The Ringmaster's Daughter Read online

walked to the coffin with a wreath of forget-me-nots. I

  nodded to my father and the priest, and father and the priest

  nodded back. As I stepped down to return to my seat, I saw

  that the little man in his green felt hat was pacing up and

  down in the aisle thrashing the air with his thin cane. He was

  irate.

  I was over eighteen, and my father thought I should go on

  living in the flat despite mother's death. For some time

  afterwards we continued to see each other once a week.

  Early the following spring we decided that once a month

  was enough. We had outgrown skating heats and ski-

  jumping and all that. There were to be no more rides

  through the tunnel of love. Father lived to be over eighty.

  In the weeks following my mother's death I remember

  thinking: mother can't see me any more. Who will see me

  now?

  Maria

  I didn't forget my mother, she would never be forgotten,

  but I liked having the flat to myself. Few people of my age

  had a flat of their own.

  For a while I had no one to accompany me to the theatre

  or cinema, and that was something I missed, but soon I began

  to invite girls out. I didn't feel shy about it, I had no trouble

  in going up to a strange girl in the schoolyard and asking her

  out to a film or a theatre. Sometimes I met girls on the bus or

  in the shops, or in the centre of town. I felt it was better to ask

  a stranger out than to approach one of girls in my class.

  Asking a girl in my class could easily be misunderstood and,

  in addition, it required a certain amount of following up.

  Even though I didn't know the girl I was inviting out, her

  appearance always gave me some clue as to what she was like,

  and I could take a guess at how old she was, too.

  It was easy to get talking to girls, and I was rarely turned

  down. They laughed, but from the manner in which I put

  the question, they didn't think it the slightest bit odd that

  I should ask them out, even though we'd never spoken

  before. I asked in a way that gave them the feeling of being

  chosen. And they had been, too. I didn't invite out every

  girl I saw.

  The girls liked the fact that I had my own flat. One by

  one I brought them home for cheese and wine or om-

  elettes and lager. Sometimes they stayed the night, and

  only rarely the same girl twice. If I allowed the same girl

  to visit several times, it started to engender a sort of

  frustration about not being invited even more often.

  Occasionally, demands were made that I wasn't in a

  position to fulfil, and then I had to explain. I could have

  skipped the explanation, but I've always had a facility for

  making myself understood.

  No one resented being invited to just one play, one

  evening out, one overnight stay. The problems only began

  after four or six such visits. It was a paradox. A girl with

  whom I'd spent a night was usually content with the fun

  she'd had. She didn't rush out into town and begin to prattle

  about it either. Most of them thought a one-night stand

  with a stranger a bit embarrassing. But as soon as their visits

  approached double figures, they began to complain, began

  to talk to girlfriends about it and to take it virtually for

  granted that the number of sleep overs would run into three

  and four figures.

  I've never pulled the wool over girls' eyes. I never

  promised them supper before we'd been to the cinema or

  theatre, I never promised them a bed before we'd finished

  the meal, and I never held out any expectations of a return

  visit. I could be generous with my compliments, because I

  really did value such female company, but I never gave the

  impression that I wanted, or was even in a position, to

  commit myself for a longer period. In order to avoid mis-

  understandings I might stress, while lending a girl a towel,

  a toothbrush or in certain cases my mother's old dressing-

  gown, that even though it was nice to entertain someone

  for the night, she mustn't read more into it than that � a

  pleasant interlude. If I was especially fond of the girl,

  perhaps more fond of her than all the others put together,

  I felt it my sacred duty to make clear that I wasn't look-

  ing for any commitments. This made an impression, none

  of them rushed for the door. It seemed that plain speak-

  ing only made an overnight stay all the more exciting.

  You often set more store by things you don't expect to

  be repeated, than those you believe will go on ad infin-

  itum.

  It was fun having a succession of girls over for visits, because

  each was interested in something different. A few went to

  the bookshelf and pulled out particular books that interested

  them. A girl called Irene sat flicking through The World of

  Art, and another called Randi began reading aloud from

  Karl Evang's book on sexual enlightenment. I'd dipped into

  it when I was little, but I considered it rather dated now.

  One of the girls immediately seated herself at the green

  piano and gave a faltering performance of one of Chopin's

  nocturnes - she was called Ranveig, I think - while Turid

  improvised tunes from the musical Hair by strumming some

  basic chords. At least fifty per cent of them just wanted to

  put on a record as soon as they entered the living-room. I

  had Joan Baez, Janis Joplin, Simon & Garfunkel and Peter,

  Paul & Mary. One blue-eyed blonde insisted that we listen

  to Karius and Baktus as well, but no one had yet shown any

  interest in Tchaikovsky or Puccini. The first time this

  happened was when, quite by chance, I met Hege again,

  sometime towards the end of May.

  Hege had completed the Sixth Form college course in

  music, and when she came home after we'd been to the

  cinema to see The Graduate, she immediately went to the

  piano and played the whole of Rachmaninov's piano

  concerto no. 2 in C Minor. The concert lasted over half an

  hour and, for a brief moment, before she'd got far into the

  Adagio, I was convinced I was in love with her. But as soon

  as she began the concluding Allegro, I realised it was the

  music that had captivated me and not the pianist. As we

  went into the bedroom, she had fits of laughter when I

  reminded her of the theft of a red Fiat and the subsequent

  romance in a shed. Now we were adults, we hadn't seen

  each other since grammar school days.

  Hege stayed at my place for three nights, but when she

  realised that we weren't proper lovers, she left on the fourth

  day and never got in touch again. I didn't find it hard to see

  her point of view. We'd known each other since we were

  children, and were almost too close to play at adult games

  just for the sake of it.

  I believe Metre Man felt as I did, because he was par-

  ticularly grouchy during the three days Hege was in the flat.

  He rushed about the living-room and kitchen and drilled

  with his bamboo cane right in front of her eye
s. It was a

  mystery to me that she couldn't see him.

  Lots of girls wanted to go out on to the veranda. My mother

  had always had a nice display in her window-boxes, and I

  couldn't bring myself to leave them untended that first

  spring after her death. I'd dug out and thrown away

  everything that was in the boxes from the previous year

  and then filled them to the brim with compost and planted a

  mass of bulbs. The result was surprisingly good. That spring

  the boxes on the veranda were bursting with lilies, crocuses

  and tulips as never before, and many of the girls showed

  how impressed they were with my green fingers. When the

  weather was fine we sometimes sat on the veranda looking

  out across the city with a glass of Martini or Dubonnet in

  our hands.

  I had, naturally, to explain how I came to live alone, and

  as a consequence I showed some of them my mother's

  wardrobe. They were often allowed to take away a dress

  they fancied, or a suit or a coat. First, they had to try them

  on to see if they fitted; every time it was like a little fashion

  show. Then, just for fun, I might magic up a pair of gloves, a

  shawl or an elegant evening handbag just as they were about

  to leave. I was especially fond of the young woman who

  inherited the Persian lambskin coat. Her name was Therese

  and tears welled in her eyes as I folded the fleece up and

  slipped it into a large paper bag. But I don't think it was

  mere gratitude for the coat that moved her so much. I

  believe she saw the gift as part of some courtship ritual, or at

  any rate some deeply felt declaration of love, resonating

  with overtones and undertones and so, yet again, I had to

  explain myself. I told my father I'd given all the clothes to

  the Salvation Army, and he accepted this without demur -

  perhaps he'd forgotten the Persian lambskin coat - but it was

  the girls who'd helped themselves to most of her wardrobe,

  and some of them also made themselves useful by sorting out

  the things which just needed throwing away. It was six

  months before all of mother's clothes were out of the flat.

  Occasionally someone I'd spent the night with would

  look the other way when we met in the street, but there

  were so many girls in Oslo in those days that it never caused

  any recruitment problem. In the early seventies spending a

  night with someone was no big deal. I remember thinking

  that I'd been born at the right time. For instance, it wouldn't

  have been such fun for a man of my age to have had his own

  flat twenty years earlier.

  I was on nodding terms with many girls in the city even

  before I'd left Sixth Form college, but I'd never yet been in

  love. I felt too adult for that, I felt I was far too mature for

  the girls I associated with. It was here that a certain dualism

  was developing. I certainly didn't feel too adult for their

  bodies. But a woman isn't merely a body, and clearly a man

  isn't either. I was convinced that one day I'd meet a woman

  whom I could love with both body and soul. Perhaps that

  was the reason I began to go off on long hikes by myself.

  One day I'd find her and, if she was like me, it wouldn't be

  at a discotheque or in some youth group. A skiing hut was

  much more likely. And, in fact, I did meet her at

  Ullev�lseter, but that wasn't until the middle of June.

  *

  At nursery school I'd enjoyed sitting in a corner watching all

  the children playing. Now the children were older, almost

  grown-up. It wasn't so thrilling to watch big children's

  games, or at least not the one called celebrating the end of

  school exams. I had a preference for pre- rather than post-

  school activities. For some weeks it was harder to find

  theatre companions and female visitors. There was too

  much going on in town.

  Almost every day I set out on long walks in the forests

  round the northern suburbs of Oslo. I took the train to Finse

  and roamed the Hardanger plateau too, and I walked down

  Aurlandsdalen and got the train home from Fl�m. I loved

  travelling by train, I enjoyed studying the people on it, and I

  found it hugely satisfying to let my mind wander as I moved

  through the landscape. School was over, in a few weeks I'd

  have certificates to say I'd passed with distinction in all

  subjects except gymnastics. I had nothing else to do but go

  walking and ride the train. My father was to pay me my

  allowance right up until 15 September.

  When I was out mooching around on my own, I always

  took a notebook and pencil with me. I was particularly fond

  of turning things over in my mind as I walked. I thought all

  the time, but I found it easier to give free rein to my

  imagination while I was outdoors and moving, than sitting

  in a chair at home in the flat. Schiller pointed out that when

  man plays he is free, for then he follows his own rules. He

  had a point, but the thing could just as easily be turned the

  other way round: it was easier to play with thoughts and

  ideas when I was roaming at will on the Hardanger plateau

  than pacing about hour after hour between four walls, like

  some dormitory town detainee. And there was another

  thing: Metre Man kept to the flat by and large. He would

  occasionally appear in town, but it was very seldom that he

  turned up in the forest or on the Hardanger plateau.

  My thoughts were fresher and bolder when I was

  walking, and new subjects and synopses streamed into my

  mind. At home I had large catalogues and indexes of my

  collection of plots for short stories, novels, plays and films.

  I'd typed up my best ideas before filing the pages away in a

  ring-binder. Once completed, I hardly ever took a synopsis

  out and looked at it again.

  The notion of filling out any of my ideas still hadn't

  occurred to me. Hatching out tightly worked plots was only

  a hobby, little more than a weakness or an idiosyncrasy. Just

  as some people collect coins or stamps, I collected my own

  thoughts and ideas.

  Once, one of the girls began flicking through one of my

  binders. She'd taken it off the shelf in my work-room and

  began reading it aloud. She didn't get invited to spend the

  night, omelettes and lager was enough. From then on I

  kept all the binders and indexes securely locked in two

  solid cupboards beneath the bookshelves in the living-

  room.

  As I walked through Aurlandsdalen, an idea came to me. It

  was a completely novel one, and was linked to the fact that I'd

  just got to know a young author at Club 7. He was only four

  or five years older than me. I'd treated him to a bottle of wine,

  and we'd spent the whole evening talking in that Mecca of

  avant-garde pop music. Despite his tough, John Lennon

  glasses, his profusion of hair and beard and a passably shabby

  corduroy suit, he was fairly inane, but at least he wasn't as

  immature as my contemporaries, celebrating their exams. I
>
  pulled out some notes I'd written earlier in the day, three or

  four closely written pages comprising the detailed plot of a

  novel. I let him skim through it, and he was extremely

  impressed. He glanced up at me with an envious look, then

  heaped inordinate praise on what I'd shown him. It didn't

  surprise me. I knew I'd shown him a brilliant idea for a novel,

  but I took no pleasure in being praised, not by such a young

  and inexperienced author anyway. That wasn't why I'd

  shown him my notes. 'If you pay for the wine, I'll give you

  those notes,' I said. He just gawped. 'You're an author, after

  all,' I pointed out. 'I promise never to say where you got the

  idea from, but you must pay for the wine and give me fifty

  kroner.' So he refunded me the money I'd laid out on the

  wine, and a hundred kroner on top. At Club 7 you had to pay

  for a bottle of wine before it was opened. Just as I was taking

  the money, I saw Metre Man on the premises. He was

  strutting irritably amongst the caf� tables, then he suddenly

  turned towards our table and shook his bamboo cane at me.

  Today that young man with the John Lennon glasses is

  one of the country's leading authors, and he turned fifty not

  long ago. I was to meet him on many subsequent occasions

  and now I take ten per cent of everything he earns from his

  books. But only he and I know that.

  In Aurlandsdalen I stood for a long time in front of a large

  pothole called 'Little Hell', and it was here it struck me for

  the first time that all those ideas of mine might actually

  provide me with a living after all. I was in possession of

  a commodity with which certain people weren't over-

  endowed. I wasn't vain and had no wish to be famous, but

  I was short of money and I didn't plan on getting a summer

  job. Nor would I have anything to live on after 15

  September. My father had made it crystal clear that after

  that date the tap would be turned firmly off. But, as he said, I

  would probably go on to study, and every student got a

  student loan. What my father didn't realise was that I

  couldn't possibly live on such a thing anyway. My female

  visitors alone broke any budget that the State Educational

  Loan Fund might advance. In addition, if I was short of

  money my freedom of movement was curtailed. This was an

  idea I didn't like at all.

  That sudden inspiration touched me only lightly, the

  same way all impulses settled on my consciousness. The

  reason I mention it here is merely to show that I can recall

  the exact time and place where the idea first was born. It was

  as I stood staring down into Little Hell. I remember thinking

  it was a good idea, it was a meta-idea, an idea that took a

  firm grasp of all the other ideas I'd had and seemed to slot

  them into place.

  Looking back now, it's rather tempting to regard that

  hike through Aurlandsdalen as my pact with the devil.

  While I was out walking in the countryside, I often thought

  of all the years that had gone by. Something was over, and

  something new was just about to begin. I had to find myself

  a respectable, but anonymous, place in society.

  I was already sometimes unable to distinguish between

  recalled reality and recalled fantasy. This was the result of my

  special talent for harbouring vivid memories of my imagin-

  ary world while at the same time having a somewhat hazy

  recollection of real life. It could scare me, it could make me

  a trifle nervous, but it is over-simplistic to conclude that I

  had a traumatic childhood and that I therefore repressed it.

  My mother thought I had an unhappy childhood � she

  knew no better. Personally, I regarded my childhood as

  particularly rich.

  I remember how I once flew over the city. I looked down

  on all the houses and was free to choose where to land and

  which living-rooms and bedrooms to peep into. Looking

  through the windows, I could see how a wide cross-section

  of people lived, and there was no secret I couldn't share. I

  witnessed everything from various forms of domestic dis-

  turbance to the most bizarre sexual deviations. It was like

  studying monkeys in a cage, and sometimes I felt ashamed of

  my own species. Once I saw a man and a woman having sex