To Siberia by Per Petterson Page A

looking delighted the whole time.
    Uncle Nils is different tonight. He smiles and chats, but out on the farm and in the fields and on the driver’s seat behind the horse he’s always moody with a deep furrow between his eyes, and he hardly ever utters a word. Now the furrow has vanished and he is looking great, less than a year older than my father, for he was Grandmother Hedvig’s youngest son, and she died when he was born. I can see from him that my father isn’t that old. He’s already had a schnapps, or two or three, he is red in the face and he bows again and throws out his arm.
    “Shall we go in?”
    “What’s it like in there?”
    “There’s a good few down there.”
    “And you’ve had a few, too, most likely,” says Jesper, and I am afraid Uncle Nils will be cross at that, but he is not.
    “That was a good one,” he says. “I’m celebrating, you see, I’ve made an important decision, so it called for one or two under the hat.” He puts his hand to his head, he’s hatless, his short fair hair is curly and he has put something on it which makes it shine in the lamplight. He chuckles and throws out his hand again.
    “After you, ladies and gents. Don’t let’s waste precious time.”
    Jesper runs his fingers through his curly hair to make it tidier, I can’t see it makes any difference. He pulls at his sleeves and takes my arm again and we go down yet another flight of steps and into the room. It’s long and narrow and hot after the raw air of Havnegate. There are shallow windows just under the ceiling, and at the far end there’s a dance floor with a dais in front with deserted instruments on it, the band is having a rest or has not yet started. Four men in identical jackets are at the bar, each with a beer in his hand. The place is more than half full, but along the wall at the far end there are some empty tables. It’s a long way to go and we have to walk past a lot of people. Uncle Nils points and wants to go in. I stop, I can’t do it, I do not feel well.
    “I must go to the toilet.”
    “Go on then,” says Jesper, “I’ll stay here just outside and wait for you. Take all the time you need.”
    The toilet is near the entrance, to the right of where we stand. There is a washbasin in there and a mirror and two cubicles. I go into one and sit down on the lavatory lid. I sit there a few minutes thinking, maybe I’ll be sick again, perhaps that’s what it is. I try, and a little bit comes, but mostly because I am forcing myself. Then I pull the chain and go out to the basin and splash my face with water. I look at myself in the mirror. I have a high forehead and a snood above my temples. It is practical with hair like mine but it makes me look well scrubbed and shiny and childish sometimes. Like now. I lean forward. A pale girl of fourteen, not a second older. I look down at my dress to see if there are any spots of sick on it, but there are none, and then someone comes in. I see her in the glass, a lady in a green dress, her blond hair shines and she smiles with red lips.
    “Hello,” she says. I do not reply, I don’t know her. She stands there behind me. I think, she’s going to touch me, and then she puts her hands on my shoulders and says:
    “Let’s have a look at you.” I turn around passively. The only light is above the mirror, and I throw a shadow over her face as she bends forward and looks closely at mine. She is an adult and very attractive and I can’t manage to feel anything but fourteen.
    “May I?” she says and doesn’t wait for an answer. I do not give one. She takes off the snood and puts it in her mouth, uses her fingers as a comb and pulls my hair forward, it’s a good feeling, no one has done anything like it since I was little, my head just follows and I look down at the floor. It’s best like that. Then she puts the snood back, straight above my ear so my bangs hang loose at the side, one ear is hidden by hair, the other uncovered. I often have my ears