Johan Harstad Read online

  2

  I was in the way, I had been for a long time. I lay there in the middle of the wet roadway with my face squashed against the asphalt, it was raining, it was night, and there wasn’t a single tree for miles, just hills and steep mountains, covered in short, green grass, almost gray in the darkness, which vibrated in the wind. I was hungry, I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten, but it must have been close to twenty-four hours. We’d come ashore, we’d arrived in Tórshavn, but I couldn’t remember what we’d done, how I’d ended up here, everything lay hidden in a hazy stew deep inside my brain somewhere. I felt nauseous, my head ached as I sat up, in the middle of the road still. My left hand throbbed with pain, dirty fingers, bloodied knuckles, unexplained. Had I punched somebody? Had something happened on the boat? I remembered that I’d been angry, but why? Rain. The droplets that zoomed in on me from four thousand feet above and landed onto the back of my neck, into my hair, dripped down onto the asphalt and made small puddles that trickled slowly away from me. I got up, my back hurt, but I got up, standing on two feet. I remembered wine, glasses, massive mouths that had laughed so much their tonsils showed, I remembered the boat trip across. I remembered that I hadn’t actually had that much to drink, but that I’d been ill nonetheless, that the sea had been rough, that the Bulgarian band had played “I Will Always Love You” and something that could only have been “Ten Thousand Red Roses,” despite its being sung in Swedish with a Cyrillic alphabet. I leaned on a traffic sign at the roadside nearby, it said 80km/t í mesta lagi, and I reckoned that was way too fast for me.

  I stood there for a few minutes not really knowing what to do next. Looked around. Above me the clouds lay heavy, low and dark, they merged with the mist that crept down from the mountains, moistening everything it touched as the wind blew in from the sea just downhill from the road, and the sea spray sprinkled the crash barrier, corroding metal and asphalt.

  I looked down at my feet. At my soaking wet shoes. There was a carrier bag at my feet, from a shop in Stavanger I barely recognized. I picked it up, opened it and looked inside, found my magnolia boilersuit from the nursery, still unused, lying there neatly folded and shiny. Why did I have it with me? I began to go through my pockets for signs of what I’d been doing in the last few hours, but didn’t find much. A scrunched up receipt from City Burger and a folded Visa receipt from a bar we must have been to, it was a relatively large amount I’d been charged. A flattened pack of cigarettes in my back pocket, also soaked, that weren’t mine. I could feel my wallet through the material of my inside pocket, took it out, looked through it. There was nothing missing. Put it back, and it was then I noticed something else in there, something thick. I felt the paper against my fingers, pulled out a small brown envelope, opened it carefully to investigate its contents, and saw the money, a wad of notes. 15,000 kroner. Was it mine? I had no idea. I placed the money back in the envelope and put it back in my pocket.

  I stood beside the road sign, it was raining. I had 15,000 kroner in my pocket and no umbrella. Just a plastic carrier bag. And I had no idea what had happened, or where the others were. The road looked equally long in both directions, so I turned left and began walking. I don’t know why, I had no plans of going anywhere in particular, it didn’t matter where I went. I might even have been heading for town, impossible to say. I just turned left and walked against the wind, one hand holding the carrier bag and the other at my jacket collar as I followed the road, close to the crash barrier. I couldn’t remember heading in any particular direction and one road was as good as the other. My shoes squelched at every step, and I felt my toes getting colder and colder in my thin shoes, my skin, swollen from the damp, was starting to chaff and tear against the coarse material.

  My notion of time from these days is confused, so I can’t actually say how long I followed the road, it might have been for as little as half an hour, but then it might have been hours. It felt that way. The landscape was almost uniform in every direction, naked mountains and plains covered in nothing but short grass, wind blowing across it from all directions. But I think I walked long enough for it to grow dark around me, before the light eventually began to return, or perhaps a narrow crack opened up in the clouds allowing the moon to slip through the layers. Gradually the lorries, that passed me at infrequent intervals, became visible from afar. I could have hitchhiked. I could have stood at the roadside, thumb out, stopped a truck and hitched a ride, in the hope it was going to town. I didn’t. I’m not sure why. Instead I just went on walking, making myself small and leaning into the wind, feeling my forehead grow cold from the rain that lashed my face, screwing my eyes tight to be able to see anything at all through the wind and rain.

  I think I thought about Buzz Aldrin, the first steps he’d taken in the Sea of Tranquility thirty years ago, he hadn’t had bad weather, hadn’t had any weather at all, everything had been absolutely still, no atmosphere, not a drop of water, and the footprints he left in the moon dust, in the basalt, would remain there for millions of years, longer perhaps than all of us. My footprints were washed away for each step I took, and not all the world’s Red Indians could ever track me down in this chaos.

  I walked for half an hour, or hours like this, leaning into the wind, with aching fingers, a pounding headache and nausea, I walked along the road without purpose or direction, I saw the odd sheep that had wandered off from one of the small stone sheds built by farmers to shelter their animals when there were dreadful storms, like now, when all sensible animals or humans stayed barricaded indoors, and the sheep stopped in their tracks when they saw me, cocked their heads, followed me with their gaze until something more interesting distracted them, or until they vanished into the mists ahead, going back to rest. That was when I got the idea. I should have let it pass, but there it was. I was cold, and when the next sheep appeared on the slope, a black, longhaired creature, I crossed over the road toward it, began walking up the slopes, moving closer and closer in, and it began to draw back, slowly but surely, as I came closer. Eventually it suddenly turned, and began running up the mountainside, and I think I ran as hard as I could. Hurtled through the rain, giving it my all, running up the steep slope of slippery grass, thinking that if only I could find the place where the rest of the flock were resting, I could squeeze myself among them, down into their wool, and dry off. But the sheep was quicker than me, it knew where it was going and I’d run out of strength, I lumbered on, I dropped my bag, stumbled on a rock and landed with my whole weight on my hand, a burning explosion of pain surged through my fingers, everything went black for an instant, before I came to again, lying in the wet grass with blood all over my jacket, blood all over my arm, not a single trace of the sheep to be seen. Not so much as a fly.

  I brought myself painstakingly to my feet again and picked up my carrier bag, padded quietly and indignantly back to the roadside and continued walking along it, stopped thinking about what I was doing, switched to autopilot and tramped my way on through the landscape, and I could doubtless have walked like this for days, without regard for where I was going, chin pressed into my chest, hands hanging at my sides, one foot in front of the other, mile after mile, following the white road markings, while the rain could make me no wetter than I already was.

  I remember walking through a tunnel at some point, it was either early or late, I walked through the tunnel, balancing on a narrow footpath like a dancer on a slack-rope, breathed in the remains of old exhaust fumes, as I came out on the other side a view across an enormous valley opened up to my right, and in front of me, on the other side, was a bus shelter. I dragged myself toward it, sat on the bench. Looked at my watch. It had stopped. Completely frozen at seven-thirty exactly, difficult to say how close that was to the truth. Calmly, I laid my carrier bag underneath me and lay down on the bench. Adjusted myself. It was a big bench, a warning sign in itself; the bigger the benches in bus shelters, the longer the waiting times. This bench was big, and hanging on a wall inside the shelter was a small frame with a
sheet of paper giving an overview of bus times. Most of the writing was illegible, the letters washed away by so much water, but it looked as though the bus came to Eysturoy twice a day, except Sundays, when it didn’t run at all. I didn’t know where Eysturoy was, and I was worried it might be Sunday today, but pushed the thought away. Impossible that I’d been in the country that long, the boat had left Bergen on Tuesday, so it had to be a Wednesday or Thursday, at worst. Or a Saturday, one could never be sure. But probably a Wednesday. I lay down on the wet bench, I tried to curl up, tried to sleep, but it was impossible, it was cold, and it was raining and I felt increasingly awake, it must have been over twenty-four hours since I’d last eaten, I could feel that now, as my stomach began to contract in a desperate attempt to find something to digest. The last thing I could remember, was some half-cold pizza I’d bought at the cafeteria on the boat and which hadn’t tasted like much. Later we’d gone up, gone out onto deck. I remember we all stood on deck drinking beer, Jørn, Roar, and me, and the band from Trondheim. We stood there looking down into the wake of the ship in the night, stood watching the stripes stretch back toward Norway, and I think we discussed how deep it might be and the chances of being rescued if one of us fell overboard there and then, and I think we concluded it was deep enough and that the chances of being rescued were infinitesimally small, and we wondered what it would be like, to perish like that, on the surface of an ocean hundreds of fathoms deep, caught in the waves, as the ferry moved off, drowning in the ship’s wake at night, hearing the others on deck as they called desperately to you in the water, how long it would take to stop the boat, to turn it, to find the way back in the dark, the chances would be miniscule, and anyone jumping in after you would vanish too, into the waves, into the sea, in minutes, and it’s cold at this time of year too, saltwater can be at below-zero temperatures without freezing, and you’d go under, come up a couple of times, go under again, sink, and settle to the bottom, quite still, and you’d never be found. And if somebody jumped after you, on a heroic rescue mission, they’d sink too, and we’d lie in stacks at the bottom, an invisible monument. I think we chatted on like that, drinking our beer, throwing our cans over the ship’s railings and counting how many seconds they took to hit the surface, and we debated what we’d do if the boat was sinking and there were no lifeboats, whether we’d stay in our cabins and lock the doors, or go up on deck, and I think I said I’d stay in my cabin, I’d watch the water rise over the porthole, knowing the top deck was still dry, and I’d lie on my bunk, fully dressed, in my suit, perhaps, absolutely still, waiting until the boat was under water and the atmospheric pressure rose and my porthole imploded into my cabin and the sea gushed in and the door hinges gave way and the noises from the corridor and the feet on the metal steps melted away, and the water forced my door open, and for a brief moment, before I drowned, I would float, in my suit, I and all my things would float aimlessly around my cabin, as if we were in outer space.

  How long did I lie on that bench? I don’t know. Maybe hours. From somewhere far off I heard the sound of a car come closer, slow down and stop, a car door opening and shutting.

  Somebody was yelling at me. I didn’t understand what was said. Somebody yelled again, wanted my attention, wanted me to talk, but I had nothing to say, turned and lay with my face to the wall. But the blaze of the headlights wouldn’t go away, it shone in the Plexiglas of the bus shelter, it burned into my eyes before vanishing for a moment as somebody grabbed me from behind, talked at me, but I understood nothing, nothing made sense.

  Words were repeated.

  I was no longer listening. Somebody tugged at my shoulder again. Reluctantly I turned around on the wooden bench and stared straight into the face of a hefty guy in his forties with blond hair and a thick wool jumper.

  He talked in words only he could understand.

  “Eh?”

  He switched programs, began talking in Danish.

  “Everything all right here?”

  “Eh?”

  “Are things all right with you?”

  I knew how things were with me. And they weren’t all right.

  “Do you want to get up?”

  I got up, sat on the bench in front of him, my plastic carrier in my lap, like a child who’s missed the last bus home from school and has to accept whatever help he’s offered. The man before me stood looking at me, not too sure perhaps about what he should do.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I answered.

  “So where have you been?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He sighed heavily, as though he already regretted stopping, or as though this happened to him every time he was out for a drive, like having to move sheep off the road.

  “Are you a tourist?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you staying at one of the hotels in Tórshavn, perhaps?”

  “No … I’ve no idea.”

  Was he starting to get impatient? Perhaps. He was standing in the rain. Was getting wet hair.

  “Are you on your own, then?”

  I thought for a moment. Pulled myself together. My hand was hurting.

  “No,” I said. “I’ve got friends. I … they … I don’t know where they are.”

  “I can drive you down to the harbor, if you want.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Are you just going to lie here?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you can’t.”

  “No.”

  Then I lay down on the bench again, shut my eyes, turned away from him. But I wasn’t lying there for long. Somebody tugged at me, and it was him again, he lifted me up into a seated position again. I had blood on my trousers. Saliva ran from my mouth. No great beauty.

  “I think you’d better come with me,” he said.

  I didn’t want to.

  “It’ll be fine,” I mumbled. “I’ll be all right here. On my own.”

  “That’s not the way it looks,” he answered, pointing at my bloodied hand. “Come on, you’d better come with me, let’s get you inside before you drown.” He reached a hand out and grabbed me by my healthy arm, hauled me to my feet, and dragged me over to the car, put me in the passenger seat, put the carrier in my lap. I had my hand in my inside pocket. For a moment I contemplated giving all the money to him, asking him to take me to a hotel, to drive me away, back home. But my hand refused, and settled in my lap.

  “I’m Havstein,” he said, taking my hand in his own and shaking them both.

  “So … rry?”

  “Havstein Gar∂alí∂.”

  I think I said Mattias.

  Then he started the car, drove down into the valley and swung right, taking us along the coast, through the villages and the monotonous landscape, with the radio playing in the background, soft, incomprehensible voices talking, and between them I heard songs I’d once connected with something, with things, with events.

  I slept for most of the time, interrupted by the brief moments when I gazed through the window, at roads that snaked gently over hills. The occasional car drove past in the opposite direction, high speed, noise as it passed us, an intense light streaming into the car, music on the car stereo, soft, whispering country and western songs, and this Havstein guy humming along with it, out of sync. Tammy Wynette.

  We’d stopped when I woke up. Light streamed through the car windows, the water ran in stripes down the glass, I pushed myself up in my seat and this was day one. It didn’t come with rain, but the remains of water from yesterday, I was still cold and wet, hair plastered to my forehead, a stale taste in my mouth. I looked at the clock on the dashboard, ten past nine, and didn’t know where I was. And the air was fresh as I rolled the window down, poked my head out, tried to catch the oxygen as it streamed past the car in a steady current, loosened my seat belt, pulled my whole body out through the open window, arms on the roof, and it was so wet, the world dripped and I was breathing fresh air again, here, wherever that might be.
I felt a little better, better than yesterday, better than the last time I’d given it thought. I slipped back in again, opened the car door, took a first tentative step out onto the asphalt. And I stood there. Just about. I didn’t fall through. I stood outside a Statoil gas station, sun in my eyes, and watched as this man who went by the name of Havstein came walking out of the shop, walked toward me, lifted a hand, waved, I waved back, my hand more feeble than his.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  He’d bought bread, a soft drink, milk, he’d got the essentials and I stood there, leaning on the body of the car while he showed me his groceries, put the bags in the trunk, slammed the lid, walked around to my side of the car.