The queue at the off-licence in Gronland Basar is never very long. Henning buys two bottles of St Hallvard and walks out into the mix of aromatic spices that always fills the air in this part of Oslo. His most recent conversation with Pulli replays in his head while he walks. I just can’t, Henning mimics. At the time Henning meant it when he said that he could not be bothered to waste any more time on a man who is used to getting what he wants and who — according to Irene Otnes — also has a habit of lying. But Henning knows he has nowhere else to go. And he hopes it gave Pulli something to think about until the next time.
As always, he finds his mother in the kitchen with a lit cigarette between her fingers. Another cigarette is burning in the ashtray next to her.
‘Hi Mum,’ he shouts, trying to drown out the sound of the radio. ‘Losing My Religion’ is playing on P4 for the umpteenth time, he registers.
‘How are you?’
She glances up from the newspaper in front of her. Her face is seething with irritation.
‘Look at this,’ she snorts. ‘Look what they have done to my newspaper.’
Henning goes over to the kitchen counter and puts down the bottles. Today’s edition of Aftenposten is scrunched up at the bottom.
‘How annoying,’ he shouts and tries to smooth out the crinkled paper. She sweeps his hand away with a dismissive gesture. REM finish singing, and the voice of an intense female announcer fills the kitchen. Christine Juul looks at him.
‘Did you get the liqueur?’
‘I did.’
‘Would you…?’ She waves her hands in the direction of the cupboard. Henning opens it and takes out a glass. He removes the top of one of the bottles and is about pour the first soothing drops into the glass when he stops.
‘This glass is filthy, Mum.’
Her eyes shoot sideways, towards him, but she says nothing. Henning turns on the tap, waits for the water to warm up before he washes and dries the glass, but then he discovers that the tea towel is damp. He sniffs it, pulls away from it quickly and looks at her.
His mum needs a carer, he thinks. Someone who could help her with the basics. She can’t manage on her own. It’s either that or she has given up. He doesn’t have the energy to decide which is worse at this particular moment in time. His sister Trine can obviously never spare a single minute of her precious Minister for Justice time.
Henning puts the glass in front of his mother where a fawning Se og Hor feature about Trine and her husband just happens to lie open. ‘We Want Kids!’ screams the headline.
‘Did you buy cigarettes?’ she asks as she knocks back the liqueur.
‘No, you didn’t say anything about-’
‘You didn’t buy cigarettes?’
Henning is shocked by the anger in her voice which is soon replaced by a coughing fit that tears holes in her lungs. He puts his hand on her back and is about to slap it, but she wriggles away from him, pointing to the home respirator on the kitchen table near the wall while she hacks almost to the point of throwing up. Henning pushes the machine closer to her and attaches the mask over her nose and mouth with a blue strap around her head before he switches on the device. Soon her breathing calms down. Minutes later only spasms of her cough remain. She sits like this for some time, slowly breathing in and out.
Henning waits until her shoulders are no longer heaving before he slips out and locks the door behind him. Outside he can still hear the sound of the machine that is keeping her alive — for the time being, at least. And he catches himself wondering if he will feel sad the day she dies.