The Christmas-present skis felt like feathers under his feet. Like air and next to nothing, even though these were also long enough for him to use for a number of years. His big brother had received black Madshus skis. Arne had fastened them on in the middle of the living room even though he was fourteen years old and had acne and a weird voice. Their father had carried up the long, slim parcels from the basement late in the evening, when they all thought that Christmas Eve was over and done with; none of their greatest desires had been fulfilled and the seven-year-old was struggling to keep his disappointment in check.

You shouldn’t be ungrateful.

It wasn’t nice.

And then there were new skis after all. Vetle’s pair was burgundy-coloured. ‘Bonna’ was written in bold letters on the bindings. Norwegian skis. Burgundy wasn’t as cool as black, but the skis were made of fibreglass and the only things he wanted in the whole world. The brothers got a pouch of Swix ski wax to share from Uncle Bjarne, that too a welcome gift that turned up late, when all hope seemed to be gone. Arne had stood in the narrow hallway, waxing both pairs of skis until the wee small hours.

Since then, the boys had scarcely been indoors.

Vetle and his big brother were among the first youngsters in the entire neighbourhood with fibreglass skis. When the fathers in Jupiterveien as usual arranged a race in Langsetløkka on Boxing Day, the brothers had won in their age groups. It was all because of the fibreglass, the other youngsters had grumbled, but their dads had shushed their backbiting away, firmly declaring that it was the man on the skis that mattered.

Always the man on the skis.

They had been awarded diplomas and hot blackcurrant juice, and Kent from the furthest away of the Myrer apartment blocks was permitted to try out the Bonna skis. Vetle’s dad had struggled to hide his pride when he drew his youngest son towards him and said: ‘Maybe those skis were worth the money, my boy. But they were certainly highway robbery, so you take good care of them. That applies to you too, my lad!’

The final words were shouted in Arne’s direction.

‘Take care of those skis! They cost an arm and a leg!’

His big brother was fooling around. He stood with his left ski on the ski run and used his right to kick off on the well-prepared outside edge, almost like with an enormous skate. He took off at top speed down the slight slope down towards the clubhouse.

‘Stop that nonsense,’ their father roared. ‘Ski properly! You’re damaging the skis. And the ski run!’