I Can See in the Dark (6 page)

This was the decisive instant when I would finally come to his rescue, I would come like a saviour and light up those bloodshot eyes, I would help his trembling body to relax. I’ve never been a soft-hearted soul, but here was a man I could save. Anna’s brother drowned before my eyes, but now I could make a difference. I rose and went over to him, took the hip flask from my pocket and offered it with a smile and a friendly nod. The feeling of doing a good deed spread upwards from my toes, and suffused my whole body. He took it and studied it carefully, to see if it really was the hip flask he’d missed so sorely. He managed to remove the top after a bit of a struggle, but there was only a drop left in the flask, not sufficient to satisfy his need. Nevertheless, he went on putting the flask to his lips, as if hoping for some miracle that might fill it with vodka, providing he didn’t stop hoping.

‘You haven’t got a drink, by any chance?’ he asked feebly.

The asking had cost him dear, he was now staring at the ground, but his need was too great, he had to bite the bullet and beg.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a drink. I’ve got a bottle of vodka. And, you know, it could be for you.’

I took hold of his arm and hauled him up. He was as unmanageable as a sack of potatoes. At that moment I caught his smell, a mixture of mildew and drunkenness. He hung heavily on my arm, and I was scared he’d fall on the path and lie there floundering. But he managed. Walking like a wounded soldier, heading for vodka and salvation. I was used to doing this, of course, walking and supporting someone on my arm, like the patients at Løkka, the few who were able to get about.

‘A drink,’ I reiterated. ‘To put you back together again.’

He replied with a few snuffling noises. Keeping on the move was occupying all his efforts, but he was driven on by the thought of relief. As we walked, I tried to come to terms with what I was doing, and what my plan was, why I’d followed this sudden impulse to take him home with me. And treat him to my vodka. It must have had something to do with an intractable loneliness. I tried to recall the last time someone had sat on my sofa, but I couldn’t think of anyone, apart from a vacuum-cleaner salesman long ago, and he was only interested in demonstrating his fantastic machine. Which, by the way, I didn’t buy because it was far too expensive. Apart from him, a few Poles had come to the door with drawings, which they tried to sell, to help pay for their education here in Norway. But I never bought any of the drawings, either. To be honest, I was never very impressed with them, and I thought I could have done better myself, had I taken the trouble to sit down with a pencil and paper. There’d just never been the opportunity, but I suspected I might have a hidden talent in that department. I hauled and steered and supported Arnfinn along the paved path past
Woman Weeping
and the Dixie Café. We met no one on our shuffling progress, nor did we speak. We walked, ponderous and unsteady, a sorry sight in the gloaming, and it was as if both of us understood our goal: a drink and a bit of pleasant company.

Several times he almost fell.

Once, he lurched out into the road, and then almost slipped into the ditch, while I gripped his arm and tried to steer him in the right direction. The journey from the park to Jordahl, which usually takes half an hour, took us forty-five minutes. When at last he realised we’d arrived, he seemed unspeakably relieved, he clumped up the steps, all five of them, leaning heavily on the handrail. He stood clinging to it as I unlocked the door, then staggered into the hall, and on into my small, spartan living room. It felt odd bringing someone home with me. A stranger within my private domain, breathing my air, gazing at my things, my furniture, and experiencing my taste for meticulous order. For no one came to my house, and that was entirely my own fault. Now the habit was about to be broken, I had a guest. An alcoholic from the park by Lake Mester, but he was better than nothing.

‘You mentioned something about a drink,’ said Arnfinn.

He coughed, putting a hand up to his mouth. He had taken a seat on the sofa, pressed himself into the corner, his large hands lying motionless in his lap.

‘Yes.’ I said. ‘You’ll get your drink. But I’m not having any. I think it’s a dreadful habit and I don’t drink.’

He laughed a little uncertainly at this. He tried to curb his violent trembling and peered about him as if searching for the bottle I’d been tempting him with. Perhaps they’re communing, I thought, on some special frequency. Perhaps the bottle is transmitting an almost imperceptible signal from the cupboard, and it’s striking Arnfinn’s aura.

‘We could play “You’re getting hot”,’ I suggested, and smiled agreeably.

All of a sudden he looked shamefaced and stared down at his hands. His nails had dark edges, and there wasn’t much doubt that those hands had done their fair share of hard work.

‘Not playing,’ he mumbled reluctantly.

He sat there with his windcheater on, refusing to take it off.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I was just joking. You’re not a child. You’re unemployed, aren’t you? Are you on Social Security? I’m not trying to be rude, I’m simply interested. Are you on the dole, Arnfinn? You needn’t be afraid of divulging things to me, I’m a member of one of the caring professions. I’m used to all that. I mean, people needing help.’

He shrugged his shoulders and turned away slightly, trying to get comfortable in the corner of the sofa. His gaze had begun to wander, as if he regretted coming and wanted to go again. Perhaps now he couldn’t quite grasp how he’d ended up in my living room. He felt his pocket again, but remembered that the hip flask was empty.

‘Is there something you want?’ he asked.

I sat looking at him for a long time before I replied.

‘Company,’ I said simply. ‘Not many people come to this house. But I’ve always got a bottle in the cupboard,’ I added, ‘just in case. A case like yours. And it’s nice to have something to offer. Of course you’ll get a drink. I’m feeling generous. I don’t often feel that way, but you’ve caught me on a good day.’

He managed a brave smile. His cheeks flushed with pleasure. Then I rose and went to the cupboard, fetched the bottle and glass. He heard the chink, and immediately it brought him to life; light shone at last in his sombre gaze. I held the bottle out to him and pointed to the label.

‘Perhaps this isn’t the sort you’re used to?’

I set it on the table in front of him.

He nodded eagerly and assured me that the brand was absolutely excellent, then he leant forward. His hands began creeping in the direction of the bottle, like a brace of starving animals. But he pulled himself together and straightened his back as if, from somewhere deep in his mind, where his reason lay, he realised I was playing a game, and that he would have to play along whether he wanted to or not. If he wanted his reward, the assuaging liquor. He smiled, showing yellow, somewhat worn teeth, clasped his hands in his lap and waited. So, I poured out some vodka for him, and he drank. He held the glass in both hands like a small child. The effect was like pouring oil into a machine that has ground to a halt. Immediately his head came up, and his eyes sparkled with new lustre, his hand became steady, it was a miracle.

I let him sit in peace for a while and drink. I watched him as he raised the glass and put it to his lips.

‘What’s the situation?’ I asked, when I saw that he’d achieved a bit of equilibrium, and the warmth of the spirit had spread through his body. ‘Is there someone waiting for you at home? Have you got a family?’

He made no reply to this, but drank more vodka. He was only focused on the glass. He’d already forgotten that I was sitting there, or so it seemed; only the intoxication was important now. At all costs he had to arrive at a state of oblivion, and he wasn’t the slightest bit concerned that there would be a witness to his shame.

‘I’ve never married,’ I explained. ‘I can’t seem to manage it. Everyone else can, but I only end up knocking about here on my own. I’ve been on my own for years, it’s extraordinary, isn’t it? I mean, how can it be that difficult?’

He remembered I was there. He sat studying me with glistening eyes. All the while clasping his glass in both hands, like a predator guarding its prey.

‘You can’t go to expensive shops if you haven’t got money,’ he declared.

After dropping this philosophical remark he applied himself to the vodka again. I sat pondering for a while and then came to the conclusion that he’d just insulted me, but I decided to keep calm. For Anna was undoubtedly worth a good deal, and I wasn’t exactly handsome, so he had a point. A swan and a pike can never pair up.

‘All I do is look most of the time,’ I admitted. ‘And then I dream a bit. Dreaming is free.’ I inclined my head. ‘And what about you, Arnfinn?’ I said. ‘Do you dream as well? About this or that?’

He raised his face in surprise. He was still clutching his glass, they were as one now, he and the bottle; he was on a tryst with his best friend, alcohol. And it was clearly an everlasting love affair, or so it seemed to me.

‘There must be something you want,’ I said. ‘Everyone wants something. I mean, all our lives are missing one thing or another, and you’re no exception surely?’

He shook his head emphatically.

‘I don’t want anything,’ he said. ‘I just drift along. I’m not bothered about anything, what will be, will be.
You
can want something, if you like. You’re not a slave to alcohol, so presumably you haven’t lost your head.’

I agreed. Naturally I hadn’t lost my head. I unscrewed the cap of the bottle and filled his glass to the brim.

‘Have you got an excuse?’ I wanted to know. ‘An excuse for drinking, I mean?’

The question made him look up.

‘Excuse? Do I need one?’

‘I’m only curious,’ I explained. ‘People often have a kind of explanation for why things have turned out the way they have. Why they’re violent, why they drink, why they steal. That sort of stuff.’

Arnfinn took another drink. It gurgled in his gullet, suddenly he seemed utterly content, both with himself and his own existence; he was out visiting and he was getting a drink, things couldn’t get any better, this was life at its best.

‘Life’s pretty good,’ he said. ‘My cheque comes every month. I drop in to the off-licence, and then squat on a park bench. Go back home and sleep. And that’s about it.’

‘You’ve certainly got a routine,’ I said, ‘but it’s a bit of a lazy life. Drinking all day, then crashing out in the evening. While the rest of us work.’

At this, his features took on a bitter cast.

‘What should I worry about the rest of the world for? I didn’t ask to be born.’

All at once the mere idea of life seemed to do him an injustice, as if I’d reminded him of something unpleasant, something he wanted to forget. That life was a sentence, that he was serving it day by day as he crept towards death, and that his days were without light or warmth. I filled his glass for the third time. He was beginning to relax properly now, he leant back on the sofa, and for the first time, took in his surroundings.

‘This place has never known a woman’s touch,’ he pronounced.

‘You’re sharp, too,’ I replied. ‘No, women don’t ever come to visit me here. I’m a lone wolf. Just like you.’

His gaze, shining now, swept over the room and took everything in. All the telling details that bore witness to who I was.

‘Why have you got an Advent Star in your window?’ he asked, pointing. ‘It’s almost the middle of May.’

‘But I’ve pulled the plug out,’ I said in my own defence. ‘I pull it out on the first of January, and plug it in again on the first of December, and hey presto, it’s Christmas. I like doing things the easy way. Just like you. Help yourself to another drink,’ I coaxed, and nodded towards the bottle. ‘The drink’s all right, isn’t it? And you might as well fill your hip flask while you’re about it, so you’ll have something to keep you going when you wake up tomorrow.’

Arnfinn nodded, and drank deeply. I thought I was an excellent host, despite my lack of experience. I poured the vodka and let him talk about himself and his life.

‘Why don’t you switch the light on?’ he asked, after a long silence. ‘It’s so dark.’

I didn’t mention my excellent night vision. I switched on a light above the sofa, and the hours went quickly by, having a visitor was a totally novel experience. A stranger, admittedly, but we would gradually get to know each other, if he should decide to return, and I was fairly certain he would. Then he told me about all the black days, about his bad back, it was bad enough for him to claim Disability Allowance, about all the countries he’d been to, all the ports, as he put it, all the women who’d come and gone, and all of them
had
gone because, as Arnfinn pensively assured me, taking a pull at his glass, nothing good lasts. He drank himself into great glittering halls, of light and laughter and warmth. When, after four hours, he finally left and the vodka bottle was empty, I stood at the front door watching him go. He vacillated on the drive for a moment, shining like a torch, unsure, almost, if he really did want to go, perhaps I had another bottle, and maybe his journey home was a long one. I stood at the top of the steps and was aware of something new.

Arnfinn, I could say when I went to work. Oh yes, he’s an old friend of mine, he often pops in for a visit. I felt happy, standing there on the steps, I liked this new condition of having a friend. He was an alcoholic, it was true, but that was better than nothing.

‘Will you be all right getting home?’ I enquired.

He coughed contemptuously and began walking.

‘You’re talking to an old skipper,’ he said.

Then he moved off down the road and vanished.

A lone, burning soul.

IT’S TOO LIGHT
and too hot in summer. The days never end, I can’t stand all this germinating and sprouting and growing. It’s like an unbridled force, a cornucopia without meaning: worms that peer out during wet weather, flies and wasps, ladybirds and lice, moths and daddy-long-legs in the curtains, spiders in the corners, mice in the wall, I can hear them scratching. They swarm, creep or crawl, my thoughts get badly disrupted, and I slowly go mad.