you’re supposed to know, when you’re supposed to read the other person’s thoughts, realise. Maybe that’s true. My being dyslexic might explain it. My mum usedto say I was too pessimistic. Maybe that’s true as well. Either way, I was pleasantly surprised when Corina Hoffmann leaned over and kissed me.
We made love. It’s not out of modesty that I choose this romantic, chaste euphemism instead of a more direct, instrumental word. But because making love really was the most fitting description. Her mouth was close to my ear, her breath teasing me. I held her incredibly carefully, like one of the dried flowers I sometimes found in the pages of books from the library, so brittle and fragile that they dissolved under my fingers as soon as I touched them. I was scared she would disappear. At regular intervals I raised myself up on my arms to check that she really was still there, that it wasn’t just a dream. I stroked her, lightly as a feather, and very gently, so as not to use her up. I held back before entering her. She looked at me in surprise—she had no way of knowing that I was waiting for the right moment. And then it came, the moment, the melting together, this thing that you might imagine to be trivial for a former pimp, but which was nonetheless so overwhelming that I felt my throat tighten. She let out a low,drawn-out groan as I pushed into her, incredibly slowly and carefully, as I whispered something tender and idiotic in her ear. I recognised her impatience, but I wanted it to be like this, wanted it to be something special. So I took her at a measured pace, and with hard-fought self-control. But her hips began to roll like sharp, quick waves beneath me, and her white skin shimmered in the darkness. It was like holding moonlight. Just as soft. Just as impossible.
“Stay with me, my love,” the breath in my ear panted. “Stay with me, my love, my Olav.”
—
I smoked a cigarette. She slept. It had stopped snowing. The wind which had been playing a mournful tune on the guttering had packed up its instruments. The only sound in the room was her even breathing. I listened and listened. Nothing.
It had been just like I had dreamed it would be. And hadn’t believed it could be. I was so tired that I had to get some sleep. But so happy that I didn’t want to. Because when I fell asleep, this world, this world that I had never much cared foruntil now, would cease to exist for a while. And, according to that Hume guy, the fact that I had until now woken up every morning in the same body, into the same world, where what had happened had actually happened, was no guarantee that the same thing would happen again tomorrow morning. For the first time in my life, closing my eyes felt like a gamble.
So I went on listening. Keeping watch over what I had. There were no sounds that shouldn’t have been there. But I carried on listening anyway.
CHAPTER 11
M y mother was so weak. That was why she had to put up with more than even the strongest person could have handled.
For instance, she could never say no to my bastard of a father. Which meant she had to put up with more beatings than someone banged up for sex offences. He was especially fond of throttling her. I’ll never escape the sound of my mum bellowing like a cow in the bedroom each time my father let go long enough for her to catch her breath, so that he could start strangling her all over again. She was too weak to say no to drink, which meant she downed enough poison to fell an ox or an elephant, even though she was onlysmall. And she was so weak when it came to me that she gave me everything I ever wanted, even when she really needed what she was giving me.
People always said I was like my mum.
Only when I was staring into my father’s eyes for the last time did I realise that I had him inside me as well. Like a virus, an illness in my blood.
As a rule he only came to us when he needed money. And as a rule he got what little we had. But he also
We made love. It’s not out of modesty that I choose this romantic, chaste euphemism instead of a more direct, instrumental word. But because making love really was the most fitting description. Her mouth was close to my ear, her breath teasing me. I held her incredibly carefully, like one of the dried flowers I sometimes found in the pages of books from the library, so brittle and fragile that they dissolved under my fingers as soon as I touched them. I was scared she would disappear. At regular intervals I raised myself up on my arms to check that she really was still there, that it wasn’t just a dream. I stroked her, lightly as a feather, and very gently, so as not to use her up. I held back before entering her. She looked at me in surprise—she had no way of knowing that I was waiting for the right moment. And then it came, the moment, the melting together, this thing that you might imagine to be trivial for a former pimp, but which was nonetheless so overwhelming that I felt my throat tighten. She let out a low,drawn-out groan as I pushed into her, incredibly slowly and carefully, as I whispered something tender and idiotic in her ear. I recognised her impatience, but I wanted it to be like this, wanted it to be something special. So I took her at a measured pace, and with hard-fought self-control. But her hips began to roll like sharp, quick waves beneath me, and her white skin shimmered in the darkness. It was like holding moonlight. Just as soft. Just as impossible.
“Stay with me, my love,” the breath in my ear panted. “Stay with me, my love, my Olav.”
—
I smoked a cigarette. She slept. It had stopped snowing. The wind which had been playing a mournful tune on the guttering had packed up its instruments. The only sound in the room was her even breathing. I listened and listened. Nothing.
It had been just like I had dreamed it would be. And hadn’t believed it could be. I was so tired that I had to get some sleep. But so happy that I didn’t want to. Because when I fell asleep, this world, this world that I had never much cared foruntil now, would cease to exist for a while. And, according to that Hume guy, the fact that I had until now woken up every morning in the same body, into the same world, where what had happened had actually happened, was no guarantee that the same thing would happen again tomorrow morning. For the first time in my life, closing my eyes felt like a gamble.
So I went on listening. Keeping watch over what I had. There were no sounds that shouldn’t have been there. But I carried on listening anyway.
CHAPTER 11
M y mother was so weak. That was why she had to put up with more than even the strongest person could have handled.
For instance, she could never say no to my bastard of a father. Which meant she had to put up with more beatings than someone banged up for sex offences. He was especially fond of throttling her. I’ll never escape the sound of my mum bellowing like a cow in the bedroom each time my father let go long enough for her to catch her breath, so that he could start strangling her all over again. She was too weak to say no to drink, which meant she downed enough poison to fell an ox or an elephant, even though she was onlysmall. And she was so weak when it came to me that she gave me everything I ever wanted, even when she really needed what she was giving me.
People always said I was like my mum.
Only when I was staring into my father’s eyes for the last time did I realise that I had him inside me as well. Like a virus, an illness in my blood.
As a rule he only came to us when he needed money. And as a rule he got what little we had. But he also
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