Rishøi Brightly Shining

Main
ISBN: 978-1-80471-074-6
Verlag: Grove Press UK
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 192 Seiten

Christmas is just around the corner, and Ronja and Melissa's father is out of work. When ten-year-old Ronja hears about a job selling Christmas trees, she thinks it might be the stroke of luck they all need. Soon, the fridge fills with food and their father comes home smiling, covered in spruce needles. But the local pub has an irresistible pull and he quickly abandons his responsibilities. Melissa decides to take his place at the Christmas tree stand, working before and after school, and bringing Ronja with her. On rare breaks in the dark of a Norwegian December they dream of a brighter place of kindness and plenty - and find there are some people in the world who might help them. Small in stature but with an outsize impact on the reader, Brightly Shining has all the markings of a magical modern classic.

Ingvild Rishøi was born and raised in Oslo. She has published several collections of stories and her debut novel Brightly Shining, originally titled Stargate, was published in Norway in 2021. It was instantly deemed a modern classic, solidifying her position as one of Scandinavia's most revered literary voices.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Rishøi, Ingvild

Weitere Mitwirkende

Waight, Caroline

Leseproben

Sometimes I think about Tøyen. It’s then I see Tøyen quite clearly.

People carrying shopping bags out of the supermarket and pushing buggies through the snow, running to school with bags thumping, and the caretaker standing by the gate at break time, smoking. Then the snow melts, and the Christmas trees lie brown outside the blocks of flats, and then the lawns turn green and full of dandelions, and so it goes on, people walking steadily and staggering and walking steadily again, babies being born and old folk dying, and at break time the caretaker leans against the pillar by the gate, blowing smoke towards the sky.

It’s then he thinks of me. He understood it all, I see that now. He gazes up above the rooftops and remembers everything.

“Standing out here, are we?” the caretaker said.

He took up position at his pillar, taking a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. And I stood where I always stood, I answered as I always used to answer.

“Yes,” I said.

“You know that’s not allowed?” the caretaker said.

I gave him the reply I’d learned from Dad.

“Rules are made to be broken.”

It was snowing a little. Behind us, someone was shouting The caretaker stooped and lit his cigarette. Then we picked up our conversation.

“You know that’s not allowed?” I said.

“Rules are made to be broken,” the caretaker said. “Did you give away all your food again?”

I nodded. The squirrel had already been, Tøyen’s only squirrel and its finest. It knew when break time was, and then it came. The caretaker held the cigarette between his lips and took his packed lunch out of his pocket. He opened the foil, split the börek in two, and passed me one still-steaming half. His wife was very good at wrapping.

“It’s the circle of life,” the caretaker said. “You give to the squirrel, I give to you.”

“What’s the circle of life?” I said.

“Philosophy,” said the caretaker. “Here I am a caretaker, you know. But in my home country I was a great thinker.”

He turned and blew the smoke away from me.

“That’s the good thing about being an immigrant,” he said. “You can always tell people what you were in your home country.”

“But you’re pulling their legs?” I said.

“Never,” he said. “Well, actually, in my home country I was one of the country’s greatest leg-pullers. I won a competition. The National Leg-Pulling Championships.”

“Gosh,” I said.

“Anyway,” he said. “Have you seen that flyer over there?”

And he pointed with the cigarette between his fingers. , it read.

It was taped to a lamppost. At the bottom were strips of paper with a telephone number.

“Might be of interest?” the caretaker said.

“I don’t think ten-year-olds can get jobs, can they?” I said.

“It’s not you I was thinking of,” the caretaker said.

He went up to the lamppost and tore off one of the strips, and came back and put it in my hand.

“Show that to your dad,” he said.

Snowflakes were melting around the bit of paper in my palm.

“And if he does apply for the job, tell him to say he knows Alfred,” said the caretaker. “He’s the one who delivers the Christmas trees for them.”

“But is that true?” I said.

“True enough,” the caretaker said. “I know Alfred, you know me, and your dad knows you. That’s the circle of life.”

I nodded.

“While we’re at it,” said the caretaker, “you might as well take the whole thing.”

And he went back over, picked off the tape, and rolled the flyer into a scroll.

“It’s not allowed, putting up flyers here,” he said.

“But what if somebody else wants to apply for the job?” I said.

The caretaker tucked the scroll into my jacket pocket. Snowflakes were landing on his small woolly hat.

“Exactly,” he said. “You’re looking at a great thinker here.”

When I got home, Dad was sitting at the kitchen table. Looking up, he shielded his eyes with his hand.

“Is that the sun coming up?” he said. “Where are my sunglasses?”

He smiled, I smiled too. Then he stopped smiling.

“Come and sit here for a minute,” he said.

He rubbed his forehead. But I didn’t want him to start up. , he says, , and afterwards he says, and I answer yes and no and yes, but I didn’t want him to start up again, so I unrolled the flyer and put it on the table.

“Christmas Tree Seller,” said Dad.

The flyer rolled up by itself. I rolled it flat again and held it down. He looked up.

“But a Christmas tree seller,” he said. “That’s a job for country bumpkins, Ronja.”

“But anything is better than nothing,” I said.

Then he looked again at the flyer. And suddenly he got up and went over to the counter and picked up the kettle. Turning on the tap, he said, “You’re not stupid, you know. You never have been.”

He filled the kettle. I love it when he drinks coffee. And when he grabs a pair of joggers and puts them on, and when he looks out of the window and starts to pace about, I love it. I remember all the jobs that Dad has had. The best one was the bakery, when he brought home giant cinnamon rolls, and I could eat them the next day at school, where the others peered into my lunch box like, , and Musse said, , and Stella said, and Musse said, But the supermarket one was good too, and the one where he washed the trams, and the others used to say, The only one that wasn’t good was when he was a poet and wrote about how thought was an eel in a trap and sold the poems outside 7-Eleven, I didn’t love that one, but I love it when the kettle starts to hiss, and that’s all it takes. , Melissa likes to say, .

The water bubbled. Dad picked up the kettle. And my head was already full of dreams. Because I knew where the Christmas tree market was, and I was thinking I could run over there straight after school, and Dad would be walking around among the trees in his woolly jumper, and I could stand over by the petrol station and watch him smile at the customers and put their money in a fat wallet. Then he’d get paid, and for Christmas we could give Melissa, I don’t know, something she wanted, and Dad would buy it and come home and beckon me into the bathroom and whisper, I thought it might be Dad who delivered the Christmas tree to school as well. I knew exactly what it would be like—Meron would lean against the window and yell, And the teacher says , but everybody runs over to the window, yeah, then everybody runs over to the window, and downstairs we see the head teacher crossing the playground to meet Dad. She’s got her arms clutched around her wool coat. Then she points towards the gym. Her knitted belt is flapping in the wind, and Dad is smiling his big smile, and Dad hauls the tree through the school gate, and everyone in class yells . That’s what I dreamed.

Dad stood looking out of the window. It was still snowing. He held the mug to his chest. Our kitchen was so empty.

“Maybe we can have a Christmas tree this year, then,” I said.

“What?” said Dad.

“If you’re a Christmas tree seller,” I said. “Then can we have a Christmas tree?”

“Of course,” said Dad, turning to face me. “My Robber’s Daughter. You reckon employees get a discount?”

“Yeah, definitely,” I said.

“Or even a free tree, maybe?” Dad said, and I nodded, because I did think so.

“My Robber’s Daughter,” Dad liked to call me. “You are my Robber’s Daughter and my Treasure Chest and my Rainy-Day Fund.”

He liked to call us Star and Moon and Macaroni and Caramel. He called us Ronja the Robber’s Daughter and Melissa Moonlight, he walked in through the door and said, “Where’s my Robber’s Daughter and my Moonlight?”

“Here,” we’d say. “We’re just sitting here eating Frosties.”

“But do you...