Male Tears

by Benjamin Myers

  Yes, I will. I just need to do my ablutions.

  Ablutions. You will have to run to catch me and the drifts lie deep this morning, brother. You’re not getting any younger, Frosti.

  Well, wait for me, then.

  But then I will be late. The doctor will not be pleased.

  You are working the doctor’s land today?

  Yes.

  So go, then.

  You don’t want me to wait?

  Yes, I would like you to wait.

  But then I will be late, Frosti.

  I can’t find my boots. Have you seen my boots?

  They should be drying by the burner, where they always are.

  They are not there.

  Then I do not know. Have you got your morning snack?

  Not yet.

  Brother, you have been daydreaming again.

  I have a headache this morning.

  Any excuse.

  No really, Snorri. My head really does ache this morning. Even just to look at the snow hurts my eyes.

  Perhaps you are coming down with something.

  Perhaps.

  Do you hurt anywhere else?

  No. Just my head.

  It will pass.

  I hope so.

  I will wait for you, Frosti. We can walk together.

  Thank you, Snorri.

  That’s OK.

  The snow is bright this morning.

  The snow is bright most mornings, Frosti. Today it is no brighter than usual.

  Then it’s this headache. The snow doesn’t even look white today.

  What colour does it look?

  I don’t know. It just hurts to look at it.

  Maybe you have snow blindness.

  After all these years, I doubt it. It’s as if it is something more than white today. A sort of painful purity.

  Painful purity? Well now, what grand talk. Suddenly you’re a poet.

  I feel a little tired today too.

  You woke early.

  I couldn’t sleep.

  You were dreaming again?

  Yes. I dream, then I wake up and the thought of the dream, and the light that the snow casts in the room, prevents me from getting back to sleep. I think perhaps we need new curtains, Snorri.

  I think perhaps you need a new head. Our curtains are fine.

  I don’t feel like chopping too much today.

  Brother, you must be unwell. This is not like you.

  I feel like maybe chopping a few logs, but not too many. I won’t be setting any world records.

  You’re doing OK, Frosti. We both are. We might be old men but our bodies are holding out. Our name is still good.

  Seventy years I’ve swung the axe, over sixty of those professionally.

  Yes.

  And today I am thinking that perhaps it is becoming a little repetitive.

  It is your headache, Frosti. It’s making you say these things.

  Maybe. You don’t find the chopping repetitive?

  No.

  Never?

  Never, says Snorri. Why would I?

  I don’t know.

  Sometimes I just wonder.

  About what?

  Things.

  Things?

  You know, just –

  Look, Frosti, this is where I head off.

  OK, Snorri.

  Perhaps we can talk about this later.

  Perhaps.

  I’ll see you.

  Yes.

  At the house.

  Yes.

  For lunch.

  And coffee.

  And coffee.

  II. LUNCH

  There he is. My little brother Frosti with the big axe. So how much wood did you chop this morning?

  This morning I chopped some thirty metres of trunk. And I split a good many logs for kindling. They’ll season nicely.

  The widow must be pleased.

  Her fire need never go out for many months. At ten o’clock she brought me cake. And what about you, Snorri? What did you do?

  This morning I dug out that spruce stump.

  The one on the doctor’s land?

  One and the same. I could have done with your help with it. It was a two-man job.

  I bet the pay is not that of two men.

  You’re right there, Frosti. The doctor is a good man, but he is not generous with his payments. He even asked me to chop the stump for his woodpile. I will do that later.

  Well.

  Well.

  But why have you to dig out the stump now, Snorri, when the ground is frozen hard?

  It seems the doctor intends to plant a new vegetable patch on the land and needs to turn the soil in time for spring. I had to build a fire over the stump to defrost the soil. That took up half the morning. But I cooked some chestnuts in there to pass the time. They were as sweet as Belgian chocolate.

  The doctor’s vegetable patch will fail. I like him, but his vegetables will fail. If a spruce cannot grow there, what hope do turnips have?

  I agree, Frosti. But what can you do. People need to make their own mistakes.

  That land has been untillable for a long time.

  Yes.

  And every spring the thaw waters flood the low patches.

  Yes.

  The doctor should know this, Snorri.

  The doctor spends his days behind a desk. The doctor is very good at his job.

  Yes. And we are good at ours.

  No one can chop wood like us, eh, Frosti?

  Everyone knows it.

  Between us we must have chopped a dozen forests.

  More, Snorri. More. Before I could read I could chop.

  I remember. Father gave you your first axe at the age of five. A short-handle with a blade as thin as a man could forge by hand and heat, it was. I already had my own, of course. The way you wielded it –

  Impressive?

  For a little one, yes. You got a good heft on it, even then. People would joke about it. They would say see how little Frosti swings his blade. They’d come from the village to see you make splinters. They would say he’s going to grow up to be big and strong, that one.

  And I did.

  And you did. Mother had to stop you from taking your axe to school in your lunch bag.

  That is true. I always feel good with an axe in my hand.

  Sometimes I feel the same. The world is full of uncertainty, change and confusion but there is truth in an axe blade.

  Yes, Snorri. The axe never lies.

  It simply chops.

  So long as it is regularly sharpened and oiled very occasionally, a good axe should last a lifetime.

  And there will always be trees that need chopping, logs that need splitting. So long as people need fire and wood for their cabins and tables and chairs, there will always be work for men like us.

  Men like us. I hope so, Snorri.

  But we are old now.

  Yes. But my aim is still true. So long as it is I will keep swinging my axe. I’d rather die than stop.

  Death may have to stop you, Frosti. It stops everyone in the end.

  Yes.

  Death and the axe blade are the only certain truths in this strange life.

  And taxes. Don’t forget taxes, Snorri.

  Yes. Taxes too.

  It’s a shame we can’t pay our taxes in woodchips.

  Yes. If woodchips were coins we’d be rich men.

  And that’s the truth of it.

  There is stew in the pot, Frosti.

  What kind?

  Ham hock and vegetable.

  My favourite.

  I put a dash of paprika in. And how is your head now, brother?

  It still hurts.

  You need food.

  Yes.

  Have you had enough water?

  I don’t know.

  Drink some water and I will make the coffee.

  OK.

  I’ll fetch you a slice of rye bread.

  Thank you.

  Here you are.

&
nbsp; Thanks. I fell this morning, Snorri.

  You fell.

  Yes. On the ice.

  Did you hurt yourself?

  My hip will be bruised by sundown.

  I expect I would have heard by now if anything had broken.

  Yes. I imagine you would, Snorri.

  How is your stew?

  It needs more salt.

  Tell me about the Hotel Dulac.

  Again?

  Yes.

  Sometimes I wonder about you, Frosti.

  I like to hear the story while we eat.

  You know the story inside out and back to front.

  You eat oatmeal every day.

  So?

  So I like to hear it. Is there anything so wrong with that? It’s a good story.

  OK.

  But from the beginning.

  OK, Frosti. The Hotel Consort is in the capital city –

  I said from the beginning. Please tell me about the journey.

  The journey.

  Yes.

  Starting where?

  At the beginning.

  But where? Where is the beginning? Do you want me to go back to the point of my birth?

  There is no need for sarcasm, Snorri. From when you left here is fine.

  Fine. So I walked into town.

  What was the weather like?

  Cold as always, but clear. There had been a big fall in the night, but the skies were blue with patches of only the very lightest clouds. The sun was large and white. It cast the snow pink.

  Good.

  I slipped once or twice but I did not fall. I had my backsack with me.

  With a change of clothes in.

  Yes. With a change of clothes in.

  And your toothbrush, of course, Snorri.

  When I got into the village I met the postman.

  Stefan.

  Yes. Stefan the postman. A good man. A heavy drinker but a good man.

  With a beer belly.

  Yes. Stefan with the beer belly, though not as big a belly as Harold the Baker. Anyway, after he had run some errands he kindly drove me into town.

  Did you get a flat tyre on the way?

  You know we did, Frosti. Fortunately Stefan had a spare in the boot –

  And one round his waist.

  And after only a ten-minute break he changed it and we were on our way again.

  It took one and one half hours to drive into town.

  It took longer than that, Frosti.

  Last time you told me it took one and one half hours to drive into town, Snorri.

  OK. So it took one and one half hours to drive into town, plus ten minutes to change the tyre.

  Tell me what you did when you got there.

  I bought Stefan a cup of coffee.

  Where?

  In a cafe.

  Which one?

  The Hot Food Cafe.

  Good. Did you eat?

  Stefan ordered eggs.

  And you?

  I just had coffee. Afterwards Stefan smoked a cigarette.

  But you didn’t?

  Of course I didn’t.

  Then what?

  Then I went to the train station.

  Was it busy, Snorri?

  No. It was quiet. I was early. I stood on the platform and felt my toes go cold. But I didn’t mind.

  Because –

  Because I was wearing the new socks that Mother had knitted for me.

  Those blue ones?

  Yes. You have a good memory.

  Thank you.

  So then the train came.

  How many carriages did it have?

  I don’t know. Many. I got on. There were puddles on the floor and the carriage smelled of stale smoke.

  Probably from cigarettes, Snorri.

  Probably. I found a seat. The journey was pleasant.

  What did you see?

  Mainly the forest. Then mountains. Rivers. Villages. At certain points a road ran alongside the train tracks and there were cars on it and I could see the people behind the wheel and their children in the back seats and for a few moments it was like looking in a strange mirror, it was like seeing an alternative life, a life I could have lived had things been different, and then the train entered a tunnel and everything went dark. The suggestion of an alternative life was no more. The mirror disappeared.

  Were you scared, Snorri?

  Why would I be scared?

  Dark.

  I don’t fear the dark.

  Me neither. Sorry to interrupt.

  That’s OK. Every so often the train stopped and some people got off and some others got on, and then we would continue.

  What did you do?

  I stayed exactly where I was and I looked out the window. I was seeing our country for the first time.

  Were you excited?

  Excited, no. It was just how I expected it to look. I saw a lot of snow.

  Did you speak to anyone on the train?

  No, Frosti.

  Not even the man who checked your train ticket?

  We might have exchanged words. I don’t recall.

  What did he look like?

  Again, I don’t recall.

  Then what?

  We travelled some more. We passed a lake. We passed another lake. We entered a tunnel. We came out of the tunnel. A man came round with a trolley that sold hot drinks, snacks, that sort of thing.

  What snacks?

  Peanuts. Cheese and crackers. Fruit loaf. I think there was soup too.

  What did you eat?

  I had the cheese and crackers. They were dry.

  All crackers are dry, Snorri.

  Yes, but the cheese was dry too. And not in a good way. I wanted to ask for my money back but I knew that was not what you did. You just accepted it. We travelled some more.

  Then you got to the city.

  Then we got to the city. I had a map with me. I used the map to find my hotel. I went on foot.

  Did it take a long time?

  It seemed to take hours. The city was so busy. So noisy. Traffic was moving in all directions. Trams, cars, bicycles. There was a lot of excrement too.

  Human?

  No, dog. And the buildings. The buildings were so tall, like marble mountains.

  What did you think about them?

  I thought: What happens inside all these buildings?

  And then?

  And then I found the hotel, Frosti. It was on a side street. Trees were growing from between cracks in the pavement. There was a sort of shack outside that sold newspapers, chewing gum, chocolate bars, salt cod.

  They have salt cod in the city too?

  I think they have salt cod everywhere. I checked into my room.

  Describe it.

  It was big, but no bigger than our room. It had carpet. Thick carpet, with a pattern on it. The pattern I didn’t much care for. It was OK. The mattress on the bed was soft and too high off the ground. There was a television in the room. It was nailed to the wall.

  That’s strange.

  Very strange.

  What else?

  There was a table, a chair. A bathroom.

  Did the toilet flush?

  Yes. There was a shower too – it had both hot and cold water.

  Imagine.

  I took a shower.

  Then what?

  Then I got dressed and sat on the bed. It was dark outside but the city was noisy. There were car horns. Dogs barking. Voices. The man in the next room had his TV turned up loud.

  Did you watch TV, Snorri?

  I turned it on.

  What did you watch?

  Nothing of interest. I went downstairs.

  You met a woman.

  No. First I ate. I had a plate of sausages and cabbage in the dining room.

  Was it nice?

  The sausages needed more salt. The cabbage was acceptable.

  Then you met a woman.

  Then I went to the bar and ordered a beer.

  Did it taste good?
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  No, Frosti. It tasted bad.

  Why?

  It left my mouth feeling dry and dusty. The gas made my stomach bloat like a drowned sheep. There was music playing. It was too loud.

  The woman.

  Yes. Then I got talking to a woman.

  At the bar?

  At the bar. She asked me to buy her a drink. I found this request rather forward, but you know me, Frosti. What I have I like to share.

  You never have anything.

  But when I do, I like to share it. I bought her a drink.

  What drink?

  Brandy, if I recall.

  Brandy, Snorri!

  Brandy. She talked, I listened.

  Was she pretty?

  She was OK.

  Just OK?

  Just OK.

  What was she wearing?

  I don’t really remember.

  Try.

  Frosti, it was fifty years ago.

  What did you talk about?

  She talked a lot but I don’t recall saying much. It was as if she was talking just to narrow the space between us; it was as if she was afraid of silence.

  She must have been from the city.

  Yes. She was from right there in the capital. She had a young son. The child’s father wasn’t around.

  It’s an increasingly common situation, Snorri.

  Yes. But back then it was rarer. I told her I was a woodcutter and that I lived at home with my brother and sister and she just nodded. Then she asked to see my room.

  Why?

  She said she wanted to see what it looked like.

  Strange.

  That’s what I thought. We walked upstairs together.

  Then she tried to kiss you.

  Then she tried to kiss me.

  What was it like?

  Awkward. Her mouth pressed against mine like that. I can still smell the brandy and cigarettes on her. For some reason I thought of slugs and snails. Creatures of the sod.

  What did you do?

  What could I do? I just stood there and let her mouth keep on pressing until she’d had enough.

  Is that when she asked you if you were one of them, Snorri?

  Yes. That was when she asked me if I was one of them.

  What did you say?

  I said one of what?

  And she said you know. One of them.

  I said I have no idea what you mean. Then she got a little angry and said some things.

  What things?

  Bad things about people from the north country. Things about farmers and herdsmen and woodcutters. And animals too. I didn’t appreciate her tone.

  Then.

  Then she asked me for money.

  Why?

  For payment.

  Payment?

  Yes, payment for her time.

  For making you think of slugs and snails? The nerve of that woman, brother.