Aftermath Read online

  I nod.

  “It’s really good,” I say.

  “Yeah, sure,” he mutters as he pulls the bowl toward him and inspects the contents, it looks like the kind of couscous that you pour boiling water over and leave for five minutes before serving, a sort of instant couscous.

  “Well, it’s fun to try something different now and again,” says Gunn Torhild. “Or I think so anyway,” she adds, looking at me, feeling sure that I’ll agree with her, I suppose.

  “I’ll give you something different,” Torstein mutters, pushing the bowl away.

  “Oh, go on, Torstein, try it,” says Gunn Torhild.

  “Not on your life. You can keep your colored food,” he says. “Are there any potatoes left from last night?”

  “There’s a dish in the fridge,” Gunn Torhild says.

  He gets up and disappears into the kitchen. Gunn Torhild turns to me and raises her eyebrows, as if to say she’s tired of Torstein not wanting to try anything new. I doubt if she’s much for it herself either, not normally—well, in any case, for some reason she seems to be trying to behave in a way she thinks I’ll appreciate.

  Then Torstein comes back carrying a dish of cold potatoes.

  “And anyway,” Gunn Torhild says, “you don’t say colored, you say black.”

  “Colored food,” Torstein sniggers, glancing at me, trying to get me to laugh along with him, but I don’t, can’t bring myself to, I merely flash him a quick smile, then look down at my plate as if I’m too busy eating.

  “You know what I mean,” Gunn Torhild says.

  “Sometimes.”

  “I just don’t like you talking like that in front of Simen.”

  Torstein merely gapes at her.

  “Well, I don’t,” she says.

  “Is it Marius you’re trying to impress by acting so fucking refined all of a sudden,” Torstein says, smirking at her.

  “I’m sorry?” she says, pretending not to understand what he means, although she does of course, I know she does, her cheeks have gone pink and I can see that she feels offended.

  “Simen’s sixteen,” Torstein says. “How do you think he talks when he’s with his pals?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, that’s got nothing to do with it,” Gunn Torhild retorts. “It’s a matter of setting a good example.”

  “Good ex—” Torstein sneers, shaking his head. “At his age I was working as a stevedore down at Namsos docks, did you know that?”

  “Let’s just say you have mentioned it once or twice.”

  “Yeah, well, down there I worked alongside men whose language was so bad it made the seagulls blush.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  “And when I joined my first ship two years later it was even worse. Not to mention what it was like when I started on the rigs out in the North Sea,” he says, talking through a mouthful of cold potato. “But these days you can scarcely say boo without people rushing in to whisk kids off to safety,” he says, grinning and shaking his head as he spears a chunk of patty with his fork. “And see how the kids turn out.”

  “Don’t start moaning about Simen,” Gunn Torhild says. “He’s sitting right there.”

  “Did I mention Simen?”

  “No, but …”

  “There, you see!” he breaks in, raising his voice slightly, he’s getting worked up now, I fix my eyes on my plate and try to look as though I’m concentrating on eating. It’s not pleasant when they start going on like this, I hate it. “I was talking about kids today in general. They’re growing up into a generation of sissies, that’s what I was saying. And it’s not their fault, it’s your generation that’s bringing them up that way,” he says, probably trying to justify his conduct as a father to Simen, sounds like he’s trying to convince both himself and us that all young people would be better off if their parents were as strict and as hard on them as he appears to have been on Simen.

  “Our generation’s fault?” Gunn Torhild says.

  “Damn right it is,” Torstein says. “It starts in kindergarten. Two boys get into a fight and old women come running from all directions to tell them how bad they are. And the minute they climb onto a bike, some old woman races over and shoves a helmet on their head.”

  “Ah, so it’s the women’s fault?”

  “Huh?”

  “So it’s us women’s fault that kids are growing up to be sissies, as you call them?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t tell the difference between women and men anymore. I’m talking about old women. And there’s old women of both sexes out there.”

  “Oh, dear God, give me patience.”

  “It’s un-fucking-believable, you know. Boys aren’t even allowed to play soldiers anymore,” he says, still intent on justifying his parenting of Simen, getting more and more worked up, sitting there seething at everyone who might think there was something wrong with his child-rearing skills, that’s what he’s doing. I try to smile and look unfazed, but I can’t quite pull it off, it’s hard to keep the corners of my mouth upturned, so it’s a hesitant, rather insipid smile. “Or cowboys and Indians,” he goes on. “They’re not allowed to throw spears or shoot with bows and arrows. So don’t talk to me about setting a good example, that’s what I was saying. It’s a hard world out there and without the examples that were set for me when I was a kid, I would have knuckled under long ago.”

  “Just as well Simen had such an old man for a dad then. There was no danger of him growing up to be a sissy,” Gunn Torhild says.

  “Yeah, well, so long as you keep all that Liberal Democrat bellyaching to yourself, everything will be fine, you’ll see,” Torstein says.

  “Liberal Democrat bellyaching?”

  “You don’t say colored, you say black,” he says, mimicking her.

  “When the hell have I ever voted Liberal Democrat?”

  “Have you ever voted at all?”

  “No.”

  Nothing for a moment and then they both burst out laughing, eyeing each other and guffawing loudly, and I immediately feel myself relax slightly, I’m not comfortable with the way they talk to each other, but it’s slightly easier to cope with when they’re not arguing.

  “Yeah, well, I can’t really blame you for that,” Torstein says. “The politicians we have now, fucking useless, the lot of them,” he says and then he looks at me, nodding slightly as he finishes what he has in his mouth. “You know, I’ve actually been thinking of going into politics myself. Actually doing something, instead of just sitting on my backside and complaining,” he says, then he pops another chunk of beef patty into his mouth. I look at him as I swallow my food, is he serious, is he deranged enough to think there could be any place for him in politics?

  “Hm,” I say, pretending that my mouth is still full to save having to say any more, don’t know how to respond to such a pronouncement, so I just sit there chewing on air while I nod and try to look as though the thought of him going into politics is no more remarkable than that of anyone else doing so.

  “And if I was elected, the first thing I would do would be to set up a local neighborhood watch,” he goes on, picking up his can of beer and taking a big swig. “All the fucking riffraff that’s roaming the streets these days, it’s just unbelievable. Gypsies and traveling gangs from the Baltic countries and Eastern Europe robbing businesses and private individuals blind. I mean, just in the spring, for instance, there was this bunch of Romanians going around here, knocking on doors and offering to do any odd jobs. They all but pushed their way into the homes of old folk and started sharpening knives and fixing things even when people had said no thanks, you know? Mending gutters and clearing drains and cisterns and all that and then demanding outrageous sums of money for it, right? Wanting five thousand kroner for sharpening a set of knives, I mean, I ask you … is that what we want in our country?” he asks, trying I suppose to sound like a politician with the way he delivers this last sentence, probably imagining that this is the sort of question a real politician would a
sk a gathering. He gives me a stupefied look and shakes his head.

  “No, it certainly isn’t,” I murmur and feel my face flushing, I’m embarrassed for him.

  “And the police don’t lift a finger, of course, they’re too busy arresting folk for driving sixty miles an hour in a fifty-mile zone,” he goes on, raising his voice a little, grinning and shaking his head, he appears to be getting himself worked up again. “So we’ll just have to do it ourselves,” he says, throwing out his arm. “Not so much for people like me. I don’t need any neighborhood watch, I can look after myself,” he says, picking up his beer can again. “I’ve got my shotgun ready if anybody should be dumb enough to try and I don’t care who knows it,” he says. He raises the can to his lips, about to take a drink, then changes his mind and lowers it again. “I’ve told Simen as well: if anybody tries to break into this house when I’m not here, he has my permission to shoot them down. I’ll take full responsibility. Right, Simen?”

  Simen looks at him, just for a second, then drops his eyes to his plate again, he doesn’t say a word, merely nods, he knows how immature his father seems to other adults, he knows what I’m sitting here thinking about Torstein and he finds it embarrassing, poor kid, I can tell by his face. I glance across at Torstein again, he doesn’t appear to have noticed that Simen’s embarrassed for him, he sits there clutching his can of beer, stares at Simen for a moment, then raises the can to his lips, takes a big slug, and puts it back on the table. I open my mouth, about to express my opinion on what Torstein has just said, but I stop myself. I should maybe speak up, for Simen’s sake, but I’m reluctant to get drawn into a discussion about this, there’s no point in telling Torstein what I think anyway. I mean, where on earth would I start? By talking about the key principles of democracy and the rule of law in modern society and explaining how much safer and better Western society has become since these principles were established, give him a brief introduction to history, as it were? But that would just be absurd, not only because he probably has neither the patience nor the energy to listen to or consider such things, least of all now, when he’s already pretty plastered, but also because he’s probably not interested in the political aspects of this problem at all, he’s just using this particular subject as an excuse to give vent to all the anger and frustration that’s been building up inside him over decades of failure and humiliation.

  “Hm?” he says and I see that he’s staring at me. I look back at him, not saying anything, he must have asked me a question, but I didn’t catch it.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t quite catch that, what were you asking?”

  He regards me for a moment, as if studying me with those sad, bleary eyes of his.

  “I asked if I’d shocked you,” he says.

  I give him a strained smile.

  “No, of course not.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. We believe in speaking our minds in this house, you see. And I intend to go on doing that when I’m elected to the district council,” he says, sounding as though he’s already been elected, saying “when” rather than “if,” it’s unbelievable, he’s even worse, God help me, than the last time I was here.

  “I’ve got to go now,” Simen says.

  “Go?” Gunn Torhild says.

  “Yeah, I’ve got a Nature and Youth meeting.”

  “And that’s another thing,” Torstein says. “This Nature and Youth business.” He pronounces the organization’s name as if it were an STD, but Simen doesn’t so much as glance at him, keeps his eyes fixed on Gunn Torhild.

  “You’ve got time to finish your dinner, though,” Gunn Torhild says.

  “I need to go now if I want to get there on time,” Simen says, he’s probably desperate to get out of here as soon as possible, it must be hard for him to have to sit there, feeling ashamed of his father, it’s embarrassing enough for me so I can’t imagine what it must be like for him, being sixteen and all.

  “I doubt if the sea level is going to rise that much in the time it takes you to finish your dinner,” Torstein says. “Do you?” he adds, smirking at Simen, but Simen doesn’t answer, doesn’t look at Torstein either, he’s trying to act as though his father doesn’t exist as far as he is concerned. “Do you?” Torstein says again, a little louder this time, irked by the fact that Simen doesn’t answer. But Simen refuses to respond, he completely ignores his father.

  “It’s just that the meeting starts at seven,” he says, looking at Gunn Torhild as he speaks.

  “Do you, Simen?” Torstein says for the third time, raising his voice another notch. Most individuals will usually try to shield other people from their personal conflicts and problems, but Torstein doesn’t give a hoot whether I’m here or not, he doesn’t even seem to notice that I’m finding this very unpleasant.

  Silence.

  Then Simen blinks slowly, inhales, and lets out a little sigh as he turns to face Torstein.

  “No, I don’t,” he says and turns to face his mother again.

  “Look at you, acting big just because we’ve got company,” Torstein says and I feel my face start to burn at this, it’s like he’s dragging me into their argument by mentioning me in this way, turning me into a pawn in their game, as it were, and I don’t want that, I don’t like it, this is becoming more and more unpleasant.

  “Acting big?”

  “Don’t think just because Marius is here that I wouldn’t dare to put you in your place,” Torstein says.

  “What have I done?” Simen asks.

  Torstein grins balefully, waits a second or two, then: “Just you finish your dinner. We’ll talk about this later,” he says, smiling and holding Simen’s eye and Simen looks at him in dismay, there’s a veiled threat in these last words, what he’s really saying is “Wait till I get you alone,” and Simen is both angry and afraid. He breathes rapidly through his nose, eyes flicking back and forth.

  “Aw, let him go,” Gunn Torhild says. “He really wants to make that meeting.”

  Torstein stares at her, gives it a second. Then: “Oh, well! In that case,” he says.

  “Yes, but Torstein, he …”

  “I said okay, didn’t I?” Torstein says, breaking in. He glowers menacingly at Gunn Torhild, holds her gaze until she looks away, then bends his head over his plate and carries on eating. “I obviously don’t have any say in this house now anyway,” he adds.

  Silence.

  I stare at my plate, chewing on beef patty and couscous, this is becoming more and more unpleasant, I don’t know why I came, you’d think I’d have learned by now, every time I’ve been here it’s ended in shouting and arguing, and yet I come back, I don’t get it.

  “Are you still here,” Torstein cries suddenly, staring at Simen and Simen goes on standing there saying nothing. “Well, on you go then, go to your damn meeting.” Simen looks at him and swallows, turns to Gunn Torhild, looking bewildered, he doesn’t know what to do, the poor kid.

  “Just go, Simen,” Gunn Torhild says. “I’d drive you there but that blasted old junk heap out there won’t start. God, what I wouldn’t give for a new car,” she adds, then she turns away and carries on eating.

  “I could take you,” I say. “I’m on a four-wheeler, but there’s room for one passenger.” I look at Simen, I’d like to help him, wouldn’t mind having some time alone with him too, would like the chance to talk to him without Torstein and Gunn Torhild leaning over our shoulders.

  “I’ll take my bike,” Simen says.

  “Are you sure?” I say. “I’d be happy to give you a ride, you know.”

  “I’ll take my bike.”

  “Oh, well, that’s great, you use your bike and we might have the Gulf Stream till over the weekend at least,” Torstein chips in, his face splitting in a grin as he tosses a piece of patty to Conny, still making fun of Simen for caring about environmental protection. This obviously runs deep. I suppose it might have something to do with Torstein’s past career as a North Sea diver. Yes, that must be it: he put his life
and his health on the line so Norway could become the wealthy oil nation it is today only to find himself with a son who joins Nature and Youth and maintains that our great oil adventure was actually a tragedy for us and that the oil has been a curse, not a blessing as Torstein has always believed it to be, that must be what’s behind this, but that’s really neither here nor there. I realize he might feel hurt, but as a father he has a duty to rise above such things.

  Simen goes on standing there staring at him, just for a second or two, then he turns on his heel and walks out.

  Silence.

  Then Torstein jumps up and goes after him.

  “I’m sorry, Simen,” I hear Torstein say and I feel myself relax slightly, I thought for a moment he was going to blow his stack completely out there, but now he’s done a complete about-face and is apologizing to Simen instead. Sounds as though he means it too, he sounds genuinely remorseful.

  “It’s okay,” Simen says.

  “I didn’t mean it. It’s just that … I’ve had a lot on my plate lately. What with Rune and everything …”

  “It’s okay, I said,” Simen says. He doesn’t want to talk anymore about it, I can tell by his voice, he sounds ill at ease, flustered.

  But Torstein won’t let it go.

  “I don’t mean to be an asshole,” he goes on, wanting Simen to assure him that he’s not an asshole, I can tell, trying to salve his conscience by coaxing Simen into saying something nice about him. “I … I want to be a good father,” he says, sounding more and more upset, his voice shaking in a way meant to show how full of remorse he is, and I’m sure he is full of remorse, it’s not that, but there’s something so mawkish and self-centered about the way he’s talking and acting, he’s more intent on feeling better about himself than about making things better for Simen.

  “I’ve got to go,” Simen says.

  “But Simen, hey,” Torstein says. “I’d like to square things between us before you go, you understand that, don’t you?”

  “Look, I told you, we’re good, okay!” Simen says desperately. He’s only sixteen, but he can detect Torstein’s mawkishness, his self-centeredness and I can tell by his voice how much it bothers him, he just wants to get away.