Chapter One
Early November. It’s nine o’clock. The titmice are banging against the window.
Sometimes they fly dizzily off after the impact, other times they fall and lie
struggling in the new snow until they can take off again. I don’t know what they
want that I have. I look out the window at the forest. There is a reddish light
over the trees by the lake. It is starting to blow. I can see the shape of the
wind on the water.
I live here now, in a small house in the far east of Norway. A river flows into
the lake. It is not much of a river, and it gets shallow in the summer, but in
the spring and autumn it runs briskly, and there are trout in it. I have
caught some myself. The mouth of the river is only a hundred metres from here. I
can just see it from my kitchen window once the birch leaves have fallen. As now
in November. There is a cottage down by the river that I can see when its
lights are on if I go out onto my doorstep. A man lives there. He is older than
I am, I think. Or he seems to be. But perhaps that’s because I do not realise
what I look like myself, or life has been tougher for him than it has been for
me. I cannot rule that out. He has a dog, a border collie.
I have a bird table on a pole a little way out in my yard. When it is getting
light in the morning I sit at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and watch
them come fluttering in. I have seen eight different species so far, which is
more than anywhere else I have lived, but only the titmice fly into the window.
I have lived in many places. Now I am here. When the light comes I have been
awake for several hours. Stoked the fire. Walked around, read yesterday’s paper,
washed yesterday’s dishes, there were not many. Listened to the B.B.C. I keep
the radio on most of the day. I listen to the news, cannot break that habit, but
I do not know what to make of it any more. They say sixty-seven is no age, not
nowadays, and it does not feel it either, I feel pretty spry. But when I listen
to the news it no longer has the same place in my life. It does not affect my
view of the world as once it did. Maybe there is something wrong with the news,
the way it is reported, maybe there’s too much of it. The good thing about the
B.B.C.’s World Service, which is broadcast early in the morning, is that
everything sounds foreign, that nothing is said about Norway, and that I can
get updated on the position of countries like Jamaica, Pakistan, India and Sri
Lanka in a sport such as cricket; a game I have never seen played and never will
see, if I have a say in the matter. But what I have noticed is that ‘The
Motherland’, England, is constantly being beaten. That’s always something.
I too have a dog. Her name is Lyra. What breed she is would not be easy to say.
It’s not that important. We have been out already, with a torch, on the path we
usually take, along the lake with its few millimetres of ice up against the
bank where the dead rushes are yellow with autumn, and the snow fell silently,
heavily out of the dark sky above, making Lyra sneeze with delight. Now she lies
there close to the stove, asleep. It has stopped snowing. As the day
wears on it will all melt. I can tell that from the thermometer. The red column
is rising with the sun.
All my life I have longed to be alone in a place like this. Even when everything
was going well, as it often did. I can say that much. That it often did. I have
been lucky. But even then, for instance in the middle of an embrace and
someone whispering words in my ear I wanted to hear, I could suddenly get a
longing to be in a place where there was only silence. Years might go by and I
did not think about it, but that does not mean that I did not long to be there.
And now I am here, and it is almost exactly as I had imagined it.
In less than two months’ time this millennium will be finished. There will be
festivities and fireworks in the parish I am a part of. I shall not go near any
of that. I will stay at home with Lyra, perhaps go for a walk down to the lake
to see if the ice will carry my weight. I am guessing minus ten and moonlight,
and then I will stoke the fire, put a record on the old gramophone with Billie
Holiday’s voice almost a whisper, like when I heard her in the Oslo Colosseum
some time in the 50s, almost burned out, yet still magic, and then fittingly get
drunk on a bottle I have standing by in the cupboard. When the record ends I
will go to bed and sleep as heavily as it is possible to sleep without being
dead, and awake to a new millennium and not let it mean a thing. I am looking
forward to that.
In the meantime, I am spending my days getting this place in order. There is
quite a lot that needs doing, I did not pay much for it. In fact, I had been
prepared to shell out a lot more to lay my hands on the house and the grounds,
but there was not much competition. I do understand why now, but it doesn’t
matter. I am pleased anyway. I try to do most of the work myself, even though I
could have paid a carpenter, I am far from skint, but then it would have gone
too fast. I want to use the time it takes. Time is important to me now, I tell
myself. Not that it should pass quickly or slowly, but be only time, be
something I live inside and fill with physical things and activities that I can
divide it up by, so that it grows distinct to me and does not vanish when I am
not looking.
Something happened last night.
I had gone to bed in the small room beside the kitchen where I put a temporary
bed up under the window, and I had fallen asleep, it was past midnight, and it
was pitch dark outside. Going out for a last pee behind the house I could
feel the cold. I give myself that liberty. For the time being there is nothing
but an outdoor toilet here. No one can see anyway, the forest standing thick to
the west.
What woke me was a loud, penetrating sound repeated at brief intervals, followed
by silence, and then starting again. I sat up in bed, opened the window a crack
and looked out. Through the darkness I could see the yellow beam of a torch a
little way down the road by the river. The person holding the torch must be the
one making the sound I had heard, but I couldn’t understand what kind of sound
it was or why he was making it. If it was a he. Then the ray of light swung
aimlessly to right and left, as if resigned, and I caught a glimpse of the lined
face of my neighbour. He had something in his mouth that looked like a cigar,
and then the sound came again, and I realised it was a dog whistle, although I
had never seen one before. And he started to call the dog. Poker, he shouted,
Poker, which was the dog’s name. Come here, boy, he shouted, and I lay down in
bed again and closed my eyes, but I knew I would not get back to sleep.
All I wanted was to sleep. I have grown fussy about the hours I get, and
although they are not many, I need them in a completely different way than
before. A ruined night throws a dark shadow for many days ahead and makes me
irritable and feel out of place. I have no time for that. I need to concentrate.
All the same, I sat up in bed again, swung my legs in the pitch black to the
floor and found my clothes over the back of the chair. I had to gasp when I felt
how cold they were. Then I went through the kitchen and into the hall and pulled
on my old pea jacket, took the torch from the shelf and went out onto the steps.
It was coal black. I opened the door again, put my hand in and switched on the
outside light. That helped. The red-painted outhouse wall threw a warm glow
across the yard.
I have been lucky, I say to myself. I can go out to a neighbour in the night
when he is searching for his dog, and it will take me only a couple of days and
I will be OK again. I switched on the torch and began walking down the road from
the yard towards where he was still standing on the gentle slope, swinging his
torch so that the beam moved slowly round in a circle towards the edge of the
forest, across the road, along the river bank and back to its starting point.
Poker, he called, Poker, and then blew the whistle, and the sound had an
unpleasantly high frequency in the quiet of the night, and his face, his body,
were hidden in the darkness. I did not know him, had only spoken to him a few
times on the way past his cottage when I was out with Lyra most often at quite
an early hour, and I suddenly felt like going back in again and forgetting all
about it; what could I do anyway, but now he must have seen the light of my
torch, and it was too late, and after all there was something about this
character I could barely make out there in the night alone. He ought not to be
alone like that. It was not right.
‘Hello,’ I called quietly, mindful of the silence. He turned, and for a moment I
could not see anything, the beam of his torch hit me straight in my face, and
when he realised that, he aimed the torch down. I stood still for a few
seconds to recover my night vision, then I walked to where he was, and we stood
there together, each with our bright beam pointing from hip height at the
landscape around us, and nothing resembled what it looked like by day. I have
grown accustomed to the dark. I cannot remember ever being afraid of it, but I
must have been, and now it feels natural and safe and transparent – no matter
how much in fact is hidden there, though that means nothing. Nothing can
challenge the lightness and freedom of the body; height unconfined, distance
unlimited, for these are not the properties of darkness. It is only an
immeasurable space to move about inside.
‘He’s run off again,’ said my neighbour. ‘Poker. My dog, that is. It happens. He
always comes back. But it’s hard to sleep when he’s gone like that. There are
wolves in the forest now. At the same time, I feel I can’t keep the door
shut.’
He seems a bit embarrassed. I probably would be if it were my dog. I don’t know
what I would do if Lyra had run off, whether I would go out by myself to search
for her.
‘Did you know that they say the border collie is the most intelligent dog in the
world?’ he said.
‘I have heard that,’ I said.
‘He is smarter than I am, Poker, and he knows it.’ My neighbour shook his head.
‘He’s about to take charge, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, that’s not so good,’ I said.
‘No,’ he said.
It struck me that we had never really introduced ourselves, so I raised my hand,
shining the torch on it so he could see it and said:
‘Trond Sander.’ That confused him. It took him a moment or two to change his
torch to his left hand and take my right hand with his, and then he said:
‘Lars. Lars Haug. With a g.’
‘How do you do?’ I said, and it sounded as bizarre and strange out there in the
dark night as when my father said ‘Condolences’ at a funeral in the depths of
the forest many, many years ago, and immediately I regretted saying those
four words, but Lars Haug did not seem to notice. Maybe he thought it was the
proper thing to say, and that the situation was no odder than it might be
whenever grown men greet each other in a field.
There was silence all around us. There had been days and nights of rain and wind
and incessant roaring in the pines and the spruce, but now there was absolute
stillness in the forest, not a shadow moving, and we stood still, my neighbour
and I, staring into the dark, then I felt certain there was something behind me.
I could not escape the sudden feeling of sheer cold down my back, and Lars Haug
felt it too; he directed his torchlight at a point a couple of metres past
me, and I turned, and there stood Poker, quite stiff and on guard. I have seen
that before, how a dog can both sense and show the feeling of guilt, and like
most of us it was something it did not like, especially when its owner started
talking to it in an almost childlike tone of voice, which did not go well with
the weather-beaten, lined face of a man who had undoubtedly been out on a cold
night before and dealt with wayward things, complicated things in a contrary
wind, things of high gravity – I could tell that when we shook hands.
‘Ah, where have you been, Poker, you stupid dog, been disobedient to your daddy
again? Shame on you, bad boy, shame on you, that’s no way to behave,’ and he
took a step towards the dog, and it started growling deep down in its throat,
flattening its ears. Lars Haug stopped in his tracks. He let his torch sink
until it shone directly on the ground, and I could just pick out the white
patches of the dog’s coat, the black ones blending with the night, and it all
looked strangely at odds and unsymmetrical as the growl low in the animal’s
throat went on from a slightly less definite point, and my neighbour said:
‘I have shot a dog once before, and I promised myself then that I would never do
it again. But now I don’t know.’ He had lost his confidence, it was clear, he
could not work out his next move, and I suddenly felt desperately sorry for
him. The feeling welled up from I don’t know where, from some place out in the
dark, where something might have happened in a different time entirely, or from
somewhere in my own life I had long since forgotten, and it made me
embarrassed and ill at ease. I cleared my throat and in a voice I could not
wholly control I said:
‘What kind of dog was it that you had to shoot?’ Although I do not think that
that was what I was interested in, I had to say something to calm the sudden
trembling in my chest.
‘An Alsatian. But it was not mine. It happened on the farm where I grew up. My
mother saw it first. It ran around at the edge of the forest hunting roe deer:
two terrified young fauns we had several times seen from the window grazing in
the brushwood at the edge of the north meadow. They always kept close, and they
did so then. The Alsatian chased them, encircled them, bit at their hocks, and
they were exhausted and didn’t stand a chance. My mother could not bear to look
any longer, so she phoned the bailiff and asked him what to do, and he said:
‘You’ll just have to shoot it.’
(Continues…)
Excerpted from Out Stealing Horses
by Per Petterson
Copyright © 2003 by Per Petterson.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Graywolf Press
Copyright © 2003
Per Petterson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-55597-470-1
