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Contents ( 56)
  1. Fallen Angels
  2. FALLEN ANGELS
  3. CONTENTS
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  55. ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
  56. COPYRIGHT

I looked at my watch. If I was lucky I could get home before the rain.

I locked the office, ran out to the car and started it up a second before the first, large drops fell like albumen on the windscreen. Before I had reached Stølen, the flashes of lightning were illuminating the flaking paint on the house walls, planting sudden furrows of anxiety in the faces of the people hurrying past, making dogs race back home with their tails between their legs and giving me the feeling I was climbing the steep wall of a wave of rumbling thunder.

I parked quickly, drew my coat partly over my head and ran doubled up into my alleyway and in through the main entrance below.

Inside my flat, I peeled off my wet clothes, lit some old newspapers in the stove, put on the water for a cup of tea and went into the bedroom.

I walked over to one of the wardrobes, opened the door and stood on tiptoes to reach the top shelf. At the back, against the wall, was an old photograph album with a cardboard cover, worn 83leather edges and a brown leather spine embossed with the word FOTO in gold letters.

I took the album back to the sitting-room, went into the kitchen and let the tea brew, then sat down in the good chair with my cup of tea on the table beside me and the past in my lap.

Outside the windows, the claps of thunder were fainter and the flashes of lightning fewer and fewer. I didn’t notice. I was already on my way back in time to a childhood that felt like it was a terribly long while ago, to a part of Bergen called Nordnes – and a girl called Rebecca.

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12

Opening a photograph album is like being captured by the past. But because this was a past when there were only black-and-white photographs, usually taken outdoors, and most commonly in holiday mode, it was a map with a lot of blank spaces.

The largest part of my life lay enclosed between these covers. Most of the photographs were from before 1956, when my father – the tram conductor who studied Norse mythology in his free time and furthermore was a busy amateur photographer – died; and from after 1958, when I was given a cheap camera as a birthday present and started taking my first, tentative shots. My mother never took photographs.

The first one must have been from 17th May, 1945. I am sitting on a bench in Nordnes park, holding the tiny Norwegian flag towards the photographer and squinting frantically into the sun. I have short, fair hair, a fringe, and I am wearing a kind of boiler suit, colour unknown.

Then there are some photographs that must have been taken the same day in a garden somewhere, visiting some people I don’t recognise. The men are sporting 17th May bow ties, there are cups of coffee and cake dishes on the table, and I have a bottle of pop and a straw in my hands. Even then my father had the corpulent, compact body that I remembered from his last years, but his face is younger and somehow brighter, and my mother is still dark-haired. They seem unfamiliar to me. I don’t recall them looking like this.85