Free Beatles by Lars Saabye Christensen Page B

their hair, they were shivering in the cold, and of course we weren’t flag-bearers, the creeps could do that, but Ringo was playing drums, we could hear that, he was wearing a blue uniform, knitted cap and almost as many medals as Oscar Mathisen. Lue was strutting alongside, sporting a black suit, see-through raincoat and a student’s cap plus tassel fastened to his shoulder with a large safety pin. Behind us walked Nina and Guri and all the plaits from 7C, they were scrutinised, and it would have been better if they had gone in front of us, it was not good to have them at our backs, wily creatures that they were. And then the whole band began to play, more off-key than the previous year, and shouts rang out and flags were waved.
    ‘How much money’ve you got for ice creams?’ George asked.
    ‘Don’t wanna buy ice creams today,’ I said.
    ‘You don’t want to!’
    ‘Want to spend it in Urra Park.’
    ‘My dad sent me an envelope with four tenners in it,’ George went on. ‘From the Persian Gulf. That’s enough for eighteen ice creams, fifteen hot dogs and six Cokes.’
    ‘We can eat ice cream at my house,’ John said. ‘Dad’s put by a carton of nut ice cream.’
    In Stortorget the temperature had sunk below zero and there was snow in the air. We went to see Ringo. He looked smart and embarrassed, but then it started to rain again and the band leader was distributing see-through capes like the one Lue was wearing, and so Ringo didn’t look smart any more.
    ‘He looks like a johnnie,’ George laughed, but Ringo became dangerously annoyed.
    ‘Do I buggery! Look in the mirror and you’ll see a real p-p-prick!’
    ‘Wasn’t meant like that,’ George said to mollify him. ‘Got a pack of Consulates for afterwards.’
    ‘And if the Hand Grenade Man strikes, we’ll rely on you,’ I said.
    ‘Fine!’
    John’s face went as grey as crispbread.
    ‘Don’t, for Christ’s sake, talk about the Hand Grenade Man!’
    The procession began to move. We took our places and marched towards Karl Johansgate. All the bands were playing over each other, one worse than the next, and hysterical parents stood along the route, screaming and waving, and I pretended to be a victorious soldier returning from war, receiving applause from the crowds. We were heroes, I pretended to limp, the girls were looking at me unable to restrain their tears, waving white embroidered handkerchiefs, blowing me kisses, brave, wounded soldier. And all of a sudden an image appeared to me, crystal clear, it had been in the newspaper, in
Dagsrevyen
, and had been shown on TV: a small Vietnamese girl hobbling along with a stick, barefoot, naked chest, one arm covered in bandages. And behind her what looked like ruins, it is difficult to see, but I imagine dead people there, dead and burned and maimed, her family. The little girl staggers out of the ruins, past me, and she emits a terrible cry, and she is so afraid and desperate, I wonder where she will go and to whom.
    ‘This is where it’ll happen,’ John whispered.
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘The Hand Grenade Bastard. This is where he’ll bung it. In the middle of Karl Johan.’
    We had reached the Studenten bar. I heard friendly shouts from the pavement and there were my mother and father jumping up and down and waving. I was happy that at least they hadn’t brought the little stepladder with them.
    Approaching the Royal Palace, John was pale and quiet. The tension had begun to exert a hold on me too, anticipation of something, of a catastrophe, sweet and repulsive at the same time. There were two ambulances and a Red Cross bus by one of the side streets, but I supposed they were there every May 17. A Chinese firecracker was let off on the lawn, it sounded like a shower of bombs and we clung to each other. Now there were only a hundred metres left. The King was standing on the balcony waving his top hat, Prince Harald was there too with a few ladies, we took a deep breath and crept past. By the