Alberto said about Sartre and existentialism. He had almost managed to convert her—although he had done that many times before in the ring binder too.
Once, about a year ago, Hilde had bought a book on astrology. Another time she had come home with a set of tarot cards. Next time it was a book on spiritualism. Each time, her father had lectured her about “superstition” and her “critical faculty,” but he had waited until now for the final blow. His counterattack was deadly accurate. Clearly, his daughter would not be allowed to grow up without a thorough warning against that kind of thing. To be absolutely sure, he had waved to her from a TV screen in a radio store. He could have saved himself the trouble ...
What she wondered about most of all was Sophie. Sophie—who are you? Where do you come from? Why have you come into my life?
Finally Sophie had been given a book about herself. Was it the same book that Hilde now had in her hands? This was only a ring binder. But even so—how could one find a book about oneself in a book about oneself? What would happen if Sophie began to read that book?
What was going to happen now? What could happen now? There were only a few pages left in her ring binder.
Sophie met her mother on the bus on her way home from town. Oh, no! What would her mother say when she saw the book in Sophie’s hand?
Sophie tried to put it in the bag with all the streamers and balloons she had bought for the party but she didn’t quite make it.
“Hi, Sophie! We caught the same bus! How nice!”
“Hi, Mom!”
“You bought a book?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Sophie’s World ... how curious.”
Sophie knew she didn’t have the slightest chance of lying to her mother.
“I got it from Alberto.”
“Yes, I’m sure you did. As I said, I’m looking forward to meeting this man. May I see?”
“Would you mind very much waiting till we get home, at least. It is my book, Mom.”
“Of course it’s your book. I just want to take a peek at the first page, okay? ... ‘Sophie Amundsen was on her way home from school. She had walked the first part of the way with Joanna. They had been discussing robots . . .’”
“Does it really say that?”
“Yes, it does, Sophie. It’s written by someone called Albert Knag. He must be a newcomer. What’s your Al- berto’s name, by the way?”
“Knox.”
“It’ll probably turn out that this extraordinary person has written a whole book about you, Sophie. It’s called using a pseudonym.”
“It’s not him, Mom. Why don’t you just give up. You don’t understand anything anyway.”
“No, I don’t suppose I do. The garden party is tomorrow, then everything will be all right again.”
“Albert Knag lives in a completely different reality. That’s why this book is a white crow.”
“You really must stop all this! Wasn’t it a white rabbit?”
“You stop it!”
That was as far as they got before they reached their stop at the end of Clover Close. They ran straight into a demonstration.
“My God!” exclaimed Helene Amundsen, “I really thought we would be spared street politics in this neighborhood.”
There were no more than about ten or twelve people. Their banners read:
THE MAJOR IS AT HAND
YES TO YUMMY MIDSUMMER EATS
MORE POWER TO THE UN
Sophie almost felt sorry for her mother.
“Never mind,” she said.
“But it was a peculiar demonstration, Sophie. Quite absurd, really.”
“It was a mere bagatelle.”
“The world changes more and more rapidly all the time. Actually, I’m not in the least surprised.”
“You should be surprised that you’re not surprised, at any rate.”
“Not at all. They weren’t violent, were they? I just hope they haven’t trampled all over our rosebeds. Surely it can’t be necessary to demonstrate in a garden. Let’s hurry home and see.”
“It was a philosophical demonstration, Mom. Real philosophers don’t trample on rosebeds.”
“I’ll tell you what, Sophie. I don’t think I believe in real philosophers any longer. Everything is synthetic nowadays.”
They spent the afternoon and evening preparing. They continued the next morning, setting and decorating the table. Joanna came over to give them a hand.
“Good grief!” she said, “Mom and Dad are coming too. It’s your fault, Sophie!”
Everything was ready half an hour before the guests were due. The trees were festooned with streamers and Japanese lanterns. The garden gate, the trees lining the path, and the front of the house were hung with balloons. Sophie and Joanna had spent most of the afternoon blowing them up.
The table was set with chicken, salad, and different kinds of homemade bread. In the kitchen there were raisin buns and layer cake, Danish pastry and chocolate cake. But from the start the place of honor in the center of the table was reserved for the birthday cake—a pyramid of almond-paste rings. On the top of the cake was the tiny figure of a girl in a confirmation dress. Sophie’s mother had assured her that it could just as well represent an unconfirmed fifteen-year-old, but Sophie was certain her mother had only put it there because Sophie had told her she was not sure she wanted to be confirmed. Her mother seemed to think the cake embodied the confirmation itself.
“We haven’t spared any expense,” she repeated several times in the half hour before the party was due to start.
The guests began to arrive. First came three of the girls from Sophie’s class, dressed in summer shirts and light cardigans, long skirts, and the barest suggestion of eye makeup. A bit later, Jeremy and David came strolling in through the gate, with a blend of shyness and boyish arrogance.
“Happy birthday!”
“You’re an adult now, too!”
Sophie noticed that Joanna and Jeremy had already begun eyeing each other discreetly. There was something in the air. It was Midsummer Eve.
Everybody had brought birthday presents, and as it was a philosophical garden party, several of the guests had tried to find out what philosophy was. Although not all of them had managed to find philosophical presents, most of them had written something philosophical on their cards. Sophie received a philosophical dictionary as well as a diary with a lock; on the cover was written MY PERSONAL PHILOSOPHICAL THOUGHTS. As the guests arrived they were served apple juice in long-stemmed wine glasses. Sophie’s mother did the serving.
“Welcome ... And what is this young man’s name? I don’t believe we’ve met before ... So glad you could come, Cecilie . . .”
When all the younger guests had arrived and were strolling under the trees with their wine glasses, Joanna’s parents drew up at the garden gate in a white Mercedes. The financial adviser was impeccably dressed in an expensively cut gray suit. His wife was wearing a red pants suit with dark red sequins. Sophie was sure she had bought a Barbie doll in a toy store dressed in that suit, and had a tailor make it up in her size. There was another possibility; the financial adviser could have bought the doll and given it to a magician to make into a live woman. But this possibility was unlikely, so Sophie rejected it.
They stepped out of the Mercedes and walked into the garden where younger guests looked at them with surprise. The financial adviser presented a long, narrow package from the Ingebrigtsen family. Sophie tried hard to
