Before I Burn: A Novel (12 page)

After the blaze in Haeråsen on 20 May there was a hiatus. No new fires for thirteen days. No suspicious persons or unfamiliar cars on the roads. It felt as though it was all over. The summer arrived with long, drowsy, sun-soaked days. The lilac trees were in blossom and their sweet fragrance hung heavily from garden to garden for those who walked outdoors in the evening.

Perhaps, after all, it had been a dream?

Neither Grandma nor Teresa made any special comments about the following days. Teresa received her last music pupils before the summer holidays. Grandma and Grandad went swimming for the first time in Lake Homevannet on the evening of 27 May; the water was eighteen degrees. Mamma went for slow walks pushing the pram, generally down to Lauvslandsmoen, past Aasta’s house and back again, and I slept the whole way.

On 1 June the World Cup football championship started in Argentina, with the opening ceremony at the River Plate Stadium in Buenos Aires. Followed by the match between Poland and West Germany.

People still talked about the three fires, but their tone had changed. There is probably some explanation, it was said. A cigarette, for example. Someone could have thrown a lit cigarette out of a car window, couldn’t they? Someone could have been inattentive, forgetful, couldn’t they? They inadvertently flicked a cigarette end out of the window. Drove on. And with all the dry weather there had been. That was the explanation. Thoughtlessness. Accidents. Of course. After all, the three fires had started by the roadside.

Slowly, the region relaxed.

V.

IN THE END he found himself a job, as a fire officer at Kjevik Airport. It happened a few days after the previous fire. It was almost too good to be true. At last he had somewhere to go; the only drawback was that he had to work nights and sleep during the day. He left home at 6 p.m. and drove for up to an hour to the airport. Before starting work he took a training course over a few evenings. That was all. He knew most things already, though. The only new subject for him was emergency first aid and how to save lives. Then he paid very careful attention.

When he applied for the job he attached a reference Ingemann had written. It said that he had almost grown up in a fire engine, that he had been involved in several emergencies and was already a better driver than his father, the fire chief. He had all the requisite qualifications, and he recommended his son without reservation.

A few days later he was appointed.

Alma was extremely relieved. For over a year he had been at home without a fixed occupation. Now, finally, he had a job outside the house, so it couldn’t be helped if he had to sleep all day.

It was a lonely job. Often he was on his own in the duty office with a view of the runway and the flight approach. At around twelve, when the night was at its darkest, although it was still quite clear, he watched planes glide in from nowhere. A flashing dot that at first sight appeared to be stationary, but then the light grew and he saw that the flashing came from two small navigation lights on the wing tips. Then he heard the noise coming nearer, rolling across the sky like thunder. A powerful strobe light was switched on. It was like a boat shining down on the sea beneath it. He counted the seconds. The aircraft fuselage hovered above the black Topdalsfjord. The wings rocked from side to side. He visualised the plane suddenly tilting over, or an engine catching alight, dragging a plume of smoke and fire across the sky before it struck the runway and skidded along.

He stood by the window of the office and felt the glass vibrating. The wheels touched down with two tiny screeches. The plane raced along, the wing tips emitting sparks, then it slowed down, came to a halt, turned at the end of the runway and taxied to the control tower.

This is what he did: he followed every single plane that descended from the skies. He couldn’t concentrate on anything else. He had to rub his eyes. In a way he felt tired, yet at the same time he was strangely clear-headed and alert. He rested his forehead against the glass. The planes came. They dropped from the sky. They landed. He thought he could see people sitting behind the small windows, laughing and enjoying themselves, making toasts and singing.

A few hours later he drove home. It was already day by then, but his head was hazy, it was as though he had been to the cinema and seen a film which lasted seven long hours. Every so often he stopped the car at a deserted lay-by, opened the door, walked to the forest edge, lit a cigarette, but tossed it away after a few drags and stood for a moment or two staring into the unmoving mesh of branches.

When he arrived home at Skinnsnes, Alma and Ingemann were sitting in the kitchen having breakfast, and as he took his place at the table he had the sense they had been up all night waiting for him. Alma sliced more bread and poured milk into his glass and steaming hot coffee into the cup next to him. It was almost like the old days when he came home from the
gymnas
and had news to tell them. They asked him how work had been and he said it had been fine. And that was true, of course. There wasn’t so much to tell. Nothing did happen. Planes came and went. He sat there keeping watch and nothing happened.

‘No fires at Kjevik, then?’ Ingemann said in jest.

‘No fires here, either?’ Dag replied.

Ingemann shook his head. Alma said nothing. Then he went up to his room to sleep.

That was how it was. Ten days passed, and nothing happened.

One night he took a gun with him. It was a saloon rifle. 22LR calibre. He had bought it with his confirmation money and had so far used it only for target practice. In addition, he had bought a telescopic sight, a Hawke. He put the rifle on the rear seat of the car, hidden under some clothes. Then he took it into the office with him. He sat waiting for the last plane of the day. According to the timetable it was due to arrive at 23.34. He was calm, clear-headed, yet tired somehow. He reclined on the much-too-short sofa in the corner, closed his eyes, opened them. He had slept almost all day. Yet still there was this peculiar, stubborn tiredness. He switched on the tiny radio on the window sill and found the right frequency: it was the World Cup in Argentina, Austria versus Sweden. The radio crackled and he had to concentrate to hear what was happening on the pitch. After forty minutes Hans Krankl scored for Austria with a rocket from inside the sixteen-metre box.

Then the plane appeared, a Braathens from Stavanger.

He rushed to the window, but it was nearly impossible to fix the plane in the sights. He had to stand searching the night sky for some time. Then he spotted it again. He followed the plane as it came closer and closer. A large illuminated ship. He could almost see the passengers sitting there behind the small windows. As the plane hung sixty or seventy metres above the fjord he pulled the trigger. There was a cold click. Then he lowered the gun. His mouth was dry. He knew he had hit the target.

VI.

ON THE MORNING OF Friday, 2 June, it began to rain. It was a light, floating drizzle that hung in the air during the early hours, making the grass at the roadside glisten. Then it cleared up. The wind increased from the north-west and blew everything away. Clouds dissipated, the freshly washed sun shone, the road dried. It was just past nine o’clock.

On this morning Dag had returned home a bit later than usual. He had been dog-tired and hadn’t uttered a word, just went straight upstairs and to bed. He didn’t even have a bite to eat, nor a cup of coffee or a glass of milk, nothing.

Ingemann had gone out to the workshop just after eight as usual, and then Alma was left alone in the kitchen. She had switched on the radio, turning it down as low as possible. It was
Nitimen
with Jan Pande-Rolfsen, the cheery voice of popular entertainment. She wiped the table, then ran the tap in the sink and washed up.

After
Nitimen
was finished she went into the hall and stood at the bottom of the stairs, listening. Nothing. She made some fresh coffee, filled the thermos and went to Ingemann’s workshop. Inside, it smelt of oil and diesel and old junk. It was a good smell, it made her feel secure; she liked it even though she was never there for longer than absolutely necessary. She didn’t have much idea of what he got up to, and he never enlightened her. This was his world, she had her own, and that was how it should be. They each had their own world, and then of course they had Dag.

As soon as Ingemann heard her coming he rose from the steel chair by the workbench where he usually sat if he didn’t have a lot to do or when he was taking a break. He went to the shelf with the screws and nuts and had his back to her as she approached.

‘I’ll put the coffee here,’ she said.

‘Yes, do that,’ he mumbled.

She waited for a second, until he turned.

‘He’s still asleep,’ she said. It sounded more like a question than a statement.

Ingemann didn’t answer. A glass partition seemed to slide between them whenever there was any mention of Dag. He bent over a motor that had been almost completely taken apart, then he found the tiny hole where the screw fitted and tightened it. She stood watching him for a moment.

‘I think Dag’s ill,’ she announced.

‘Ill?’

‘He talks to himself.’

Ingemann straightened up and looked at her.

‘Where did you get that idea?’

‘I’ve heard him.’

‘That can’t be true,’ Ingemann said, returning to the motor.

‘It’s true. He talks to himself.’

‘Dag is not ill,’ he said softly, his face close to the black engine.

‘I’ve tried to speak to him,’ she said. ‘He was on the point of telling me what was wrong.’

‘I very much doubt if there’s anything wrong with him,’ Ingemann said, found another screw and tightened it hard. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Dag.’

‘How can you know that?’ She pulled her knitted jacket tighter around her and crossed her arms.

‘Because he’s my son. I know him.’

She usually had a quiet cup of coffee on her own in the living room before she prepared a light lunch. She did so on this day too, but she drank the coffee faster than was her wont, even though it was scalding hot. She stared at the black piano, and at the shelf of trophies. Then she put down the cup, found a rag in the kitchen and began to dab at the dust. She wiped the piano, carefully ran the rag over the keys, causing them to tinkle. Went into the hall, stood on the lowest step and listened. She couldn’t seem to rest, and it still wasn’t much past ten o’clock. Making a swift decision, she put the cloth back in the kitchen, dried her hands, straightened her hair in front of the hall mirror, grabbed her cardigan and walked the short distance to Teresa’s.

It was good to be out in the sun and the wind. Her hair lifted off her forehead, the morning was fresh and clean, and the whole world seemed to brighten. Alma and Teresa used to visit each other now and then. Even though they were very different types they appreciated each other’s company. They chatted about everyday things, Teresa brewed some coffee and if it was sunny they often sat on the front steps. After which they went about their own business. Today was one of those days when they could sit together in the sun, she thought as she got closer, but when she knocked on the door no one answered.

It was while she was standing on the steps to Teresa’s house that the alarm went off. All of a sudden there it was, like a torrent from the heavens.

She couldn’t move from the step, she was so chilled and so paralysed and so everything. Dag came charging out of the house, stood in the yard for a few seconds, then sprinted up the hill to the fire station. Minutes later the fire engine lurched onto the road. Sirens. Blue lights. The summer wind in the trees.

He drove west to Breivoll.

She stood holding her hands over her ears, unaware that she was doing so.

Soon afterwards she saw Ingemann walk into the yard alone. He was wearing the dark blue overalls that were black with oil across the chest, and he seemed bewildered. He went to the post where the alarm was, then stood there as it wailed above his head. Alma wanted to shout that he should move away so that he didn’t go stone deaf. He stood there for maybe thirty seconds, then turned and went into the house. He was gone for a few moments, then came back out wearing the fire service uniform, headed straight for the post and deactivated the alarm. This he did with an abrupt, almost savage wrench. Afterwards it was as though the sky had fallen in and everything had gone quiet.

VII.

I WAS NINETEEN YEARS OLD, I had moved from home and was finding myself. I was going to study law at the August University in the centre of Oslo, I would be walking across the square where P. A. Munch’s and Schweigaard’s statues stood surveying the scene, staunch and erudite, I would be starting my real life, I would be a student, and I would become an intellectual. Before leaving I visited my grandmother at Heivollen and was given permission to borrow one of my grandfather’s coats; in addition, I had got hold of a pair of glasses, even though strictly speaking I didn’t need them. I would never have dared to walk around in a coat and glasses at home, that would have been quite unthinkable, but in Oslo everything was different. There I could walk around in glasses and Grandad’s old coat without anyone taking any notice. He had hardly ever worn the coat, but it was more than good enough for me. I used to go out alone in the evening and feel a singular contentment spreading through my body. I strolled along Schwensens gate, where I was renting a little bedsit, and continued up towards St Hanshaugen. I stuffed my hands deep into my pockets, which were smooth on the inside and much larger than one would expect. I could feel how well the coat fitted my shoulders, how comfortable I was inside it, indeed, how good life had become after all, how in the end everything had slotted into place. I crossed Ullevålsveien and proceeded along the narrow paths that wound between the tall, bare trees. I crossed the square in front of the gaping, empty outdoor stage, I passed the statue of the four musicians before tackling the last, steep stairs until I was at the top, beside the old fire tower, surveying the town. It lay beneath me glittering in the night air. I saw the dark fjord; above it on one side rose brightly lit, white Holmenkollenbakken, and on the other side of the hill the pink smoke from the incinerator chimney in Økern. I was so far from home, yet it was as though I could hear a voice inside myself, saying: This is your town. This is where you will be. You will live here for many years, and here you will become the person you really are. And, at that moment, wearing Grandad’s coat with my hands thrust deep into the pockets, I could feel very clearly that I was happy.