The Wolves of Eternity, page 13
She nodded, fetched an ashtray and sat down at the table to roll herself a cigarette.
‘How’s your back, anyway?’
‘A bit better at the moment. Thank you for asking.’
I carried on eating. She shoved the rolling machine’s little handle forward and picked out the finished cigarette, lit it and sat smoking in silence, without the slightest consideration for me having my breakfast. I hated it.
‘I understand you being angry and upset,’ she said after a bit.
‘I’m not,’ I said, and removed some ketchup from my lip with the tip of my forefinger, then glanced around for something I could wipe it off on. I couldn’t see anything, so I rubbed my fingers together instead, until there was nothing left of it apart from a bit of moisture on the skin.
‘I think you are.’
‘You’ve no idea what I think. And it’s going to stay that way too.’
I stood up, took my plate and cutlery over and put them down on the worktop next to the sink, picked up my coffee and went into the living room.
‘We must be able to talk about it,’ Mum said from the kitchen.
‘No, we mustn’t,’ I said. ‘We’ve been living a lie for nearly nine years. Your lie. There’s nothing else to say other than that.’
She went quiet.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to sit there in silence without caving in. I was too soft for that.
‘Can I borrow the car? I said.
‘Yes, you can,’ she said. ‘As long as you’re back by two.’
* * *
*
I drove the same way I’d gone the night before. There was hardly anything on the road. It was raining, people would be staying in, if they weren’t taking part in the parade in town. What then had been darkness with small pockets of light here and there was now an array of colour, greys, browns and yellow-whites, the hills green with conifers, an occasional red-painted barn on the other side of the river.
It wasn’t just radioactivity I didn’t understand. Colours were something I couldn’t grasp either, even when I’d had them explained to me. Because if colours didn’t exist in themselves, but were actually different wavelengths of light that the brain turned into colours, what was it we saw when we saw colours then? Colours were an illusion, they didn’t exist, and yet we saw them, so they did exist, not outside, in the world, but inside us.
But how did they get there?
Colours are all in the head, my teacher had told me when I’d asked about it. Colours are a product of our sensory system.
But where in the head?
‘Now you’re being belligerent, Syvert,’ he said. ‘Light entering through the pupil is detected by the retina and converted into electrical signals that are sent to the visual cortex at the rear of the brain. There are cells in the retina called cones and rods, which react differently to different wavelengths of light, and the electrical signals they send out determine whether we see colours or black and white. But we don’t actually see colour until those signals are processed in the visual cortex.’
‘But I see colour,’ I said. ‘Not signals.’
‘It all happens in the visual cortex,’ he said. ‘Now, no more questions about the eye. Everything’s perfectly well explained in your textbook.’
But it wasn’t.
The world was outside us, it was something we were in. But seeing it, it became a part of us. So wasn’t the world then inside us? If it was only on the outside and nothing of it got in, everything would just be dark. The same surely applied to hearing and smell and touch. Our senses took what was external and turned it into something internal. If the world couldn’t get inside us, it wouldn’t exist.
That would be like the way a stone existed in the world. Nothing in the world got in, the stone couldn’t hear, see, smell, taste or feel anything, so the world as far as it was concerned didn’t exist. A stone didn’t even know it existed itself.
Was that what life was? Was that what set it apart from what was not living? What was living was living because it internalised the world? And both the world and what was living were thereby felt to exist?
That had to be it.
But how did the visible world get inside us?
That was the bit about light entering through the pupils.
It was from there on it got hard to grasp.
The world came in as two narrow beams of light, and that light contained so much information that the brain could construct for us an identical image of the world on that basis alone.
Where was that image?
It seemed like it was outside us.
The river was down there, not inside me.
And then there was the fact that colours were something added on. Like some kind of emotion.
Was everything in the world colourless?
It had to be.
Could there be other things that were added on too? Things that didn’t exist, which we constructed and believed to exist?
I indicated left and slowed down to allow a VW Beetle to come chugging over the bridge before I turned off onto the narrow road and followed its climb along the river.
If Mum kept on about it, I would cave in soon.
I’d nearly felt sorry for her as she sat there in the kitchen on her own with her thoughts, wanting to talk to me about it. No, I had felt sorry for her.
He’d left her twice. First when he told her he wanted a divorce, then when he died. That made a difference. If it had just been the divorce, she’d have been able to deal with it in a way, she’d have been able to talk to him about it, and to her family and friends, that way she’d have come to terms with it. But him dying like that meant there was no closure, they never got as far as actually divorcing. In her mind, though, they had divorced, and without her having been able to share it with anyone.
He must have had his reasons for wanting to leave her.
But I’d never know what they were.
I passed the rallycross circuit that lay in a former sand quarry, empty and desolate in the grey drizzle, old tractor tyres stacked up at the bends, a weather-beaten hot-dog stand at the far end. I didn’t know why I was there, but it was as good a place to come as any, I thought to myself, slowing almost to a stop and hugging the verge: an enormous lorry laden with timber was on its way through the bend above me.
The hearses of the forest.
Who was it who’d said that?
It rumbled past, a minor inferno of metal and timber, and I pulled away again, shortly afterwards turning off onto the soggy unmade road and driving up to the turning area at the top again. There was a car there now, a red Lada. There was no one in it, and no one around either as far as I could see when I got out, locked the door and set off along the track that went up the side of the hill. My mood was a different one now, of course, the light falling from the sky all around me, the trees standing out so clearly, in places I could see quite far between them.
Had Dad told the other woman about Joar and me?
He must have done.
Maybe she lived in town.
Maybe she was even from the village? An old flame that had been rekindled?
Or else he’d met her on one of his trips abroad.
I remembered hardly anything from the year he died, it was as if from the day of the funeral the memories of the months in both directions dissolved, the ones that had been and the ones that were to come.
The clear-felled tract opened out in front of me. It seemed even more extensive in daylight, even more brutal. But we needed timber, we needed houses and furniture and paper, and forest would always grow again.
As I stood on top of the hill looking down in the direction of the lake, I noticed a figure a couple of hundred metres below. It looked like a woman, she was wearing a red anorak and army trousers, a moss-green rucksack on her back. She was crossing the bare rock that sloped down towards the lake, walking briskly and full of purpose. This was a person out hiking, I thought to myself, my eyes following her until she reached the trees on the eastern side of the lake and disappeared into the forest.
Where was she going? I wondered. It wasn’t exactly hiking terrain. Or actually it was, I thought then, forest and hills and lakes stretching away in all directions. Maybe that was why no one ever came here. It was so unspecified. No landmarks of note, no spectacular views or well-known buildings, hardly any history at all. Just bogland and forest, lakes and rock.
I went down to the lake and sat on a mound. I could bring Joar out here with the canoe in the summer. It’d be a nice trip. Good for the both of us. We could camp out, cook some food on the Primus.
At the lakeside, somewhat further away from where she’d vanished from sight, the woman emerged from the trees again. She halted and took off her backpack. It looked heavy. As she straightened up again, she looked out across the water. Then she waved to someone.
Shortly afterwards a canoe came gliding into view from the other side of the spit. The person paddling was a man, his movements were measured, and I took him to be elderly. She looked to be a good bit younger, though I was too far away to be able to see her face. Maybe the man was her father and they were going off on a trip together?
She’d chosen a good spot to meet him, there was a flat slab of rock where he was able to land side-on and she could basically just step into the canoe after handing him the rucksack.
She sat down on the bow seat, picked up a paddle and they set off, seamlessly and in perfect sync, and in a couple of minutes they were out of sight behind the spit.
Maybe they had a cabin somewhere close by.
I’d never come across any in the area, and never heard of anyone who had. But then I’d never been here before, not here exactly.
I got to my feet and trudged back towards the car. At the turning area I stopped in front of the Lada, cupped my hands at the side window and peered into the car through the little tunnel they made. The usual things: chocolate wrappers in the footwell on the passenger side, Krokanrull and Bounty by the looks of it, and an empty bottle of Tab, an umbrella on the back seat, a pile of envelopes and bumf that had slid to one side, a carrier bag that said MEKKA, with what looked like some books in it.
Not exactly revealing.
But then hardly mysterious either. An ordinary car belonging to an ordinary woman who’d met up with an ordinary man in a canoe and paddled off across an ordinary lake.
I got into the car, turned the ignition and saw to my horror that the clock on the dashboard said quarter to two. I’d never get home in fifteen minutes, it didn’t matter how fast I went. But I could try.
* * *
*
Mum opened the door and came out as I pulled up at the front of the house. She must have been standing ready with her coat on.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I said. ‘I forgot the time.’
‘I’m ten minutes late.’
She closed the car door without saying anything else, started the engine again and drove off.
As if deceiving me for nearly nine years wasn’t enough, I thought. Now she was in a nark with me as well.
‘Joar?’ I shouted as I stepped into the hall.
‘What?’ he shouted back from upstairs.
‘I’m home!’
‘OK.’
I thought maybe I should make us some tea, even if it was a bit early, so I went into the kitchen to see what we had. A variety of ready-made soups, vegetable, onion, pea, cauliflower. A tin of Mexican stew and another, much the same, though with pineapple for the exotic touch. Mushy peas and some mashed turnip. In the fridge there was some lungemos that Mum liked and which I didn’t mind, it was just a bit boring, I thought. There was a packet of potato dumplings as well, and half a kilo of mince. The freezer in the basement was nearly full, mostly stuff that had been there ages, she could never throw anything out.
I took some fillets of saithe and a packet of frozen prawns and left them to thaw on the worktop in the kitchen before sitting down in the living room with a cup of coffee and yesterday’s paper. I froze for a second as I unfolded it and saw the masthead: they’d be running that stupid interview on Saturday.
Oh well.
At least we were playing football on Saturday, I was looking forward to that. And besides, there was so much else going on in the world that no one was going to care less about a filler interview with some saddo on the dole.
Outside the window, a small figure on a bike came into view. It was Rickard, Joar’s friend. He leaned his bike up against the tree, took the bag that was strapped to the luggage rack and went towards the front door.
‘Joar!’ I shouted up. ‘Someone to see you!’
At the same moment, a car came up from the road. It looked like Terje’s, I thought as I opened the door and watched it turn into the yard.
‘Is Joar in?’ said Rickard.
He came bombing down the stairs behind me.
‘Come in!’ he said.
‘All right,’ said Terje, who’d now extricated himself from behind the wheel and was standing with his hand on the top of the open door.
‘Tea’s in an hour,’ I said to Joar. And then to Rickard: ‘Do you want your tea here, Rickard?’
‘What are you having?’ he said, kicking off his shoes, still with his bag in his hand.
‘Fish soup,’ I said.
‘No thanks,’ he said, and the two of them went up the stairs.
‘All right?’ I said to Terje.
‘Not seen you for a bit,’ he said. ‘Anything happening?’
‘Not much. You?’
‘We’re at Tor Egil’s. He’s got the house to himself. Do you want to come round?’
‘Could do. Got to make the tea first, though. Who else is there?’
‘Glenn and Karsten. Harald. Tor Egil, of course. Trond and Jensen.’
‘No girls?’
He shrugged.
‘None that I noticed.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Only I haven’t got the car. The buses will be a Sunday service today, won’t they?’
‘I can come and pick you up. What time are you having your tea?’
‘In an hour.’
‘Around five then?
I nodded. He squeezed his frame back into the seat and drove off.
* * *
*
Tor Egil was the only person I knew whose parents were rich. His dad imported agricultural machinery and sold it across the country. They lived in a big house with an indoor swimming pool at the top of the estate. Tor Egil wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, a bit of a daddy’s boy who wore V-neck pullovers with a shirt underneath, boat shoes and posh jackets, but there was always some benefit in having him around. As there was now: a fridge filled up with beer, and pizza for anyone who wanted.
They’d rented three films and everyone was a bit comatose after the night before.
‘All right, Syvert,’ they said when Terje and I came into the living room.
‘Happy first of May, workers,’ I said.
‘Didn’t see you last night,’ said Glenn. ‘Where were you?’
‘I didn’t realise it was the night before a holiday,’ I said. ‘I was at home watching the footy.’
‘Not a bad choice, that,’ he said. ‘Who’d have thought that bunch of clodhoppers could beat Argentina?’
‘You mean they won?’ I said.
They all looked up at me.
‘You just said you watched it!’
‘They were so rubbish I switched it off.’
‘Well, they won,’ said Glenn. ‘One–nil against Argentina with Maradona playing.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I said, and sat down on a chair by the dining table. ‘Who scored?’
‘Osvold.’
‘The jammy bugger.’
‘Great goal, long-range effort. Played a good game too.’
Tor Egil appeared from the kitchen with four bottles of beer in his hands.
‘Do you want one of these?’ he said as he came up to me.
‘I wouldn’t say no. Have you got a bottle opener as well?’
He fetched it from the coffee table and handed it to me.
They’d rented The Deer Hunter, Octopussy and Rambo.
I’d seen them all before, but it didn’t matter. I could hardly remember what happened in any of them, apart from the Russian roulette in The Deer Hunter.
‘Do you think it happens in real life? People playing Russian roulette for money?’ said Karsten when we watched it.
‘No way,’ said Glenn.
‘I wouldn’t mind having a go,’ I said. ‘I could do with some cash.’
‘As if you’d have the guts,’ said Karsten, and laughed.
‘Why wouldn’t I? Surviving and pocketing the money’s the most likely outcome.’
I held my index finger to my temple.
‘Bang!’ said Glenn. ‘Sorry, Syvert. Better luck next time. Oh, that’s right, there won’t be a next time!’
We sat there drinking the whole evening, Tor Egil’s beer supply was inexhaustible, or so it seemed. I’d decided I wanted to get back by ten, before Mum got home, but it slipped my mind completely, the alcohol took over, coursing so gorgeously through my veins, and making me feel so breezy and buoyant that it didn’t even occur to me until it was gone eleven and Terje said he had to get going.
It didn’t matter much. Joar was used to being on his own when Mum worked evenings. And his friend had still been there when I went out, they were playing a game on the Commodore he’d brought with him and were in a world of their own.
‘Don’t you get sick of always driving and never being able to drink?’ I said to Terje when we got in the car.
‘Don’t you get sick of going for a piss all the time?’
‘I’ve never thought about it like that,’ I said.
The headlights lit up the reflective verge markers far ahead of us as we passed through the woods. Terje pushed a cassette into the stereo. A quiet synth grew louder, then came what sounded like a peal of thunder, then a deep drone, with tinkling notes wafting above it.
