It's Fine By Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

wood on the fire, the black fringe falls across his forehead. He lies down to sleep a few hours, and then, in the night, he walks another ten kilometres. His blue eyes sparkle in the dark, an owl sits blinking on a branch, and he never takes a wrong turn. He wears brown rubber boots, and he crosses streams and bogs when he has to, and he climbs the ridges. On the last ridge he halts and looks about him with a thin smile. From the top he can see a broad valley with terraced houses and high-rises and a big road leading north. He has arrived now. He drops his rucksack in the heather and sits down on a rock. He rolls a cigarette, there is a hiss as he lights up, both the sun and moon are out and he sits there watching for a long time. His hands are large and brown and rough, and there are deep furrows down both his cheeks. From his rucksackhe pulls out a bottle and takes a long swig; he screws up his eyes, tightens the top and puts the green bottle back. There is a clink, and again he smiles. He finishes his cigarette and stubs it out on the rock where he is sitting. He gets up and without looking back, he walks into the forest until he finds a place that feels right. There, he rests the rucksack against a tree, takes an axe and starts to build a shelter. He is working on it all day. It is small, but it’s waterproof and solid: he has done this many times before. As night falls, he takes out a primus stove, pumps paraffin into the burner head, lights a match and puts a frying pan on top. He tosses bacon in the pan and sits on a tree stump to wait. He has all the time in the world.
    The alarm clock glows half-past one and I have no idea what woke me up, but now I cannot sleep. Outside, the rain is falling, even and solid as a wall, a shushing wall. The street lamps flicker as I lean against the windowsill and look out. The grey Sing-Sing houses out there have sunk into the ground, been washed away. Just this rain and the street lamps.
    I have been dreaming. I am trembling, my forehead feels heavy and there is sand behind my eyelids. I am still drunk and cannot collect my thoughts. The only thing I remember is the dream and Arvid in the doorway. I am on my way out and he is about to tell me something important, his arms cut the air, but we have drunk too much, there is a rushing in my ears and I cannot hear what he is saying. There is a warm glow from inside the living room, he isalone, his sister and his parents have taken the night ferry to Denmark. They are going to a funeral. He stands dark against the light and is the best friend I have ever had and it doesn’t matter that I cannot hear what he is saying.
    In the room the air is stale and clammy. I open the window, and the October night seeps in, heavy, moist, you can almost touch it, and I stand in front of the open window wearing only my underpants and feel like screaming. The skin down my thighs and stomach feels tight, and I beat my hand on the sill until it hurts.
    In the dark I grope for my sweater and a pair of trousers, pull them on and sit in the armchair I got from the old three-piece we used to have in the living room. I fumble my way and find the tobacco and matches on the table. I roll a smoke and light up. The match flares, and for a split second the room is illuminated, a little shock to the eye, and then it goes dark again; darker, even.
    I sit smoking, hearing the drumming from outside, then I get up and go to my desk, switch on the lamp that only gives off a muted light, open a drawer and take out a battered copy of Penthouse . I have seen it before, many times, I am sick of it, and yet I leaf through it. There is a sequence with two girls. They are so naked their skin gleams and must be so soft to the touch, they are touching each other and it does look genuine. I know it’s not, but I look anyway. I thumb through and the two girls touch each other more, slim hands on shiny skin, their mouths half open, eyes half open, and then they are all over each