rusting where someone left it.
A man in stained overalls comes round the corner of the barn and stands squinting, shading his eyes from the sun.
‘Hi, Bjørn,’ I say, and he shakes his head and strokes his jaw. Then he scuttles into a shed without saying or doing anything.
‘Who was that?’ Arvid asks.
‘Bjørn. Farm boy.’
‘Farm boy ? He must be at least seventy.’
I scratch my head. ‘About seventy-two.’
‘Is he always so talkative?’
‘Bjørn never says a word.’ I walk over to the house andknock at the door. No one answers, so I push it and go in through porch and call through the open kitchen door:
‘Hello, anyone at home?’ I hear a shuffle of feet and a woman of about thirty I have never seen before comes from the kitchen and looks surprised. There is something wrong with her legs. She doesn’t lift them when she walks.
‘Does Leif still live here?’
‘He sure does.’
‘My name’s Audun Sletten. I spent a summer here a few years back and I thought I would come by and say hello.’
‘Well, I don’t know, he’s asleep.’
Fine, I think, we’ll be out of here, but then I hear his voice from the living room.
‘Who is it, Ingrid?’
‘Young man called Audun. He’s come by, he says.’
‘Audun? Is that Audun, you say? I’ll be damned, be right there.’ There is a bit of a commotion, he groans as if he is making a serious effort, and then comes wheeling into the kitchen. He looks exactly as he used to, the grey crew-cut hair, his sculpted face like some bust I have seen in a magazine, and his upper body like a chunk of rock. But his legs are thinner, they don’t seem to carry him any more. There was some trouble with his legs before, but I didn’t see the wheelchair coming. I go up to him and shake his hand and he holds mine in both of his.
‘Well, if it ain’t Audun. It’s been a while.’
‘Summer of ’65.’
‘And now it’s 1970, that makes it more than five years. I’ll be damned, you’re big now. And strong too, I can see that. You’ve got a friend with you, a long-haired baboon?’He laughs without malice, Arvid grins and goes to shake hands.
‘Arvid Jansen. I look after Audun.’
‘Oh, so he still needs that, does he? Well, I guess we too did that for a while, back then. I’m only joking. Audun was a boy who could look after himself. Be wrong to say anything else. He came here with that white bum of his, and welcome he was, that’s for sure. He could graft like an adult even though he was no more than a half-pint.’
‘White bum?’ Arvid whispers.
‘Shh,’ I say. ‘And Signe, is she here?’
Leif takes a deep breath and says:
‘I guess she moved. Lives somewhere in Trøndelag I’ve heard, I’m not really sure.’ He smacks his hands on the wheelchair. ‘And here I sit. But it’s fine, it’s fine. Ingrid helps me indoors and Bjørn outdoors. It’s fine.’
But I don’t see how it can be fine out here, or going anywhere but down the drain. Something must have happened, and I cannot ask. Signe with the large bosom and her large smile, Signe with her soft hands on her way up to the first floor where I was lying in bed that last summer, full of yellow fever and not able to sleep. Their children had moved out a long time ago, so the whole room was mine. Her white shift in the grey from the skylight, Signe with her white gentle words, Signe so kind. But I cannot ask. Once I sent a card, but there was no answer.
‘You see, somehow she fell ill. Well, let’s not talk about that now. Jesus, it’s nice to see you again, Audun. How’s your mother getting on down there?’
‘A lot better,’ I say. ‘A heck of a lot better.’
He looks at me with those fiercely blue eyes. ‘Yes, I guess she is.’ He strokes his chin and his bristles rasp loud enough for all of us to hear. He clears his throat takes another deep breath and says:
‘You know, your father was here a month ago. Strange you should come now. He was out of here, he said.
A man in stained overalls comes round the corner of the barn and stands squinting, shading his eyes from the sun.
‘Hi, Bjørn,’ I say, and he shakes his head and strokes his jaw. Then he scuttles into a shed without saying or doing anything.
‘Who was that?’ Arvid asks.
‘Bjørn. Farm boy.’
‘Farm boy ? He must be at least seventy.’
I scratch my head. ‘About seventy-two.’
‘Is he always so talkative?’
‘Bjørn never says a word.’ I walk over to the house andknock at the door. No one answers, so I push it and go in through porch and call through the open kitchen door:
‘Hello, anyone at home?’ I hear a shuffle of feet and a woman of about thirty I have never seen before comes from the kitchen and looks surprised. There is something wrong with her legs. She doesn’t lift them when she walks.
‘Does Leif still live here?’
‘He sure does.’
‘My name’s Audun Sletten. I spent a summer here a few years back and I thought I would come by and say hello.’
‘Well, I don’t know, he’s asleep.’
Fine, I think, we’ll be out of here, but then I hear his voice from the living room.
‘Who is it, Ingrid?’
‘Young man called Audun. He’s come by, he says.’
‘Audun? Is that Audun, you say? I’ll be damned, be right there.’ There is a bit of a commotion, he groans as if he is making a serious effort, and then comes wheeling into the kitchen. He looks exactly as he used to, the grey crew-cut hair, his sculpted face like some bust I have seen in a magazine, and his upper body like a chunk of rock. But his legs are thinner, they don’t seem to carry him any more. There was some trouble with his legs before, but I didn’t see the wheelchair coming. I go up to him and shake his hand and he holds mine in both of his.
‘Well, if it ain’t Audun. It’s been a while.’
‘Summer of ’65.’
‘And now it’s 1970, that makes it more than five years. I’ll be damned, you’re big now. And strong too, I can see that. You’ve got a friend with you, a long-haired baboon?’He laughs without malice, Arvid grins and goes to shake hands.
‘Arvid Jansen. I look after Audun.’
‘Oh, so he still needs that, does he? Well, I guess we too did that for a while, back then. I’m only joking. Audun was a boy who could look after himself. Be wrong to say anything else. He came here with that white bum of his, and welcome he was, that’s for sure. He could graft like an adult even though he was no more than a half-pint.’
‘White bum?’ Arvid whispers.
‘Shh,’ I say. ‘And Signe, is she here?’
Leif takes a deep breath and says:
‘I guess she moved. Lives somewhere in Trøndelag I’ve heard, I’m not really sure.’ He smacks his hands on the wheelchair. ‘And here I sit. But it’s fine, it’s fine. Ingrid helps me indoors and Bjørn outdoors. It’s fine.’
But I don’t see how it can be fine out here, or going anywhere but down the drain. Something must have happened, and I cannot ask. Signe with the large bosom and her large smile, Signe with her soft hands on her way up to the first floor where I was lying in bed that last summer, full of yellow fever and not able to sleep. Their children had moved out a long time ago, so the whole room was mine. Her white shift in the grey from the skylight, Signe with her white gentle words, Signe so kind. But I cannot ask. Once I sent a card, but there was no answer.
‘You see, somehow she fell ill. Well, let’s not talk about that now. Jesus, it’s nice to see you again, Audun. How’s your mother getting on down there?’
‘A lot better,’ I say. ‘A heck of a lot better.’
He looks at me with those fiercely blue eyes. ‘Yes, I guess she is.’ He strokes his chin and his bristles rasp loud enough for all of us to hear. He clears his throat takes another deep breath and says:
‘You know, your father was here a month ago. Strange you should come now. He was out of here, he said.
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