by Helene Flood
Silence on the other end of the line. Then there’s more mumbling – I can’t make out what they’re saying, but they’re talking between themselves, I can hear them both, their almost-whispering.
“What are you saying?” I say, loud enough now that those sitting around me evidently get the gist of the conversation. “I can’t hear what you’re saying.”
Silence again. Then Thomas mumbles something, and Jan Erik says:
“I’m not sure I understand, Sara, because Thomas and I only got here around one. Sigurd said he was going to drive up here himself, later.”
My forehead tightens; a headache, thick and burning.
“He called at around nine-thirty, ten,” I say, exhausted, tired of them and the train and this entire day. “He said that you were there already, he said . . .”
I think back: Jan Erik, the firewood.
“He said you were messing around with some logs for the fire.”
Total silence descends. Even the train, now on a straight stretch, stops its noise.
“But Thomas and I only left Oslo at ten,” Jan Erik says.
People’s stories often contain inconsistencies, small untruths – not really lies, more shortcuts – which means that one person at different times, or several people at the same time, may tell stories that don’t add up. Someone took the bus somewhere, even though the T-banen would have been easier. Someone was on their summer holiday in Denmark, but had to explain themselves in German in a pharmacy. If you don’t take these things too literally it isn’t a problem. Perhaps you heard wrong, perhaps it wasn’t the café by the train station but one with a similar name, next to a bus stop. Perhaps they weren’t taking the ferry to Denmark but to Kiel. There are usually plausible explanations. No, we were in Denmark, but took a day trip to Germany. It was just easier not to tell the whole story.
But fundamentally different stories – mutually exclusive descriptions of the facts – these are not so common. Even in the world of therapy it usually goes something like, “Yeah, Mamma says I was drunk, but I’d only had a couple of beers, I was just so tired, my speech was slurred – I agree about that – but I wasn’t blind drunk.” People stretch out the truth, embellish the story. Pull it in different directions. But people don’t usually say A when B is true and B excludes A. Nobody says, “I was in the car at Sinsen,” if in fact they were standing outside a cabin in Norefjell with a pile of logs in their arms. You don’t say, “Jan Erik is just crossing the yard,” if in fact you’re staring at an abandoned, empty yard – if Jan Erik isn’t even in the same county.
Such contradictions are not plausible – are not the result of a misunderstanding or inconsistency. Only one of two options is possible: Jan Erik was at Norefjell a little after nine-thirty, and is now lying, or Jan Erik was in the car driving out of Oslo at ten o’clock, and Sigurd lied in his voicemail message.
But I don’t have the energy to think about it; can only believe that Jan Erik is playing a joke on me. I have never understood his sense of humour. He once laughed so hard that beer came out of his nose because he had tricked Sigurd into taking a bite of a chilli pepper by telling him it was a sweet one. When I hang up, he’ll be doubled up on the cabin floor, crying with laughter because he’s tricked me, and Sigurd will come in from the outside toilet, look at him and smile, not understanding, and say: “What’s so funny?”
“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” I say. “Listen, I’m on the train on the way home from the gym. Can’t we just . . . Can’t we just try to call him again? Both of us? O.K.? And then speak a little later on this evening when we’ve managed to get hold of him?”
“Yeah, O.K.,” Jan Erik says, almost too eager. “Yeah, let’s do that, haha, I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. But. Yeah. We just wanted to let you know.”
“O.K., speak to you soon, then. Say hi to Thomas from me.”
We hang up. I call Sigurd, letting the telephone ring until the answering machine kicks in. The train pulls into Berg station. I look out of the window, see my reflection in the glass, still red-faced after my spinning class, and think, well, that was weird.
*
Only when I’m standing in Old Torp’s shower cubicle under the stream of hot water from the hole in the wall does the illogical nature of the situation truly dawn on me. There’s no other possibility than that one of them is lying, either Jan Erik or Sigurd. Jan Erik has a warped sense of humour, but this seems too much, even for him. And Sigurd is a good guy, he’s my husband – he doesn’t lie.
But let’s just say that what Jan Erik says is true. That Sigurd is lying for some reason or other, something understandable – a surprise, for example, what do I know? Just supposing. But then why hasn’t he arrived at the cabin?
Only then do I feel the fear growing cold and hard in my stomach. Where is Sigurd now? I try to assuage it: don’t be stupid, Sara, there must be a good reason, he’s lost his mobile or it’s out of battery, he’s probably on his way up there right now, I bet he called from Jan Erik’s mobile while I was in the shower. It helps, makes my fear less sharp, wraps it in cotton wool to turn it into a murmuring ball of worry instead. I rinse the shampoo from my hair and turn off the water; step out of the shower, trembling and naked on the wooden pallets as I quickly dry myself and unhook my dressing gown from a pallet leant up against the wall. I wrap a towel around my hair, pull on the dressing gown, rub my arms to warm myself and hurry out of the bathroom, down the stairs and into the kitchen.
But my mobile shows no missed calls. When I pick it up the screen is illuminated by a photograph, Sigurd and me with Theo, my sister’s eldest son. We have wedges of orange in our mouths, all three of us; we’re grinning, orange everywhere. Sigurd’s eyes are narrow with laughter, almost invisible, nothing but folds of skin with small, dark pearls inside. His smile, with the skin of the orange covering his teeth, is enormous.
A corner of the swaddled fear in my stomach pokes itself free.
I open my voicemail and replay Sigurd’s message.
“Hey, love. We’ve made it to Thomas’ cabin. Here it’s, oh, it’s good to be here, I . . . It’s just Jan Erik, he’s messing around with some firewood, he looks like a total idiot, I . . . I should probably go now. I just wanted to let you know we’re here, and, yeah, I’ll call you later. Be safe. O.K. Bye.”
I play it again; Sigurd’s voice. “Hey, love.” Just as he always says it. Nothing strange. Not a cough, not the slightest tremor in his voice. The crackling as Jan Erik approaches doesn’t sound like anything in particular; the hesitation before he continues seems genuine.
“Be safe.” Just like he always says. “Bye.”
I play the recording for a third time, more focused now. Is he indoors or outside, for example? We went to Thomas’ cabin at Norefjell a few years ago, so I know the layout. Just a moment ago I imagined Sigurd standing in the doorway, Jan Erik crossing the yard with an armful of logs, trying not to drop them – that Sigurd had to hang up to help him carry them inside. But can I be certain about that? Might they just as easily be inside, Jan Erik joking around with some logs from beside the fire, lifting them up to his head to give himself big ears, for example, or raising one above his head and pretending to hunt Sigurd around the room? So Sigurd has to hang up in order to run?
“He looks like a total idiot” – is that because he’s about to fall, or because he’s fooling around? And would it even be typical of Sigurd to use such an expression? With a sigh I think that no, back when I first met him Sigurd would never have said that anyone looked like an idiot. This is the influence of his childhood friends – especially Jan Erik. Not the Sigurd I met in Bergen four years ago.
The fourth time I play the recording I decide that he’s outside. Indoors the sounds of Jan Erik joking around would have been reflected by the walls – I would have heard him. Sound travels further outdoors. Unless Jan Erik is outside, and Sigurd’s watc
hing him through the window.
If Jan Erik is even there at all. Another sharp corner of the fear in my stomach jabs at me.
I call Sigurd again. The mobile rings and rings. “Hi, you’ve reached Sigurd Torp. Sorry I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.” A beep.
“Hi, love, it’s me. Can you call me?”
I hesitate, waiting. Why don’t I just hang up?
“Be safe, O.K.? Call me. Bye.”
“Hi, love.” We’ve talked about this. “Sweetie” is too childish. “Darling” too serious, unless you’re saying it ironically, in which case it becomes alienating. “Baby” is for teenagers. “Honey” is too gooey. But “love” – “love” is cosy without being too sweet. From the verb “to love”, and therefore also descriptive. Exactly the way we feel about each other but can’t bring ourselves to say every time we speak on the phone. Sigurd and I aren’t the kind of couple who say “I love you” on a daily basis. We save that phrase for special occasions, whisper it to one another with a sincere intensity when it feels as if our chests are about to burst. “Hi, love” is code.
I call Thomas. He answers immediately.
“Have you heard from him?” I say. Thomas clears his throat, says no.
“Thomas,” I say, “what’s going on? Are you kidding around with me?”
“No,” Thomas says, sounding hurt that I could possibly think something like that. “No,” he says, “we’d never do that.”
“I just, I just don’t understand,” I say.
“Neither do we,” Thomas says. “We don’t know what to think. There were no footprints in the snow outside when we arrived. I can’t see how he could have been here – I mean, are you sure that’s what he said?”
My stomach contracts. Thomas’ voice isn’t as wavering as Jan Erik’s. He’s speaking coherently – they’re not drunk. Thomas isn’t mean, not really. He has a normal sense of humour – he laughs at Monty Python and stand-up comedy on T.V.
“He left me a voicemail,” I say. “I’ve listened to it four times since I last spoke to you – I know what he said.”
“O.K.,” Thomas says. “Then I don’t know. He must’ve been joking, then. Maybe he was supposed to . . . No, I don’t know.”
He takes a deep breath. Behind him, Jan Erik says something. I hold my breath on my end of the line.
“So what do we do now?” Thomas says.
We agree to wait and see, because what else can we do? “Just go on with whatever you planned to do,” Thomas says to me, so I make a chicken salad. I open the bottle of white wine. I think, this is ridiculous. I think, it’ll turn out there’s an explanation for everything, Sigurd and I will laugh about it later. I imagine myself telling him about exactly this moment, the way I stood here, making a chicken salad and not knowing what to believe.But oh, you poor thing, didn’t you realise that I’d just slept over at the office? No, it never even occurred to me, I didn’t understand why you hadn’t called – but that was just because, because, because. But, “love”. Were you worried? I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you – didn’t mean to ruin your evening, the dinner and film you were so looking forward to. No, it doesn’t matter, of course not. Just as long as everything’s O.K.
The lump in my stomach struggles against the layer in which I’ve wrapped it. I pour myself another glass of wine. So Sigurd has lied to me. Or Jan Erik and Thomas are lying, though I don’t think so. But why do I trust them more than I trust my own husband?
Because they’re here right now. Because they’re talking to me. Because Sigurd hasn’t turned up to tell me his side of the story. That’s what it comes down to. Why don’t you, Sigurd? Can’t you just show up and tell your side of the story? Tell me what that voicemail means?
I call him again. The ringing tone drones on and on, that aggressive sound, no answer, and then the tiny click as the answering machine kicks in, the moment of hope – is he picking up? – but it’s the tape. “Hi, you’ve reached Sigurd Torp . . .”
The food is unsatisfying – I’ve lost my appetite. I’ve found a chick flick on Netflix, “Sense and Sensibility”; women in bonnets and long dresses, men with fine manners who suppress all their feelings. A film Sigurd would never agree to watch.
So he lied. So what? I might say that he doesn’t lie, but then what do I know? If men do lie, isn’t it first and foremost to their wives? Are there not thousands of reasons for us to lie to those closest to us?
I have lied myself – I probably lie often, even to Sigurd. Especially to Sigurd. I tell him that my practice is going well, that it’s a little difficult to find patients now that it’s winter, but that things will pick up. I say nothing about the fact that I feel lonely out there in the office above the garage – although I had so looked forward to quitting my job and leaving behind all my complaining, arguing, gossiping colleagues. I don’t mention that I’m not advertising my services, that I haven’t put an ad on Google, even though the guy from the year above me at university who also runs his own practice says that’s the way to get patients. I say nothing of the fact that I haven’t told everyone I know that I’ve started working for myself, don’t say that I haven’t created a Facebook page, that I’m not doing my best to find more work. I say only this – that things will pick up. In fact, now I come to think of it, I lie even more than this. I say that the guy I know also thinks it’s difficult in the winter – although he’s never said anything of the sort, only that his first month was a little on the quiet side, before he started advertising. I turn his words around; embellish them, deduct from them. So that Sigurd won’t nag me. He’s mentioned it a couple of times: “You said you’d earn more – I don’t mean to pressure you, but we need money for the renovations.” He tends to say this whenever I bug him about the fact that work on the house has ground to a halt. Old Torp is still living in the walls – he must be rubbing his hands with glee. “I have so much to do,” Sigurd says then – but is that true?
“Atkinson,” Sigurd says. Atkinson is an English shipping magnate who lives in an apartment in St Hanshaugen and who Sigurd has been working for – preparing the drawings for the conversion of his cellar. Fru Atkinson in particular has presented problems – she was trouble from the start, and has only got worse as the project has progressed. No, the stairs were not supposed to be like that, that’s not what we agreed at all, Fru Atkinson says. She had imagined there would be “much more light” when the window was installed. Sigurd had to be friendly, understand that she was disappointed, explain, go back to the drawing board. She also quibbles about the bill. “I’m not paying for this,” she says, “that’s not what we agreed.”
“Atkinson,” Sigurd says when he comes home late and slumps down on the sofa in front of the T.V. “She’s been on the phone all day, I had to go down there and look at the fucking stairs, which don’t ‘open up the room’ as she’d envisaged.” It’s implied that he can’t be bothered to work tonight – not on the bathroom, not on the bedroom, and especially not on any of the stairs in this old shack. He wants to put his feet up, watch a reality T.V. show about a group of Americans trying to survive thirty days alone in the wilderness as he fiddles about with his laptop. Is he not due this, at least? When he’s been forced to appease Fru Atkinson all day?
Or has he? Or is this just like when I tell him about how it’s been hard to find patients?
While the people in the film just about manage to exude a polite joy at their hearts being broken, it hits me. The missing document tube.
Maybe he had planned to work from the cabin. Perhaps it’s logical that he took the document holder with him. But did he really call from the cabin in Norefjell, when there were no tracks leading up to the front door by the time Jan Erik and Thomas arrived? Maybe he did see Jan Erik with the logs. But then why are his two friends not telling the truth about it now?
He lied. He must have done. Or maybe
everyone is lying, at least a little. But Sigurd lied about where he was. About who he was with. I listen to the voicemail message again, know it off by heart by now. But that’s not it. What is it I can hear?
“Hey, love. We’ve made it to Thomas’ cabin.”
Is there a hint of deception in his voice?
“Here it’s, oh, it’s good to be here.”
Now was that necessary, if it was all a lie? And with a sigh, no less! “Oh, it’s good to be here.” Well, you know what, Sigurd? It’s not so good to be here, in Kongleveien, in this old house where your old grandfather lived and died – here, with the empty hook where your document tube should be, with your voice on the answering machine and your friends calling me, telling me things I don’t understand.
Crackle, crackle.
“It’s just Jan Erik, he’s messing around with some firewood.”
My stomach starts to boil, hot and violent, melting away the fear and unease – angry and strong and freeing. So it’s Jan Erik, you say? Wrong! You’ve made it, you say? Lie! You want me to stay safe? You asshole.
Infuriated, I delete the message – wanting to be done with it, not wanting anything more to do with it, as if I could delete the memory of it at the same time. As if the whole problem will cease to exist now that the message is gone.
I put the chicken salad in the fridge; turn off the film, turn off the T.V. Set the mouth of the bottle to my lips and empty the rest of the wine down my throat.
Before I fall asleep, as I lie there with Sigurd’s side of the duvet around me, trying to make the room stop spinning, I think: perhaps that wasn’t such a good idea. Deleting the message. It might have been good to have the option to play it again.