Doppler Page 6

  ‘OK, OK,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to be careful nevertheless.’

  ‘You should be careful yourself,’ I say.

  When I arrive home Nora has put Gregus to bed and is sitting watching TV. It’s a documentary programme about how all those who worked on the Lord of the Rings films made friendships for life. They miss each other terribly now the filming is over, and some of them are down and lack the motivation to tackle new projects. Nora thinks it’s sad, I can see. But she smiles to herself when the cast talk about wonderful, crazy things that were done and said in the make-up caravans and on the set. Life wasn’t always a bed of roses however. Often they had to get up at the crack of dawn and sit for hours having the big hobbit feet put on. And Peter, the director that is, always had time for everyone and made them feel competent and important even though his head was full of the larger narrative and of the staging options necessary to communicate it in the best possible way to all Tolkien lovers around the globe. An extraordinary man, Peter. Big, teddy bear-like, fun to the tips of his toes and at the same time extremely competent and normal. I suppose I am not quite in his class. Film production is one of the last things I should try my hand at. I can imagine that you need crystal clear vision and energy to spend years of your life steering it past all the obstacles, and you have to motivate a huge number of people to do their best, although they may not have anywhere near the same conception of the totality as you. It’s insanity, nothing less. The actors would hate me as much as I would hate them. I wouldn’t be able to take the story seriously. Battle scenes between non-existent creatures. What is that? I would have created an apprehensive and spiteful atmosphere on the set, and the film would have become an apprehensive and spiteful film. No Oscars coming its way. And no nice, well-to-do teenagers queuing to secure tickets for the premiere.

  It’s a very good thing it wasn’t me who made Lord of the Rings or any of the other films on release in the world. People are talented, it occurs to me. People get things done. And the world around me is going to continue being nice and talented whereas I’ve been nice and talented for the last time.

  How was the parents’ meeting? Nora asks at length.

  It was fine. Hear you’re going on a trip, I say. Exciting.

  She nods, listening to Liv Tyler learning Elvish on TV. It was demanding, we’re told. That’s all I needed. Not only is it a dead language but it’s a dead language that has never existed anywhere except in a diligent Englishman’s imagination.

  Elvish is a fantastically beautiful language, Nora says.

  Doubtless, I say.

  You can say so many things that you can’t say in other languages, she says.

  Such as? I ask.

  For example, I love you, she says. It sounds pathetic in Norwegian and in fact it’s beginning to sound pathetic in English, too, she opines.

  But in Elvish it just sounds wonderful.

  That may well be, I say. But how often do people of your age need to say they love someone? I ask.

  You know nothing about that, Nora says.

  I don’t, I say. That’s why I’m asking.

  It’s quite possible for someone to love another person even though they’re young, she says, piqued.

  And who is it possible for someone to love? I ask.

  Boyfriends perhaps, Nora says.

  Ha! I say.

  Or Peter Jackson, she says.

  I laugh my arse off.

  Against my will I have to spend the night in the house. To tell the truth, the plan had been to carry Gregus up to the tent in my backpack while he slept but nice, conscientious Nora stopped me. Now they’re both asleep and I have palpitations thinking about poor Bongo not knowing where I am. The little moose will be running around feeling all alone. He won’t be able to go into the tent, either. After all he hasn’t got any hands. It’s pretty limited what a moose can manipulate, from a fine-motor co-ordination point of view.

  Apart from illicit visits to Düsseldorf’s house and the odd trip to ICA it’s six months since I have been in a building. My appetite isn’t whetted at all. I walk around, restless. Fill my rucksack with the tools and dry foods I may need. Watch a spot of TV; there is the usual rich selection of tennis matches and reconstructed crimes and more or less fictional stories about the vicissitudes of human life. For me, watching TV is a compilation of all the reasons why I don’t like people. TV is a concentrated form of everything that is repulsive about us. Those human qualities which in real life are already difficult to reconcile yourself with stick out like a sore thumb when they appear on TV. People seem like idiots. On TV even I would have looked like an idiot.

  Everything which is human is alien to me.

  Before my fall in the forest I spent my evenings at home with the family. I have always shunned organised leisure activities. So almost every evening was spent at home. We ate, watched children’s TV, put Gregus to bed and then sat in front of the TV leafing through more or less interesting newspapers until the clock told us that it was time to pay bills on the Net. Always plenty of bills. Electricity, council tax, telephone, newspapers, plumber and nursery, as well as Nordberg Tennis Club which we regularly had deliver sixty-four toilet rolls straight to the door. We liked that. The old men up there keeping themselves busy with the organisation of the club. When they aren’t maintaining or using the courts they drive around delivering toilet rolls to the neighbouring district. It’s a kind of job for them. In that way they keep themselves alive and we have paper to wipe our bottoms with. But now I realise with a satanic grin that I have paid my last bill. I will never ever pay a bill again. Neither on the Net, nor in any other way. I will live from bartering or thieving or the forest. And when I’m gone the forest will live from me. That’s the deal.

  I sleep fully dressed on the sofa, but wake after a while to sounds at the veranda door. Someone is fiddling with the lock. Fascinated, I sit up on the sofa and study the technique. After a few minutes, and without any noise of note, a man comes into the sitting room. It takes some time for him to realise I’m there.

  Good evening you there, I say.

  He is startled, but gathers his wits.

  OK, he says. You don’t need to be frightened. I’m not violent. I’ll be on my way right now. See, I’m going. He says moving towards the veranda door.

  Just come in, I say, going into the kitchen and putting on the kettle.

  Coffee? I shout.

  Thank you very much, he says. But I don’t know. Perhaps I ought to be moving on.

  Join me now you’re here, I say, stretching out my hand.

  Name’s Doppler, I say. Andreas Doppler.

  I can see he thinks the situation is awkward, but in the end he proffers his hand.

  Roger, he says.

  Just Roger?

  I’m a bit chary about giving my surname, he says, but folk call me Toolman Roger. I used to work with scrap.

  Interesting, I say.

  You know what I’m doing here, don’t you? he asks.

  Yes, I say.

  So you’re not kind of backward? he asks.

  No more than your average Joe, I say. Let’s have a look at the tools you brought with you.

  He holds out a bunch of various picklocks attached to quite a large key ring which in turn hangs from the end of an extendable ski lift card attachment, the type you often see in the Alps. This guy knows his way around, I think to myself.

  Do you take anything in your coffee?

  No thanks, he says.

  I can’t tempt you with something a bit stronger? I ask, hoping the flask of ethanol is still in the basement workshop.

  Not when I’m working, says Toolman Roger.

  Come on, I say. Drop your shoulders for heaven’s sake. It’s clean stuff.

  He looks at his watch.

  A little one then, he says

  The alcohol is in its usual place and I pour us both one.

  So you’re out and about robbing? I say.

  Yes, Roger says. I like this ar
ea. Lots of valuables and very few alarms. Higher up it’s right-winger country with alarms everywhere, but down here folk vote left and think about the good in people, and they’re rolling in it, too. For me that’s an unbeatable combination. And you live here, do you? he asks.

  Not at all, I say.

  I see, he says. But you’re spending the night here?

  That’s exactly what I’m doing, I say. I used to live here. And my wife and my children still live here.

  Divorce, he says, nodding. Sorry to hear that. I know about all that.

  No, I say. We’re still married, but I’ve moved up into the forest. I live there in a tent with a little moose.

  OK, he says, looking at his watch again.

  I give him some more coffee and alcohol.

  Tell me about your occupation, I say.

  There’s not much to say, he says.

  I don’t believe you, I say. You break into houses and steal people’s things. You must be able to tell me something about it.

  Well, he says, taking a swig. I try to do it in a decent way. I recce first and only enter where I know there’s something worth having. I don’t touch personal items. Never break anything. I know how unpleasant it is when burglars have been in people’s houses and turned everything upside down. Of course I know some who do that, but I’ve always distanced myself from that kind of behaviour. By the way, is it alright if I smoke?

  Smoke away, I say. My wife’s in Rome.

  I put the kettle on again, fetch an ashtray and pour another round.

  I don’t know that I should have any more, he says. I’m driving.

  You can take a taxi, I say. For once. Then you can pick up your car tomorrow. Underground to Ullevaal Stadium and over the footbridge. A doddle.

  OK, Roger says. Go on then.

  And the swag, I say. I suppose you spend it on drugs, do you?

  Now you disappoint me, Roger says. You’re tarring all burglars with the same brush. I don’t touch illegal substances. I’ve got a family like you. But I don’t have an unblemished record or education or anything else that might look convincing on a CV. Not only that, I’ve got a problem taking orders from others. There aren’t many jobs I can get and the ones I can get I often don’t want. But I try to steer clear of criminal elements. Which means there are not many opportunities left, apart from operating on your own. And I’m doing fine. I’m making ends meet. And by and large folk get their money back off the insurance.’

  It turns out that Roger is a great guy. He teaches me a bit about picking locks and gives me a handful of other tips about housebreaking. The more we talk and drink, the better I like him. The alcohol flows and we discover we have several mutual interests, especially as regards the open air life, forests and the countryside, and in the private confidences department Roger has been convinced for some time that he’ll get prostate cancer like his father, he says, and he’s not too keen on that, but recently he read that if you have 20-25 ejaculations a month that reduces the risk considerably. So he makes sure he has orgasms all over the place and he’s found out that he particularly likes squirting his sperm on things that are not designed to be squirted on. It could be anything actually, he says, books, journals, crockery, anything at all, and the best thing about it is that his partner goes along with it. Roger squirts all over the flat and she’s fine about it.

  As day breaks I ask him what he had his eye on in this house.

  You’ve got a Primare stereo set, he says.

  True, I say.

  Primare are good, he says. Swedish hi-fi at its best.

  And you’d been thinking of nicking the lot? I ask.

  I had, he says. The car’s parked around the corner and I’d been thinking of transporting it in two or three trips.

  Speakers as well?

  Yes, he says. Audiovektor are good kit, too. Danish quality. There are a lot of Scandinavian hi-fi products in this area. That means money. You can just imagine what it costs to produce that kind of quality in our part of the world with our wage levels. It’s obvious it’s going to be expensive. But it has to be good. For you people it’s not enough to listen to Bach or whatever the hell it is you listen to on equipment from Asia. That’s just not good enough. You want that bit extra. And that costs thousands.

  Which particular bit are you after? I ask.

  That would have to be the combined CD and DVD player, he says.

  Take it, I say. In a way I’ve ruined your night. You’ve lost earnings because of me. So you can just take it.

  No, he says. That’s too much. I don’t want to.

  Yes, you do, I say. Just take it. My wife listens to the radio a lot, so I’m a bit reluctant to part with that, and the radio won’t work without the amplifier of course, and it would be daft without the speakers, but you can have the CD/ DVD player. And I would appreciate it if you would take my son’s DVD collection while you’re at it. He has the full range including Bob the Builder, Pingu, the Teletubbies, Thomas the Tank Engine and more. I’ll guarantee any modern child would be thrilled to have it. Have you got kids yourself?

  I’ve got two, Roger says proudly and tells me their names and shows me photos he keeps in his wallet.

  Good for you, I say, wondering where the box for the CD/DVD player and the warranty are.

  I give Roger instructions on how to find my tent and he promises to visit me up there, and when he leaves I stand on the terrace and wave to the taxi as it disappears from view.

  Straight afterwards Gregus wakes up and comes downstairs to watch a film as he often does in the morning before going to nursery school.

  Sorry, Gregus, I say. There’s no film today. During the night a thief came and stole the DVD player and all your films.

  Of course, he begins to cry and insists on us phoning the police. Without a moment’s hesitation I grab the phone and pretend I’m making a dramatic call to the police and in the conversation let drop that they haven’t caught him yet, but they have a full-scale search on. After putting down the phone I tell him I think this thief was quite a kind thief. A bit like the robbers in Cardamom Town. Basically good at heart. Let him keep the DVD player, I say. He needed it more than we did. And you can start saving up for a new one, I say. Anyway, you would soon have grown out of the films you had. Chin up. Look upon this as an opportunity, as a new beginning. As a Norwegian poet once said: It’s the dream. Slipping into an unfamiliar bay in the early morning. That’s what we’re doing now, Gregus, I say. That’s what we’re doing today.

  I deliver Gregus and the fruit to the nursery and then jog up to the forest to show Bongo I’m still alive. He’s lying outside the tent, wet and cold, and I invoke higher powers and say it will never happen again, but Bongo is disappointed and fed up and remains aloof and dismissive until I have rubbed his fur for an hour in front of the fire and hummed snatches of old songs from our rich folk music heritage. Then we both fall asleep and when we awake it’s already afternoon and we have to run to get to the nursery before it closes. I have neither the time nor the heart to tether Bongo at the edge of the forest, so he comes along. The nursery person rolls her eyes as I apologise for being late, but I quickly gather up Gregus’s things and extricate myself from the situation without any further conflict and with some elegance, I think. This is Bongo, I say to Gregus after we have put a bit of distance between ourselves and the nursery. True he’s a moose, but nonetheless he’s a good friend of mine and therefore of yours too, I explain. It doesn’t take Gregus and Bongo long to get to know each other. Mentally they are the same age and they chase each other in and out of the trees as we head up the mountainside. When Gregus is tired he’s allowed to sit on Bongo’s back while I walk ahead holding Bongo by a rope. From a distance we probably look like a slice of bible history. Joseph, a strange donkey and a tiny, child-like Maria.

  Gregus is a woodsman like his father. It’s innate. The hunter-gatherer instincts are deeply rooted in his genes as they are in mine. We grill meat on a spit and relax, resting against Bo
ngo’s flanks, but as the hour of children’s TV approaches I notice that his body begins to twitch. He hasn’t got a watch and he can’t tell the time anyway, but still the impulse is there, it’s physical and tangible. He knows that there’s something going on, but is unable to express it in words. I say nothing, and children’s TV comes and goes without Gregus knowing what has come and gone. Gradually his unease passes and he runs off to play with Bongo outside the tent. He collects fir cones in the dark and I can hear from their conversation that he feels they’re collecting cones together, even though Bongo is not able to collect anything at all. As bedtime approaches we play a round of animal lotto. Of course Bongo loses again, and for a moment I consider letting Gregus win, but it crosses my mind that victory can easily lead to the kind of one-upmanship all those nice people suffer from, so in the end it is me who wins and what’s more I rub it in by making it quite clear that it was me who won and not him. Then he falls asleep in my sleeping bag beside the fire. I sit for a while and look at him in the light from the flames, thinking with pleasure that I definitely like him. I like my son and enjoy his company.

  The next morning I hear sounds outside the tent. I take Bongo with me and go out and see a right-wing voter dressed in weekend breeches with a dog. He eyes the tent with annoyance.

  You know you can’t have a tent up for more than three nights in the same place, he says. I know, I say.

  I suspect this tent has been up for much longer, he says.

  Maybe, I say. And while we’re at it I would prefer it if you didn’t walk by here again.