Beatles by Lars Saabye Christensen Read Free Book Online Page B

have been kidnapped, put in a sack and dumped in the fjord. Or he might have been sold as a slave to Arabia. That had happened before. I had to ring. My fingers trembled over the telephone dial.
    His mother answered.
    ‘Is Ola at home?’ I asked. ‘Kim here.’
    ‘Yes.’
    Ola was alive. I slumped into the nearest chair.
    ‘Can I speak to him?’ I whispered.
    ‘He’s in bed. He’s ill.’
    ‘Ill?’
    ‘That’s what he says.’
    ‘Will he be okay tomorrow?’ I asked slyly, cringing beneath my clothes.
    ‘Why don’t you call and see?’ the high-pitched but somewhat weary voice said. And before she put down the receiver I could swear I heard the sound of scissors cutting in the background. It must have been Valdemar Jensen training for the dry cut in Norway’s Hairdressing Championship in Lillesand, or perhaps it was just my heart pumping blood in short, furious bursts through my head, like the brash first chord of ‘A Hard Day’s Night’.
     
    I had arranged with Gunnar and Seb to meet in Mogga Park at five, but the arrangement would be difficult to keep because Uncle Hubert was coming for a meal. At three he stood in the doorway and from then on everything went at half speed. I don’t really know what it was with Uncle Hubert, there were these knots inside his head that would not loosen and at times they were tighter than at others, and on this Sunday they were unusually rigid. It started in the doorway. He stretched out his hand thirty-four times without saying a word. In the end Dad had to drag him inside and push him into a chair and both of them were red-faced and sweaty, and Mum rushed out and set another place at the table.
    Uncle Hubert lived alone in one of the blocks of flats by Marienlyst. He did the illustrations for weekly magazines and women’s novels, so perhaps it was not that strange he was the way he was. Dad was bald, but Hubert had all his hair, and now he was sitting in the chair by the bookshelves. He had regained his composure, his whole body was relaxed and his breathing was heavy and regular. But when he caught sight of me life returned to the bloated body.
    ‘Come closer, come closer,’ he called, beckoning to me.
    I went over to him. He took my hand in both of his, began to shake it and I was calculating that I would have to stand there for a couple of hours. To my great good fortune he let go after just fifteen minutes.
    ‘Young Kim, the family’s hope for the future, how are you?’
    ‘I’m fine,’ I said, burying my hands in my pockets.
    ‘Glad to hear that. Do you think I should get married?’
    Dad charged over and interposed a quivering head.
    ‘Are you going to get married?!’
    ‘I’ve been considering the matter, dear brother. So, what do you two think?’
    Dad straightened up and said between clenched jaws: ‘Kim, go into the kitchen and help Mum!’
    There was no alternative. I found my mother bent over a platter of halibut. The steam was rising into her face. It looked like she was crying.
    ‘Uncle Hubert’s getting married,’ I said.
    I had to hold the plate for her.
    ‘What! What did you say!’
    ‘He said he wants to get married.’
    She was gone in a flash. I was left with the smoking fish plus the parsley butter, the potatoes and the crème caramel. I heard the intense discussion in the sitting room. Dad’s voice was low and vehement, just like when I come home with my grades. Mum’s voice was resigned, but Uncle Hubert just laughed.
    Some time later Mum returned and we carried the food onto the table.
    At first it was fine. We served ourselves and everything was as it should be, except for Dad’s face, he was as highly strung as a tennis racquet. When we were about to take a second helping I could not restrain myself any longer.
    ‘Who are you going to marry?’ I asked.
    Dad’s voice truncated the sentence. He snarled my name, the ‘i’ vanished completely and two distorted consonants were all that was left. Km! Mum flinched and Uncle