Self-Control. Stig Saeterbakken

toast, as usual, standing in the middle of the living-room floor like some secret brotherhood, gathered in the greatest confidentiality, and even exchanged a few small nods, some discreet glances, like well-drilled signals. The smell from Hans-Jacob, who was standing right beside me, was on the verge of making me vomit: he has a particular kind of eczema of the scalp that always itches and which Elise has attempted to cure with vinegar, so far without success, so that a mild odour always surrounds him, like his own peculiar little aura. Elise asked if the blouse she was wearing, an old one she’d inherited from her mother, was frightful and I said yes, that it was frightful, truly frightful, and I laughed as loud as the situation permitted. Hans-Jacob started going on about something that was in the news, I didn’t catch what, but I soon thought there was something familiar about the opinions he was putting forward, as if I’d heard them before, just a little while ago. “Do you know what I mean?” he asked suddenly, and I was quick to nod: more than anything I wanted to put down my glass, put my arms around him, and squeeze it all out of him so that we could get it over with, and then we could make a start on something new, something fresh and unexpected, unfamiliar to us all. Perhaps he’d surrender completely in my arms if I did it, I thought, caught off guard by my sudden decisiveness? Perhaps if I squeezed hard enough, the air would go out of him as if he were a balloon, perhaps he’d empty completely, with a farting sound, so in the end I’d stand there with a slack little patch of skin between my hands, the sad remains of what was once Hans-Jacob Sandersen. It was impossible not to think of the words “hot air” I had thought them with regard to Hans-Jacob many times before, and now it was as though they had a new and greater meaning, as if they encompassed his entire person, the outer as well as the inner.

      Then we ate, fondue with rice, chips, and vegetables. Elise and Hans-Jacob told us about a couple they knew via some friends, who they’d been to visit at a cottage down on the south coast somewhere, the man was an architect and had designed the cottage himself, or rather what seemed more like a fairy-tale castle than a cottage, if Elise’s description was anything to go by. Why did they want to tell us about this? What interest could we have in a filthy rich, self-indulgent … at least judging by Hans-Jacob and Elise’s portrayal of him … architect, of Swiss origin, who had obviously dazzled them all weekend long with his architectural escapades and exotic habits? It didn’t take long before we got to hear about all the fantastic food they’d been served as well … how rude, talking about another meal as they sat there eating food we’d served them … but I decided not to let it show although to intimate nonetheless that their adventure down on the south coast didn’t impress me much. Besides, I didn’t like the impression they were giving, that for their part they didn’t necessarily consider our friendship as being foremost, the one that would naturally take precedence in relation to their other friends and acquaintances. It was … I couldn’t manage to interpret it any other way … as though they wanted to leave us in no doubt that they ate good food and had good times at other places too and not just at our house, that it was important for them to get this across.

      “He’s from Ticino,” said Elise, and it was obvious that the name, which she could be fairly sure meant nothing to us, gave her a particular satisfaction, to be able to throw it out there as something self-evident, so self-evident and yet requiring, in our company, elaboration, as she well knew. Nevertheless I was prepared to deprive her of this pleasure by not asking. But to no avail. Trembling with the compulsion to inform, Elise asked the question herself: did this name not mean anything to us … ? And with that she had the excuse she needed in order to tell us that Ticino was a canton in the Italian-speaking part of Switzerland, and then this was followed by a whole load of details that I did my best to forget as soon as I heard them. I couldn’t help imagining that it was the architect himself sitting there, with Elise’s face as a mask, that he had snuck in, like a little demon, because it wasn’t enough to hoodwink the friends of his friends, he had to slink along and prey upon their friends in turn, and then their friends, and so on. The demon’s goal was world domination, and every living soul would know of his fairy-tale castle off Kragerø, his French wife who had her family send herbs and spices to her from back home, and his plans for a new type of architecture, in harmony with nature, inspired by modern theories about ecological agriculture. There was a bowl right in front of me on the table filled with green olives with red tongues sticking out at me. It was as though they were sitting there shouting at me every time I glanced at them: KRAGERØ! KRAGERØ! ARCHITECTURE! ARCHITECTURE! Switzerland had been my favourite country when I was small, I thought sternly. But who the fuck had heard of Alfonso from Ticino?

      Contrary to our well-drilled procedure … it was around now I should have been using the last of my after-dinner energy to repair to my armchair without so much as a thought of getting up for the next couple of hours … I helped clear the table. I noticed, to my surprise … and perhaps that was why I broke with routine? … that I was nothing close to as full as I usually am, on the contrary my body felt oddly light on the march to and from the kitchen, a feeling I was not familiar with at all. Hans-Jacob on the other hand, had regained his customary weight, I saw him heave backward and forward a couple of times in his chair in order to pack himself firmly down between its arms properly. I was reluctant to do the same … thought with horror about the hours that now lay ahead of us… and saw to my dismay, by way of a stolen glance up at the kitchen clock the last time I turned around, that we’d eaten dinner even faster than usual: it was as though cruel fate had added an extra hour onto an ordeal I already knew would be unbearable.

      But there was no way out. I pulled myself together and with a cheerful “all righty!” almost leaped into the chair in front of Hans-Jacob. It gave him a start, he’d probably expected me to exhibit the same listless contentment as himself. We each set about removing bits of food from our mouths with toothpicks and once again I marvelled at Hans-Jacob’s strange habit of holding his free hand up in front of his mouth while he picked away with the other. His discretion has always irritated me, the hand shielding the view only draws your attention to what’s going on behind it and makes it seem all the more vulgar. I thought about asking him how he’d gotten into this habit, but there was something about the atmosphere, I felt, that wouldn’t quite allow it.

      We sat in silence for a while. It looked like Hans-Jacob was pondering something, but for the moment he showed no sign of wanting to share it. We remained sitting like that for a good while, until my toothpick was broken into a multi-jointed worm, when suddenly we both opened our mouths to say something at the same time, which led to half-stifled gulps from the two of us and a new silence neither of us ventured to break. With a peremptory motion I let him know he could begin, an invitation he wasn’t slow in taking up … Hans-Jacob Sanderson be praised! . . . because it was just dawning on me that I had no recollection whatsoever of what it was I’d been about to say.

      “Yes” said Hans-Jacob. “I like a place inhabited by chatty women who voice opinions raucously, Andreas.”

      I didn’t answer him right away, because I wasn’t quite sure if I’d understood what he’d said … never mind what he actually meant … and it didn’t help matters that he was now sitting there with a mysterious twinkle in his eye, as though he was observing my reaction, as if he thought he’d said something really clever. His lips twitched with an expectant smile, and I attempted to smile too, in the hope of coaxing him into saying something more, thinking the explanation might then be forthcoming. Instead he became deadly serious and the look he gave me seemed demanding, challenging almost, as if he required an immediate response to whatever it was he had come out with, and he wasn’t willing, if I interpreted him correctly, to lift so much as a finger to help me out. I discovered I was sitting there motioning with one shoulder, without being aware of it, like a secret sign between partners in a card game, a message indicating that more information was necessary if I was to open correctly.

      Finally, and this time so slowly that it seemed almost condescending, he said: “Yes, I like a place inhabited by chatty women who voice opinions raucously, Andreas.”

      I looked over toward the dining room table where their conversation was certainly lively, but they were far from being so boisterous that they could in any way be described as behaving “raucously.” I waited as long as possible, but eventually turned to face Hans-Jacob again. At first he just stared at me, with a weary look as if he didn’t really rate my chances