The Blue Room (Coming of Age Series)

by Hanne Ørstavik

  I walked along the wide Frogner streets up to the market square. I took the steps that lead up to the children’s playground and followed Professor Dahlsgate. I was freezing, despite walking. I reckoned, it probably served me right. I thought about the other students at university. Karin, for example, she lives in student digs at Kringsjå and gets by all right. They have a strength, a capacity for survival, that I don’t possess. I’m different, not like them, I have something lacking, a flaw. I have a hole out of which all my strength seems to drain. There’s no point comparing. Staying with Mum and then living at The Barns. That was my secret. My safety net. It ensured that this hole would go unnoticed, that I could manage as well as all the other girls. The Barns, two yellow-painted houses, one with a round window, the clematis and honeysuckle along the wall by the kitchen, the sun through the leaves in the large trees, the light coming in through the windows, making patterns on the floors. Quiet, peace, harmony. No more pressures, no loan instalments to pay. Without The Barns it’ll be too difficult, I thought. I’ll never manage it. Never. I remembered Watson and his psychology theory. His black box of the 1920s. The box represents the organism, us, but Watson wasn’t interested in what happens inside us, since it is impossible to design an experiment to measure that with any degree of accuracy. To his mind it was more important to investigate the stimulus that gave the adequate and desired response. This, he felt, would be measurable and useful. I crossed Josefinesgate and headed towards Bislett. I tried to think of myself as a black box. And Mum too. I had to find the stimulus Mum needed. A soft, gentle voice and a big hug. Reassurance. I thought about the sheets of paper covered with sketches, designs I’ve made of The Barns. They hang on the wall in the hall. They are luminous at night, shining at me as I head to the toilet. I’m sitting with my back against the door now, remembering that night and how I wished I could be a structural or architectural drawing on a huge piece of transparent paper. Then we could each spread our sheets on top of each other, Mum and I, and see where our lines diverged. And we could take an eraser and adjust them to match.

  I started the walk up Bergstien. The street lamps threw delicate yellow rings onto the asphalt and up the walls. I turned the corner and looked over at the church. It was lit up. A holy meeting place. Why wasn’t I frightened? I’d have been terrified now. After all, it’s right next to the huge cemetery where so many things happen at night. But casting my mind back, all I remember is that I smiled, even though my back ached and Mum had been angry. I was happy. Or, to be more precise, there was a separate space inside me for Ivar. And at that moment that was where I was. In that good space, I was happy. It started to rain, just a few drops, and I stood under the big trees, smiling. I was here again. I wondered if the church was open and if it was possible to go in. I went through the gate and up to the door. It was locked. Coming back through the gate, I saw a notice on the bulletin board outside the railings stating that the church was open daily from ten until twelve. I turned. Now was the moment, I thought, that he should walk past. Now that I was alone. If I’d known Ivar’s full name, I thought to myself, I could have looked him up in the phone book and found his exact address. What was it Mum always said? Shattered dreams. No, Ivar was good. I wanted to touch that bushy brown hair and kiss him, the freckles, the gentle smile. There was no need for us to sleep together, we could get to know each other first, establish our relationship. Sex is overrated, I thought, we pay it far too much attention. Love is what’s important. I imagined myself in Ivar’s apartment, looking out of his window one night, gazing down here at the church and at the girl waiting under the trees near the gate. And she would no longer be alone. I headed for home, listening as I walked for footsteps to come running after me, a breathless man with freckles and rain on his face. I started to worry at how wide awake I felt. You’ll lie in bed unable to sleep, and tomorrow you’ll get no coursework done, you’ll be nodding off all the time. What are you doing here, Johanne? Why are you deluding yourself? What in heaven’s name are you thinking of?

  I try to open my mouth, but it’s as though my tongue has swollen up, grown too big. It’s like having a reverse cock in my mouth, a large swollen penis attached inside me. I close my eyes, and when I open them, it’s gone. It must have been a dream. I’m very thirsty and need to pee again; this time I empty the rubbish bin in the corner behind the door and crouch down.

  I turned the key. I had to deal with the alarm before I let myself in: there’s a small key that activates the switch, after which I have ten seconds to get in, close the door and turn the handle from inside. Fortunately we’ve never had any need of it. The ceiling light was on in the hall. I turned it off. I hate the harsh light from above, bleaching the life out of everything and casting ugly shadows. I couldn’t see if Mum had switched the light off behind her curtain. I took my jacket off. I had to go into the kitchen to put my foot up on the bench, so I could undo my laces. I went into the lounge and knocked on the wall next to the curtain. A moment passed. Then there was a yes. She sounded tired. Probably still upset over the movie incident. I was desperately hoping that everything would be all right. Dearest, sweetest Mum. I pulled the curtain aside. She was propped up on her pillows in her nightdress, reading. She didn’t look up from her book. Why do I always try to impose change on her, force things on her that she doesn’t like? I should never have taken her. I had no idea how I’d manage without her. Nobody would suspect it, because from the outside I seem to have everything going for me: hard-working, bright, a good conversationalist, with long, curly red hair that people compliment me on. What obstacle could there be to success? When one is clever and reasonably pretty? I felt it coming, but I didn’t want Mum to see me cry. She’d started a new novel. She must have finished the Swedish book. I couldn’t see the title of this one. She went on reading. I moved closer to her bed. I didn’t know what to do – perhaps I should sit down, but her bed is so high, she has bookshelves under it on the sides that aren’t against a wall. She finally looked up, peering at me over her glasses with raised eyebrows. Well? she said. Are you still cross with me? I asked. She looked down at her book again. Yes, she said, although she sounded sad more than anything. Sad and tired. I went to see Mother after the service today, after you disappeared so suddenly, she said. I was hoping we’d go together, you know how draining I find it when I go up there. Yes, I said. She isn’t well, said Mum. What do you mean? I said. Those new drugs still make her dizzy, and I suggested she ought to get a personal alarm, said Mum. Yes, I said, that sounds sensible. For my sake, Mum said. She could do it for my sake. I live in constant fear that she’ll end up lying there. Oh, I can’t bear the thought, she said. I imagined Granny, her rotund body, stretched on the floor. Shall I talk to her? I said. Mum fixed her eyes on me seriously, without answering. She looked very tired. If you could, she said slowly, that would be wonderful. Of course I can, I said. Oh, thank you so much, said Mum. She took off her reading glasses to wipe her eyes – they tend to run whenever she’s lying down – she used the sleeve of her nightie, leaving black streaks from the make-up she hadn’t washed off. I can go straight from uni tomorrow, I said. I’ll cycle up. You’re an angel, she said, smiling wearily. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

  I lay on my bed staring up at the ceiling, trying to breathe deeply into my stomach, hoping to loosen up my stiff back. I imagined the surface of a cheek that had been slashed with a knife, flesh oozing, like when you slit the belly of a fish. I thought about Martha and Mary. Mary sat at Jesus’s feet and listened while Martha prepared the food. It’s easy to nod at this story and assume that it’s Mary who does the right thing by listening to the word of the Lord, dropping her tasks and coming to Him. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Martha, what it must have been like to be her. Was her work without value? Her expression of devotion through that meal, her concrete, physical care: did that, I wondered, count for nothing? I would stand in the doorway of that stone house, full of shadows, and I would say, Hello, Martha, that bread smells wonder
ful. Yes please, I’d love a little soup. We would sit at the long table. Martha would smile shyly. I’d tell her how lovely she was; I’d have to ask Karin to teach me how to say that in Hebrew. And we’d leave Jesus and Mary sitting there. As I drifted off to sleep, I stood looking out of the round window of my cottage. There was sand everywhere. The house was standing on the ocean floor. There was water outside the window. People were coming on horseback. I could hear them in the distance. Or was it a helicopter? I hid on the top shelf of my wardrobe. I curled up and hoped they’d never find me.

  The sun slants in through the bars of the window, waking her up. Her left ankle has swollen around the chain. She finds the patch of pillow where the sunlight touches her whole face. She closes her eyes, trying not to think of what lies ahead of her today. It won’t be long before the sun gets too hot. I glanced over at the dazzling light on the wall opposite, across the backyard. So harsh it stung my newly woken eyes, bringing tears to them. It was Monday morning, six thirty. At seven thirty, I usually cycle from home. I had to get up. I tried to sit, but was prevented by my stiff back. I was forced to lie on my side, roll onto my stomach and throw my legs out, so as to climb down. Standing in the shower, I thought about what I’d been dreaming when I woke up. I had the keys to a pharmaceuticals factory. It was night and I’d let myself in and was walking through long corridors that reminded me of a school. I opened the stock cupboard and stole little see-through bags of pills, Rohypnol, Valium and morphine. At one point a crowd of men in suits emerged from a meeting and nearly caught me. I hid behind a door. I tried to work out what the dream meant. I’ve never messed about with any drugs or medications. We barely take a single pill in our house, everything is psychological: if you’re ill it’s because you’re not getting all the love and attention you need. I was almost always healthy as a child, but Edvard was so ill several times that he had to be taken to hospital in an ambulance. Perhaps I was receiving the attention that was rightly his. I heard Mum in the kitchen, putting the coffee on. I turned the shower off. I shouldn’t linger. My schedule in the mornings is tight, there’s no time to get lost in thought. I had to focus on what needed doing, on making more coffee for my Thermos, packing my sandwiches, eating a quick breakfast, and on the best order to do things; whether it was most efficient to put the coffee on before making my packed lunch and eating. Mum was sitting in the lounge, with the newspaper spread out on the coffee table. Hello, I said. No answer. I stopped in the doorway. Mum, I said. I waited for her to turn towards me. If I’m going to see Granny, I won’t be back in time for dinner. She went on reading. Take the money that’s in my purse, she said, so you can get lunch in the canteen. OK, I said. Thanks.

  Cycling up towards Majorstua, I was struck by the colours of the trees. Thank you, Father, for these fresh, clear autumn days. The world is infinitely beautiful and bountiful. I knew that I’d almost certainly see Ivar soon. And that, I thought, is enough. Just to see him, take him in, take things step by step, gently, carefully. My fingers were frozen. Maybe I should spend that fifty-kroner note on some gloves. But it was jumble sale season, so I could go next Saturday and buy a pair for a couple of kroner, maybe even leather ones. I thought of all the things I could buy with fifty kroner. Or perhaps I could put it in the account where I’m saving money for my own apartment, if nothing comes of The Barns. I could start eating less too and put the money I’d have spent on food into that account too. I do all our shopping with Mum’s card, she’d never notice, it would roughly add up to the same amount. I thought about how much an apartment would actually cost. You’ll never make it, Johanne. I tried to put my back into pedalling uphill, but it was still stiff. Amazing I could cycle at all.

  I’m imagining Ivar on the plane. I have just an image of his body reclining in his seat, there’s no sound, no colour, he doesn’t speak to me, doesn’t see me looking at him, or that I’m sitting beside him. I should have been sitting next to him and we should have been leaning towards the window, watching the clouds. He had bought a double set of earphones for his Walkman so we could listen to music on the journey together. I can hear the joy in his voice when he showed them to me, look Johanne, look. Maybe he’s putting it on now, leaning his head back, closing his eyes, listening. He smiles at the stewardess as she comes with food and coffee. He seems so happy there on his own. Maybe he doesn’t miss me at all. Maybe he’s relieved to have escaped me. He is free now.

  It’s dark by the entrance to the reading rooms. I don’t know if it’s the low ceiling or there’s just too little light. I stood by the banisters at the bottom of the stairs trying to look relaxed, despite being so hot from cycling uphill. I recognized most of the people there, they usually arrived at opening time too, preferably a minute or two before. The guy in the red-checked shirt came up the stairs, blue cycle helmet in one hand and nylon bag over his shoulder, ash-blond hair standing on end. He regularly walks straight past us to the reading room, jumping the queue, then presses his forehead against the locked doors, a gesture of salutation, or receiving some sort of blessing, or forgiveness perhaps, before leaning his back against them with a sigh. He always arrives at the last minute, sweating and out of breath, just before the man with the keys comes to open up and the rest of us who were hanging about on the landing amble in and claim our places. Not that they’re ours, of course, but it’s as if we commandeer them, reigning over the reading room until nine o’clock. Which is when the others come. I try not to think of their lives. Late nights, friends, studio flats, loud music. A shared house perhaps. Walking into the kitchen. Meeting a familiar face. Laughing, talking, putting the kettle on. Lovers’ tiffs and the slamming of doors. Taking the days as they come, with no particular plan. And the worst is that they manage for themselves. They drift about and things turn out fine. I know I’m not like that. I have to struggle for what they take for granted. I have to play it safe. Have to stay on track, every day. It’s the little steps that count, straight ahead. Reading all the chapters on the reading list meticulously. Every day. Anything else would result in stepping off course, which would lead to another little step, and another, and another. I’d lose my balance completely and never get to be a psychologist. What they display, these students who don’t arrive in the reading room until nine, or even later, is a kind of daring. They play with life, with possibilities. For me my studies are like a tightrope I’m balancing on, life will begin only when I’ve reached the other side. Only when I’m standing there triumphantly, with a glowing testimonial and glittering results, only then, I think to myself, will I be free. You’re going over old ground now, Johanne. That’s the way I am. I have written it down in my blue notebooks hundreds of times. Mum says she has a deep respect for other people’s privacy and that she’d never look, for example, through the blue hard-backed Chinese books I fill with my notes. A voice lives between their pages, my very own conversation partner, a being that has no independent existence, but which emerges in what I write, in the way I write. A voice that really cares about me, that listens.

  I sat in the reading room and took out my developmental psychology book: confusing and impossible to grasp. Piaget is boring. I agree with his central theses about assimilation and accommodation, the notion of conservation of weight, that we strive for balance in our learning, and that we have a hunger, an inner authority that drives us on. But I don’t like the stages he sets out, his schematic approach, his boxes. Which is why I hate Piaget. I’d spit on him if I could, for what he does to life. Outlining it, cutting it up. I realized I hadn’t turned on the little lamp over my desk. When I pressed the switch the book was suddenly bathed in a new light, pleasant and warm. I tried to breathe into my stomach. I sat up straight and looked out over the empty desks. Screwing my eyes up, the whole room became a yellowish haze. A hot sandy beach. There was a rattling noise, moving along the aisles that divide the reading room. Someone was collecting cups and cutlery to take back to the canteen. The trolley was clearly made of steel, I could hear every object as it was put down. I
sat listening. I looked towards the aisle, waiting for somebody to appear between the partitions. The white jacket, the brown bushy hair. Yes! It was him. Ivar. My gaze met his. It was as though he could see I’d been thinking about him all weekend. I bent over my book and looked at the picture, a child wearing nothing but a nappy and sandals, walking along a road near some parked cars and pulling a toy duck after it on a string. Above it, the title Sleeping and Waking. You got any cups here? he said behind me. I hadn’t heard his footsteps on the thin carpet. He poked his head round the pillar as he looked at me, and smiled. I shook my head and felt myself blush. He stood there for a moment, and we looked at each other in silence. Then he smiled again and moved on. He seemed so calm, as though he had endless amounts of time. And he does, I thought, not being a student. He didn’t stop at anyone else’s desk. I smiled. I looked at the clock; there was still another hour before my first lecture. I suddenly felt hot. I had to remove the jumper that I always drape over my shoulders when I work. I heard the trolley go down the central aisle and through the swing doors, followed by a bumping noise as it went over the threshold of the main door, then nothing. I bent back over my book. The next chapter was about the brain. There was a diagram showing the nerve development in a baby’s cortex from birth up to two years. It looked like a forest, its branches sparse at first, then growing denser, a mass of twigs going in all directions. I thought about the garden at The Barns. It would be my responsibility. I pictured the apple trees, pear blossom, leaves, his face, the sun shining, Ivar walking towards me across the lawn. I’d borrow gardening books from the library when I’d finished my exams. I adore climbing plants and hanging ones too, we’ll have a Virginia creeper on the main house, it’s a classic, it’ll be so beautiful. Turning up, disrupting my concentration like that! I couldn’t read now. Every word in the book had become a new code for his name. I had a rectangular patch from my breastbone to my navel without skin, it stung. He should have considered that. His eyes gave the impression of having so much compassion for the world. And yet he went around messing everything up. I tried to read on: There are three main temperament types. Researchers agree that the temperament is innate to the personality; the rest is more or less dependent, they think, on environment. There are three categories of baby: easy, difficult and slow to warm up. Slow infants tend to have a low activity level, they appear sleepy, adapt slowly, don’t engage to begin with, and tend not to be as good-humoured as the easy child. The child’s temperament should match the mother’s. If the mother is quick and impatient, the slow child risks not having time to warm up before she gives up, causing the child to be understimulated. These three temperament types are illustrated with drawings showing infants at mealtimes. Each drawing shows a child sitting in a highchair wearing a bib. A hand is feeding it with a spoon. The easy baby beams, with the spoon in its mouth. The difficult child waves its arms, food spills out of an overturned bowl, the child has gone red in the face and its mouth is wide open, screaming. The slow child has its head turned away. I remember Mum saying that I smiled a lot as a baby. Perhaps it’s true. I imagined Mum turning her head. Her hair swung in front of her face. I caught a glimpse of her eyes. No longer blue, but grey. I tried to picture myself opening my mouth. I couldn’t. I saw the girl lying strapped to a bed. The sun shone. There was sweat on her breasts, in her groin. A man was standing in the doorway, skinny, long red hair and wearing an earring. Something was wrong. I didn’t know what.