Hunger (8 page)

Meanwhile the green blanket was an inconvenience to me; nor would it do to walk around with a parcel under one's arm in plain sight of everybody. What would people think of me? So I wondered how to find a place where it could be left for safekeeping for a time. Then it occurred to me that I could go over to Semb's and get it wrapped; that would make it look better right away, and there would be nothing to be ashamed of anymore in carrying it. I entered the store and stated my errand to one of the clerks.

He looked first at the blanket and then at me. It seemed to me he mentally shrugged his shoulders in contempt as he accepted the parcel. I felt offended.

“Be careful, damn it!” I cried. “There are two expensive glass vases inside. The parcel is going to Smyrna.”

That helped. It helped a lot. The man begged my pardon in every movement he made for not guessing right away there were important articles inside the blanket. When he had finished his wrapping, I thanked him for his help like someone who had sent precious objects to Smyrna before, and he even opened the door for me when I left.

I began wandering about among the people at Stortorvet Square, preferring to stay close to the women selling potted plants. The heavy red roses, smoldering with a raw, bloody flush this damp morning, made me greedy, and I was sorely tempted to snatch one; I asked the price just so I could get as close to it as possible. If I had money left over I would buy it, come what may; after all, I could always skimp a little here and there on my daily fare to balance my budget again.

Ten o'clock came around and I went to the newspaper office. “Scissors” is rummaging through some old newspapers, the editor hasn't come in yet. I hand over my big manuscript on request, giving the man to understand that it is of more than merely ordinary importance, and I urge him to remember to hand it to the editor personally when he showed up. I would drop by for his answer myself later in the day.

“Very good!” Scissors said, going back to his newspapers. I thought he took it all too casually but didn't say anything, just nodded indifferently to him and left.

Now I had plenty of time on my hands. If only it would clear up! The weather was really miserable, without a breath of air or freshness; the ladies were carrying umbrellas just in case and the gentlemen wearing funny-looking woolen caps. I took another turn on Stortorvet Square to look at the vegetables and the roses. Then I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around: The “Maiden” says good morning.

“Good morning?” I reply in a questioning tone, in order to know his business right away. I didn't care much for the “Maiden.”

He looks curiously at the big brand-new parcel under my arm and asks, “What have you got there?”

“I've been down at Semb's and gotten some material for clothes,” I answer in a casual tone. “I thought I shouldn't go around looking so shabby any longer—one can be too mean with one's body, you know.”

He looks at me, surprised.

“How are things, by the way?” he asks hesitantly.

“Oh, beyond expectation.”

“So you've found something to do, have you?”

“Something to do?” I reply, looking greatly surprised. “I'm bookkeeper at Christie's, the merchant, don't you know.”

“Oh, indeed!” he says, backing away a little. “Gosh, I'm so happy for you! I just hope they won't wheedle the money you make out of you. Goodbye.”

In a little while he turns around and comes back. Pointing his cane at my parcel, he says, “I would like to recommend my tailor for your suit of clothes. You won't find a more fashionable tailor than Isaksen. Just say I sent you.”

Why did he have to stick his nose into my affairs? What was it to him which tailor I used? I got angry. The sight of this empty, dolled-up individual made me indignant, and I reminded him rather brutally of the ten kroner he had borrowed from me. However, even before he managed to answer I regretted having pressed him for the money; I became embarrassed and avoided meeting his eyes. When a woman walked by just then, I stepped quickly back to let her pass and used the opportunity to make off.

What should I do with myself while waiting? I couldn't go to a café with empty pockets, and I didn't know of any acquaintance I might look up at this time of day. I headed instinctively uptown, idled away some time going from Stortorvet Square to Grænsen Street, read the number of
Aftenposten
which had just been tacked up on the bulletin board, made a detour down to Karl Johan Street, then turned around and walked straight up to Our Savior's Cemetery, where I found myself a quiet spot on the rise near the chapel.

I sat there in silence, dozing in the damp air, musing, half asleep and feeling cold. Time passed. Could I be absolutely certain that my story was truly inspired, a little artistic masterpiece? God knows it might have some faults here and there. Everything considered, it didn't even have to get accepted—no, that was it, not even accepted! What if it was quite mediocre or perhaps downright bad; what guarantee did I have that it hadn't already ended up in the wastepaper basket? . . . My feeling of contentment had been shaken, I jumped up and stormed out of the cemetery.

Down in Aker Street I glanced into a shop window and saw that it was only a few minutes past twelve. This made me even more desperate, having so confidently hoped it was way past noon; there was no use in looking for the editor until four. The fate of my story filled me with dark forebodings; the more I thought about it, the more absurd it seemed that I could have written something usable so suddenly, half asleep at that, my brain full of fever and dreams. I had deceived myself, of course, and been happy all morning for nothing! Of course! . . . I walked briskly up Ullevaal Road, past St. Hanshaugen, came onto some open land, then into the quaint narrow lanes in the Sagene section, crossed some empty lots and cultivated fields, and finally found myself on a country road the end of which I couldn't see.

Here I came to a standstill and decided to turn around. I felt warm from my walk and went back slowly, very depressed. I met two hay wagons, the drivers, both bareheaded and with round carefree faces, lying flat on top of their loads and singing. I thought to myself as I walked along that they would be sure to say something, throw some remark or other my way or play a prank, and when I got close enough one of them called out and asked what I had under my arm.

“A blanket,” I replied.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“I don't know exactly, about three, I think.”

Then they both laughed and drove past. At that instant I felt the flick of a whip against my ear, and my hat was twitched off. The youngsters couldn't let me pass without playing a trick on me. I put my hand angrily to my ear, picked up my hat from the edge of the ditch and continued walking. At St. Hanshaugen I met a man who told me it was past four.

Past four! It was already past four o'clock! I strode off toward town and the newspaper office. Perhaps the editor had been there ages ago and left the office already! I walked and ran by turns, stumbling and knocking against the carriages, left all the other pedestrians behind and kept pace with the horses, fighting like crazy to get there in time. I wriggled through the gate, took the stairs in four bounds and knocked.

No answer.

I think, He's gone! He's gone! I try the door, it's open. I knock once more and step in.

The editor is sitting at his desk, his face turned toward the window, pen in hand poised to write. When he hears my breathless greeting he turns half around, looks at me for a moment, shakes his head and says, “I haven't had time to read your sketch yet.”

I feel so glad that at least he hasn't yet scrapped it that I answer, “Goodness, no, I quite understand. There's no great hurry. In a couple of days maybe, or . . .?”

“Well, we'll see. Anyway, I have your address.”

I forgot to inform him that I no longer had an address.

The audience is over, I step back, bowing, and leave. My hopes are fired up again, nothing was lost yet—on the contrary, I could still win everything, for that matter. And my brain began to fantasize about a great council in heaven where it had just been decided that I should win, win cap itally ten kroner for a story. . . .

If only I had some place to stay for the night! I ponder where I could best slip in, and I become so absorbed by this question that I stand stock-still in the middle of the street. I forget where I am and stand like a solitary buoy in the middle of the ocean, surrounded on all sides by surging, roaring waves. A newsboy holds out a copy of
Vikingen
to me: “It's such fun!” I look up and give a start—I am outside Semb's again.

I quickly make a full turn, hiding the parcel in front of me, and hurry down Kirke Street, fearful and ashamed that someone might have seen me from the window. I pass In gebret's and the theater and, turning at the Lodge Building, head down toward the water and the Fortress. I find a bench again and start racking my brains afresh.

Where in the world was I to find shelter for tonight? Wasn't there a hole someplace where I could sneak in and hide until morning? My pride forbade me to return to my room, it would never occur to me to go back on my word. I rejected that idea with great indignation, smiling inwardly in disdain at the thought of the little red rocking chair. By an association of ideas I suddenly found myself in a big two-bay room I had lived in once in the Hægdehaugen section: I saw a tray on the table loaded with huge sandwiches, it changed and turned into a beefsteak, a seductive beefsteak, a snow-white napkin, bread galore, a silver fork. The door opened: my landlady came to offer me more tea. . . .

Visions and dreams! I told myself that if I took some food now, my head would be confused again, my brain get feverish as before, and I would have lots of crazy ideas to contend with. I couldn't stand food, I wasn't made that way; it was a peculiarity of mine, an idiosyncrasy.

Perhaps something would turn up in the way of shelter later in the evening. There was no hurry; at worst I could take to the woods somewhere, I had the entire city environs to choose from and there was no frost in the air.

The sea out yonder swayed in a brooding repose. Ships and fat, broad-nosed barges plowed trenches in its lead-colored surface, scattering streaks left and right, and glided on, while the smoke rolled out of their funnels like downy quilts and the piston strokes came through with a muffled sound in the clammy air. There was no sun and no wind, the trees behind me were wet, and the bench I sat on was cold and damp. Time passed; I fell into a doze and grew sleepy, a slight chill creeping along my spine. A moment later I felt my eyelids begin to close. And I let them close. . . .

When I awoke it was dark all around; dazed and frozen, I jumped up, grabbed my parcel and started walking. I walked faster and faster to get warm, flapped my arms and rubbed my legs, which I could barely feel anymore, and came up to the firehouse. It was nine o'clock; I had slept several hours.

Where was I to go? I had to be somewhere, after all. I stand there staring up at the firehouse, pondering whether I could manage to get into one of the hallways, watching out for a moment when the patrol turned his back. I climb the stairs ready to talk to the man, who immediately lifts his ax in salute and waits for what I'm going to say. This ax held high, its edge turned toward me, flashes through my nerves like a cold blow; I'm struck dumb with terror before this armed man and involuntarily pull back. I don't say a word, just slip further and further away from him; to save face I pass my hand over my forehead as though I had forgotten something and slink away. When I found myself on the sidewalk again, I felt veritably saved, as if I had just escaped a great danger. And I hurried off.

Cold and hungry and more and more distressed, I wandered up Karl Johan Street. I began cursing quite loudly and didn't care if someone could hear me. At the Storting, near the first lion, I suddenly remember, through a fresh association of ideas, a painter I knew, a young person I had once saved from getting slapped in the amusement park and had later visited. I snap my fingers and head for Tordenskjold Street, find a door with the name C. Zacharias Bartel on a card and knock.

He came to the door himself; he reeked something awful of beer and tobacco.

“Good evening,” I said.

“Good evening. Oh, it's you. Why the hell have you come so late? It doesn't really look good by lamplight. I've added a haystack since the last time you saw it and made a few alterations. You have to see it in the daytime, it's no use trying now.”

“Let me see it anyway,” I said. Actually, I didn't remember which picture he was talking about.

“Absolutely impossible!” he replied. “It would all look yellow. And then there's something else”—he came toward me, whispering—”I have a little girl with me tonight, so it just can't be done.”

“Well, in that case it's out of the question, of course.”

I stepped back, said good night and left.

Apparently there was no alternative but to go out into the woods somewhere. If only the ground hadn't been so damp! I patted my blanket and felt more and more reconciled to the idea of sleeping under the open sky. I had taken such pains, for such a long time, to find a lodging in town that I was sick and tired of the whole thing. It gave me a sweet sense of pleasure to take it easy, resign myself and drift along the street without a thought in my head. I dropped by the University clock and could see it was after ten, and from there I headed uptown. Someplace in the Hægdehaugen area I stopped outside a grocery store where some food was displayed in the window. A cat lay asleep beside a round loaf of white bread, and just behind it was a bowl of lard and several jars of grits. I stood eyeing these eatables awhile, but since I didn't have anything to buy with I turned away from them and continued my tramp. I walked very slowly, passed Majorstuen, continued onward, always onward, walked for hours, and finally got out to the Bogstad Woods.