Free Beatles by Lars Saabye Christensen Page A

by. Once they had been part of the sun. Perhaps that was also how the suicide victim in Bygdøy had seen it, before his eyes were extinguished. And we waited for the Hand Grenade Man, but the town was quiet, just cycle bells, birds and bands practising.
    And, of course, we were waiting for May 17. The day arrived with torrential rain. We met by the fountain in Gyldenløvesgate at three in the morning. It was pouring down and the wind was coming from the west, but that was not important, so long as we could light our matches. Between us we had thirty-five firecrackers, twenty bangers and sixteen jumping jacks. We let off two firecrackers to get into the mood as it were. They sounded a bit feeble, but were loud enough to wake people close by. Then we moved to Urra Park. There was almost no one about, we heard just a few scattered bangs and some cars full of prommers honking their horns in the rain, celebrating the end of secondary school.
    ‘We’ll have to find somewhere dry,’ George said.
    ‘An entrance to a block of flats,’ I suggested.
    We sneaked through the nearest doorway. The acoustics were good, a stone floor and stone walls. Ringo lit the match and put it to the fuse, it hissed, then I threw the whole thing towards the stairs and the postboxes. It exploded before we got out, a terrible bang, parting the hair at the back of our heads.
    ‘That’ll have w-w-woken them up,’ panted Ringo as we sprinted down Briskebyveien, past Galleri Albin Upp. We didn’t stop until we were in Urra Park. The clock on the church tower showed half past three. It was still raining. We threw a few bangers at the wall but they were already too soggy. We suspended the bombardment, listened, there was a lorry-load of prommers down in Holtegata. We ran to the railings and caught sight of the red lorry bumping its way up towards Hegdehaugsveien. At the back were a group of soaking wet students shouting at the top of their voices. Then it was just the rain we could hear, continuous, cold rain, falling like stair-rods from the sky, the wind had dropped.
    ‘Let’s save the rest for later,’ Seb said. ‘When the weather’s better.’
    We lit a cigarette instead, and my empty stomach reacted like a spin drier, I was whirled around, and the others were the same, we banged into each other and spun off in all directions before regaining balance on our way down to Briskeby.
    ‘Perhaps the Hand Grenade Man’ll strike today,’ Seb exclaimed.
    ‘Shit,’ whispered Gunnar. ‘In the procession. A hand grenade in the middle of the procession. I’m not bloody doin’ the procession this year.’
    ‘Just think about me bangin’ the d-d-drum then!’ Ola said. ‘You c-c-can’t just c-c-clear off like that!’
    ‘Of course we’ll be in the procession, too,’ I said.
    And then the tension was back, as though your spine was an electric pylon. My whole being hummed. And in one dreadful flash I saw bleeding bodies, smashed faces, dead children clutching their little flags. At that moment I heard the song in my head, the one Gunnar’s brother had played us. ‘Masters Of War’.
    Then it was back home for breakfast and a change of clothes. It was no use, I looked forward to the time in the future when I could wear the clothes I liked, but it seemed an eternity away, and Mum and Dad’s voices were at my ear. At last I stood there wearing, from the bottom up, shiny black shoes, grey trousers with a crease, white shirt and blue tie, blazer with silver buttons, a huge ribbon across my chest, a flag in hand and sailor’s cap atop. No, not a cap, but hair plastered down with water like a dishcloth on my skull, yuk, my mother was jigging round me clapping her hands and my father wasgiving me that man-to-man look. I made for the door before the firecrackers set themselves off.
    It was no longer raining as we marched out of the playground towards Stortorget, but the sky was ominously dark. The girls were wearing white dresses and red ribbons in