“A journalist.”
The guard gave a start before he wrote it down, whilst I stood as important as a homeless Cabinet Minister before the barrier. It roused no suspicions. The guard understood quite well why I hesitated a little before answering. What did it look like to see a journalist in the night guardhouse without a roof over his head?
“On what paper, Herr Tangen?”
“Morgenbladet!” said I. “I have been out a little too late this evening, more’s the shame!”
“Oh, we won’t mention that,” he interrupted, with a smile; “when young people are out … we understand!”
Turning to a policeman, he said, as he rose and bowed politely to me, “Show this gentleman up to the reserved section. Good night!”
I felt ice run down my back at my own boldness, and I clenched my hands to steady myself a bit. If I only hadn’t dragged in the Morgenbladet. I knew Friele could show his teeth when he liked, and I was reminded of that by the grinding of the key turning in the lock.
“The gas will burn for ten minutes,” remarked the policeman at the door.
“And then does it go out?”
“Then it goes out!”
I sat on the bed and listened to the turning of the key. The bright cell had a friendly air; I felt comfortably and well sheltered; and listened with pleasure to the rain outside—I couldn’t wish myself anything better than such a cosy cell. My contentment increased. Sitting on the bed, hat in hand, and with eyes fastened on the gas jet over in the wall, I gave myself up to thinking over the minutes of my first interview with the police. This was the first time, and how hadn’t I fooled them? “Journalist!—Tangen! if you please! and then Morgenbladet!” Didn’t I appeal straight to his heart with Morgenbladet? “We won’t mention that! Eh? Sat in state in the Stiftsgaarden till two o’clock; forgot door-key and a pocketbook with a thousand kroner at home. Show this gentleman up to the reserved section!” …
All at once out goes the gas with a strange suddenness, without diminishing or flickering.
I sit in the deepest darkness; I cannot see my hand, nor the white walls—nothing. There was nothing for it but to go to bed, and I undressed.
But I was not tired from want of sleep, and it would not come to me. I lay a while gazing into the darkness, this dense mass of gloom that had no bottom—my thoughts could not fathom it.
It seemed beyond all measure dense to me, and I felt its presence oppress me. I closed my eyes, commenced to sing half under my breath, and tossed to and fro, in order to distract myself, but to no purpose. The darkness had taken possession of my thoughts and left me not a moment in peace. Supposing I were myself to be absorbed in darkness; made one with it?
I raise myself up in bed and fling out my arms. My nervous condition has got the upper hand of me, and nothing availed, no matter how much I tried to work against it. There I sat, a prey to the most singular fantasies, listening to myself crooning lullabies, sweating with the exertion of striving to hush myself to rest. I peered into the gloom, and I never in all the days of my life felt such darkness. There was no doubt that I found myself here, in face of a peculiar kind of darkness; a desperate element to which no one had hitherto paid attention. The most ludicrous thoughts busied me, and everything made me afraid.
A little hole in the wall at the head of my bed occupies me greatly—a nail hole. I find the marks in the wall—I feel it, blow into it, and try to guess its depth. That was no innocent hole—not at all. It was a downright intricate and mysterious hole, which I must guard against! Possessed by the thought of this hole, entirely beside myself with curiosity and fear, I get out of bed and seize hold of my half penknife in order to gauge its depth, and convince myself that it does not reach right into the next wall.
I lay down once more to try and fall asleep, but in reality to wrestle again with the darkness. The rain had ceased outside, and I could not hear a sound. I continued for a long time to listen for footsteps in the street, and got no peace until I heard a pedestrian go by—to judge from the sound, a constable. Suddenly I snap my fingers many times and laugh: “That was the very deuce! Ha—ha!” I imagined I had discovered a new word. I rise up in bed and say, “It is not in the language; I have discovered it. ‘Kuboa.’ It has letters as a word has. By the benign God, man, you have discovered a word! … ‘Kuboa’ … a word of profound import.”
I sit with open eyes, amazed at my own find, and laugh for joy. Then I begin to whisper; someone might spy on me, and I intended to keep my discovery secret. I entered into the joyous frenzy of hunger. I was empty and free from pain, and I gave free rein to my thoughts.
In all calmness I revolve things in my mind. With the most singular jerks in my chain of ideas I seek to explain the meaning of my new word. There was no occasion for it to mean either God or the Tivoli;4 and who said that it was to signify cattle show? I clench my hands fiercely, and repeat once again, “Who said that it was to signify cattle show?” No; on second thoughts, it was not absolutely necessary that it should mean padlock, or sunrise. It was not difficult to find a meaning for such a word as this. I would wait and see. In the meantime I could sleep on it.
I lie
