We walked on in silence. One circuit. Two.

We breathed in as deeply as we could, mixing the alcohol in our blood with oxygen, gradually getting our circulation going, in our legs and brains.

During the second circuit we began to talk again and after the third we felt clear-headed enough to dive into another Bergen Friday night.

‘If we do another circuit, we’ll have done the round-the-lake race,’ I said.

So we did, and felt even more refreshed and ready to face Johnny Solheim, Nordnesveien’s answer to Elvis, the local perpetuum mobile of the rock ‘n’ roll age: the eternity machine who never stopped singing his past hits.

‘One for the money,’ Jakob said.

‘Two for the show,’ I chimed in.

‘Three to get ready.’

‘Now go, cat, go.’ 33

And we shuffled off in the direction the blue suede shoes we no longer wore took us.

34

5

The performance was in full flow when we arrived. The dance floor was packed, and we struggled to force our way along the wall to a tiny table squeezed between a pillar and a swing door to the kitchen. Waiters came and went like the figures you shoot at in fun fairs. Perhaps we should have taken an air rifle with us.

The interior was fitted out in brown teak, with potted palm trees, burgundy, brothel-style furniture fabrics and a general air of poor taste. The room was filled with smoke, as if a volcano had erupted, and if that was not enough, smoke machines were spewing a thick fog across the stage, where a lurid smoke and light show and four background musicians framed the female vocalist, who constituted a magnetic field of her own.

I almost dislocated my neck trying to keep her in sight as we found the way to our small table. ‘I thought you said this was supposed to be an oldies’ show,’ I shouted over to Jakob, who was leading the way.

‘No, no, no,’ he shouted back. ‘Never on Fridays. Johnny’ll have his own “blast from the past” spot. They choose a seasoned performer every Friday. The younger singers do the main show. But the musicians are the same.’

‘You can’t even see them – not without a fog lamp.’

We pulled in our stomachs and wedged ourselves in, either side of the table.

The young vocalist was electrifying. She moved as though she were balancing on the edge of a non-stop orgasm and she 35handled the mike in a way that made Tina Turner seem like a girl guide. Her lips were full and moist and the round microphone head was almost in her mouth. Her tousled blonde hair was wet with gel and her face was round and robust in a girlish way. She was wearing a loose-fitting, black leather jacket and tight, black leather trousers, so tight you felt you might have been able to see what she had for lunch. Under the jacket she wore a grey T-shirt that was already soaked in sweat.