The train left in the sun. A father with a boy on his shoulders waved at the windows. The brothers settled into their seats. The interlaced geometries of the tracks moved back and forth, reminding the younger brother of time spent running back and forth on the beach. Freights passed. Are you comfortable? the older brother asked. The younger brother nodded. It’s going to be a seven hour train ride, the older brother said, so it’s important that you’re comfortable. He said as he hid the pillows, the younger brother joked, pulling the air quotes down like there were punctuation piñatas forever hanging in the air, and why not take a swing at it, brother? Go on. The conductor arrived to check their tickets. For a moment before handing the tickets back, everyone looked out the window.
The brothers went by the surname of Langeland, Pal being the elder and Gammel being the younger. They were being sent to Hønefoss to spend the summer with their grandparents. Their parents would be joining them in a few weeks, but everyone had agreed after a slew of telephone consultations that it would be best to send the boys across early.
What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get to Grandma and Grandpa’s? Gammel asked. Pal wanted to listen to music. Why did he want to listen to music already? What was wrong with him? Maybe go and see Taale, Pal said. See if he’s finished his tree fort yet. That thing’s never going to be built, Gammel replied. Remember the last time we hung out with him? He spent all afternoon arguing with his family about getting a couch up into the tree. I remember, Pal replied.
Sorry, the conductor said. Sorry, sorry. He and his white moustache made their way through the passengers. Don’t you think you could install some lights on this train? a voice said. Oh, I’ve been telling them, the conductor said. I’ve written to my boss. I’ve written to the company. I’ve written to the local magistrate. Believe you me, I’ve been telling them. Them? a voice said. No, no, said another. Please don’t turn the lights on. I’m building a sand castle in the dark. You’re building a sand castle? the conductor said. In the dark? It’s a beautiful sand castle. Where did you get the sand?
They’d been travelling in darkness for a few minutes now, having entered a tunnel and seeming to temporarily misplace the exit. Would he be visited by any particular primordial soul soup? Function without form in lieu of a soul was not a soul, he thought, as if it were an object as already clearly defined as a bouncing dog. (He was fifteen.) He thought of a story he’d read one night under the bedsheets about miles and miles of interconnected caves in a mountain somewhere in Sweden — how it was home to a singing academy of sorts; how the cave was full of singing every morning, noon, and night — from sliding polyphonic songs fit for something at the bottom of an arch-filled church to a dirty as hell chant fit for the back of the bus — even to the wonder of the bats; and how — sometimes — someone was so far away that you didn’t even see the person you were taking lessons from, but it was as active and overlapping a singing community as you could imagine.
He put his ear to the window. Would he hear anything similar?