Hunger’s Protagonist: Day Two

The day coming in through the window was dim. The latitude had me uncertain: for five hours I believed it was six o’clock in the morning as she slept quietly next to me. I read about the dead king. ‘Breakfast is served until ten,’ the man had reiterated after ignoring last night’s complaint about the bathtub. We got a coffee and walked west towards the harbour. The sun fell in a perfect slant over everything. After the interminable heat of London, Oslo was cool and not so exhausted but shuffling with mourners. Karl Johans gt. was a pilgrimage of respect towards det Kongelige Slott, people carrying bouquets or a singular flower, barriers being positioned, large planters having their cavities filled with bright green plants. We walked between streams of schoolchildren and old people. Red men held us at every crossing. Sunlight dappled through the trees and onto the cobblestones. If I grew frustrated, she reminded me that we were on holiday and gently squeezed my hand. I was calmer hand-in-hand. We ate skillingsboller on a bench within the palace grounds and watched a group of mothers and their children play peacefully on the grass between the winding queue of mourners.

Aker Brygge was busy with sunlight and life. We peed in the Nasjonalmuseet then walked through time. It was all warmth and low-end sounds as though we were Jonah. I was grateful for the peace, to hang back just behind her, each of us pointing out what we would steal, what we liked, what we did not, what would work in our living room, our bathroom. I could have walked many miles through the Nasjonalmuseet with her, occasionally holding hands, kissing, taking a seat upon the silence, catching our breath, dispersing and rejoining. We were together until we got to the modern age (1970’s onwards) and then she disappeared. It took me a time to find her.

We ate our lunch in a glasshouse. There was a man outside in high-vis smoking cigarettes, getting warmer and warmer. He put his back against the glass.

So this is it, this is the end of Sult? I asked myself. And what did it look like back then? It does not matter if the tourists toss & turn, the wind tumults, one woman asks another to take her photograph; it is all here or it is there. It was long ago and it was cold. All flags were at half-mast; the wind off the fjords took them carefully in its hands, held them aloft, kept them bold. We walked along the harbour until it was just us. It was just us, then it was not. It was frightfully quiet so I worried we might be lost. So what? If we were lost, I knew that north would save us. Back in the city, besides the station, we rested our legs. H— suggested we go to a photobooth that had HERE! HERE! HERE! in lights above it. It was silly but we had fun. After two minutes, I recoiled at the sight of myself on the strip. H— told me not to, but it was too late. She called me handsome but I did not believe her.

It was just us two. In the midst of the city, it was just us two. If it was them or you, it did not matter because it was just us two. On a rough outline of made beds undone by housekeeeping, we dozed, brushed our hair and went out for dinner. There were people on first dates. There was us on our first holiday together. The eastern streets of the city came separately; shelters, outreach and parks that swum sweetly in an orange light from the edges. On the way back we stopped at a bar that played british music from twenty years ago. It reminded me of Botticelli and clumsy handjobs. All around us was gay conversation, however when I tried to engage her it wilted on a limb and all we had was mute. I thought of people looking at us and thinking that we had nothing to say and were sad people, how they pitied us! and I felt sick. It might be nice if I vomited right there & then, because, sometimes, to vomit is such a relief. I pulled out my phone and messaged my cousin—

I could have cried; I missed her so much—

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’

We walked home together, sweetly. It was wonderful until another Norwegian walked rudely into us. I cursed at them. H— let go of my hand. It became another incident. Right then, stripped of her comfort and miles away from my cat, I thought that at least the air was cold. I clung to the cold air. There was not much else. But, oh, the air was perfect! After months of heatwaves, the cold air was heaven. It was another country. I was quite alone.