My Struggle: Book 3 (49 page)

She nodded and we got on our bikes. We pedaled along the shaded gravel road, me in front, Kajsa right behind. At the crest of the long hill I braked so that we could race down side by side. The sun lit up the ridge on the other side. The insects swarming in the air were like glitter someone had scattered. Halfway down, there was an old forest track to the right and it suddenly struck me that it might lead to a suitable place, so with the wind streaming through our hair I shouted to Kajsa that we would go up there, she nodded, we turned off and must have gone ten meters before our bikes slowed down and we dismounted. She said nothing, I said nothing, we walked up the grassy track strewn with bark and bits of tree. Reaching the top and looking into the forest I could see it wasn’t suitable. The ground was covered with tree stumps and where they stopped, the spruces were so close together it was like a wall.

“No,” I said. “That’s no good. Let’s go on.”

Kajsa still said nothing, just got on her bike as well and coasted down, standing on the pedals and braking harder than me.

No, the path above the Fina station was the place to be.

The thought sent a wave of terror through me. It was like having climbed up a rock too high and looking down at the water, knowing you either had to conquer your fear and dive or chicken out.

Did she know what was going to happen?

I sneaked a glance at her.

Oh, the ripple of her breasts.

Oh, oh, oh.

But her face was serious. What did that mean?

We jumped off our bikes and walked up the hill to the main road, beneath the deep shadows from the trees whose tops stretched far above us. We hadn’t said a word since we were in Kjenna. If I said something now it had to be important, it couldn’t be some triviality.

Her trousers were cotton, a pastel green color and secured around the waist by a rope belt. They hung loose over her thighs but were tighter around the groin and across the bottom. On her chest, she was wearing a T-shirt with a thin cardigan over it, which was white with a hint of yellow. Her sandaled feet were bare. Her toenails were painted with the same polish as her fingers. She had a chain around one ankle.

She looked fantastic.

When we came to the main road and only a long hill down and a long hill up separated us from what was to happen, what I most wanted to do was cycle off and leave her. Just step on the pedals and cycle out of her life. And then why stop at that? I could cycle from our house. Tybakken, Tromøya, Aust-Agder, Norway, Europe, I could leave everything behind me. I would be called the Cycling Dutchman. Damned forever to cycle around the world, with a ghostly light from the lamp on the handlebars illuminating the country roads.

“Where are we going actually?” she said as we sped down the hill.

“I know somewhere nice,” I said. “It’s not far.”

She didn’t say anything. We cycled past the Fina station, I pointed up the hill between the trees, again she jumped off as soon as the road became steeper. A thin layer of sweat glistened on her forehead. We walked past the old, white house and the old, red barn. The sky was clear and blue. The sun hung over the ridges to the west, a silent blaze. Its light gave the leaves on the trees in front of us an intense glow. The air was filled with bird song. I was close to throwing up. We entered the path. Light filtered down between the treetops, as I had imagined it. It was refracted in a similar way to the way it was refracted under water. Pillars of light sloped into the ground.

I stopped.

“We can put our bikes here,” I said.

We did. Both of us kicked out the stands and stood our bikes upright. I started walking. She followed. I looked for a suitable place to lie down. Grass or moss. Our footsteps sounded unnaturally loud. I didn’t dare look at her. But she was right behind me. There. There was a good spot.

“We can lie down here,” I said. Without looking at her I sat down. After some hesitation she sat down next to me. I put my hand in my pocket and located my watch. I took it out and held it in my open palm in front of her.

“Shall we time how long we can kiss?” I said.

“What!” she said.

“I’ve got a watch,” I said. “Tor managed ten minutes. We can beat that.”

I put the watch down on the ground, it was eighteen minutes to eight, I noted, placed my hands on her shoulders and gently leaned her back while pressing my lips against hers. When we were both lying down I inserted my tongue in her mouth, it met hers, pointed and soft like a little animal, and I began to move my tongue round and round inside. I had my hands alongside my body, I wasn’t touching her with anything except my lips and my tongue. Our bodies lay like two small boats laid up on land beneath the treetops. I concentrated on getting my tongue to go round as smoothly as possible while the thought of her breasts, which were so close to me, and her thighs, which were so close to me, and what was between her thighs, under her trousers, under her panties, was seared into my consciousness. But I didn’t dare touch her. She lay with her eyes closed rotating her tongue around mine, I had my eyes open, groped for the watch, found it, and held it within reach. Three minutes so far. Some saliva ran down from the corner of her mouth. She wriggled. I pressed my groin against the ground letting my tongue go round and round, round and round. This wasn’t as good as I had imagined, in fact, it was quite strenuous. Some dry leaves crunched beneath her head as she shifted position. Our mouths were full of thick saliva. Seven minutes now. Four left. Mmm, she said, but this was not a sound of pleasure, there was something wrong, she stirred, but I didn’t let go, she moved her head while I continued to rotate my tongue. She opened her eyes, but didn’t look at me, they were staring up at the sky above us. Nine minutes. The root of my tongue ached. More saliva from the corners of our mouths. My braces occasionally knocked against her teeth. Actually we didn’t need to continue for more than ten minutes and one second to beat Tor’s record. And that was now. We had beaten him now. But we could beat him by a large margin. Fifteen minutes, that ought to be possible. Five left then. But my tongue ached, it seemed to be swelling, and the saliva, which you didn’t notice much when it was hot, left you with a slight feeling of revulsion when it ran down your chin, not quite so hot. Twelve minutes. Isn’t that enough? Enough now? No, a bit more. A bit more, a bit more.

At exactly three minutes to eight I took my head away. She got up and wiped her mouth with her hand without looking at me.

“We did fifteen minutes!” I said, getting up. “We beat him by five minutes!”

Our bikes gleamed at the far end of the path. We walked toward them. She brushed leaves and twigs off her trousers and cardigan.

“Hang on,” I said. “There’s something on your back as well.”

She stopped and I picked off bits and pieces that had got caught in her cardigan.

“There you go,” I said.

“I’d better go home now,” she said as we reached the bikes.

“Me too,” I said, pointing upward. “There’s a shortcut through the forest.”

“Bye,” she said, getting on her bike and coasting down the bumpy path.

“Bye,” I said, grabbing the handlebars and walking up.

That night I lay fantasizing about her breasts, milky-white and large, and all the things we could have done on the forest floor, until I fell asleep. I had to ring her because we hadn’t arranged when I should go to her house on Saturday, but I put off doing it all the next day and also part of the Saturday until there was no avoiding it and at two o’clock I jumped on my bike and pedaled down to the telephone booth again. There was another problem as well, which was that I had to be home by half past eight, which was not at all in tune with the life I was leading now. I couldn’t leave her place at eight because I had to go home to bed, what would she think of me? I hinted to Mom that I had something important to do that evening; couldn’t I come home at nine-thirty, or even ten? She wanted to know what and I said I couldn’t tell her. If you can’t tell me, you can’t have permission, she said. We have to know where you are and what you are doing. Then perhaps you can have permission. You do understand, don’t you? Yes, I did understand and I was prepared to toe the line and tell her about Kajsa. But first I had to get in touch with her.

The sky was overcast and the gray, matte cloud cover seemed to suck the colors out of the countryside. The road was gray, the rocks in the ditch were gray, even the leaves on the trees had a weft of matte gray in their greenness. Also the heat from the previous days had gone. It wasn’t cold, it was maybe sixty degrees, but enough for me to button up to the neck as I cycled down. My jacket ballooned out in the air. Two vehicles were at the bus stop, which in fact was a mini bus station, with buses often parked there all night. Now they were standing there, engines idling, ready to proceed on their way, one to the other side of the island, the other to Arendal, and the two drivers had parked so that they could chat to each other through the open windows.

I stood my bike behind the green, hat-shaped fiberglass shelter. A stream flowed nearby, through branches and bushes and litter, mostly candy wrappers, probably from the Fina station; I could see Caramello, Hobby, Nero, Bravo, and a blue Hubba Bubba wrapper, but there were also some shiny bottles without labels, some newspapers, and there was a cardboard phone booth full of assorted junk. I took the money from my pocket, went into the phone booth and placed it on top of the machine, ready. Dialed the number in the directory as various jokes went through my head. Why are there so many Hansens in the phone book? They’ve all got phones. Followed by: Why don’t the Chinese have a phone book? Too many Wings and Wongs, and you might wing a wong number. Operator, operator, call me an ambulance. OK, you’re an ambulance. With my finger under the number and the receiver in my hand I stood for a long time staring through the dusty glass without quite registering what I saw until I plucked up the courage, put the phone to my ear, and dialed.

“Hello?” a voice said.

It was Kajsa’s!

“Hi,” I said. “This is Karl Ove. Is that Kajsa?”

“Yes,” she said. “Hi.”

“We forgot to talk about when I should come,” I said. “Is there any particular time that would be good? It makes no difference to me.”

“Errrm,” she said. “Well, in fact, it’s all off.”

“Off,” I said. “Can’t you make it? Aren’t your parents going out after all?”

“What I mean to say is,” she started. “Erm … erm … I can’t … well, go out with you any longer.”

What?

Was she ending it? But … we’d only been going out for five days!

“Hello?” she said.

“Is it over?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s over.”

I said nothing. I could hear her breathing at the other end. Tears were running down my cheeks. A long time passed.

“Well goodbye,” she said suddenly.

“Bye,” I said, and put down the phone and went to the bus stop. My eyes were blinded by tears. I wiped them with the back of my hand, sniffed, got on my bike, and began to pedal homeward. I barely saw the road in front of me. Why had she done that? Why? Now that things had started to click? On the day we were going to be alone in her house? She liked me a few days ago, so why didn’t she like me now? Was it because we hadn’t talked much?

And she was so good-looking. She was so unbelievably good-looking.

Jesus Christ.

JesusfuckingChrist.

JesusfuckingshittingChrist.

When I got to B-Max I dried my tears on the sleeves of my jacket, it was Saturday just before closing time, the parking lot was full of cars and people with shopping bags and kids, loads of kids. But if they saw my tears, could they have been caused by the wind? I was cycling after all.

I plodded up the little hill before the flat stretch. Completely empty, neutral spaces were developing inside me, ten seconds could pass without my thinking a single thought, without knowing that I even existed, and then the image of Kajsa was suddenly there, it was over, and a sob shook through me, impossible to stop.

I locked my bike and put it in its place outside the house, stood still inside the house listening to hear where the others were, now was not the time to bump into anyone, and when it sounded as if the coast was clear I went upstairs and into the bathroom, where I washed my face carefully before going into my room and sitting down on the bed.

After a while I got up and went to Yngve’s room. He was on the bed playing the guitar and glanced up when I entered.

“What’s up? Have you been crying?” he said. “Is it Kajsa? Did she end it?”

I nodded and started crying again.

“It’s all right, Karl Ove,” he said. “It’ll soon pass. There are so many girls out there waiting. The world is full of girls! Forget her. It’s no big deal.”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “We only went out for five days. And she’s so good-looking. She’s the only one I want to be with. No one else. And today of all days. When we were going to be alone at her place.”

“Hang around,” he said, getting up. “I’ll play a song for you. It might help.”

“What kind of song?” I said, sitting down on the chair.

“Hang on,” he said, flicking through a pile of singles on the shelf. “This one,” he said, holding up one of The Aller Værste!’s. “ ‘No Way Back.’ ”

“Oh, that one.”

“Listen to the lyrics,” he said, removing the single from the sleeve, placing the plastic core in the middle of the turntable, then the forty-five, lifting up the stylus, and putting it down on the first groove, which was already whizzing around. After a second’s scratching the energetic drums pumped into life, then came the bass, the guitar, and the Farfisa organ with the rest, followed by the jangling, unbelievably exciting guitar riff and then the voice of the singer with the Stavanger accent: