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says.
    “Yeah, well I don’t actually dream of becoming a pop star,” I say, feeling another surge of annoyance, but I keep smiling.
    “Oh, no, that’s right,” he says. “You’re an artist!”
    I look at him, feel like firing off an equally sarcastic retort, but I can’t bring myself to do it, don’t feel like starting anything, no good would come of it anyway. So instead I look at him and chuckle, pretend to take it as a joke, pretend not to hear the sarcasm in his voice. Turn to Hilde, look at her and smile, but she doesn’t look at me, just stands there smacking her lips, giving Eskil a look that says: behave yourself. Her eyelids droop pointedly, as if to let him know she’s had enough of him.
    “Is something wrong?” Eskil asks. He raises his eyebrows, puts on a butter-wouldn’t-melt face.
    “No, no,” Hilde says.
    “But you look so tired!”
    She doesn’t say anything, simply looks him straight in the eye.
    “You’re sure there’s nothing wrong?” Eskil asks again.
    “There’s never anything wrong,” Hilde says.
    “Gosh!” Eskil exclaims.
    “Yes, I know!” she says.
    I bend down and pretend to be picking at a tiny spot on my shorts, rather relishing the fact that they’rearguing, although I feel a bit awkward, too, it’s kind of embarrassing. One beat, then I act as if I’ve suddenly thought of something I meant to ask Mum. “Um,” I say, scratching my chin as I start to walk off, walk across the living room and into the kitchen. Mum is standing with her back to me, at the cooker, stirring the sauce. She turns and looks at me, smiles, carrying on as though everything from this morning is forgotten, she’s like a changed woman now Eskil’s here, no longer so down, she’s never down when Eskil’s around, she’s almost cheerful.
    “Thanks for mowing the lawn for me, Jon,” she says. Turns away again, stirs. I study the gnarled blue veins on her hands, her work-worn hands.
    “It’s the least I could do,” I say.
    Two seconds.
    “Anything I can do for you here?” I ask. She turns to face me again, smiles.
    “No, no!” she says.
    “Are you sure?” I ask.
    “Quite sure,” she says.
    Two seconds more.
    Then I hear Eskil say: “Oh, go on, let him help!”
    I notice the way Mum’s face immediately lights up. She stops stirring and glances to the side, smiling.
    “What are you babbling on about now, you silly idiot?” she cries gaily.
    And Eskil strolls in to join us. He has removed his sunglasses from his brow and nibbles on one leg of them as he flashes that lopsided grin he thinks is so charming. He eyes Mum, removes the sunglasses from his mouth.
    “Let the lad help you, I said! You know it’s not easy for him!”
    He slips his free hand into his pocket and leans against the door jamb, stands there looking smug. And Mum looks at him and laughs.
    “Silly idiot!” she says.
    Eskil grins, enjoying this whole situation. He’s just like all other ordinary, average individuals, he loves being called an idiot. I stare at him, feel annoyance growing inside me, there’s something bitter building up in there, a vicious resentment.
    “This brother of yours is so silly, I’m at my wit’s end,” Mum says and she turns to me and shakes her head, smiling. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him,” she adds.
    “Oh, really?” I say.
    She gives me a slightly puzzled look. And this bitterness grows inside me, this resentment. I’m so close to telling them that I’ve got several good suggestions for what to do with him, but I manage to restrain myself, just stand there. There’s silence, and Mum and Eskil look at me and now I have to say something, it doesn’t matter what, just say something.
    “Think I’ll nip down to the beach for a swim!” I blurt.
    Silence again.
    Mum looks at me, frowns.
    “Now?” she asks.
    I yawn, give a little shrug, try to act casual, but don’t quite manage it.
    “I’ve got time before dinner,” I say, look at her and force a