Vigdis Hjorth - Long Live the Post Horn!

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

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Verso

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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 colleagues 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 839.823/74dc23

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

Its 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! Its 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 Sren Kierkegaard

As I was putting away in my basement lock-up some saucepans that couldnt 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 hadnt 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 couldnt 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. Januarys 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 Id 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 didnt 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 Id have a tan for this Tor who I didnt know if I liked, I couldnt 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, hadnt I? I had worked for Romerikes Blad where I covered sports events and local council meetings, only I couldnt 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 wasnt 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 couldnt sleep. Im coming down with something, I thought, Im getting a temperature.

I dreamt my recurring dream where its summer and Im 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. Im 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 Id 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 couldnt remember when I first met him; I thought hard and fortunately it came back to me, Tronds 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 didnt 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, Id never asked him, would he remember if I did? He was running late and had to go. Thats what were 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. Im hoping I might be pregnant, she whispered as if someone might be 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 hadnt 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.