A Question Mark is Half a Heart

by Sofia Lundberg

  ‘Put it on again, then.’

  ‘In a minute, I’ll be down in a minute. I haven’t got my phone up here,’ she calls.

  When Elin comes back from the office she sees Alice sitting with the black notepad in her hand and Elin’s handbag beside her. She is flicking slowly through the crowded pages.

  The steps creak and sway as Elin runs down them, two at a time. She’s changed into narrow jeans, an open-necked white shirt and high brown motorbike boots. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail. Alice slams the book shut when she hears her coming. Elin runs across the floor and grabs it out of her hand.

  ‘That’s private, it’s mine. Come on, let’s go,’ she says, stuffing the book into her bag and gripping it close to her body.

  ‘Are you writing a diary?’ Alice is still sitting on the floor, astonished.

  ‘It’s just a project, you wouldn’t understand. It’s … notes,’ says Elin, aware that her voice sounds tight and stressed. She reaches out a hand and pulls Alice to standing.

  ‘It looked like a totally different world. What was that house, a farmhouse?’

  ‘It’s just a game, I said. Let’s go.’ Elin turns her back on her.

  ‘A game? Just now it was a project.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Elin sighs, ‘a project then …’

  ‘There was so much nature: trees, flowers, farms. I thought you hated the country?’

  ‘Yeah, I do, I hate the country. I’m a city mouse. Come on now, I’m hungry.’

  Elin turns off the ceiling lights, the glossy floor of the studio is covered with reflections from the street lights. Alice lingers.

  ‘You’re not going mad are you?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Something feels weird. You’re not yourself.’

  Elin shakes the keys, making them rattle loudly.

  ‘I’m locking up now, are you staying here?’

  Alice pulls on her sweater and her rucksack. She points at Elin’s boots and the tight trousers, which have rhinestones on the back pocket.

  ‘Those aren’t jeans.’

  ‘What? Sure they are. What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘You still look like you’ve just jumped out of a page in a fashion magazine. Can’t you ever just be normal?’

  ‘At least I haven’t been retouched.’

  Alice rolls her eyes.

  ‘No? If my face is that smooth when I’m nearly fifty, then I’ll believe you.’

  THEN

  HEIVIDE, GOTLAND, 1982

  Micke heaved open the door without knocking. Elin pulled the covers over her head and pressed herself against the wall, but it was too late: he could see she was there, and pulled the covers off roughly. She was naked, apart from pink cotton underwear, and she flailed with her hand to grab the cover again. He didn’t let go. She pulled stubbornly.

  ‘It’s almost eleven,’ he said firmly, tapping his watch with his eyes fixed on her.

  ‘I don’t feel like waking up today.’

  Elin turned her back on him, her arms wrapped tight around her to protect her nakedness.

  ‘I mean it. Come on, up with you, this is not a hotel. Marianne told me she had to look after the goats all on her own this morning. You know that’s your job.’

  Elin turned around again and reached for the cover.

  ‘Give me the cover, please! You’re not my dad.’ Elin raised her voice and pulled hard at the flowery fabric he held in his hand. Micke dropped it nonchalantly on the floor, so that she lost her balance and fell back onto the bed.

  ‘You little … you should be fucking glad you get to live here and not in that rathole you came from.’

  ‘Rathole!’ Elin sat up straight, her embarrassment forgotten, her naked brown skin shining in the sunlight coming through the window. Micke leant over her.

  ‘Rathole, yeah. Perhaps you don’t remember?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You and your mum were nothing before you met me. Nothing.’

  Elin felt her heart racing in her chest.

  ‘What are you talking about? You wouldn’t even have a farm if it hadn’t been for Mama and Aina’s money. We were the ones with the money. Remember? And now it’s gone. Don’t you think I know that?’

  ‘You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t understand. You hear? And I bet you’re just as much of a slut as she was. Who knows what you and Fredrik have been getting up to, when you get so depressed as soon as he leaves. You’re siblings for fuck’s sake.’ He gestured to her budding breasts and snorted. Elin picked the cover up off the floor and wrapped it tight around her.

  He locked eyes with her and then turned on his heel and left the room. She put on a short t-shirt and ran after him.

  ‘Don’t think for a minute I want to be here,’ she screamed. ‘I hate it here. I could move back home. I could move home today if you want rid of me.’

  Micke stopped a few steps down and looked up at her over his shoulder. Marianne shouted something from her rocking chair down in the parlour, but they neither heard nor responded to what she said.

  ‘Now you shut your mouth, little girl, do you hear me? Shut it!’

  ‘You’re no more than a simple thief. You’ve taken our money. Don’t think I don’t know.’

  ‘I told you not to talk about things you don’t understand.’

  He took a step up again, and she took a step back. For a long time they just stood there, staring at each other. She saw the beads of sweat shimmering on his forehead. His threatening look made her think thoughts she’d rather not. She backed away again, but then he banged the bannister hard with his palm. She jumped in terror. He came close and the smell of sweat and chewing tobacco made her nauseous. His wheezing breath echoed against the bare walls.

  Elin took a hesitant step forwards again, towards Micke. Her heart thumped hard against her ribs. He held his fist up in the air, waved it threateningly at her. Around his mouth she could see tense little wrinkles. She stopped.

  ‘Let me past. I want to go down to Mama.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘To Mama. Got you scared?’

  She twisted to the side and darted around behind him, but he pressed his body back, hard, trapping her against the handrail. She struggled for breath.

  ‘Let me go,’ she managed to gasp. His muscular body cut into hers. She felt the blood rising in her face, felt the veins in her neck filling.

  ‘Mama!’ Her scream came out as a reedy little squeak. Micke gave a loud, fake laugh. He leaned even more of his weight against her. Elin pulled one of her hands free, managed to turn it round and dug her fingers into his back, pinching as hard as she could. He jumped and suddenly the pressure was gone. She fell in a heap on the stairs, gasping for breath.

  ‘Goddamn brat. See what you made me do.’ He came close, stared her right in the eyes. His front teeth were speckled with brown chewing tobacco.

  ‘You’re not allowed to hit me!’ Elin met his gaze, suddenly unafraid.

  ‘What are you going to do? Ring social services? Ring your dad in prison?’

  ‘My papa never hit me.’

  ‘He hit your mum.’

  ‘Maybe he did, but not me.’

  Micke smiled contemptuously. His breath made her gag and turn her head away.

  ‘You call that hitting?’

  Elin nodded.

  ‘You’re not touching me again. You’re not my dad,’ she said, at first whispering but increasing in volume. She took a few steps towards him and now she was screaming.

  ‘You’re not touching me again. Get it?’

  Micke attacked her so fast she almost didn’t manage to react. His palm struck her cheek and her whole head flew sideways. A sharp note rang in her ear and sent her reeling into the bannister again. She rubbed her hand over her cheek in astonishment. Her skin stung, as though his hand was still there.

  ‘Not a murmur about this to Marianne. You hear me? If you do she’ll get it, and it’ll be ten times wo
rse than this.’

  He bent over her and held his fist close to her face. She crouched down and backed away so she was pressed against the wall once more.

  ‘Not a murmur. You hear? And in future you’ll get up on time and help out here on the farm. You’re not on holiday, if that’s what you were thinking. You’re old enough to work,’ he said.

  Elin pushed past him without a word and ran down the steps. She took them two at a time. Tears streamed from her eyes. She left the house barefoot, in only a t-shirt and underwear.

  The ground in front of her was blurry. She kept her eyes on the path, the narrow one that wound its way through the forest’s stunted pines, down to the sea. Her eyes swam with tears, her nose was thick with mucus. The briar thickets had grown close over the summer and they tore at her legs, but she didn’t care. Her bare feet pattered on in a straight line across the earth, jumping over stones and roots. From the sea blew a wind that cut through the summer heat and gave her bare legs goosebumps.

  Elin didn’t stop until she reached the beach and fell down on all fours, panting with exertion. Her breaths came shallow and fast. Panicking, she gasped for oxygen. Her head was spinning. She curled up in a foetal position and watched the sea and the faraway horizon. The waves were dotted with white crests, the beachgrass was hunched. Now the forest was no longer sheltering her against the wind, she was cold.

  She lay there a long time, softly humming a melody, their melody. The notes were drowned out by the sea’s roar. No one could hear her, no one was there. She was safe in her isolation. Her breathing became calmer.

  By the time the sun hung just above the cliffs her tears had stopped falling. She could tell it was late in the afternoon now, and soon it would be evening. She stood up and began to gather dry twigs in her arms: crooked ones, rotten ones, healthy ones, long ones, short ones. She carried them all the way to the campfire, hers and Fredrik’s, and threw all the sticks into the fire pit.

  Their blanket was still there, thrown over a large stone. And the book about the stars, the one they’d flicked through in an attempt to understand the infinity that surrounded them. The pages were well-thumbed and the spine held together with tape. She sat on the stone and considered the pile of sticks. It covered the entire base of the fire pit, but she wasn’t satisfied. She took another walk, filling her arms again. And another. And another. The wood rose up over the edges of the fire pit, creating a great bonfire. She put everything she could find onto it. Great heavy branches from the woods, ones that had fallen in the early storms and dried in the sun. It wasn’t cold, but she was freezing; the wind made her body tremble and gave her goosebumps. She longed for warmth. Soon, soon she’d light it. She was just going to gather a little more, make the fire a little larger.

  NOW

  NEW YORK, 2017

  The studio is covered with purple velvet, long shimmering bolts of it. They’re draped along the wall, across the floor, and over the chair in the camera’s viewfinder. The waves of cloth look like water, soft and rolling. A stylist and her assistant are crawling around the floor, adjusting everything, making the fabric float. Between the bolts they lay out pink flowers. Pink and purple, a little girl’s dream. A child sits at the make-up table. Not any child, though. A fully-fledged child star with her own agent watching over everything the make-up artist is doing. Her red hair gets corkscrew curls. Her face is powdered. She looks more and more like a porcelain doll. Her lips, painted dark pink, pout sulkily. She stretches her hand out as her nails are painted a pale pink. Elin stands behind the chair and studies her in the mirror.

  ‘Don’t put so much powder on. I want to see the skin’s structure. She’s just a child, it has to feel real.’

  The make-up artist looks from Elin to the agent and back again in confusion. She holds the powder puff still in the air. The agent waves at her to continue.

  ‘Make her perfect. She has to be perfect,’ he says definitively.

  He turns to Elin.

  ‘What was that? Is it suddenly up to you to decide now?’

  Elin turns and walks over to the spiral staircase.

  ‘Do what you want, it normally turns out fine. Everything else is set up and ready to go. Call me when she is. Call me when she’s … perfect.’ She hesitates before this last word, as though she’s not sure it’s the right one.

  On the screensaver, images of Alice flicker past. Sam is in some of them too. He smiles at her, smiles at the camera, smiles at Alice. She clicks the mouse to get rid of him and opens her search engine. She types the name Fredrik and presses Enter, opting to see only image results. Thousands of men in shirts and suits smile at her. She scrolls down, it never ends. They’re all different men but all the same in some way. She does a new search, types in his surname and holds her finger on Enter without pressing. She studies the letters. Fredrik Grinde.

  She deletes Fredrik and makes do with an initial search for Grinde. This time, only sailboats come up. Boats bearing his name.

  Someone calls her from the floor below. She takes a few deep breaths and then goes down. The girl is already sitting on the chair. She’s wearing a simple white cotton dress, and holding her chin high. Everything about her is false. Made-up right down to her bare arms. Her hair looks like a blazing fire. Elin walks up and adjusts the bolts of purple fabric around her. She runs her hand over the soft surface. The girl grows impatient.

  ‘Go over to your camera instead,’ she whines. ‘I’m ready.’

  Elin stands up and turns to the agent.

  ‘I can’t do this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s sick. She’s just a child. She looks like a doll.’

  ‘That’s the point.’

  ‘Who are you trying to fool?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why can’t she just be the way she is? I want to see her freckles. Wash all this stuff off her.’

  ‘OK, Mrs Star Photographer, that’s enough. We’re the ones paying here. Take the picture and don’t try and interfere in our strategy.’ The agent crosses his arms and stares at her.

  ‘Perhaps the strategy should be to give her a good childhood? Instead of this … sick facade.’

  The girl’s mother gets up from the sofa where she’s been sitting with a book, walks over to the agent and whispers something to him. He pushes her away.

  ‘I’m in control. Let me take care of this.’

  The mother glares at Elin, who turns her head away. The agent takes a step closer.

  ‘The pictures shouldn’t be real. I don’t know what’s going on with you, I’ve never seen you like this before. Her next film is out in a month. We need these pictures. So press the damn shutter and make your magic happen. Be yourself.’

  Throughout the conversation, the girl sits perfectly still, not a trace of emotion on her face. She’s still holding her chin high, and the dress sits exactly as the stylist draped it. Elin walks over to her. She starts close. Takes pictures that show nothing but the girl’s large green eyes and then slowly backs away. The agent, stylist, and make-up artist are all standing at the computer, as image after image comes up on the screen. Elin gets caught up in the girl’s incredible presence and soon forgets the artifice.

  That evening she falls asleep with a piece of the purple velvet against her body. It reminds her of a blanket she once had. The one that soothed her so well, when the skin on her cheek was streaked with red and stinging with pain.

  She can hear the sea so clearly. The waves roar in her ears, crashing again and again over the beach. She ducks under blackened branches and creeps forward between the tree trunks. It’s deserted and everything is burnt, everything is gone, turned to charred remains. She can’t find the sea, though she can hear it. She’s searching everywhere. The sound grows weaker, then stronger. She runs. The ground is black and covered in ash, and as she tentatively places one foot down after the other they sink into it, hot and soft. She sees flames licking her bare legs and runs even faster. The flames climb up from
the earth, higher and higher, reaching out for her. She dodges between them, throwing herself from side to side. The sea is close again, she can hear it clearly. Water splashes, roars, murmurs in her ears. She looks up. Above her is nothing but thick grey smoke. A thick bubbling mat that presses down onto her. No sky, no stars. She hears a distant voice whisper:

  ‘I’m here.’

  It’s him, it’s Fredrik. She shouts his name.

  ‘Brother, where are you? Show yourself.’

  She spins around, searching for him. The flames rise up round her body. She feels no pain.

  ‘Fredrik, come out.’

  The flames are reaching her face now, they flicker before her eyes. The voice comes closer.

  ‘The star. I’ve lost my star,’ it whispers.

  ‘Fredrik. I can hear you. Come to me! I’m here.’

  She reaches out her arms. He’s there, she can see his face through the flames. He smiles. Water drops from his chin. The fire hisses around him. His hair is burning. She screams.

  Elin opens her eyes suddenly. She’s soaked in sweat and the silk sheets cling coldly to her body. It’s still night. Shadows dance across the wall as the plants out on the terrace sway in the breeze. Her heart is racing and she’s breathing as if she’d just been out for a run. She pushes the piece of purple velvet, now wet, aside. She pulls off the vest she sleeps in and drops it over the edge of the bed. Her body feels damp and rough. She pulls Sam’s side of the covers over her and turns on the light. She hasn’t washed them, and the cleaner hasn’t been allowed into the bedroom since he moved out. She can still smell his scent, but it’s getting weaker and weaker every day.

  She takes out her notebook and flicks through to an empty page. She starts to draw, sketching flowers, and it makes her feel a little calmer. Oxeye daisies, bluebells, clover. It turns into a bouquet. She gathers it in a vase, draws stalks down into it, narrow pencil lines from each of the flowers. When it’s done she tears out the page and writes in Swedish:

  Thanks for the star. Here’s a summer bouquet for you.