‘I was only out walking,’ the old man said,
hoping that the tremble in his voice wouldn’t be
obvious.
‘Is that so?’ the one called Tom said. ‘Behind a
tree in the park, wearing a long coat. Do you know
what we call that?’
‘Stop it, Tom! Again, my apologies,’ the woman
said, turning to the old man. ‘There was an attack
here in the gardens some hours ago. A young boy
was beaten up. Have you seen or heard anything?’
‘I’ve only just got here,’ the old man said,
concentrating on the woman to avoid meeting the
man’s searching eyes. ‘I haven’t seen anything.
Only Ursa Major and Ursa Minor.’ He pointed to
the sky. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Was he badly hurt?’
‘Quite badly. Please excuse the disturbance,’ she
smiled. ‘Have a nice evening.’
They went off and the old man closed his eyes
and fell back against the tree trunk. The next
moment he was pulled up by his lapels and felt hot
breath in his ear. Then the young man’s voice.
‘If I ever catch you at it, I’ll cut it off. Do you
hear? I hate people like you.’
The hands let go of his lapels and were gone.
The old man collapsed and felt the cold moisture
from the ground soak through his clothes. Inside his
head, a voice hummed the same verse again and
again.
Elm and poplar, birch and oak,
Deathly pale, blackened cloak.
19
Herbert’s Pizza, Youngstorget. 12
November 1999.
SVERRE OLSEN WALKED IN, NODDED TO THE BOYS AT
THE corner table, bought a beer at the bar and took
it over. Not to the corner table, but to his own. It
had been his table for more than a year now, ever
since he beat up the slit-eye at Dennis Kebab. He
was early and for the moment no one else was
sitting there, but soon the little pizzeria on the
corner of Torggata and Youngstorget would be
full. It was benefit day. He cast a glance at the
boys in the corner. Three of the hard core were
sitting there, but he wasn’t talking to them at the
moment. They belonged to the new party –
Nasjonalalliansen – and there had been
ideological differences of opinion between them,
one might say. He knew them from his time in the
youth section of the Fedrelandspartiet; they were
patriotic enough, but now they were about to join
the ranks of the breakaway group. Roy Kvinset,
irreproachably shaven-headed, was, as always,
dressed in tight faded jeans, boots and a white T-
shirt with the Nasjonalalliansen logo in red, white and blue. Halle was new. He had dyed his hair
black and used hair oil to get it to lie flat. The
moustache, was obviously what provoked people
most – a neatly trimmed black toothbrush
moustache, an exact copy of the Führer’s. He had
stopped sporting the riding breeches and boots;
instead he wore green combat fatigues. Gregersen
was the only one who looked like a normal youth:
bomber jacket, goatee and sunglasses on his head.
He was undoubtedly the most intelligent of the
three.
Sverre’s gaze panned around the room. A girl and
boy were tucking into a pizza. He hadn’t seen them
before, but they didn’t look like under-cover
police. Nor like journalists. Were they from the
anti-fascist newspaper Monitor perhaps? He had
exposed a Monitor bozo last winter, a man with
scared eyes who had been in here a couple of
times too many, who had acted drunk and started
conversations with some of the regulars. Sverre
had sniffed treachery in the air and they had taken
him outside and torn off his sweater. He’d been
wearing a wire. He had confessed that he was from
Monitor before they even laid a hand on him.
Scared stiff. Bunch of twats, these Monitor types.
Thought this boys’ game, this voluntary
surveillance of fascist elements, was extremely
important and dangerous, that they were secret
agents whose lives were in constant danger. Yeah,
well, as far as that was concerned, perhaps they
weren’t so different from a few in his own ranks,
he had to admit. Anyway, the bozo had been sure
they would kill him and was so frightened that he
pissed himself. Quite literally. Sverre had spotted
the dark stripe meandering down his trouser leg
and across the tarmac. That was what he
remembered best from that evening. The little
stream of urine glittered dimly as it sought the
lowest point in the sparsely lit back alley.
Sverre Olsen decided that the couple was just
two hungry youngsters who happened to be passing
by. The speed they were eating suggested that now
they had become aware of the clientele and just
wanted to get out as quickly as possible. By the
window sat an old man in hat and coat. Perhaps a