‘Maybe.’ Actually my vision was blurred too. I stirred the beer with my forefinger. ‘Why did The Harpers stop, Jakob?’

‘Why do you ask?’ he said with a sudden jerk, like a dog trying to release itself from its chain.

‘Well, I—’

He interrupted me. ‘We were too old. Our interests were going in different directions.’ He turned to the side, as though to indicate that he didn’t want to talk about the subject any longer.

‘What happened to you all?’

He turned back and smiled drily. ‘I’m here.’

‘I can see that. And Johnny’s still singing?’

He nodded and looked past me. ‘Johnny’s singing. We could…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I don’t know. He’s singing this evening, at Steinen. They have oldies performing there every Friday.’

‘Oh, yes? Do you feel like going?’

‘Not really. On the other hand, well, alright. Let’s do that. I’ve got something I…’ He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he sat lost in his own thoughts.

I enticed him out. ‘What about the others?’

‘Which others?’

‘In The Harpers.’

‘Do you remember them?’

‘Of course I do.’27

He leaned across the table. ‘You were never at the dances, Varg.’

‘They were all from the same…’

‘Why didn’t you…?’

‘…school.’

‘…go?’

I studied him more closely. There was a combative expression on his face. ‘Because.’

‘Because?’

‘Because I was spending a lot of time with someone who didn’t go to dances, either.’

He snorted.

‘But that doesn’t mean I didn’t see you all. Have you forgotten that I helped to hump your gear for you sometimes? Once out in Salhus, once in Espeland Hall and once we went all the bloody way to Rong, which involved taking two ferries and a succession of buses.’ And they had stood on the stage, in the brightest lighting since God created the world, and played as if they had Lucifer himself at their heels.

The Harpers. 1959. Johnny in a Hawaiian shirt and black, Terylene trousers, DA at the back, hair as if he had shares in Brylcreem, his wrist, chin and hips twitching and shaking like Elvis, a voice as loud as a foghorn and a hand like a steam hammer on a red, shiny guitar: a typical three-chord man thriving on sex appeal and testosterone, even then. Jakob was two steps to the side of Johnny and half a step behind, also brandishing a guitar, but with a much better technique, his hair pressed flat to the scalp in a desperate attempt to tame his rampant curls, a white shirt, a Slim Jim tie and a snakeskin jacket like the one Brando wore in The Fugitive Kind, full-blown pimples on his face and down his neck and a backing voice he 28had probably learned from Torstein Grythe’s boys’ choir. And on the flanks: Harry Kløve on bass guitar and Arild Hjellestad on drums.

‘They were in the class below us, both of them,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Correct.’

‘Harry Kløve was dark-haired and skinny, like that skater, Roald Aas, only with slicked-back hair. He didn’t say much, but played like a jazz guitarist. He was the only man in the band who came even close to you.’