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  I take a little break from what I’m doing, think about how to answer and how to get rid of him as quickly as possible.

  I don’t know you, I say. But based on the little I’ve seen, I can’t see any positive qualities in you.

  None? the reactionary asks.

  Well, I say. I suppose you took it pretty well when the arrow got you in the thigh, and also coming out here to live in the forest is possibly a positive quality in itself, but choosing this particular part of the forest loses you points, so all in all you don’t come off that well there either.

  He thinks about this a bit, then walks off to his tent.

  Day 2:

  Same situation. I’m chopping away and he turns up.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said yesterday, he says. About me not having any positive qualities. And I think you’re right. I haven’t any positive qualities. I’m a nothing. I’ve wasted my life.

  Easy now, I say. You’re down in the dumps at the moment. That’s all. I’m sure you’ve got loads of unique qualities and talents and all that. But perhaps the forest is not the best showcase for all those fine attributes you have inside you.

  He walks off to his tent.

  Day 3:

  I’m eating lunch and he comes over earlier than usual, silky-smooth.

  I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday, he says. About my unique qualities and talents and all that. You’re right. I am unique and talented. And you’re unique, too. We’re both unique. Everyone is unique.

  In a way, I say. But unique just means unique. It doesn’t mean good.

  Day 4:

  He turns up as I’m having a piss.

  I’ve been thinking about what you said about unique not necessarily meaning good, he says.

  I carry on pissing.

  You’re right, he says. It’s not much good being unique if you don’t do what’s right.

  There’s no such thing as right and wrong, as such, I say. It depends on who you are and when.

  He leaves but comes back again after an hour.

  I’ve been thinking about what you said about there being no such thing as right or wrong, as such, he says. And I believe you’re right. I believe it all depends on the situation.

  On and on he goes. The poor wretch is at a low ebb. I don’t know how I can help him. He distracts me and he irritates me a lot. At the same time I feel sorry for him. The poor reactionary voter has spent all his life accumulating worldly goods and chattels and preserving the status quo, then all of a sudden he breaks down and no one in his clique is aware of it and comes to his aid. It’s like landing back in teenagerhood after a long life. You don’t recognise yourself any more. Your body feels alien and scary. All the things you’re used to being and having seem repulsive, and you can’t just snap your fingers and change into someone else, for once you’ve played your hand, you’ve played your hand, that’s it. It’s truer than you think. That bloody hand. And I’m in the same boat myself, even though I might not appear quite as pitiful as the reactionary. But who knows?

  But then it doesn’t matter anyway.

  Unfortunately, though, the reactionary is not the only disruptive element. Gregus is back. He’s been here a couple of weeks. He legged it from the nursery and was observed approaching the outskirts of the forest. After making his way through more than a kilometre of residential housing. The police stopped him and drove him home. But he got stroppy and my wife, now with a swollen belly, arranged for her brother, in other words my brother-in-law, who incidentally is a man I dislike more actively than most, to ski up here with the sleigh and leave Gregus with me. He wanted to be in the forest with Bongo and me, come hell or high water, and now he’s here and he’s having a whale of a time. He’s never been happier. He helps me with the totem pole and he’s so touchingly patient. We’ve come to the joint decision that he’ll be one of the central motifs. He’ll have pride of place at the very top. Sitting on top of Bongo. I’ve already sketched in his outline. I think it’s going to turn out fine. Gregus will undoubtedly give the whole some meaning. Three generations of Doppler. Plus Bongo. The totem pole will contain elements of greatness. Our descendants will walk past it and bow their heads in reverence. That was the time when Doppler was Doppler, they’ll be thinking. And especially if later generations of Dopplers degenerate in the way that I suspect they will. I will represent a pinnacle in Doppler production. Little old me. And I don’t even like people. However, even though parts of me think it’s fine that Gregus is here, there is still quite a large part that wants to be alone in the forest, and it’s having a hell of a struggle with this new situation.

  As if the reactionary hadn’t made things complicated enough already.

  On top of all this, Düsseldorf has announced his appearance. He skies round here several times a week and occasionally he stays the night. After Norway Countrywide featured him in the programme, he’s suffered a bit of a downer. He feels he sold himself too cheaply. He feels that his life is imbued with a greater complexity than Norway Countrywide managed to get across in the five minutes he was on air. They were not able to sound out the real depths of his fatherless existence. It was no more than a feature story about model-building. Like any other Norway Countrywide story about model-building. He was portrayed as a man with a somewhat out of the ordinary hobby.

  Poor Düsseldorf. I feel truly sorry for him. I can’t bring myself to say that I would prefer to be on my own. I lend him a groundsheet and a woollen blanket and sit up until the early hours listening to him. I talk as well. We exchange experiences, one might say. About being us. Maybe he’s the closest thing I will ever have to a kind of friend, even though of course I would have preferred it if he wasn’t here.

  Those evenings when the reactionary is here, too, are really strange. He goes on about his festival of brotherhood and it’s clear from both Düsseldorf’s and my face that few things could interest us less. You’ve missed the boat, I say. Let the people from the various religions be mutually suspicious, blow each other to smithereens and stick to their beliefs. Sit back and think about something else. But the reactionary thinks about this with an earnestness that borders on my daughter’s devotion to Tolkien. He’s obsessed with the thought of making amends. He’s been a superficial pillock, and now he has to dig deep if he’s going to put things right again.

  And then we play lotto. Gregus is asleep at one edge of the lavvu tent, Bongo and the reactionary dog lie curled up together at the entrance, while the reactionary, Düsseldorf and I sit in the light of the bonfire playing animal lotto. I feel like a teacher on a school trip.

  By the way, Bongo and the reactionary dog are under the delusion they’re sweethearts. They hang out together all the time and I have the impression they’re planning to have children. Bongo appears smitten and distant, and thus far I haven’t had the heart to explain to him that the reactionary dog is a dog and not a moose.

  And in the midst of all this the totem pole is beginning to take shape. We’re working on Dad’s arms. They have to be carved separately and fitted into the side of his body. This is a technique I by no means master and I make several mistakes before finally getting them to look passable. My totem father is given some short bird’s wing-like arms which would be useless anywhere else but on a totem pole. But in a way his life was like that, too, I think. He was useless in the same way that most of us are, and in many ways he will be shown more to his advantage on a totem pole. It is actually his very uselessness that is being honoured. That’s what I’m building a monument to.

  Düsseldorf, who was already feeling quite depressed, hits rock bottom when the father of the young man who performs national anthems phones to say he’s going to report Düsseldorf to the police if he ever contacts his son again. And he can forget all about the coastal cruise. That’s completely out of the question. But no doubt you would have liked that, you old lecher, the agitated father says. My son and you in a cramped cabin surrounded by high mountains and deep fjords. Düsse
ldorf can’t get a word in, and he is completely shattered when he comes up to the tent after this telephone conversation.

  It’s a cruel, cruel world, I say, when your motives are called into question without any right of reply. When a sincere wish for friendship is mistaken for sordid scheming.

  It shouldn’t be like that.

  But that’s how it is, says Düsseldorf.

  Yes, I say. People eat each other and that’s that.

  Why do you say that? asks Düsseldorf.

  I don’t really know, I say. But the context seemed to fit.

  Düsseldorf nods, and quietly repeats it under his breath.

  You’re right, he says. It fits.

  The reactionary wants to be just like me. He probably doesn’t realise it himself, but there are powerful forces in him which quite simply want to be me. It’s totally absurd, but he has actually begun to carve his own totem pole. The good thing about this is that I don’t see so much of him. All I hear is the sound of him chipping away. I think he’s been home to fetch some tools, and I fear I’m going to end up borrowing some of them because that’s less energy-sapping than sneaking about in reactionary territory at night picking locks to get into garages and tool sheds. The bad side is that it’s pathetic.

  You’re pathetic, I say.

  The forest belongs to everyone, he says.

  We don’t disagree about that, I say, but the way in which you ape me is pathetic. It’s a mystery to me why you’re not ashamed of yourself. Surely you don’t seriously believe that you hit on the idea of building a totem pole all on your own?

  As I understand it, you’re erecting a totem pole in memory of your father, he says, whereas this is intended to be a peace totem pole, and that’s quite different. It’s meant to signify how important it is that people from different religions can begin to talk together.

  Enjoy, I say.

  The reactionary has also intimated that he would be interested in acquiring a moose. Preferably a calf. And preferably one that resembles Bongo. He’s even asked if he could buy Bongo. That, of course, is completely out of the question. The likes of Bongo are not for sale at any price, and I’ve told him that he can stick his filthy lucre, but then he doubles and triples the price to test me. By the end, he was up around the seventy thousand kroner mark. He felt Bongo was worth that. I turned down the offer, obviously, and since then he has been very curt with me. I suppose he feels a little hurt. He’s used to money opening doors, so when he sees it closing them, he takes the attitude that the world is against him and this is difficult to swallow.

  I can’t stay here any longer. I have to move on. But I want to finish the totem pole before I go. You can’t stop honouring your father just because soul-searching reactionaries and other disruptive elements start flooding in. I’m going to have to grit my teeth and finish off what I’m doing. After that I’ll pack my bags and make my getaway before anyone knows what’s going on. I move up a gear. Work double shifts. Gregus tries to keep up, but because of his tender years he needs twice as much sleep as me. And I get most done in the hours when he’s asleep. But when he’s awake we hit it off fine nonetheless. We talk about all sorts of things and, to be honest, he’s no fool, neither with respect to conversation nor carpentry. I’m not going to make any bones about it, he is smart, but I don’t give him any direct compliments. He gets the occasional pat on the shoulder with a bit of muted encouragement. I just quietly let him know that I’m pleased with him. And I really am. He’s far and away the best thing I’ve ever had a hand in creating, and as long as all this smartness doesn’t catch up with him he’s all set to do well in life. Really I ought to keep him up here with me, as down with his mother, sister and other people he’ll inevitably embark upon the road to conventionality. He needs me as a counterweight. He badly needs that. I’m thinking a lot about this just now. Weighing up the pros and cons. I have a desperate need to be on my own, but consideration for Gregus is also weighing on my mind. I don’t reach a clear conclusion.

  And the days pass. It’s not just the odd kilo of wood we’re chipping off. The chips are flying in all directions and lie like a blanket over the snow which itself lies like a blanket over the ground. Blanket upon blanket. I ought to start writing poetry.

  One day, a Sunday it slowly occurs on me, my brother-in-law skis by to see us. He arrives at a time when Gregus, I and Düsseldorf are all busy working on the totem pole. I’m carving and the two others are filing and sanding. And from the other side of a clump of trees we can hear the rhythmic axe blows of the reactionary. My brother-in-law remarks that we seem a pretty cool bunch, and he adds that it’s good to see that I’m not so alone any more. As for him, he’s covered quite a bit of ground and dropped by several cabins and can report that there are quite a few people on the move outside the city. And, by the way, he says, a message from my wife, she expects Gregus and me to be back down in Oslo by the middle of April, by which she means the 15th. That’s when she’s due and by that time this farce will have been going on for long enough, he says. His sister is not the kind you can just marry and then do a runner when you feel like it. Other people’s sisters maybe, but not his.

  I nod.

  And if you’re not there, I’ll come and get you, he says.

  No problem, I say.

  I can see that my brother-in-law is relieved. He had no doubt expected more resistance. Maybe he had been dreading it, but then everything turns out fine, pleasant almost. The reason for this is that I’m lying. But he doesn’t know that. A lie is a splendid device, far too seldom used. It’s incredibly effective. You say one thing and you mean something completely different. Fantastic.

  When my brother-in-law leaves I stand on the trunk of the totem pole and wave him goodbye in a friendly, brother-in-law-like manner, but as soon as he turns away I pull tiny faces at him, and of course Gregus sees this.

  Why did you do that, Dad? he asks.

  Do what? I ask.

  You did this with your face, he says, mimicking me.

  Düsseldorf follows the conversation without saying a word, but I suspect that he’s eager to see how I will tackle the situation. I’ve told him on several occasions how intensely negative my attitude to my brother-in-law is and I’ve recounted anecdotes about how hopeless our relationship has been over the years.

  I got a midge in my eye, I say, but can see Düsseldorf discreetly shaking his head. That one won’t wash.

  There aren’t any midges here, says Gregus. As bloody logical as always.

  OK, OK, I say. I did it because I think Uncle Tom is, I hesitate, a bit of a drag. We’re very different. We don’t really speak the same language. At times he can be alright, such as when he helped me to build the garage, but at other times he’s short on grey matter, to put it bluntly. And right now I’m tending to think the latter.

  Düsseldorf discreetly nods to applaud my directness.

  Got a nice cabin, though, Gregus says.

  True enough, I say.

  APRIL AND MAY

  Things are going progressively downhill around here. Düsseldorf has begun to drink quite heavily. He’s shuttling between the vinmonopol and the tent. He’s got himself a pair of snowshoes. He also brings back food, especially takeaway pizzas, and that helps to buoy the mood. There’s not much left of Bongo’s mother, and out of consideration for Bongo I don’t think I can kill another moose for the time being. I could bag a deer maybe, but they’re so bloody shy. And of course there aren’t any bears or wolves up here. The authorities have fenced them all in farther east to make it easier for the indigenous population to exterminate them on the quiet.

  There has been a lot of snow this winter, but now it’s melting away in chunks by the day. When the snow has gone, I’m off. Then nobody will be able to follow my tracks. Then I’ll be free.

  Gregus has grown tired of the totem pole and spends most of his time inside the tent. Armed with a pile of newspapers for lighting the fire, and a few tips from a drunken Düsseldorf, Gregus has learn
ed to read. Goodness me, it’s frightening how this drive to achieve is embedded in the genes. There’s no stopping it. It finds its own way. Just like water, it erodes any obstacles in its path and gets to wherever it wants to go. For me this is the last straw. If he can read at the age of four before you know it he’s going to be doing quadratic and cubic equations. He has to be stopped. His urge to conform has to be nipped in the bud. Gregus is not going down to civilisation. He’s going to stay in the forest with me. And I’m going to start lighting the fire with birch bark. The newspapers will have to be burned right away, so if Gregus wants to do some more reading he will have to write the texts himself. He’ll have to carve them in bark or write them in blood. That’ll put the skids under his reading pursuits, I reckon.

  We don’t see much of the reactionary. He’s already finished his totem pole. It’s an eyesore and very unlikely to be used anywhere on earth to create peace. We helped him to erect it a few days ago. We had to light a fire to thaw the ground under the snow, but somehow we finally got it up. There it stands as a shining monument to the reactionary’s failed act of penance and forlorn search. Now he’s now gone back to the people to pin posters to notice boards in shops, vegetarian restaurants and on lamp posts, inviting people to come to the festival of brotherhood which is to be held here on 16th and 17th May. Luckily, Gregus and I will not be here at that time. We’ll be over the hills and far away by then. So they can form all the brotherhoods they want on their own. Why he’s chosen to hold the festival at the same time as Independence Day I’ve no idea. The combination of religion and the founding of the Constitution is even more repulsive of course, but I think he should just get on with it. I’m not going to form any brotherhoods with anyone. That’s for bloody certain.

  To complete the chaos up here, Toolman Roger has also turned up. His girlfriend has kicked him out. She’d had enough of him squirting his sperm all over the place. As ill luck would have it, he squirted over a book that his girlfriend had just unwrapped and was looking forward to reading. That was one squirt too far, and now he’s here by the fire drinking with Düsseldorf. They’ve become pally and Roger is complaining that his girlfriend didn’t make her views clear enough. He had begun to sense that perhaps she didn’t think all the squirting was so amusing any more, but he didn’t get the requisite unambiguous signals for him to stop. Only a few days ago, for example, he had squirted on a bill from the Norwegian Automobile Association, and both of them had had a good laugh at that. So why not a book from the book club? That’s women for you, says Roger. It’s impossible to know where you stand with them. Something that has been okay for ages is suddenly wrong. It changes from one second to the next.