Free Before I Burn: A Novel by Gaute Heivoll Page A

stabbing pains in his chest. At twelve o’clock he went in to eat. Dag was still in his bedroom asleep, so Ingemann and Alma ate alone, and in silence.
    When they had finished, Alma cleared the table while Ingemann lay down on the sofa in the living room with the newspaper on his chest. After a brief nap, he returned to the fire station and resumed his work.
    He had painted some of the equipment white. It was so easy to lose things in the dark. That was why he had painted all the fire service’s petrol cans. They were the so-called jerrycans that were used by the Germans during the First World War. Hence the name. Their special feature was the handles, which meant two men could carry them. That made them quicker and easier to move, which suited the fire service down to the ground. He picked up the paint pot again and stirred its contents. After placing the cans in a row outside the fire station, he knelt down and with a slim black brush painted on each one FB , for Finsland Brannvesenet, Finsland Fire Service.
    While he was engaged in this task he heard footsteps on the gravel. It was Dag coming up the path, and he stopped in front of Ingemann, blocking the sun.
    ‘Well, if it isn’t old sleepyhead,’ Ingemann said with a bright chuckle.
    Dag didn’t answer; he just watched his father’s hand and the brush slowly and fastidiously painting the black letters. When Ingemann had finished, Dag helped him to carry the jerrycans back to where they had been, after which the fire engine had to be reversed into the station. Dag did this while his father made sure the vehicle was backed as far as it could go. He stood in the darkness, inside the garage, as the fire engine slowly reversed towards him. It was so tight that he would be crushed against the wall if it didn’t stop in time. He waited, unperturbed, as the vehicle inched closer and the room was filled with exhaust fumes. Then it came to a halt with a metre’s clearance from the wall.
    ‘Perfect!’ he shouted.
    Afterwards they ambled the short distance back to the house, chatting in low voices. They, too, had begun to speak in low voices.
    ‘Let’s hope that was the last fire,’ Ingemann said.
    ‘Yes, let’s hope so,’ Dag replied.
    ‘I’m getting too old to be putting out fires,’ Ingemann said.
    ‘Too old?’ Dag pulled up and studied his father. ‘You’re not too old. I’m sure you’ll be with us next time as well.’
    The latter took Ingemann aback, but he said nothing. Instead he shook his head and smiled at his son, and by then they were home, and on entering the hall they could smell Alma’s rissoles and forgot everything else.
    The following night, all was still.
    People went to bed. Lights were extinguished, doors locked, cool sheets parted.
    Only the outside lamps were on. The white domes, the moths and all the nameless insects fluttering towards the light in fear.
    VI.
    THE AIR IS CLEARER, SHARPER. Three degrees centigrade. The birds seem confused, they are zigzagging across the sky as though no longer sure where south and north are. The water is black, smooth, like oil. The reflection of the closest houses is nigh on perfect. Sometimes I wish I had never left this region. I should never have gone to Oslo, should never have started studying, should never have started to write. I should have stayed here, right here, in the midst of this serene landscape, in the peaceful woods with all the shining pools and lakes, among the white houses and red barns and the placid cows in the summer. I should never have left all this that I love so deeply. I should have stayed here and lived a different life.
    Every now and then I have the feeling that I am living two parallel lives. One is secure, simple, a life without so many words. The other is apparently real life, with me in the middle of it, at my desk writing every day. The first life can disappear for lengthy periods, but makes an occasional appearance, it is as though I am suddenly close to stepping