The sound of asphalt

Yngve Kveine

The sound of asphalt is the first thing I remember. My body is warm, pyjama-clad. I lie still. Eyes shut. Listen. To a steady drone that sometimes alters. I remember the rain, the suck of the cars on the surface of the road. From my bed, I can see them, far below. When the wind blows, I catch the smell of scorched rubber. Now and again comes the heavy roar of an engine and then the whole block shakes.

Outside my bedroom door, I hear loud noises. Voices arguing. One person crying, another shouting. I think I like both of them but I’m scared when they’re together. Later, they drift apart and then it goes dead quiet. I’ve been waiting for this silence but when it finally comes, it’s just unpleasant.

The place was Linderud. I can’t have been very old at all.

Innocence

Linderud, 1985

Even though we lived on the same staircase, I’d never talked to the neighbour boy. He was a chubby kid who ran around in a Batman outfit. From his ground-floor window, he kept an eye on everybody going in and out of the block. I’d lower my gaze when those staring green eyes tried to catch mine. At the street door, I’d slip the master key swiftly into the lock. On the staircase, I’d keep as far to the left as possible. But the same thing happened every time I had to go by. His flat door would slowly glide open and a red light sabre would come towards me. I’d generally fend him off with my hands and run up the stairs as fast as I could, followed by a trill of

laughter that echoed hollowly up through the stairwell.

I’d take the stairs two at a time, keeping a steady pace and hauling myself upwards with my left hand on the bannister. When the old people on the first and second floor appeared, I’d slow down and greet them politely, just like Dad taught me. Only once I was on the third floor, behind our door, did the echo of the neighbour boy’s trilling laughter vanish.

A big mirror hung in the hall of our flat. It showed me the red curls squabbling around my head. When I smiled, my face looked so different. My eyes grew smaller, my mouth wider. Mum said she liked my smile. When we were at her house, I took care to smile a bit extra. That way, she stopped asking if I was all right.

Just inside the door at Dad’s was a key-hanger shaped like a black rooster. The fowl had human features and whenever I had to go to the loo after bedtime, I’d avoid looking at it. To the right were my bedroom and Bruv’s. We’d switched ages ago so he could have the biggest one. The kitchen was right opposite and to the left, past the bathroom, was the living room with a door leading onto a narrow balcony. Dad’s bedroom was at the end of the living room.

At Dad’s, I drank chocolate powder mixed with full-cream milk. He’d set a limit of two spoonfuls per glass, but when nobody was looking, I’d chuck in three or four. Whenever I sat at the flimsy kitchen table I’d always face Trondheimsveien.

Sometimes I’d open the window and shove it as far as the safety lock allowed. Just to check it was working. I’d grow calmer as the chocolate milk slid down my throat and the hum of the cars buzzed in my ears; when the whole world, except for me, was in motion.

Our street was called Erich Mogensøns vei. We lived in the outermost of four rectangular brick blocks. From our balcony, we could see the Esso garage and the Linderud Shopping Centre. From the kitchen end of the flat, the neighbouring blocks were reflected back at us. Bruv and I never tired of the dramas that unfolded in the busy living rooms at one end. From the moment they drank their morning coffee, people followed fixed routines that we eventually learnt inside out. We knew when the old people on the ground floor would get up. And we could tell when an argument over toy cars was brewing between the kids on the second floor. Thursdays were when the neighbours’ stress levels peaked in the minutes before the Dynasty titles rolled up the screen. Then calm would descend the minute Blake Carrington and his beautiful wife Krystle began fighting their bitter power struggles against dreadful ex- wives. On Friday evenings, most of the families ate pizza in near-synchrony, washing it down with an occasional sip of cola. The families laughed at the same scenes. Yes, even Widow Hansen would slap her thigh when some witty repartee seeped out of the TV screen.

On the rare occasions the curtains were closed, we’d make up stories about where our neighbours worked and where they went on holiday. Dad left us to it, although he said it was rude to stare like that. But we called it spying ourselves and that made it all right. As our eyes started to droop late into the evening, the contours of the people on the other side vanished. Then the bricks of the façade stood out more clearly, and the anthill moved in a steady stream. Always accompanied by the hum of traffic on Trondheimsveien.

I think Bruv enjoyed himself by the window. He’d smile and laugh. Absorb himself in other people’s worlds. And he had an imagination that stretched far beyond the boundaries of the blocks and even Norway’s borders. Because Bruv wasn’t like the rest of us – inside or out. I think that hurt him. Mostly because he understood it so clearly himself: that in some inexplicable way, he’d ended up in the wrong place; a place he couldn’t quite get a handle on.

Although Dad was good at hiding it, he was probably worried. Once, late at night when he thought I was asleep, Dad sat glugging wine and talking quietly on the telephone:

“I don’t know quite what to do about my eldest. I don’t think he’s really happy. He’s got weight problems too. Odd business.”

Then he went quiet, before replying:

“No, the other one’s doing fine. My youngest always gets by. I’m not especially worried about him.”

The day after, I tried to forget the previous night’s conversation. I wondered if I’d dreamt it. Put it out of my mind. Until Bruv came back from school yet again with red eyes and a snotty nose. On days like those I’d hide in my room.

I didn’t understand why Bruv didn’t play with the people in his class. When he came home from school, he was cross and sulky. He’d hit and kick me until I escaped into my room. The only thing that saved our relationship was that we shared the same crappy sense of humour. When things got too bad, we’d have fun terrorising all sorts of arseholes on the phone. We had a fixed routine. He’d be on the green push-button telephone in the kitchen and I’d be on the grey dial phone in Dad’s bedroom. For hours, Bruv would key in different numbers: saddos from school, or peculiar names we found in Dad’s telephone directory. My job was to say rude things or just breathe heavily into the receiver and make disgusting noises. We’d lie on the floor laughing about the angry classmates and enraged mothers who’d lost it at the other end of the line. After all, nobody would ever suspect the kid with the snotty nose and red eyes. But the very best was when we rang the list of everybody called Longball.

“Hello, Longball speaking.” “Hi, this is Widefanny.”

“I beg your pardon, what did you say?”

“I said this is Widefanny. Wanna get together some time?”

“You damn little dickhead. Don’t you dare ring this number again!”

We were afraid of getting found out, but Dad never complained about the hefty phone bills. And why should he? Bruv reckoned he had plenty of money. Otherwise, how come we were allowed to go with him to the big green high-rise in town next to the OBOS building and not far from Sports Warehouse and make as many copies as we wanted? Inside the building, a narrow lift inched its way up to the eighth floor. There, a huge glass door with a bell awaited. Every time Dad pressed the button, he’d straighten the square brown-framed spectacles that stuck to his face.

At work, Dad seemed like a very important person. He wore a suit, talked posher than usual and told us to keep our voices down. On planning days, we’d sit by the conference table in the corner office and draw; peer out of the eighth floor at the rooftops and birds. Down at ground level was a park we never got to play in. We used to call Grandma and Grandpa on the white speakerphone. A sad look always came over Dad’s face when he talked about those sweet old folk sitting all on their own in a great, big house in Gjøvik. And it really was sad. Grandpa used crutches and rarely got further than the mailbox outside his house. Grandma was obsessed with the way life once was, Dad used to say, but she did her best. She loved Dad above all else in the world. She complained about his face, all skin and bones. Dished up all kinds of delicacies. She hugged Bruv and me so tight we thought our ribs would snap. Every fourth week, Dad brought them into Oslo. In the car, they played accordion music and talked about the old days. When we got to Linderud, Dad would roll calmly onto the pavement in front of the block. One Saturday morning, the caretaker came running out of the neighbouring stairwell.

“You can’t park ’ere!” he shrieked at Dad.

“I can park exactly where I want to.” “Move your car at once. That’s the rules.”

“My Dad has a bad leg. So you can stick your damned rules where the sun doesn’t shine. Get out of my damn way or I’ll have you fired.”

The caretaker muttered something and beat a slow retreat. Dad looked taller than ever. His comb-over stuck straight up in the air. I didn’t recognise him.

“Come on, now, Dad. Let me help you up to the flat,” Dad said gently to Grandpa.

Where have you been?

When we weren’t living with Dad, we were at Mum’s. Bruv and I moved back and forth. Forth and back. Week after week. Month after month. Mum and Dad had been divorced since I was little. That was how it was. How it was meant to be. They really weren’t suited. Everybody could see that. Though sometimes Dad said it was a damn shame Mum had messed it all up.

Mum lived on the other side of Trondheimsveien. The blocks were so close I could flash a goodnight to Dad when it was bedtime at Mum’s. The faded yellow of Mum’s block always reminded me of the Mediterranean. The central heating in the living room kept the temperature at sauna levels. In winter, I’d take scalding showers in free hot water. In summer, we’d soak up the sunshine on the ugly green plastic balcony.

Nothing was better than reading The Phantom through sunglasses. Sometimes, I burnt so red Mum had to smear me with yoghurt to ease the pain.

Mum was pretty: long, curly brown hair flowed over her shoulders. Sometimes, she’d put it up in a pineapple do on top of her head. She was less stressed than most other people. She’d slouch around in her dressing gown, taking life as it came. On Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays she worked in the corner shop. The rest of the time, she’d put on a smock and make clay figures in a separate room only she had access to. Sometimes people stopped by and bought what she’d made.

At weekends, she’d dress up in a mini skirt and sing songs for her friends. I’d often lie awake listening to the voices yelling and laughing into the night. Sometimes the neighbours rang on the doorbell.

Could Mum possibly sing a little more quietly? they asked. Mum laughed and apologised. But when she and her friends were having a good time, they never lowered their voices. The morning after, she’d rinse her throat out with a glass of water and say that a spot of proper cultural communication would do the neighbours a world of good.

In town, Mum and her girlfriends could sit for hours and babble about everything life didn’t have to offer. At the Three Brothers café, I was plied with bottles of cola and watched the world go by outside the windows. Followed other people’s rhythm. The city’s rhythm. Until, after a while, I no longer heard their words about treacherous menfolk and difficult bosses. I was completely absorbed in the people floating past and their stories.

Once Mum told her friends how boring her Christian youth had been. It was liberating to have become a grownup; to make her own choices and find religions that felt more suited specifically to her. And after Ingolf moved in, there was no turning back. He had a big beard, thin hair and a huge belly. His roots lay deep in the stronghold of communism. His northern Norwegian values reeked of optimism and vigour. Suddenly, there were posters of Lenin in the kitchen and Hanna Kvanmo in the hall. All our visitors were greeted by a sparkling Socialist Left Party queen firmly grasping a fragile spade. Her speech bubble shrieked: “In the SLP, we call a space a

spade”. There was no misunderstanding the message. Mum and Ingolf simply adored socialism. They savoured the word with awe, shoehorned it into every other sentence. Mum even abandoned good old Alf Prøysen for the Internationale and other proletarian hits.

Not even the cat was spared. Ingolf insisted that such a strong personality couldn’t possibly be called anything other than Lenin. To the accompaniment of Soviet brass band music, Mum, Bruv and I bore enthusiastic witness to the solemn naming ceremony Ingolf laid on. Not even the shock of discovering that Lenin was expecting kittens could dampen our joy over the choice of name. The little kitties came into the world, and everything was pure joy. But when Mum developed an allergy out of the blue, we had to choose between her and the cats. After a short timeout, the choice fell on Mum. The kittens were given away and Ingolf had to take the terrible trip to the vet to get Lenin a fatal injection. Once back home, he fetched the spade from the shed and led us out into the forest. He shovelled up the mud with a gurgling sound until the hole was big enough. Bruv and I both cried when Lenin vanished into the mud by the banks of the Salamander Dam.

The first of May was bigger than Christmas, New Year’s Eve and everybody’s birthdays combined. And after Ingolf’s arrival, the Norwegian flag was traded in for a red pennon, which confidently reminded passers-by of the day’s actual message. On the way into town, Ingolf gave Bruv and me a little red flag.

I thought Ingolf was cool, and things got even better after his parents came on the scene. They often visited from Kirkenes in the north and right from the start the chemistry between me and Ingolf’s mother was brilliant. She called me her best friend and didn’t give a toss that I was fifty years younger than her. We messed about, played cards and laughed at each other. When she saw me, her face would crumple up in pure joy. When we were together, everything was fine.

On hot summer days, they’d treat Mum, Ingolf, Bruv and me to a meal at a restaurant in central Oslo. That was when we were at our happiest, seduced by good-natured smiles and lightly clad people; by the heat slowly rising from the asphalt; and by northern Norwegian hospitality and humour at their finest. Ingolf’s parents used to stay at various hotels in the city. They didn’t want to burden us with overnight guests at the little house on Linderudsletta. Ingolf would park our square brown Mazda in Nobels gate, having calculated that the risk of burglary and damage was minimal in Oslo’s West End. Then we’d wander slowly down along Bygdøy allé. Soak up the peace: the cars that drove a bit slower in Frogner district, the people who spoke a bit posher and the window displays that shone a touch brighter than elsewhere. Even the drunkards smiled beneath the chestnut trees that lined the street.

On the main street, Karl Johan, things were different. It seethed like a busy anthill at sunset. The smell of beer mingled with the summer heat. The panpipes on Egertorget framed the Mediterranean atmosphere.

We’d storm past the panpipes and stride up the steps to Mamma Rosa, filled with anticipation over these restaurant visits that Mum and Ingolf always put off until the socialists from the far north turned their noses southwards with bulging wallets. At Mamma Rosa, we were in heaven. Bruv and I stuffed ourselves with pizza and banana splits, and chugged down cola by the bucketful.

Once, we ended up in Saras Telt, where Åge Aleksandersen’s “Four beers and a pizza” was drifting out of the loudspeakers and the atmosphere was top notch. Ingolf clapped me on the shoulder affectionately, well aware that I was one of Norway’s biggest closet fans of the rocker from Trønderlag. A couple of months earlier, he’d secretly bought Åge’s latest cassettes and a white Walkman with black headphones. Every night under the duvet, I’d plug in and surrendered myself to the melodies. The

songs were so brilliant I never tired of them.

Oldies

Sometimes Mum would stuff the living room with intrusive relatives. Then she’d smile nicely and have routine conversations. I always found my way over to my cousin Elisabeth from Hamar. She was a lovely girl with nut-brown eyes. Her father had planted his genes in the far north then upped sticks for Brazil right before she was born. Ever since I was pretty small, she’d talked to me differently than the other people in the family.

“You’re a special boy, you are. Not like all the rest. You want to take care of that.” Her words gave me a warm feeling inside. Made me gaze down at the asphalt. Smile carefully. She was the only person who ever said things like that to me.

On family occasions, Elisabeth was like a protective layer between us all. I always missed her at Christmas when Grandmother marched in, hurling aggressive looks at Mum’s pork ribs, which never did develop proper crackling. Accompanied by the music of Swedish opera star, Jussi Björling, Grandmother would knock back glass after glass of aquavit, licking any drops that might run down onto her yellow smoker’s finger. Black hairs stuck out of a wart on her forehead. Grandmother blew grey-white smoke rings in the direction of the sauerkraut. I wasn’t sure if she’d ever liked me. On Christmas Day, I’d lie there still as a mouse listening to the clattering from the kitchen. Now and then I’d hear her talking to herself. The smell of Petterøes tobacco would seep under my door. When heavy footsteps approached, I’d stick my head under the duvet.

But I was doomed to failure. Grandmother would slam open the door, cough loudly and ask if it wasn’t about time I got up. She’d never been keen on small children lazing their lives away while dutiful grownups kept the wheels turning. Grandmother used to tell me that nothing was less character building for human beings than frittering their lives away in sleep.

In the kitchen, we’d chew on slices of dry royal cake without exchanging a word. “When’ll Mum be up?” I asked.

“How should I know the answer to a question like that?” Grandmother rolled her eyes, sighing deeply.

“After all, it’s a long time since your Mum left home, isn’t it?” she continued. “And by the way, you speak very unclearly, my boy. Do you hear me? You’re seven years old now. You can’t carry on talking like a kindergartener. The secret to good

conversation is for people to understand what you’re saying. Isn’t that so? You must articulate your words. Do you hear? A-R-T-I-C-U-L-A-T-E your words.”

Only once did we venture to Hamar. But we were merely an obtrusive element in Grandmother’s social life there. After all, the crème de la crème of Hamar had to be plied with cheap white wine and endless gossip about anybody unfortunate enough to wander past her local. When she staggered home, barely a trace of the crème remained. She’d generally crack open a bottle of vodka and fall asleep in front of the TV.

On Mum’s thirtieth birthday, Grandmother spoke to everybody but me. She and Bruv got along better together. She’d give his face an affectionate pat, say nice things and then encourage him to stand up on a chair so nobody could miss seeing him. Up there, belly pressed tight against the buttons of his white shirt, Bruv drew a deep breath and stared at everybody, at home in the spotlight. His charming blend of childishness and experience made the guests gaze on in expectant joy. Up there on the

chair, Bruv was transformed: gone were the snot and the red eyes. Among adults he was safe. Bruv took a piece of paper from his pocket and read out the text in a steady voice.

Dearest Mama Rosebud Any time you show up Never will I betray thee

I hope you’ll have time for me

Everybody clapped enthusiastically, Mum loudest of all. But in the evening, when the guests had left, she sat by his bed, tears running down her sun-tanned cheeks. Mum and I had it easier. We ploughed our way through life with the same energy, never expecting more than others could give. She generally left me in peace. That suited both of us.

The Code

Everybody was looking forward to the first day of school. Dad babbled about all the things I’d learn. Mum talked about all the friends I’d make. Bruv put together masses of figures, gloating over all the things I still didn’t know. I didn’t have much to say myself. I gazed, astonished, at the others’ joy, which almost succeeded in infecting me. But something in me balked at it. I didn’t know what it’d be like. In the hall, I smiled bravely for Dad’s flashing camera. His eyes lit up when I pulled on the leather schoolbag whose steel rods cut into my back.

On the way down the stairs, the smell of perfume grew stronger. The stench forced its way in everywhere, laying itself like a nauseating coating on my tongue. I half-turned to Dad, who gave me a sly look. Some days, we could smell the stink as far up as the third floor. On weekends, Dad would hold his nose as he grabbed the newspaper from the doormat. Back in the flat, he’d lie on the floor, pretending he couldn’t breathe and screaming for help until Bruv and I hurled ourselves on top of him. Then he’d abruptly come back to life, tickling us until we were almost ready to die laughing.

After that, we’d wolf down a huge breakfast and watch the world go by outside the block.

On the ground floor, the neighbour boy had exchanged his Batman outfit for a freshly ironed shirt. His eyes were viridian, his chubby cheeks healthier than normal. Behind him stood his mother, with a big black hair slide in her blond hair. Her tits sat like two coconuts beneath her tight blouse. Chalk-white teeth split her face in two. Her voice was soft as silk.

“How sweet that you’re keeping each other company on the way to school!” “Isn’t it? It’ll be great,” Dad replied cheerfully, adjusting his comb-over.

On the pavement, the neighbour boy grabbed my hand with sweaty fingers. Brown freckles popped out of his forehead. The gentle August breeze played in his wet- combed mop of hair. My curls wrestled with the wind. I felt tall and gawky.

“Have you been looking forward to the first day of school too?” the neighbour boy smiled at me.

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“Because I haven’t been there before!” “I can already read and write.”

“I can’t.”

“You’ve got chestnut hair – just like me.”

“Dad says it’s red.”

Then we crossed Erich Mogensøns vei. Followed the footpath alongside big grey blocks that were even taller than ours. At the Linderud Shopping Centre, we turned left past the kindergarten. Several of the kids were hanging onto the fence. They shouted out to me. I peered at the neighbour boy in embarrassment. It all seemed so weird. The summer had changed everything. Even the playhouse outside the kindergarten was like a distant memory. The place where the biggest boys and girls took their clothes off, looked at each other, touched each other and laughed hysterically. They’d shut the curtains when I looked in the window. The kindergarten ladies were totally unbothered by it. They just sat there calmly on a bench, sucking in smoke from white cigarettes. None of the children at kindergarten ever invited me into the playhouse.

The neighbour boy babbled away as if possessed, telling me about all his toys. He- man and Star Wars were the coolest. I could borrow them all, even his light-sabre. After all, we lived on the same staircase. On our way down the last hill towards the school, he stopped talking.

Big boys watched us from the corner with superior smiles. I stared straight ahead, stiffly. Adjusted my bag. The little playground teemed with boys playing football. The girls played hopscotch and giggled together. The school was huge, red bricks enclosing the labyrinth of different buildings. We made for the assembly hall where Bruv’s class had sung Christmas in with peculiar performances and nervous teachers. Mum was waiting at the entrance. She gave me a big hug and snapped some pictures, wiping away the tears.

A crackling chime prompted harried teachers to hustle us into the dark green assembly hall. When everybody had sat down, a huge figure walked in from the back of the hall, coughing loudly. The stairs up to the stage sank beneath the weight of his steps. When he reached the microphone, he straightened his bowtie and wiped his sweating brow with a tissue. In a thundering voice, he welcomed us all to Linderud School. The sound that crackled out of the loudspeakers made the deputy head jump up and twiddle some knobs. The headmaster coughed irritably and said that each year he looked forward to meeting so many fine, young people, hungry for learning. Then we were split up into two classes, and each led into our classroom.

There were nameplates on every desk. The neighbour boy smiled happily from his place beside me. Confused parents ran here and there with their intrusive cameras until a commanding lady rang a little bell. She was called Lone, but wanted us to call her Miss. Although she spoke very slowly, I didn’t understand much of what she said. On the way home, Dad told me she was Danish.

In the days that followed, the neighbour boy was all smiles. He had a friendly word for everyone he met. Everything seemed to be so simple for him. Far too easy. The way he coughed up one fine sentence after another, always rounded off with a charming smile, I just couldn’t grasp it myself: nobody could be that nice – not all the time, anyway. But all the others seemed to be taken in. And since we were always together, the others smiled at me too. After a few weeks, he even handed out sweets to some of us during lunch break. I don’t think I liked him. But in any case, it meant I didn’t have to do any talking.

If someone looks me in the eye

I turn my head aside If someone kicks me in the arse

I run fast as hell to save my hide

Because fear of life Is greater than fear of death

Action

At school, I tagged along on the heels of the neighbour boy until I got to know the other boys in the class too. When they talked, there was so much I wanted to say, but so little I managed to get out. It was almost never the right time. The words clung tight, down in my belly. And when Miss launched into “The more we are together, the happier we are”, my throat closed up tight. When we all sang together, my voice fell to pieces in time with the others.

As the weeks went by, we gradually came to understand more Danish. Miss whipped us into shape, teaching us about the alphabet and the magical world of numbers. If anybody had the nerve to try any pranks, that hoarse smokers’ voice would come rasping from the lectern.

In the breaks, the little playground was deserted. From my seat by the window, I daydreamed my way to far-off places before being dragged back to reality by a commotion near the rubbish bin. It generally started with the biggest magpie, which would hop forward and peck at the bag. First cautious. Then more purposeful. Until at last the contents spilt out over the asphalt. Then the others came too: chattering, hopping as they devoured old packed lunches.

Lessons were never the most important thing. The breaks showed who was in charge. Whenever the bell rang for end of class, we’d leg it to the end of the playground where a rectangular iron monster towered. The frame was known as the Battle Bar and had destroyed the confidence of many a young lad.

The Battle Bar was taller than a grown man. It looked like a horizontal ladder. The rules were simple: the first person to reach the opposite end won. You hung on by your arms, and if you fell to the ground, you’d lost. All tricks were permissible. An especially bitter battle might be debated for weeks afterwards. The trick was to avoid the worst opponents. I was tall and won a lot of the battles. But when it was Tony standing at the other end, my hands would start to sweat. He kicked like a raging horse and most people dropped down before he’d even managed to plant his shoes on their body. After my battles with Tony, Mum would complain about my ripped clothes and shoeprints on my t-shirt.

Frank and Jonas never went near the Battle Bar. The rest of us could smell the fear on them like bloodhounds. We despised anything that was different. Anything that was weak. I quickly saw the signs and kept my distance – was scared to death that they might have something contagious and pass it on to me. The only one who spoke nicely to Frank and Jonas was the neighbour boy. But one day after school, he went up to Frank.

“You nicked my eraser.” “Didn’t.”

“Don’t fib. I know it was you!”

Then he slammed his fist into Frank’s stomach, making him buckle and groan, before a well-aimed kick sent him to the ground. The neighbour boy threw himself at Frank. He shoved his face against the asphalt, grinding his front teeth into it. A streak of blood trickled quietly as the blows hailed down on Frank’s head and back. It was just like the way Rambo dealt with arseholes on TV back home on Erich Mogensøns vei.

The rest of us stood there in silence, looking on.

“I’ll throttle you if you squeal, you little shit.” The neighbour boy got up. Spat at Frank.

On the way home, the neighbour boy cleaned his knuckles on the leaves of the huge oak tree opposite the school. He talked about all his toys. He reckoned Batman was a has-been and it was about time his mum shelled out for a brand-new He-Man suit.

I slept badly that night, unable to get Frank’s delicate face out of my mind. What if he was still lying in the playground? My stomach churned at the thought of what had happened. The next day, on the way to school, the neighbour boy acted as if nothing had happened.

There was a weird atmosphere in the playground. Things like this spread like wildfire. From that day on, we all knew that you didn’t mess with the neighbour boy and get away with it. We started to call him the Avenger. On the way in I saw Frank. His lip was swollen. But when lessons started and Miss asked if Frank could read out loud, he didn’t answer. He shut his mouth tight and looked out of the window. Heavy teardrops ran down his cheeks. I stared down at my desk as the neighbour boy drew feverishly in his notebook. In a weird way, I felt less lonely than usual. On the way out, I saw Frank’s eyes. They were lifeless. I wanted to talk to him. Say something nice. But I ran away after the rest of them to the Battle Bar.

You are

In Year Two, Bruv got odder and odder. In the breaks, he generally went around on his own. And if I went anywhere near him, he’d just wave me away. “Go away. I ain’t talking to no little shitheads,” he’d wheeze. So I withdrew, always with a huge lump in my throat.

Later in the winter, the older boys shoved Bruv’s face in the snow at lunch break. Three of the biggest boys shoved snow down his neck while the whole playground cheered. Standing at the back of the crowd, I felt the tears burning my eyes. Then everything went black and I hurled myself at one of his tormenters. I sank my teeth into his cheek until the taste of blood mingled with my spit. Then the deputy head came running out and dragged me off before tending to the injured boy.

I got sent home with a letter and a lecture from Miss. Dad told me off too, but not all that much really. After his snow-dunking, Bruv gave me an awkward look and told me to mind my own business. Because the way I’d lost it, the whole school would think I was raving mad. And he wasn’t having any of that because then they’d think the same thing about him too. I didn’t answer and went into my room. From the room next door, I heard Bruv’s cassette player howling so loudly I had to stick the pillow over my head to get any peace. He always listened to AC/DC, which wore me out. At times like this, the flat felt too small for Bruv, Dad and me.

As I lay there, I thought about what it would be like to have a cool older brother. One I could look up to. One who might pull my hair but would be friends the next day.

The Avenger was better placed in that respect. His big brother had wicked Levis and stylish hair, just like John Travolta. Almost every day, we’d spy on Tom, who didn’t seem to mind particularly that we were tagging along a hundred metres behind him. Because Tom was the kind who took things easy. Who floated when he walked along the tarmac. Who spoke sweetly to all the girls he met and made them laugh at everything he said. Tom really knew how to handle the ladies. He flirted like a god, dragging new girls behind the block with him every single week. And from our window on the third floor, I would see slender fingers running through his locks week after week. The Avenger and I were convinced Tom had to be the coolest boy in the

whole of Linderud. Hardly surprising we wanted to be like him. Talk like him. Walk like him.

Sometimes I even wished Tom could be my own big brother. When things got too bad, I’d draw mean pictures of Bruv on the dust that coated the window. As for him, he wouldn’t let me join in with the nuisance calls to nasty classmates any more.

Otherwise, things were pretty much okay. I was reasonably good at school, although I hated having to speak up in class. My voice would tie itself in knots over even the simplest questions. But when somebody sniggered maliciously in the background, Miss would quickly jump to the next person. I’d slowly grown to like the old lady, who drove us hard but also left us space to work in peace. In Year Three, she forced us to keep journals. And like all the rest, I pretended to hate it. But in fact I discovered a peace I’d never felt before, because it was a way of finding the time to get tangled up in all kinds of things I was certain nobody else had thought before.

When my imagination escaped from the classroom and headed down to the lions and elephants in Africa I was happy. Sometimes, Miss would read out loud and that was when I fell in love with the beauty of the words that passed, slowly but surely, through those bright-red lips of hers.

One time, after class, Miss asked me to stay behind. She told me to sit down and gazed at me calmly.

“Aren’t you tired?” “No.”

“But what about all that moving around? “Moving? We haven’t moved.”

“No, I mean back and forth between your mum and dad.” “No, I’m not tired.”

“Good. Go out and play with the others now.”

On my way out, I walked calmly through the empty corridors. What was she actually talking about? Should I be tired? After supper I asked Dad:

“Are you glad you were with Mum?” “We…ell.” He hesitated.

“But if you hadn’t been with Mum, you wouldn’t have had me and Bruv.” “I wouldn’t have known about you either, though,” he said, with a sly smile. I never could get that answer out of my mind.

It was great to have the Avenger – the mate who, for some reason or another, would be waiting for me every single morning before school. On our way down there, I didn’t usually say much, although that didn’t seem to bother him especially. The Avenger just did his thing. Called me his best friend. Shared secrets. Talked about the new swords his Dad in Drammen kept supplying him with.

Only once did I see him really sulky. It was the day he found out I’d been talking to the girl in the neighbouring block – the fair-haired, bubbly girl. The one who skipped so her braids stood straight up in the air.

The girl and I had never spoken to each other. Of course, I’d seen her. But no more than that. And then one day, totally out of the blue, she came up to me.

“Why are you so quiet?” Her blue eyes bored into mine. “I don’t really know.”

“Do you want to see my tummy?” “Why?”

“Cos I’m asking, of course.” “All right!”

“Come down in the cellar with me.”

“Okay!”

So we ran to the stairwell. Hurried down the hard cement steps where a weak bulb cast a bluish light on the oiled pine bannister. The girl stuck the key in the cellar door. Shot me a sly look, undaunted by the risk of getting caught by crabby OAPs.

But today we were alone. Trapped between sheds, wire fencing and padlocks. And in the light of a narrow window up by the ceiling, the neighbour girl drew in her breath and lifted up her shirt. She laid bare a milk-white, skinny belly. With ribs that protruded ever so slightly to the side.

“Isn’t that lovely?” she said. “Yeah.”

“You can look at it again tomorrow.” “I’d like that.”

And for a whole week, I got to see her belly. Always in the utility room. “Tomorrow I can pull down my knickers if you’ll do it too,” she said suddenly. “Okay.”

Then we ran up the steps and out into the sunshine. The Avenger spied us from the swing. He swung slowly back and forth on the black rubber tyres, eyes narrowed. “What’ve you been up to, eh?”

“None of your business,” sniffed the girl, as she ran away.

The Avenger followed her with his gaze before boring into me with his eyes. “Answer, now. What were you up to?”

“Nothin’ to do with you. But if you really must know, she’s going to pull her knickers down for me tomorrow.”

The Avenger stood there open-mouthed. His mug went from red to lilac. He jumped off the swing. Left without a word. When it was time for school the next day, he’d already left. But the day after that, he was waiting on the ground floor with a smile. On the way to school, the Avenger talked as if nothing had happened. As for the neighbour girl, I never saw her again. The Avenger said she’d moved to the Majorstua district.

Yearning for company

The Sledgehammer was the indisputable boss of the class. His centre parting ploughed across his head, precise to the millimetre. His mild face greeted most people with a smile. The girls in the class all fancied him; they’d giggle when he came anywhere near them. Nagged the rest of us to be more like the Sledgehammer. He was the only one of us who lived in a house. And in Year Four, he finally asked me to drop in after supper. I rang on the Avenger’s door before we headed off along Trondheimsveien. The evening was on the point of gagging the day and the billboards of the Linderud Shopping Centre shone down on us irascibly. We knew it better than anybody, that centre – could spend hours entertaining ourselves with the different people and smells. We secretly stalked foreigners in headscarves looking after their children. But when they raised their gaze, we looked the other way. They did their best to ignore us too. That was just the way it’d become, and nobody lifted a finger to change it.

The pensioners killed time with tedious chatter and coffee. Some of them would fritter away their pensions on the flashing machines too. The Avenger and I would stand around for ages keeping track. And if we were lucky, some grandma would run out of dosh just when the jackpot was imminent. We were like wolves then. We’d shove in filthy krone coins while the old biddy sprinted to the post office to get

herself an overdraft. One time, the jackpot burst out into dancing sirens and brass band music. The coins flooded out so quickly that even the Avenger went red in the face. But he calmed down. Tried to compose himself. He lifted his chin slightly and shut his mouth tight. Neither of us had ever seen so much money before. The Avenger swept the cash into a bag before treating us to ice cream and cola. He changed up the rest of it in the bank. He handled the freshly ironed hundred-kroner notes with the utmost respect. Just the way the fat cats on TV said you should handle money. That way, more of it would come your way.

On Trondheimsveien a lorry passed, whipping withered leaves along in its slipstream. The Avenger’s legs were moving faster than usual. He went on and on about the Sledgehammer who’d apparently dragged a girl from the other class in our year back home with him a couple of weeks before. I didn’t answer. I was too agitated. The Avenger smirked and told me to stop worrying about the visit. I looked away. I hated the fact that he knew me so well. It was bad enough with Dad, who was always telling me to stop being so damn shy.

“If you look at the ground, people get the wrong impression, don’t they? It’ll just make them think you’re arrogant,” he’d chant.

But what was I supposed to say? When my mouth was dry. And my head empty. At Linderud Farm, we turned left along a narrow path. The ancient mansion stood there like a haunted house far beyond the rusted fence. Although we’d never seen

anybody we knew that there were people in there. In the evenings, you could hear the dogs making an almighty racket. A perilous alleyway into the grounds opened out directly onto Trondheimsveien. Now and then, black Audis would speed to and fro, their blacked-out windows blocking the view within.

Inside the fence were enormous grassy fields. From the time the snow melted until October, we drooled over the possibilities. And on the rare occasions when the caretaker set to work with the lawnmower, the conditions were ripe for a footie tournament. After long days, we’d totally lose track of who was actually winning. We usually ended up exhausted and angry. Fistfights and bloody noses were inevitable.

But they were always forgotten until the next time the lawnmower came out. I think it was on one of those days I was found worthy of a place in the Sledgehammer’s basement room – the Penthouse, as he called it.

At the end of the path, we came to a square where coarse vegetation forced its way through the cracked asphalt. The square was fenced in with worn netting and had two rotting wooden goalposts that looked as if they were about to split at the joints.

Further down was a street that wound its way between two rows of houses. Down there, I could no longer hear the hum of Trondheimsveien.

The Sledgehammer’s mother opened the door, beaming. We left our shoes in the small hallway then went down a steep staircase with blue shag pile on each step. I steadied myself on the wall with my hand, my legs feeling wobbly as we stepped over the threshold into the Penthouse. The Sledgehammer and the others looked up. We said hi and plumped down on the worn sofa bed. The boys seemed totally different from how they were at school. Especially Tony and Nils, but they probably felt the same way about me.

The big stereo was pumping out music I’d already heard before. Wasn’t his dad’s collection of old Beatles and Stones records cool? the Sledgehammer asked. I nodded and smiled, suddenly feeling more at home.

All at once, the Sneak was standing in the doorway. He was in our class and talked nicely to me when we were on our own. But as soon as there were a few of us, he’d turn his back on me. He behaved like a quivering aspen leaf in a bitter autumn wind. He always allowed himself to be led into the most cunning solutions. Now, he was

grinning smarmily. He plumped down on the sofa, in between the Avenger and me. He didn’t spare a me a glance, but smiled cheerfully at the others. The Sneak was ingratiating and elegant. His tongue hissed like a venomous snake’s. He reminded me of the Jehovah’s Witnesses that would turn up at our door at regular intervals. Those people who were so cheerful until they realised that salvation was a distant prospect. I shifted in my seat, feeling a surge of aversion.

I’d smelt shit from day one. And the stink was unbearable. I didn’t understand how the others could be taken in. But just as garbage can keep its suffocating stench under a lid, the Sneak managed to hide his true face from most people. Still, it didn’t take a psychic to spot his snide comments and cowardly digs. The Avenger said he was a fake, but thought his mum was the most awesome person going. And the Sneak’s mother really was awesome. She looked like the women on the covers of the glossy magazines at the newsagents. Just a few more clothes maybe. His dad always wore a suit and threw money at him on the rare occasions he was home between business trips.

In a break between songs, the Sneak stood up and showed off his new Hugo Boss threads. When I got up to go to the toilet, I covered the Henry Choice label on my trousers with my hand. The Penthouse smelt like Mum’s living room after several overly long nights. Hundreds of beer cans from every corner of the world decked the shelves. With ill-concealed pride, the Sledgehammer said: “Fuck me, lads. My Dad ain’t half done a lot of boozing!”

Everybody laughed. But we jumped when the door to the Penthouse suddenly slammed open. A huge figure with a shaven head and tattooed arms ambled by. A few seconds later he was back, a beer clinking between his fingers.

“Gotta have something to sleep on, lads,” he said, before a brutal burst of laughter echoed up the stairs.

The Sledgehammer’s dad was a retired sailor known as the Big Sledgehammer. He had the strength of ten bulls and fists as big as Arnold Schwarzenegger’s. Later I saw him in action pumping iron and downing huge quantities of beer. Before the league matches, he’d do squats with the boys on his back. Huge veins would fight their way to the surface of his forehead then. All the lads were sure the Big Sledgehammer must be Norway’s strongest man.

“Just think how many arseholes he must’ve bumped off,” the Avenger used to say on the way home.

I agreed. Anyone who messed with the Big Sledgehammer was a goner.

Bloodhound

Tony was always there at the Sledgehammer’s. His mop of black hair betrayed his southern genes. A pair of inquisitive eyes peered out from behind thick coke-bottle glasses. Like the rest of us, Tony played football. His technique was dazzling, but his body had grown so big that he was worn out after twenty minutes on the pitch. The trainer had tried to get him to jog and eat healthier. But Tony just sniggered at his advice. He was the best on the team at shooting penalties and that made him our top scorer. For a long time that was enough for Tony. Besides he loved kebabs. He’d never have given up that meat from unidentified animals doused in white gloop. He used to stop in at the local kebab shop every day.

Tony was the best of us at lying. He got away with most of it. Most of his lies were about his family and how much money they won on lottery tickets every week. Tony said what people wanted to hear. And he was good at hitting the bull’s-eye.

Sometimes his stories were totally insane. Dad just smiled when I told him about Tony’s fantastic life. “You should be kind to Tony,” he said gently. When I got older, I learned that Tony’s eyes blinked more often when he was in the middle of his wildest stories. I never told a soul.

Tony’s dad was a legend throughout the Groruddalen district. He’d arrived in Norway the year before Tony first saw the light of day. Nobody knew what he used to do before. He went by the name of the Butcher and exuded a rank stench of sweat and cheap aftershave. He was as wide as he was tall, with slicked-back black hair. A comb jockeyed for place with his wallet in his back pocket. By day, the Butcher plunged knives into unsuspecting pigs and by night, he’d knock back cheap spirit with his Croatian buddies. Tony didn’t much like talking about his dad.

On match days, a tremendous tension lay in the air. At breaktime, we’d peer across the Metro tracks, down towards the Linderud ground where everything would be decided in a matter of hours. After school, we’d run home and bolt down our food, then leg it down to the Linderud ground as fast as we could. When Tony’s yellow BMX came whizzing down the hill, we were ready for battle. Just before the ref put his whistle in his gob, the Butcher would come panting up. He simply loved football. Almost as much as he loved the sound of his own voice. From start to finish, he made a hell of a racket. I played defence, but even the simplest clearing shot was enough to trigger the Butcher’s nervous breakdown, which echoed between the metro tracks and the housing blocks. It was a nightmare to play, but it was even worse having to lead the team. Nobody could hear a damn word of the Trainer’s tactical advice from the sidelines. But it was irrelevant anyway: the Trainer was no Alex Ferguson. That said, nobody was a patch on him when it came to promoting his ambitions for Linderud Year Seven football team with childish enthusiasm at parents’ evening. The Trainer had a passionate attachment to Manchester United and believed he had tons of solid expertise to pass on to potential rising stars.

Whistle in mouth, he led the weekly training with iron discipline and crass comments. After training, he always let his son stay behind to practise his free kicks. That was the only way they could achieve their goal: for his offspring to don the devil-red jersey of Old Trafford. But after a while became clear to one and all that neither the boy’s talent nor his weedy body could live up to his father’s expectations. No matter how much they practised, his shots always turned out to be damp squibs. Nils fell like a fly in all his tackles. Even so, the Trainer made his son the captain.

Gave him the number ten jersey. And a regular spot in the central midfield. The shrimp was a head shorter than the rest of us. Our opponents laughed themselves silly when that piping voice tried to rally the troops.

But if the balls didn’t roll Nils’s way, his passion found another outlet. Whenever the Trainer was boozing his way through the Match of the Day, Nils would scour his father’s drawers for grubby editions of Playboy and Men Only. But on a few occasions, when neither his imagination nor the Trainer’s magazines worked, he’d turn up at the lads’ houses and ask to take a peek at whatever old smut they might have lying around in drawers and cupboards. He’d often turn up around suppertime, which meant some gentle manoeuvring was required if the family meal was to continue as usual afterwards.

Fortunately, I was usually able to head off the catastrophe by palming Nils off onto Tony, whose doors were always wide open to such visits. The Butcher was well aware that young people needed to be immersed in life’s realities as early as possible. He’d always give Nils a cheery grin and shove a well-thumbed magazine beneath the young swine’s arm.

These days, Tony would always go to bed early, packing the duvet tightly around him

and leafing through the gummed-together pages. He’d stare at the pictures, skim the poetry that accompanied them. Become absorbed in the world of adults. But one day, the Men Only story came closer than usual to real life. The euphonious name Helga had been blacked out with a marker pen and replaced with “Tora”. The hottest girl in the class. The one who’d spent the past year trying to hide her buxom girlish form beneath a baggy sweater. The one we flocked around like randy bullocks; tried to impress; sought eye contact with. Just a smile. Tora; we’d stuff snow down her neck in winter, even though we never got anything in return.

But the scandal was a fact. Tony notified the Sledgehammer who immediately called the Avenger and me into a meeting about Nils’s editorial assault. We lay on the floor and laughed as we analysed the situation. The Sledgehammer was sure that in time Nils could achieve a blazing career in an ever-expanding sector. The rest of us agreed that nobody would be better than Nils at warming up the stars as they prepared for their on-screen performance. After days of discussion, Nils was hauled onto the carpet. At first he denied it point-blank, but since he had the worst handwriting in Linderud, all efforts to explain it away proved fruitless. All the same, Tony shared the story with the whole class. He felt it would be selfish to keep this kind of information to himself. This time nobody thought he was stretching the truth. Everybody spoke warmly of the captain’s editing skills.

Defeat

After school, the Butcher continued to drown out the Trainer with his bawling in broken Norwegian. People would stream in to the Linderud ground just for the entertainment value. One time, the Big Sledgehammer started to laugh when the Butcher had been yelling and shouting non-stop for forty minutes. The Butcher turned to the Big Sledgehammer, snarling like the dogs outside the kebab shop. He got right up in the big man’s face.

“What the fuck’re ya laughin’ at?”

Everything stopped dead. The ball bounced over the sideline. Two of the sickest people we knew had got into a fight. It was like a clash between Rocky Balboa and Dolph Lundgren. The Big Sledgehammer looked down at the Butcher, poker-faced. The muscles in his arms burst through his shirt while the veins in the middle of his forehead pumped themselves bigger and bigger.

“What the fuck is it to you what I’m doing? Get out of my face before I knock you down.”

His voice was ice cold. Gone was the jovial Big Sledgehammer who pumped iron and chugged beer. This was the man we’d talked about for years. But now that he’d finally made an appearance, it was pure hell. The Butcher looked at the Big Sledgehammer uncertainly. Took a small step backwards. Then shrieked:

“Don’ fuckin’ laugh at me. Ya’ve got no clue who ya’re messing with.”

Then a scream ripped through the air. Tony’s sister clung fast to the Butcher’s leg and shrieked at her dad to stop.

Her mother wept hysterically and dragged the Butcher to the car by his mop of hair. After the family’s red Lada had rattled off, the Linderud ground went absolutely quiet. The Big Sledgehammer was the first one to open his mouth.

“Fuck it all, ref. Ain’t we here for a match? There’s still a quarter of the game to go, ain’t there?”

We netted two more goals and lost 4-3. After the match, the Big Sledgehammer gave Tony’s hair a comradely tug.

“I’ll see you in the basement room next week. Don’t give it another thought.”

In the weeks that followed, the Butcher went missing. Nobody had any doubt that the hothead was planning a ghastly revenge. Speculation reached fever pitch when Tony told us about the towering piles of books in the kitchen every evening. Then we forgot the whole business until the Butcher showed up again. He strode cockily over the bridge by the Linderud ground, surveyed his surroundings, then thundered down the hill. Down by the gravel, he ripped off his newly purchased overalls. Revealed tight-fitting referee kit, which more than accentuated his armour-plated arse and bulging belly. I peered at Tony, who was, like me, one big question mark.

“Get on with yer warm-up, lads. No starin’. We got a new home ref.”

The Trainer seemed irritated. The Butcher was all smiles. He gave the Trainer a hefty clap on the shoulders.

“It’ll be three goals today, lads.”

Then he blew the whistle to start the match. Gave me the thumbs-up. Having the Butcher on the sidelines had been awful, but it was even worse having him wandering about with a whistle in his gob. The next matches we won lock, stock and barrel. The Butcher had no qualms about sending our opponents’ best man off the field or giving us ten minutes extra time if we needed it. If anybody complained, he just told them to go to hell. Most followed his advice. In the last match of the season, we played Stovner. They had a Serbian trainer who spat out choice words in his mother tongue. The Butcher stopped the game. Sent the boys off the pitch. And knocked his archenemy to the ground. The Linderud boys rejoiced, while the wimps on the opposing team snivelled. The Butcher grinned in our direction, held up a red card and waved it in front of the Serbian’s nose. The football league never got its report on that match. The Croatian league looks after its own. That much Tony could tell us.

Fired up by the Butcher’s comeback, we won the league championship. The Trainer’s thank-you speech placed great weight on successful tactical planning. The other parents nodded politely. What few of them knew was that it was the Trainer who had prompted the Butcher to embark on his new career by telling him that his skills as a committed father and spectator deserved to be used for the greater good of the sport through steady supervision of young talent. An additional bonus the Trainer envisaged was, of course, that the Butcher would be too busy to watch our matches. But the Trainer choked on his Jägermeister the day the Butcher turned up at his door with the fixtures list in his hand. Now he planned to referee our matches. Wasn’t it the Trainer who’d encouraged the Butcher to take the referee course, after all?

Every year, Tony, his mother and his sister were taken along to Croatia. Nobody looked forward to these trips, with a grandfather who drank himself senseless and pestering relatives jabbering incomprehensibly. The family lived in a little village and all the men wore knives in their belts. At the annual summer festival, the biggest pig was always driven out into the square. Tradition dictated that the youngest of the boys must cut its throat. When the blood cascaded out and the pig eventually toppled over, the atmosphere grew festive. Afterwards, the smell of grilled bacon hung over the farmyard like a cloud.

When Tony was ten, the butcher gave him the knife. Grandfather clapped, and the rest of the family cheered in encouragement. But when the knife slipped and Tony’s eyes welled up, it was no longer a matter of a father and son on holiday. Eyes black, the Butcher hurled Tony in a bush and took care of the job himself. Angry and insulted by the idea of having a wimp of a son who’d brought shame on the family traditions. Back home in Norway, Tony’s mother took things in hand, throwing the

Butcher out of the little flat on Brobekk. Later, she took the kids with her to her

mother’s, changed her name and put extra padlocks on the door. But there was no need for that. The Butcher loved her far too much ever to lay a finger on her.

Tony said he didn’t give a damn about the Butcher, but I never quite managed to believe him. I liked the little powder keg myself. Besides, I was thinking about Dad and what it’d be like to live without him. Even when he was listening to accordion

bands, Dad was one of the people I liked best in the whole wide world.