To Siberia by Per Petterson

I’m going to Meknes, Marrakech, to the Morocco of the caravans and the Moors.”
    “Send me a postcard,” I said. I wiped my mouth and started to laugh. He bent down and tied my scarf around my neck, put my beret on straight, pulled my coat collar up.
    “Better now?”
    “Yes,” I said, and he took my hands and pulled me to my feet. “Which war?” I said.
    “The Spanish one, and the one that will follow it if the Fascists win.” But that was enough war for tonight, I put my arm through his and we walked through the fog that was familiar now, the town fell into place, the shipyard and fish-meal factory and the fish auction was on the left and the slaughterhouse straight ahead and Damsgaard the butchers on the right, I could smell myself forward.
    “I know where we are,” I said. “Why did we have to walk halfway around the town to get back here? We could have gone straight down Lodsgate.”
    “We had to avoid the Bible belt, that’s Lillemor’s minefield, anything could have happened. Now we’re safe.”
    Said the candidate for the International Brigades.

 
     

    H avnegate runs parallel with Lodsgate a block farther south, from the crossroads where Danmarksgate runs into Søndergate, to the square in front of the Cimbria Hotel by the harbor, and together the two streets and the houses between them form our town’s counterpart to Nyhavn in Copenhagen. With the possible exception of Aftenstjernen this is where all the sins congregate. Færgekroen, the Ferry Inn, and Tordenskjolds Kro are on Lodsgate; at the Cimbria the bar at the rear is called Lodsgate 16 by finer folk and Rompa, The Ass, by everyone else, after that part of the body which is vital when you need to rid yourself of superfluous fluid. On Havnegate there is a new-style bodega and the Vinkælderen, the Wine Cellar, two houses up from the hotel and one staircase down. The only threat is my mother who has moved in here and observes life from the window on the first floor when she is not behind the counter of the dairy. Those who can bring themselves to raise their eyes when the night is far advanced can see her behind the curtain, Bible in hand, looking out, with her lips moving in prayer or exorcism.
    “It’s not much fun to be caught out like that,” says Jesper, for sometimes she goes downstairs and out to the gateway, and more than one person who has had one too many drinks has felt her wrath and sensed the flames of hell licking tentatively beneath his soles. It’s hot, they think, and it’s embarrassing, so when Jesper is going out at night he always makes a long detour and approaches his objective from another angle, even when he is only going one street away.
    And that is what we’re doing now. We negotiate Lodsgate on the lower side and walk along beside the Cimbria Hotel, there’s laughter inside and people sitting at the windows, an icy wind sweeps in from the sea and blows away the fog and I can see the masts of the fishing boats tossing like inverted pendulums and hear them chafing against the sides of the wharf.
    The first thing I see on the way down the steps to Vinkælderen is Uncle Nils. He is wearing a suit and a newly ironed white shirt and he is not in clogs but narrow black shoes I haven’t noticed before. It’s too late to turn around, people behind me are pushing and Jesper keeps a tight hold of my arm. Uncle Nils hangs up his coat on a hook in the cloakroom, he straightens his tie and glances up the steps. He smiles.
    “Why, here we have Jesper,” he says, lifting his hand in salute.
    “Hi, Uncle Nils,” says Jesper. I do not say anything. I am waiting, stiff with fright. I’m only just fourteen and on the way down to the Vinkælderen at half past eleven at night and my uncle stands on the steps.
    “Good evening, young lady.” He bows deeply and I giggle without meaning to and bob carefully. I look at Jesper, but he’s busy taking off his new coat, and then he helps me with mine like a perfect gentleman,