Echoes of the City

by Lars Saabye Christensen

Genres: City Life; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

A jewel of modern Norwegian literature now hailed as Lars Saabye Christensen's crowning achievement - an intricate and utterly compelling narrative.

"With its tonal nuance and quietly amusing melancholy, Echoes of the City confirms him as one of Norway's finest writers" Guardian

"[A] profoundly resonant novel" T.L.S.

Christensen is one of Scandinavia's finest and most celebrated storytellers, who has devoted the best part of his career to writing about the city of his birth. As Oslo slowly emerges from a period of crippling austerity, Echoes of the City shows how small, almost imperceptible acts of kindness and compassion, and tiny shifts in fortune, can change the lives of many.

At the centre of the novel are Maj and Ewald Kristoffersen and their son Jesper, their lives closely entwined and overlapping with their neighbours' on Kirkeveien. When the butcher's son Jostein is knocked down in a traffic accident and loses his hearing, Jesper promises to be his ears in the world. The arrival of a long-awaited telephone is a major event for Maj and Ewald, and meanwhile their neighbour, recently widowed Fru Vik, tentatively takes up with the owner of the bookshop near the cemetery. The bar at Hotel Bristol becomes a meeting place for all of them - for Ewald and his advertising colleagues, for Fru Vik and her suitor, to the piano playing of hapless Enzo Zanetti, an immigrant down on his luck, who enables Jesper to discover his true passion.

The minutes of the local Red Cross meetings give an architecture to the narrative of so many lives and tell a story in themselves, bearing witness to the steady recovery of the community. Echoes of the City is a remarkably tender observation of the rhythms and passions of a city, and a particular salute to the resilience of its women.

Translated from the Norwegian by Don Bartlett

Release date: October 3, 2019

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 448

Sample

Kirkeveien begins in Frogner square, where the tram turns east towards the districts of Elisenberg and Solli, if you’re going in that direction, of course, and away from Fagerborg, away from Majorstua, away from this city that I love, despite everything, for good or ill; for good – its size and the number of trees suit my temperament; or ill – its desire to grow bigger eats away at that same temperament. A city has to be its age. Otherwise it will be like a child in a dinner jacket or an old man dressed in a sailor outfit. It will just evoke ridicule and not a longing for home. The boy, or rather the young man, because he is in the process of becoming a man, sitting on the tram, the one you can see passing by early this morning while everyone wakes to the saddest news a grateful nation can receive, wants to leave, leave Fagerborg, leave Oslo, everything, just leave. His name is Jesper Kristoffersen and he has a bulging seaman’s kitbag beside him on the seat. Take note of his eyes if you can: vacant yet alert, he sees and is seen. Incidentally, below his left eye there is a blue shadow, a relic of the past. Once he was diagnosed as sensitive. We are walking in the opposite direction, on the left-hand side of Kirkeveien, alongside Frogner Park with the magnificent, some might contend overblown, Gustav Vigeland sculptures, which in autumn, now, can call to mind the great gardens in Russia at around the turn of the nineteenth century: abandoned, melancholy and, by no means least, artificial collections of sculptures that carry the bank of clouds on their backs. In spring and summer, however, the park dances to a different tune. Mothers sun themselves on the benches, but don’t allow their children playing on the grass out of their sight. Teenagers feed the swans, but that is only to disguise their true intention, which is to flirt. The crumbs of bread they throw into the pond are the pure grist of love. And in the two restaurants, Broen and Herregårdskroen, fathers sit in their white shirts drinking beer from chilled, foaming glasses. Everything is blithe and languorous. Everything is carefree and of the moment. Everything is eternal, a blue sky reflected in the clear light of the pond. At times like these it is not art that we rate highest but life. In the winter it is different. Then life is in the background and the sculptures come to the fore, columns of frosty granite, a frozen army, and you could almost believe the park is a Gothic battlefield or an extension of Vestre Cemetery, which is not far away, with its gloomy crematoria and black, jagged cypresses. Winter in general turns this city into a wretched, oppressive place, even though it is winter we are most used to. Winter hems us in between drifting snow, banked-up piles of ice and barren dreams. Winter is the time for serialised fiction, penitence and the radio. Now, as I have indicated, it is September and not just any September. It is the saddest September day so far this year. The leaves are falling like yellow tears. I can truly say this: the leaves are falling like yellow tears. A newspaper boy comes running by with the special edition of Aftenposten in his cart. Is it because Jesper Kristoffersen is signing on to join M.S. Bergensfjord? Hardly likely. Young boys and men, indeed some girls too, go to sea every single day without anyone getting particularly upset, apart from maybe a mother, a sister or a sweetheart. That is how it should be. You tear yourself away, however much it hurts. On the tennis courts the nets have been taken down. A white ball lies in the shale, like a full stop after the final serve of the summer. But at Frogner Stadium opposite the Sørensen & Balchen car workshops in Middelthuns gate it is always high season: speed skating, figure skating, bandy, athletics and football, a full calendar of sport all year round. Women in the city will probably have a special memory of Sonja Henie’s floodlit grand entrance: gliding onto the ice like an angel, to wild applause, skating backwards, her arms outstretched like wings, it was as if she were about to take off. Men will probably remember Oscar Mathisen beating the cocky, over-rated Bobby McLean here, and Frogner Stadium being called the American Waterloo for that very reason. As for the Norwegian world champion, he lost on the last bend when the ice beneath him had melted. He shot his wife first and then took his own life. I often think about that: weren’t all the medals he received enough to console him? Or was it a case of the higher you rise, the harder you fall? As a matter of fact, there is someone else running around the stadium now, lap after lap in the heavy shale, wearing a knitted jumper and blue shorts over tights. It is, as everyone knows, Dr Lund, a specialist in the everyday, as he likes to say. He is still oblivious of the night’s sad events. And had he known, he would doubtless have run twice as far, fifty laps, that is, twenty kilometres. In fact it was Dr Lund who had called Jesper Kristoffersen sensitive, but later gave him a clean bill of health: The boy is in good health and fit for any kind of work. Let us continue, not that there is any rush; on the contrary we have plenty of time. But to those who wish to accompany us, please adjust to our pace. That is the custom here. At Maries gate we stop anyway and have a look at Majorstua School, where the caretaker, ex form master Løkke, also called Uløkke, an allusion to ulykke, misfortune, has put on a black suit and is carrying the Norwegian flag across the empty schoolyard. We notice he is holding the flag in the same way you would carry a dead or an injured child. Then we reach the Salvation Army premises. The front door is adorned with this motto: Through Blood and Fire. It is odd to think that these timid, polite, unarmed soldiers who never die but who are transported to eternity in Aftenposten obituaries, should have such a violent slogan. And the magazine they sell, especially in the Valkyrien area of Oslo, is called the War Cry. Form and content do not always coincide. Then we are finally in Majorstua, the junction that might be called Kirkeveien’s St Peter’s Square. This is where the buses and trams turn. Here you can take the Holmenkollen underground to the National Theatre, down to the very centre of the city. And from here you can travel up to the forested region in the north, Nordmarka, which for many is the ultimate proof of God’s existence: eternal life is found between Lake Tryvann and Mt Kikut, where you can meet lean, hardy men with dripping noses and auras of sweat, ski wax and spruce. It may also be mentioned that this same Nordmarka is used in a threat by desperate parents when idle youth prefers to lie in on a Sunday: If you’re not in Nordmarka by ten o’clock you’re in deep trouble. And then you might end up on Bastøy, the prison island in the Oslo Fjord where under-age murderers and other uncivilised boys are taught discipline and a fear of God with the aid of the iron maiden, a sarcophagus in which you go to sleep a child and wake up a broken old man. Incidentally, we retract the comparison with St Peter’s Square and prefer to say that the Majorstua junction is Kirkeveien’s Times Square. Here there are banks, opticians, chemists, delicatessens, kiosks, hairdressers, perfumeries, telephone booths, ladies’ hosiery shops, travel agents and waiting rooms with weighing machines that tell you your fortune on small cards. The advertising signs on the roofs should be mentioned at this point: in the dark season you can read the Bible in the light from them: Blue Master and Frisco. Not forgetting the two cinemas of course: the Colosseum with its enormous dome and Kinopaleet, which because of its pillars looks more like a Greek temple. Now I have it: Majorstua is Kirkeveien’s Acropolis. The watering holes, as they say in local parlance, are also easy to find: Gamla, Valka, Larsen, Vinkelkafé and Tråkka. There are never any problems quenching your thirst in Majorstua. And we still haven’t touched on all the bakeries. Nowhere are there more bakeries than in Majorstua – Samson, Møllhausen, Hansen, and a bit further away, in Industrigata there is little Manfred’s bakery. In the morning an aroma of freshly baked bread wafts over this part of town. The birds sate their hunger merely by flying overhead with their beaks open. Not today though, not today. Today there is no fresh bread. Today the adverts don’t light up. Today the darkness persists. As we start on the long, gentle climb that culminates at Vestre Aker Church, which as far back as 1856 gave its name to this street where Fridtjof Nansen’s mother once planted an avenue of trees, we see what we initially believe to be leaves on the steps of Majorstuhuset, but they turn out to be Red Cross raffle tickets. They must have come from the autumn charity bazaar. No doubt people with losing tickets just threw them down. This is depressing: a city full of losing tickets. We cross the road and finally start on the ascent that many, especially delivery boys on bikes and strangers, under-estimate. Not only is this part of Kirkeveien long, you also have to factor in the wind, which originates from beyond the glaciers in Svalbard, bringing with it the salty sea-air from the Finnmark coast, it rushes down through northern Norway and Trøndelag, picks up speed over Dovre and catches the end of Lake Tryvann before crossing Suhms gate with teeth of steel. By now we have passed the Clothing & Shoe Repairs Expert and the Priests’ Church, a solid, unassuming place of worship which was built with money collected by priests and their families in the capital. Some wags claim that more people have seen the light at the Clothing & Shoe Repairs Expert than during church services and even more have seen it at the Valka pub. But we don’t want to talk about that here. Lights come on and lights go out. Hopefully it all comes to the same. For what has caught our attention now is the shop window at Melsom’s. The butcher, Melsom, is leaning over the counter, taking down a picture of his son Jostein, who is advertising Valcrema skin cream in a ladies’ magazine, and in its place he puts a portrait of King Haakon bordered by black ribbon. Outside, his wife, eyes red-rimmed, gives her husband instructions, watch out, the black silk mustn’t touch the ham, the portrait has to be closer to the door, stop, not so close, and it’s probably best to replace the ham with some parsley and entrecôte. We leave them to it and continue past Marienlyst, which is on Fagerborg’s western fringe. There, set back like a palace, is the Norwegian Broadcasting House, which for the rest of the day will commemorate the King and play funeral music. Some say that is why Jesper Kristoffersen decides to go to sea on this morning of all mornings; he cannot stand all these slow, sombre melodies. That is probably incorrect. As already mentioned, he is no longer sensitive. Then we are in Jessenløkken, which might be considered Fagerborg’s Versailles: the large, rectangular blocks of flats with sunny yards in the middle and facades facing Kirkeveien, Jonas Reins gate, Jacob Aalls gate and Gørbitz gate. They were designed by Harald Hals, built between 1916 and 1920 and are the first example of modern town-planning in Norway, inspired by the Viennese architect Camillo Sitte. An idea that transcended the norm in this quarter where tradition almost always rules: social modernism started in Fagerborg. We were the first! The apartments were also ahead of their time with all modern conveniences in situ, double glazing, cellar laundries, balconies, sculleries, and there was also a secret room everyone knows about: the vestibule. The vestibule is the room without windows. The vestibule is useless and dark. The vestibule is at best an ante-room. The architects thought the vestibule would lend the apartment a stamp of distinction, bourgeois finesse, so to speak, which would also endow the apartment with its desired gravitas. This vestibule, on the first floor of Kirkeveien 127, has been Jesper Kristoffersen’s room until now, his ante-room, this Jesper Kristoffersen who not so long ago caught the tram from Majorstua down to the City Hall square and from there walked to the Vippetang headland to sign on with M.S. Bergensfjord, which was operated by the Norwegian-America Line. Still standing on the little balcony are Maj Kristoffersen, his mother, and Stine, his younger sister, who are watching him leave. It is not difficult to work out who they are shedding most tears for, King Haakon or Jesper. Let me phrase it like this: you don’t always put yourself first. You put family first. We, for our part, have a way to go before we reach the end of Kirkeveien. The graveyard below Vestre Aker Church is steeper than the landing slope of Holmenkollen ski jump. Do not suffer from vertigo if you die in Fagerborg. Most people, however, would prefer to be buried in Vestre Cemetery, even though it is a bit further away. After all, it is flat and clearly set out and you seldom receive unexpected visitors. We inhale the anaesthetic-like smell of oil and petrol from the Esso garage on the corner and cross the tramlines leading to Bislett which in some way mark Fagerborg’s eastern boundary. Inside Ullevål Hospital, which in its day was the biggest in Europe, the flag is also flying at half-mast. The number of those who die will probably rise today. It increases if you lose a king. When you lose a king you lose part of your life. And even though we are now outside Fagerborg’s absolute limits we keep walking, past another graveyard, Nordre Cemetery, and come to Geitmyrsveien, and there, on the other side of the road, is the school garden. That was what I wanted to show you. The apple trees stand in line, the soft fruit bushes, too. The little field has been ploughed into beautiful, even furrows, dark, fertile waves. In the shed hang the tools: spades, forks, rakes. By the way, someone has left behind a pair of gloves. They almost look as if they are still working the soft, friable soil. I wanted to show you this tidy school garden to remind you where we have come from, regardless of how modern most things have become, what with blenders, colour films, biros, sputniks, electronic music and T.V. test patterns: everyone in Fagerborg comes from the land.

The Norwegian Red Cross, in order to rationalise and ease the workload, mapped out the city of Oslo and divided it into departments, each with its own board. In June 1947 a department was established in Fagerborg. In the church office we identified those members who belonged to our newly established district. Our first task was to enrol new members in September. We signed up around five hundred, some of whom have become life members.

At the bazaar from 12th–19th September we took 1,264.80 kroner. The income from membership fees was 595 kroner, so our total reserves, after necessary expenses, were 1623.87. We were promised 650 kroner in start-up capital by the main office.

At the end of November and the beginning of December Fagerborg put forward several members to help sort and pack clothes for Europe Aid. Our cash contribution was 200 kroner.

We were also assigned a quantity of wool, which we shared round, and started on various knitting projects: socks, mittens, scarves, hats, trousers etc. These are intended to be distributed to people in our district or wherever in the country acute help is required. For example, a substantial package was sent to Tromsø, where a family was left destitute by a fire.

In May our department received a request from Fru Fougner (the chairwoman of the Sewing Association founded in 1907) for help with sewing seams on linen and labelling emergency blankets, to be precise at a communal field hospital. In addition, Fagerborg department were asked by the working committee to take care of and feed 47 Jewish children who were going to stay in Norway for two months. On their return it was also our department that took care of the children, a pleasant and interesting task.

In August our members held their first meeting at the chairman’s home. The turnout was very disappointing. Of the fifteen members who had promised to come only three actually turned up. We had decided beforehand to make a doll with accessories to be given away and we shared this work between the three loyal members and the board.

In Red Cross Week, which lasted from 18th to 26th September, we started off on the 18th with a floral float and children dressed in a Red Cross uniform in a motorised procession. The takings were poor and according to the working committee this activity will be dropped in future.

Unfortunately, enrolment was sluggish. As we all know, the fee was raised this year from two to four kroner for annual members and from twenty to fifty kroner for life members. This is probably too much.

*

The bazaar brought in: 1,874.05 kroner

The sale of charity stamps: 206.10 kroner.

*

During this month a budget proposal will be drawn up to decide what to do with these proceeds.

Maj Kristoffersen is at Kirkeveien 127, standing in the shade on the little balcony and watching all the children playing in the yard below. There are lots of them. These are the war generation. These are the peace children. Many were born before the war was over, but they are still the peace children. Her boy, Jesper, was one year old when an ammunition dump exploded in the Filipstad area of Frogner and many thought then the whole city had been blown up; even in Fagerborg windows shook, and these tremors became a part of the heritage of the war, cracks in the ceiling, fissures in the walls, burst eardrums, crooked chandeliers, everything that would be repaired when peace came, but for which ultimately there was no time and which was put off until the following day, because peace-time is busy, unlike the slow, pointless war, apart from when there were explosions in Filipstad. Jesper is sitting in the corner, he lifts his hand and waves to his mother or perhaps he is just restless and ill at ease again. His sweater might be too thick, or it is prickly, and he scratches his neck. It is the first Saturday in October 1948. But the air is still mild. The sun still has warmth. It hangs over the rooftops and catches the fiery Virginia creeper between the windows. Meteorologists call this an Indian summer. Maj Kristoffersen is enjoying it. She moves into the light. She takes off her jacket and would light a cigarette if she had one. If only it would last. But in a month’s time conditions will probably already be right for skiing. Then she loses sight of Jesper. He is nowhere to be seen, not by the rubbish bins, not by the swing, not by the bench. She is seized by panic. She knows he isn’t far away. The door to Jonas Reins gate is always locked. Nonetheless she is panic-stricken. He can’t have gone down into the cellar, to the laundry. He may have wandered up to the drying loft. There are dangers everywhere. She is on the point of shouting. She is on the point of dragging herself away from the Indian summer. Then Margrethe Vik opens the window above her and leans out.

“Telephone call for you.”

“Is it Ewald?”

“I didn’t ask. It’s a woman though.”

Maj Kristoffersen casts a final glance over the yard, but still can’t see Jesper. Then she goes to the back stairs and runs up to Fru Vik, who accompanies her to the hallway where the black receiver lies on the bureau waiting. Maj Kristoffersen turns to Fru Vik.

“Could you have a look for Jesper while I’m on the telephone?”

Fru Vik gives a slight toss of the head and wipes her hands on her apron.

“Right. I don’t want to be in your way.”

“Oh, that’s not what I meant. It’s Jesper. I couldn’t see—”

“I was busy making lunch.”

“Yes, it smells delicious.”

“Answer the telephone quickly before they ring off.”

Fru Vik goes out and closes the kitchen door firmly behind her.

Maj Kristoffersen lifts the receiver and says her name. A Fru Lund from Ullevålsveien is at the other end. She is ringing on behalf of the Red Cross, and for a moment Maj Kristoffersen thinks it is Jesper she wants to talk about, he has been up to mischief and the Red Cross itself has been brought in. She is both terrified and furious. They shouldn’t meddle. No-one should meddle! She can manage on her own! She doesn’t say this. She just thinks it. Or has there been an accident? Has something happened to Ewald? Has Jesper managed to hurt himself in the short time he was out of her sight? But Fru Lund has quite a different matter on her mind. She asks whether Maj Kristoffersen would be willing to attend a board meeting of the Norwegian Red Cross, Oslo Division, Fagerborg department, possibly as a co-opted member. They need new women. In fact, she has been told Maj is very good at keeping accounts. Maj Kristoffersen breathes out with relief and feels like shouting “yes”, but composes herself.

“I’ll have to confer with my husband first,” she says.

Fru Lund has complete understanding. A post at the Red Cross is not something you take on lightly. It involves the whole family. She gives Maj Kristoffersen her telephone number and asks her to call when she has made up her mind, preferably over the weekend, because the next meeting is on the Wednesday coming. They ring off. Maj Kristoffersen can hear that Fru Vik is back. Water is running from the tap. Jesper is screaming. Then everything is still. She joins them in the kitchen.

“He was behind the birch tree,” Fru Vik says.

Jesper looks at his mother and, as always, it is impossible to know whether he is going to laugh or cry.

“So that’s where he was.”

“He was having a pee.”

“Having a pee? Goodness me …”

“But now at least he’s washed his hands.”

Jesper starts crying. That was good at least. Laughing on this occasion, in Fru Vik’s company, would have been much worse. Maj pulls her son close to her. As usual he is reluctant and amenable at one and the same time. She doesn’t understand how this can be, but he is exactly like an impossible string on an instrument, both slack and tense.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” she says.

Fru Vik opens the kitchen door for them and gives Jesper a Marie biscuit, which he goes to put into his mouth, without a second thought, but changes his mind at the last moment, stops crying and quickly slips it into his pocket. Maj squeezes his neck a little harder.

“Thank you,” Jesper mumbles.

Fru Vik pats him on the head as she turns to Maj.

“Perhaps the Red Cross can help you to get a telephone?”

“And perhaps it was you who told them I was very good at doing accounts?”

Fru Vik smiles.

“That’s what your husband says anyway.”

NORWEGIAN RED CROSS, FAGERBORGDEPARTMENT. REGULATIONS

The Norwegian Red Cross, Oslo Division, Fagerborg department is affiliated to the working committee of the Norwegian Red Cross, Oslo Division, as an independent group.

The department is led by a board consisting of up to five persons including co-opted members. The board is elected by the general assembly for two years at a time.

The general assembly is held every year before March. The chairman gives notice at least a week in advance either by contacting members entitled to vote or placing an announcement in an Oslo newspaper.

The department has one representative on the working committee.

The aim of Fagerborg department is to promote Red Cross objectives within the local parish.

The four gentlemen standing at the bar in Hotel Bristol are loud, boastful and assertive. Their names are Ravn, Johnsen, Strøm and Kristoffersen. They mean well. When Ulfsen, the bartender, tells them to quieten down a bit, he doesn’t actually say so, he only raises an eyebrow and they are silent for a second and can hear the lounge pianist playing Rondo Amoroso, probably for the old dears eating open sandwiches at the other end of the bar, by the stairs. Then the men order a round of gin and tonics, apart from Ewald Kristoffersen, who prefers to drink beer, although today he has a small aquavit now and again, not to miss out on the fun. They all work for Dek-Rek; two are graphic designers, two are interior designers and they have every reason to celebrate. Oslo Council has commissioned their agency to organise the displays for the city’s 900-year jubilee. It will be in 1950. Two years away. There is no time to lose. They already have some ideas. They can see it in their mind’s eye. They can see the future. It is drawing closer. But for now they have to drink and afterwards get the music to swing. Ewald Kristoffersen is sent over to the grand piano. He waits for the pianist to finish the piece. It seems this cannot be done in the flick of a lamb’s tail. It takes time. The pianist is doodling. This is the nature of lounge music. This is how background music is. Finally Ewald Kristoffersen places a hand on the pianist’s shoulder.

“My friends would like to hear something more upbeat,” he says.

Enzo Zanetti, the resident pianist at the Bris, looks up as he continues to play, smiling, but his eyes are weary, and the flaps of his collar, which look impeccable from a distance, are curled at the edges. He speaks in a soft voice with an accent:

“Upbeat? Any suggestions?”

“If I have any suggestions? No, I leave that completely to you. Maybe something by Louis Strongarm though?”

“Strongarm?”

“Or Elling Duketon? As long as it swings.”

Ewald Kristoffersen is afraid he might not have expressed himself clearly enough, but on his way back to the bar he hears the pianist change his repertoire and start to play The Hall of the Mountain King. That will have to do. His colleagues applaud. They raise their glasses. Down the hatch, they say. Soon afterwards they go their various ways. Someone is waiting. See you on Monday if you’re over your hangover. Ewald is the only one left. It is his turn to pay. It is always his turn to pay, it strikes him. He takes out the rectangular brown envelope, the reward for all his hard work, and places a fifty-krone note on the bar. Now he understands why barmen are called conjurors. The note has gone before he can heave a sigh. And fifty isn’t enough, either. It has disappeared into thin air. Ewald Kristoffersen has to add a tenner, but with the change at least he has enough for a “green sweater with a high neck”, a glass of port and a beer. Suddenly he feels guilty and drains both glasses. Then he has to go downstairs and relieve himself. It takes time. Ewald Kristoffersen thinks: Pissing is freedom. That could be a slogan. But for what? Life? He can still hear The Hall of the Mountain King. As he is washing his hands he catches sight of his face in the mirror. Deep down, he is astonished that any woman could love him. He puts a krone on the table by the lavatory attendant, who in return gives him a small, wrapped bar of soap, Sterilan. When he goes back up he slips a five-krone coin to Enzo Zanetti, who nods imperceptibly, says something in Italian and plays Mood Indigo, mostly for the women who have come for a coffee and something a little stronger. Then Ewald Kristoffersen fetches his coat and hat from the cloakroom, gives fifty øre to the pocket Venus there, goes out and feels an unexpectedly gentle wind blowing down Rosenkrantz’ gate. He is almost in the mood to take a stroll down Karl Johans gate. No, he has to go home. He decides not to take a taxi anyway. Money saved is money earned after all. He walks down Kristian Augusts gate, past the National Gallery and Tullinløkka Square, which is the lowest point in the city. Everything runs down to here from the mountains in the north, east and west. Instead of rounding Grotten, Henrik Wergeland’s Swiss-style house, he takes a detour through the Palace Gardens. The trees seem confused in this fifth season, the Indian summer. It is the light that makes them seem young again, for as long as it lasts. For as long as it lasts is sometimes long enough. He continues towards Bislett, where straight, grey Thereses gate opens onto the curves of the sports stadium. In Norabakken, which is a steeper street than he can remember, he has to have a rest and he takes it at the urinal below Fagerborg Church. There is a strong stench, it is not like at the Bristol, but despite that it feels good to have a pee. There is no attendant here. People manage on their own. After he has finished he sits down on a bench in Stens Park, wipes the sweat from his brow and watches the clouds that are already casting a shadow over Mt Ekeberg. It is exactly as if the city is shrinking. How can you best show that this city is 900 years old? It is 900 years old and still it hasn’t grown up. You have to start somewhere. Ewald Kristoffersen doesn’t yet know where. He only knows why he has a bad conscience. It is because of Jesper. Jesper is hard work. Time away from him is a relief. Jesper is not a peace child. He is a war child. Ewald Kristoffersen gets to his feet and walks the last bit. He is a bad father. He is terrible. A shiver runs through him. He should have bought something for Jesper. He should have had a flower with him for Maj. They are sitting in the kitchen waiting. Maj hears that he has finally arrived. He bangs around in the hallway. He changes his clothes in the bedroom. He is in the bathroom for an age. He is not in a hurry. This time she won’t spare him. He is two hours late. Jesper looks down and clenches both fists. But when Ewald Kristoffersen shows his round face in the doorway and twangs his braces, his stomach spilling over his belt, she relents after all. Even Jesper relaxes for a moment and sticks one hand in his pocket. The fath