I didn’t quite get the whole idea of a “Summerfest” myself, but got the impression it was important to Varg and the label and wanted to do my best—not in the least because of the potential connections I could make in the North American market.
“Do you really have to go?” Petra whined.
She even had to give me puppy eyes while she asked.
Petra always knew just how to get to me.
“I’ll be back soon. You’ll be fine, and just think of it as a chance to live on your own for a bit.”
“Oh, okay. Good point. I’ve never really done that before.”
“And there’s no time like the present. The rent is paid for the month, so you’ll be doing things exactly the same as you usually do. You just won’t have me cluttering up the place.”
“I wouldn’t say you clutter, but I still take the point.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Will you bring me back something American?”
“Of course. You can come tonight if you want.”
My gig tonight was at my favorite spot and had a special place in my heart, because it might be the last time I’d get to play there in a long time. I fully expected that Norway would be back under lockdown once I arrived back home from the States, and concerts like this would be forbidden.
“Will they let me in?” Petra asked.
“Sure, you’ll be with me.”
It really wasn’t an exaggeration. I wasn’t exactly a star, per se, but I was certainly well known in the local scene. I knew Petra didn’t drink and wouldn’t even if she had the chance, so there was little risk of her doing anything too crazy.
She’d tried a single sip of one of our dad’s beers when she was twelve. It tasted so gross to her, and the experience was so traumatic that she spat out the liquid and swore to never drink again.
The night had cooled to a more tolerable ebb as we left the row house in search of a bike. Neither of us knew how to drive, despite being in our twenties. It was something more than possible in a city with as many bike paths as roadways.
The two kept well apart for the sake of safety. You didn’t even have to own your own bikes. There was usually a white-painted ‘ghost bike’ meant for public use close at hand.
“Keep your eyes open for ghosts,” I said, as we headed for the club.
Technically it was a gig, but there would still be lots of time to see my friends after. It was a bit of a challenge, getting all the gear into the specially made wagon, but it worked out finally.
The wagon had had an attachment that let it latch onto the back of a bike. Most of the stuff was in hard shell cases for extra protection; you could never be too careful.
“There,” Petra said.
There were, indeed, two unlocked ghost bikes leaned up against the railing along a canal. Perfect.
Snagging them before anyone else could get the chance, we worked together to get the wagon attached and were off, at twice the speed of walking. I began to think I might even be on time.
There was already a line when we pulled up to the venue. Everyone was being kept single file behind a long velvet rope.
“Are they all here for you?” Petra asked me.
“Looks like it, though the opener could just be really popular.”
After setting the bikes where they could be found by others, I led us to the door, not hearing a peep out of those already in line, aside from some murmuring when they started to recognize me and no doubt wondering who the girl with me was.
Speculations in my small hometown flew wild and free about my personal life, ranging from my alleged celibacy to assumptions that I just had to be a Satanist because of the music I made.
More than once, my gigs had been picketed by a loony local church. My fans soon got wise to the hecklers’ antics and started taking to dissuading them with barrages of raw eggs somehow filled with black dye, no doubt representative of the ‘rotten eggs’ they assumed everyone but themselves of being.
I never either confirmed nor denied the rumors and accusations, letting people think what they wanted to think. I had long ago found that it was almost impossible to change someone’s opinions once they were made anyway, and I had no time for people who hated me. It wasn’t worth the energy.
“Hey, Theo,” the behemoth bouncer said once I’d stepped up to the door.
“Evening, Charlie, meet my sister, Petra.”
“Hello, Petra,” Charlie said, bending down to shake her hand.
“Hi,” she said, and I jumped in before Charlie had the chance to ask any questions.
“She would like to come to the show tonight,” I informed him.
“How old are you, Petra?”