Dartmouth Park: A Novel

Nausea I What triggered it was utterly innocuousA young woman standing a few feet away from him took out a travel card and tapped it against the card reader, the gesture instinctive, automatic, like a reflexThere was also the noise the card reader made A kind of beepThen there was the tram’s interior, the metal poles upright and painted orange, the seats upholstered in a practical, hard-wearing charcoal grayThough he was sitting still, his head began to float sideways and backwards, the motion frictionless and easy, like an ice cube sliding across a pane of glassBut that wasn’t allA hand had wrapped itself around his brain, and it was squeezingHe was worried he might throw up or pass out He was worried he might screamHe couldn’t thinkThere was nothing left to think with If he suddenly found what surrounded him unbearable, it was because it was artificialEverything had been designed and manufactured, and he was trapped in itHe had also become aware of possibilities that might or might not have been exploredBehind that beep, a thousand other beepsBehind that upright orange metal pole, a pole made out of something different, or molded into a different shape, or painted a different colorSomehow all the conceivable alternatives were still there, stacked up behind the version that had been decided on, and all of them unnoticed, overlookedExcept by himHe had boarded the tram at NonneseterenHe was on his way back to London, after a four-day conference in BergenStudying the map above the window opposite, he counted twenty-five stops to the airportThe journey would take approximately three-quarters of an hourHe ran his eyes through the various stationsParadis, Hop, LagunenIn normal circumstances, he would have reveled in the foreign sounds That afternoon they made him feel nauseousBehind each station’s name lurked all the names that station might have had insteadThe tram slowed downA series of electronic notes, a sort of jingle, and then a woman’s voiceKronstadHe lowered his eyesHow many women had auditioned for that role?Like an image from a hall of mirrors, the queue of applicants curved off into a distance that seemed infiniteAs for the voice itself, decisions would have been taken about character and toneHis mind began to spin and swirl with all the options, and once again he had the feeling that his head was leaving his shoulders, his neck as soft as chewing gum that has been chewed for hoursHe had become the host for a sensitivity—a hypersensitivity—that he couldn’t regulate or even influenceHe was tempted to get off the tramHe could sit on a bench and breathe the cold Norwegian air Would it make any difference, though?What if he felt no better?He looked out of the window, hoping to distract himself, but the tram had stopped next to a billboard He didn’t notice what the product was, only that it began with an A, and that the apex of the A was colored white, as if the letter was a snowcapped mountainThis was the most unbearable thing so far It was so obviously made-upDozens of ideas would have been discussed, presented, and rejected in favor of the one that now confronted himBehind the surface of reality lay other surfaces, other realitiesBehind every single thing was something elseHe brought his eyes back to the tram’s interior, and there, as before, were the seats and the polesThis is just a ride on a tram, he told himself, a ride on a tram in BergenHe hung his head again and closed his eyesHe could still hear the beeping of the card reader as new passengers got onThe sequence of electronic notes The female voiceSlettebakkenHe opened his eyes and stared at the smooth gray floor The smoothness was sickeningThe grayness tooHe couldn’t close his eyes or keep them open There was nowhere he could look I might have to kill myself, he thoughtIt seemed like a perfectly reasonable response to what he was going throughIt might even be the only solution available to him How else could he make it stop?Miraculously, he managed to hang on until he reached the airportHe stepped off the tramThe nausea was still there, though it was milder, more subdued It reminded him of what happened when he took medication for a headacheThe pain might lift, but it would leave a memory, a kind of afterimageA place that was dazed and listless Hollowed out  With an hour to spare before his flight was due to board, he found himself standing in front of a seafood restaurant called Fiskeriet Here again the feeling was one of overload or surfeit There was a prawn salad, a grilled salmon salad, a smoked salmon salad, a crab salad, and a salad with tuna, red onion, and black olives And that was just the salads There were also fish cakes and fish soup and fried fish and steamed mussels Choice was one of the hallmarks of modern society Choice was a kind of hellHe couldn’t have said how long he stood there for, though there came a point when he attracted the attention of the woman behind the counter If she thought he was behaving suspiciously, she would call Security, and then there would be trouble He selected the dish that was closest to him—a prawn salad—then paid for it and took it over to a table The woman seated nearby was dressed in a dark-blue blazer and a white skirt She might have just stepped off a yacht She had ordered a plate of fish-and-chips and a glass of rosé He doubted it had been difficult for herHe took a breath, but couldn’t seem to fill his lungs It was as if he had been transported to a planet with a different atmosphere, and he was struggling to acclimatize He picked up a wedge of lemon and squeezed a few drops onto his prawns The woman in the blazer looked at him It was the kind of look you give a lift door when the lift is on its wayHer mind was almost certainly elsewhere He ate slowly, feeling he had made the wrong choice Perhaps they were all wrong choices Was he even hungry? He forced himself to go on eating He remembered a faint taste of salt water Nothing else  Half an hour later he set off towards his gate