ivar. He’d been staring at the ground, but now he was looking straight at me, only at me. He drew closer, then came right up to us, he had to, if he was going to come past. He stopped. I said hello; my voice sounded much too weak and hoarse. He said hello back; his voice was deeper and warmer than I’d remembered. I wanted Karin to let go of my arm and for him to walk on beside me, for the two of us to go on together. In some unknown apartment he would take my face in his hands and gaze at me, look into my eyes and say that he loved me, that we belonged together, that he’d waited so long, that he’d longed for a girl, and that girl was me, and that he would look after me. And we’d lock the doors and talk all night, and he’d hold my face in his hands. I could see it all. It would be as though the rest of my body would disappear, he would love me like this, love my eyes, my face, me. Nobody would know where I was, he would hit me, slap me across the cheek, my arms, blue marks would appear instantly, and he’d call me a pussy-licker because I was with another girl when he met me, he’d make me cry and cower in a corner, before comforting me and using my body. Red velvet sofa and raw music, heavy rock, a loud bass, so loud nobody would hear his blows or my cries. There was complete silence for a moment. An eternity. Then he smiled, frowned as if he was wondering, or about to say something, but then he walked straight on. Why? Did I mean nothing to him? Two cars approached, one after the other, their lights flooding our faces. Karin looked as if she’d burst into luminous flames. Ivar was gone. I was suddenly aware of the traffic, the hum of the city – we were inside a machine. Karin stared at me strangely. I felt she was reproaching me for something. I started thinking of what to say when she made the accusations; that I’d betrayed her or shut her out. My back was so stiff it hurt; it was agony just to lift my knees. We set off towards Ullevålsveien. All I wanted was to turn back and run after him. I was sure he’d understand. Those eyes seemed to understand everything, the whole of me. Like Jesus: Rise and follow me. Oh really, Johanne! Karin was hard, almost disdainful. Who was that? she asked, as though he was that dreadful. Not all men, I wanted to say, are abusive. Some guy who works in the university canteen, I said. His name is Ivar, but I don’t really know him. We’ve only talked briefly before today, although he’s worked there since the beginning of term. I told her about the towel. I wanted her to understand the importance of this story, its secrets, its corners; I hoped its subtleties and details would come through in my voice and become a tangible reality. I saw the story of the meeting between Ivar and me as a winding forest path, losing itself in the shadow of the trees, where the air is heavy with the scent of wild flowers and nobody can tell what might happen at the next turn.

  I don’t think Karin saw anything special in Ivar. At least she didn’t mention it. He probably wasn’t good enough for her. A canteen worker. That certainly didn’t match her criteria; she only ever fell in love with academics, mainly conceited theology students, once a physicist with a scholarship. She wanted me to walk her down to the station. And I should have, after she’d come all this way with me. I owed her that much, but my encounter with Ivar had made me careless and uncaring. I wanted to be alone with my longing. I said I was tired and had to get home and go to bed. We said our goodbyes at the next crossroads: Go in peace. A hug, a smile, a wave. I crossed over to the path that runs by the palace gardens, under the big trees. It struck me how much I enjoyed being alone like this. I was contented. The rain had stopped for a while now and the water had left dark patches on the asphalt, making an uneven pattern. Here and there a street lamp winked in a puddle. Ivar’s eyes. I winked back.

  Ivar. He’s standing at a coffee bar now, waiting. The screen says Go to Gate. The flight attendant has lowered her red-lipsticked mouth to the microphone for the last call and her voice echoes through the large hall. He starts to run. Long, soft strides over flagstones and parquet. The word Boarding is flashing on the screen. Do you see it, Ivar? Do you perhaps think the letters beat with the same rhythm as my heart?

  There’s a song I made up when I was a child and afraid of the dark. I used to sing it as I ran home. I’d count the number of windows I passed before the song finished and then start it over again. I used to pretend the song had no end, like a bubble, a perfect sphere, and so long as I was inside it, I was safe. I kneel in front of the armchair now and bend my back as low as I can, bow my head, fold my hands. Then I sing my song several times over, without stop.

  The apartment was silent and in darkness when I let myself in. It smelt of smoke and something else, sweet, peculiar. It was only about eleven or eleven thirty. I wondered if Mum had gone out with Svenn. I walked through the lounge, to the curtain that divides her room off, and looked towards the big bed by the wall. The bedclothes lay in a bundle, making it impossible to see if there was anybody under them. Mum, I said quietly. No answer. I said it again. The duvet shifted, noises came from by the wall, it was thrown aside and Mum sat bolt upright, as though she’d been disturbed by a piercing siren. She rubbed her eyes. She was wearing her pink nightdress. What’s the time? she asked. About eleven, I said. She turned towards the shelf on the wall, switched the little lamp on, found her glasses, checked her watch, took out a book and plumped the pillows up behind her. She shot me a glance over her reading glasses before opening her book, wondering perhaps if I had more to say. I saw she was halfway through one of those Swedish pocket editions. Göran Tunström, maybe. I turned and went into the bathroom, sat on the toilet with my eyes closed. When it’s late I pretend I’m already asleep. I thought about the sight experiments carried out on kittens. During the first months of their lives they were put in an environment where they were exposed only to horizontal lines. As a result they failed to develop any ability to see vertical lines. The hypothesis was that a lack of visual stimulus at key sensitive periods would hinder the development of important connections between the eye and brain, despite genetic potential. I opened my eyes and saw the lilac wallpaper, the blue walls around the bath, the black-and-white-striped shower curtain. I could hear Mum’s voice from the lounge, but not the words – the dividing curtain muffled the sound and I’d closed the toilet door. I wiped myself, got up and opened the door with my trousers down. Mum was walking towards me with her big round glasses on her nose, wearing her slippers from Granny and the old shawl I’d bought at a jumble sale over her shoulders. A man rang, she said. A short while ago. She looked at me with anxious eyes magnified behind her glasses. He said his name was Ivar. She spoke in a deliberate tone, as though she was warning me of some danger and wanted me to take everything in. I was suddenly gripped by fear. How had he found my number? She leant on
the doorframe and watched me as I pulled up my knickers and trousers, did up the zip. Have you put on weight? she said. I turned to the tap, washed my hands meticulously. You’ve got my body, Mum said. The wide hips, the big knees. Karin sends her love, I said. My thoughts were on his voice: it had been here, on the telephone. Men find that irresistible, Mum said, a broad backside. Her brow was furrowed, as if she was thinking of something in particular. I cleaned my teeth with my right hand and stroked her hair with my left. It was dry at the ends. She ought to get it trimmed. Karin’s a bit… said Mum. A bit what? I said. Well… she said. Go on, say it, I said. She’s a bit… slow, isn’t she? said Mum. She took my hand and held it against her cheek. I smiled with the toothbrush still in my mouth. She squeezed my hand and sighed, then, keeping a tight hold of it, she looked at me seriously: This Ivar, Johanne, are you sure he’s right for you? Remember how relieved you were last time you got rid of that admirer of yours? Wouldn’t it be daft to get yourself involved again so soon? I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t true that I’d been glad last time, that wasn’t how it had been. I’d never had a real boyfriend. I’d been in love, yes, last spring, with a post-grad economics student. We’d collided on the stairs, his books had scattered everywhere – macroeconomy – he’d smiled at me and our hands had met as we picked them up, like in a film, magical. I’d told her about it. Mum and I have agreed that she’ll approve any future husband. Her experience will prevent me from marrying a man who lacks boundaries, self-control and sensitivity. The social economist disappeared. I saw him in the canteen a few times, nothing more. I was sad, that’s how I see it now. I’d had so many ideas about how things might turn out. I studied for my exams like crazy, and did well, better than ever. I expect that’s what Mum remembered, the excitement over my end-of-term results. But it was she who was most pleased. And now I didn’t know what to say to her, it was all turning into a jumble, a fog in my head. I felt a pressure behind my forehead, in my eyebrow. Exhaustion, no doubt, after a long week of studies. Suddenly I was gripped by fear. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Ivar was dangerous, a bad man, cold, manipulative, abusive. That look in his eyes, could I really trust it? And now he had my telephone number, he could easily find out where I lived. My back felt stiff. Mum took my hand, squeezed it again, and stroked it with her other hand. I looked at her nail polish, several layers thick. My dear, sweet Johanne, she said, the best girl in the whole world. Then, after giving my hand a final squeeze, she let it go and went back to bed. I closed the bathroom door, turned back to the mirror, spat into the sink, rinsed my mouth, then stared at myself, trying to find any concrete reason for anybody loving me. I thought about the development of babies’ sight. They seek contrasts between light and dark, and see best from about thirty centimetres away, the distance from the breast to the mother’s face. While the baby feeds, it studies its mother’s eyebrows, hairline and eyes, because those are the areas of greatest contrast. In my bed I lay straight out: I get to sleep fastest that way, flat on my back without a pillow, arms at my sides, like a mummy or dead child. I sank down and down, falling into a deep sleep, and as I was sinking I thought: Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me and bless me. When I was a child I used to think of something I was looking forward to, then concentrate all my thoughts onto that one thing. I remember wondering, on that Friday night, what I was looking forward to. What, Johanne, are you looking forward to? Through the wall I could hear the thudding of the bass, with the occasional solitary note or line of melody. Mum’s Walkman. She often turns up the volume and puts it on the shelf, so as not to have the headphones pressing against her ears.

  I lie on the floor of my room and look out at the sky. It’s dark grey now. A pair of pigeons have made their nest under the eaves. There’s an occasional flurry of activity, when they flit back and forth. I’d been looking forward to flying with Ivar. I didn’t tell him: it seemed such a daft thing to look forward to, so banal, sitting there next to each other, strapped into our seats, holding hands at take-off, leaning towards the window together, peering down at the ground, with the sensation that we could see everything. I imagine him next to another girl now, with short blonde hair and green eyes, older than me, more experienced. She gives him a lopsided smile. Karin’s teeth. Karin ought to have stood by me more, I think to myself. Why don’t I have friends who are there when it really counts? I want to slap Karin, standing there in her pastor’s gown, holding her hands out. Smack her round the face. Swing my fists into those big tits, so the chalice spills and the Communion wafers scatter.

  I remember lying in bed. It was a Saturday morning, a clear autumn day, blue sky, sunshine, I had the duvet right up to my chin. I’m always happier in the morning, my mind is lighter. I tried to concentrate on all the things I was looking forward to: passing my foundation-year exams with such good grades that I’d get straight onto the Professional Psychology Programme. Passing my finals with flying colours so I can pick and choose jobs, combine research with practice, practice and theory. And when Granny dies and The Barns are built, I’ll have my own practice in light, elegant premises. I’ll have long, interesting conversations with Mum. And have an older, professionally experienced mentor in town with whom I can meet on occasion. An elderly man perhaps, with warm eyes and a beard. I’ll plant trees all the way to the entrance of my office, so my clients can walk through an avenue of birches. Going into therapy is a kind of journey: it’s important to attend to the aesthetics and bring as much beauty to the experience as possible. I felt how the thought of all these things rippled like energy through my body. I imagined my mentor with his big, shaggy beard. We were in his office, I was sitting on his desk, he had a huge belly, I wore a short, thin summer dress. He pulled my knickers down and held his big warm hands around my waist, he bent down and began to lick me. I leant back, felt his beard between my thighs, his moustache prickling the top of my cunt, it tingled when I thought of it. I wanted him to come inside me, my body was an empty space that needed to be filled to exist, he had to come inside for me to know I was here. I pretended that I’d done this before, that I knew what to do. I imagined lying there and wanting it, letting this man who knew what to do do it. He undid the big buckle on the belt of his soft canvas trousers, tugged it out and let it fall to the floor, stood up to his desk, between my legs. And I looked at him as he dropped his trousers and boxer shorts so they slid down his calves. I could see his swollen penis, so large that it protruded from under his shirt and belly, and I had to smile. I put my feet up on the desk and opened my thighs as wide as I could, pushed against him. Come inside me, I said. I imagined that his body and mine fitted together in a unique way, so that even when he moved he was close, rubbing and fucking me simultaneously. I ran my fingers over my body, touching myself. Some people say it’s a sin to masturbate. If so, forgive me, Father. He pulled out of me and picked up the belt, his expression changed, his eyes filled with anger, he started to beat me with the left hand as he entered me again, hard, raw. He raised the hand that held the thick belt. I assumed Mum was in the bathroom, probably on the toilet, smoking. I had to be careful not make a noise. I tried to bring back the nice images. Every time I do this, it seems to get nasty and twisted. Suddenly my body started to shake: I imagined my mentor had stuck a big finger up my arse, I trembled all over.

  I lay on my side with my head on the pillow and looked out of the window; the blue of the sky was so clear it almost hurt. I felt it come again. I didn’t cry much, just a few tears rolling down, wetting my eyes. I wondered about the cause. My thoughts lay embedded in sinews and skin, beyond my reach. Those of you who believe yourselves to be clean, without sin, without guilt, may cast the first stone. I saw myself under a heap of stones. What would it be like to be stoned? What would it be like to experience such pain? Would you feel every individual stone, with a pause between each one, or would it be a single endless avalanche? Would they follow one another so closely as to form one line of pain, a single unbroken streak?

  The really stupid thing about this
door is its loose handle. I can’t tug at it, because it’ll fall off and I can’t put it back on from inside. I’ve told Mum we should fix it. Perhaps these psychology studies are a waste of time. Perhaps I ought to do something practical, study a craft, learn how to repair things, make myself useful. I need a pee. I wonder if I’ll get out soon so I can go to the toilet. This is ridiculous, Johanne. But it’s no fun being locked in. Not today, when I was meant to go off travelling and things. You’d be too late now, Johanne. And as I say it word by word I can hear that it is true, like ripping off a plaster. I always arrive too late for anything important. It’s as though this thought were the key to another door, the door to a chamber of tears, and everything behind it starts to pour out. I lie on my back on the floor and let the tears flow. I’m alone here and there’s no one to see. They trickle to the sides and down towards my ears, leaving my cheeks dry. What a weird way to cry. I have to smile at myself. I take a lock of my hair and make it into a brush to sweep away the wetness.