a bench of snow and frost and sat drinking lovely hot coffee from a plastic cup, while he watched Jonas’s grinning face, flushed cheeks and cloudy breath underneath the pale blue woolly hat which was pushed too far down his head, his eyes seeking out Henning’s, all the time. And he saw Jonas climb to the highest point of the climbing frame. All his concentration went into looking at his dad so he didn’t look where he was going, he stepped between the ropes, lost his grip, fell forwards and sideways and smashed his face and mouth into a post. Henning leapt up, ran over to him, turned the boy’s head to examine the extent of the damage, but all he could see was a black, sooty face. Jonas’s mouth was gone. No teeth.
The only things that weren’t black were his burning eyes.
He wakes up and finds himself blowing, blowing desperately on Jonas’s burning eyes to put out the flames. But they never go out. Jonas’s eyes are like those birthday candles which re-ignite themselves; you can try, but you’ll never succeed in blowing them out.
The dream knocks him for six, every time. When he wakes up, his pulse is racing and he closes his eyes to block out the image which makes him nauseous. He visualises the ocean. Dr Helge has taught him to do that, concentrate on a favourite place or activity, whenever he gets flashbacks.
Henning likes the sea. He has happy memories of saltwater. And the sea helps him open his eyes again. He rolls on to his side, sees, from the clock on his mobile, that he has slept for nearly three hours. Not bad, for him. And he decides that will have to do.
At least for today.
*
There isn’t much he can do in the middle of the night. He ignores the matches and gets up. He goes into the living room, glances at his piano, but keeps on walking. His hip aches, but it is a little early for pills.
He sits down in the kitchen. He listens to the fridge. It hums and whirrs noisily. He thinks it is on its last legs. Just like him.
He hasn’t been there for many, many years, but the groaning from the fridge reminds him of the family’s summer cabin. It is just outside Stavern, by Anvikstranda Camping. It is plain, simple and small, probably no more 30 square metres. Fantastic view of the sea. Loads of adders.
His grandfather built the cabin as cheaply as he could, just after the war, and to Henning’s knowledge, the fridge is still the original one. It moans and carries on almost like the fridge in Henning’s flat.
He hasn’t been to the cabin since he was a child. He thinks Trine goes there sometimes, but he doesn’t know for sure. Perhaps the fridge is still there. It was only a half-size and they always had to kick the bottom of the door after closing it. If they didn’t, the door would swing open again. The flap to the freezer compartment was missing. The shelves in the door were loose and cracked, which meant heavy items such as milk and bottles had to lie inside the main body of the fridge.
But the fridge worked. He can still recall how cold the milk would be. And he decides it’s all right to grow old and still be in working order. He has never tasted milk so cold, never experienced brain freezes like the ones he used to get on summer holidays in their tiny cabin. But it was fun. It was cosy. They went crabbing, played football on the large plain at the camping site, climbed rock faces, learned to swim in the sea, barbecued sausages on the beach in the evenings.
The age of innocence. Why couldn’t it have stayed that way?
He wonders if Trine remembers those summers.
*
He thinks about sharia again. Allah-u-akbar. And he recalls what Zahid Mukhtar, the head of the Islamic Council in Oslo, said in 2004:
As a Muslim, you’re subject to Islamic law and, to Muslims, sharia takes precedent over all other laws. No other interpretation of Islam is possible.
Henning interviewed a social anthropologist at the Christian Michaelsen Institute shortly afterwards, and she explained that
The only things that weren’t black were his burning eyes.
He wakes up and finds himself blowing, blowing desperately on Jonas’s burning eyes to put out the flames. But they never go out. Jonas’s eyes are like those birthday candles which re-ignite themselves; you can try, but you’ll never succeed in blowing them out.
The dream knocks him for six, every time. When he wakes up, his pulse is racing and he closes his eyes to block out the image which makes him nauseous. He visualises the ocean. Dr Helge has taught him to do that, concentrate on a favourite place or activity, whenever he gets flashbacks.
Henning likes the sea. He has happy memories of saltwater. And the sea helps him open his eyes again. He rolls on to his side, sees, from the clock on his mobile, that he has slept for nearly three hours. Not bad, for him. And he decides that will have to do.
At least for today.
*
There isn’t much he can do in the middle of the night. He ignores the matches and gets up. He goes into the living room, glances at his piano, but keeps on walking. His hip aches, but it is a little early for pills.
He sits down in the kitchen. He listens to the fridge. It hums and whirrs noisily. He thinks it is on its last legs. Just like him.
He hasn’t been there for many, many years, but the groaning from the fridge reminds him of the family’s summer cabin. It is just outside Stavern, by Anvikstranda Camping. It is plain, simple and small, probably no more 30 square metres. Fantastic view of the sea. Loads of adders.
His grandfather built the cabin as cheaply as he could, just after the war, and to Henning’s knowledge, the fridge is still the original one. It moans and carries on almost like the fridge in Henning’s flat.
He hasn’t been to the cabin since he was a child. He thinks Trine goes there sometimes, but he doesn’t know for sure. Perhaps the fridge is still there. It was only a half-size and they always had to kick the bottom of the door after closing it. If they didn’t, the door would swing open again. The flap to the freezer compartment was missing. The shelves in the door were loose and cracked, which meant heavy items such as milk and bottles had to lie inside the main body of the fridge.
But the fridge worked. He can still recall how cold the milk would be. And he decides it’s all right to grow old and still be in working order. He has never tasted milk so cold, never experienced brain freezes like the ones he used to get on summer holidays in their tiny cabin. But it was fun. It was cosy. They went crabbing, played football on the large plain at the camping site, climbed rock faces, learned to swim in the sea, barbecued sausages on the beach in the evenings.
The age of innocence. Why couldn’t it have stayed that way?
He wonders if Trine remembers those summers.
*
He thinks about sharia again. Allah-u-akbar. And he recalls what Zahid Mukhtar, the head of the Islamic Council in Oslo, said in 2004:
As a Muslim, you’re subject to Islamic law and, to Muslims, sharia takes precedent over all other laws. No other interpretation of Islam is possible.
Henning interviewed a social anthropologist at the Christian Michaelsen Institute shortly afterwards, and she explained that
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