Beatles (2 page)

‘You shouldn’t think. You should know.’

‘I’m well set.’

‘Looking forward to going to
realskole?
’

I nodded.

Dad mustered a brief smile and subsided back into his crossword. I said goodnight and, as I turned, Dad’s voice was there again.

‘What’s the name of the drummer in The Beatles?’

He looked very strange as he said that and I think he even blushed. To justify himself, he pointed energetically at the magazine.

‘Ola,’ I started to say, but caught myself. ‘Ringo. Ringo Starr. In fact, his real name is Richard Starkey,’ I informed him.

Dad filled in the squares, nodded and said:

‘Excellent. That fits.’

I lay awake waiting for my mother and father to go to bed. If I switched on the light now they would come and ask what was wrong, because they could see from the crack under the door whether the room was dark or not. I heard the rain outside, I heard the trains puffing past only a few hundred metres away, between my room and Frogner Bay. I knew exactly where they were going, but then there weren’t many railway lines to choose between. Even though they were not going that far and just stayed in Norway they always made me think of distant countries, the ones on the maps behind the teacher’s seat. Listening to the trains, I thought about the stars too, and space, and then everything glazed over and I plunged backwards, inside myself it seemed, and if I gave a shriek Mum and Dad would come rushing in, they were tiny dots a long, long way away and they gently pulled me back. But I wasn’t screaming now. I heard the trains, and the Goldfish – the tram – screeching its way across Ole Bulls plass. And in the middle of all this there were Mum and Dad’s low voices and the radio that was always on, and it was always opera, and it sounded so lonely, sadder than anything I knew, songs from another world, a world that was grey and still, the singing was so cold and dead. On the walls around me were pictures of faces that also sang, but not a sound emerged, the guitars and drums were silent. The Rolling Stones, The Animals, The Dave Clark Five, The Hollies, The
Beatles. The Beatles. Pictures of The Beatles. And I dreamt about Ringo, John, George and Paul. I dreamt that I was one of them, that I was Paul McCartney, that I had his round, sorrowful eyes that all the girls screamed themselves half to death over. I dreamt I was left-handed and played bass guitar. I sat up in bed, wide awake. But I
am
one of them, I thought aloud, and laughed. I am one of The Beatles.

It was half past eleven and Mum and Dad had gone to bed. I set to work. There were three titles. The first was impossible.
My Family
. Dad works in the bank and does crosswords. Mum wanted to be an actress when she was young. My name’s Kim. That was no good. The next title was:
A Day at School
. Impossible. Even lying has limits, even for me lying has limits. You can lie up to a certain point and make it sound good. After that it is just insane. I had to take the last one:
Your Plans After Leaving Folkeskole. Folkeskole
until sixteen, then
realskole
. I retrieved my exercise book from a pile of sandwiches. I had been given an E for my previous essay, but my father had written that one:
My Hobby.
Of course he thought that I should write about stamps, even though I only had two three-sided stamps from the Ivory Coast. My father got an E. Then I took a risk. I put a new cartridge in my fountain pen and wrote in ink straight on the page. There was no going back. My spine tingled, the excitement seemed to inspire me to greater things. First of all, I would finish
realskole
and afterwards
gymnas
. Then I would study medicine and become a doctor in a poor country where I would spend my life working with sick black people. I stretched it out to three and a half pages and finished with something about Fridtjof Nansen, but couldn’t quite get the North Pole to fit with black people, and I realised I should have taken Albert Schweitzer, but by then it was too late. I shut the book without reading through what I had written, and the time must have gone unusually fast because I heard the last train to Drammen thunder by, and the whole world was quiet. The rain had stopped. The trams had stopped running. Mum and Dad were asleep. And I was about to fall asleep myself when a limpid falsetto filled the room, coming from above, but it was not God, it was Jensenius, the nightingale, who had started his nocturnal wanderings, back and forth while singing old songs from the time he had been world-famous.

With Jensenius singing upstairs it was impossible to sleep, even though his voice was nowhere near as sad as those on the radio. Listening to Jensenius was more on the creepy side, but when you saw him it was just comical. He was so colossally big, not so unlike the picture of the man on the IFA salt pastilles, and he was also an opera singer, by the way. That reminded me of something. In the fifth class I had cut out the signature of the man on the pastille packet, Ivar Frederik Andresen, and told Gunnar it was a rare autograph of a world-famous opera singer. Gunnar paid two kroner for it – he collected autographs from everyone from Arne Ingier to Comrade Lin Piao. Gunnar did wonder, though, why it was written on such thick paper. Not paper, I said.
Cardboard
. The finest quality. But why was it so very small? I cut it out of a secret letter, I explained. Three days later Gunnar came over to me and asked if I wanted a salt pastille. And then he took out a packet of IFA and thrust it in my face. He wasn’t angry. Just astonished. I refunded his money and since then there have been no further financial dealings between us.

But, well, Jensenius, our block’s opera singer, he looked like an airship and from this colossal vessel issued a voice that was so high and reedy and heart-rending that a tiny schoolgirl seemed to be inside him, singing in his stead. I suppose he must have been a baritone at one time. There are several stories circulating about Jensenius and I am not quite sure which to believe, but people say he gave sweets to small girls, and small boys, too, and liked to hug them. He had been a baritone at one time, but they had fiddled with his undercarriage, and now he was a soprano, he drank like a bear and sang like an angel. And I like to call him the Whale because whales sing, too, they sing because they are lonely and the oceans are much too large for them.

And then I fell asleep, the first day.

The essay was handed in during the first lesson, after we had said Our Father with Dragon as prayer leader. But he didn’t get any further than ‘hallowed be thy name’, he fell quiet and reddened and his knuckles were pressed white, and Goose had to take over. Now everything went as smooth as butter and the rest of us stood there, straight-backed, by our seats, mumbling as well as we were able.
Class monitor that week was Seb. He buzzed up and down the lines collecting the exercise books and putting them in a tidy pile on the desk in front of Lue who scanned the class with incredulity.

‘All present and correct?’ he asked in a low voice.

Seb nodded and went to his seat. He sat at the back of the window row while I sat behind Gunnar in the middle row and Ola sat at the front by the door and was always first out and last in. In fact, it was a good place to be behind Gunnar, his back was broad enough to mask the whole family medical book. He turned to whisper:

‘Which one did you write about?’

‘Future plans.’

‘What are you goin’ to be?’

‘Doctor in Africa.’

‘Seb’s goin’ to be a missionary. In India.’

‘What about you?’

‘Goin’ to be a pilot. And Ola’s goin’ to be a ladies’ hairdresser.’

‘You got the mag with you?’

Gunnar gave a quick nod and faced the front.

Lue was still scanning the class as though we were a new landscape that had manifested itself in all its glory, and not 7A, twenty-two striplings with greasy hair and spots and our hands in our pockets.

‘Has
everyone
handed in an essay?’ he repeated.

No reaction.

‘Who has
not
handed in an essay?’ he asked, rephrasing the question.

Silence in the classroom. You could have heard a pin drop. The Briskeby tram clattered past, a long way down in the world, for we were the school’s finest and occupied the top floor.

Lue stood up and began to pace the podium, to and fro, in front of us. Whenever he reached the desk he patted the pile of essays and his smile became broader and broader.

‘You’re learning,’ he said. ‘You’re learning and perhaps my endeavours have not been in vain. You will soon come to realise that
punctuality
is one of the corner stones of the adult world. Now that you are going on to the
realskole
you will be faced with new and much greater demands, not to mention those of you who are aiming at
gymnas
and university, you will soon understand, and the best time
to understand this is now. This wonderful pile of essays may indeed bear witness to the fact that you
have
understood if not everything, then at least a part.’

I was sitting in the middle row, behind Gunnar’s comfortingly broad back. Lue was marching around up on his stage, speaking with a warm, tremulous voice. No one was listening to one single syllable, but we were content because we didn’t have to parse main clauses or read Ibsen’s
Terje Vigen,
and after a while his voice faded away, it is a quirk I have, I seem to be able to cut off the sound, as it were, and it can be very pleasant sometimes. Lue became a silent movie, his movements were jerky and exaggerated and his mouth was working with such vigour that his mentally distant classroom audience could guess what was on his mind. Now and then illustrative texts appeared on the board –
When you sally forth into the great wide world, be prepared – Fight for your country and the Norwegian language – Practice makes perfect – Turn your left cheek and always ask first – Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
. And just before the bell rang, I knew he was happy. He was so happy because for the first time, and the last, we had handed in our essays on time. Lue was happy and he was happy with us. Then the bell rang and everyone raced to the door even though Lue was in mid-sentence and, recalling him now, I see a small, grey figure wreathed in an over-sized smock, with thinning hair falling over his forehead and a face shiny with his exertions and happiness. He is still speaking without sound as twenty-two crazy boys charge out, stampede, and he is still standing there, in his own world, as lonely as Jensenius must be, but he is happy because irony has finally released its grip on him, and he is sincere and warm and likes us.

But that is now and not then. At that time the silent movie came to a sudden end when the bell rang. Lue was gone in an instant, like a technical fault, and I clung to Gunnar. The trail led straight down to the toilet where eventually ten to fifteen boys had gathered, so someone must have had a big mouth and that mouth belonged to Ola, who had the world’s worst face for playing poker, his whole mug began to twitch as soon as he had a pair of threes in his hand.

‘Where is it!’ Dragon hassled.

‘This isn’t the circus, you know,’ Gunnar said.

‘You’re havin’ us on,’ Dragon said. ‘You haven’t got it!’

Gunnar just glared at him, without wavering, and Dragon felt ill at ease. He was fat and sweaty and shifted weight from foot to foot.

‘When’ve I ever had anyone on?’ Gunnar asked.

I remembered the time with the IFA pastilles and looked away, for everyone knew that Gunnar would not deceive anyone, and Dragon was slowly but inexorably pushed out of the circle, ashamed, red and breathless.

Gunnar regarded us for a while. Then he pulled up his sweater and shirt and produced a large white envelope. And the circle around him closed in as at last he opened the envelope and took out the magazine. Then, as though he had lost interest, he gave me the magazine without a word and disappeared into a cubicle and locked the door.

So I became the centre of the circle and everyone moved towards me, pushing and shoving, because the break would soon be over. I flicked through it. I could feel the agitation at once, I was agitated myself, it wasn’t as I had imagined. The first pictures were close-ups of shaven twats and there was not a sound to be heard, no one laughed, no one grinned, it was as quiet as a burial chamber. I flicked through faster. There were twats from above and from below, whole pages of huge slits spread diagonally from corner to corner. But, at last, towards the end some normality began to return, whole women, huge knockers, loads of hair, but then there was a picture of a guy lying down with his whole face between a woman’s thighs.

‘What’s he doin’?’ a voice asked.

‘He’s lickin’,’ said another, and it was Gunnar’s, he was out of the cubicle and grinning.

Everything went quiet for a while, completely quiet.

‘Lickin’?’

‘Lickin’ the woman’s cunt, can’t you see!’ another voice said.

‘Lickin’ her cunt?’

Dragon stood on the outer perimeter, his eyes rolling.

‘Yup.’

‘What…what… does that taste like then?’

‘It tastes of grass,’ I said, quick as a shot. ‘If you’re lucky. But if you cop a bitter ’un, it tastes like stale salami and gym shoes.’

Someone was coming down the stairs. A shudder ran through the great flock of white faces. Gunnar threw me a bewildered glance, thrust the envelope in my hand and moved towards the exit with the others. I stood there with my back to the steps and put the magazine in the envelope. The senior teacher grabbed my shoulder and spun me round.

‘And what have you got there?’ he asked.

For a moment I saw the whole world falling apart, everything fell, and it all fell at the same speed, a never-ending fall. The teacher towered over me like a figurehead on a galleon and I had to lean back to look him in the eye. Everything fell, we fell together, and it was more exhilarating than standing on the edge of the ten-metre board in Frogner Lido just before the big leap, even though I had never dived from such a height.

‘My father’s magazine,’ I said. ‘Which I’m going to show herr Lue.’