Long Live the Post Horn! Read online

  LONG LIVE

  THE POST HORN!

  LONG LIVE

  THE POST HORN!

  A novel

  by

  Vigdis Hjorth

  Translated

  by Charlotte Barslund

  This translation has been published with the financial support of NORLA

  This English-language edition published by Verso 2020

  Originally published as Leve Posthornet!

  © Cappelen Damm AS 2013

  Translation © Charlotte Barslund 2020

  All rights reserved

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Verso

  UK: 6 Meard Street, London W1F 0EG

  US: 20 Jay Street, Suite 1010, Brooklyn, NY 11201

  versobooks.com

  Verso is the imprint of New Left Books

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78873-313-7

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78873-315-1 (US EBK)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78873-314-4 (UK EBK)

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hjorth, Vigdis, author. | Barslund, Charlotte, translator.

  Title: Long live the post horn! / a novel by Vigdis Hjorth ; translated by Charlotte Barslund.

  Other titles: Leve posthornet! English

  Description: English-language edition. | London ; New York : Verso, 2020. | “Originally published as Leve Posthornet!”—Title page verso. | Summary: “A colleague’s suicide prompts a media consultant to work with a postal workers’ union struggling for survival. To her surprise, the new assignment brings hope at a time of personal desperation”— Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020008295 (print) | LCCN 2020008296 (ebook) | ISBN 9781788733137 (paperback) | ISBN 9781788733151 (US ebk) | ISBN 9781788733144 (UK ebk)

  Classification: LCC PT8951.18.J58 L4813 2020 (print) | LCC PT8951.18.J58 (ebook) | DDC 839.823/74—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020008295

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020008296

  Typeset in Electra by Biblichor Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed by CPI Mackays, UK

  Long Live the

  Post Horn!

  A NOVEL

  Vigdis Hjorth

  AUTHOR OF

  WILL AND TESTAMENT

  Contents

  Long Live the Post Horn!

  Long live the post horn! It’s my instrument for many reasons, principally because you can never be sure to coax the same tone from it twice; a post horn is capable of producing an infinite number of possibilities, and he who puts his lips to it and invests his wisdom in it will never be guilty of repetition, and he who, instead of answering his friend, hands him a post horn for his amusement, says nothing yet explains everything. Praised be the post horn! It’s my symbol. Just as the ascetics of old placed a skull on their desks for contemplation, so will the post horn on my desk always remind me of the meaning of life.

  Constantin Constantius in Repetition: A Venture in

  Experimental Psychology, by Søren Kierkegaard

  As I was putting away in my basement lock-up some saucepans that couldn’t be used with my new induction hob, I came across an old diary from 2000. The diary had been a Christmas present and I had written in it for a few months before I got bored. As I hadn’t thrown it away, might I have thought it contained something interesting I would want to read one day? I winced at the sight of it, but I still carried it upstairs and left it on the kitchen table. I did some ironing and continued to ignore it, but when I went to bed, I took it with me. I opened it and began reading; I had made entries almost every day from 1 January to 16 May. When I had finished, I felt so sickened I couldn’t sleep. I got up and opened a window to let in some air. I drank some water and paced up and down the living room before I went back to bed and opened the diary again as if hoping something had changed. January’s entries were about the winter sales and some guy named Per I thought might be interested in me. In February it was a guy called Tor and a Mulberry bag I’d managed to get half-price and a pair of shoes I should have bought half a size bigger. I appeared to have seen a lot of films I didn’t like, spent time with female friends who bored me and eaten a lot of rubbish. In between I had been to editorial meetings at Romerikes Blad and scribbled down my thoughts about people, but not once about issues; I had spent my Easter break somewhere hot so that when I came home I’d have a tan for this Tor who I didn’t know if I liked, I couldn’t remember him now, nor was he mentioned again after Easter. The names were interchangeable, as were the dates, there was no sense of progression, no coherence, no joy, only frustration; shopping, sunbathing, gossiping, eating – I might as well have written ‘she’ instead of ‘I’. And had anything changed, had growing older made any difference?

  I tried to recall the spring of 2000, but failed. I had lived through it, hadn’t I? I had worked for Romerikes Blad where I covered sports events and local council meetings, only I couldn’t remember a single sports event or council meeting; had I kept any of my articles? I ran back to the basement as if needing proof that these events really had taken place, but I no longer recognised the basement lock-up or the boxes, perhaps it wasn’t my lock-up or my diary? I never found the articles, but came across some disconcertingly idiotic stuff which I was tempted to throw away or burn. Nevertheless I locked the door after me, walked back up the stairs to my flat and went to bed, but I still couldn’t sleep. I’m coming down with something, I thought, I’m getting a temperature.

  I dreamt my recurring dream where it’s summer and I’m driving with the windows down and the wind in my hair, then I glance up at the rear view mirror and see my mother sitting in the back, as if saying: Yes, here I am. I’m always with you!

  The phone woke me up. It was Stein wondering where I was. I was supposed to meet him at noon in Norway Designs to help him choose a birthday present for his mother. I said I’d be there right away. I got up and I rushed because I felt bad about having forgotten about him and I knew the feeling would pass as soon as I got there, so I hurried so that it would pass, so that it too would soon be forgotten like all of 2000 and the years before that, so that soon everything would be shrouded in darkness as if it had never happened. Stein was waiting. How long had I known Stein? I couldn’t remember when I first met him; I thought hard and fortunately it came back to me, Trond’s fortieth birthday, almost a year ago, had I really been seeing Stein for almost a year now? Trond would be forty-one soon, one birthday after another, it was stored in my memory, all I had to do was retrieve it. Why was it so difficult and why did I need to remember what I had eaten, what I had bought, where I had parked the car, I parked in the multi-storey car park that was a part of the building where my office was and rushed down to the shop where he was waiting. We didn’t kiss – perhaps he was annoyed that I was late. We settled on a glass vase from Kosta Boda, it was nice, I even considered buying one for myself before I remembered my diary. All the times I had gone to Norway Designs to buy birthday presents, all the times in the future when I would stand in front of the till in Norway Designs to pay for birthday presents. Stein thanked me for my help and I worked out how old he would have been in 2000, twenty-eight, what was he doing in 2000, I’d never asked him, would he remember if I did? He was running late and had to go. That’s what we’re like, I thought, always rushing. I could stop by my office, I thought, seeing that I was already in town and had paid for two hours’ parking, then Margrete called and told me her period was late. I’m hoping I might be pregnant, she whispered as if someone might b
e eavesdropping. She asked if I would like to come for lunch tomorrow, Sunday lunch, she said, yes, I replied and walked down Stortingsgaten. I ought to feel a greater sense of awe, I thought. There was no substance in my diary. It was all about nothing. But that was my life and here I was. I decided not to go to the office after all, today was a Saturday, there was nothing that needed doing although it felt like it. My guilty conscience hadn’t eased despite the Kosta Boda vase. Should I buy a new diary and write something else? Invent substance and key events or write an entry about the Kosta Boda vase, I really am coming down with something, I thought, so I drove home and went to bed to sleep it off.

  When I got up the next morning, I felt better at first. I turned on my computer to begin an article for the next issue of ByggBo DIY magazine, but soon started to feel unwell. The components refused to turn into finished houses, the happy customers didn’t seem happy, there was no joy in my language, perhaps there never had been? I opened old documents to find a reassuring piece of earlier copy, but found nothing that wasn’t lifeless. I turned off the computer; I really was sick. Even so I went to Margrete and Trond’s where Mum had already arrived. Margrete opened the door and held a finger to her lips; it meant don’t say anything about her period being late. We sat down to lunch as usual, to a meal worthy of a diary entry, I thought, roast lamb from Lom and organic potatoes. Nothing dramatic happened and yet my heart was racing. Should I ask them about 2000? I worked out how old Margrete was in 2000, twenty-three, she had yet to meet Trond. When did she meet Trond? I did know really, I just had to think about it. Why did I need to know? Because I wanted her to have a history. Because I wanted to have a history. There had to be a link between the past, the future and the present.

  ‘Lamb from Lom is always so tasty,’ Mum remarked; I visualised her in the back of my car, she hadn’t changed. We agreed, as we always did, that the lamb was indeed delicious. Then we watched the seven o’clock news in silence and I drove home.

  Monday morning I got up as usual, made coffee as usual, switched on my computer as usual, and was about to get back to ByggBo when Rolf rang, he sounded strange and asked me to come in. I asked what the matter was, he wouldn’t say. I drove to work, he met me in the corridor, he looked grave, we went into my office. Rolf closed the door behind us and said that Dag had quit, then he handed me a piece of paper with Dag’s characteristic handwriting:

  Hi Rolf,

  I’ve had enough, am taking my boat and going away indefinitely, might return to Norway, though not to Kraft-Kom, I’m giving up the PR business for good, never should have got into it in the first place, tell that spineless bitch we’re in business with that I think everything she writes is shit, I’ve deleted everything on the computer so it’s ready for the next poor sucker.

  Dag

  It had to be a joke. I looked up. Rolf shrugged. He said he’d called Dag repeatedly, but Dag’s phone was switched off. He had called Dag’s ex-wife, who said it was just like Dag to leave everyone in the lurch and do a runner. Rolf said that Dag had struggled to cope since his divorce. That Dag was having a breakdown. Rolf had driven to Dag’s flat which looked abandoned, then down to Dag’s boat, which was no longer moored in the marina.

  ‘Is he serious?’

  Rolf shrugged again. I looked at the note on the desk and gestured for him to leave, but he stayed where he was.

  ‘Ellinor?’ he said after a while and gulped. I flapped my hands again, he took a step back and said he would be in his office until five if I needed him. When his footsteps had faded away, I read the letter again. Had Dag been at the office last Friday? I checked my diary. No, he had said he would be working from home. Had he been in last Thursday? I tried to remember Thursday. After what seemed like forever I managed to recall Thursday, I thought I remembered him being at his desk when I left early in order to work from home, seeing his greying curls over the Mac and his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, but perhaps that was Wednesday? I hadn’t spoken much to him recently, was that why? Or the stupid row we’d had about IT? Kraft-Kom hadn’t turned out to be quite as lucrative as we had hoped, but even so? I tried to remember our last proper conversation, but it eluded me, he eluded me. I called Rolf to ask if he had seen this coming. He hesitated, which meant that yes, he had. I ought to be angry with him, I thought, but I couldn’t manage it. I ought to despair or weep, but I couldn’t manage that either. Would we be able to carry on without him? Keep calm, I thought, I went over to the window and asked myself what it meant in terms of the workload. Outside on the trees the yellowing leaves that had yet to fall were shaken by the wind, especially those near the top; it must be unnerving not to be able to choose your own ending, not to know which gust of wind will carry you off, not to be able to prepare for it.

  I called Stein, but couldn’t bring myself to tell him the news. I can’t remember what I said. He was monosyllabic; I decided he probably had other things on his mind. I imagined Dag on his boat, at sea. I called Rolf again, he offered to come down to my office, but I said we could do it over the phone. What had Dag been working on? The postal directive. What postal directive? Someone would have to take over the postal directive.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ Rolf said and a moment later he appeared in my doorway. ‘I can understand if you’re upset,’ he said.

  ‘We have to do something if Dag really has quit.’

  He sat down in one of the two chairs on the other side of my desk. We were silent for a long time. I didn’t know what to say, I don’t suppose he did either.

  ‘Perhaps we should go home?’ he said, his eyes were red. He misses Dag, I thought, he can’t bear the thought of being here with just me.

  ‘We have a lot of work to do,’ I said.

  ‘Surely we can take some time off to digest this?’ he said.

  I kept cool and asked if he thought we needed to replace Dag immediately. Was it true that Dag had deleted everything on his computer?

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and he has cleared out his office.’

  At least I wouldn’t have to go in there, I thought. We fell silent again. ‘Spineless’ and ‘bitch’ lingered in the air between us.

  ‘And the postal directive?’

  ‘The client is Postkom.’

  I didn’t know who or what Postkom was, but didn’t want to ask.

  ‘I attended some of the preliminary meetings,’ Rolf said. ‘I know what it’s about, but it’s a big job.’

  I could see he was tired and I wanted him to leave, but if he left, what would I be left alone with?

  ‘Why don’t we sleep on it?’ he said and got up. It’s what people say when they don’t know what else to do.

  So he left and I was left alone. Finally something has happened, I thought, something I could have written about if I’d still kept a diary. But I wouldn’t have been able to, I couldn’t even react the way I was supposed to, the way Rolf did, with emotion, I just felt numb, my entry would have sounded as if this was just another thing I had eaten or bought.

  I invited Stein home for dinner and luckily he had no other plans. While I cooked three courses, I listened to the radio. It calmed me down. I still couldn’t tell him, Stein barely knew who Dag was anyway and perhaps it was Dag’s idea of a joke. After dinner we went to bed and had sex. I didn’t come so I faked it to reassure Stein, but he got up afterwards and said he’d rather sleep at his place. He had a morning meeting the next day and didn’t want to be stuck in the rush-hour traffic on Mosseveien. I understood. He kissed me quickly and when the door had slammed shut after him and I heard his car start and drive off, I thought: He’ll be gone soon. And then: Now he’s in his car, thinking. I wonder what he’s thinking about, I thought, but only for a moment, it was an exercise in futility. He was probably listening to the radio. I turned on the radio to hear what he was hearing, but there were too many channels. Did I feel pain anywhere? Near my heart perhaps? I fetched some paper from the printer, but couldn’t find a pen anywhere. I nearly drove myself crazy looking for
one. Finally I found one in a handbag and wrote my name on the paper, then I wanted to cross it out, but it felt like desperation. Margrete rang and in an animated voice told me that she was pregnant, I wasn’t as excited as I ought to have been, but it was late, I told her I had gone to bed.

  The next morning we sat down in my office. Rolf had brought with him everything he had on the postal directive, which wasn’t much. Dag had been working on it since April.

  ‘So that’s not the reason?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why he … quit?’

  ‘No, no, it’s the divorce!’ he said. ‘He’d had enough.’

  ‘Sad that it should come to this,’ he added.

  He didn’t think that Dag would come back; he was already factoring in Dag’s absence.

  ‘And the postal directive?’ I said.

  Rolf heaved a sigh and said we would have to ring the head of Postkom, that our priority now was to talk to the head of Postkom and get hold of the paperwork. He said he would do it, because he knew him.

  He went out into the kitchen and came back with two cups of coffee, he set one down in front of me and stopped. I dreaded his putting his hand on my shoulder or touching me in some other way, but he returned to his chair, sat down, drank his coffee, took out his phone, found a number and raised the phone to his ear. Introduced himself and said that he had some bad news. He said that Dag Brodal had resigned with immediate effect and was currently abroad. Mentioned something about Dag’s divorce and a breakdown, similar to what he told me yesterday. In conclusion he said that everything would be all right and that that was a promise.

  He put down the phone and studied his hands in his lap before raising his eyebrows. ‘We can’t get out of it,’ he said, ‘the groundwork has been done, but they need someone to work on it until the Labour Party’s annual conference in April. Early April,’ he added. ‘What are you working on at the moment?’