You (49 page)

You clink glasses to Michael Jackson. The two rockers mumble
something into their beer bottles and don’t even think of clinking. Marten wants to know who you want to see apart from Chris Cornell. As none of you girls know who else is playing at the festival, Schnappi can’t keep it up anymore and says you’re not really here for the concert.

“Damn it, Schnappi!” you girls groan at the same time.

“Don’t listen to them,” says Schnappi and tugs on Marten’s arm so that he has to look at her. “As soon as it’s dark, my girls stop thinking properly. We’re really on a secret mission. Taja has inherited a beach hotel from her grandmother, that’s where we want to get to. A hotel with a view of a fjord. There’s no point sitting on your ass in Berlin forever, is there?”

You really want to slap Schnappi. Taja looks outside and studies the Peugeot, while Nessi stays out of it and tips the third packet of sugar into her coffee.

“Easy on the sugar, Nessi, your teeth will rot,” you say.

“I crave something sweet,” she says and stirs her sugary broth.

Marten tells you he’s never been to Berlin. He probably comes from a village and has only cows and scarecrows in his head, so you all tell him about Berlin and your school and how you found each other. Berlin becomes a place of wonder, your school becomes a dump and you heroines. It’s as if you were talking about four girls who once existed and who will never exist again.

“The next round’s on me,” says Marten and gets to his feet.

When he’s out of range, the two rockers lean forward confidentially and say they’ve got tickets for Ozzy Osbourne and loads of room in their tent. You shake your heads. They stick their beer bottles in their jacket pockets, shake your hands, and promise you’ll see each other in Sweden again one day. Then they leave the restaurant.

“What are we doing here, by the way?” Nessi asks.

“Later,” you say.

Schnappi tries to decipher the menu.

“He’s sweet,” she says and throws the menu down on the table and looks across at Marten. “Sweet, but not to my taste. He’s more your type, Taja. You like guys who look like movie stars.”

“Do not,” says Taja defiantly.

“Nico looked like Johnny Depp. Kalle was the spitting image of
Ethan Hawke. And what about Kai, who dumped you for that silly cunt Jenni?”

“He looked like that dwarf out of
Lost
. Charlie,” you say.

“He did not!”

Marten comes back with tea and coffee, he’s also ordered a large portion of fries and pushes them into the middle of the table. Nessi pulls a face, she’s going to stick to the sweet stuff. Marten pulls a Mars bar out of his sleeve and says it’s just for Nessi. She’s inches away from hugging him. Of course Schnappi has to ask, “You know who you remind me of?”

“Who?”

“Jake Gyllenhaal.”

“That guy in
Donnie Darko
?”

“Exactly.”

Taja rolls her eyes and gives Schnappi the finger. Marten laughs. You rip open a packet of ketchup. The fries are too salty, the coffee’s lukewarm, but it doesn’t matter, because this is the brief moment when you can all relax. Taja is resting her chin on both hands, she’s turned on her flirty gaze. Every now and again she feeds Marten a fry, and if she isn’t careful he’ll start massaging her feet in a minute. Schnappi talks about the pizza stand in Stuttgarter Platz as if there was only one pizza stand in the whole of Berlin. You give yourselves ten minutes, ten minutes’ fun is fair. You learn what Marten wants to study, and that he grew up with music. He only has eyes for Taja, who also grew up with music, and how much of a coincidence is that?
And if they aren’t careful they will have made their own little Mozart by daybreak
, you think, but you say nothing because you’re glad Taja’s in the spotlight, because if anyone needs attention it’s that kid. She slept through most of the journey and feels miserably limp from all that medication.
What would Marten say if he knew what we’ve been through over the last few days?
you ask yourself as he scribbles his phone number on a receipt and passes it to Taja.

“Let’s see if I call you,” says Taja. Marten blushes and you decide the ten minutes are over. As if in passing you say, “I’ve got to use the restroom.”

Taja says she’s coming too, and squints across at Schnappi, who frowns, then grips her hairdo with her fingers and says she looks
like a wet poodle. Only Nessi is frozen in her sugar rush, staring at her coffee until you stretch your claws out under the table and poke them into her thigh.

“Everyone or no one,” you say.

Nessi groans and gets up.

“I’ll keep your seats,” Marten promises.

You march through the restaurant, down the corridor to the bathrooms and past them.

“We’ve just gone past the toilets,” says Nessi and stops.

“Keep walking,” says Taja.

“But …”

You put your arm around her hips and push her on. You step outside into the wind and the rain, and shove your way past the smokers who reluctantly make room. Once again, Schnappi can’t keep her mouth shut.

“Can someone please tell me what’s going on here? That guy’s okay, so why are we running away?”

“Maybe because we can’t find the tracker,” says Taja.

You reach the front of the restaurant. When you get to the Range Rover, your girls stand behind the car while you duck down and look carefully over the hood. The turmoil in the restaurant is unchanged. You see Marten sitting at the table, he’s got his phone to his ear, he’s looking round, looking over at the restrooms.
You’ll have a long wait
, you think and duck back down behind the car.

“I don’t understand anything anymore,” says Nessi.

“Catch!” you say and throw her the key.

Nessi catches it and stares at her hand.

“That’s not …”

“… our key,” you finish her sentence. “Correct.”

“They’re driving a new Range Rover.”

“Which one?”

“Guess.”

“The Vogue?”

“Better.”

“Not the Autobiography?”

“Bingo.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“Crazy, right?”

“Take a picture.”

“Why? You know what it looks like.”

“Not a picture of the car, Marten, a picture of your girl.”

“Her name’s Taja and she isn’t
my
girl. She’s one of four.”

“How do four girls get hold of a car like that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Either they’re rich or they’ve stolen it.”

“No one steals a car like that.”

“You have a point there. Where are they now?”

“In the bathroom. At first I thought they were here for the festival, but they’re heading further north. Taja’s half German and half Norwegian. She inherited a beach hotel from her grandmother. With a view of a fjord.”

“If you like, we could drop by on our trip and pay them a visit.”

“That sounds good.”

“And?”

“
And
what?”

“Did you give her your number?”

“Of course not, what makes you think that?”

You can imagine how pleased your father looks right now. The better you get to know each other, the less he’s like your father, the more he becomes your friend. In your childhood he was a stranger who dropped in on weekends and acted as if he enjoyed playing with you for a few hours. Then you got older, puberty set in, and your father was sympathetic in a manly way, which was just embarrassing because he had no idea about your life. The true change only took place over the last two years. You got closer to one another, and your mother doesn’t like that one bit.

And then he gave you this birthday present.

He suggested driving to Norway. He’s bought a new car and wanted you to test it together.
Together
. It was supposed to be your first big trip. And now he’s your passenger, he’s making jokes with you about girls and life in general, he treats you like an equal. You expected anything, just not this change.

“Are you sure it’s an Autobiography?”

“Of course, I can see it through the window.”

Your father whistles through his teeth.

“What color?”

“Metallic gray.”

You hear a ringing, your father says he has to get the casserole out of the oven, you’re to think about dessert, and say hi to the girls.

“See you in a minute.”

Your father has rented an apartment outside Kristiansand because he wanted to avoid the hurly-burly of the festival. You’d rather have been right in the middle of it, but you haven’t told him that. It’s your second week in Norway, and the festival begins tomorrow. Your father has only bought tickets for you. The music isn’t to his taste, and he doesn’t want to stand beside you all the time like a guard dog. He thinks you need freedom, so you get freedom. Your mother would go nuts if she knew that. As far as she’s concerned, you won’t be grown up until you’ve finished your studies and you’re pushing a stroller around the place.

Be honest, you feel as if your real life only began when the ferry
pulled in at Kristiansand. The people here are friendly, everyone seems to be having fun, and even though it’s raining you can’t see any grumpy faces. Your father made it all possible. It’s a mystery to you why your mother didn’t get on with him.

Perhaps it was the other way round
, you think when two women ask if there are seats free at your table. You point to the rockers’ chairs, the women sit down. You look across to the bathrooms, then back outside into the rain. Your reflection grins at you, you’re as transparent as a ghost. Your father’s features, your mother’s dark hair. You wink at yourself, take out your phone, and you’re about to check your mail when you see the girls coming out in single file from behind the Range Rover. All four of them. They have backpacks and bags and they remind you of the time when you used to creep around the area playing cowboys and Indians.
What are they doing?
you ask as they stop by your father’s car, open the trunk, and throw in their bags and backpacks. Then they go round to the front and get in.

For a dull moment you sit there frozen in the restaurant and can’t believe what’s happening. The car starts, the car leaps forward and then backward a little before the engine stalls. A semi-trailer moves sluggishly past the restaurant, and conceals your dad’s car for a few seconds. You get up, reach into your jacket, and feel the key.
Thank God
, you think and pull it out. It’s not yours. This key is hanging from a round piece of leather with a monogram—OD. You look outside again. Your dad’s car has turned, and finally your paralysis dissolves. You run from the restaurant and shove the group of smokers aside. You skid over the curb, the rain turns you wet in seconds. You stumble down the street and pause and …

They’re gone.

Full stop.

They’re seriously gone.

You don’t even see the rear lights.

Nothing.

You look around. One of the smokers gives you the finger, another says:
Fucking German
. You stare at the exit and still can’t
believe it. The trembling starts in your hands, wanders downwards, and when you have the feeling that you’re one single great shake, you take your phone out of your jacket and call your father.

He’s going to kill me, he’s never going to talk to me again, he’s going to—

“Say that again.”

You repeat what’s going on. You stand in the rain and you’re the idiot whose father’s brand-new car has just been stolen by four girls. No one’s going to write a poem about it, it isn’t worth a short story, and if it was ever shown in the movies, you can bet a good number of people would walk out.

“And what about the Range Rover?”

“It’s still here.”

You walk around the car, take a look at the registration plate. On the driver’s side you try to peer inside the car, while your father issues instructions. He wants you to stay right there. He’s going to call a taxi and he’ll be with you in ten minutes.

“The door’s open,” you interrupt.

“What?”

“The driver’s door is open.”

You lean into the car, then you look at your left hand, still holding the key. OD.

“I think they’ve deliberately left me the key to the Range Rover.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” your father says.

“Maybe the car’s stolen,” you say and get in, away from the rain, away from the naked reality of being a complete failure. The door closes with a soft click. The inside light dims down as if a movie was about to begin.

What if it isn’t the key?

You start the car, the engine fires right away, and for a moment you imagine yourself driving to your apartment hotel, beeping your horn, and your father coming toward you and you getting out of the Range Rover while your father is speechless because he can clearly see now that it really is an Autobiography.

“Marten, are you still there?”

You give a start.
What am I actually doing here?
You completely forgot your father on the phone.

“I’m still here,” you say and you’re about to get out when you’re
dazzled by the lights. They’re coming straight at you. You suppress a chuckle. It’s so simple. It was all a big joke. The girls have come back. And that’s exactly what you say to your father.