Doppler (9 page)

Looks like it’s taking its time, I say.

The problem is more that it doesn’t take enough time, Düsseldorf says. I’ve always been a finicky modeller, but I have attained a level of precision now that I’ve never even been near before. I’m together with my father when I do this. And when I’ve finished I can’t be with him any more. I’ve noticed that actually I don’t want to finish.

You could make some more, I say. You could make other war scenes. You could make the walks in the forest your mother and father took in Oslo.

No, Düsseldorf says. I know that I’ll never make any more models after this, and within a couple of weeks at the most I’ll have finished. I reckon I’ll be finished by Christmas.

Perhaps you’re investing too much of yourself into it, I say. After all, this is plastic models we’re talking about.

I am not investing too much of myself into it, Düsseldorf says. Quite the opposite, I’m investing the exact significance and gravity it deserves. It’s you who are not investing enough into it.

Possibly, I say.

And it’s not plastic models we’re talking about, he says. We’re talking about the biggest war the world has ever seen. We’re talking about tens of millions of dead and even more with permanent injuries, myself included. We’re talking about Europe. Poor Europe. And about large parts of the rest of the world. Poor rest of the world. And then we’re talking about my father. We’re talking about him, Düsseldorf says, pointing to the tiny plastic soldier he has attached to a home-made stand under a large magnifying glass and which he is painting now in immense detail. The buttons on the uniform, the shirt sleeves barely poking out of the jacket, fingers, nails, everything in consistent naturalistic colours. Just the face is missing. Düsseldorf’s father’s face hasn’t been painted yet and I realise that now it is its turn. I’ve as good as decided that he’ll be smiling, Düsseldorf says. It hasn’t been an easy decision to make because there are several factors to suggest that he would not be smiling that day, but I still think he’s smiling as he drives through the town on his way to deliver a report to General Manteuffel, and he’s smiling because he’s thinking about his son, in other words me. He’s only seen me in a photograph, but he knows that I exist, and the fact that I exist makes him put on a tentative smile, to himself. It’s important that it shouldn’t be an unqualified beam because that doesn’t tie in with his circumstances. But nor must it be an inscrutable Mona Lisa-like grimace, which might mean anything. The teeth mustn’t show, but there shouldn’t be any doubt that he’s smiling, Düsseldorf says. He should be thinking that I’m learning to walk and feeling confident that the war will soon be over. As the sniper fires he should be sitting in the car and looking forward to seeing me.

Düsseldorf says all of this while applying a primary coat to his father’s face and without looking up.

I see, I say. That sounds like a good idea.

I’m not sure if it’s a good idea, Düsseldorf says, but that’s the way it’s going to be anyway.

Mm, I say and I notice a pile of empty pizza boxes on the kitchen worktop, and I assume that cooking is not high on the agenda in the Düsseldorf home during the day. By the way, have you had any dinner?

No dinner, says Düsseldorf.

Shall I make you some? I ask.

Thank you for offering, he says, but the only thing that tastes of anything at the moment is pizza, so if you want to ring for one, that would be kind of you. I don’t like to interrupt my work for anything so trivial. The telephone number’s on the fridge. Order the one with pepperoni and garlic, but without pineapple. I’ve never understood what pineapples have got to do with pizzas. It’s a rotten combination. And order one for yourselves if you fancy one.

I glance over at the sofa where both Gregus and Bongo have fallen asleep entwined, with the light from the TV news flickering over them. They had enjoyed the pleasurable part of the evening’s viewing and fell asleep to all the misery that was now washing over them.

I think we should be heading home, I say, going into the kitchen and ordering Düsseldorf’s pizza.

Thereafter I wake Bongo gently and lead him into the garden before carefully carrying Gregus out and placing him on Bongo’s back.

What are you doing for Christmas? Düsseldorf asks when I go back to thank him.

For Christmas I’m doing absolutely nothing, I say.

Then you might be interested in having a simple meal here with me on Christmas Eve, he says.

Not impossible, I say.

Let’s say it’s a deal then, Düsseldorf says, waving us off.

And in biblical fashion we make our way up to the tent. I place my jacket over Gregus and think I’m managing pretty well as a father despite the long break. That’s what I think.

As I hand over Gregus next day Nora thrusts a print-out into my hands from a website called The Elvish Name Generator. She’s entered my name, Andreas Doppler, and with the help of Tolkien’s I’m sure highly intricate and accurate linguistic logic the program has worked out that my elf name is Valandil Tîwele.

It sounds clearly Elvish, and I say thank you and ask if there is anything special she’s trying to say by giving me this. She shakes her head. She just wanted me to know, she says. She wanted me to keep at the back of mind that I have an elf name.

Fine, I say. I’ll certainly keep it at the back of my mind.

Afterwards I take my leave of Nora, Gregus and my wife who, by the way, had a fantastic long weekend in Rome. She revelled in classical culture and shopped for clothes and accessories, which obviously restored some of her sparkle. It’s astonishing to observe how much clothes and accessories can mean. A new accessory at the right moment can make all the difference. May God bless objects. My wife beams and twitters and for that reason I return to the forest in the dusk almost without a bad conscience. Gregus would have preferred to continue living with me in the tent, I know, but he can forget that. The forest is mine and I have to be alone there if I’m going to achieve what I want, I reflect, even though I’m not quite sure what it is I want.

You can have him for a bit at weekends, can’t you? my wife says.

In the forest there’s no difference between weekend and workdays, I say, so the answer’s no, or rather, nothing doing.

I’ll go up to the tent with him, she says.

Then you’ll have to be prepared for an arrow through the neck, I say.

I struggle to maintain motivation for a few days. I sit idly by the fire whittling away at arrows and wondering what I’m doing up there in the forest. From time to time I gently tousle Bongo’s coat and hum without enthusiasm. Going down to the house and being with Gregus has disrupted the good rhythm I had established. Now I’m out of balance again. I reflect that I’ve come a long way from where I was before the forest embraced me, if I can express myself like that. It’s pompous but nonetheless quite true. I was in all the usual places and did the usual things that people in Oslo do, and then all of a sudden the forest opened its arms and embraced me. It adopted me. And it was about time. I can see that now. I was becoming spiteful and annoying to those around me. I wasn’t the sort of person that Oslo would want to have in its streets. I didn’t radiate positive energy. I wasn’t a benefit to anyone. Neither to those nearest to me, nor my job nor the more diffuse greater society around me, nor the economic framework that governs it. I was becoming a burden, and then I was excluded. Nature is set up so ingeniously that it excluded me before I did any real damage. It’s an impressive system. Millennia of nature and culture have refined the mechanism in such a way that the likes of me are removed from the ranks. We are rendered harmless. Enemies of the people who are about to smash the fragile illusion of community and meaning are sent away to have another think. To sea, for example, or to the mountains, or behind some locked door, or as in my case: into the forest. It’s a cunning form of punishment which feels like a kind of reward at the same time.

This and more I think, sitting by the fire.

I have no idea to what extent these thoughts are rooted in reality. Nor if what we so boldly call reality exists at all. The only thing I can be fairly sure about is that the fire warms me and that a little moose by the name of Bongo lies at my feet purring, if that’s what you call it when moose emit sounds of pleasure.

And Christmas is upon us.

I can sense it because the afternoon is quieter than is normally the case. The population down in Oslo stops moving. They have arrived at the places where they are going to spend the next hours and that’s where they stay. I suppose this happens on only this one day of the year. And when it happens less noise reaches the forest from Oslo. The town becomes gentler, in a way. It becomes innocuous and tame. It eats from my hand. And then come the church bells. Ringing out of synch. Gradually they are attuned into one another and Bongo and I take the opportunity to exchange gifts. He gets a nice little hat that I made myself from crepe paper. It was sticking out of a rubbish bin a few days ago when I chanced by, as they say, and so I took it with me and later spent a few hours at night folding it into a cleverly designed hat. As for me, I don’t get a great deal. In fact, I get nothing at all, but my God, Bongo is a moose, I don’t doubt for a second that I would have got a terrific present if he’d understood what Christmas was. You’re a present in yourself, you are, Bongo, I say. Don’t worry your head about it. My present is you being here with me. And Merry Christmas.

When Düsseldorf opens the door to us I notice that he has enormous bags under his eyes and is wearing the same clothes I saw him in two weeks before.

Oh sod it, it’s Christmas, is the first thing he says.

He’s forgotten all about the Christmas dinner, but invites us in anyway, very embarrassed. He directs us to the sofa and nips down to the freezer and finds some cloudberries which he throws into the convector oven without taking them out of the bag. Then he hurriedly takes a seat at the piano and tries to cheer us, and himself, up with a few verses of a Christmas hymn,
Beauty Around Us
, but it’s just a mess.

I think perhaps we should go so that you can continue with the model, I say after a short time.

Do you really think so? Düsseldorf says, visibly relieved.

Yes, I say. You seem to have been very preoccupied with something.

Funny you should say that, he says, because that’s just what I was. It’s my father’s face. I think I’m onto something. I’m getting close. I’ve got the smile, and now it’s the eyes.

We both go over to the table where the stand holding the small plastic soldier is in the same position as before. There’s a photograph of his father beside it and it’s easy to see that Düsseldorf’s right when he says he’s onto something. There’s a frightening similarity between the figure and the man in the photograph.

I’m speechless, I say.

Mm, says Düsseldorf. There’s not a lot to say.

I’m sorry about the dinner, he says. We could try again on New Year’s Eve.

Don’t worry, I say. There will be more Christmases.

Let’s hope so, Düsseldorf says.

On the way out I take the cloudberries with me,  more frozen than thawed. Düsseldorf has enough presence of mind to tie a red ribbon around the freezer bag so that it doesn’t look so unlike a kind of gift.

Thank you, I say. And Merry Christmas.

Thank you and the same to you, Düsseldorf says.

Approaching the tent, I see that Toolman Roger has dropped by with a gift. He’s written a note to thank me for the DVD player and the DVDs. His kids were really pleased with them, he writes. I unwrap the present and find a picklock and have to swallow a couple of times. That’s what I call a pal. The rest of the day is spent slurping half-frozen cloudberries. Bongo goes to sleep early and I sit by the fire for a long time thinking that Düsseldorf sets an excellent example when it comes to honouring your father. My father ought to be honoured like that. Even though I didn’t know him. Or perhaps precisely because I didn’t know him. He went through life doing what he wanted. The same way I do. He was just there. As I am also just here.

If I don’t honour my father, no one will. I’m going to make a totem pole in his memory. Suddenly it’s all very clear to me that this may be the only right thing to do. I’ll carve it with my own hands and erect it here in the forest. I fall asleep as, in my mind’s eye, I rough out what a totem pole of this kind should look like.

Over Christmas we stay a lot of the time. It’s cold and unpleasant outside and the snow is still overdue. For the most part I sit in front of the fire whittling objects that fifty or a hundred years ago I could have sold in the town market during the summer, but today you can buy them for next to nothing in IKEA. Mass production has knocked the bottom out of the barter economy. It laughs at people like me. But I’m not going to give in. I keep whittling, and every now and then I try to teach Bongo a few simple words, but before long I realise that he hasn’t a hope. He can manage the occasional vowel if we’re not too strict about the articulation but he’s nowhere near pronouncing the consonants. You’ve got a long way to go, you have, Bongo, I say. No doubt about that. But I’ll be with you every step. You can be sure of that. I’ll be with you every step of the way.

On New Year’s Eve Düsseldorf hasn’t progressed much from where he was on Christmas Eve. The difference this time is that he knows it and on the doorstep he has placed a bottle of vodka with a red bow round. I’m getting there, it says on a card painted by mouth and foot artists. And Happy New Year. I take the hint and don’t knock, but I grab the bottle and head for the tent, where I drink myself senseless before going out to the pissing place and surveying Oslo, thinking that my resolutions for the New Year are to build a totem pole in memory of my father and otherwise do as little as humanly possible. I’m going to cultivate doing nothing to a level few have achieved before me. And I’m not going to return to civilisation, not bloody likely. And since I’m there I start shouting. I’m the King and the Prime Minister and I hold a speech to the nation. My dear compatriots, I shout, I don’t like you. Pull yourselves together. Raise your sights and stop being so bloody smug. And, you right-wingers, get rid of your sodding dogs and wipe off those self-satisfied smiles of yours, and start bartering. And cycling. We have to cycle and barter like buggery if we’re going to have any chance of surviving. And who owns the wind rustling in the trees and the flowers in the field? And may the Teletubbies burn in hell, and shit, I come to a halt, I’m too drunk to retain my train of thought through a New Year’s speech, but Løvenskiold, I shout, you give the forest back to the people because actually you don’t own it, no one should be able to own a forest, and Dad, I continue, you’ve gone and I didn’t know you and I feel alone, I’ve always felt alone and I push everyone away because I’m a prat like everyone else, and no one knows me and I fear no one will ever know me for as long as I live, and I give up and in the end I just shout shit, shit, shit until I lose my voice.