Aftermath Read online

  Hilde, hereby single, will be nineteen on Saturday. Happy birthday and best wishes for the future, from Rikard.

  But despite his appallingly cynical behavior, of which this was just one of hundreds of examples, he was very popular with the girls. Or rather, now that I think about it, possibly because of it. His urge to break the rules and go against the norms and his way of not seeming to give a shit about anyone else may have given him an air of strength and self-confidence that girls found attractive. Or maybe every girl who fell for him wanted to prove that she was the exception to the rule, that she was the one irresistible person whom Rikard would love so much he would never dream of treating her the way he had treated previous girlfriends. I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter anyway. What matters is that Rikard was the same as ever and yet completely different. He was no longer someone I felt I could talk to freely about anything under the sun. Indeed no one in our family was speaking to anyone else at that time. As I said, everything seemed to be falling to pieces. We all seemed to be drifting further and further apart. And then one day, without any warning, Aunt Rebekka moved out. I knew nothing about it until three plump ladies of Latin American appearance turned up on the doorstep, saying that they had come to clean the apartment in the extension and could I please give them the keys.

  Børgefjell, June 24th, 2006. The greatest guitarist in the world

  I LOOK AT MY CELL PHONE, but no, still no word from Julie. I left home hours ago, but she still hasn’t sent so much as a text, it’s unbelievable, how could she do this, canceling the wedding the minute she thinks I’ve been diagnosed as having MS, failing me when I need her most, so to speak. I never thought she’d do that. I stick my phone in my pocket, lean forward, prop my elbows on my knees, then straighten up again, sit like that for a moment or two, then lean forward again, I can’t settle, it’s like I’ve become infected, like my whole body is inflamed. I sigh, sit here gazing at the water. A little gust of wind ruffles the dark surface, Jan Olav’s and Kristian’s floats bob gently back and forth and behind me I hear the faint, brief buffeting of the tent wall.

  “This coffee tastes really odd,” I hear Jan Olav say. Strange how well their voices carry up here, they have to be at least a hundred feet away, but they could be sitting right next to me.

  “I like it,” Kristian says. “Proper campfire coffee.”

  Jan Olav takes another swallow, blinks, and screws up his face as the coffee hits his mouth, then promptly turns and spits it out onto the rock.

  “Aw, Jesus! It tastes fishy, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?”

  Kristian puts the little wooden cup to his nose, sniffs.

  “Yeah, well,” he mutters with a little wag of his head. “I did wash the kettle before I left, but I suppose the taste of fish might still cling to it a bit. It’s a few years old now, after all.”

  “Might still cling to it?” Jan Olav repeats. “Don’t tell me you boil fish in that kettle?”

  Kristian stares at him, trying to look surprised.

  “Er … well, I’m hardly going to bring a whole battery of pots and pans with me,” he says, sounding as if only a madman would take two cooking utensils with him on a trip to the mountains, making himself out to be some sort of Bear Grylls character. True outdoorsmen and adventurers take only the bare essentials on their expeditions, obviously, and Kristian is a true outdoorsman and adventurer, that’s the impression he’s trying to give, I can tell, in fact I’m sure I’ve seen Bear Grylls cook fish in the same kettle that he uses for his coffee so that’s probably where Kristian got the idea.

  “If you ever wonder why you’re still single, Kristian, that’s one reason right there,” Jan Olav says.

  They look at each other and laugh.

  “Asshole,” Kristian says.

  Jan Olav gives another little laugh, glancing at me as he does so, as if wanting to include me, wanting me to laugh along with them, but I can’t find it in me, I don’t feel like laughing, so I pretend I haven’t noticed. I yawn and turn away as casually as I can, stare blankly at the black lake for a moment or two, then slip my hand into my pocket and take out my cell again, it’s ridiculous to check again so soon, but I can’t help it. I flip up the cover with my thumb and take a look, but no, no texts and no missed calls, I can’t believe this is happening. I snap the lid shut and pop the phone back in my pocket, gaze at the ground, gaze out across the lake, then down at the ground again, I can’t relax, it’s like I’ve been infected, I can’t settle, it’s a bit like the time when I had a slipped disk and tossed and turned in bed, unable to find a single position that didn’t hurt.

  Silence.

  “Hey, have you ever tried Sauternes with Roquefort?” I hear Jan Olav say.

  “I’ve tried it with port, but not Sauternes,” Kristian says.

  “Well, you’ll get the chance later. I’ve got an eighty-six Château Lafaurie-Peyraguey in my bag.”

  “Here?” Kristian asks.

  “What?”

  “You lugged cheese and wine all the way up here?”

  “Yeah,” Jan Olav says. “Only the one bottle, though.”

  Kristian just stands there staring at him for a moment, then he grins and shakes his head.

  “Cheese and wine on a fishing trip,” he says. “Are you sure you’re not gay?”

  They eye each other and laugh quietly and I immediately avert my gaze, I know Jan Olav’s going to look this way and try to get me to laugh along with them, but I can’t, a little later maybe, but not right now. I get up, go over to the little stack of firewood farther up the slope, pick up a pure white branch, snap off the biggest twigs, and put them all on the fire, glancing across at Kristian and Jan Olav as I do so. Kristian has caught another fish, I see, he’s got the line in his left hand and is trying to grab the wriggling trout with his right. He struggles for a few seconds before getting a firm grip on it. He prizes the hook out of the trout’s mouth, makes a fist, and punches it on the head, once, twice. I almost burst out laughing when I see this, that’s another thing he’s picked up from those wilderness survival programs, that’s exactly how Bear Grylls kills a fish.

  “Well, that’s dinner organized,” he says.

  I sit down on a rock, regard them.

  “I’ll carry on awhile longer,” Jan Olav says.

  “But we’ve plenty now,” Kristian says.

  “Yeah, I know, but I’d like to catch something before I call it a day.”

  Kristian looks at him, trying to appear both amused and amazed.

  “I want to catch something too,” he says, smirking. “What are you, seven?”

  “Ah, but you see, I fish mainly for the fun of it,” Jan Olav says.

  “I realize that. But if you do catch a fish now we’ll just have to throw it back. And that’s kinda stupid, don’t you think?”

  “Aw, give me a break, man! I’m married with three kids, I get enough hassle at home!” Jan Olav says, laughing, but he means it too, I can hear it in his voice, he’s not all that happy about Kristian’s antics either: the way he seems to expect us all to play at being team Grylls on expedition, all the little digs he just has to get in, the comments he makes every time we say or do something that doesn’t fit with the game, Jan Olav is getting a bit sick of it too, I can tell by his face and his voice. But Kristian doesn’t notice, or at least he doesn’t appear to, he chuckles happily as he fastens the hook to the eye on the reel.

  Silence.

  I pick up a twig and poke it into the fire, stir the embers a little. I never thought Julie would fail me like this, that she would let me go just when I need her most. I was sure she would send me a text once she’d had time to think things over, I thought she’d write to say that she’d been in shock and not thinking clearly, that she felt awful and wanted me to come home, that she loved me, that we’d always be together, something along those lines, that’s what I had hoped she’d do, what I expected her to do. But I haven’t heard from her at all. Not a word. She simply doesn’t want m
e anymore, not now that she thinks I have MS, I can’t believe it. I draw the twig carefully out of the fire, the tip has caught light, and a thin, slanting streamer of smoke rises from it. Then I hear Kristian humming, I look up and there he is, coming toward me with his fishing rod in one hand and a string of five trout in the other.

  “Nice fish,” I say, with an attempt at a smile.

  “Gosh, are you here as well?” he says.

  “What do you mean am I here?” I ask, acting as if I don’t know what he’s talking about.

  He leans his rod against the front of the tent.

  “What’s up with you, anyway?” he asks.

  I don’t answer straightaway, don’t know what to say, all I know is that I can’t tell him the truth, I can’t have it getting out that I lied about having MS, not when it’s had the consequences it seems to have had, I couldn’t bear that. And I can’t lie to them as well and tell them that I’ve got MS, although to some extent it would make sense to tell Kristian and Jan Olav the same story as I’ve told Julie, there’s always a chance that one or the other of them might mention it to her at some point, so it’s important that I tell them all the same story, but I just can’t face sitting here all evening being showered with sympathy that I don’t deserve, I’m not that sentimental. Nor do I have the conscience for it.

  “Hey?”

  “What?”

  “I asked if anything was the matter.”

  I just sit there looking at him for a moment.

  “I’m a bit tired, that’s all,” I say, trying to give him a tired little smile. He nods, but he doesn’t believe me, he knows there’s something wrong, I can tell by his face. He holds my eye for a second, then he wanders back down to the water, lays the string of fish on the rock, pulls his knife from its sheath, and starts to clean them.

  Then Jan Olav appears, he’s called it a day after all. He grins at Kristian.

  “I’m only here because I’m dying for a drink, okay?” he says. “Just don’t go thinking that I listen to a word you say.”

  Kristian gives a little laugh and carries on cleaning the fish, Jan Olav looks at me and smiles good-naturedly as he props his rod up next to Kristian’s. I shut my eyes, open my mouth, and give a long yawn, I’m not the least bit tired, but I yawn anyway, possibly in an instinctive attempt to make them think I’m worn out and use this as an excuse for being even more distracted and quiet than usual, I don’t know, but whatever the case I have to get a grip now, I shouldn’t take what’s happened between Julie and me out on Jan Olav and Kristian, I have to play along with Jan Olav when he tries to include me, I don’t want to be the sort of killjoy who resists all efforts to cheer him up and who slowly but steadily drains everyone else of energy. I know I can be like that sometimes and that that’s how I’ve been so far on this trip, but now I’ve got to snap out of it, it’s not easy, but I’ve done it before and I have to at least make an effort. I poke the stick into the embers and twirl it around, hear the soft rustle of coals and cinders shifting, the fire’s almost dead, I’ll have to go and find some more firewood soon. Kristian and Jan Olav have seen to dinner, so I guess I’d better do my bit. I glance across at them as I pull the stick back out of the fire. Sounds like they’re talking about music, they’ve talked a lot about music on this trip, and now they’re at it again.

  “Hey, have you heard The Runners Four?” Jan Olav asks.

  “Aw, yeah, holy shit,” Kristian says.

  “Great, eh?”

  “Brilliant.”

  “Just their use of contrast,” Jan Olav says eagerly. “All the changes in tempo and rhythm, the shifts from those full-on, hard-hitting passages to the softer, more pared down sections, not to mention the lead singer, that sweet little-girl voice, the way it offsets the fuzz guitar and the dynamic drumming. All that, all those contrasting elements, they make it so … rich.”

  “I know,” Kristian says. “It reminds me a bit of the Pixies, but this is actually even more interesting and effective. I think it has to be one of the most powerful things I’ve heard in a long time.”

  Brief pause.

  Then Jan Olav turns to me and smiles.

  “Have you heard The Runners Four?” he asks.

  “I’ve heard one album,” I say, it just comes out. I’ve never heard The Runners Four, never heard of the band at all, in fact, but I say it anyway, in an instinctive attempt to join in the conversation. “A while ago,” I add. “I can’t quite remember what it was called, but I liked it, I remember that much.”

  “You’ve heard one album?” Kristian says. “The Runners Four is an album, Marius. It’s the latest from Deerhoof.”

  He turns to Jan Olav, grinning, and Jan Olav grins back. I swallow, feel my cheeks start to burn.

  “Isn’t there a band by that name as well?” I venture, but it’s no use, they know I’ve never heard of a band or an album called The Runners Four and they’re laughing at this pathetic attempt to act as though I know more than I do, they don’t even reply to my question.

  “Good old Jethro Tull, are they still where it’s at?” Jan Olav says, trying a bit of friendly leg-pulling now.

  “Aqualung!” Kristian says, smirking. “Is that still their best album, Marius?”

  I look at him. I mustn’t get upset, it would be stupid to get upset by a little thing like this. It might be okay when you’re fifteen and being part of the gang is all that matters, but not when you’re thirty-six. I try to chuckle, to show that I can laugh at myself, but it doesn’t sound too convincing, I don’t want to get upset, but I am, they can tell just by looking at me.

  “Oh, well,” Jan Olav says, sounding as if he’s ready to leave it at that, as if wanting to let me off the hook by changing the subject. But Kristian won’t drop it, he’s still grinning.

  “Okay, so who’s the greatest guitarist in the world?” he says, talking now the way we used to do fifteen to twenty years ago, like he’s implying that I haven’t moved on from there. “Clapton or Hendrix,” he goes on, turning to Jan Olav and grinning and Jan Olav sniggers back at him, he’s feeling sorry for me and he doesn’t want to laugh, but he can’t help it. “Or Jimmy Page, maybe?”

  “Believe it or not, I have actually listened to other music over the past few decades,” I say, unable to conceal the note of irritation in my voice, I look straight at him and try to grin back. “Even if I haven’t been listening to the same stuff as you.”

  “Okay, so what have you been listening to?” Kristian asks. He must have guessed that I don’t keep up with what’s happening on the music scene anymore and he doesn’t mind challenging me on this, he looks straight at me, still grinning, waiting for me to reply. I hold his eye, frantically trying to think of an artist or a band that I like, a name he might not have heard of, but I can’t, I feel my irritation growing.

  “Oh, this and that” is all I say.

  “Like what, for instance?”