Dreams of greatness
(Drømmer om storhet, pp. 161-165, translation: Rasma Haidri Sjøvoll)
Did Augie recognize me? Possibly. There was something about my person that made an impression on people. It wasn't the first time this kind of thing had happened, oh no! But it was different with these little ones. It seemed like nothing was alien to them, that they carried a primeval wisdom dating back to the time cavemen wandered the earth, barefoot and without an inkling of the evil to be generated by man throughout history.
I bent over and eyed the boy more closely. No, I ascertained that this wisdom was of a more recent sort. From the sixteenth century – the renaissance, card games, brass music. He looked like a wise old man who had settled down for a little rest after a lifetime of virtuous service. Just relax little one, I thought to myself and spinned his toy a bit. Go on and rest. And if you've thought about staying awake, then at least keep quiet and don't start in with that bawling that cuts to the marrow of a poor man's bones.
Just then he started howling and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Every head in the store snapped around and then Waaktaar was there lifting the baby out of the cart.
"Do you know if they have Libero 2-3 years?" I asked Waaktaar.
The baby had quieted down, and Waaktaar looked and me.
"Dunno, only use Pampers."
"Pampers?" I said.
"Yes," said Waaktaar.
"Pampers are best of course," I said. "But I've had a bit of a problem
with my youngest daughter. She pees right through her Pampers."
"Oh shit," said Waaktaar.
"Yeah, a real mess," I said.
"Yeah, jeez," Waaktaar empathized.
"Up & Go work the best," I said.
"Have you tried securing the tapes diagonally? You could experiment a bit,"
said Waaktaar.
"Doesn't help," I said and shook my head in resignation.
Neither of us spoke for a moment. I began to rummage in my pocket. If I were to give him the book it would have to be now. We had shared a moment of intimacy right in the middle of a grocery store, fledgling father encounters possible-father-to-be. What could be more natural than to present him with my book right there and then? The guy was a reader, no doubt about that.
The book wasn't in my right pocket. Not in the left either. I had put it in my back pocket, but just as I was about to hand it to Waaktaar he was gone. I saw him disappear through the store, and outside Lauren was waiting for him. They began a frantic chatter like old married folks who haven't seen each other for three minutes. Then they made off as if they were catching the next plane to New York.
I felt a trace of jealousy toward Lauren. Pål had run out of the store as soon as he saw her. If I was going to have to maneuver around Lauren to get a few seconds alone with Pål, I needed more to drink. I picked up a six-pack, paid at the register and left.
Pål and Lauren walked slowly down the street. I didn't really have anything against Lauren, I thought, but just now she was a big hair in my soup.
Wherever you may go, I'll follow.
I stood with the tips of my shoes on the precise spot where the county road merges into private property. A few yards away stood a stately villa with a veranda, and a driveway, and a massive door that opened onto another life. A life I had only read and dreamed about up till now, but which I knew I would partake in one day.
A baby buggy and a blue car stood in the courtyard. Was that an old Opel Sonette? The car was an outright disappointment. I was expecting something classier from Pål – a sporty four-wheel-drive or a vintage Jaguar.
My stomach felt queasy. There had to be limits to how much coffee liqueur a man my age could stand. My stomach churned. A slight nausea had snuck up on me during the past few minutes despite my having downed a few beers to keep my fluids balanced. I had been standing there a long time, two hours and four minutes to be exact, hidden behind a bush. I had managed to lose the bike along the way.
I wasn't feeling too well. It was as if my body was trying to get me to say uncle. But was there anything to be anxious about? I was just going to give a gift to a kindred spirit. No more, no less.
The inscription in the book was plain and simple: "To Pål from Hobo. Good luck with fatherhood!"
I was trying to meet him where he was at. Children weren't my thing, but fledgling fathers like to be reminded of their status as the family breadwinner whether they are successful performing artists or tram conductors. And now I was simply going to go up and ring the bell, introduce myself, and hand over the gift. Nothing to it!
I gulped down the rest of the beer and entered the gate. Maybe I was a little unsteady on my feet. Maybe my hair was a little mussed up, but I was wearing my smoking jacket and my Hawaiian shirt.
I dropped the empty bottle in the garbage can as I passed. But as I neared the house I felt a pang of guilt. What kind of crass behavior was this, throwing garbage into other people's bins without asking first? I returned to the can and opened the lid again.
The stench hit me as I leaned forward. The bottle had slid down between two chock-full plastic bags from ICA. My nausea grew suddenly urgent; I grabbed the bottle and lunged after air.
Then I noticed something red on my hand. Was there a dead fetus in there? The body of an old friend who had shown up at an inopportune moment right in the middle of the little one's bedtime? Just what was hiding under “Sycamore Leaves,” I wondered. Suicidal remains? Raped and mutilated children? Or just projected and suppressed fantasies? I thought about the inherent gloom in Waaktaars lyrics. Superficial and profound in the same breath. The balance between transcendence and ruin. Had I been so wrong about this man?
The picture of my fraternal spirit suddenly took on another dimension, but then I discovered what the red was: Pasta sauce!
I was near tears. Were we more than spiritual brothers? Did we even like the same food? The thought was immediately uplifting and I licked the sauce greedily off my hand. Dolmio? Most likely, and a short rummage through the garbage bags produced the empty jar. I stuffed it in my jacket pocket and staggered toward the front door.
In the middle of the courtyard I slowed down. The glimpse of a figure in a window made me veer off towards the back yard instead.
Best not to disturb, I thought, perhaps the little one was sleeping outside. I'd take a peek at the yard first.
The little family sat on the living room floor. The parents fussed and cooed over the baby, and I could tell it was soon time for a diaper change because the equipment was all laid out: clean diaper, wet naps, an ointment for sore bottoms.
I had a good view from where I stood peering through the veranda door. But I was a little surprised there was hardly any furniture in the spacious living room. Come on, what's this? What kind of environment was this to raise a child in? Or is this how the stars live, I wondered. Big bankrolls and no furniture? Maybe it was impractical to have so much stuff standing around gathering dust while you're out on tour, but there's got to be a limit!
The baby gave his famous father a dumb look, then threw up. That was too much for me. I put my hand over my mouth and pressed my forehead hard against the windowpane. Then as he took a dirty diaper off the little one, nausea won over and I barfed all over the veranda.
When I had finished, I turned back toward the door and saw they had left the room. Steam rose from the vomit as I staggered down the stairs. The birdhouse was left behind. There was no one to be seen inside the house or out on the road, but the sound of police sirens grew louder and louder.
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