We briefly heard something about one of our teachers burying his son as we left, this summer. And I read his name in a paper, but thought no more of it. I found out today that Terje lost his son, then. He was, allegedly, extracted from a meeting at school by police, the press in tow, and given the news. I cannot believe he was there those last few weeks of school. Terje was a marvellous teacher, and, by all accounts, a great man. I cannot believe the pain he must be in, and cannot express my admiration for him. Not only did he show up at our graduation, he managed to smile and give us our diplomas.
The pain he must have been in, as he stood there and gave them to us. The only thing I can compare it to, is losing a beloved pet. And this must be a hundred times worse. Why does always tragedy befal the best of us? Anyone but him, good grief. He does not deserve this.
We, the class, did not know. Making sure we didn't know was the right decision, of course. What would have happened, had we known? I can just see us invading his funeral, it would have been ghastly.
I survived the interview with Aftenposten. The journalist was nice enough, the photographer tall, dark and handsome. He spent most of the interview looking disconcertingly at me. I rambled about how I completed English, went on to University and why. Both Vigdis and the headmistress are big talkers, so I got off easily. I even guarded my tongue, and said nothing too awful about the school, or certain teachers.
The pictures are sure to turn out lamentably. The man got the brilliant idea of placing not only me, but Vigdis on an alarmingly red couch. "It's such a beautiful red!" Neither of us cared much for the experience. The journalist asked us, very cheerily, to talk about literature. I blanched, Vigdis looked perplex and she went on to ask "Well, why do you both love literature so much, then?" Neither of us said anything, shared a look and I quoted Nabokov ("Literature and butterflies are the sweetest pleasures known to man"). That must be some insane rite of passing: quoting once-controversial authors to (clueless?) journalists, and you are ... what?
Before passing the threshold, I had two cups of tea and one of coffee. I thought it might do something to subdue the nerves. Bad idea, I was so terrified I couldn't even have breakfast. At Nordstrand I was fed coffee. In the end, my hands were shaking and the nerves none the better. We sat in the teachers' lounge, before the interview. There was to be some sort of meeting there. As we walked out the headmistress managed to hold an impromptu speach about how proud she was of me, and the accomplishment. How wonderful it was of me to agree to this.The entire staff at Nordstrand stood and applauded. I was mortified. And, most of all, wanted to sink through the floor. There were loads of hugs, good lucks, and we're so prouds. Also, the teachers there hate the fake blondes with extreme side-parts as much as I do. Haha!
Listening to the footage with Pål Herlofsen at Dagens Næringsliv leaves no doubt he will be convicted with a tremendous bang.