Jeg skrev første utgave av romanen «Way» allerede rundt milleniumsskiftet. En stund etter dette utvidet og bearbeidet jeg teksten, og flere år senere, i 2007, ferdigstilte jeg romanen og publiserte den på det daværende nettstedet world-wide-way.com.
«Way» inneholder en god del bibel- og troskritikk. Dette har jeg trukket frem tidligere. Beretningen handler om en gymnasiast – hovedpersonen Terry – som har store problemer med sin kristne tro som han etterhvert ikke lenger klarer å forsvare. Spesielt ikke overfor sin verdslige bror, den raljerende og godlynte ateisten Benjamin. Men romanen inneholder også mange livsfilosofiske betraktninger og generelle observasjoner i livet. Den adresserer en rekke temaer; menneskelige relasjoner, kjærlighetsforhold, skolesystem, fotballkunst, maksimal trivsel til enhver tid, ambisjoner, menneskesinnet, familiesamhold, vilje og en del annet.
Nedenfor følger noen utdrag fra romanen som ikke omhandler bibel- og troskritikk. I første del av romanen er Terry fortellerstemmen. I andre del er Benjamin fortellerstemmen.
Del 1:
They never knew what to expect when I opened my mouth, nor where it might lead. At the end of the day, anything could happen.
My brother came to his doctor with a credible description of his daily life. He left that doctor with a name for it. Within five minutes, he hadn’t said anything other than that he was having a tough time. By the time he came home, he had received the written proof that he was no longer having a «tough time». He was sick, and there were lots of weird words involved.
I had talked about a Frida or a Tommy who had decided that they were going to toughen up. Be brave. Stand up and say what they really meant. «Right, Tommy. But you’ve always been shy. That’s not you», people had told him. Tommy was phoney, they told him right away. He tried to be something that he wasn’t. He wasn’t himself, they said. I started talking about Tommy again then. (..) «What was Tommy, if not those decisions that he made on the spur of the moment, and lived by after? Call his self-confidence a mask if you want to – he wore it, if so, consciously and with pride. Was he born to be shy? Was his bashfulness an indication of his permanent, unchangeable ‘I’? Show me the logic, and I’ll fight with my only weapon,» I said, and bordering on the theatrical, firmly insisted that, «I control my own thinking. Therefore, I am master of my own ‘I’.»
The class probably thought that I was an arrogant guy at times, but I felt they respected me for the most part. Terry Way was certainly a self-proclaimed candidate for state leadership with a prevailing preference for himself, but he was fair and never took sides. He bowed to no one, and above all, Terry was cheerful, and had no reservations about putting his hand on a stranger’s cheek.
During the previous day’s discussion hour, I had shamelessly, yet respectfully, insisted that [Rachel Bloom’s] father lived a lie. (..) «It’s a legitimate conclusion,» I had said to my class. Then I really got on the wrong side of her with respect to her father. «‘I was young myself once, Terry. Wait until you get older.’ Class, Mr. Bloom said that to me with pride almost. He unreservedly used parts of last year’s graduation speech to tell me how naive and full of dreams he had been as a lad, on a restless quest for absolute truths that he could base his life upon. He gaily made fun of his youth and himself, apparently without realizing it. That way of looking at things was completely foreign to him, so it had nothing to do with wounding his honour. It was simply about being humble enough to admit to one’s mistakes. The life-long experience of those who were older should overcome one’s absolute certainty in one’s principles. That is what made honour. «I scrutinized him while he taught me,» I had said. «There was a kind, yet contemptuous quality about him. Mr. Bloom was a survivor – one who had the ability to make a victory out of a loss. Maybe at one time he had had a girlfriend that he had shared grand predictions with. Eventually, he was forced to take stock of his life. He had not succeeded. He was neither a chess champion nor a professional soccer player. Success hadn’t come. His great prophecies had not been fulfilled. The path to a comfortable sofa and a well-deserved, cold drink seemed long. Edward Bloom wanted to die. «Then one day, he saw a glimmer of hope. Humility. He had been an egotist. He had strived to reap the glory of his own flesh, and so failure was the deserved outcome. Why had he stopped caring for his surroundings, his fellow man? Rather than lying down then, he rose up and became a pillar of society, a soldier of solidarity. The ballot box and the socialist party ticket became a natural combination. «But humility wasn’t a truth. It was just a way to deaden, and eventually, get rid of the pain. A hypocrisy that can’t be ignored, unfortunately. Rather than smiling in resignation in the shadow of the thoughts of his youth, Edward Bloom should have praised the brave attempts of his youth to establish principles. He should have nodded and smiled warmly at the thought of that kid who had once critically and with difficulty developed an opinion on the basis of his own sensitivities and impressions, and the experiences of his father, grandfather and teacher. He should have been proud of his young mind,» I had said to an attentive class. «It could be that, after a while, Edward wanted to experience things that didn’t coincide with his worldview, and because of which, for the sake of fairness, he was necessarily forced to overturn his previous conclusions. However, that didn’t mean that it was a given that the preparatory work on the principles of his youth was carried out too carelessly. A person didn’t need to have lived for seventy years himself in order to reap the benefits of the experiences of a long life. We had a mouth and ears, and it wasn’t really difficult to talk to people who were getting close to death. Some were even happy.» Rachel had stopped me. She thought that my speech was hideous. What was this nonsense I was imagining? Her father was a respected citizen with a genuine desire for justice, peace and happiness. For all. As far as she was aware, her father hadn’t entertained thoughts of any grand ambitions that after a while only led to feelings of loneliness and emptiness. Edward Bloom was an unselfish man – the St. Stephen of our time. Right up until the introduction of his car. «So what?» a shrill voice from the east side of the classroom had asked. «Father deserves some credit, too!» Rachel bellowed. Personally, I thought it was entertaining to watch the middle-aged Edward cruise around in his beautiful German. Putting money on the table at the car dealership and leaving in a fairly decent Asian vehicle probably wasn’t even considered. Perhaps it’s easier to forget about unfulfilled prophecies when one speeds around in a German power machine with nice leather seats and a proper emblem on the hood. There’s actually a more than decent motor in a Korean car, and the seats – well, there’s five of those. «Room for both your mother, Sean and you, Rachel,» I said. «But, of course, your father needs maximum comfort. He is naturally one of those who deserves only silk of the most outstanding quality. We’re talking about a royal philanthropist, afterall. Right up until the lights go out for Agnes the pensioner, that is, who was thrown out of her apartment block because, confused and in need, she helped herself every day to the wooden railings in the stairwell in the hope of getting a little nourishment. With some nickels in pension and three loaves of bread a month – of course she would’ve, in her confusion towards the end of the month, planted her tongue where she thought there might be food. «I certainly understand that your father likes a soft, comfortable seat, Rachel, but it isn’t quite in keeping with his noble transformation after his application for that top job in the oil company was rejected. The socialist party candidacy was natural when he had to be satisfied with a consultancy and 10 square meters of office space, likely for all of eternity.» I hadn’t been too sarcastic. This wasn’t an attempt to engage just for the fun of it. I was just sharing fascinating pearls of wisdom from grandfather’s treasure chest. Had I been making fun, the pencil lead would’ve hailed down. I knew that Rachel admired her father. Edward and Rachel had a father-daughter relationship of the highest order. I knew that I had hurt her. And maybe I was a little sorry when she broke the noteworthy silence in the classroom. «I can’t stand being here any more right now. I’m going to go home to my Dad and give him a hug.» She said it calmly. It had been quiet for about 10 seconds. I had stared at her intensely before she answered. The whole class had been looking at her, in fact. There were undeniably some fascinating sides to Terry’s public castigations, no doubt about it. And there was no reason for Rachel to get hold of a pen case with ammunition. Terry had been polite and had spoken with a serious tone. That’s why there was some tension surrounding Rachel’s reaction. If there had been time, we would have seen an eager Roger taking bets between the desks, with good odds, as usual. I don’t think anyone wanted to fleece the capitalist and the class’ only independent businessman of all of his money, at any rate. Rachel left, and during Andrews’ English class, no less. It was sensational and unacceptable. It was art. She got up from her chair – her back erect, as usual. When she reached the door, she stopped and met with looks of wonder from each and every one of her classmates. She smiled slyly. She then turned her attention to the would-be sociologist, Andrews, who still hadn’t managed to collect himself after that which he later characterized as the climax of his career. «I have to go home, sit on the sofa and drink a little cold drink with my Dad.» It was at that moment that I was forced to forgive her for all of the sharpened pencils, unnerving stuttering, and lack of drive. For a little while, I assessed whether or not I might be in love with her, but quickly came to the conclusion of how dangerous it was to let oneself be torn by spiritual stimulation. Rachel had behaved beautifully. I would actually use the word, «monumentally». Our class had received an introduction into the day-to-day creativity some people would pay considerable sums for. While my words would have caused chaos in any other girl with affection for her father, Rachel had shown a wisdom and calm which I didn’t realize she had the ability for in such circumstances. It was clear I had hurt her. I think I also got her to insist on a serious conversation with her Dad on the ability of businessmen to create a demand. But most of all, I had sharpened her claws. And I bow to her.
«You’re pathetic, Way.» A few of the girls had scarcely heard Raymond’s voice. They liked what they heard. This was authority and control, force – and not least – an exemplary request for unconditional attention. Raymond said that he thought that it was perfectly alright that we found it rewarding to talk about the doubter, Thomas. Personally, he thought that the hammer god, Thor, wasn’t anything more than really fun meteorology, and that Jesus, the carpenter, was just a Galilean who was a little more radiant than a prominent Pharisee. I looked at him. He knew he would be allowed to speak uninterrupted. The three girls had forgotten everything about disciples and realism. Raymond wasn’t just a boy with a remarkable voice and attitude. He was an Adonis with a fortress for a face. The girls swooned.
«Why do you bother being principled when you’ll soon be nothing but a patch of grass to your great-great grandchildren? Let Rachel roll her eyes at you just as much as she wants to. Stop worrying about the state’s insistence on managing half of all you have worked hard for. Just register it in your head. Then you can enjoy the colours of the trees and the movie screen, and write some poems, or go parachuting for a little fresh air. Stop using your time trying to behave properly, as though life was some sort of a final examination for a university degree that you had to pass. Stop thinking. Do something fun instead and worry about dying. ‘Seize the day’, and all of that,» Raymond said indifferently. Before he looked away from me, he made sure to strangle any clear inconsistencies by saying that it was the first and last time he would express an opinion about me. I shouldn’t interpret his words as criticism, but as well-meaning advice. I should either take back the statement I had shared with them a few weeks earlier, and go on pretending that Jesus was something more than a loveable character, or I should drop meaningless principles. I smiled broadly. A few minutes earlier, I had an uncomfortably high pulse, and had snapped at two classmates. Now, I was more relaxed than my brittle-boned grandfather. Raymond’s artillery was like Rowan berries compared to Rachel’s high-tech ammunition. Almost tempting. If there was anyone in the classroom who expected a declaration of surrender from the most uncompromising one in the class, they would be quickly branded as mental weaklings lacking in direction. I liked Raymond, but I couldn’t just stand by and watch while a poet tricked an entire class into being hedonists with sporadic bouts of depression. «You are forgetting hope, Raymond,» I said, smiling both warmly and slyly. A trite opening, but it was a point that had to be brought up at once. I had no intention of holding a long speech. I was just going to point out a fact that Raymond had forgotten to mention, and which was really the most important. The speech, of course, turned out to be long anyway. «I love life. Every day, I play soccer a few hours. Every day, I weigh my words according to my own standard. Because I want to achieve something. And every week, I reach some goals, and it gives me a rush. You can all think that an irrepressible tingling sensation on your back is a mediocre experience if you want to, but personally, I hope I never lose my appetite for it.» I smiled warmly with the usual seriousness. Humbled, I was looking for an easy way to make the difference clear between enjoying the colours of autumn and stating that one has achieved a demanding goal while abiding by “meaningless principles”. «Sure, a person can enjoy zooming around in a bumper car, but this pleasure doesn’t succeed at producing irrepressible biological reactions. A bumper car ride doesn’t involve the same process as an achieved goal,» I said. I then started to tell them about the months leading up to the district soccer team qualifications. «I was fifteen years old with a lot of free time and a soccer ball. And most importantly, a pillow and a head full of dreams. During the afternoon, I raced around the soccer field to improve my skills. In the evening, I exercised my brain. My dream of having the district team jacket draped over my shoulders was in my head for hours before I fell asleep, and it was wonderful, but it didn’t give me a rush. It was a nice evening at the fair – nothing more. I liked living. A month later, my name was read out by the county talent scout. The dream I’d dreamt from my pillow was realized. That little boy felt a fire course through his body. He loved living, class.» I paused briefly. The class was in unusually good form. It was a momentous occasion in the classroom. No one sent any notes. No one interrupted. No one said anything at all. People barely breathed, and concentration had never been sharper. «I like myself when I respond proudly to a serious statement with a quick rhetorical hook pulled from my own well-kept repertoire. I love life when I’m fighting alone against a united horde, and calms the storm with spit in my face. I don’t waver. A fire burns. I get a confirmation that I have reached the goal of asserting and defending my thoughts.» I was interrupted. Raymond thought it was getting boring. «Ok, Way. I actually get it, for the sake of getting on with things at least. You crucify one institution after the other to feel a little electricity. Large-scale thought industry to get the most out of life, eh? But it’s a dangerous thought, Way. Maybe the tingling is a little nicer than a breath of fresh air, but it’s much more expensive as well. Who thinks about Grim Reapers when they’re having fun at the fair, or eating a burger at the corner hamburger joint? In the first place, Way, the greater the pleasure, the harder it is to realize that it is short-lived. And the more one thinks, the greater the chance there is that one gets back to basics and down to earth.» Raymond thought it wasn’t accidental that many of the great philosophers suffered from depression that ended in despair and a sudden interest in millstones and oceans. He didn’t surprise me. No detours. Right to the point. I liked Raymond. «Listen, my noble poet,» I said warmly. «I personally believe in a heavenly existence with both hamburgers and tingling. At the very least, I hope and dream that we will join the flowers and come back after we die. When you scribble down your poems with that elegant closing phrase, Raymond, you assume something for which you don’t have the qualification to establish. Why bother with theories when you have a hope that can’t disappear as long as you’re breathing. Of course, it can be difficult to imagine that 100 years is the maximum when you’re scoring the decisive goal in the last minute of the finale, but why imagine it? It’s indefensible, and I’m not sure it should be all that understandable either. If someone has alternatives, they always choose the best one.» Raymond wondered if I had ever seen an old acquaintance come back from the hereafter. Smiling pleasantly, I told him that I didn’t want to write it off. The person in question would in any case be too young for me to recognize if he did come back – it wasn’t even a certainty that he would have lived in my region. Raymond didn’t shift his gaze from my eyes as I spoke. This was more rewarding than anti-depressives a la Mozart. He smiled. «Alright, Way. Life is wonderful and lasts forever. Hallelujah! I’m bored already. The tingling was great the first twenty times, but damn if I can handle more than a hundred years of bumper cars and thought intoxication. You’ll get tired of it soon, too.» It was a frivolous statement, and he knew it. I couldn’t give a firm explanation for that tingling I got on my back after I had defended my principles, nor why the tingling felt so wonderful. I just knew that it exceeded all of the other good feelings with a good margin. I didn’t want to reject Raymond’s prediction, but it seemed quite unlikely. Chocolate had lost its grip on Terry Way three years ago, but then chocolate is not exactly a psychic phenomena. Regardless, that eventual time … that sorrow.
I could believe just as much as I wanted to in streets paved with gold in outerspace, and soothing sounds of the trombone behind high walls made of the finest gems, but I shouldn’t demand respect. Where had my honour gone? How could I believe in a god who introduced characters now and then who were as believable as cartoon classics?
«You’re not getting away, Terry. You, who for three years now, have arrogantly branded your classmates as nonchalant, lightweight thinkers.» When I thought about it, I had actually used this description sometimes. And, in all modesty, I had also used the words «stunted» and «intellectual puppets» in the same sentence. Now, I was to be united with my classmates – at least if Rachel got what she wanted.
Our class liked Sven Mark, even if he was about as spontaneous as a whale. I liked him too, but he was stubborn. During the course of three years, I had called him a murderer more than once, and every time he had declared himself innocent, even though he had an alibi that was extremely thin, which he never had any intention of fattening up. At least not in class. I was informed I could pay him a visit at home, but that didn’t work out either. Every day was dedicated to party meetings, the sports team or bridge, and when the remaining hours were to be used, it was much more tempting to use them with his wife of many years than with accusations that didn’t threaten to result in a considerable maximum penalty. He hoped this didn’t seem too brutal to a young and ambitious social critic. «Luckily, there isn’t a prison sentence for teaching,» Sven said smiling. «What an honourable culture we have,» he continued mockingly. Once I stood in the hallway talking with him. I had to smile even though my judgement was solid. How could he, every year, strangle young Da Vincis, and still be able to calmly eat sandwiches in the teacher’s lounge? He wasn’t at all bothered by an upset stomach – quite the opposite – he saw his deeds as invaluable services. Sven Mark was a sympathetic man, but he contributed to dangerous ideas (..). Daily he ruined royal human potential by talking about Nato exercises, the media’s role in politics and ocean currents – things we had already covered two or three times before during our years in school. Didn’t he understand that enough identical introductions into the importance of the role of spore plants in the plant kingdom could make the most motivated student into a laid-back industrial worker with no interest in developing themselves? Sven thought that general knowledge made us fit to observe and extend the social contract, and that was all well and good, but he was mistaken if he also considered the school to be a farm for producing talent and a Judea for those who wanted to sharpen their skills. «What is it you want then, Terry? An elite school for you and three others?» Mark wasn’t really interested in the answer. He knew what I wanted. Now, he just wanted a little entertainment in the form of the mediocre thoughts of boys. I didn’t think it was very friendly to remind me of the unenviable fates of those like Edward Bloom. «I think that the social contract is a brilliant idea, too,» I said. «And I like that we have a school that sees to it that we adapt to this contract, but what in the world do woodwork and correctly washed dishes have to do with this adaptation?» I asked him, and suggested sports fishing and «How to Create a Proper Stamp Collection» as supplements to the curriculum. Mark’s colleagues had prepared things poorly, I could tell. What is the minimum level a citizen must be at in order to call himself fit for daily life? It was a question that should have been the focus when the school system was founded. Then subjects like English, social studies and natural science should pop up, along with an evaluation of what might be considered reasonable to do with the last two mentioned subjects of the curriculum regarding what was sufficient for one to manage in society. I was more convinced than I had been in a long time. «After that, Sven, you service-oriented people could have used your time to establish an evaluation system in order to establish when the student had reached the minimum requirement. It’s so simple, Sven!» I said joyously. Sven grinned warmly. He thought that I was a young, fascist pup who should be tamed with a few electric shocks. «You do see that we get a lot of sad people here, don’t you?» He stole a glance at me, and continued to smile warmly. Oh yeah – I knew that I swore in his socialist church which was very fond of its members. The word «differentiation» was worse than «damn» or «hell», and therefore, should never be said in his presence. I asked him to get a hold of himself. When was he going to stop pretending that everyone was the same? Why obstruct an entire class when three of them were ready to go up a level? Yes, we should treat the ones left behind humanely, and not create bad feelings that made the hearts of small people bleed. I shook my head. What kind of utterly boring approach was this? Why not focus on Per’s presentation positively, rather than as a demon out to crush Paul’s self-image? «Not considering your rebellious offspring, it’s easy to shape a young boy’s perspective,» I said somewhat carefully. «Encourage Paul to challenge Per and then back him up and follow-up regularly. When Per, and after a while, Paul, have the basics down, they’ll decide themselves how they will use their allotted 80 years,» I added, being willing to assume that Raymond’s gloomy predictions were correct. Seen in this light, the many school years of immaterial subjects and repetition became even more aggravating. Mark listened, apparently not entirely uninterested. «It doesn’t matter if they’re twelve, sixteen or eighteen years old. When Per and Paul have the necessary foundation, these two precious people with very little time will decide for themselves what they want to specialize in,» I pointed out, and added that when the choice was made, Sven and company could create a quota system where those with the best grades would be granted their first choices. We certainly couldn’t have a situation where almost all of the people quoted clauses to empty courtrooms, and just three policemen wouldn’t be a powerful enough force in the fight against bad people. «Is that right?» replied an easily amused teacher, who immediately advised me to make the Proverbs of Solomon my first priority from that time forward. «You’re a little naive, young Way. You’ve been clever so far. You’ve responded to my questions before I’ve asked them, and we predictably ended up where we are now. But now, my young man, it’s about time for the finale.» Sven turned his nose towards the teacher’s lounge at the end of the hallway. He continued to talk as he calmly strolled towards his colleagues with a curious Terry at his side. «Just as I am a giant in the educational field, young man, so is a twelve year old a little young to understand legal methods and critically apply the law to a comprehensive precedent,» he clucked, and said hello to one of the students who passed us. It was friendly and entirely acceptable mockery. Mark was making a little fun of me. And it was disappointing. Not because I felt hurt. Mark’s sarcasm was loveable. The disappointment was because the ace up the sleeve turned out to be just a three of clubs. The social democrat loved his fellow man, but didn’t have a lot of faith in him. «Standards of maturity are defined by those who create the viewpoints,» I said, and asked him to stop for a second. I looked at him intensely, unsmilingly. What kind of logic says that a person had to be nineteen years old to practice law? Sven squinted at me. He wasn’t smiling either. «Prepare the child on the new system from the time that they’re born, and the person will be adaptable. Your educational experiences aren’t relevant here, Sven. You can’t evaluate the objects of a newly created system on the basis of the conduct towards the objects in the old system. The toddlers in Terry Way’s ideal situation would take on the assignments with a far more goal-oriented focus because the goal would be defined and impressed upon them, and within their range. You know very well that motivation and a competitive spirit are found out there among children far younger than twelve years old, Sven. Stop killing, using myths as your alibi!» I looked Sven straight in the eyes. I wondered once in a while if I could seem threatening sometimes. Still, my intention was only to share my understanding of things. I continued. «Now you’re thinking about talking about developmental play for kids, right? For you, it’s unheard of that civilized nations in other parts of the world can allow children as young as fourteen go to business meetings, complete with briefcases and business suits. You’re not interested in whether or not the boy or girl has the social and educational capabilities to fill such a role. He or she should climb trees and play house and be healthy people. When are you going to stop defining ‘quality time’, Sven? When are you going to start seriously encouraging your grandchildren to learn from all areas of life so that they can define ‘quality time’ themselves?» I spoke quietly, but with determination. Sven scrutinized me. «I hear what you’re saying, Way,» he said quietly. The conversation had been unusually long. Normally, Mark would have been in the teacher’s lounge ages ago, discussing the last bridge night with Andrews. Now he wanted more than anything else to be serious. «Never think that theories are beautiful things, Terry. The day that you see Per and Paul enjoying each other’s company without Paul hurting Per because he is envious of him, and without a Thomas or a Jimmy showing up who cries themselves to sleep because spelling is just as difficult as it was five years before that, then you can look at me confidently. It won’t be rude and intolerable then. But by all means, Terry, think a little bit more, and feel free to be arrogant when you cut down ideas and institutions. But be wary of overconfident thoughts about – let me quote you – «precious people.» He gave me a clap on the shoulder and disappeared into the teacher’s lounge. That made me angry. Even if the next day he went a long way in making it up with some good jokes, I never forgot that nauseating «love for humankind» that strangled humankind.
«No. I mean, what is it ‘to love’?» I inquired further. Neither of us smiled much. The atmosphere in the classroom had been gloomy. «You should know that. You’re the one who’s engaged,» came the quick answer. «No, I don’t know,» I replied, perhaps a little too quickly. «Then you’re not ready, Terry. Then you should wait.» «Why?» I asked. «You’ll know when you’re ready,» Robert answered. «How?» «I don’t know. It’s difficult to describe. You just feel it. That’s what makes love so unique. You can’t describe it generally. You just know when you have it inside of you.» I didn’t deserve this after what just happened in class. I didn’t think it was very nice of Robert to serve me up old, worn-out nonsense. That’s why I hit him hard in the stomach. All in a friendly way, of course. «Listen here, my friend,» I said, cheering up a little. «You shouldn’t lead your poor friend astray, you know. He might just leave Linda. Imagine if he didn’t love her!» Robert looked at me. «Do you seriously mean that you don’t know if you love Linda?» he asked. «Are you sure that you love Milly?» «Of course, I am. I wouldn’t have stuck my tongue in her mouth otherwise,» he answered grinning. «You feel it in your heart – eh, Robert?» He punched me hard in the stomach. Entirely correct and acceptable. I tried another approach. «Are there any physical symptoms involved here, Robert?» I asked. I smiled a little now. Robert was impatient. «I’m not going to talk about this, Terry. Of course you love Linda. Just like I love Milly. Sven, on the other hand, got married without feeling that ultimate attraction, which left him open to a dialogue with his genitals. For you and me, it is unthinkable. Milly and Linda are part of our flesh and bones, they are sacred.» Both me and Robert smiled. I thought his conclusion was fascinating. The word «bound» was interesting. Maybe Sven didn’t love his Mary. What was wrong with him then? He must’ve felt something for her when he tenderly kissed her. I thought back to the weeks just before I proposed to Linda. Even though mama had taken a liking to her, she took great care to ask me if I had taken Jesus into account when making the decision, and if I was sure that Linda was the one I loved. I knew it was futile to look for a definition of the word «love». As always, it was only Jesus who could shed light on that. Had I loved Margareth? I asked Jesus and I asked myself. A smile and a little praise had been enough to shake up a promising fourteen year old boy for half a year. Not even a spectacular hat trick during the semi-final of the school soccer tournament had distracted my thoughts from that sweet, little girl with the beautiful smile. I stopped eating bread with cheese and raspberry jam, which I had always eaten after soccer practice. Hours of sleep were reduced to five by a sudden and impressive fantasy that put me in a lion’s den with Margareth ringside. The thumping and the sweating were the worst. It was sadly usual. Even though I hadn’t exchanged more than nine words with her, she was my everything for six whole months. «But did I love her, Robert?»
We were parked outside of Robert’s meagre, little apartment downtown. The soccer fan had just provided a list of the symptoms of love. It was frightening. «According to your calculations, Robert, Margareth was my great love, but Linda is my Mary.» I had to admit that my pulse never went wild when the telephone rang and it was highly likely that Linda was on the other end of the line. My appetite for grilled cheese sandwiches hadn’t declined much at all in the beginning of our relationship either. Didn’t I love Linda? Right then and there, the threat was unveiled. I hated the parents of my forefathers. Who had taught my mother to use the word «love» as though it was just like any other auxiliary verb. I thought sadly about happy couples who had been broken up by uncertainty and not getting enough points right on Robert and great-grandmother’s list. I drew a picture in my head of a Sandra and a Todd who looked forward to being in each other’s company every day – two people who enriched each others lives and who were attracted to each other both physically and spiritually. It was all they knew. Neither of them had noticed any uncontrollable biological reactions apart from a little tingling once in a while. Nor did they hear anything in their hearts that sung of love. They were, unfortunately, not so poetic. They just knew that they were happy when they were near each other. That was it. And that wasn’t enough. They wavered thinking about Margareth – she who was nothing more than a fascinating bit of biology. Maybe Todd isn’t Mr. Right? Is there a Sandra out there who is capable of controlling my internal organs? «What is a soft smile compared to a devoted hug given out of care and respect? What is a pretty word compared to a rewarding train of thought, followed by a trusting kiss. Answer me, my good friend,» I urged Robert. Terry Way was healed. Raymond’s forgiveness was finally accepted. I didn’t notice it myself, but Robert said that he noticed. He was glad, he said. And maybe I was right. His list might be evil. It wasn’t relevant to him anyway. He knew that he loved his Milly, regardless of whether or not he had a good appetite. He looked at me. «Just a humble inquiry here, Mr. Omnipotent,» he said smiling. «Could you have proposed to me if you liked my body?» I thought for close to fifteen seconds before I answered him. It was an interesting question that I had often asked myself. Why would I rather spend time with Linda than with my close friend, Robert? Would I long to be with Robert all of the time if he had been equipped a little differently? «I don’t know, Robert. And I think it’s immaterial. Will, on the other hand, is central. I met Linda first. I care about her. It’s about making a choice. I could undoubtedly find a new Linda within a month. It doesn’t interest me. I’ve chosen to adore Linda. I promised her that.» «All hail Terry! The thought guardian,» clucked Robert. I nodded and smiled. (..) I thought about Margareth again. What kind of phoney teaching had given falling in love such a prominent and significant role in world literature? What halfwit had established the relationship between sweaty hands and Amor? For all I knew, Margareth was a person with sympathies for anti-semitism and high taxes. Nevertheless, she had controlled my days. Allow me to use the word «pathetic». I’m ashamed. There wasn’t anything beautiful about being in love. It was spiritual confusion and brain functions gone haywire. Don’t write poems and tear-wrenching essays about Mindy or Brigitta with the beautiful, wavy hair that you could never touch. Don’t read about these wonderful butterflies in the stomach. «What a blissful moment it was when Alf waved to me from the bus. I felt the heat course through my body like a babbling brook in the gardens of En Gedi.» Yeah, maybe. Wonderful wounds of youth with riverbeds and the whole nine yards, but no one to grow old with. No Alf showed up. Alf didn’t even exist. But there were many Stans and Toms – even a few stylish and intelligent Davids, tender and warm. But no babbling brooks. Consequently, no wedding bells. You can’t get married unless you love your partner, you know. I was embarrassed as I sat there in the car and thought about what I had said to my brother. «Don’t get married if you’re not sure that you love her, Benjamin.» I had said it three months earlier. (..) It was painful to realize that I was a factor. I depicted Margareth as the standard, even though she was nothing more than the blueprint for a dream house. I made a beating heart into something fascinating and essential, even though the beating was just a result of simple desire decorated with sentimental fantasy. I loved my Linda.
This man had never seen any other naked women apart from his wife. Cohabitation wasn’t something primitive. It was spiritual intoxication, mental satisfaction above all else. Sex was something almost intellectual. He wanted to reach the woman’s level. He wanted to be a romantic with a fireplace and spikenard oil. A quick visit to the bedroom should be replaced by tenderness and long-lasting strokes of the woman’s throat, preferably with sky-blue wallpaper adorned with roses in the background. He wanted to be an Eve, Love’s perfecter, a delicate soul in search of the seemingly meaningless details. Animalistic moaning was no longer the way to do it. It was time for «your hair smells like an alabaster jar» and «your kisses taste like an apple from the fruit groves of En Gedis». He didn’t want to be a simple, dirty [man].
I had a motto to follow, and for the time being, I definitely didn’t enjoy myself every minute of the day.
Perry Lem was the district coordinator and the so-called talent developer for the county’s youth players. He had taken the top soccer course. He knew soccer. Even though he couldn’t juggle the ball more than twenty times, he was an acknowledged soccer expert, and he had a diploma to prove it. Claus had a list of accomplishments which included some international matches, but what was a well-trained left foot compared to a signature from the national soccer association? Perry Lem had handed in a brilliant soccer exam. He had researched and done field work on goal-keepers for a year and had surely discovered a lot of fun things to write about. Still, it was an achievement to write ninety typed pages about standing at the goal. His previous exam was also exemplary. «The role of the sideback in the transition phase» was precisely defined and indeed just over seventy typed pages. Creative and ridiculous. Why did a middle-aged man sit in his office at home and write words about what his son was enjoying down in the parking lot? Soccer wasn’t a science or a stressful school essay. Football was passing, dribbling and scoring. Cheap and easy fun. What did «field work» really mean? It reminded me of geology students and the department of highways and transportation. One could use the word «work» when talking about bureaucrats and engineers, not when discussing the effort needed by a person to see that the football didn’t roll over the line between the poles. And what in the world did transition phases and roles have to do with sports? Soccer wasn’t an epoch in world history, or a drama with a manuscript and clearly defined characters. Perry Lem was a destroyer. As my coach on the national team, he made science out of a game, and a craft from art.
We got a compendium that we had to study. It was a manuscript with a table of contents and chapters. The terminology was magnificent – naturally. If you were going to make a science, you had to do it right. Not just anyone could adorn themselves with the title of top educated coach. Soccer was for gifted people who knew how to use phrases like «achievement insuring tools», «peak competency» and «role attire». At the national team practices, they stood on the sidelines and argued while we played. Dressed in big, dark-blue sweatshirts and with their hands behind their backs, they evaluated every situation in relation to the manuscript. They might have disagreed once in a while on the interpretations, but it still didn’t result in any kind of crisis – just a mind-broadening and stimulating discussion between learned scholars. I think they liked each other. They spoke the same language and felt honoured to be a part of the academic brotherhood. They didn’t know that there was a midfielder running out on the field who fought back tears in despair because they had reduced him to a remote controlled robot. Four men with some sheets of paper had stolen his sense of play and freedom to choose how he would reap his own honour. They had stolen the tingling feeling on his back. I was just a tool used on the quest for good results and newspaper headlines. «Coach’s tactics succeed – our country wins.”
«I can’t map out your problems, Perry. Why don’t you just put me on the bench? Why don’t you replace me with a player from the second division? All he needs is a manuscript and good oxygen intake. What do you want with my well-formed feet and quick thinking if I don’t get the chance to use them?» I spoke in a quiet, slow tempo, my eyes concentrated on Lem’s face the whole time. «Your clan brothers have made a hero out of the one who was chosen as fifth best out on the parking lot. While the best one, the one who outdid them all with his divine skills, the one who doesn’t fit in the system, is called the delayer. You don’t need polished technique, Lem. Strictly speaking, you don’t even need a soccer player. You need someone who will listen and obey, an extended foot.»
Del 2:
Ask Sven Mark. The killer in the classroom. He who strangled future kings. They were pompous accusations, but Sven knew that my brother meant it. That’s why it wasn’t actually funny. I don’t know if it really sank in that a man, young or old, could so enthusiastically and thoroughly judge him, his way of life and his convictions. Maybe in a quiet moment he felt a sudden pang. I’m sure he understood what my brother meant, and he had surely discussed the same problems with himself long before my brother became his student. Sven Mark might have liked his job. Maybe he had always felt that he did one of the most important things that a member of humanity can do. To help advance the human race. Help advance everyone in the human race. Still, he was a murderer in the eyes of Terry Way. A-student in social studies.
He was a locomotive engine. Not like the rest of us. He had a different drive, a different acceleration that is difficult to describe. There was a wholeness about everything he did. He was the head waiter that made sure that everyone was pleased. A quick, laid-back and appreciative wink at his brother, a warm smile for his mother, followed by a mischievous grin for Uncle Jan. At the same time, the internal difficult dialogue went on as usual in his head. Thomas, Rachel Bloom, Raymond. Completely relaxed. Just after that, «Come on. Put on the video». He had gotten the whole get-together on tape from a hidden camera behind the family photo on the wall behind the dining room table. Now we were supposed to watch a film. He lightly poked Aunt Thelma in the ribs while he laughed hysterically at Uncle George. It was fire and flame. A normal evening with my brother.
On the soccer field, he was a man among men. Noble, calm, almost arrogant – he guided his team. He didn’t even need to be good. He would have gotten respect anyway just because of his bearing, or the way he ran or directed his troops. I went to almost all of the home games. He was tackled hard a few times by slow, rusty defenders who weren’t keeping up, but as long as he could continue the match, he just shrugged his shoulders, smiled and squinted a little at those who were behind the offence. On the other hand, if he had to sit out the rest of the match, he almost always lost his head, being really irritated over the fact that the guilty players were allowed to play soccer. Soccer was an art. Why should people with sharp buttons and kneecaps attack him? He would scream it loudly, often peppered with a few expletives. But he never used words like «damn» or «fuck». «Snake spawn» was used quite often. Inspired by John the Baptist.
He was never a greater role model than when I saw him in the arms of Linda. Why was that gentle angel, who was just as old as I was, completely absorbed in my little brother? Because he drove up to her school and chewed out her professor who had said that our country’s education politics was a good example for others to follow. Because he dropped the waffle sale on a ‘school solidarity day’ and instead waltzed into an office building downtown and managed to convince a local business mogul to turn over 100,000 to the children in Cambodia in under an hour. Because he called her the Rose of Sharon and wrote his own hymn to her on 30 closely written pages. It was meant to be an alternative to Solomon.
A few minutes later, we were back where he had once tried. Had once fought. It had been his room. His display window. It was there that he had shown everyone how laboriously and thoroughly he had thought when he put his head on his pillow. It was there that he had proudly exposed myths, titles and institutions as he yelled, smiled, screamed, sweat, slobbered and yes, almost foamed at the mouth. It had been his victor’s arena. Up until Thomas was introduced. The disciple had conquered his life. Doubt in God made him doubt everything else, too. Why? Why had that been the consequence? Why didn’t he choose a different and clear focus in life? The thought guardian. The mighty cliff.
I might have focused on the wrong things, he suddenly said. He was happy. Relaxed. «Some things, only the Lord knows,» he mumbled as he went out the door. [end]
