The Days of Bluegrass Love Read online

  So what? Tycho thought, and he said, “If that’s what you want. But I’m sure Donna will know.”

  He brought his hand to Oliver’s face and rubbed a small streak of sweat off his temple.

  “Hm. I guess that’s okay,” Oliver said. His lips didn’t close after that last sound—the “ay” hung in midair, beckoning silently. Tycho’s lips also made a silent “ay.” He followed his lips—which in turn were following Oliver’s lips.

  After some time, Oliver pulled away. He unlaced his hands from behind Tycho’s back and put them on his shoulders—a split-second transformation from boyfriend back to best friend—and said, “Ready for normal life?”

  “I’m capable of anything now!” Tycho said.

  Oliver quickly changed his shirt and Tycho put the pillows back in place.

  Then they made their way from the supply closet through the dorm, the hallway, and the auditorium, into the kitchen.

  * * *

  THE WHOLE WORLD HAS transformed, Tycho thought to himself, as he poured out cornflakes and handed out cups of yogurt. Everyone seemed so cheerful. So friendly. So beautiful. There was humming and singing, all the leaders were cracking jokes, all the girls were laughing happily. Someone had tidied up the kitchen. The big pot had been rinsed out, the floor had been mopped, and there were no suds left anywhere. The contents of the trash can were the only reminder of the previous evening: shampoo bottles and dented cans of Diet Coke.

  “You’re singing,” Donna said.

  “Am I?”

  “Has something good happened, by any chance?”

  “Maybe!” Tycho said, and he loaded a basket full of dirty silverware into the dishwasher, grinning.

  * * *

  DURING THOSE FIRST FEW days, Tycho could handle anything. Even during the day. His energy and attention, his motivation, his good mood—it seemed as if love was keeping all his reserves stocked up. Tycho was a kite soaring high in the sky. And whether he was beneath the clouds of the camp, or bathed in the brilliant blue of everything to do with Oliver—he had the wind at his back.

  What counted were the evenings. And the nights. The times when Oliver and Tycho were together. When they could talk without feeling like they were saying lines, playing characters that were only semi-real at this point. They had to whisper—half the camp was asleep behind the thin door—so they used as few words as possible: a brief summary of their day, things of immediate relevance (are you comfortable, what time is it, I still have chocolate, are you asleep), and every now and then they would talk about how they’d ended up here. Oliver told Tycho how happy it had made him when he’d spotted Tycho’s T-shirt at Amsterdam airport. “So it wasn’t really about Ajax?” Tycho asked. “No. Well, it was about Ajax and about you.” And Tycho told Oliver about the river, the streaming river down his face, his narrow chest, his stomach …

  That’s how Tycho would remember it later: all those first nights began with words that eventually ran out, followed by feeling each other’s skin. Then the touching that slowly gave way to a sensation of warm snow, of melting. Until finally all that remained of the two of them was someone who was Tycho-and-Oliver both: a third body. A third body that made them both think, feel, and know the same things. That fell asleep and woke up again the next day, a hand here—whose hand?—and a leg there, a foot, a toe. A third body that ultimately morphed back into Tycho and Oliver again, but only after they’d said “goeiemorgen” and “god morn.”

  * * *

  THE DAYS AND NIGHTS were packed, but every now and then Tycho found a little gap to reflect on what was going on. In those moments he understood that he wasn’t just in love. That there were other feelings involved that rose up from time to time, in quiet moments.

  For example, sometimes he felt amazed when it hit him that it had only been eleven, twelve, thirteen days since he and Oliver first met—though he was sure that he knew him. And yet there had to be a thousand tidbits, slivers of information, things about the past, that they didn’t know about each other. That’s when jealousy would kick in. He’d feel jealous of everyone who’d known Oliver all his life. His classmates, who’d gotten to spend lunch breaks with him, bitch with him about horrible teachers and difficult exams. Who’d gone to his graduation party. His football friends, who may have practiced with him, played with him, showered, won or lost with him a hundred times. His neighbors, who’d gone to the local ski jumping festival with him. He’d feel jealous of Oliver’s family, who knew what he’d been like as a little boy, at three, five, nine years old. His mother, and his father.

  His girlfriends. Girlfriends?

  No, there hadn’t been any, not really, Oliver said.

  “‘Not really’?” Tycho asked.

  “No,” Oliver said.

  And Tycho breathed a sigh of relief, though he still wanted to know everything—what, when, how often. And he told Oliver about Nina—oh, Nina, what would she say if she knew that …?—but he didn’t really seem to care.

  “Why doesn’t it bother you?” Tycho asked.

  “Dunno,” Oliver said. “Do you think about her a lot?”

  “Not really,” Tycho said.

  “Well, that’s why,” Oliver said.

  And then that reply would kindle doubt in Tycho again. How could Oliver not be jealous? Did he maybe love Oliver more than Oliver loved him? That kind of nonsense.

  Sometimes Tycho thought about his parents. He wished they knew. He didn’t want to tell them, but he wanted them to know. He wanted to fast-forward past all of it: the news, their reaction, their concern. Eventually they’d understand and they’d be happy, because their son was happy and happiness is infectious. But first everything would have to be complicated. First he’d have to say what he felt—and he didn’t do that very often.

  He decided to write it down after all. During the next free period he took a deep breath, deleted his previous draft, and started over, then erased that too and typed another message. Hi Mom, hi Dad. So much has changed. I’m happy. I met someone here. It’s the boy I told you about before. His name is Oliver Kjelsberg, and he’s from Norway. I wish you could meet him. I feel like I’ve known him for ages. Because of him everything is fantastic. It’s the real thing. It’s a little strange, of course, but it’s the real thing, like I said. Don’t worry—I’m doing great, better than ever. X, Tycho.

  He read it through and felt like he’d gone about it all wrong, but he didn’t know how else to say it. And he was late for his shift at the camp store. He sent it … No, wait! He didn’t send it quite yet.

  * * *

  AT THE END OF the second week, they were back at the school entrance—the staff, the leaders, and the junior assistants—shaking hands, shouting “bye, take care, see you tomorrow,” waving, jumping around. They watched the host parents drive away. One by one the Buicks, the Mercs, and the Dodges turned their backs on them. They saw the kids looking out from the backseats, receding picture frames on an asphalt dresser.

  The third weekend had begun, which meant the kids were going off to their next host families. The leaders had the weekend to themselves to catch their breath, rest up, and evaluate how things had gone so far.

  There they were. Carol saw that everyone was at a bit of a loss. It was so empty all of a sudden, so quiet without the kids’ voices, so she shouted “Hugging line!” She grabbed Tycho, and then Adele and Yoshi and Josine, and pulled them into a line. “Come on, come on!” Moments later, there they were, all standing side by side, waiting to see what was going to happen next.

  Carol, short and small, spread her arms and hugged Tycho. The others applauded. Tycho felt her breasts pressing against his body. It was hot, their T-shirts clung together, but he understood what he was supposed to do. When Carol moved on to hug Adele, and then Yoshi, he had to follow her. He hugged Adele.

  Tycho made his way down the line. He hugged Yoshi, happy and welcoming; Josine, tentative, friendly; Brahim, so broad and warm; and then all the others, up to and including Director John, who
practically crushed everyone out of sheer gratitude—when he put his arms around you it was like he was trying to impress the World Wrestling Federation with his muscle strength.

  The last person in the line was Oliver. Tycho had embraced the fifteen others in a smooth hugging rhythm, the camp director’s burly body the center of gravity. Now he was face-to-face with his friend, his boyfriend. They looked at each other.

  In that moment a button must have been pushed—click!—in Tycho’s brain, in the part of his brain that converted Oliver’s gaze into an image—Memory, Record, Slow Motion—because later on he’d be able to replay the next few seconds endlessly. As many times as he wanted.

  * * *

  REWIND, PLAY: OLIVER’S GREEN eyes catching his own: what do we do now, how should we hug each other, have we forgotten how two cool junior assistants are supposed to do that? Oliver’s nod, the small downward tilt of his chin, his head, his eyelids: come on, let’s get this over with. Raising their arms, their left arms high, their right arms low, yes, it fits; one chest against the other, their hearts giving each other a quick wink, and their heads ear to ear—the scent of shampoo and skin. The scent of night.

  Tycho is already pulling back, he takes a step backwards, his arms let go and fall down alongside his body, but then look! Oliver’s left arm lets go, while the right—look!—moves upwards, the fingers open up—and brush against Tycho’s left cheek.

  Tycho looks up at Oliver in surprise, and Oliver’s face cracks into a grin. Oliver looks him in the eyes, Tycho is startled and turns away and sees that Director John is staring straight at Oliver’s hand. And Tycho feels what Director John is seeing—that what Oliver’s hand is doing isn’t rubbing but stroking, the way you stroke a lover.

  End of fragment.

  * * *

  TYCHO GREW HOT WITH confusion: Oliver’s hand, Director John’s look, the pleasant sensation of Oliver’s touch, the jolt of fear … Had his own “da da da so what” and Oliver’s misgivings traded places? Switched bodies?

  He didn’t get the chance to work out what was going on, because it was time for Coca-Cola and their first brief staff meeting. “To the leaders’ room!” Director John said.

  The conference table felt blissfully cool against Tycho’s forearms. Maybe that’s what helped shake things into order in his head and made him decide to pay attention. He leaned into the meeting. Oliver was sitting three, four chairs down from him. Tycho saw his hands and a pen, his fingers. Don’t go there.

  “I want you guys to write down,” Director John said, “what’s going well and what isn’t. Take a minute to think about it, be honest and help us figure out where there’s room for improvement. We’ll discuss the results tomorrow afternoon, when we get back from Chattanooga.”

  They were going on a trip. They were driving down to Chattanooga in the air-conditioned minivans, to a small hotel, and then “Tonight we’ll go dancing.”

  Tycho couldn’t come up with anything to write down. He wanted to get out of there, run around, but he had to say something, so he wrote “Everything is great” in big letters and slid the piece of paper over to Carol.

  “Your face was so close,” Oliver said, “and then it just happened. That’s okay, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s okay,” Tycho said. “But I thought you wanted to keep it just between us.”

  “Jeez, I don’t know, I mean … Can’t we just leave?”

  “Leave?”

  “I dunno … get out of here, just the two of us?”

  “Yes!” Tycho all but leapt to his feet.

  “Gimme those bags!” Gary came in, holding out a hairy arm. “Hurry up, it’s time to go!”

  * * *

  AFTER HOURS IN THE vans, they turned in to the driveway of the hotel. “Here’s your key. We’re meeting in the lobby in forty-five minutes.” They headed off to their rooms in pairs, dragging their luggage along with them.

  Oliver and Tycho had room number 20. Green wall-to-wall carpeting, a television set, yellow wallpaper with bits of forest on it, two bedside lamps with broken lampshades and, in the middle of the room, a double bed, as wide as the sky. A bed for husbands.

  “We can push them apart,” Tycho said, “if we want.”

  He lifted up the heavy duvet to show that there were actually two twin beds.

  “But we don’t want,” Oliver said.

  He sat down on the bed and tugged on Tycho’s T-shirt, so that Tycho fell down next to him, curling into his left arm, which he was offering as a backrest, with the rest of him as the chair. They turned toward each other. Their noses touched, and Tycho said, “A shame we were in different vans.”

  “A real shame.”

  Oliver started kissing his ear. His lips glided over Tycho’s temple, his neck, his chin, the space underneath his lips. Tycho shifted his head half an inch, until his lips met Oliver’s. Locked together.

  They scooched up the bed and pushed their pillows together.

  Tycho spotted a box hanging on the wall. He said, “Do you have any change?”

  “What?”

  “Change. There’s some kind of box by the bed. A machine.”

  Oliver fished a coin out of his pocket. Tycho inserted it into the slot and pushed a button. Suddenly the right side of the bed started vibrating.

  “A massaging bed!” Tycho cried, and he flipped Oliver upside down and threw himself on top of him.

  * * *

  A KNOCK. TYCHO GOT up to open the door. Director John. “Everything all right here? I see you guys found the massage button.” His eyes darted around the room, as if he was looking for something. He glanced over at Oliver, who’d gotten up too.

  “You like the room?”

  “Yeah,” Oliver said, but suddenly Tycho noticed what Director John had probably noticed too: the two pillows pushed together, and in the sheets on one side of the bed, the outline of two boys. Not one, no, clearly two—two boy-imprints that were still buzzing, as the machine hadn’t run out yet.

  “All right then. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  * * *

  THEY’D CLOSED THE DOOR behind Director John. There they were, still standing next to the bed, which was now massaging the air.

  Tycho said, “He definitely saw it this time.”

  “So be it.” Oliver shrugged.

  “You don’t care?” Tycho asked.

  “No. Do you?”

  “Um, no. I don’t think so. Have you been in touch with your mother? I have. Almost.”

  “I haven’t. She’s in Africa. On safari, remember? She probably has no signal out there anyway.”

  Oliver pulled another coin out of his pocket. “Another ride?”

  * * *

  CHATTANOOGA TURNED OUT TO be a city filled with shopping streets. They all strolled along, stopping at practically every store because one or another of the leaders wanted to check it out. Oliver and Tycho didn’t buy anything. They walked along, more or less side by side. Tycho was swinging his arms. In his mind he’d already pushed an arm out several times and let it drift to the side—what do you know, we’re holding hands—but no, he managed to resist that magnetic field.

  But he couldn’t stop what was going on inside his head: he could feel how with every swing of his arms something new, something unfamiliar, something rebellious was rising up inside him. He felt how, with every step, one thought was pressing forward more and more, like a quarter being carefully inserted into one of those coin pushers at the fun fair—until it drops. Wait a minute, he thought, why, why not? If two leaders can be all over each other, then why can’t we?

  Suddenly he understood Oliver. They should be brave—no, not brave, they should just be themselves, stop thinking about it, just do it!

  They were standing in front of a souvenir shop. Right here, he thought, we could maybe take each other’s hand … slip an arm around each other’s waist … maybe another caress … But then someone said, “Right! It’s time to go! Everyone over here, we’re leaving!”

  * * *
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  DIRECTOR JOHN AND GARY were excited. “You’re gonna have the perfect night out!” They were standing in front of a barbecue joint looking at the entrance. Flashing lights, signs saying, ICE COLD BEER, LIVE PERFORMANCES, and thick wooden double doors.

  They headed toward them and the others followed suit. They went inside, down a hallway and through a set of saloon doors, which everyone held open for each other and which pointed, like two wooden arrows, toward a large room with huge plants, barbecue pits, extractor hoods, tables, and a stage with a dance floor. Right in the middle of that stage stood a double bass, a spotlight shining down on it.

  The group had come to a halt, because Director John was negotiating a package deal for seventeen with someone behind the bar. Tycho read the text on the posters on the wall: THE MARC MCKINLEY BLUEGRASS BAND. Oliver was looking over Tycho’s shoulder. They waited. They asked each other what bluegrass was. They said they didn’t know. So they waited.

  But suddenly something started quivering inside the two of them. Why? Because of what? It was as if it had dawned on them that they were together, very close together, right in the middle of everyone else. Tycho noticed his breath quickening, and he tried to exhale in the same moments that he could feel Oliver blowing air onto his neck. Once, twice, three times. Until it stopped. Oliver started whispering. He said, “I want to sit next to you tonight,” and briefly put his hand on Tycho’s hip. A storm of excitement blew through Tycho, as if that touch, those fingers, had activated something, set something in motion, turned up the glowing in his cheeks, started the thumping in his throat, sent goose bumps over his whole body. He tilted his head back and slowly moved it to the side. His heart was pounding. Everyone could see his bare throat, could see him swallowing. He tilted farther back toward Oliver and whispered “Jeg elsker deg” into his ear.