The Blue Room (Coming of Age Series)

by Hanne Ørstavik

  The day after I met Ivar, Mum and I spent Saturday in our usual way. I linked my arm in hers as we walked past the palace across the sandy gravel square and started the long slope down to Karl Johan. A chilly day, light and clear and deep green; in places the leaves had turned yellow and here and there red. A pale, white dust began to cover our four shoes; I remember looking down at them, we walked in step. I saw myself as a child, marching up to the palace on Constitution Day. For two consecutive years, I’d joined the other young hopefuls behind the brass band, wearing the little sidecap and pleated blue skirt that cost too much, a music case dangling at my thigh. I abandoned music classes before I was ever given an instrument. Mum stopped and took out her camera. Can I trouble you to take my picture? she asked. Checking her hair, she positioned herself before the palace and told me I must try to include some greenery. I asked how she wanted to look, serious or smiling. I just want to be beautiful, she said. I studied her through the lens. She seemed so small in the viewfinder. I moved closer to get more light on her face. Then clicked. She put the camera away and took out a packet of cigarettes, found her lighter, then stood, for a long time, holding her unlit cigarette, gazing out over the tall trees into the distance. Perhaps, I thought, she wants me to move out. She’s decided it’s too expensive to have me living with her. I’m just a nuisance. Perhaps she’s thinking of what she could do with all the money I spend on food. I didn’t want her to be angry with me. It was Saturday. I wanted her to be happy and for us to do all the usual things. I didn’t want any changes, not now, not in the middle of term. I stroked her hair. It’s permissible to protect oneself, to guard oneself, I had to allow her that much. She must keep her secrets for herself. She brushed my hand off, I don’t think it was conscious, then puffed her hair up with her fingers as though I’d flattened it. You drifted off completely, I said. Oh, did I? she said, lighting her cigarette. You’re often rather distant, I said. Really? At work I’m constantly hearing how focused I am. Present in the moment. A frown appeared on her brow, as though she were pondering over what she’d said. We started to walk again. I didn’t know what to say, my head felt empty. It scares me that I can be so vacant. My brain should be more active. I tried to remember any independent ideas I’d come up with lately, the thought I always have, for example, when I go through my developmental psychology book, see Harlow’s pictures of baby monkeys and think this isn’t science but art. It is true but also false. It’s a lie, yet it gives us fresh insight into something we all know and recognize. The importance of these experiments isn’t to be found in any report, in words or phrases, but in those pictures, in our memory of them: the face of that tiny ape, its huge eyes and the piece of terry cloth that is its ‘mother’. I felt it come again, the tears welling up. I tried to think of something else so Mum wouldn’t notice. What’s happening? I thought, I don’t trust myself, I’ve no self-control. I decided I was probably hungry. Erratic blood sugar levels, that must be it.

  We went into Tanum bookshop as usual. I can’t understand why I always get hungry this early on a Saturday. I’d been thinking of food almost before we left home. Mum was looking for the paperback edition of a book my brother had recommended. He’s studying in the US, but does office work during his vacations here in town and sleeps on a mattress in the lounge. He left in August. It’ll be months before I see him again. I looked at Mum. She’d already found two books she wanted. We were standing on the landing where they keep the English paperbacks. I’ve been thinking… She stopped. Her mouth dropped open. I followed her gaze. She was gawping at a young couple standing below us by the travel guides and maps. The man had round glasses and a mop of dark hair. He was telling the girl something, and she was listening intently, her head tilted, nodding. She was equally attractive, with long blonde hair and a symmetrical face, like a doll. What? I said. I glanced at Mum again, then tried to find a book I’d heard about on the shelves behind her. She didn’t answer and went on staring. Mum! I said, nudging her arm discreetly. She frowned, as if her thoughts were scattered about in her brain and she needed the muscles in her forehead to gather them up. There’s something about men, she said, something… She stopped. I registered my own relief. But Mum was still watching them. I looked again too. The girl smiled with beautiful even, white teeth, and he gave her a lingering smile before continuing to talk, I assumed they were planning a trip, a weekend in Berlin perhaps. What is it? I said. It’s just… there’s something wrong with them. She shifted her gaze towards me. Men are so simple. Controlled by sex and power. Like robots, she said. What do you mean? I said. She fixed her eyes on me seriously, but said nothing, then went back to the shelves, wrapped up, it seemed, in her own thoughts and determined to focus on them without interference. I went down the little staircase and wandered about a bit, before stopping to browse through the gardening books near the tills. I have to focus on textbooks in term time, so I tend to avoid the fiction section in case I find anything too interesting. Besides, books are expensive and I’m trying to save as much as possible for the future. Mum arrived with an armful of books. She rolled her eyes, so I’d see how she despaired at herself. We went to a till and while she paid I looked at the art cards. Then we went to the French patisserie on the first floor and found a smoking table with a red-checked tablecloth. What would you like? Mum asked, as we approached the glass counter of croissants and glazed fruit tarts. I’ll have to look first, I said. It’s so rare for me to spend money eating out that when I do get the chance I can never make up my mind. She whispered that I could have anything I wanted and pointed at the purse in her right hand with her left middle finger. I noticed how like Granny’s her hands were. I stared down at my own. I may be young now, I thought, but it all lies hidden in there. Some day the family line will reveal itself in my fingers too. I’ll be sitting with a client perhaps and I’ll see Mum in my hands. My mind will wander and I’ll lose focus on what my client is saying. Somebody on my course told me that his psychologist had fallen asleep once when he was in therapy. But he still went on seeing the man. If it had happened to me as a client, I wouldn’t have told a soul. Going to therapy would probably be educational for me, but my conscience won’t let me take a place from someone who really needs it. Actually this guy is pretty weird. I really don’t understand how his mind works.

  I carried our tray over to the table. Mum went back to the counter for cutlery and serviettes. She was muttering irritably about a remark the man behind the counter had made. So unfriendly, she said, it spoils the ambience. But still, we’ll have a nice time now, won’t we, darling? She smiled to herself as she lifted my plate and double espresso from the tray and onto the table. She took out her copy of Dagbladet, pulled out the centre section and handed me the rest. She leafed through to the main interview and started to read it as she took huge bites out of her roll. I studied her face: the open pores, the slack skin under her chin, the thin lips. According to one of our psychology books, we develop only in close relationships. Only in intimate relationships do we expose ourselves to the possibility of change, to things being set in motion. I went straight to the culture pages. There was a review of the Swedish novel that had come out recently in translation. Mum and I had gone to a free reading, arranged in conjunction with the launch. Svenn was at home with his family and couldn’t come. All I remember about this book is that a man baked a cake, sat in a café and lied to a woman, convinced her he was dying. Mum and I were both infuriated by the complete absence of beauty in his book. She wanted to go, but I wanted to stay and listen anyway. Eventually Mum got up and left me there on my own. It was early autumn, so it was still quite light in the evenings, and I remember thinking I’d be safe getting home. During the interval, I bought a large coffee and a pastry that had doubtless sat on the counter all day; not that it crossed my mind at the time, and I had enough money even though Mum had gone and she’s usually the one who pays when we go out. The author came up to me after the reading. He asked why my mother had left. I wondered how he knew she was my
mother. Well, you look so alike, he said with a smile. He sat down and wanted me to talk. So, he said, tell me about yourself. I told him I was studying psychology. He laughed. I liked him. He seemed so honest. I wanted to say something impressive, so he’d remember me. I talked about a subject that’s often on my mind, the idea that we have to come close to people for change to take place. Other girls came over to our table and talked to him, but although he answered them, his gaze was fixed on me. We went on talking for a while. Then he got up to go to the toilet, but never returned. I remember trying not to be upset. Maybe that’s the way artists are, they get a sudden impulse, an idea maybe. It wasn’t too late, so I walked home. It was a waste of money to take the tram when it wasn’t essential. When I got back home I told Mum that I’d talked to the author. We often sit in the kitchen in the evening and chat, Mum with a Diet Coke, me with a cup of tea. She said it was dangerous to get involved with strange men. Imagine, Johanne, if you and I weren’t living together and you’d taken him home. Taking a man back is like entering a contract, promising him something. Just think what he could have done with you. There are more dangerous men out there than you’d believe, Johanne. They’re a danger to women when they think they’re going to get something. That’s why we carry alarms, isn’t it? But once you’ve taken them into your apartment, there’s not a lot you can do. What if he’d tied you up? Had a knife in his jacket? He could have done anything he wanted. Absolutely anything, Johanne. She was scaring me now. The sweat ran cold under my arms. I was relieved nothing had happened. To think we might have gone for a walk in the park. For days I pictured what could have taken place, it would flood into my head as I sat in the reading room or in a lecture, like a gigantic unexpected wave on the beach that you barely leap back from in time. I don’t know how I’d get by without Mum. I looked across at her. She’d returned to her newspaper. Was leafing through it. I looked down at my knees under my long brown skirt. Then I felt it come. A note, a single piercing tone inside my head. Suddenly the café seemed to go completely quiet, the lounge music from the piano downstairs melted away; the people at the tables started grimacing, but it was impossible to hear what they said. Perhaps the air was stale in here, with so many people right under the roof. I asked if we might leave. I could barely hear my own voice; the volume button on the loudspeaker must be out of order, there was no filter, no electrical contact, just tables and chairs being overturned in the distance. I’ve got some reading I need to do at home, I said, standing up. I have over thirty pages to read this week.

  I’m desperate for a pee. I have a wastepaper bin, a square, steel bucket. If I don’t get out soon, I’ll have to pee in it. It’s not a big deal, worse things happened during the war. They had to pee in the same bowl they got their food and water in. Piss out; water in. I packed my textbooks last night, so they’re out in the hall in my case, together with three dresses, clean knickers and a pair of shoes for all weathers. My method notes are still in here though, right in front of me, in their purple clip file. I could apply myself to them properly now and not, as I usually do, give up halfway through. Then at least I’d have achieved something while I was stuck in here. Validity and reliability. Reliability is a technical matter, measurable, testable. Validity is, by contrast, a more complex problem that I don’t feel I can even scrape the surface of. For example, the process of generalization: the transference of results obtained in a small, artificial experiment on the assumption that they will be applicable in a wider, real-life context. But more fraught still, is the notion of conceptual validity: to what extent is the concept you’re examining – for example, happiness – truly covered by your investigation? In order to know that, you have to give a definition of happiness, which means you’ve already decided what happiness is, in which case your experiment is rendered completely invalid: a construct. It therefore seems impossible to get a fresh understanding of the concept, or to discover anything fundamentally new about it. And once conceptual validity is threatened, the entire experiment falls apart and you will have investigated the wrong thing. I feel nauseous. I have layer upon layer of thoughts in my head and the bottom one has nothing to grip on to. I should open the window, the air in here is so stale. I sleep with the door closed at night and it’s been closed all morning. I look at the door handle, at the keyhole. I stare at them so minutely that they seem unreal, expanding, morphing, suddenly appearing soft and malleable, about to melt and trickle down. It must be the bad air in here. I should open the window, but I don’t want to ask for help. Opening it will signal that I’ve given up. It’ll make it apparent that I want to get out. But you do want to get out, Johanne! Yes, I do, but not like that. I don’t want to ask for anything. Then I’ll be forever bound. I want to manage on my own.

  The ticking of the alarm clock is suddenly so distinct. I clamber up onto the loft bed and fetch it down. I sit on the floor with my back against the door, holding it in both hands. Small and white, it reminds me of an egg, with the sound of a chick inside it, wanting to get out. Tapping, tapping with its beak. I’ve seen them on TV in close-up. Easter chicks, like little yellow fluff-balls. Jesus’s tomb was like an egg too. He was the chick that hatched from it. He fought his way out for our sins and to set us free.

  I was standing in the hall. The church bells were ringing, I stood quietly listening to their mighty clang as the sound came in through the open lounge window. It was sunny, quite mild. Strange to think it was only eleven days ago. I usually leave home when they ring for the second time. That means it’s half past, so I won’t have to stress. I have time to say hi and talk a bit if I see anyone I know, or just take my seat near the second pillar from the back, along the right-hand wall, and focus my mind. Mum was in the shower. She usually comes to the palace chapel too, even though the services are primarily aimed at members of the Oslo Student Church Association. We could have left together, but she wasn’t ready, and since I hate being late I gave up waiting. She’d have to take responsibility for herself. I knocked on the bathroom door as soon as the bells had stopped and I was dressed; in shades of brown, perfect for an autumn Sunday. Hurry up, I said. She didn’t answer. I knocked again. Mum, I said. Yes, all right, she said. I’m leaving now, I said.

  The trees in the palace gardens were so beautiful, the sight of them produced a lump in my stomach. I remember thinking this was the place to come with a broken heart. Ivar drifted into my mind and I smiled. Somehow I was already pining for him, feeling a sense of loss. Perhaps life sends us signs. Warns us. I walked past the little duck pond on the left. To my right was Queen’s Park, already closed for the year, the lake drained long ago. I walked up the slope and came out alongside the palace. It is shady there in the morning. A group had gathered around the door. I didn’t know them well, but recognized two of them as committee members of the Student Congregation. They borrow the chapel in the palace basement and always manage a full house. We exchanged smiles as I passed them on my way in. A couple of boys were wearing traditional knickerbockers and trainers, their rucksacks on the gravel beside them.

  I went down the little staircase. A pure white sunlight was pouring in through the latticed windows of the inner palace courtyard. The marble gleamed. The materials were all so beautiful in here. Terje from the theology college was standing beside a table handing out hymn books and service sheets. It would be High Mass today, with a procession and incense. I gave him a hug and asked how he was feeling. So far only a few people had come down. Generally there’s a rush in the last ten minutes and then it gets quite rowdy, but right now it was quiet. He told me the subcommittee had gone through some important issues relating to the institute. Terje is a star student, with an amazing grasp of theology, and always so friendly. Karin’s mentioned some of the Bible interpretations he’s put forward at seminars, impressive exegeses. He even has a liberal opinion on women pastors. I gave him a questioning glance. Ah, that, he said. Hmm, no change there, I’m afraid. Terje lives with a fear that everything might disappear. These days, he said, whene
ver I cycle to college I have to stare at the ground, because I’m sure there’ll be a crack or a massive crater. And if I don’t keep looking down, my bike might plunge headlong, taking me with it. At night I dream I’m being smashed against the hard, craggy edges of this hole as I fall. I scream for help, but nobody hears. Hello there, God! Terje raised his eyes to the ceiling. I followed his gaze. The ceiling was painted a light blue with wispy little white clouds. Our eyes met. Well, at least it makes me wear a helmet. He laughed. I tried to picture the hole he’d described. It must be awful. Perhaps it’s Freudian, I thought. Perhaps you need a woman, a caring woman who’ll listen. For all I knew, he’d never had a partner either. Well, I said, it would have been nice to receive an answer! It was a bit stuffy in there already, how would it be in an hour’s time with over 200 people? The congregation was streaming in now, coming in behind Terje, waiting for hymn books. I had to hurry if I was going to secure the seat I wanted. See you then, I said. He stared at me as he carried on handing out the hymn books, and without looking down at what he was doing, he smiled and told me he was happy I’d come. I felt like hugging him. I gave him a little wave, before turning to walk on. My body was filled with a warmth after talking to him, as though he was a brother. This was where I belonged. In my Father’s house. All I had to do now was find a seat near the wall at the back, from where I’d be able to see both the pulpit and the altar. I like to sit straight in front of the pulpit, so it feels as if the pastor is talking to me. Of course he’s talking to you, I said to myself. He’s talking to everyone. He’s the wisest pastor I know. Whenever he takes the service I have this feeling in my stomach that everything he says is true. I found my seat, took off my jacket and sat down. I closed my eyes. I felt the warmth of the sun, of the congregation filling the chapel. The seats were taken on either side of me. There were people everywhere. I liked it. Then suddenly it went quiet and I heard a boy’s voice, a fragile song, chanting, faint at first, far away, and then moving closer. I opened my eyes. The procession was on its way. At the front was the pastor carrying a mace or some kind of rod, behind him a chubby theology student in white robes, swinging a censer, and behind him again the chorister, a tiny boy with blond, almost white, hair. I caught just the occasional glimpse of him between all the rows of pews and bodies. I wished he would never stop singing. I wanted to take him home with me and look after him. Perhaps he’s an orphan, I thought. The theology student and he sat on either side of the altar, facing each other. I could see him clearly from where I was. He looked so beautiful, so delicate, as though he might break at any moment. The pastor welcomed everybody. I imagined the boy was my son. We’d gone to the seaside and I watched over him while he swam. Then we ran along the water’s edge, jostling one another, splashing, laughing, and he cut himself on a shell and bled and cried, and I comforted him, held him close and sang into his ear so only he could hear. And without a word, he knew I loved him.