The Quisling Orchid

by Dominic Ossiah

  ‘Well, if I were crying – and it is important you understand that I am not – then I would be crying for you, my child.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes.’ The doctor looked about him nervously. ‘Fólkvangr was a grey place before you came to us. Since your arrival, I have noted a marked decline in rheumatism, bad backs, unpleasant and unexplained inflammations… When you came you brought us colour, young Freya, and something to care for beyond ourselves. And if I were crying Freya – which I am not – then it would be because you cannot see the joy you have wrought in our small corner of the mountain. Ah! Now who is crying!’ He took a handkerchief from his jacket and dabbed gently around Freya’s eyes. ‘I have something for you,’ he said, pressing five coins into her hands and closing her fingers around them. ‘Don’t tell Mrs Tufte.’

  ‘I think she already knows.’

  Doctor Lomen looked to where Mrs Tufte sat, glaring at him. ‘Ah.’

  ‘But thank you.’

  To his surprise, Freya threw arms about his neck and embraced him with a strength he wouldn’t have believed possible in one so pale and slight. He returned the gesture, gently pressing his fingers against the glands in her neck to check for any signs of swelling.

  ‘I am well, Doctor Lomen!’

  ‘Can never be too careful,’ said the doctor. ‘Fólkvangr is a martyr to spring flu.’ He tapped her on the nose, and Freya opened her mouth so he could place a lump of sugar on her tongue.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘And remember, plenty of water and fish whenever you find it.’

  ‘I will, Doctor Lomen.’

  Before he left he said, ‘I have children, you know.’

  ‘I don’t think I knew that.’

  ‘Sons, five of them. Stout of leg, good hearts. They’re fighting in the Resistance near Trondheim.’

  ‘You should never tell me such things, sir. What if I am taken?’

  ‘You will not be taken,’ he said firmly. ‘Fólkvangr will not permit it.’

  ‘Then I wish your sons well, and I thank them, for they are also fighting for me.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I suppose they are.’ He turned and walked back towards a stand trading in clay pots. ‘I have no daughter though,’ he said, ‘which I must speak to Mrs Lomen about.’

  He faded from Freya’s awareness and she suddenly found herself weeping. Each time she tried to seize control of herself, the tears came more forcefully than before.

  ‘You cry such a lot, don’t you?’

  Freya sniffed and forced herself to stand up straight. ‘Well… so do you,’ she replied with as much indignation as she could muster. ‘I miss my father, that is all.’

  Silje took her hand and gently closed her fingers around the stalk of a single flower. ‘It’s an orchid.’

  ‘I know what it is,’ Freya replied, her indignation melting faster than she could tighten herself around it. ‘I don’t know what I did to make you leave like that but I’m sorry. I have missed you so much. If I ever do something that hurts you or offends you or would make you love me less, then please tell me! Don’t just run from me! I was afraid you would leave the village and I would never see you again. Perhaps not leave the village then, but you would avoid me and treat me as you did when I first came here. And I thought you wouldn’t come today. I thought I would not see you on my birthday! Have I told you how much I adore you? Of course I have, but I will tell you again because I think sometimes you forget: I love you, Silje Ohnstad, today and forever. What are you wearing? Is it your mother’s best dress? It doesn’t smell like your mother’s best dress, which always smells wonderful by the way. I can’t stop talking. Please say something because I need to breathe.’

  Silje glanced about and saw that Fólkvangr was paying them little heed, though Mrs Tufte was watching them with the severity of a vulture. Silje brushed her fingers across Freya’s hand. ‘It wasn’t you.’

  ‘There were just two of us in your bed. Of course it was me.’

  ‘There are three of us,’ said Silje. ‘There have always been three of us.’

  ‘Erik,’ Freya said.

  ‘Yes, Erik.’

  She took a step closer, close enough for the scent of cinnamon to weaken Silje at the knees.

  ‘When I said I did not care if I were one of two or one of many, I meant it.’

  ‘And when you say such things,’ Silje said plainly, ‘you make me feel like a common whore.’

  ‘I did not mean—’

  ‘It is not you. Please stop thinking it is you. I feel like a streetwalker when in truth I am far worse. I treat the people I care for like pieces of jewellery, picking them up and wearing them as I see fit. Today, I will put on Erik because he is utilitarian. Tomorrow I will adorn myself with you because you match my eyes. Next week I will wear Junges Fehn because… God, I do not even like Junges Fehn.’

  ‘Do not end us, Silje.’

  ‘I am not ending us. I am ending everything else. I will tell Erik this very night. I will tell him everything, and we will no longer be a secret. I am tired of secrets.’

  Freya ground her bare heel against the cobbles.

  ‘I thought this would please you.’

  ‘It is what I want more than anything; you know this. But… Erik. It will destroy him.’

  ‘For a while.’

  ‘I do not wish to see him hurt.’

  ‘And you think that is what I want?’

  ‘I like him.’

  ‘And I love him… just not enough. Not the way I love you.’ Silje glanced at Mrs Tufte who was looking at them with fresh, open eyes.

  ‘And the villagers?’ asked Freya.

  ‘It is nothing they have not seen before, especially during times of war. We are not as unworldly as we seem.’

  ‘Though you are not Oslo.’

  Silje smiled. ‘No, we will never be Oslo.’

  ‘I thought it was the thing I did, the last time we were together.’

  ‘No, it was not that.’

  ‘So… you did like it?’ Freya asked coyly.

  ‘I did not say that.’ Silje felt her neck becoming uncomfortably hot. ‘But I do not like surprises, so warn me the next time you are taken by a desire to poke about in unseemly places.’

  ‘I think I did warn you,’

  ‘You did not.’

  ‘I said that you should tell me if you did not like it.’

  ‘But you did not tell me what I might not like before you did it.’

  ‘So you did not like it.’

  ‘I did not say that either, God help me. What I am saying, Freya, is that I do not like surpr—’

  ‘Erik! How wonderful of you to come!’ Freya gushed. ‘Look, Silje! Erik is here!’

  Erik ambled over to them and kissed Freya on the cheek, and Silje on the mouth. He looked at her oddly when she passively accepted his greeting.

  ‘How is that no one can hide from you, Freya?’

  ‘It is your boots,’ Freya said, sounding almost desperate. ‘Your boots on stones; there is no sound like it.’

  Erik looked doubtful. ‘I’m sure there is.’

  ‘Not to me!’

  ‘Of course, of course. Forgive me.’ He scratched his chin, drawing Silje’s eyes to his freshly grown whiskers. ‘This is a wonderful party.’

  ‘It is not a party,’ Silje said stiffly.

  Erik placed a finger on his lips. ‘Yes, of course! I am so sorry. What I meant to say is that it is a glorious day for an impromptu market.’

  Silje rolled her eyes. Freya narrowed hers and nudged her, as though she’d heard Silje’s eyes turn in their sockets.

  ‘You are being cruel to Erik, Silje,’ she said firmly, ‘and there is no need for it.’

  She is right, Silje thought. He stands between us and I am starting to hate him for it.

  Erik raised a hand. ‘That’s quite all right, Freya. It is just Silje being Silje. She doesn’t mean it. But I wonder if I might steal her away from you.’

  ‘Is everything all right
, Erik? You seem rather… strange.’ Silje hoped Freya would not see her words as cruel.

  ‘I am in good spirits, Silje, and if you accompany me to my home, then I will show you why.’

  ‘Your home?’ echoed Silje. ‘But we never go to your home.’

  ‘That will change from this day. Come.’

  Silje hesitated. His manner, his deportment: he displayed no outward sign that he knew of the love she hid for another. Still, it was an odd, masterful change in him which she found strangely appealing.

  When she did not move, Erik took her hand. ‘I shall return her to you before the afternoon is done,’ he called to Freya. Freya waved half-heartedly as he stole Silje away. She did not move from her spot on the cobbles, looking as if she would remain there until Silje returned, be it an hour from now or a hundred years.

  And Erik looked so very happy, so assured – something Silje was never sure he’d be, not while he was with her. They walked past Mrs Tufte’s cottage, past the old fountain that had stopped working years ago, and took the pavement that bulged out onto the street to accommodate the Fehns’ cottage.

  ‘I have heard from Helga Bratvold. Lisbeth is staying with her in Lillehammer.’

  ‘Good,’ said Silje. ‘They can hate me together.’

  Erik laughed. ‘Poor, poor Silje.’

  ‘Are you making fun of me now?’

  ‘No. Are you trying to be angry with me?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then we are happy, are we not?’

  Silje chose not to reply.

  ‘We have not seen much of each other of late.’

  ‘Yes. I am sorry, and I will tell you why.’

  ‘I already know why.’ His voice shone.

  No, Silje thought. No, you do not.

  ‘The truth is I have been avoiding you,’ he said.

  ‘Avoiding me?’ This was most unexpected. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I have kept something from you, in much the same way as you have been keeping something from me.’

  ‘Erik, I swear I have kept nothing—’

  ‘I know about the others, Silje. I know about Mr Fehn; I know about the men in Bergen; I know about the German officer.’

  When he did not give Freya’s name, Silje felt her heart lift. ‘I am sorry, Erik,’ she said. ‘There is no excuse for what I have done.’

  Erik said nothing further, scratching his neck and reciting his continuation under his breath.

  ‘If you wish to call off the wedding,’ said Silje hopefully, ‘then I will understand.’

  ‘You mean the wedding for which we have yet to set a date?’

  Silje narrowed her eyes. ‘That would be the one, yes.’

  ‘We will not be calling off the wedding. Today is our day of truth. All our secrets shall be laid open, and we shall have our new beginning. As you have been keeping things from me – or so you thought – I have been keeping a secret from you. It has weighed heavily on me, Silje, so heavily that I have been avoiding you, lest you see my crime in my eyes when we are together.’ He walked the four steps to his front door.

  Though she’d known Erik her whole life, she could count on one hand the times she’d seen the inside of the Brenna cottage. He’d always been reluctant to bring her here, and since she knew that his mother and father had never warmed to her, she had accepted his reticence without question or complaint. Before emigrating to the underside of the world with his father and sisters, his mother had made him promise that ‘the Ohnstad hussy’ would never set foot across their threshold, and Erik had kept his promise as best he could, spending days paralysed with guilt whenever the promise was broken.

  Though not today, Silje thought. Today he is different.

  The cottage shared the same map and furnishings as the Ohnstad homestead, except that it faced the west. It had a smaller kitchen and a larger drawing room which was never used.

  Silje noted that in the three years since her last visit, Erik had changed the kitchen so that it resembled her own.

  ‘I had planned for us to live here after we’re married,’ he said, taking off his coat. ‘But if you would live somewhere else then I will sell it and build us a home wherever you want.’

  He made for the stairs, and Silje swore that if he sought intimacy with her then she would spurn him and tell him why.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘I wish to show you something.’

  She followed him up the stairs, surprised – and somewhat hurt – when they continued past his bedroom to the end of the landing. There, Erik reached up and pulled down the ingenious folding steps he’d designed himself. He disappeared into the loft space and then reached down to help Silje.

  It was dark inside the cottage roof, but as soon as Erik lit an oil lamp, the loft became a place of wonder.

  ‘Oh, Erik,’ Silje whispered.

  He had often told her that he liked to draw, but his modesty in this was as breathtaking as his work. There were pictures of her, of course, and then there were landscapes of the mountains and the village. There were sculptures in metal and stone, and sketches of her, clothed and undressed, certainly drawn from memory because he had never asked her to sit for him – though she would gladly have done so.

  ‘These are beautiful, Erik. They should not be hidden away in your roof.’ She touched a metal figurine, which by shape alone she could tell was a forging of herself. ‘I do not know what to say.’

  ‘Say you will forgive me.’

  ‘Forgive you for what? These are wonderful. Why did you never tell me?’

  Erik waited for her eyes to fall on the picture in the loft’s darkest corner, a painting, rendered in oils, of a ladder floating high in the skies above Fólkvangr. The ladder shone with an inner light and its frame was adorned with silver orchids. And next to the painting, leaning against the attic wall, the ladder Erik had used as his muse.

  Silje’s face turned to stone. ‘Is that…?’

  Erik turned away from her in shame and said, yes, it was.

  ‘You took it.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘It was you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Erik shrugged. ‘I needed it for the painting.’

  ‘So you just took it, without asking Mr Gundersen.’

  ‘I’d asked you to marry me, and you’d refused – again. I was angry. I was of a mind to pour my anger into a painting, and then I saw this ladder… I would have returned it, but you and your newsletter turned a minor theft into the fall of Norwegian civilisation.’

  ‘And even when Mr Kleppe confessed, you said nothing.’

  ‘I am telling you now.’

  Silje wanted to sit down but couldn’t see a chair. ‘So you are angry with me, and you paint a ladder in the sky. I am not sure how it helps, but then perhaps I am too simple to appreciate it.’

  ‘It is you, Silje. The painting is of you. Everything you see here is you or is inspired by you.’

  ‘All I see is a ladder in the sky. It is a beautiful ladder, I grant you, but it does not touch the ground and it cannot reach the stars. What is the point of a ladder that goes nowhere?’

  Erik looked to the floor, and Silje, seeing him so overcome with remorse, looked at the picture again.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see.’

  ‘I was angry with you,’ Erik mumbled.

  ‘So this is how you see me, is it, Erik Brenna.’

  ‘But I am not angry now.’

  ‘Oh Erik, how could you.’

  ‘Silje, listen to me. I felt terrible, even while I was painting it.’

  ‘And yet you did not simply stop. You finished it, and then showed it to me.’

  Erik paused to choose his next words carefully. ‘It is my finest work,’ he said finally. ‘I could not stop.’

  Silje regarded him coolly and thought, There is a way from this, for all of us. If I can rein my vanity I can cut him free, cleanly, with little pain and his pride left whole.

  She told him to destroy it.


  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘It’s that… thing, or me, Erik. Make your choice.’ She folded her arms and waited.

  ‘It is just a painting.’

  ‘It is an insult, is what it is.’

  ‘You would really tear us apart over a painting?’

  ‘No, I would tear us apart because you think I am beautiful but my existence in this world somewhat pointless.’

  Erik looked at her, looked through her, trying to pierce her flesh and look beneath her skin for the very first time. He shook his head. ‘Why is it me who has to spend his life proving himself to you?’ He walked over to the workbench and rummaged around in his toolbox.

  Silje watched him curiously, beset by feelings of dread and excitement.

  When he came back to her he was carrying a large craft knife. He looked at it, and then at the painting.

  ‘Just this once,’ he said, ‘you will have to prove yourself to me.’ He put the knife in her hand and closed her fingers around the hilt. ‘Now you know how much my work means to me, destroy it.’

  Silje looked at the painting. It was truly his finest work.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Score the canvas with the knife; cut it and slash it, and I promise I won’t paint another. I couldn’t if I wanted to. So have at it, Silje.’

  She stared at the knife, suddenly unsure how it came to be in her hand.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ he said. ‘You hate it, and you are Silje Ohnstad. So why don’t you just get rid of it, if it offends you so much. Why would you be so cruel to make me destroy something that means so much to me? The picture is you, the good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly, the kindness and the rage. It is you, and there is no part of you that I would change because if I cut away the things I hate then I would taint the thing I love. So have at it, Silje; use the knife and destroy it if that is your wish.’

  The sound of the knife hitting the floor startled her. She looked down to see it lodged in the boards between her feet.

  Though he tried, Erik could not hide his relief. ‘Thank you,’ he said, taking her by the hand.

  ‘I am a horrible, terrible human being,’ Silje whispered. ‘I should be alone. People deserve better than me.’

  Erik drew her to him and held her against his chest. ‘You are not so terrible, Silje. You are just not perfect. None of us are.’