Will and Testament

by Vigdis Hjorth

  Perhaps Dad was never happy after that. Perhaps Dad had never been happy before that. I wish I knew what had happened to Dad as a child, perhaps he had hoped that I would ask him about it, but I hadn’t, and now it was too late.

  When I was young, I was obsessed with sex. With intercourse. A girl in my year had done it, she had slept with a boy, I kept looking at her and imagining it. Students who were fifteen years old and in a relationship had sex, they slept together, I kept looking at them and visualising it, the penis going in and out of the vagina until the penis ejaculated. I wouldn’t be able to do that, I wouldn’t dare. Then I met a boy at a party and snogged him at a few parties, and Karen asked if we were now an item, and perhaps we were. When you’re fifteen and you have a boyfriend, you have sex. The boy was having a party one Saturday night when his parents were out, and I wrote in my diary: Dear God, please don’t let me die before Saturday. On the Saturday morning I wrote in my diary: It’ll happen tonight, the thing that no one forgets, because no one ever forgets their first time. How strange it was to know that in advance of the event, that I would be writing about it here, on these white pages which smelled of anticipation as only white paper can.

  That Saturday night Karen and I went to the party, we drank beer, we danced, then the boy took my hand and led me up to the first floor where the bedrooms were. We took off our clothes so we could have sex, he got on top of me, but he couldn’t get it in, he couldn’t get an erection so nothing happened. I went home that night without having done it, it was exactly as I had imagined: I wasn’t able do it. But neither did I want to disappoint the expectant diary so I made up a story for it, twenty-five pages inspired by the boys’ porn mags, which they hid in the forest, women’s weeklies and my own imagination so as not to disappoint my diary. One evening, some days later, Mum came to my bedroom and said that Dad had gone. Dad had gone out into the night. Mum had read my diary and showed it to Dad who had walked out. Dad had become so distraught at reading my diary, so desperately disappointed in his daughter that he had taken himself off out in the middle of the night, Dad’s despair made me want to die of shame and guilt. He came back later that night, very drunk, Mum helped drunk Dad take off his shoes in the hallway, she helped him up the stairs, I stood behind my bedroom door and saw the terrible sight, my desperate, drunken Dad. Mum helped him up the stairs, I stood barefoot in my nightie behind my bedroom door and watched Dad sink into a cross-legged position on the floor. It’s not easy being human, he sobbed.

  Mum closed the door to the master bedroom so I wouldn’t see any more, but I’d seen enough. Dad’s despair, my guilt, being human isn’t easy.

  Early the next morning he came to my bedroom, completely transformed from the night before, strict and formal and smelling of aftershave, he was going to the office. He stood by my bed and asked if I had bled when I’d had the sex I had described in my diary. I hadn’t bled because I hadn’t done it, but I couldn’t say that because I was incapable of speaking, I died, I wanted to die, there was no life after this. He left and I was alone.

  The day before I went to San Sebastian, I received an envelope in the post with all the paperwork relating to the probate. The draft will that had been found in the safe as well as the valid will, the cabin valuations and a letter from a lawyer which stated that Bård wouldn’t win a subsequent court case. A letter addressed to Bård and me was also included and it was signed by Mum, Astrid and Åsa. The tone was very formal, fortunately. To Bård they wrote specifically that if he disagreed with the lawyer’s accounts, he must contact the lawyer directly within two weeks. To me they accounted for the discovery in the safe and said that Dad had kept a file in his study for each child with press cuttings, letters and other bits, and that everyone had been given theirs, but that mine was too big to be sent by post. Astrid would be happy to deliver it to my home.

  In conclusion they wrote that they all endorsed a note that Astrid had written and which was included as well. If we objected we had to say so within two weeks. ‘We hope that we can now put this dispute behind us and look to the future.’

  In the enclosed note Astrid wrote that she would like to use the new, higher valuation for the old cabin. Secondly, she was willing, seeing as she had been given considerably more money as an advance of her inheritance than Bård, to use some of her inheritance to make up the difference.

  ~

  She needn’t have done so. Åsa wasn’t going to, Åsa didn’t accept the higher valuation for the new cabin.

  Astrid was trying to right an injustice. Given that Bård wasn’t going to get a cabin, given that he had been given the least money as an advance of his inheritance, Astrid was trying to lessen his loss somewhat. That in itself was laudable. Or was it the least she could do?

  However, none of it changed what was for me the crucial matter, which was never mentioned, which they totally neglected, which they refused to address.

  Had I expected that it would be mentioned in a letter about inheritance?

  No.

  But I was outraged because they consistently addressed me as if I hadn’t said what I had said at the meeting with the accountant. No one believing me was one thing, another that they pretended I hadn’t said what I had said, acted as if the meeting with the accountant had never happened. ‘We hope that we can now put this dispute behind us and look to the future.’

  I couldn’t put it behind me. A daughter never forgets. It wasn’t like when your trousers get wet and you take them off and hang them up to dry, and when they’re dry, you put them back on and forget all about it. It hadn’t dried!

  I didn’t reply. I had no interest in my file.

  Bård replied. Once more he reminded them what the dispute was really about. That he wasn’t interested in money. That he would have preferred to have inherited half a cabin on Hvaler, which he and his children could use. This request had been rejected outright. However, given that the stated intention of the will was that we would all inherit equally, he had at least expected that he and I would be compensated with what was the true market value of the cabins. That wasn’t happening now. He pointed out that if Dad had died or the inheritance advances been made before 1 January when inheritance tax was abolished, they would have been forced to use the actual market value.

  Taking the matter to court might well not prove successful, he wrote, but that didn’t change the real issue. This wasn’t a dispute between two business parties, but a dispute between a mother, her four children and grandchildren, it was about acting fairly and squarely. He wasn’t going to take his grievance to court, he wrote. He resigned from all his directorships.

  Dad must have loved me a little bit, mustn’t he? He worried about his own life, his own future, but perhaps he also worried a little about mine? Mum showed him my diary and he went out into the night and got drunk, possibly because he feared I might founder.

  It’s not easy being human.

  He was right about that, he had learned that lesson the hard way.

  What more could I hope for than Dad gaining that insight? If he had been able to get himself out of an intractable situation with every single relationship intact, he wouldn’t have been human. He had to choose, and he didn’t choose me.

  It was early spring in San Sebastian. I worked well. After a productive day I went for a stroll along the beach and reflected on my efforts, far away from everything that had happened at home, enjoying the break from it. I had a beer at the café at the end of the beach while the sun went down; it was warm enough to sit outside until it disappeared into the sea. I enjoyed the sun, the beer, being away from it all and feeling at peace with myself. Then I got a text message from Astrid: Dear Bergljot. I wonder how you’re doing. Much has happened and it has been a difficult time. Mum is better. Busy selling the house. Am starting to feel that the worst has passed. Have been thinking a lot about you, Tale and the others. It’s hard not knowing how you are. I really need to talk to you soon. Please would you give me a call when you’re ready? Astrid
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  And there was I just thinking how well I was doing, how I was finally able to concentrate on other things, and was I now going to be dragged back into it all again? Oh, I was back in it all right. One text message was all it took. Now I had to decide whether or not to reply. And both options were equally impossible. What should I do, what could I write? What was she thinking? Her message was obliging and pleasant, but she wrote as if everything I had said for years had never happened, as if the meeting with the accountant hadn’t taken place, how was I supposed to react, what would we talk about when we clearly wouldn’t be talking about the one thing it was imperative for me that we did discuss. Dad falling down the stairs? How upset Mum was? I didn’t doubt that Mum was upset, that Astrid was upset, but would our talking about it make it any better? In my experience our talking only made things worse for me, what would we talk about other than Mum’s distress, Astrid’s distress, seeing as she didn’t want to hear about mine or she didn’t believe it. What exactly did she have in mind, if indeed she had anything in mind? Surely she must know that it wasn’t the same for me as for her. I had tried on several occasions to tell her what it was like for me, but she would usually respond as she had done on 4 January at the meeting with the accountant. She would say: Now is not the time or the place. She would say: Aunt Unni should be here. She would reel off how it was hurting and upsetting Mum. She had got up at the meeting with the accountant to put a protective arm around Mum. She had kept silent during the meeting when Mum accused me of making it all up to get attention. She had kept silent when Åsa said that I couldn’t direct them to believe me. You can’t direct us to believe you. Åsa had said us, not me. You can’t direct us to believe you. Us equalled her, Mum and Astrid. So Åsa knew that Astrid didn’t believe me, they had discussed it and decided that they didn’t believe me, and so Åsa could safely say us, not me. You can’t direct us to believe you. Astrid had marched out with Mum and Åsa, while Bård and I were left behind with the accountant. Now she wrote that much had happened and that it had been a difficult time. What would I reply, if I were to reply. I ended up replying that I was the same as always. That apart from Dad dying, there was no news. But that my position was much clearer, I wrote. Mum accusing me of making it all up to get attention. Åsa saying that I couldn’t direct them to believe me. The three of them storming out together. What would I talk to you about? It’s just going to cause more pain.

  She replied immediately that it hadn’t been the time or the place, that they had been completely unprepared for it and so taken aback. But she appreciated how hard it had been for me. She felt terrible about it all. But she wasn’t Mum and Åsa, they were separate individuals. And she and I had always got on OK, and she didn’t want what had happened to ruin it. I meant a lot to her, she wrote.

  I was back in the fray again. I was having to explain myself again, but she still didn’t get it! She didn’t want it to ruin our relationship, she wrote, but it already had! I wrote that it had been ruined, that we had never got on OK because I was left feeling agitated and distraught after speaking to her because our apparently agreeable conversations about writing articles meant silence about so much damage, all the time, all the time, every minute and every second when we had talked about editing articles, the silence about the hurt would fill me up and burst out of me when our conversations were over and I was alone and then I would write my angry, accusatory night-time emails to her. We hadn’t had a good relationship, we had had a relationship that worked for her as long as the silence about the damage was maintained, but for me that silence was intolerable.

  I was out of my mind and rang Lars, who was exasperated. Why had I replied, why had I gone back into the fray? After all nothing good ever came from it.

  But what should I have done? Just ignored it?

  Yes. Because she’s not saying anything new, she’s not coming up with any new information, there is nothing concrete, no suggestions for action or change, just the same empty phrases again and again, year in year out, how upsetting it is for everyone, she’s a perpetual motion machine, anything unpleasant is filtered out, anything unbearable redacted, everyone is just really upset. The question is whether she’s crafty and strategic or naïve and stupid, but ultimately it makes no difference, don’t go there, don’t argue with her, just reply that you need to be left alone.

  I wrote to Astrid that it’s tricky to be the servant of two masters, that she couldn’t have her cake and eat it, I wrote that when she said that she didn’t want to lose me, she was expressing her own need, but what about mine? I wrote that I needed the whole family to leave me alone.

  A week of silence followed, then Astrid wrote to me again. Hi, Bergljot. Hope everything is OK? Fancy a chat soon? I replied that too much damage had been done.

  I didn’t get any work done that day, I was incapable of thinking of anything else although I desperately wanted to. Hope everything is OK, she had written, fancy a chat soon? As if I had never said what I had said, and she and Mum and Åsa had never reacted the way they had.

  Can’t you talk about something other than that, I checked myself, do you only ever want to talk about that? No, I don’t want to talk about that, I replied, but I can’t handle talking to Astrid the way she wants me to.

  I called Karen and poured out my heart to her, ignoring the cost of the call; she said: She doesn’t understand what she has done to you and she doesn’t understand what she’s doing to you now.

  Astrid wrote again, my name followed by an exclamation mark, like a big sister admonishing her little sister. Bergljot! We have to talk! We need to talk and listen to one another. I don’t think that too much damage has been done, it has been a difficult time for all of us. We can go for a walk—this afternoon? I can come over to yours?

  I wrote that I was in San Sebastian.

  Right, then we’ll do that as soon as you’re back. We need to talk!

  My hopes of getting any work done were ruined, I was caught up in and consumed by a furious urge to explain myself and so I wrote that I felt better when I didn’t have any contact with her, with them, that was why I had chosen not to have contact with her, with them, in order to take care of myself. And she wrote that we knew one another quite well, that she knew I was in contact with Bård now, not just via emails and text messages, but in person, and that it was much easier to see the other person’s humanity when you met face to face, she didn’t think it was right of me to avoid communicating with her after everything we had had together. It was a tricky situation for many people, especially Mum, who appeared to have lost two children and five grandchildren. It was quite obviously terrible for Mum. And she had a file for me from Dad’s study. And she had to talk to me about Tale’s letter. Fancy a chat soon?

  I called Klara, I screamed at Klara while I walked along the fine, practically deserted beach in San Sebastian in the afternoon sun which warmed me, I screamed: What does she want from me? I don’t want to see her, I don’t want to talk to her, the thought of talking to her makes me sick, listening to her going on and on about how Mum is suffering. What does she want from me except to tell me how Mum is suffering, make me feel sorry for Mum, make me forget the meeting with the accountant? And if it’s not that, then what is it? Does she want to be in contact with me simply because I’m her sister, what’s that about? What form does she imagine that contact will take? That our families will get together and have a lovely time?

  My whole body protested at the thought of talking to Astrid, listening to her going on about how upset Mum was, why would I talk to Astrid when the starting point for everything she said was: What you claim happened, didn’t happen. If she had believed me, she couldn’t have treated me the way she had, she couldn’t have addressed me in such a demanding and entitled manner as she did!

  I bet it’s your mum putting pressure on her, Klara said, I bet it’s your mum who is pulling the strings.

  Or, Klara said, she feels guilty.

  Gunvor in Alf Prøysen’s novel A Blackbird in th
e Chandelier has a scar on her temple. She will often touch her scar, caressing it.

  Am I caressing my scar?

  Not to caress my scar, but move on and step out of the stupid victim role, wouldn’t that be a relief? Yes.

  But that had nothing to do with me reconciling with my family. I didn’t think so. How could it be that Mum, Astrid and Åsa would appear to think that it did?

  Bård wrote that the house in Bråteveien had been sold.

  I had rejected Astrid and I felt bad about it. Had I gone too far?

  I entered the Armenian church in San Sebastian to reflect. I stood alone in the twilight and lit a candle for everyone I loved, my children and grandchildren. I was standing in front of the candle thinking about them when the candle started to flicker, then it stopped flickering, then it started again, then it stopped. I turned to see where the draft was coming from. The candle flickered, then it stopped, and I realised that it was my breathing that caused it to flicker. Every time I exhaled, it would flicker simply because I breathed, because I was alive, I existed, I set things in motion, it was a great responsibility, to breathe, to live, too big for me.

  Karen had remarked once when I talked about my parents, that I seemed to have more respect for my dad than my mum. She was spot on. I had told myself so many times when I was younger and trying to cheer myself up, that I took more after Dad than Mum. Why would I want to take after him rather than her, have more respect for him rather than her when it was Dad who had abused me?

  And how come I had more respect for Åsa than Astrid when it was Mum and Astrid who contacted me and told me that they loved me, while Åsa never did and would appear to hate and despise me—to the extent she had any feelings for me at all? It was because she was consistent, while Astrid was inconsistent, because Dad was more consistent than Mum and it’s easier to deal with people who are consistent than those who aren’t, who speak vaguely, in stock phrases and with forked tongues and who contradict themselves. Dad withdrew, but Mum didn’t, Mum didn’t want to let me go. Dad violated my boundaries as a child, then he withdrew because he knew that a line had been crossed. Mum crossed my boundaries year in year out, she didn’t know where the line was, she was inconsistent and unpredictable. Mum had visited me in the turbulent early days after the bombshell twenty-three years ago when I had started psychoanalysis, when I had understood that she crossed my boundaries and I had told her so, and she had screamed at me that I was now accusing her of ‘inchest’ as well and run outside and home to Bråteveien and told Dad and my siblings that I was also now accusing her of ‘inchest’ with an ‘h’, painting me as crazy; Mum was at the mercy of her powerlessness and despair, while Dad tried to control his misery, to bear it on his own. Dad’s crime was greater but purer, Dad’s self-inflicted punishment was harsher, his reticence, his depression more penitent than Mum’s fake blindness, Mum who pretended that nothing had happened, who made demands and apportioned blame. Poor inconsistent Mum, poor Astrid so bewitched by years of preaching her own language of goodness that she believed that she was a good person. And she probably was, deep down, as are most people. Astrid crossed my boundaries, that was how it felt when she tried to force me into a relationship based on silencing a betrayal, it was unbearable, her insistence that something, which was abnormal from beginning to end, could ever be normal.