The Blue Room (Coming of Age Series)

by Hanne Ørstavik

  Where do they come from, the things we do? When do they become a part us, a quirk, a hallmark? I don’t know. All too early, I’d say. Every spring, on Constitution Day, my brother and I were given fifty kroner to spend at the funfair. Edvard would use all his up straight away. I’d save mine. I’d trail around with the adults and they’d pay to see me on an occasional ride or to do a lucky dip – I didn’t need to spend a thing. I often felt rather sorry for Edvard when his money was gone. I was ashamed that I never gave him any of mine. I know he thought I was boring and mean, he’d look right past me, not even bothering to pull a long face. I have no idea what I was saving for. I only remember the act of saving itself, watching the coin counter on my piggybank rising steadily, like a thermometer, it was a good feeling. Why does it cost so much to survive? It’s impossible to do without, we’re caught in a cycle, money has to come from somewhere, there’ll always be somebody who produces money and a hand to stretch out and take it. My hand, my fingers. I look down at them. They’re puny and weak. I fold them, they’re cold and feel alien to each other. Teach me to give, O Father, as You have given me life and happiness. Teach me to be more like You.

  Mum sat in the lounge with the evening paper. We could hear her leafing through it over the piano music. We’d finished preparing the meal, a simple dish, pasta with tomato sauce, vegetarian; at least she couldn’t accuse me of wasting money on meat. Ivar had wanted to pay in the shop, but I’d argued that he was the visitor. And then I’d paid on Mum’s card. Johanne, Johanne, you have only yourself to thank. I shouted out to her that the food was ready. I heard the leather chair creak as she got up. Ivar went out into the hall as she came into the kitchen. We were alone. Mum said nothing, but seemed upset. What’s the matter? I asked. She frowned and stared at me intensely, as though trying to say something without words. Is he good enough for you? Or something of the sort. I didn’t want to reveal that I knew what she meant, and answered by raising my eyebrows in feigned confusion, and then Ivar walked back into the kitchen. He must have noticed the expression on my face and felt he’d interrupted us in a very private conversation, since he looked at me with that warm expression of his, as if to ask if everything was all right. I smiled back. Keen to get on, I told Mum she could sit down and I’d serve. I stood with my back to them and filled the water jug. When I turned there was a bottle of wine on the table. So that was what Ivar had gone to fetch from the hall. I’d have given anything for it to disappear. He didn’t know what was good for him. Coming here with a bottle of wine. Mum looked at me as if she was checking how I reacted, if I’d known about the wine, if it had been my idea. I popped into the Vinmonopolet today, Ivar said, when I was out in the van picking up some stock for work. He smiled at us both. Mum doesn’t drink; she doesn’t like the taste. She smiled faintly. That was kind of you, she said. Wasn’t it, Johanne? Great, I said. I hadn’t realized he had such a relaxed attitude to alcohol on a weekday. I was suddenly unsure about him. Who was he really? Would he start drinking? Would he ever get a proper job? I saw us living in a caravan, dirty, cramped and messy. I put the saucepan on the table, took off the lid; it smelt deliciously of basil and garlic. So what’s the special occasion? Mum asked, leaning forward with a smile. Then it occurred to me that she wasn’t too fond of pasta. Why did I always forget these things, when my memory was otherwise so good? She looked at me and smiled. I tried to work out what that smile really meant. Ivar asked for a corkscrew. I got up to find it. We’ve got one with a green-painted handle that I bought at a jumble sale. I was surprised he hadn’t noticed anything, that he didn’t realize he’d made a mistake bringing the wine. But he was probably a bit nervous too. I had to try to see the situation from his perspective, try to help him. Suddenly my back seized up. It felt ready to snap completely if I so much as leant forward too quickly. The pain was so strong, I couldn’t think about anything else. Mum looked out of the window. Ivar looked at me. I wished he’d look the other way. Keep to himself and stop leaning towards me like that. I was grateful for the music and that I’d remembered to put it on. I opened the wine, fetched three stem glasses and poured it out. Ivar lifted his glass, to make a toast. I raised mine vaguely and drank. We served ourselves and started to eat. When I looked up from the table again, Mum was staring straight at Ivar. She’d clearly been watching him for a while. There was silence, the cheerful piano waltz had just come to an end, and Ivar was concentrating on getting a pasta twist onto his fork. Tell me about love, Ivar, said Mum. He looked up at her and then at me. What do you mean? he said. He put his food in his mouth and started to chew. Mum didn’t answer. She just looked at him with her head cocked to one side, smiling seriously. Ivar looked from her to me again. He seemed bewildered. The essence of love, she said. The true nature of love. She said the word love slowly and solemnly, giving the ‘l’ an extra lilt. Is this some kind of interrogation? said Ivar. I could hear he was trying to be humorous, but Mum clearly didn’t notice his light-hearted tone. No, she said, looking straight at him again. I hoped he’d be able to hold her gaze. Love is an attempt, she searched for the words, an attempt to share our sense of wonder at the greatest mystery in life. Giving him a meaningful glance, she turned to look out of the window and then took a sip of her wine – after all. She smiled to herself and shook her head, as though she was musing on an answer somebody else had once given to this question, long ago. When Mum had posed it to Karin, she’d simply answered that love was God and God was love. Then they’d gazed at each other for a long time, as though they were wrapped in the same thoughts, sharing its spell, so happy they couldn’t bear to move. Tears had welled up in Mum’s eyes, they’d hugged each other and Karin had stroked her back. Mum has never asked me. I don’t know what I’d reply. It’s one of those white areas of thought, or rather a black hole into which all thoughts vanish.

  I look down at my watch. At the second hand moving round and round. That, I think, is my life disappearing. Every time it moves I draw a little closer to death. I love the blue colour I painted this room with. So clear and pure. I feel like we belong together. That it’s my most loyal friend. But can it know that? Is it aware that it is loved by me? Can that give it any comfort, or make it feel less alone?

  I was in the kitchen drinking tea. It was dark. I’d been sitting there for a long time. I hadn’t switched any lights on. I’d considered lighting a candle, but I just sat there, staring out of the window. My thoughts drifted, they were transparent, thin veils, and from behind them Ivar came into view. He was rehearsing with the band again. He’d asked me to take his key, to be at home for him when he got back, to sleep over. I couldn’t. I’d said I needed to go to bed early, to catch up on my sleep. He’d held me hard and said, No naughtiness, you hear, and kissed me on the forehead. I like that sort of firmness, the way he held me, his stern voice, the way he grabbed me without asking permission, helping himself. I could hear her footsteps in the backyard below, as the front gate closed, the clacking on the paving stones, the downstairs door slamming, the sound of her walking up the stairs. She turned the light on in the hallway, glanced at herself in the mirror, then looked into the kitchen. Oh, you’re sitting in here, she said. Mum dropped her handbag onto the floor, kicked off her shoes and put her jacket on a hanger. I couldn’t see her from where I was sitting, I could just hear her movements, her voice: Johanne, I need to talk to you. She went into the bathroom. I heard her pee. She came straight out again without washing her hands. I was about to remind her to wash them – after all, she’d been out touching all kinds of things. I didn’t. What did she want to talk to me about? She walked on through the lounge and behind the curtain. I heard her open her wardrobe. She was changing her clothes. What did you want to say? I shouted. There was no reply. I went over to the cooker, turned on the hotplate to warm the vegetable soup: carrots, potatoes and kohlrabi, one stock cube, garlic and a squeeze of tomato purée, the healthiest and cheapest option, less than twenty kroner for two. Mum came out of her room and stopped in the hallway to put on
her indoor shoes. I stirred the soup. We looked at each other. I went back to my chair and sat down. Here it comes, I thought. Here comes the moment of judgement. Johanne, said Mum. She took a glass from the cupboard, fetched a bottle of Diet Coke from the fridge, poured it out and drank. Ah, I was thirsty, she said. She looked at me and attempted to smile. What did you want to say? I asked. Johanne, she said, sitting down. She lifted the lid of her Winnertip cigarette-making machine, tucked some pinches of tobacco in the groove and distributed them evenly. She paused and looked at me. I shouldn’t burden you with this, she said, fixing an empty cigarette shell in place, closing the flap and pushing the tobacco in. Click-clack. I lifted my teacup slowly. The tea was cold and there were only a few drops left at the bottom. I took a sip, held the empty cup to my mouth. Mum lit her cigarette and gazed out of the window. She seemed sad. Poor Mum. I thought about everything she’d been through, I wanted to be nice to her, to look after her. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but stopped midway. Then she said, I’ve been thinking about painting the lounge. We need a bit of colour with the long dark evenings closing in. Don’t you think, Johanne? Yes, I said, we certainly do. That’s a great idea, Mum. Johanne dear, I know you’re busy with all your studies, but do you think you could take it in hand? We’re so busy at work. Sure, I said, of course I can. She wanted me to select the shade, I’d drop by the hardware store and pick up a colour chart; it didn’t take long for us to decide on yellow, we needed a warm sunny colour for the cold winter days. She took a little soup, added more salt, ate and smiled. I was glad she was happy. We agreed that I’d make some new sofa cushion covers too; some plain and others patterned with touches of yellow. That would cheer things up. We had a lovely evening. I remember feeling happy as I went to bed, pleased that we were back on good terms and that she’d stopped being angry with me. Everything was going to be fine, and I could stay here until I’d completed my studies.

  I think of the days Ivar and I have spent together. Almost two weeks up until now. Each day has been a little life. I’ve got up and cycled to Blindern. Taken my place in the reading room, opened my books, looked at the ceiling and sent a smile up to God. Studied hard. Everything has been exciting and interesting. I’ve done my reading on schizophrenia. I’ve started on depression, and a new chapter in my social psychology book called Loving, Liking and Close Relationships. My books are in my bag out in the hall.

  I see Ivar in a hundred double exposures. I see his body in his white jacket and tatty blue jeans, he moves in my imagination, a flower bursting forth. He turns to me, goes down on one knee and asks if I’ll accompany him to the record store. He sits, stands, walks about in his apartment, a sandwich in one hand, talking at me with a full mouth. We hurtle along on our bikes, in the rain, his brown hair flying straight back. In the evening, he lies on his stomach on the mattress in front of an old Bergman film on TV, he must have been watching me for a long time without my noticing. He crosses the reading room towards me, hips gyrating crudely, hand at his crotch, index finger straight up, and we laugh. His teeth. His lips. The water dripping from his chin in the shower. He takes my glasses off, pushes my hair from my forehead, runs his fingers deep in my curls. His eyes when he looks at me from below as he kisses my breasts. My child, sweet little thing. And when he’s inside me, just before he comes, his face contorts as though the skin were suddenly too tight, as though he were sobbing, a look of boundless despair. It was a battle every night, to be allowed to sleep at home. One evening I went to meet him, to surprise him outside his rehearsal venue. An old factory with grimy windows. I sat on the pavement next to my bike, near the wall by the door, with a book he wanted me to read, a short Norwegian novel about a lighthouse keeper’s family out on an island. I had decided to go to America with Ivar, but I didn’t want to tell him, in case I couldn’t go for some reason. A couple of junkies came walking along the pavement, a man and a woman. She was wearing a short pink skirt and navy stockings. When they’d gone, I imagined the two of us like that. If I wasn’t careful I’d turn into her and Ivar would be my pimp. I felt my anger start to rise. He wanted to pressurize me into things. He was pushing me beyond my limits, bit by bit, nudging me further all the time. Just being here, waiting for him, sitting on a filthy pavement in Grünerløkka, was a step too far. Moments later Ivar came out of the door with the rest of the band. One of them suggested going to Schous for a beer. Ivar was happy to see me, or seemed to be. He crouched in front of me and kissed me on the forehead, cheeks, nose and mouth. Come with us for a drink, he said. I didn’t want to, but said nothing. These ambitionless, layabout friends of his, going for a beer on an ordinary Wednesday night. Couldn’t he see how vulnerable he was making us? It was like selling yourself. Lying down and exposing yourself to everything destructive. Ivar said we should pick up my bike on the way back. I locked it up carefully. He held my hand, but with the pavement being so narrow I ended up trailing behind him. How can you put up with this, Johanne? I thought. You’re like a sheep, a little pink piggy on a lead. The air was thick with cigarette smoke down in this dive, I’d never been here before, it was dark, dirty and shabby. I wanted to leave immediately, but I sat there with a cup of tea, Ivar’s foot touching mine under the table, his warmth holding me captive. Half an hour later I got up, saying that I had a headache and had to leave. Ivar got up too. He took some money from his pocket and put it on the table for his beer and my tea. The band smiled, one of boys made a comment I didn’t catch, and they all laughed. Ivar smiled back. I assumed it was something obscene. My girl, he whispered into my hair as we headed for the exit. Opening the door for me with one hand, he took me round the waist. I thought you’d stay with them, I said, as we came out. I wouldn’t have minded, you know, I don’t own you. It was cold, the air was damp. A tram rumbled past. Ivar tried to say something. What? I said. He stopped, took my face in his hands and placed his forehead against mine. Are you nuts, Johanne? Are you out of your mind? You think I’d let you go like that? he said. We looked at each other. His eyes were so close that they glided into one. I only want to be where you are.

  And where are you now, Ivar? I stand by the window and look out. Somewhere up there in the sky? Why can’t someone take care of me? Johanne! You seem to think you can put the responsibility for your life into other people’s hands. Love yourself. Come on now. I can’t sit down here. Can’t slump passively into a chair when I’m about to burst, to shoot out of this room, like a little cold pebble, the kind you find in their thousands on the beach, that you pick up and rub and weigh in your palm, before dropping it to rejoin the others. I kick the door but it hurts my foot. I ought to throw the chair into it, smash it open, make a hole in it. Why don’t I? Am I worried about the damage? The cost? I have approximately eighty kroner in my purse. That won’t stretch to anything. I’ve got 26,319 kroner in the savings account for my apartment. Laughable. Derisory, Johanne. Pathetic. You are standing still. You’ll never get on in life. You’re incapable of anything.

  The next evening I left the colour chart on the table, before going to meet Ivar. Mum hadn’t come home yet. Then we’d discussed it one morning, a day or so later, Mum wasn’t quite satisfied with any of the shades I’d picked out. Oh dear, she said, looking up at me, I’m wearing you out. I smiled, filled my Thermos with coffee, tore off a piece of greaseproof paper for my packed lunch. It’s no problem, Mum, practical things like that are fun. The following Saturday I mixed a yellow from my watercolour box. We both liked it, a strong, warm colour. I put the sample I’d made in her purse, and we agreed that she’d order the paint during her lunch break and have it delivered.

  I want to imagine Ivar and me. To think of us when we make love. When we’re lying next to each other, our bodies close. I want my thoughts to be beautiful, because it was never anything but beautiful, and we deserve it. We’re lying on the mattress in Ivar’s room. It is our last night. Yesterday evening. I think of his hands, reaching out, touching me, oh, I miss those hands, Ivar. I love your penis, your soft,
firm scrotum. He wanted to take me from behind, and I knelt on all fours, and it had been wonderful, we’d laughed, it was so good. Afterwards, I’d closed my eyes, lay on my back, listened to Ivar breathing. That was when I saw the skinny man. He was standing in the doorway. He’d taken off his clothes. The girl was lying on the bed, rigid. I tried to blot the image out, but it forced itself in on me. If you want the one thing, Johanne, you’ll have to take the other. His long hair hung loose over his shoulders, slowly he turned. And then I saw. It wasn’t a man; it was a woman. The bony hips, the slack belly, the flat breasts. She advanced towards the girl. I could see her huge labia dangling in among the crinkly hair. The girl wanted to turn, to escape from the bed, but she couldn’t move. The woman walked over, she took her hand and rubbed it against her genitals, between the wet lips. The girl lay there with the small of her back pressed against the mattress. The odour of discharge. Slime. The girl’s eyes grew bigger, as the woman put one of her breasts in her mouth. Then, placing a knee on the bed, she swung herself up and, kneeling over the girl, she lowered her sex and rubbed it into her face. Lick me, she said.