Rain Is Rain in Manglerud E-Book

Tessa Weitemeier

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 205

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

It's been a long while since Hobo Highbrow wrote something, even though he was once convinced that he would become a famous writer. He left his old life behind and moved to Manglerud; a place where he hoped to find inspiration and where his idol grew up. One day, his former boss shows up on his door step and offers him a new job. A job where he eventually gets the chance to meet his idol Pål Waaktaar Savoy from the band a-ha. "Tessa Weitemeier's understanding of Pål H. Christiansen's complex character and a-ha's famously taciturn guitarist takes this beautifully written novel far beyond the realms of fan faction." -Barry Page With a foreword by Pål H. Christiansen

Leseprobe

Tessa Weitemeier

Rain Is Rain in Manglerud

Translated by Tessa Weitemeier

„It is stupid, but it is human, and that is how it is.”-Álvaro de Campos

Foreword

I was a little surprised when I looked through my e-mails one cold winter morning and found one from a young German writer named Tessa Weitemeier. She had written a sequel of a novel I published nearly twenty years ago, Drømmer om storhet (English version: The Scoundrel Days of Hobo Highbrow, 2008). She asked me if I would like to read her manuscript and if she could possibly publish it.

The idea of lending my characters and fictional universe to another writer sounded rather fun. I have always found intertextuality interesting, and most of my books have elements of this. And since Tessa's writing in my opinion turned out to be of high quality, I didn’t hesitate very long before I agreed to let her proceed with her project.

Hobo Highbrow originally appeared as one of several characters in my first novel, Harry var ikke ved sine full fem, from 1989. More than ten years later I was about to write a new novel with him as the main character, but was also eager to write an essay about the pop group a-ha who were returning to the music scene after their first break. Making Hobo an a-ha fan, and especially a fan of guitarist and main songwriter Paul Waaktaar Savoy, turned out to make the right twist to the story.

Even though Tessa's style of writing is different from mine and less dialogue-driven, I think she catches the Hobo-atmosphere quite well. Her story is one possible version of what happens to Hobo after the end of Drømmer om storhet.

Oslo, 15.6.2021

Pål H. Christiansen

1

I am looking out of the window and staring at the facade of the police station. Just as I have been doing every day for weeks on end. Maybe even for months. Or years. Who knows for sure? There is a stale smell in the air, and I know I should take out the rubbish. I have known that for days. Maybe for weeks. I lift my hand, clutching my coffee cup, towards my mouth and take a sip of the brown liquid. But I can’t say for sure whether it is really coffee. With a ponderous movement, I avert my gaze and place the cup next to the sink, where the other cups are piled, and slowly let myself fall on to my tiny single bed. It was one of those decisions I had to make when I moved into this flat, if you want to call it that. Whether I really wanted to fill up the little space with a bed or else use it wisely for a desk where I could write my next book. In retrospect, I used the bed far more than the desk and so my decision was clearly wrong. I pull the duvet up under my chin and sigh heavily. After not a single publisher, even in Norway, wanted to read my novel about the nesting box man, and after I had made a desperate attempt to send the translated manuscript to some publishers in England, I didn’t really use the desk at all. I threw my old desk into the landfill and then bought this new desk. It was now quite clear that my failure was due to the desk. Helle had laughed about it and kindly pointed out that the wood you write on does not affect what you write. After my loud objection, she had then threatened to throw me into the landfill as well. After all, she had just had her baby and she said that one screaming human would be enough for her. I did the only sensible thing and got even louder. I really didn't need to be called a screamer. The situation had escalated unpleasantly and at some point, she threw a copy of my book The Letter at me. That said it all and I left the flat. I had given up my own flat in an undefinable overconfidence and so I ended up at Haagen's for the time being. A true friend. But he sent me back to Helle the next morning to sort things out. I had no other choice. I went back to Helle and packed my things. I spent the next night with Higgins and then everything started to blur strangely. Sometimes I was sitting in the Four Hens, sometimes I was sitting on the couch at Higgins', sometimes I was sleeping between the shelves at Herman's shop. My departure from Helle may have been cinematic, but what followed was not. Not until I finally figured out how I could find new inspiration and finally write a new, and good, book. I had to go to Manglerud. Where Magne and Pål from a-ha had met. Where they started to dream. I had to go to the place where my idol, the great Pål Waaktaar Savoy, had found the first inspiration. And I had to take my new desk with me. That would be an unbeatable combination, I thought. I found a flat faster than expected, which was of course a sign. Higgins and Haagen drove me to Manglerud in their converted Poetry Express, carried in my desk and the new, much too small bed, and then asked me if I was sure I had rented a flat and not just the basement room by mistake. I laughed, and when they left, I wondered if there really had been a mistake. Now I was in Manglerud, but I could hardly turn around in my flat without bumping into one of the few pieces of furniture. There is no question that it was because of the limited space that my hoped-for inspiration did not come. It hasn't come until today. Not even a timid knock on the door. Money did not come either. And that, of course, is the only reason why I still live here today. In Våronnveien, in the basement and with an excellent view of the police station on the other side of the street. It is not even worth leaving the flat to explore the magical Manglerud and look for the places Pål once mentioned in an interview. I have seen all these places and, on closer inspection, somehow Manglerud is not very magical either. And so, the days blurred and slowly became weeks. I didn’t really notice how the months finally turned into years. And how I, the next Knut Hamsun, had become a desperate man and was now more like Gunvor Hofmo. Which is perhaps not so bad. After all, Pål had drawn much inspiration from her texts. But what is the point in being an inspiration along with my despair if no one knows about me? If no one knows about my suffering? If there is no Pål who comes up with the idea of writing profound song lyrics based on my non-existent poems? I sigh again, pull the blanket even higher and turn to the side.

2

There is something mystical and poetic about walking the streets at night. Leaving the house at night when everyone else is asleep and only the police still have a dim light on. Isn't it said that artists are often nocturnal and that the best thoughts bubble up at night? I still believe that it is only a matter of time until I come up with a breakthrough idea that will finally earn me the recognition I was so far denied as a writer. And as a human being. Isn't it really all about creating something that other people remember you for? In the best case, of course, something positive. People often prefer to remember negative things. Actually, I wanted to stroll through the streets every night and pretend that I am just a totally busy artist who only manages to leave the house briefly at night. Over time, however, I lost my sense of time and can’t for the life of me remember the last time I was outside. It was certainly at night, but it could have been some months ago. I turn right and pass Manglerud Skole, as usual. I stop briefly and examine the building. Was this the school Pål went to? I was absolutely sure of it when I first moved here, but now it is possible that I have just convinced myself that he used to come here. What does it matter? I just must get rid of the romantic idea that he and I have something in common. Just because I now live here, where he once lived, it does not create a bond between us. And my first and only attempt to actually contact him and give him my book ended with him calling the police, who removed me from his property. I can’t blame him, but I still threw all the a-ha records into the trash can as a precaution. There would not have been room for a record player in the new flat anyway. And it is also not really new anymore, but I like to tell myself that this cellar hole is only a temporary solution. Only for a short time. I have already lived here far too long to have lived here just for a short time but, as I said, my sense of time has run away with me. I should probably go to a shop and get a calendar to at least know what date it is. Or at least to know what month I am living in. That way I might be able to catch the autumn again and take the autumnal wave of melancholy with me and make a book out of it. A new novel or at least a collection of autumnal poems. But is there enough to say about autumn? About the muddy paths, the dark grey sky, the rain? Colourful leaves that, on closer inspection, simply look brown? Bare trees where you do not know if they are dead or will bloom again next spring? Perhaps everything has already been said. For centuries, poets, thinkers and artists of all kinds have described the seasons. Pål describes the Rolling Thunder, Vivaldi all four seasons and Mörike flutters his blue ribbon through spring. I was simply born too late to create something new. I continue my walk through the night more thoughtfully than before and ask myself whether I might not simply have to admit to myself that I chose the wrong profession. I could have been a carpenter, or a teacher, like Helle, but I could also have been an engineer. I could have really changed the world with a groundbreaking invention or simply with the best tables in Norway. My footsteps drag across the road and I think I can already see the sun rising. Was it so late, or rather early, when I left the house? Besides a new calendar, I should also get a watch. Just to be on the safe side. After all, it would be fatal if the nocturnal strolling artist accidentally traipsed through the streets in broad daylight. My steps slowly become hectic as I pass the flower shop on my left and shortly afterwards turn right. After that I turn right again to take the shortcut through Havreveien. I am almost afraid of the sun, afraid of the light and the day. But maybe I am just afraid of meeting other people. The nightly isolation and loneliness have settled around me like a warm blanket from which I am extremely reluctant to free myself. It is like a race against the light, but my legs get heavier with every step, so I give up and almost trot towards the rising sun. I avoid glancing to my right, where I suspect the bright enemy to be, but I know he is there. When I can finally see the entrance that leads me back to my second version of isolation, however, I spot a completely unexpected enemy there that I have not seen in years: Holm.

3

My feet stop without me consciously asking them to. My upper body tilts slightly forward because it did not expect such a harsh stop. I move a step back and stare at Holm. When I get right down to it, he is to blame for everything. He had fired me back then and taken away my job as a proofreader, with which I at least earned money. And now he is suddenly standing there and grinning at me. He probably knows very well that I live in a cellar hole where not even rats would like to live. And he knows for sure that I haven't had any success in the last few years. He beckons me to him and again my feet develop a life of their own and slowly start walking without me really wanting them to. "Hobo! Good to see you," he almost shouts, grinning even wider. I hope he is aware of his guilt. "Mmph.", my mouth goes, and I stop two metres in front of him. We stand silently facing each other for a few seconds and I watch him examine me while I register that he looks at least twenty years older than when we last met. "How are things?" he asks awkwardly, shrugging his shoulders. "Yeah, uhm, good," I nod. He nods as well. Does he expect me to ask how he is? That won’t happen. What do I care how he is or what he has been doing for the last few years? He probably kept on reading editorials and publishing them with every little mistake due to my absence. With all his grammatical mistakes, he will probably have made a fool of himself. Holm scratches his head and fumbles with the zip of his jacket. "I've spent a lot of time with Higgins over the last few months, he told me that you live here now," he finally says. I did not ask how he knew where I lived. But how nice that he still must tell me the fact that he has now spent a lot of time with my friend. He must know perfectly well that I have not seen Higgins for years. Or maybe it was just a few months? My plan to buy a calendar must go to the top of my priority list. "Okay.", I say in belated response. I lack the energy to get loud and yell at him, but I can sense an angry feeling building up in my chest. Holm looks around searchingly and steps from one foot to the other. "So, I haven't worked at the VG for a while now and..." he begins, inevitably making me grin. I knew it. It's his own fault. "I started my own magazine, just a few months ago and I'm looking for co-workers...would you be interested?" He looks to the ground as he asks the question. I take a step back. "First you kick me out and now you want me to work for you? This is getting better and better!" I reply, trying hard to be calm. I finally want to escape the light. I miss my small bed. Holm raises his hands placatingly and takes a step towards me. My gained distance is thus nullified again. "There are many good editors and journalists out there," he continues, "but I'm looking for someone who is interested in music. And Higgins said you are interested in music." He puts on his sanctimonious smile again. So that is what Higgins said. "Do you still make so many mistakes in your articles?" I ask flippantly even though it has nothing to do with the subject at all. He waves his hands in the air. "I'm not looking for someone to correct my texts, I'm looking for someone who wants to write texts themselves. Doing interviews, backstage reports and stuff," he explains so calmly that I wonder how I could manage to make him explode. How I could make him really go ballistic. Him, the traitor, and source of all evil. "I don't know," I say evasively. Holm puckers his mouth: "I'm sure it would do you some good," responds Holm, puckering his lips. My angry feeling hammers against my ribcage, but I do not allow it to gain the upper hand. "Why would it be good for me?!" I ask bitchily, crossing my arms in front of my chest. Perhaps also to quell the monstrosity. Holm sways from left to right. "Higgins is worried about you. He has been here a couple of times, but you never opened the door. This is the third time I have come here too. We do not want you just sitting in your flat all day. You're far too overqualified for that. Come on. A bit of writing, a bit of listening to music in the office and maybe interviewing a musician. That would be something for you, Hobo." He looks me straight in the eye. So that's how it is. Higgins sent him to talk the deadbeat Hobo into a job. My new calendar and watch flash through my mind. I need money to make this happen. I could work for Holm for a few weeks until I have enough money to buy a calendar, a watch and maybe even a bigger bed. The desk can fly out then, I don't need it any more anyway. I could leave my flat for a couple of moments and never have to do it again. "I'll do it," I say curtly and look past him to the front door. I finally want to get out of the light and into my bed. I have spent far too much time out here already. Night has long since crept in and I want to do the same. "Perfect!" shouts Holm, burying his hand deep in his jacket pocket. "Here's a business card, it's got the address on it. I will see you on Monday then. You just come to my office and then we'll discuss everything else." He holds out a small bluish card to me and smiles at me. I don’t want to see his smile anymore. I put the card in my pocket and nod. "Good. Monday it is then," he says again and starts to move. "Mmph," my mouth goes again and then I finally unlock the front door.

4

Today there is something that connects me with Pål from a-ha: The sunglasses. After only finding out what day it was by asking a woman on the street outside my house, I made it out of the house this morning on the right day and at the right time. My enemy the light was already waiting for me and so I went back to get a pair of sunglasses. I cannot imagine how bad it would feel if the sun was shining. I enter the narrow house to which Holm's business card has led me and have the feeling that I perceive a familiar smell. I stop for a moment to define the smell. It smells of printer's ink leaving a copier, it smells of overheated printers and computers and, more importantly, it smells of writing. Of typing, of thinking and of success. A door on the left opens as if by itself and Holm appears in the hallway. "There you are! I thought you weren't coming after all!" He grins again. I definitely need an office far away from him and his stupid grin. "But I'm on time," I justify myself, looking at him seriously. He looks at his wristwatch and pulls a pitying face. I really don't need pity. I am probably only as late as it took me to get my sunglasses. "Come with me, I'll show you your workplace," he waves his hand and I trot after him. We leave the corridor and enter a large room. Maybe it is the only room here. There are desks along the walls and a large conference table in the middle. He claps his hands once. "Everybody listen up! This is Hobo, he'll be working here from today." Holm points at me with both hands. A row of eyes looks at me briefly and then after a few seconds just down again. It does not seem as if the staff here are particularly keen on communicating. That is good. So, we already have something in common here. Holm points to the last free desk and after I have sat down on the soft office chair, he kneels down next to me. "I have six CDs here that were recently released," he says, pointing to a flat stack of CDs. "Please listen to them and then write a review for each of them. Very detailed, we have many pages to fill." I skim over the names written on the CD covers, but don't recognise any of them. Since I threw my records in the bin, I haven't paid much attention to music and certainly haven't kept an eye on the charts. I noticed when all the newspapers were full of the news that a-ha were ending their career and doing a farewell tour. I also noticed that they announced their big comeback a few years later. However, I strictly refused to shed a tear at their farewell and later I refused to buy the new album or even to listen to it. I do not care what they do. I reach for the headphones on my desk and put the first CD into the computer. So, my working day will consist of listening to music. I should probably listen to one album in detail first and then write the corresponding review and then move on to the next album, but I want to waste as much time as possible. So, I listen through all six albums twice and then stare at the screen. I have no idea how music has developed in the last few years, what artists you could compare these bands to, and I have even less idea of what the current modern sound is. I have Take On Me and The Sun Always Shines on T.V. buzzing around in my head and then the faces of Morten, Pål and Magne pop up. But I can't compare the new albums with a-ha. There is really no reason to do so. "The sound is fresh and new..." I start to type and then look around uncertainly to see if someone is standing behind me watching what I am typing. I have not typed for years and my fingers dance happily over the keyboard. As if I had let them out of their cage. I search for meaningless phrases in my head and give each album a meaningless four or five out of a possible six. It's subjective how I rate these albums anyway, so there can be no right or wrong. Of course, it would be very embarrassing if I rated THE album of the year with only four instead of six. I mix into every review a certain amount of disappointment over a missing little something and then I am very happy with my reviews. They are waterproof and absolutely meaningless. I slide back a little from the desk and then turn around. I raise my eyebrows in confusion when I realise that I am all alone in the room. Where have all the others gone? I slowly take off my sunglasses and wonder how Pål feels when he takes them off after an interview. Is it too bright for him or is it rather liberating? For me it is somehow both. I cross the room and look out of the window. Outside on the street, life wafts past me. People hurry across the street, others stand together in small groups and have a chat, and others rush through my field of vision so quickly that it seems as if they are running away from something invisible. "You really have stamina!" I hear Holm behind me and turn to him. "Where are the others?" I ask him and sit back down on my chair. "They finished work two hours ago. You were so engrossed in your work that we did not want to snap you out of your trance. Did you write all the reviews at once?" He looks irritated at my screen. I nod in a similarly irritated way. He laughs, "Hobo, that was your work for the whole week!"

5

The way home dragged on like an infinity. Finally, I lie in my small bed and stare at the ceiling. The digital letters I have been staring at all day are still shimmering in front of my eyes. Even the sunglasses did not help. Maybe they even made it worse. If I plan to work for Holm for at least a few weeks, I will have to cancel my nocturnal activities for the time being. I should spend the nights sleeping. But where should my inspiration come from, if not from sneaking around Manglerud at night? Hadn't I actually decided to throw out the desk? What do I need inspiration for then? Certainly not for my work at Holm’s magazine. Today has shown that I can just make things up in my mind and type them in. Who reads such things anyway? Is even one person interested in what some unknown person who works at a magazine thinks about a new album? Do people nowadays really orientate themselves by the score an album is rated with? Doesn't everyone have their own favourite artists and bands who just sound good, no matter what they release? Like a-ha, who somehow sound good no matter what they do. At least that's how it used to be. What they have done in the last few years doesn't interest me at all. And how it sounds doesn't interest me either.