after him like an American football player to cut off his route and knock him off balance, and he grabbed me by the shoulder to hold me back, but I was so slippery he could not get a hold. He started to laugh and cried:
'You slimy little bugger!' And he could say that, for he had been confirmed a great many years ago, and we got there side by side close together, body to body through the narrow doorway each trying to be first man out and we stopped on the threshold under the eaves and saw water pounding the ground all about us. It was an impressive, almost intimidating sight, and for a moment we just stood there, staring. Then my father took a deep breath and like an actor he screamed:
'It's now or never!' before he leaped out into the rain and started to dance stark naked with his arms in the air and the water splashing onto his shoulders. I ran after him out into the pouring rain to stand where he was standing, jumping and dancing and singing 'Norway in Red, White and Blue', and then he started to sing too, and in no time the soap was rinsed off our bodies and with it the warmth as well, and our bodies were smooth and shining like two seals and probably just as cold to touch.
'I'm freezing,' I called.
'Me too,' he shouted back, 'but we can stand it a bit longer.'
'OK,' I shouted, and slapped my stomach and drummed on my thighs with the flat of my hands to beat some heat into the numb skin until I had the idea of walking on my hands, for I was quite frisky in that way and I shouted:
'Come on, you,' to my father, and bent down and swung up into a handstand, and then he had to follow suit. And we walked on our hands in the wet grass as the rain beat our rumps in a way so icily weird that I had to get back on my feet very soon, but never did anyone have cleaner arses than ours as we ran into the house again and dried ourselves on two large towels and massaged our skin with the coarse cloth to get the circulation going and make the warmth come back, and with a cock of his head my father looked at me and said:
'Well, so you're a man now.'
'Not quite,' I said, for I knew that things were going on around me that I did not understand, and that the grown-ups did understand, but that I was close to being there.
'No, maybe not quite,' he said.
He ran his hand through his hair and with the towel round his hips he went to the stove, tore an old newspaper into strips and twisted them and pushed them into the firebox, then arranged three sticks of firewood around the paper and put a match to it. He shut the door of the stove, but left the ash-pan open for the draught, and the old, tinder-dry wood started to crackle at once. He stayed close to the stove with his arms raised, half bent over the black iron plates and let the rising warmth seep up to his stomach and his chest. I stayed where I was. I looked at his back. I knew he was going to say something. He was my father, I knew him well.
'What happened today,' he said, still with his back turned. 'It was completely unnecessary. The way we were carrying on, it was bound to end badly. I should have stopped it long before. It was in my power, not in his. Do you understand? We are grown men. What happened was my fault.'
I said nothing. I did not know if he meant that he and I were grown men, or if he and Jon's father were. I guessed the latter.
'It was unforgivable.'
That might be so, I could see that, but I did not like him taking the blame just like that. I felt it was debatable, and if he was to blame, so was I, and even if it felt bad being responsible for such things happening, he belittled me by leaving me out. I felt the bitterness coming again, but milder this time. He turned from the stove and I could read in his face that he knew what I was thinking, but there was no way of discussing it that would make it easier for us. It was too complicated, I could not even think about it any more, not that night. I felt my shoulders sinking, my eyelids dropping, I raised my hands to
'You slimy little bugger!' And he could say that, for he had been confirmed a great many years ago, and we got there side by side close together, body to body through the narrow doorway each trying to be first man out and we stopped on the threshold under the eaves and saw water pounding the ground all about us. It was an impressive, almost intimidating sight, and for a moment we just stood there, staring. Then my father took a deep breath and like an actor he screamed:
'It's now or never!' before he leaped out into the rain and started to dance stark naked with his arms in the air and the water splashing onto his shoulders. I ran after him out into the pouring rain to stand where he was standing, jumping and dancing and singing 'Norway in Red, White and Blue', and then he started to sing too, and in no time the soap was rinsed off our bodies and with it the warmth as well, and our bodies were smooth and shining like two seals and probably just as cold to touch.
'I'm freezing,' I called.
'Me too,' he shouted back, 'but we can stand it a bit longer.'
'OK,' I shouted, and slapped my stomach and drummed on my thighs with the flat of my hands to beat some heat into the numb skin until I had the idea of walking on my hands, for I was quite frisky in that way and I shouted:
'Come on, you,' to my father, and bent down and swung up into a handstand, and then he had to follow suit. And we walked on our hands in the wet grass as the rain beat our rumps in a way so icily weird that I had to get back on my feet very soon, but never did anyone have cleaner arses than ours as we ran into the house again and dried ourselves on two large towels and massaged our skin with the coarse cloth to get the circulation going and make the warmth come back, and with a cock of his head my father looked at me and said:
'Well, so you're a man now.'
'Not quite,' I said, for I knew that things were going on around me that I did not understand, and that the grown-ups did understand, but that I was close to being there.
'No, maybe not quite,' he said.
He ran his hand through his hair and with the towel round his hips he went to the stove, tore an old newspaper into strips and twisted them and pushed them into the firebox, then arranged three sticks of firewood around the paper and put a match to it. He shut the door of the stove, but left the ash-pan open for the draught, and the old, tinder-dry wood started to crackle at once. He stayed close to the stove with his arms raised, half bent over the black iron plates and let the rising warmth seep up to his stomach and his chest. I stayed where I was. I looked at his back. I knew he was going to say something. He was my father, I knew him well.
'What happened today,' he said, still with his back turned. 'It was completely unnecessary. The way we were carrying on, it was bound to end badly. I should have stopped it long before. It was in my power, not in his. Do you understand? We are grown men. What happened was my fault.'
I said nothing. I did not know if he meant that he and I were grown men, or if he and Jon's father were. I guessed the latter.
'It was unforgivable.'
That might be so, I could see that, but I did not like him taking the blame just like that. I felt it was debatable, and if he was to blame, so was I, and even if it felt bad being responsible for such things happening, he belittled me by leaving me out. I felt the bitterness coming again, but milder this time. He turned from the stove and I could read in his face that he knew what I was thinking, but there was no way of discussing it that would make it easier for us. It was too complicated, I could not even think about it any more, not that night. I felt my shoulders sinking, my eyelids dropping, I raised my hands to
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