Blinkende lygter Page #3

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we'll do things the proper way.

Give him food, water and salt.

And... this.

You sure about that?

- Are you a doctor?

No...

- Then do as I say.

He's plastered, Torkild.

- Arne...

You are! You shouldn't be driving.

It's illegal.

That's a very serious accusation!

That's enough, Arne.

Don't mind him...

We ought to lock him up.

- Barcelona...

Arne!

Let me out, Arne!

I've got to get to Newport.

Let me out!

They're not there.

- I told you so.

They're screwing you around, Dagur.

Let's go...

We stay. We paid to cross the

f***ing bridge, so now we stay.

They're f***ing with you.

They could be anywhere.

I can feel they're here.

- What can you feel?

F***, man!

I always wanted to see the country.

Peter...

I want to get out.

- You will.

Can I? I'll be good.

Can you walk?

- Just let me out. I'll be good.

Peter, what the hell are you doing?

I want to get out.

- You are out, man.

Further out.

- Peter?

How are you feeling?

Torkild, can I get further out?

- Of course.

You don't want to shower first?

- No, I just want to get out.

Hey, where the f*** you going?

- Out.

Can't you slow down a bit?

F***, you stink!

Can't you smell it?

You okay, Peter?

Can we leave now?

Torkild! Peter's okay.

Let's get out of here.

Sure, but slow down...

- Don't tell me, tell him.

Peter, for chrissakes!

Wow!

It's beautiful.

You're standing on a condom.

There's a little soup left...

Look at kid brother here!

He ain't grown up yet.

Sh*t, what an idiot!

He will get sick now.

That water's not cold.

It's f***ing cold!

Torkild, you're chicken!

We're going to Barcelona!

Peter?

Peter, we have to go.

- I need some more sleep.

Hey. What the f***'s happened here?

Where's the money, Torkild?

- Aren't we leaving?

I bought the place.

1.7 million. It was a bargain.

All the ground's included.

Why are you doing this?

I don't want to go to Barcelona.

I want a place of my own.

All I want is right here.

The woods, the beach... you guys.

Don't you see?

We'll do it.

Do what, Torkild?

- Open a restaurant.

No, we're going to Barcelona.

We can't even fry an egg!

We can learn.

- One and half million, and no roof?

I'm going to Barcelona, okay?

- Well, I'm staying here.

You'll get paid.

- I want 28,500 a month, like Hanne.

No problem.

- Stop this right now.

Are we going or what?

- No, we're staying.

Okay...

See? Peter wants to stay.

Arne, look!

Hi there...

You got him!

- What the hell are you doing?

You can't just shoot the animals!

It was a squirrel...

I don't give a f***! You can't

keep doing this. Give me that.

It was a squirrel!

- So what?

No more shooting.

They don't do that here.

What if the Eskimo comes?

- Stop shooting, then he won't.

How about "The Golden Rooster"?

- Nah... sounds like a roadhouse.

I preferred "The Ritz."

- That's too swanky.

We need something catchy.

Stefan?

What is it, Stefan?

- Something wrong?

It's just so... beautiful.

Listen:

In the long night where memory strays

lights from the past flicker on

distant signals from childhood days

to a fearful heart on the run

There's more...

someone who wants to share your nights

and your days will never get far

your life lies behind in the flickering lights

and no-one will know who you are.

Must be something missing.

What's it called again?

"Flickering Lanterns"...

by Mily Dickinson.

The mice have been at

Mily Dickinson's book.

It's all right, nothing's missing.

Mily Dickinson is a famous poet.

It's good that Stefan's reading.

- But what does it mean?

Who cares!

Stefan, are you crying over a poem?

- No.

It's a metaphor.

- What kind of crap is that?

Are we literary critics now?

- Arne, cool it.

And your brain hasn't worked

since you got out of the freezer.

Stefan! Are you crying over a poem?

- No, no...

Jesus, is this a sauna club or what?

Bunch of faggots.

- I'm sorry.

No, I liked that, "Flickering Lanterns."

So did I. It sounds good.

So let's call the place that.

How much does all this cost?

- Don't worry about it.

Stefan, help us.

- There's no handles.

I'd like to know how much is left.

- There's plenty.

Why can't those two help?

- Just leave them alone.

Now we've got a real refrigerator.

- Never mind that.

Beers should be cooled in the ground.

That's just how it is.

It's a question of finding

the right depth.

If it's too shallow,

the frost gets them.

You want a hand?

- No, no. Just wait.

You'll be digging plenty of holes.

It can take years to

find your personal depth.

How do you know

when you've found it?

You can taste it.

One day,

you'll take one out and taste it, -

- and it's as if

the heavens open up for you.

All your sorrows are gone.

You're at peace with yourself.

You're in a state of joy!

Earth-cooled joy.

Howdy!

How's the work going?

A little housewarming present.

My dad shot it,

over on the other side of the lake.

We're busy, Alfred.

- Oh? Sorry...

Then I won't be bothering you.

Very sorry about that...

See you later, Alfred.

Yes. Well...

Say hi to Torkild.

Bye, Alfred.

He's not all there.

Now. Dig your own hole!

You call that a sauce?

- What else?

I could think of many things,

but not "sauce." Start again.

You can't be serious.

- You should care for it like a human being.

It needs constant attention

and massive amounts of love.

This sauce hasn't had that.

It's merely a fetus.

You calling my sauce a fetus?

It's sloppy.

It needs wisdom and care.

Make a new one, and give it what

it deserves. And a lot more wine.

It's only a sauce!

I can't take this much longer, Torkild.

You have to learn.

I'm finished.

Good, Peter.

Now clean up.

While we're waiting for the sauce.

Where did you learn to cook,

anyway?

I was married to a woman

who couldn't cook.

I cooked for my wife and kids

for 17 years.

I think I know how to cook!

- Take it easy.

We can stop now.

- No, it's good to be cooking again.

When you're alone, you don't bother.

How did she die?

- A drunk driver.

A station wagon.

Completely irresponsible.

They went to pick up my mother

at the train station, and... bang!

Henrik, my eldest son,

died on New Year's day.

Did you get the driver?

- He died, too. They all died.

But you still can't teach me

how to make a sauce!

Right, Arne?

- I'm taking my break now!

You're useless, Arne!

Hi...

Is Stefan here?

Hanne...

- Hi.

Are you here?

- It's a great place.

How did you find us?

- What do you mean?

Didn't you tell them I was coming?

- I didn't know.

I told you.

- Stefan, did you call her?

For chrissakes...

I told you not to come.

- Take it easy!

Bet she brought the Eskimo along.

- Your stupid friends can stay away.

Especially now with the baby coming.

Holy sh*t...

- What about the soup?

Come on, Arne...

- The baby coming?

I couldn't tell you on the phone.

You're going to be a dad.

We're going to be a little family!

Aren't you happy?

- Sure...

You f***ing bet.

Those two are going to smash up

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