Ringdal had come into the back room. “Eikeland!”
“In here,” Øystein mumbled.
“I thought you were changing the barrel?”
“It wasn’t empty after all. I’m on the bog.”
“I’ll wait.”
“On the bog, as in having a shit.” Øystein underlined the claim by straining his stomach muscles and pressing the air from his lungs in a long, loud groan. “Help out in the bar and I’ll be out soon.”
“Push the keys under the door. Come on, Eikeland, I want to get home!”
“I’ve got a magnificent cable halfway out, boss, we could be talking a world record here, so I’m reluctant to pinch it off halfway.”
“Keep your toilet humour for people who appreciate it, Eikeland. Now.”
“OK, OK, just give me a minute.”
Silence.
Øystein wondered how long he could delay things. Delaying was everything. Wasn’t that what life came down to in the end, anyway?
After counting slowly to twenty and still not managing to come up with a better excuse than the ten hopeless ones he had already thought of, he flushed the toilet, unlocked the door and went out into the bar.
Ringdal was handing a customer a glass of wine, took his bank card and turned towards Øystein, who had put his hands in his pockets and adopted an expression that he hoped conveyed surprise and dismay. That wasn’t far from what he was actually feeling.
“I had them right here!” Øystein called over the music and buzz of conversation. “I must have lost them somewhere.”
“What’s going on, Eikeland?” More abstract than interested.
“Going on?”
Ringdal’s eyes narrowed. “Go-ing on,” he said. Slowly, almost in a whisper, yet it still cut through the noise like a knife.
Øystein swallowed hard. And decided to give up. He had never understood people who let themselves be tortured andthentold the truth. He couldn’t help thinking that was just lose-lose.
“OK, boss. It’s—”
“Øystein!”
It wasn’t the girl this time, finally getting his name right. The cry came from over by the door, and this person didn’t pass below the canopy of customers, but stood a head taller than them, as if he were swimming through them. “Øystein, my Øystein!” Harry repeated, with a wild grin. And seeing as Øystein had never seen Harry with that sort of grin before, it was quite a disconcerting sight. “Happy birthday, old friend!”
The other customers turned towards Harry, and a few glanced at Øystein. Harry reached the bar and threw his arms round Øystein, pressing him to him with one hand between his shoulder blades and the other at the base of his spine. In fact it slid even lower down, and came dangerously close to his buttocks.
Harry let him go and straightened up. Someone began to sing. And someone—it must have been the girl—turned the music off. Then more of them joined in.
“Happy birthday to you…”
No, Øystein thought, not that, I’d prefer the rack and having my fingernails pulled out.
But it was too late, even Ringdal joined in, somewhat reluctantly, presumably keen to show everyone what a great guy he was. Øystein bared his brown teeth in a stiff smile as embarrassment burned his cheeks and ears, but that just made them laugh and sing even louder.
The song ended with everyone raising their glasses to Øystein, and with Harry giving him a hard slap on the backside. And only when he noticed something sharp pressing into his buttock did he realise what the opening hug had been about.
The music came back on, and Ringdal turned to Øystein and offered him his hand. “Happy birthday, Eikeland. Why didn’t you say it was your birthday when you asked to have the evening off?”
“Well, I didn’t want…” Øystein shrugged. “I suppose I just like to keep things to myself.”
