The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat and Other Stories from the North

1974 ^{FRODE GRYTTEN}

IN THE SUMMER OF 1974, my mother fell in love with a man named Lars Paalgaard. On Midsummer Night’s Eve he showed up at our cabin in a white, open Ford T-Bird. He took us on a drive along the coast, over the bridges and out towards the ocean. My brother and I sat in the back seat, staring at this man who had unexpectedly come into our lives. He was dressed in a black suit and white shirt. Around his neck he wore a string tie with a silver heart. He smoked Winston cigarettes and sang along to the music on the car radio. Mother explained that Lars Paalgaard loved convertibles; he almost always drove with the top down, never mind the wind and weather. She said he wanted to see the sky above him, feel the hot or cold air, inhale the scent of the ocean. Or the smell of shit, Paalgaard added, turning halfway around towards us. I love the smell of shit, he said.

We drove out into a landscape I couldn’t remember ever having been in before. We whizzed up hills and alongside meadows, past small holdings that sprawled into inlets and coves. There were new houses here and there with gardens and lawns that hadn’t yet been sown. A sweet aroma rose from the car seat, so different from our Opel. This car didn’t even have a seat in the back, it was more like a couch. Now and then mother pushed her sunglasses up on her head—she wanted to show the driver that she was watching him. Her blonde hair fluttered in the wind; she tried to get it under control with a blue shawl. She no longer looked like our mother. I could hear the noise of the tyres and feel the warmth of the evening air against my face. My little brother sat with his mouth open, like he was singing along too. I asked him to shut up, he looked like a retard.

After driving for half an hour, Lars Paalgaard slowed down and pulled over on the roadside. There were several cars parked along the road and a man wearing white shorts waved the T-Bird into place. On the gravel pitch down by the shore, I could see merry-go-rounds and a Ferris wheel. I heard shouts and laughter. It wasn’t until we came closer that we discovered how jam-packed it was. People bustled back and forth, ran around aimlessly or stood in groups and in lines. Children walked around holding balloons and candyfloss in their fists. Fathers tried to fish up prizes with small metal clamps. Some tried their luck on the wheel of fortune, others shot air rifles or threw balls at cans. Shouts came from the merry-go-rounds, and over by the roller coaster there was a sign that read: Do you dare?

You have to take some chances in life, Lars Paalgaard said and tickled my mother’s ribs flirtatiously. Not in a million years, she said and pulled free. She took her wallet out of her handbag. Why don’t we meet back at the car in an hour? she asked and gave me a five-dollar bill. I accepted it and didn’t know whether to thank her or give the bill back. My parents had never given me so much money before. I want to ride the bumper cars, my little brother said and stuck to me like glue. Fredrik was six years younger than me. He’d been born prematurely and that was probably why my mother had made him her favourite; she’d told me that she’d been sure she would lose him. The summer weeks we were at the cabin, Fredrik always latched onto me. He trotted behind me, always had to know where I was. He was teased by the older boys because he was tiny and thin. I boxed and was a loudmouth, nobody dared mess with me. At the fair the roles were switched: I trotted after Fredrik, I let him do whatever he wanted. A lot of girls made eyes at me and giggled, but I didn’t have the strength to think of anything except whether my father knew about this deal with Lars Paalgaard. I refused to believe it. Father was at home in Odda working and the plan was that he would come join us next weekend.

When we walked back up the gravel road an hour later, Lars Paalgaard and my mother were leaning against the T-Bird. He looked relaxed, had his hands in his pockets and a smoke in his mouth. She waved a huge teddy bear at us. Just before we reached the top, I noticed Paalgaard checking his fly. He tugged at the zip and laughed with my mother while he whispered something into her ear. She leaned against him, giggling in a way that seemed wrong to me. At that moment I understood that I was not in any sense out of danger. I could be hurt or injured in a way that would be fatal, not just because of my own actions, but also because of the bad decisions of others.

Mother asked if we’d had a good time and if we’d spent the five dollars. I didn’t answer. Fredrik said that we’d gone on the Kamikaze, where we’d been shot 20 metres up into the air before it dropped us down again. We got into the car without saying anything else. The last of the evening sun tinted the T-Bird pink. Paalgaard stepped on the gas and the car pitched into the twilight. I turned around and looked back at the fair where the blinking lights were now just starting to appear. At different places along the highway, out on headlands and down on beaches, people had lit bonfires. The T-Bird slid mightily away. It bore no resemblance to any cars I’d ridden in previously. The wind was hot against my face, even at 70–80 kilometres an hour. It was around eleven by the time we turned into the road to the cabin. People were still outside, nobody wanted to go to bed and maybe miss the most beautiful night of the summer. The sound of the usual gang rose up into the night like a yellow wave. They sat smoking outside the cabins; they were playing football over on the grass; but most of them had gathered around a bonfire down by the fjord. On the days before Midsummer Night’s Eve, we’d gathered up branches and kindling left by the loggers, we’d even got hold of an old rowing boat. We were outsiders, but always had to have the biggest bonfire in the village.

Every summer my father drove us to Skånevik, and then we stayed there until a couple of weeks before school started. It was the smelting works that owned the cabins and the employees could use them for free. They were called sports cabins, though I never understood why, there was nothing sports-like about them. The cabin we always stayed in was made of logs and painted red. It was located at the top of the hill that started by the highway and sloped down towards the pebble beach. During the summer weeks the entire area was filled with the dynamite-kids whose fathers were unionized under Chapter 5 of the Norwegian Chemical Workers Union. Everybody knew everybody else and it was like a part of Odda had been moved a few miles further south, to a place that smelled better, looked better, and where it stayed light until much later in the evening. We dived and jumped off the dock by the store. We went fishing and played ball all day long. We boys chased the local girls, the ones who didn’t know us already and were still curious about who we were. The girls from Odda who were here on vacation with us had long since understood we were trash.

The mothers usually stayed throughout the summer, while the fathers drove back and forth, showing up when they had a long weekend or vacation. At this time I had begun to understand that not all the fathers, not even my own father, were necessarily all that interested in making a beeline for Skånevik. Home alone, they could drink at the general store, sleep late, be free of nagging and scolding, kids and the wife. For my own part, that spring I’d started sleeping with the daughter of the director of the works, and I just longed for home. She was two years older than me and there were all kinds of rumours about her in Odda. She had called me one afternoon to invite me up. I’d no idea she even knew who I was, but I didn’t give the rumours in circulation a second thought. I had a shower and took the path leading to the villa at Toppen.

Even so, I didn’t dare touch her or do anything at all until the next time she called and I wandered up the same path. Then she put my hand on her right breast; it was buried beneath a layer of sweater, blouse and singlet. She didn’t say anything that afternoon, just led me up to a bedroom on the second floor. She didn’t stop me or barter with me—I can’t go along with this or that—the way other girls carried on. Afterwards, she said I had to hurry and leave before her mother came home and found us. I gathered up my clothes and shot a glance at her before I went out into the hallway. She lay half-naked with her panties on her thigh. She was slender with light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She had thick lips and her eyes were almost closed. Downstairs I stood looking out of a window with a view over Odda.

Every time I went up to the house to sleep with her, I justified it by deciding it was her fault. She was the one who’d called me. She was the one who wanted this. But I couldn’t stop. I wanted to hear her breathing when she was transformed from being someone everyone saw to someone I imagined only I was allowed to see. I wanted to hold her and be with her and do all this even though I didn’t know what it was. She was so different, she was a place beyond shame or sin, her desire was without inhibition. Don’t stop, she said to me. Don’t come yet, she said. Don’t do it like that, she said. Do it like this instead, she said and showed me. In the evenings I stood in the room I shared with Fredrik. I looked up at the lights that were on in the villa at Toppen. I stood there and waited for her to call.

If you’d walked past our cabin a summer night in 1974, I’m sure you would have wanted to be with these people, have a beer with them, and you would have talked bullshit with them and sung songs around the fire together. You would have wished that your mother was as beautiful as my mother. You would have stood there and thought that now everything was perfect, this had to last forever.

On the night we climbed out of the T-Bird, Lars Paalgaard shook my hand and thanked me for the trip. I’m glad to have met you finally, he said, then repeated the same thing when he shook Fredrik’s hand. I remember I thought he was a kind of gentleman: he shook our hands as if he wanted us to understand that he really meant it. After we watched the tail lights of the car disappear between the trees, I went straight up to the cabin. My mother called after me, asking if I didn’t want something to eat, a hot dog or a steak. Fredrik came running after me too, but I wanted to be alone.

Inside the cabin it seemed as if nothing was standing still. Everything was spinning around, I didn’t know whether I should lie down or stay seated upright. I couldn’t remember ever having been so angry before. I took out all my cassettes to choose one in particular that would drown out the sounds of laughter and jabbering from outside, but the tape got tangled up in the player, and I ended up on my feet trying to fix the cassette until finally I pulled out the tape and threw all of it on the floor. After a while my mother came. She knocked on her own front door, as if she were unsure about how I would react. She said that Marita had asked about me, she was down by the bonfire. Are you going down to see her? my mother asked. I didn’t answer. Don’t you want to go down with Marita? she asked. No, I said finally. Are you all right? my mother said. No, I said. Have I done something wrong? she asked.

I walked right past her and out of the cabin. I started walking down the steep hill that lay like a natural amphitheatre facing the shore. Fredrik came up beside me, but I shoved him in the shoulder. He stumbled and ended up lying on the grass. He shouted my name. I’d decided to tell Marita that I was screwing the director’s daughter. Keeping my mouth shut would be the same as cheating on her, I had decided. I hadn’t said anything earlier this summer; I thought that it was none of her business because we weren’t going out together. We just hung out every summer—she worked over there in the store and that was where I’d seen her the first time. Everyone assumed that we were going out, or at least that one day we would be a couple.

She was sitting a little way away from the others when I got down there. I sat down without saying hi. Where’ve you been? Marita asked. At the fair, I said. She sat with her hands folded around her knees. There was something in her eyes that made me think she already knew, that she had seen through me this entire first week. I couldn’t take her gaze and looked away. Over by the bonfire I caught a glimpse of shadows moving beside the flames, potatoes in tinfoil and beer bottles being passed from hand to hand. I heard glasses clinking against glasses, and people shouting “cheers”. Some bratty kids came running up behind us and teasing, they howled: Sweethearts, sweethearts. What’s wrong? Marita asked. Nothing, I said, everything’s fine. I hardly recognize you, she said. Me neither, I said. We sat in silence. A guy over by the bonfire had pulled out a guitar and was singing. Everyone sang along. Do you want to go for a walk? Marita asked. I stood up with a soft sensation of amazement in my body.

When we had come a little bit away from the bonfire, Marita took my hand. She looked back, towards the light from the cabins and the buildings that made up the tiny hub of the cove. I could smell a faint scent from her skin and felt her hair tickling my face. She pushed up against me. Her mouth searched for my own. I stroked her on the back, looking at her bum. She took me into the woods, held my hand and pulled me towards her. She turned around quickly. I saw her pale face between the dark pine trees. She pulled her dress down off her shoulders, so I could caress her breasts. I laid her down on the ground and lifted up her dress. I heard her crying as I came carefully inside her.

After we’d slept together, I thought that she was everything I’d ever wanted, and now I’d lost her. She must have known this too when she brought me here. This wasn’t the way to do it. This was a way to end it. We lay there on the moss in the densely wooded forest. She kissed my cheek, I stroked her throat, but there was a definite feeling that was spreading through my body and which penetrated all of me, pumping out into my hands and fingers, into my tongue, making my skin prickle.

In the morning I could see from the cabin window that many people had slept outside. They were lying on lawn chairs and on a green couch that somebody had dragged outside. The smell of grilled meat still hung over the place when I sat down on the steps. The morning sun hit everything they’d abandoned the night before: bottles, glasses, plates, plastic bags. The seagulls squabbled over the leftovers in the meadow between the cabins. Sometimes I would get up early, run through the dewy grass and push the rowing boat that belonged to the smelting works out into the fjord. I loved pan-fried coley for breakfast. This morning I went inside again to pick up and read a newspaper, but ended up sitting there, turning the pages without knowing what I’d read.

Mother came down from the second floor dressed in a bathrobe. Aren’t you going fishing today? she asked. No, I said. Why not? I answered that I didn’t feel like it. Mother went to make coffee, but from the corner of my eye I could see that she was watching me. She stood expectantly, holding the bag of coffee in one hand and the measuring spoon in the other. I could hear her breathing. I didn’t move, I waited for her to turn around and continue. When she’d made the coffee, she came over and stood in front of me. Sometimes you have to do things that are wrong just to feel like you’re alive, she said.

She said it in a way that made me think that this was something she had practised saying, as if she’d lain awake and figured out exactly this sentence, because she knew she had to come up with some kind of defence. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to give her anything back. It’s not what you think, she said. I still didn’t answer. She sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. It’s not what you think, she repeated a bit more faintly. And how do you think I think it is? I asked.

She said that Lars Paalgaard worked in the oil industry. He had money, he could help her start up the beauty parlour she’d dreamed of. She wanted to work in her profession. With a beauty parlour, she could make her own money. Completely by chance Paalgaard had dropped by the clothes shop where she worked. He had driven through Odda and had pulled up outside Prêt-à-Porter to buy lingerie, a gift for the woman he’d been seeing at the time. She said that she liked the guy, he was the type who made things happen around him—he got other people moving. She smiled. That is a bit his style, isn’t it?

What do you think? my mother asked. Isn’t it a good idea? What’s that? I asked. The beauty parlour, she said. Sure, I said, without really having thought about it. But I understood her: my mother was beautiful and slim, with a sense of humour; she was always the centre of attention at parties, her laughter was infectious. When Mother danced, or simply walked across the floor, the needle on the record player at home skipped. She wanted something more. She wanted everything all at once. She had met my father in Bergen, she had cut his hair a couple of times, and later he had asked her out. Finally he’d convinced her to come with him to Odda. She hadn’t wanted to move, she thought it would be lonely living at the end of a fjord. At that time, though, she must have been in love; she must have thought this was a normal life. That was before she acquired this aura that beautiful people often have, as if they bear a grudge against everything around them because the world has failed to keep the promise beautiful people think it has made them. This was before my father’s rage, before he started drinking seriously. It was before he started destroying different rooms at home. Always late, always drunk. He used to limit the damage to one room at a time, so that when we woke up in the morning, before our parents had got up and had the chance to clean up, we could see where his anger had found its particular expression in the course of the night.

You think that I’m getting carried away with this, don’t you? my mother asked. I don’t know what you’re doing, I replied. She stood up and walked over to the window with a view of the fjord. She said that she was going to give me some advice. Nobody will really help you in this life, she said. People just help themselves, she said. You get help only if you have a common goal with someone. And that is the closest you will come to happiness. She went over to the kitchen with her coffee cup, then she came back and caressed me through my hair. Why do you think men do stupid things? my mother asked. She said that men either messed up for their own sake or else they did terrible things because of women. Often they do both at the same time. But what do you know about this? she said. How can you know, you’re fifteen, you haven’t done anything at all yet.

My little brother came down while we were standing there; he was still half asleep. He walked straight over to our mother, who hugged him and sat him on her lap. She asked if he’d slept all right. Fredrik had been awake when I came up to the room last night. It was hot and stuffy and he was lying on top of the quilt wearing only his pants. How much do you think that car costs? he’d asked me. Don’t you understand? I’d said to him. She’s fucking him, you know? Fredrik hadn’t said anything. A little later I’d heard him crying in the semi-darkness. Mother rocked Fredrik on her lap and kissed him on the head. When is Dad coming? he asked. Next Friday, mother answered. She waited a bit, then she added: But it’s not certain that he’s coming. Why not? Fredrik asked. We’ll see, mother said.

Lars Paalgaard showed up again in the T-Bird that same evening. This time he was wearing a pale suit and sunglasses on his nose. We were playing football in the meadow when I saw him come driving up. Mother went up to greet him. Fredrik wanted to follow her. He asked if I thought we could go for a drive in the T-Bird today too. I held him back. Don’t, I said. Fredrik looked at me, then he pulled free; he was irritated and disappointed. Don’t, I said again when I saw he was on his way up the hill. Paalgaard and my mother were laughing between themselves. He stroked her neck and she let him do it. I didn’t understand why they were so careless: they were broadcasting what they were up to, showing it off so any old idiot would have to get it. I didn’t understand why my mother wanted to risk so much; she behaved as if nothing meant anything any longer, or as if losing everything could be satisfying in its own right. She was willing to give up everything because she wanted something else so intensely.

A good hour later they came out of the cabin, and Mother introduced Lars Paalgaard to the others who were outside barbecuing. Everyone tried to behave normally, but they’d seen what they’d seen and the usual chatter fell silent and the atmosphere grew confused. Nobody really knew what to say, or how to stand or look or move. We were about to start eating pork chops and potato salad when I heard the sound of a motorcycle coming down towards the cabins. My mother heard it too; she spun around suddenly. I peeked over at Lars Paalgaard. He got up out of the folding chair he was sitting in. He looked up towards the motorcycle and then over at Mother. She laid her hand on one of his arms.

The motorcyclist parked beside the T-Bird. I recognized the body type and the vehicle, but prayed to God that it wasn’t him. I prayed that it was anyone else but my own father who was standing there and slowly pulling off his gloves and helmet. Fredrik was already on his way up the hill; he received a hug and was lifted up high in the air. Then the two of them came walking down the path, hand in hand. Somebody handed my father a bottle of beer as soon as he came down to us. His co-workers made a toast and welcomed him, greeting him in a way that was both heartfelt and anxious. Later I understood that it must have been one or more of these co-workers who’d called and told him. They’d probably thought this had gone too far. Now he was here and nobody had any idea of what was going to happen. My father went over to my mother, kissed her on the cheek and put his arm around her waist. Mother didn’t say anything. Then he greeted Lars Paalgaard politely. They both said their names and then Father said: What a nice day. What did you do? He nodded towards the food that was prepared. He said that he’d come home to dinner on the table, he said that he felt like a king. He lifted his bottle and smiled. Well, cheers then! The fathers raised their bottles in reply and drank. The mothers threw themselves with relief into the job of serving.

While we were eating, the men discussed the World Cup match between the GDR and West Germany. Everyone loved Jürgen Sparwasser, the way the centre forward got around the defence and drilled the ball up into the top of the net. Most of them believed it proved Communism was completely superior to Capitalism. I stared at Lars Paalgaard while I was eating. He didn’t say anything. Either he had no clue about football or his mind was far, far away. After we’d eaten—I ate quickly and ravenously—my father turned towards Lars Paalgaard: The two of us should have a talk. What do you think? Paalgaard turned to Mother questioningly, but she just looked down into the drink she held in her lap. Are you coming? my father said to Paalgaard. He’d got to his feet. The two of them walked up towards the road: a tall man in a pale suit and a stocky guy in T-shirt and flared jeans.

They stood there up by the T-Bird, almost in the same way Paalgaard and my mother had been standing on the shore the night before. After a little while the two of them got in and sat in their respective seats. It didn’t seem like they were talking. To me, it looked as if they were just sitting there, staring straight ahead through the windscreen. Lars Paalgaard had both of his hands on the steering wheel. My father had lit a cigarette. It was comical, it was as if they were just playing that they were driving at full speed down the highway. If somebody had taken a picture of them from a distance, it would have looked like an idyllic image of two men taking a drive through a beautiful summer landscape.

Mother had risen to her feet now and was standing with her back to the others; she smoked and stared almost demonstratively out towards the fjord. The neighbour family’s dog ran around with a ball in its mouth and tried to get people to play, but everyone was watching those two up in the T-Bird. I saw people rolling their eyes and some of them whispering among themselves. After a couple of minutes, Paalgaard twisted the key in the ignition and the car began rolling slowly out onto the gravel road. Somebody sighed; my mother turned around. She called Paalgaard’s name, but the car didn’t stop. She started walking up the hill, at first quickly, then more slowly. She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest as if warding off a fit of the shivers. The car drove through the aggregation of cabins and disappeared between the pine trees. That was the last time I saw Lars Paalgaard alive and, had I known it then, I would have said something to him. I don’t know what, but I would have said something or other.

Father came back around 12.30 that night. I was sitting by the window in the cabin, waiting for him.

Fredrik had gone to bed. My mother said I should get away from the window, but she didn’t have any kind of sensible reply when I asked her why. You should do it because I tell you to, she said. I couldn’t see anything unusual about my father when he came walking up under the street lights and cut across the way up towards the cabin. As he approached, he was met by a co-worker, a dark-haired guy they called Elvis, but I don’t know why. He neither looked like Elvis nor could he sing like Elvis.

Elvis offered my father a long drink and a pack of cigarettes. They spoke to one another. Without warning, my father ploughed the glass into Elvis’s face. When the guy lifted his hands to protect himself, my father grabbed his hair and smashed his face against his knee in one swift movement. He repeated this movement several times with great force, until the guy collapsed on the grass. I don’t really know whether I heard any sounds, but later I imagined that on that night I heard Elvis’s face crack.

My mother started yelling and screaming. She chased me into bed. You go upstairs, she said and pointed towards the second floor. You go now! I did as she said. I didn’t want to be confronted with my father when he was so furious, I knew what he was capable of. I lay in bed listening, trying to put together what was happening from the sounds. I heard voices that got mixed up in one another, loud and excited, but I was unable to distinguish one from the other or make any sense out of them. The view from the tiny window on the second floor faced the grove, away from what was happening out front. I stared over at Fredrik and wondered whether I should wake him. This clearly involved him too, but he was sleeping calmly and I thought it was best to let him sleep in peace.

Ten minutes later I heard a car outside, more voices, arguing and shouting. There was a revving of a car engine and then silence. I must have fallen asleep, because the sound of loud voices arguing down in the living room yanked me awake. I heard my mother say that she was a grown woman. Why can’t you behave like a grown man? she asked. I heard a man sobbing. At first I thought there had to be a third person down there, someone who was with my mother and father, and that it was the third person who was crying. But I tiptoed over to the door, opened it a crack and looked down. I couldn’t see my mother. My father was hiding his face in his hands and when he took his hands away, I saw that he was crying. I had never heard or seen my father cry before. I crept back into bed and put the pillow over my head.

The next morning my father was sitting out on the steps reading the newspaper. He was smoking. I saw that they were Winston cigarettes and I wondered if they were Lars Paalgaard’s. My father whistled while he read, as if everything was fine. Good morning, he said. Did you get any sleep? Yes, I said. I went to get a glass of water. I sat on a rock with my back to the cabin. Jesus, my father said and started reading out loud from the newspaper. It was an article about an American politician who’d been caught red-handed with two prostitutes in his car. People want to have a whole lot of things for nothing, my father said, have you thought about that? I’d never thought about that, so I didn’t reply. Without looking up, my father said that people cheated on their taxes, people stole and made promises and lied and tricked each other. He said there was a clear line between right and wrong in this life, and that I must never decide to study law, because the job of lawyers was to mess with that line. I had to promise him that I would never study law. As if I had ever even considered it.

I didn’t understand what he was babbling about and I felt restless. I didn’t know what it was then, but I do now. Something was taking shape inside of me, in my own life, something that was going to explode inside of me when the time was right. Where is Mum? I asked. She drove off at five this morning, my father answered. Why were you crying? I asked. When? he asked. Last night, why were you crying? Grown-ups cry sometimes, he said, it’s OK. He finally looked over at me. Don’t be disappointed about what your parents do, he said and waited for me to answer. Do you love your father? he asked. He said my name twice. Yes, I said. Do you think I will take good care of you? he asked. Yes, I do, I said. I will take good care of you, he said.

I read somewhere that 1974 was the year with the greatest number of working-class people in the world. After 1974 the percentage of people working in industry started going down. In 1974 Odda had its historical moment—when social democracy reached its peak, all visions were within reach, the working class had civilized capitalism, and the welfare society was as close to reaching fruition as it ever would be. After that, things didn’t run on their own steam any longer, and a few years later the world changed direction with Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan. Even Jürgen Sparwasser defected to the West when he retired in 1988. He had been promised a car, a house and heaps of money for his goal against West Germany. He got nothing.

In the year 1974 my father started attacking his own family. In 1974 I waited for phone calls from a crazy girl who I knew was going to drop me the minute she got tired of me. But that’s how it is, that’s how you lose a city, and it’s only afterwards that you can write the story. When you’re in the middle of it, you think everything will stay the same, everything will remain the way it is, just a little bit different.

Then you’re standing there one day on the empty street when you’ve come home after having been away for a long time, and you meet people you don’t know, or people you don’t recognize. The grey factory buildings and the grey mountains are the same as they have always been. But everything has changed and the workers don’t walk through the gate to punch the clock any more. That’s how it happens: first your best friend moves, then you move, then they shut down the smelting works, then there’s a whole gang of men nobody needs, and then the radio stations don’t play the records you like any longer. Then they ship the entrails of the factory to Poland, China and Argentina, and then they start arguing about what’s going to happen to the shells of the buildings that have started falling down. The benches are empty, there’s no longer water in the fountain outside city hall, and the neon lights on the cinema have stopped working.

There used to be something here, something beautiful and disturbing all at once, and it seemed important, a sparkling future that perhaps nobody fully believed in, but which was ingrained in you—this is your city, this is your time, this is what you are. And look now: I can’t even remember everybody’s names. That’s why I decided to create this little booklet with a list of all the people who used to be at the cabins in Skånevik for those weeks of the summer every year. I have written short biographies of people, made copies of photographs of them and tried to piece together what has happened to everyone.

After that summer I was sure that I would never go up to the director’s residence again. We weren’t going to sleep together any more. It was best to avoid one another or not speak to one another ever again. But I longed for her, I dreamed about her, how she took my hand and stuck it in between her legs. How she took my foot and put it between her thighs and then started moving on top of me until she came. How she shoved my head down towards her crotch and whispered for me to show her what she had taught me. My parents were like children that summer, consumed with trying to find one another anew. My mother had come crawling back and asked for forgiveness. They spoke in soft, secretive voices and I tried to interpret everything they said, but pretty soon they were yelling at one another again, loudly and without consideration. They had disappointed one another too much; neither of them managed to live up to what they had been when they’d first fallen in love. I wanted to get away, I wanted to be free. I slipped up the path to the director’s residence every time she called. As soon as I was inside, she fumbled with my belt, then she pulled off my trousers. I wondered whether there was a name for this. And if it didn’t have a name, was there a way out of it?

This was the worst thing I could know about myself—that I was just like her, that we were two of a kind. I wanted to get out of there; I wanted to stay. I gave in to her hard hands every single time. Afterwards I lay with her back against my stomach, like an accident victim. We lay in the dirty afternoon light and I saw that her skin was young and smooth, without wrinkles, free of all the scars that were waiting somewhere in the years to come. I wanted her to start talking, for her to explain to me what had happened. Or that one day she would cry or crack, say that she wanted to be with me or at least that she needed me. I lay as close to her as I could. On some afternoons I could hear her breathing change and I realized she’d fallen asleep. Their house was so different from ours. They had, for example, a pool table and a huge fireplace in the living room. On the stairs and on the second floor, there were bookshelves filled with novels and reference books. The rooms were dark and solid. The dead stared down at me from up on the walls, oil-painted ancestors who’d perhaps been real bastards when they were alive, for all I knew. The carpet was thick and soft; walking on it was like walking across a lawn. I thought that one day I would live in a house like this, a house as huge and as expensive. At the time I didn’t have any idea just how badly all this was going to end.