Before I Burn: A Novel (8 page)

While he was engaged in this task he heard footsteps on the gravel. It was Dag coming up the path, and he stopped in front of Ingemann, blocking the sun.

‘Well, if it isn’t old sleepyhead,’ Ingemann said with a bright chuckle.

Dag didn’t answer; he just watched his father’s hand and the brush slowly and fastidiously painting the black letters. When Ingemann had finished, Dag helped him to carry the jerrycans back to where they had been, after which the fire engine had to be reversed into the station. Dag did this while his father made sure the vehicle was backed as far as it could go. He stood in the darkness, inside the garage, as the fire engine slowly reversed towards him. It was so tight that he would be crushed against the wall if it didn’t stop in time. He waited, unperturbed, as the vehicle inched closer and the room was filled with exhaust fumes. Then it came to a halt with a metre’s clearance from the wall.

‘Perfect!’ he shouted.

Afterwards they ambled the short distance back to the house, chatting in low voices. They, too, had begun to speak in low voices.

‘Let’s hope that was the last fire,’ Ingemann said.

‘Yes, let’s hope so,’ Dag replied.

‘I’m getting too old to be putting out fires,’ Ingemann said.

‘Too old?’ Dag pulled up and studied his father. ‘You’re not too old. I’m sure you’ll be with us next time as well.’

The latter took Ingemann aback, but he said nothing. Instead he shook his head and smiled at his son, and by then they were home, and on entering the hall they could smell Alma’s rissoles and forgot everything else.

The following night, all was still.

People went to bed. Lights were extinguished, doors locked, cool sheets parted.

Only the outside lamps were on. The white domes, the moths and all the nameless insects fluttering towards the light in fear.

VI.

THE AIR IS CLEARER, SHARPER. Three degrees centigrade. The birds seem confused, they are zigzagging across the sky as though no longer sure where south and north are. The water is black, smooth, like oil. The reflection of the closest houses is nigh on perfect. Sometimes I wish I had never left this region. I should never have gone to Oslo, should never have started studying, should never have started to write. I should have stayed here, right here, in the midst of this serene landscape, in the peaceful woods with all the shining pools and lakes, among the white houses and red barns and the placid cows in the summer. I should never have left all this that I love so deeply. I should have stayed here and lived a different life.

Every now and then I have the feeling that I am living two parallel lives. One is secure, simple, a life without so many words. The other is apparently real life, with me in the middle of it, at my desk writing every day. The first life can disappear for lengthy periods, but makes an occasional appearance, it is as though I am suddenly close to stepping inside it, I am on the verge and I have a sense that at any moment I will catch sight of the person who perhaps really is me.

After a while it becomes too cold to sit by the window. I have turned up the heat, but it doesn’t help. In the end, I fetch my jacket and wrap it around me. From the window I can see up to where Olav and Johanna’s house used to be, and some way down, by the old post office, is the house they rented for the last months before she fell ill and was accommodated in the rest home in Nodeland. The fire must have been reflected in the lake. That must have been a sight.

I read Dag’s letter several times, slowly, assiduously, as though I might get closer to him if I just read carefully enough. As though the mystery around him lies in the words themselves.

I write a sentence in my notebook:
Who is it we see when we see ourselves?

That is the question.

I remember one episode. I must have been in the first class, in which case I would have been seven or eight years old. I was standing in front of the class and telling a story. I don’t remember what the story was about, but I know it was very exciting because it had me and everyone else in its thrall. I remember thinking: Hold your horses now, you mustn’t exaggerate, you mustn’t tell any more lies, soon you’ll have gone too far, soon they won’t believe you any more, soon they’ll see through you, soon they’ll see that you’re lying, soon they’ll all get up and walk away and you’ll be left all alone.

But they believed me. It worked. They didn’t rumble me. It was as quiet as the grave until the story was finished, and for a few seconds afterwards. Then I heard:
More!

However, what happened next was very important. When the bell rang and everyone made a beeline for the door, our teacher held me back. Her name was Ruth; I liked her a lot. She crouched down in front of me with a hand on each of my shoulders, as though I had hurt my face or done something wrong. I remember her face, her eyes, her expression.
Where did you get that story?
she asked. She seemed concerned, and so as not to worry her further I shrugged and cast down my eyes. I didn’t dare say that I had made it up. That it had all come to me on the spur of the moment. That it was a fabrication from beginning to end. I wanted to free myself from her grip, but I didn’t know what to say. She continued to stare at me with those concerned eyes of hers, and I promised myself that I would never tell a story like that again. For the first time, I had done something illicit. Me, who was always so well behaved, who always did what was right. Now I didn’t know what lay in store for me.
You’re a writer, that’s what you are
, Ruth said, looking at me with a strange smile.
I’ll n-never do it again
, I stuttered, feeling a vague sense of shame force its way up from my stomach to my chest and face. Then she let go of me and I charged out to join the others, but her words didn’t let go of me, they were impossible to escape. Ruth had planted them, and quietly, oh so quietly, they began to grow. I was not like the others. I was a writer. I felt it could be seen all over me. It was written on my face, or in my eyes, or on my forehead. I had promised I would never tell stories again, I would just behave myself and do what was right, and I hoped for a long time that all of this would pass of its own accord.

VII.

AT A FEW MINUTES PAST 1 A.M. she got dressed and went down to the kitchen. She put the kettle on the stove and waited for the water to boil. When the coffee was ready she took a clean cup from the cupboard and sat down in Dag’s seat at the kitchen table, from where she could see across the plain towards Breivoll. There was something light inside her, something that was totally weightless and never rested, which made it impossible to sleep. It was like this almost every night; she lay beside Ingemann staring for ages at the ceiling. She heard the music in Dag’s room, and whenever it went quiet she pricked up her ears. She could hear him getting out of bed and mumbling something, but she couldn’t make out the words. Then she dropped off and snatched a couple of hours’ sleep at around midnight. She slept lightly, as though hovering just under the surface. Fragments of dreams drifted by, but everything was distorted and unrecognisable as if it belonged to someone else.

Then she was awoken by someone descending the stairs. Keys jangled as he threw on his jacket. The lock clicked. Silence in the house after the sound of the car faded.

After a while she got up.

She sat listening to the clock’s regular tick above the refrigerator. Steam rose from her cup like long, ragged flags fluttering in the wind and dissipating.

Much later, she saw a car approaching from across the plain at great speed. It was still dark outside. The headlights shook. The car slowed down as it came to the crossroads, then turned left, and the headlights cut like a knife through the white, transparent mist hanging over the field.

It was him.

The car drew to a halt outside the kitchen. She heard the car radio blaring for a few seconds before it went quiet, she heard the door opening, his steps on the gravel. She heard him talking to himself in the yard. She was almost used to it now. He would suddenly ask himself a question. Or reprimand himself. She had heard that on several occasions, but had said nothing about it to Ingemann. Initially it had happened while the music was playing, later also when there was complete silence. At first this had frightened her. She had been sitting alone in the living room with some sewing when she heard Dag talking upstairs. She had the impression there was someone with him. A second person. Someone from his old class? She had gone upstairs and knocked on his door, and when he opened it only he was there. His face had frozen into a strange grimace, and it was this expression that had frightened her. But then his whole face softened, everything melted, the bizarrely distorted face seemed to slide away, and she saw it was him.

She got up now, went to the door and stood listening with the steaming cup in her hand. The yard had gone quiet. Then he came in.

‘What are you doing up?’ he asked.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ she said.

‘Coffee in the middle of the night?’

‘Why not?’

She filled a large, white cup and put it down on the other side of the kitchen table, in what was actually Ingemann’s place.

‘Are you hungry?’ she asked. ‘We’ve got some fresh bread, you know.’

He sat down at the table while she took some bread from the cupboard and cut three white slices that fell to the side one after the other. He said nothing. He smelt of spring nights and exhaust fumes.

‘Have you been gadding about?’ she asked.

‘You could say that,’ he replied.

She put out some jam that had been in the freezer since the previous summer, some clove cheese and Prim spread. All of this she served in a semi-circle around him. She got out some milk, too, and poured it into a glass.

‘Come on, eat,’ she said.

‘You don’t need to wait up for me,’ he blurted, raising his eyes.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said with a little smile, flicking the hair off her forehead.

‘You couldn’t sleep?’

‘No. I suppose I’m just like you,’ she said. ‘You don’t sleep either, do you.’

He didn’t respond, just looked at her and smiled. They didn’t say anything for a long while. It felt good. There was quite some time before morning broke, before Ingemann got up and the day began. Only the two of them now. It was good, somewhat unaccustomed, crystal clear, and she wished it could go on and on. He ate greedily; she sliced more bread and placed it on the edge of his plate while essaying a smile. It was wonderful to see him showing a healthy appetite. That was how it had always been: the more he ate, the better she felt.

‘It’s cold out tonight,’ he said, chewing and looking out of the window pensively.

‘Are you cold?’ she asked. ‘Shall I get you a jumper?’

He shook his head, drained his glass of milk and stood up, ready to go. She knew at once it was over.

‘I suppose it was cold in Porsanger, too, wasn’t it?’ she asked out of the blue.

‘Minus forty,’ he answered, without looking at her.

She got up.

‘Couldn’t you tell me a bit about it, Dag?’ she asked, feeling her face go hot and flustered. ‘Surely you can tell me…Pappa and I know next to nothing.’

Dag relaxed, and his movements slowed.

‘What would you like me to tell you?’ he asked.

‘What really happened.’

His gaze lingered on her, then he shook his head almost imperceptibly.

‘What really happened?’

‘Yes,’ she said with an even voice. ‘What happened to you.’

‘To me? What do you mean?’

She moved closer while Dag stood rooted to the floor. She went up to him, and now she could smell the smoke.

‘You’re so…You’ve become…Can’t you tell me, Dag? Please. Just tell me everything.’

They were standing in the middle of the kitchen floor. The light from the ceiling lamp engulfed them and made his hair gleam greasily. She sent him an imploring look, then dropped her gaze, saw his open shirt, hands, brown cord trousers, socks.

‘Are you crying, Mamma?’

She didn’t answer. She was standing very close to him, with eyes closed now.

‘Do you want me to tell you?’ he continued nonchalantly.

‘Yes, Dag, it would make me so happy.’

She heard him take a deep breath. She swallowed and felt her heart thump out of control. She looked up at him, and now he had that same stiff face she had first seen upstairs in his room. And at that moment she froze with fear.

‘Dag,’ she whispered.

‘Mamma,’ he said in a low, thick voice.

‘Don’t you want to tell me?’

‘It’s…Mamma, it’s…’

He shook his head sadly.

‘Come on, Dag,’ she prompted. ‘Let’s go and sit in the living room.’

She went ahead, and he followed hesitantly, then stopped in the doorway.

‘Don’t you want to?’ she asked again.

‘Mamma, I…’

‘Couldn’t you play something first?’ she asked hastily.

‘Now?’

‘Not too loud, though. Then we can have a chat afterwards.’

He vacillated, watching her, then smiled, and a warm flush surged through her.

They had bought the piano for his sake. That was after he had started going to Teresa on a regular basis. He needed to be able to practise at home. And so they had ensured he could. Ingemann had acquired the piano at a house clearance sale; he had lashed it to the small trailer belonging to the fire service, and then he and Dag had driven it home. They had managed to transport it indoors with the help of Alfred and several other neighbours. She could remember the day so well. It was
the day the piano came
, they said later, as though they were talking about a child. It was only when she saw them carrying it that she realised how heavy it was, and when they had finally got it into position by the window, she said, loud enough for everyone to hear, that this piano would never be moved again.

He sat down on the piano stool, looking up at her expectantly.

‘What shall I play then?’

‘You decide,’ she replied. ‘Anything you like.’

‘Anything?’

He flexed his fingers like a concert pianist. Then he played. Very softly so that only the two of them could hear. She noticed that he was rusty, he hit a false note now and then, but nevertheless. It was slowly coming back. He was playing. She stood a little way behind him, studying his back, neck, head, the hair that had grown quite long, almost as it had been before. She looked up at the postcard that still leaned against the cups, she saw the picture of the soldier in the watchtower, she saw the endless snow-covered plains and the Russian border, like a white, treeless road leading past the tower and beyond into infinity.