Doppler (7 page)

Questions are asked concerning alcohol. I raise my hand and suggest that pupils be given permission to drink some alcohol, but the other parents do not agree. Come on, I say. Let the young ones have a free rein. Let them drink themselves silly and stagger home to the hotel as the cock crows. We’re doing them a disservice by protecting them as we do, but I’m met by incomprehension. In fact, I have the impression that they consider me outrageous, not quite on this planet. Life has become like that. Cycle helmets and safety precautions everywhere. My daughter will have permission anyway, as much as she wants, I say in defiance, while the other parents look away.

Under Any Other Business I say that in my opinion the barter economy should be on the curriculum. Young people should be encouraged to exchange goods and services rather than buying everything in sight. The future of the earth depends on it, I say. For humans do not own the earth, I say. The earth owns us humans. Flowers are our sisters, and the horse, the great eagle, not to mention the moose, are our brothers. So how can you buy or sell anything? For who owns the heat in the air or the sound of the wind in the trees? And the sap in the branches contains the memory of those who have preceded us. And the gurgle of the brook carries within it my father’s voice and in turn his father’s. And we have to teach our children that the ground we walk on contains the ashes of our forefathers and that everything that happens to the earth will happen to us and that if we spit on the earth we are spitting on ourselves, and by the way, I say, while I’m at it, is anyone here willing to swap some fruit for moose meat? I take two to three kilos of meat out of my bag and smack it down on the desk. It’s good meat, I say. Smoked, tasty. And all I want is a handful of bananas and some nursery-friendly fruit in exchange. No one takes me up on the offer until afterwards when we’re on the way out. Then the father of one of Nora’s nicest and poshest girlfriends comes up to me and says he would like the meat. And we go in his car to a petrol station where goes in and buys a carrier-bagful of assorted fruit and then drives me home. He comments that I look different and tentatively asks what I’m doing at the moment.  I suppose he must have heard something or other from his nice daughter. I’ve moved into the forest, I tell him. I’ve handed in my notice at work and moved into the forest because it was the only sensible thing to do. He nods. The forest is fickle, he says, as I get out of the car, so be careful. You’re wrong, I say. The forest is gentle and friendly. It’s the sea which is fickle. And the mountains. But the forest is predictable and less confusing than almost every other place. Whereas you cannot trust the sea or the mountains or people in any way at all, I say, so you can place your life in the forest’s hands without any qualms. For the forest listens and understands, I say. It doesn’t destroy; it restores and allows things to grow. The forest appreciates and accommodates everything.

‘OK, OK,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to be careful nevertheless.’

‘You should be careful yourself,’ I say.

When I arrive home Nora has put Gregus to bed and is sitting watching TV. It’s a documentary programme about how all those who worked on the
Lord of the Rings
films made friendships for life. They miss each other terribly now the filming is over, and some of them are down and lack the motivation to tackle new projects. Nora thinks it’s sad, I can see. But she smiles to herself when the cast talk about wonderful, crazy things that were done and said in the make-up caravans and on the set. Life wasn’t always a bed of roses however. Often they had to get up at the crack of dawn and sit for hours having the big hobbit feet put on. And Peter, the director that is, always had time for everyone and made them feel competent and important even though his head was full of the larger narrative and of the staging options necessary to communicate it in the best possible way to all Tolkien lovers around the globe. An extraordinary man, Peter. Big, teddy bear-like, fun to the tips of his toes and at the same time extremely competent and normal. I suppose I am not quite in his class. Film production is one of the last things I should try my hand at. I can imagine that you need crystal clear vision  and energy to spend years of your life steering it past all the obstacles, and you have to motivate a huge number of people to do their best, although they may not have anywhere near the same conception of the totality as you. It’s insanity, nothing less. The actors would hate me as much as I would hate them. I wouldn’t be able to take the story seriously. Battle scenes between non-existent creatures. What is that? I would have created an apprehensive and spiteful atmosphere on the set, and the film would have become an apprehensive and spiteful film. No Oscars coming its way. And no nice, well-to-do teenagers queuing to secure tickets for the premiere.

It’s a very good thing it wasn’t me who made
Lord of the Rings
or any of the other films on release in the world. People are talented, it occurs to me. People get things done. And the world around me is going to continue being nice and talented whereas I’ve been nice and talented for the last time.

How was the parents’ meeting? Nora asks at length.

It was fine. Hear you’re going on a trip, I say. Exciting.

She nods, listening to Liv Tyler learning Elvish on TV. It was demanding, we’re told. That’s all I needed. Not only is it a dead language but it’s a dead language that has never existed anywhere except in a diligent Englishman’s imagination.

Elvish is a fantastically beautiful language, Nora says.

Doubtless, I say.

You can say so many things that you can’t say in other languages, she says.

Such as? I ask.

For example, I love you, she says. It sounds pathetic in Norwegian and in fact it’s beginning to sound pathetic in English, too, she opines.

But in Elvish it just sounds wonderful.

That may well be, I say. But how often do people of your age need to say they love someone? I ask.

You know nothing about that, Nora says.

I don’t, I say. That’s why I’m asking.

It’s quite possible for someone to love another person even though they’re young, she says, piqued.

And who is it possible for someone to love? I ask.

Boyfriends perhaps, Nora says.

Ha! I say.

Or Peter Jackson, she says.

I laugh my arse off.

Against my will I have to spend the night in the house. To tell the truth, the plan had been to carry Gregus up to the tent in my backpack while he slept but nice, conscientious Nora stopped me. Now they’re both asleep and I have palpitations thinking about poor Bongo not knowing where I am. The little moose will be running around feeling all alone. He won’t be able to go into the tent, either. After all he hasn’t got any hands. It’s pretty limited what a moose can manipulate, from a fine-motor co-ordination point of view.

Apart from illicit visits to Düsseldorf’s house and the odd trip to ICA it’s six months since I have been in a building. My appetite isn’t whetted at all. I walk around, restless. Fill my rucksack with the tools and dry foods I may need. Watch a spot of TV; there is the usual rich selection of tennis matches and reconstructed crimes and more or less fictional stories about the vicissitudes of human life. For me, watching TV is a compilation of all the reasons why I don’t like people. TV is a concentrated form of everything that is repulsive about us. Those human qualities which in real life are already difficult to reconcile yourself with stick out like a sore thumb when they appear on TV. People seem like idiots. On TV even I would have looked like an idiot.

Everything which is human is alien to me.

Before my fall in the forest I spent my evenings at home with the family. I have always shunned organised leisure activities. So almost every evening was spent at home. We ate, watched children’s TV, put Gregus to bed and then sat in front of the TV leafing through more or less interesting newspapers until the clock told us that it was time to pay bills on the Net. Always plenty of bills. Electricity, council tax, telephone, newspapers, plumber and nursery, as well as Nordberg Tennis Club which we regularly had deliver sixty-four toilet rolls straight to the door. We liked that. The old men up there keeping themselves busy with the organisation of the club. When they aren’t maintaining or using the courts they drive around delivering toilet rolls to the neighbouring district. It’s a kind of job for them. In that way they keep themselves alive and we have paper to wipe our bottoms with. But now I realise with a satanic grin that I have paid my last bill. I will never ever pay a bill again. Neither on the Net, nor in any other way. I will live from bartering or thieving or the forest. And when I’m gone the forest will live from me.  That’s the deal.

I sleep fully dressed on the sofa, but wake after a while to sounds at the veranda door. Someone is fiddling with the lock. Fascinated, I sit up on the sofa and study the technique. After a few minutes, and without any noise of note, a man comes into the sitting room. It takes some time for him to realise I’m there.

Good evening you there, I say.

He is startled, but gathers his wits.

OK, he says. You don’t need to be frightened. I’m not violent. I’ll be on my way right now. See, I’m going. He says moving towards the veranda door.

Just come in, I say, going into the kitchen and putting on the kettle.

Coffee? I shout.

Thank you very much, he says. But I don’t know. Perhaps I ought to be moving on.

Join me now you’re here, I say, stretching out my hand.

Name’s Doppler, I say. Andreas Doppler.

I can see he thinks the situation is awkward, but in the end he proffers his hand.

Roger, he says.

Just Roger?

I’m a bit chary about giving my surname, he says, but folk call me Toolman Roger. I used to work with scrap.

Interesting, I say.

You know what I’m doing here, don’t you? he asks.

Yes, I say.

So you’re not kind of backward? he asks.

No more than your average Joe, I say. Let’s have a look at the tools you brought with you.

He holds out a bunch of various picklocks attached to quite a large key ring which in turn hangs from the end of an extendable ski lift card attachment, the type you often see in the Alps. This guy knows his way around, I think to myself.

Do you take anything in your coffee?

No thanks, he says.

I can’t tempt you with something a bit stronger? I ask, hoping the flask of ethanol is still in the basement workshop.

Not when I’m working, says Toolman Roger.

Come on, I say. Drop your shoulders for heaven’s sake. It’s clean stuff.

He looks at his watch.

A little one then, he says

The alcohol is in its usual place and I pour us both one.

So you’re out and about robbing? I say.

Yes, Roger says. I like this area. Lots of valuables and very few alarms. Higher up it’s right-winger country with alarms everywhere, but down here folk vote left and think about the good in people, and they’re rolling in it, too. For me that’s an unbeatable combination. And you live here, do you? he asks.

Not at all, I say.

I see, he says. But you’re spending the night here?

That’s exactly what I’m doing, I say. I used to live here. And my wife and my children still live here.

Divorce, he says, nodding. Sorry to hear that. I know about all that.

No, I say. We’re still married, but I’ve moved up into the forest. I live there in a tent with a little moose.

OK, he says, looking at his watch again.

I give him some more coffee and alcohol.

Tell me about your occupation, I say.

There’s not much to say, he says.

I don’t believe you, I say. You break into houses and steal people’s things. You must be able to tell me something about it.

Well, he says, taking a swig. I try to do it in a decent way. I recce first and only enter where I know there’s something worth having. I don’t touch personal items. Never break anything. I know how unpleasant it is when burglars have been in people’s houses and turned everything upside down. Of course I know some who do that, but I’ve always distanced myself from that kind of behaviour. By the way, is it alright if I smoke?

Smoke away, I say. My wife’s in Rome.

I put the kettle on again, fetch an ashtray and pour another round.

I don’t know that I should have any more, he says. I’m driving.

You can take a taxi, I say. For once. Then you can pick up your car tomorrow. Underground to Ullevaal Stadium and over the footbridge. A doddle.

OK, Roger says. Go on then.

And the swag, I say. I suppose you spend it on drugs, do you?

Now you disappoint me, Roger says. You’re tarring all burglars with the same brush. I don’t touch illegal substances. I’ve got a family like you. But I don’t have an unblemished record or education or anything else that might look convincing on a CV. Not only that, I’ve got a problem taking orders from others. There aren’t many jobs I can get and the ones I can get I often don’t want. But I try to steer clear of criminal elements. Which means there are not many opportunities left, apart from operating on your own. And I’m doing fine. I’m making ends meet. And by and large folk get their money back off the insurance.’

It turns out that Roger is a great guy. He teaches me a bit about picking locks and gives me a handful of other tips about housebreaking. The more we talk and drink, the better I like him. The alcohol flows and we discover we have several mutual interests, especially as regards the open air life, forests and the countryside, and in the private confidences department Roger has been convinced for some time that he’ll get prostate cancer like his father, he says, and he’s not too keen on that, but recently he read that if you have 20-25 ejaculations a month that reduces the risk considerably. So he makes sure he has orgasms all over the place and he’s found out that he particularly likes squirting his sperm on things that are not designed to be squirted on. It could be anything actually, he says, books, journals, crockery, anything at all, and the best thing about it is that his partner goes along with it. Roger squirts all over the flat and she’s fine about it.