Friendship

by Lars Saabye Christensen

Genres: City Life; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Part Two of the Echoes of the City trilogy, set in post-war Oslo, by an author who understands the city like no other.

"One of Norway's finest writers" GUARDIAN

"Profoundly resonant" TLS

In Kirkeveien, Oslo, in the year 1956, forty-year-old Maj is worn down by being a homemaker and widowed mother. To the indignation of the Red Cross ladies, she cautiously frees herself from the role she has otherwise fulfilled to the letter. She finds a job that she turns out to be more than good at, and some kind of love, too. Her friend Margrethe is sick of her marriage to the antiquarian bookseller, Olaf Hall, but cannot think of divorce. Jesper gets a girlfriend who opens the door to a new, more liberated environment of vegetarianism and politics. And his best friend Jostein realises that his talent for making money will allow him access to a world that is larger and richer than that of the Oslo slaughterhouse.

Friendship is a beautifully orchestrated story about people and their dreams, about social conventions, personal constraints and what it takes to have the courage to realise oneself. In this book brimming with human insight, as in Echoes of the City, in each of these characters we recognise something of ourselves.

Release date: October 28, 2021

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

The pigs do not seem to be overly concerned. In a little while they are going to die. They just do not know that they are. But how can Jesper Kristoffersen be so sure? Perhaps the pigs are fully aware they are going to die and there is no escape. That is why they aren’t trying to make a run for it. They have given up. It could also be that they possess a certain style, in other words, they are pretending. Which only makes matters worse. One by one they enter the pen where a man in a blue smock is waiting for them. He places a pair of electric tongs over each animal’s head. The stunning, which is the red carpet of death, occurs with immediate effect. As soon as the pig is on its knees, it is hoisted by a chain attached to its rear left foot and transported along the track under the ceiling, the legendary chain conveyor system, past another man who slits the pig’s carotid artery with a gleaming knife. Jesper is dazzled by all the bright red blood spurting out in a jet that never appears to land. He can’t bear to see any more. Yet he cannot take his eyes away. Now the pig is sucked into a rotating bristle remover, where it swirls around between the cylinders in a frantic ballet. The pig is a pig no more. It doesn’t resemble one. The final shave awaits – for who would want to have such hair in their food? Another man stands poised with a bigger knife to open the steaming carcass. He slices down the belly, as easily as unfastening a compliant zip, unfolds the intestines as swiftly as others might clean their nails and hangs what will be eaten on the numbered hooks which slowly rumble down to an elderly gentleman wearing round spectacles and holding a pair of tweezers. It is impossible to bypass him. He is the Ministry of Agriculture’s very own high priest. His job is to dissect, approve and stamp. Only then can these delicacies, the pig’s vital organs, be sent on to the meat hall where the packers are waiting to load the goods onto lorries so that the drivers can ultimately deliver them to the town’s many butcher shops, in which customers can buy chops and roasting pork, not only for a Sunday dinner but also perhaps for a very ordinary Wednesday lunch. These are good times. There is meat. Apprentice Jostein Melsom disposes of what remains. He lugs intestines and bones into the huge basins, hoses down the walls and scrubs the floors. Then, through the steam, he turns and waves. Jesper can’t take any more. He makes for the nearest door and directly behind Oslo Slaughterhouse sinks to his knees and spews up. He vomits over his shoes and bag. He vomits over his hands and his new wristwatch, which says half past one. He vomits over the glockenspiel ringing out from the City Hall tower. He drowns the deep tones in gastric juices, snot and other mucus. Then, empty as an umbrella, he swivels around and rests on his back. The sky is in motion even if in all its blueness it isn’t moving. There is a bright reflection on the black water at the mouth of the river Akerselva, or wherever it is, perhaps it is only the knives being sharpened again. Jesper has no idea. He is on the wrong side of Oslo, as far away from Fagerborg as it is possible to be. It is August, soon it will be September. Autumn is already a nip in the air out in the fjord. Jostein appears above him. He is having a five-minute break, lights a fag and grins.

“Wimp.”

“Shh!”

“Why?”

“The pigs,” Jesper says.

“What about them?”

“They’re mooing.”

Jostein flicks back his fringe.

“Cows moo.”

“Cows?”

“Or bulls.”

“I’m never going to eat meat again.”

“Then you’ll starve.”

“Not if I eat cake instead.”

“Cake? Have you got some cake?”

“I should never have come.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Why did you come then?”

Jesper gets up, wipes the bag with his forearm and takes the fag out of Jostein’s mouth.

“Your hearing gets even worse when you smoke.”

Jesper takes the last deep drag, spits out the butt and has to conduct an internal dialogue with himself.

“Why did you come then?” Jostein persists.

Jesper manages to re-focus his eyes.

“To invite you to a birthday party. If you wash your hands first.”

“It’s not your birthday.”

“It’s my mother’s.”

“How old is she?”

“You don’t ask ladies.”

“I’m asking you, aren’t I?”

“Then I’ll have to ask my mother.”

“Don’t you know?”

“At five-thirty.”

Jostein tosses back his head and laughs.

“Are you as deaf as a post or what?”

“She’ll be forty.”

Then the glockenspiel is there again. It is already two o’clock. Wasn’t it half past one a minute ago? Jesper is desperate. He is in a hurry. He will soon be fifteen and is pressed for time. It shouldn’t be like this. You should have plenty of time when you are fifteen in August. You should have your whole life in front of you. You should have the rest of the day and the following one. You should at least have the next moment in front of you. But what makes him most desperate is that no matter where you are in this town sooner or later you end up in the acoustic shadow of the City Hall bell towers. It is inescapable. It is the same whether you are standing at the top of Blåsen Hill, have buried yourself in the Royal Palace Park, are asleep on Huk beach, swimming under the Bridge of Sighs or have been whisked off in a paddy wagon: you cannot escape. The two friends, Jesper and Jostein, as different as two peas in a pod, go their separate ways, except that Jostein has to go back to the pigs, or rather the pig offal, while Jesper runs off, bag tucked under his arm, like a discombobulated errand boy on a bike with no wheels. He crosses Youngstorget, where farmers vie to yell the lowest price loudest and headscarfed women haggle over and poke at all the vegetables on the groaning stalls that fill the square with a soft, yellow light that smells of rain and earth. There are pumpkins, sprigs of dill, tomatoes, cabbages and cucumbers, they are the fruits of the summer, what remained of it after the sun went down, but unlike the pig, which is a closed chapter, the summer rises from the dead. With the summer there is always more to be reaped. Yes, Jesper is going to stop eating meat and become a member of the turnip club: people who live off fresh air and potato peelings. Then he can become even thinner and perhaps the pallor of his skin will change. Although there is no need. Being pale is fine so long as he is thin, because he definitely doesn’t want to be fat and pale. “Blackboard Jungle” is on at the Centrum cinema. Three girls are studying the pictures of Glenn Ford in the glass display case outside and don’t notice Jesper, who certainly notices them. They have tight skirts, slender necks and weak knees. Up in Grensen, two police officers are helping a tramp into a Black Maria. Jesper stops for a moment. There is something familiar about him, about the unkempt, decrepit figure. Jesper has seen him before. But all tramps have fought in the same war and so they all look the same. Now he knows. He is the man who was walking in the water at Vestkanttorget some time ago. Jesper sprints down to Karl Johans gate, which at certain times is called Strøket or Stripa, depending on whether you live in the West End or east of the Akerselva. Today, a Tuesday, the name of the street is just Karl Johan. He goes into Musikkforlaget, squeezes past the seething mass of kids sharing two headphones out of which “Rock around the Clock” can be heard all the way to Færder lighthouse in the fjord, finds the classical section and utters the word he has come to town for:

“Satie.”

The assistant, who looks like a grieving dog with oversized ears, leans across the counter and repeats the word:

“Satie? Erik Satie?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to do? Listen, buy or play?”

“Play.”

“Let me guess. Gymnopédies?”

Jesper nods.

“One, two and three.”

“Now you wait here like a nice young man and do not mix with the hoi polloi.”

The assistant is gone for a while. Jesper waits. He has no intention of mixing with anyone and especially not with this lot. He turns his back on them. But unfortunately he cannot avoid hearing the driving beat in the floor. This is the well-worn path. It is tempting and superficial. It is dance music. It is ephemeral. But there is something else that strikes Jesper. It is sixteen minutes past two and he has missed the City Hall intermezzo. Is this where salvation lies, in Musikkforlaget? Is this where silence, or to be more precise, the absence of bell-tower chimes, is to be found? The assistant returns, places the music on the counter and gently blows the dust off the sheets. They are a thing of beauty, and fragile: 1. Lent et douloureux. D major/D minor. 2. Lent et triste. C major. 3. Lent et grave. A minor. The dust settles again, somewhere else. It doesn’t disappear. Jesper takes the money from one of his back pockets: two notes and a coin. It is the right amount. The assistant carefully rolls up the sheets of music and slips an elastic band around them. Jesper drops them into his bag, which doesn’t become noticeably heavier. He can feel no difference. Music weighs nothing.

“Thank you.”

The sales assistant extends a hand.

“My name’s Åge. It’s I who should thank you.”

Jesper shakes the hand, which is dry and flaky.

“Jesper,” Jesper says.

“You’re Norway’s hope for the future, Jesper.”

Then Jesper has to walk past the crowd, who can’t stand still and are deafer than Jostein. In Karl Johan light descends over the pavement in lustreless shades. Ibsen and Bjørnson guard the doors to the National Theatre, one with his coat wide open, the other as withdrawn as an embittered tortoise. Over in Pernille, the open-air restaurant, abbreviated to Nille, it will soon be the last round for this year. When the first leaves fall, the beer taps are turned off and the parasols are folded up and stored in the giant herbarium. However, the waitresses are still carrying trays of foaming beer in tall glasses and serving tables, where young men in tweed jackets are always waiting for someone. Outside Myhres Tobakk, Jesper collides with a man who is more interested in opening his blue packet of cigarettes than looking where he is going. The man immediately starts mouthing off, but fortunately he slips into a lower gear and keeps his foot off the accelerator.

“Jesper?”

Jesper nods.

“Jesper Kristoffersen?”

Jesper nods again. He feels ill at ease, almost embarrassed. This is like being caught red-handed. The man lights a short cigarette and the smoke that rises from the chimney is black-ish.

“I can see you don’t recognise me,” he says.

“Morning, Rudjord.”

“Not bad! How are you doing, Jesper?”

“Fine.”

“You haven’t finished school yet, have you?”

“No. Why?”

“As you’re wandering around here with a briefcase under your arm, I thought for a moment you’d become an office monkey.”

“I haven’t got that far yet.”

“But time doesn’t exactly stand still, does it?”

“Time tells, Gjensidige excels,” Jesper says, quoting the insurance company slogan.

Rudjord laughs and the whole of Karl Johan inhales.

“How’s your mother?”

“She’s forty today.”

“Forty? I suppose you’re having a big party then?”

Jesper shrugs.

“Just us.”

Rudjord drops his cigarette on the pavement and slowly grinds it out with his shoe.

“Haven’t you got a satchel?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You’re not skipping school, are you?”

“Got the last lesson off.”

“Say hello to your mother. From me and everyone at Dek-Rek.”

“OK.”

“And by the way, can you ask her to give me a ring one of these days?”

Jesper doesn’t hear the rest. Instead he runs through Studenterlunden, a word from which Ewald, his father, made a scurrilous anagram, jumps on the Briskeby tram and jumps off at the bend. Soon there will be no more time. Soon time will have run out. There is everything waiting for him. It is waiting everywhere. He sets a PB down to Jørgen Moes gate and if he could have slid up the banisters to the second floor he would have done. His satchel, by the way, is under the staircase. He can grab it on the way out. He takes the stairs in three strides and presses the bell. He rings once again. After a couple of years, at twenty minutes to three, that is, Enzo Zanetti opens the door. He is still attired in a dressing gown and you can see the stubble growing on his face. He probably has to shave with a lawnmower more often than the City Hall bells ring.

“Have we got a lesson?” Enzo asks.

“Not until Monday.”

“So why are you here?”

“I’ve bought Satie.”

“Go home and practise. And con calma. The pianist who spends most time on Satie and never takes his hands off the keys wins. Do you understand?”

They are interrupted by a voice issuing from the bowels of the flat. There is always a woman calling – she sounds as though she has her mouth full of boiled sweets:

“Where are you, Tutti Frutti?”

Enzo’s eyes begin to wander and he pulls the dressing gown more tightly around him. His toenails curl upwards, they are almost yellow.

“It’s my mother’s birthday today,” Jesper says.

“Is it? Then say happy returns from me.”

“If you like, you can come at half past five.”

“And one more thing, Jesper. No-one calls me Tutti Frutti. Absolutely no-one. That includes you. Do you understand?”

Enzo Zanetti closes the door long before Jesper can say he has probably understood and, even if he hasn’t, he won’t call him Tutti Frutti anyway. Nor a drunk. He slides down the banisters, both thighs on the verge of smoking, and he imagines the fire engines in Briskeby racing out with ladders, hosepipes and parachutes. Then he slings his satchel over his shoulder and it is down the final straight to Majorstua School. She is standing at the gates. Her satchel is bigger than his; it is like a snail’s shell on her back. Her hair is short and dark, but the long summer, the longest in living memory, has lent it a new glow. Some of the light has stayed with her. And this light, or its reflection, is held by a hairslide on the right-hand side, so that it doesn’t fall into her eyes. She is wearing grey shoes, green stockings and a blue dress that reaches down to her knees. Jesper instantly knows what he should have bought his mother: the dress she tried on at Steen & Strøm. But perhaps it won’t fit anymore. Perhaps her taste has changed, as so much has happened since then, it is a hundred years ago, at least. Or do we like the same things all our lives? Will Jesper wake up one morning and not like Satie? It is a staggering thought. It is a chasm. It is akin to death. Apart from her, the schoolyard is deserted. Only a pigeon is sitting on the edge of the drinking fountain. He stops in front of Stine, breathless.

“Have you been waiting long?”

“Only until you came.”

Jesper laughs and takes her hand. But as they are about to set off, a man with a pronounced stoop passes the flagpole. He resembles a lonely crab at the bottom of an empty pool. It is Løkke, his old form teacher, who rode into the sunset and only half came back. Now Løkke sets the table in the school canteen every morning, serves the Oslo breakfast to his pupils and gives private lovesickness lessons. Too late. He has seen them, unfortunately.

“Well I never,” Løkke exclaims.

Jesper thinks they are rid of him, but as always Løkke has more to say.

“Where do you go to school now?” he asks.

“Fagerborg.”

“The food’s not quite as good there, is it?”

“Just packed lunches.”

Løkke stands rapt in thought for a while and the chances of sloping off are minimal. He seems to be blocking the way with all his anxiety and wisdom. He is a wall. He would be a boon to a handball team. He looks at Jesper again.

“Packed lunches? Ones you make yourself?”

“Yes. Or the old girl does it.”

“Old girl?”

“My mother.”

“What do you put in the sandwiches?”

“Cheese. And caviar, maybe.”

“And cod-liver oil?”

“Not in butties.”

“Butties?”

“Sandwiches.”

“No, of course not. You take the cod-liver oil separately. From a spoon.”

“I take it before I leave.”

“It’s also perfectly possible to take it in milk.”

“Milk and cod-liver oil?”

“Is that your girlfriend?”

“Who?”

“The girl whose hand you’re holding.”

“That’s my sis.”

“Who?”

“My little sister.”

Jesper lets go of Stine’s hand, which she holds over her mouth to stifle her laughter. The pigeon takes off from the fountain. Its shadow flits in all directions.

“Well I never,” Løkke repeats.

This time they are rid of him.

On the way home they drop into Samson’s in Majorstua. Jesper has ordered a cake. There isn’t enough room for forty candles on it, but he couldn’t afford a bigger one. In fact, it is doubtful whether forty candles would have been a good idea anyway. By the time you were lighting the last one the first will have gone out. Jesper pays using the money he has in his other back pocket. This is the right amount, too. Then he carries the cake along Kirkeveien, on the left-hand side, while Stine keeps a lookout to make sure as few people as possible see them. Rumours travel fast in Fagerborg and this is meant to be a surprise. But is it possible to carry a cream sponge cake down Kirkeveien without attracting attention? And it isn’t a very good idea to run while holding a cake. If you fall flat on your face, you will definitely be noticed, but if you do, basically it won’t matter because the cake will be ruined anyway. The coast is clear. Seeing Stine ahead of him, Jesper has an odd thought: one day she will overtake him. She started at school six months early. He started a whole year late. Will she be looking after him in the end? That is a long way off, at least as many years as there are between them, but what seems distant soon comes round. Now the coast isn’t clear. Dr Lund has appeared by the corner of Ole Vigs gate and there is no walking past him, either.

“Hello, stranger,” Dr Lund says.

Jesper doesn’t respond. Nor is he sure if this is a question. If it is, Dr Lund is equally strange. Dr Lund turns to Stine.

“And who’s going to eat this wonderful cake?”

“Jesper.”

“Is it his birthday?”

“Mamma’s.”

“Say hello from me and many happy returns.”

“She doesn’t want a birthday.”

Dr Lund turns back to Jesper.

“A piece of that cake works out at two and a half laps of Frogner stadium. How far will you have to run if you eat two pieces?”

“Five laps.”

“And five laps is two thousand metres. We may as well do two and a half more and that’s three thousand. Will you join me?”

Jesper shrugs.

“I’m not hungry,” he says.

“Well, you look a bit pale and off-colour to me.”

Dr Lund places a hand on Jesper’s forehead, putting in a bit of overtime, but he can’t feel a temperature, only expectation and the pressure of time. Then finally they are rid of him, too. They walk the final stretch, past Marienlyst, and reach the safety of the backyard. It is best to use the kitchen stairs when something has to be kept secret, even though no-one can keep a secret in Fagerborg, especially those who have one. Jesper planned this several weeks in advance. But now he changes his mind. Where is his mother usually? In the kitchen. They can’t just burst in. So they go through the cellar and take the main staircase. A new plan: Stine rings the bell while Jesper waits on the ground floor with the cake. The coast is clear again. Mamma isn’t at home. Stine has the key around her neck and has to stand on tiptoe to open the door. Mamma? They shout her name to be on the safe side. She doesn’t answer. They hurry into the kitchen and put the cake in the refrigerator. Then they sit and wait. She doesn’t appear in the first half-hour. Nor in the second. They set the table in the dining room. This is where they find the note: Hi. Had to go to a Red Cross meeting. Could be late. Warm up yesterday’s leftovers. Ring 22 18 76 if there’s a problem. Did you remember to buy the sheet music, Jesper? Love, Mamma. At half past five the doorbell rings. Jesper opens the door. It is Jostein. He has cleaned himself up. At any rate, he doesn’t reek of pigs. He stinks of Old Spice. What is more he has put on a black suit that is eight sizes too big. They go into the dining room and sit down. Jostein puts his present – a cylindrical cudgel wrapped in grey paper, probably a salami – on the table, casts a glance at Stine, immediately looks away and blushes. Actually, blushing suits Jostein. Then his spots aren’t so obvious.

“Isn’t your mother even at home?” he asks.

“She’ll probably be here soon,” Jesper says.

“Why’s she having a party then?”

Stine holds a hand over her mouth, as is her wont, and tries to stifle her laughter, but she snorts between her fingers. Jostein blushes even more. Jesper sends his little sister a stern glare. There is only one person who can laugh at Jostein, and that is Jesper.

“Did you fall in the bristle remover or what?”

“One of the pigs escaped.”

“Escaped?”

Jostein looks down:

“S’pose she didn’t want to die.”

“She?”

“Sow.”

“Do they know they’re going to die?”

“How should I know?”

“Did you find her?”

Jostein looks up.

“Aren’t we having any cake either?”

At six Enzo Zanetti turns up as well. He arrives late for everything. He calls it his Italian half an hour. At least he has mown the lawn on his face and clipped the hedge. In several places on his mug he has stuck bits of paper he has torn from a newspaper, probably Aftenposten. You can almost read the headlines from the last three years on his jaw. He is a walking news agency. James Dean is dead. Thomas Mann is dead. Albert Einstein is also dead. Enzo’s hands are shaking again. He is shaking so much he will soon be able to play a piano duet on his own. In a low voice he asks:

“Is your mother in the kitchen?”

“She’ll be here soon.”

Jesper accompanies Enzo into the sitting room. He puts a bottle on the table and lays a flower beside it. He has probably picked the flower on the way, perhaps in Valkyrien, where there are wild tulips growing. It is in fact the first time he has been here. He says hello to the rest of the company. Stine curtsies as if this were a dancing school. Jostein, who hasn’t forgotten that he called Enzo Zanetti a drunk and pinched his lighter, neglects to bow and instead asks:

“Guess what the difference is between Jesper and me.”

Enzo recoils. Not only does this boy stink to high heaven, he is brazen as well.

“Jesper plays the piano. You don’t.”

“What?”

“You don’t play the piano. Jesper does.”

Jostein tosses back his head and laughs.

“I earn money and Jesper doesn’t!”

Enzo Zanetti sits down on the piano stool and strikes a key, a C, which oscillates through the room. Untrue. This is his way of saying it; a note is untrue, not false. Then he heaves a deep sigh and looks at Stine again.

“Would you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of water?”

Jostein makes another brazen remark:

“If he’s allowed to drink, we can eat the cake.”

The telephone rings. Jesper gets up and puts a finger to his lips. Then he goes into the sitting room and lifts the receiver.

“This is the Kristoffersen household, hello.”

But it isn’t his mother. It is Fru Hall, the former widow Fru Vik. She gasps at the other end, which is in Nordraaks gate.

“Jesper?”

“That’s me.”

“My goodness. Has your voice broken already?”

“I haven’t been listening.”

“I hardly recognised you.”

“It’s still me.”

“Yes, now I can hear it is. Suddenly I thought it was . . . No, I’m going all doolally.”

“Who did you think it was?”

“No, no, forget it. Tell me what you’re doing, Jesper. It’s been such a long time.”

“Twiddling my thumbs.”

“Sorry? Twiddling your thumbs? But you still play the piano, don’t you?”

“I’m about to start on Satie now.”

“Promise me you’ll let me hear you play one day. Will you promise me that?”

“If it’s worth listening to, yes.”

“I’m sure it will be. Can I talk to the birthday girl?”

“She’s not at home.”

“Isn’t she? On her birthday?”

“She’s at a Red Cross meeting.”

“Oh, my word.”

“Yes.”

“I thought there must’ve been something as I hadn’t been invited.”

“I don’t think she’s very keen to turn forty.”

“You can console her with the thought that it gets worse with age.”

“It must be terrible for you, then.”

Fru Hall, the former Fru Vik, laughs, but her laugh sounds rusty and strained, it is altogether a harsh laugh. Then she lowers her voice.

“You’re taking care of my flat, aren’t you, Jesper?”

“Sort of.”

“Could you just pop by? And make sure everything’s alright. When you have the time. Maj has a key to the kitchen door.”

“OK. Now I think I have to go.”

The harsh laughter sounds different now and is more like tiny sobs, or perhaps she has something stuck in her throat.

“It was so nice to talk to you, Jesper. Give Stine my love. Is she well?”

“She started school in the autumn.”

“Golly. At school already? I’m sure she’s clever, isn’t she?”

“Cleverer than me.”

From the dining room comes the sound of a bottle being opened.

“Are you having a party anyway?” Fru Vik asks.

“We’re just repairing.”

Jesper hangs up and joins the others. Enzo Zanetti is drinking from the bottle. There isn’t room in it for more than one swig at a time. The lifeless-looking spirit smells strong and reminds Jesper of rotten apples. The sun, sinking between the blocks of flats on the other side of Kirkeveien, gathers itself into a tight ball for a moment, and the last rays of light filter through the bottle and fill the dining room with a restless, green shadow.

“Wasn’t that Mamma?” Stine asks.

Jesper shakes his head. Jostein, who appears peeved and sullen, presumably he has the cake on his mind, is about to say something, probably regarding this cake about which rumours are circulating. The telephone rings again. This time Stine goes to answer it, but Jesper won’t let her. There has to be a pecking order. When Maj isn’t at home, Jesper is next in line. Stine can answer the telephone if he is out, unavailable or has moved out for good. It is Maj. Jesper can hear that at once and he puts a finger to his lips. Stine does the same and turns to the room, where eventually there is silence.

“It’s just me,” Maj says.

“Oh, is anything wrong?”

“No, no. Why should there be?”

“I don’t know.”

“I just wanted to say I might be a bit late home.”

“Late?”

“So you don’t need to wait up for me.”

“Right.”

“That was all.”

Jesper shifts the telephone into his other hand, and a back-to-front thought strikes him: he regrets looking forward to anything.

“That was all,” Maj repeats.

Worried, she hangs up. She is worried because Jesper always seems worried, perhaps it is she who worries him. Then she turns to the other women waiting in the hallway. The meeting is over. She has been given a present by the board, a vase from Glasmagasinet. It is much too elegant. Anyway, she didn’t want anything. The chairman, Fru Lund, officiated at the ceremony. And as if that wasn’t enough, now they are going to the restaurant in the swish Hotel Continental. Maj doesn’t feel like going. She doesn’t like surprises. But she has no choice. The secretary, Else Larsen, has already booked a table. On their way down the steps they meet Dr Lund. He seems to be in a sombre mood, preferring to hug the wall in silence as he passes the ladies. However, the board of the Norwegian Red Cross, Oslo Division, Fagerborg department, is excited and does not let him slip by so easily. Fru Lund laughs.

“I can see my husband’s run too fast today.”

Dr Lund has to stop after all.

“That, I’m afraid to say, is what I haven’t done.”

The ladies behave like schoolgirls and want to comfort him.

“Did you lose?” the secretary, Else Larsen, wants to know.

Dr Lund takes two more steps and cannot quite make up his mind whether he is going to be in a better or an even worse mood.

“Losing is a term that men of my age refrain from using. But I was beaten.”

“By whom, may I ask?”

This time it is the deputy chairman, Fru Vanda Aasland, who asks. Dr Lund doesn’t take this well.

“By Putte Dedekam. The little shrimp. In our heyday he was seldom on the podium. And he’s had two coronaries since then. What can you say?”

Fru Lund, his wife, sighs aloud, but the sigh hides laughter and condescension, the way you react with blithe resignation to a child.

“That now you’re going to do more running than ever?”

The ladies hurry on, but Dr Lund puts out a hand and stops Maj.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

“Thank you.”

“Forty. A big day.”

“I’d prefer not to be celebrating it.”

“But apparently that’s not what everyone else wants.”

“No, they’ve already booked a table, so I can’t exactly say no.”

“I was thinking more about Jesper and Stine.”

Maj looks up.

“What about them?”

“Didn’t you know?”

“What? What don’t I know?”

Dr Lund shrugs, but is aware it is in vain. The diag