The Blue Room (Coming of Age Series)

by Hanne Ørstavik

  I suddenly pushed my chair back and rose to my feet. I had to smile, I’d done it without thought, unpremeditatedly, without weighing the pros and cons. I just stood up. Perhaps I should take it seriously, I thought, this body of mine. If it refused to sit still, it must be after something. I knew I had a few coins in my pocket. I left the reading room, went down the stairs and stopped at the entrance to the canteen. I looked in. Seating areas, partitions, plants. I didn’t feel I had the strength. Father, I prayed, I know you are everywhere, even here. I remembered an old film I’d seen on TV as a child, about Greek gods, the figures ran from place to place on tracks, their mechanisms clanking and scraping. It had terrified me. I tried to imagine I was one of those figures on a track and that what I was about to do would propel me forward. Johanne, you’re only getting a coffee. There were one or two people sitting by the window. Further away near the counter was a table of five girls. Their voices dominated the room. They talked in turns, bursting into intermittent laughter.

  Hello there. His voice sounded happy, almost surprised. We stood there with the counter between us. And when he looked at me, I felt the contours of my body, as though I was encircled by flames. I’ll just have a coffee, I said. Five minutes? he asked. He didn’t take his eyes off me and we stood perfectly still. I wanted to say something but felt my mouth drop open. Why, I didn’t know. I’ll be right back, he said. I bit my lip, frowned, pulled myself together, put a cup under the machine, pressed the button, let the coffee run, took it over to the till and paid. The start of my financial ruin, spending my money in the canteen, I thought. He came out of the swing doors near the washing-up with a mug in his hand and a packet of tobacco. Behind me the girls laughed again. I walked over to him. We headed for the exit where we’d first met. What are you studying? he asked. Psychology, I said. I knew that, of course, he said, smiling and looking straight at me. He’d got my phone number from the student council. I felt myself blush. It was lovely to see you there, in the street, on Friday, he said. I’ve been thinking about you, imagining you, he said. I wandered the streets hoping I’d bump into you again. His words made me feel light. Happy. Do you live nearby? he asked. So he hadn’t checked my address. Or perhaps Mum had given him the impression there was no Johanne living there, since he’d rung so late. I told him I lived in Frogner and asked if he’d worked in the canteen for long. He’d only been there since the beginning of term. I knew that, of course. I’d have noticed him, I thought to myself. He played the guitar, had a band, and spent all his time making music. The job was just a way of earning money, something to live on. We went outside and stood next to the wall. He dug out a ready-made rollie from the bottom of the packet, put it between his lips and lit up. I watched his mouth close softly around the cigarette, somehow gentle and good; he seemed so honest as he inhaled, his cheeks hollowed, he looked incredibly thin. Was he a bit wimpish perhaps? There was something sad about his eyes, they were so pale, almost colourless, as though someone had sliced off a layer. Maybe he’s lonely, I thought. I wanted to take care of him, stroke his hair, give him proper food. We’re doing a gig tonight, a basement party, a surprise for some students at the Academy, something the guys from the architecture department thought up, he said. Want to come? I didn’t know what to say. It was so unexpected, too sudden. What I wanted most was to go for a walk in the forest, just the two of us, talking, alone, with the sun coming through the trees at an angle, looking at it together, getting to know each other. Ivar took a folded piece of yellow paper out of his pocket. Here’s the address and time and stuff, he said. He looked at me with his head to one side. He was serious. His lips moved a fraction, I observed the breath between them, and his freckles. He’ll kiss me now, I thought. My lips were tingling, but nothing happened. He just looked at me, his face very close. It was as if we’d made a promise to each other, exchanged a vow that had no outward expression, because it was unvoiced, but it would live on inside me for ever, real and genuine. Pure. I think Ivar felt it too. Like the words I love you. But then why, I wondered, hadn’t he kissed me? Did he think I was ugly? Repulsive? What was he after? A basement party somewhere near the Akerselva river, late at night. What did he intend to subject me to? Why me? Men always accost me when I’m in town or on the train, alcoholic kids, guys who are out of their heads, or who need someone to confide in. There must be something about me, something they see. Perhaps I’m marked. Perhaps I have a wound that everybody can see but me. Something wrong? Ivar asked, putting a hand on my arm. I still hadn’t answered him about the party. His grasp was firm. A strong, warm hand on my arm. That’s how it starts. So-called concern, I thought later. Just another word for manipulation. But he’s so handsome. He seems so kind. Why couldn’t he just have kissed me? I looked at my watch and told him I had to get back to my books. He nodded, said something about extended coffee breaks early in the day. We smiled at each other in the hall and he took my empty cup. See you tonight then, he called after me, as I went down the spiral staircase to the toilets. I sat in the big disabled cubicle. I noticed I was swollen when I wiped myself, slightly tingly and prickly. I wondered if I had an infection. Some sort of fungus. I pictured Ivar’s eyes like two tiny micro-organisms swimming around beneath the skin of my vulva.

  Good God. The words slipped out of me as I was walking down the footpath towards the Sophus Lie auditorium. Good God, Johanne. I said the Lord’s Prayer several times over. A chain reaction. My nipples were hard, almost rigid. Cognitive psychology. Visual agnosia. You can see but are unable to attach any meaning to what you see, or you interpret it incorrectly. Or when you finally manage to connect the visual information to the corresponding category or concept in your brain, it has taken so long that it becomes impossible for you to function normally. I looked down at my notepad. A4 unlined. Preferably bleached, white. I couldn’t write any proper notes, the desk was too low and my back was too stiff. The lecturer was gripping the chalk between three fingers, his little finger sticking out stiffly. I doubted he knew how it made him look. I could never love a man who held his finger out like that, I thought. Would Ivar hold chalk like that? We must determine whether the damage is organic. The student representative arrived late and sat down next to me. She started rustling about in her handbag. A plastic bag. The zip on her pencil case. Finally she took out the electrical stimulator she always holds against her temple. Something must have happened when she was a child, a blow to the head, damaging the sensitivity to certain impulses and slowing the neurotransmitters. I was sleepy, cognitive psychology bores me, it’s devoid of any magic. Still, I know it’s important to understand it for the future, when I open my practice.

  At break she wanted to discuss shelf space and reading-room places. I said that I needed the toilet, a lie. Father, forgive me. I went up the stairs, through the hall and out into the courtyard. Why did she have to sit next to me? Her stimulator gave off a hum. It disturbed me. I wouldn’t be able to take much in during the next lecture, the noise would irritate me, and then I’d get a headache halfway through from trying to remember what had been said. Nobody knows what all this costs me. I mustn’t lose my grip. But now I felt it coming over me, the tears welling up. Like a pathetic little puppy whining inside me. I forced them back and walked into the auditorium.

  The lecturer was discussing one of the case studies on our curriculum. The patient has a tiny blood clot somewhere in the rear cortex that affects his perception, so that it takes him a long time and a huge amount of energy to register and respond to stimulae. It says somewhere in the textbook that his wife gives him medication. But what medication? The explanations in this book leave so many questions unanswered. Lecturers make it all so simple. That’s probably the main reason for following lectures closely: things that present such knotty problems on the page make sense when the teacher talks, are unravelled, smoothed out. I looked around at my future colleagues. Everybody was bent over their notes. To the left, just below me, two mature women sat side by side. Bolt upright in their seats, they each ha
d a notepad in their lap on a rigid board. Their make-up was flawless. They were dressed tastefully in muted colours, discreet, with expensive handbags and proper fountain pens. They were on the second row, at eye level with the lecturer. Whenever he said something funny they smiled, never quite breaking into a laugh. I wondered who in this room I would go to if I had problems. Anyone my own age looked silly, immature, unfocused. The older ones seemed too perfect and uptight. I couldn’t find anyone I’d confide in. The only person I trusted here in this group, apart from God, was myself.

  I didn’t see any more of Ivar that day at Blindern. I didn’t go into the cafeteria during lunch break. Not to buy another coffee. Or to see him. I remember thinking he hadn’t kissed me. That was proof he’d only been kidding. He despised me. He hadn’t even wanted to touch me, although the chance had been obvious enough. I decided I shouldn’t ask him for anything. I would never go to him needing anything. I’d manage on my own. And now it’s too late. I couldn’t get to the airport on time even if a helicopter took me. Unless there’s a delay, of course. Maybe I should shout out of the window and get someone to call the airport and find out if the departure for New York is delayed. Just imagine if the plane still hasn’t taken off. I run to the exit and there’s Ivar waiting for me, holding his arms out, reaching out to help me with my luggage. Useless fantasies, Johanne. Stick to reality. To the things you can do something about. Love yourself. The only thing I really know, the only thing I can trust, is my own strength, my own capacity for work. My body is muscular enough, it will carry me through, I am my own slave. Maybe I should spend this time in my room doing some exercise, so it’s not completely wasted. I put my duvet on the floor and wedge my feet under the third step of my loft bed. I’ll see how many sit-ups I manage. A hundred to each side is a minimum.

  I remember cycling to Ullevål School later. It seems like another life now, going along those quiet roads towards Sagene. Tears ran down my cheeks in hot streaks. It struck me that my eyes probably looked beautiful at this moment, large, glossy. But God is the only one who sees me, I thought. God loves me, at least. That is my one blessing: God’s love. I prayed as I whizzed downhill, before the long trek up to Tåsen. Be with me, Lord. Forgive me. The villas up there made me think of The Barns. It felt so good to think about that – a peaceful place in my head, a mental garden. I imagined seeing myself through the round window, walking around in my room, reading through papers, talking on the phone, waving my arms animatedly, so slender. I was wise, and actually rather beautiful and happy.

  It would be five o’clock soon. I knew that Granny usually dozed off at about this time, or perhaps she’d already had her nap. I followed the busy main road up to her gate and then, standing with my bike between my legs, I peered into her mailbox. A few adverts and a community newsletter. Taking them, I pushed the gate open and wheeled my bike along the path. I looked up at the window; if she was awake she’d be sitting there. The red lamp was on. I couldn’t see anyone inside. I propped my bike by the front steps, locked it, went up to the door and rang the bell, before going back down into the garden, so she could see me from her window on the second floor. She didn’t know I was coming. I hadn’t phoned to tell her. Nothing happened and I wondered if she’d heard the doorbell. I looked across at the traffic, at the cars whizzing past, motorcycles, a lorry. There were apples all over the lawn. I hadn’t visited since the start of term. Everything seemed so small today: the house, the lawn, the garden. Whenever I thought of Granny’s house and its surrounding garden, it was always enormous, the trees seemed bigger and taller. The walk from the house to the lawn, where I would have my home one day, seemed so long. Suddenly I thought that The Barns would never be a reality. They were already lost to me.

  Hello, said Granny, so it’s you. She’d opened the door a crack and poked her head round. She smiled mischievously as though I was an unannounced and longed-for suitor. Hello, I said, walking up the front steps, as she stepped back unsteadily to swing the door open and let me in. I leant forward to give her a hug; she recoiled slightly. Mum always says Grandad was very authoritarian. I’ve asked her what she means by that, whether perhaps he hit her, but I’ve never had an answer. I noticed that Granny had put on make-up. Streaks of foundation on her cheeks, a smudgy black on her eyebrows, mascara on her lashes and a fresh coat of bright pink on her lips matching her fingernails, and her thin cotton trousers and the little blouse under her white sweater. You’re looking very smart, I said. Thank you, she said, touching her hair. She seemed happy.

  I poured the coffee out for us. I had searched the cupboard for clean cups, while Granny had looked for the biscuits. I took the milk out of the fridge, poured her a drop, then put it back. She placed a sugar lump in her mouth and sipped her coffee through it. I ought to be stick thin, she said, eating as little as I do. She looked out of the window. I gazed round at all her things: the pink kitchen cabinets with gold handles, the plastic flowers in the vase on the side, the chequered linoleum floor. Mum wanted me to talk to you, I said. The muscles in her jaw tightened. She turned back towards the room and looked at me with her large, clear eyes, before raising her forefinger. Look out there, she said, turning back towards the window slowly and peering over her glasses. My eyes followed to where she was pointing. Further up the road were three Moelven Barracks in a row. Men are living there, you see. Yes, I said. And they walk around outside here, said Granny. I’ve never seen them come onto my property, but they walk around out there. And I don’t like it. It’s always been so quiet here, she said. But Granny, I said, they’re working on the new roads. Girls come, she continued. I see them there, you know, in the middle of the day. Foreign girls. And the men go in to them. That leads to things, you know, Johanne. And in a nice district like this. She peered at me steadily over her glasses. I got up to fetch more coffee, she didn’t want more, her cup was still almost full. I sat down again. Granny, I said, Mum wants you to… She interrupted. Your mother got in such a temper with me yesterday. It wasn’t nice. But she has a demanding job and such an awful lot to do, so we’ll let it pass. Now then, let’s you and I enjoy ourselves, Johanne. She looked at me and smiled. She took a biscuit shaped like a little bow with a red blob in the middle, she pushed it gingerly between her teeth, lifted her lips and bit. She put the rest of the biscuit on her plate and lifted her cup with two fingers. I watched as the beige-coloured coffee met her pink lips. Then she pressed her left index finger to the corners of her mouth several times to remove the crumbs, although there were none there.

  She followed me down the stairs when I left. She took one step at a time, holding the banister tightly as she went. When she reached the bottom she gripped the post with both hands and stared down into the carpet, her back stooped. I stood beside her, my foot lifted high on a stair to tie my laces. I tried to think what this stiff back meant, why it wasn’t getting better, what it was telling me. Give me a ring then, I said. It’s always nice to get a call. She was breathing fast and seemed paler than usual. She should take more exercise, if she went up and down the stairs more often she’d be in better shape. Bye then, Granny, I said, turning the latch and opening the door. It had got colder, a gust of wind blew in. I noticed Granny lift her shoulders as if to shield her ears. I knew I was going to freeze on my way home. Be careful, Johanne, she shouted after me. She watched me through the curtain at the door as I unlocked my bike and then as I rolled past she raised her hand and waved a couple of times before turning the security lock. It clicked twice and I imagined the rattle of the safety chain as she put it on.