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

inside it, I am on the verge and I have a sense that at any moment I will catch sight of the person who perhaps really is me.
    After a while it becomes too cold to sit by the window. I have turned up the heat, but it doesn’t help. In the end, I fetch my jacket and wrap it around me. From the window I can see up to where Olav and Johanna’s house used to be, and some way down, by the old post office, is the house they rented for the last months before she fell ill and was accommodated in the rest home in Nodeland. The fire must have been reflected in the lake. That must have been a sight.
    I read Dag’s letter several times, slowly, assiduously, as though I might get closer to him if I just read carefully enough. As though the mystery around him lies in the words themselves.
    I write a sentence in my notebook: Who is it we see when we see ourselves?
    That is the question.
    I remember one episode. I must have been in the first class, in which case I would have been seven or eight years old. I was standing in front of the class and telling a story. I don’t remember what the story was about, but I know it was very exciting because it had me and everyone else in its thrall. I remember thinking: Hold your horses now, you mustn’t exaggerate, you mustn’t tell any more lies, soon you’ll have gone too far, soon they won’t believe you any more, soon they’ll see through you, soon they’ll see that you’re lying, soon they’ll all get up and walk away and you’ll be left all alone.
    But they believed me. It worked. They didn’t rumble me. It was as quiet as the grave until the story was finished, and for a few seconds afterwards. Then I heard: More!
    However, what happened next was very important. When the bell rang and everyone made a beeline for the door, our teacher held me back. Her name was Ruth; I liked her a lot. She crouched down in front of me with a hand on each of my shoulders, as though I had hurt my face or done something wrong. I remember her face, her eyes, her expression. Where did you get that story? she asked. She seemed concerned, and so as not to worry her further I shrugged and cast down my eyes. I didn’t dare say that I had made it up. That it had all come to me on the spur of the moment. That it was a fabrication from beginning to end. I wanted to free myself from her grip, but I didn’t know what to say. She continued to stare at me with those concerned eyes of hers, and I promised myself that I would never tell a story like that again. For the first time, I had done something illicit. Me, who was always so well behaved, who always did what was right. Now I didn’t know what lay in store for me. You’re a writer, that’s what you are , Ruth said, looking at me with a strange smile. I’ll n-never do it again , I stuttered, feeling a vague sense of shame force its way up from my stomach to my chest and face. Then she let go of me and I charged out to join the others, but her words didn’t let go of me, they were impossible to escape. Ruth had planted them, and quietly, oh so quietly, they began to grow. I was not like the others. I was a writer. I felt it could be seen all over me. It was written on my face, or in my eyes, or on my forehead. I had promised I would never tell stories again, I would just behave myself and do what was right, and I hoped for a long time that all of this would pass of its own accord.
    VII.
    AT A FEW MINUTES PAST 1 A.M. she got dressed and went down to the kitchen. She put the kettle on the stove and waited for the water to boil. When the coffee was ready she took a clean cup from the cupboard and sat down in Dag’s seat at the kitchen table, from where she could see across the plain towards Breivoll. There was something light inside her, something that was totally weightless and never rested, which made it impossible to sleep. It was like this almost every night; she lay beside Ingemann staring for ages at the ceiling. She heard the music in Dag’s room, and