South of Forgiveness

by Thordis Elva

  ‘It is.’ A question instantly springs to my mind and yet I find myself hesitating. ‘My question is: Why did you stay silent … if you realized what you’d done to me, how come you didn’t acknowledge it before I confronted you all those years later?’

  He inhales deeply. ‘I think … I didn’t face what I’d done. I don’t remember feeling shocked or remorseful the next day. I have a recollection of a hollow feeling. I can only believe that I didn’t realize the damage I had done to you, how I had taken your trust and used it to undress you, how I’d … forced myself into you. I know I was naive as to the sensitivities and workings of a woman’s body, but it is a mystery to me how I could have been thinking that me having my way with you would not be causing immense damage and pain.’

  That makes sense, as you didn’t concern yourself with my feelings that night, I think, but feel no need to state it out loud.

  ‘I remember breaking up with you,’ he continues. ‘Sitting in your room that night, I didn’t feel guilty for abusing you and was convinced that I should end our relationship. Hence, until you told me in 2000 of what I had done, I didn’t apologize. I didn’t cry. I didn’t think myself capable of doing that to you. Even when I broke up with you, it was because I had created doubts about my feelings towards you, but I don’t think fear and guilt drove me. That’s how perfect my denial was.’

  He looks away. ‘But when you confronted me, that triggered something. The ignorance didn’t work any more … I was there that night too. This was not news to me. I had buried it with shovel-loads of disbelief that Tom Stranger, with his balanced and nurturing upbringing, could have done something so odious.’

  Denial. I know it all too well myself.

  He continues. ‘But when the disbelief cracked, it became about more than just protecting me — it meant that I had to recognize that I’d deeply hurt you. This came with an acknowledgement, and I guess it was prizing my eyes open to see something that I was maybe blind to, or wanted to stay blind to. Whether it was conscious or unconscious, I still didn’t want to use the frame that shook things up. Pity didn’t work with that frame, and my choices and the results for you took precedence over feeling sorry for myself. And plus, I had strong feelings for you during that summer … so a part of it just did not compute in my mind. How could I have done that, to you? So again, I didn’t want to explode things and I shoved it away.’

  I contemplate his answer for a few seconds before adding: ‘This goes both ways, you know. You, too, can ask me anything.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He gives it some thought. ‘I’ve often wondered why you didn’t press charges against me. Why you still talked to me.’

  I’m surprised at how pressing this question still is for me, even after all these years and the thought we’ve given to it in our earlier communication. ‘Well, I was a 16-year-old kid with a head full of misconceptions about rape. It was something that happened at knifepoint in dark alleys, committed by strange lunatics. It didn’t happen in your own bedroom, and it certainly wasn’t carried out by your own boyfriend. Over the next few years, when my eyes started to open to the fact that I had indeed been raped, I tried my best to outrun the truth, much like you. I didn’t want to believe that the first time I gave my heart away, this is what happened. I wanted to be able to trust people. I wanted to be able to have healthy relationships, to be present in moments of intimacy, not detached or disconnected. I wanted to be able to make love, as opposed to just fucking someone.’ Grimacing in frustration, I add: ‘Besides, everybody knew I was crazy about you. I lost my virginity to you. I’d even introduced you to my parents. I wore a short dress that night. I’d had a lot to drink. All you would’ve needed to do was to say that you didn’t do it.’

  He nods quietly. ‘In the past, when I saw on the TV news incidences of women being raped and men being charged, most of the time not convicted … my invisible arm shot out and claimed “I’m different from you!”. I wanted to put space between me and any predatory violence, and it was a well-developed response over the years. I refuse to relate to that level of inhumanity. It’s me claiming some naivety and innocence, like I was wrongly sentenced.’

  Before I have a chance to respond, he quickly adds: ‘But I would never dare deny or shirk my responsibility and my owning of my choices. That is another crime, another theft.’

  ‘To be honest, pressing charges was never a possibility I took to heart. You were ten thousand miles away by the time I could identify what happened as rape, and my physical injuries had faded into scars. Besides … the justice system is notorious for letting victims of sexual assault down, especially in cases where time has passed since the assault. I wanted to take matters into my own hands, to ensure that justice would be served on my terms.’

  The waiter returns with our drinks and we sit in silence as he fills our glasses with water from a glass pitcher. I feel myself shifting in my seat as the question I dread most burns my lips. ‘Tom?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you ever feared that it might happen again?’

  Although I know the answer from our correspondence, I still feel how everything within me comes to a standstill. Our entire communication has rested on the principle that what Tom did to me was a one-off.

  ‘All I know is that I am still coming to terms with the one night of my life where I did something that I never thought I was capable of,’ he tells me. ‘And the need to have power over somebody like that is an entirely alien emotion to me. I have never contemplated nor come remotely close to harboring thoughts of abusing another like I did you.’

  His answer leaves me with mixed emotions. The overarching feeling is relief, but I can’t help the cynical part of me raising her ugly head and hissing: And that’s supposed to make me feel special?

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ he wonders.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I am still lost as to how you spoke to me when I returned to Iceland in 2000. How come you didn’t grab me by the throat and scream “why!”?’

  ‘Having lived with what happened for years, I wasn’t in a rush to confront you. On the contrary, I’d surrendered to the thought that I’d never see you again. I’d done my best to move on and heal my wounds. Ripping them open again was a daunting thought, and yet I felt a strong urge to make you aware of the pain and confusion you’d caused me. So I kept you close that summer, hoping that the opportunity to uncover the past would present itself. When I realized I had the chance to get even, I must’ve seized it. I must’ve felt it was easier to hurt you back than to slice open my scars, dragging myself through the torment again. But no matter what action I took, the unspoken words were right there, throbbing just beneath the scab. The fury I felt for you in the Westman Islands only propelled them to the surface.’

  Our food arrives and while we eat, another question brews in my mind. ‘What was it like to grow up with what you did? I mean, how did it shape you?’

  He rests his eyes on the landscape out the window while gathering his thoughts. ‘In developing my identity, I took from the cleaner “materials” and not my impurities. What my parents and friends think of me, my political beliefs, the love of the outdoors, surfing. Because I couldn’t speak to anybody about my past, it seemed futile to hold on to it and absorb it as part of my self-image. Obviously, it is entirely incongruent with the person I had hoped to become, and it’s an intimidating image to face in the mirror. Hence, I had “it” trailing behind me somewhere. Sometimes, I pulled on the chain and tried to reason with it. Tried to divorce myself from that naive 18-year-old who knew better. Maybe that’s why I didn’t give counseling a proper chance. Because I was happy with that long chain and didn’t want it shortened.’

  All the while my chain was so short, it kept me from leaving the scene of the crime, I think.

  After settling the bill and deciding to meet up with Tom later, I’m sitting in an internet café around the corner from th
e Ritz. My anticipation peaks at the familiar ring sound. My parents appear on the screen. They gesture for Vidir to come to the computer, bringing Julia and Haflidi with him. My heart beats faster as my beloved little ones step into the frame.

  Haflidi holds up a colorful plush-toy turtle that I haven’t seen before. ‘Look at the turtle, Mommy! It’s a turtle-mommy!’

  ‘Her name is Silja,’ Julia adds in a grownup tone.

  ‘Is it true that you’re being blown off your feet down there in Africa, dear?’ my mother asks.

  ‘Actually, it’s a bit less windy today—’

  ‘Happy Easter!’ my sister says, suddenly appearing on the screen.

  ‘Happy Easter to you too! Wow, is the entire family there?’

  ‘Yeah, haven’t you seen your grandmothers? Grandma!’ my sister hoots.

  ‘Have you eaten anything?’ my mother wonders.

  ‘Yes, I just finished a proper Easter feast. Cajun-grilled fish.’

  ‘Did you have company?’ my father asks. There’s sharpness in his voice.

  ‘Is that you, Thordis?’ my maternal grandmother asks, peering at the screen.

  ‘Oh hi, Grandma! Happy Easter!’

  ‘Happy Easter, dear. How’s the weather?’

  ‘It’s windy—’

  My paternal grandmother sticks her head into the frame. ‘Hello, dear. Happy holidays.’

  ‘Hi, Grandma! Wait a minute, I had a dream about you—’

  Haflidi cuts me off. ‘CAN I COME WITH YOU ON THE PLANE, MOMMY?’

  I drink in the wonderful family cacophony and diligently describe the hotel, the food, and the weather to whichever family members happen to be in front of the webcam. Finally, they all turn to other things, leaving only Vidir. He closes the door to the room, lowers his voice, and asks: ‘How are things going with you and Tom?’

  ‘Yesterday was hard. But we’re doing well.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re alright? I had the worst dream,’ he says anxiously.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Didn’t you read the email I sent you?’

  ‘No,’ I admit with a pang of guilt. ‘I’m sorry, love, I haven’t been able to access the internet because they were out of Wi-Fi codes at the hotel and then you were in the summer house with bad reception and—’

  He cuts my string of apologies short. ‘It’s OK. It was just a nightmare anyway.’ In spite of his attempt to shrug it off, I sense his disappointment and it cuts me like a knife.

  ‘I went looking for wedding rings,’ I say in an encouraging voice. ‘Considering the good price and the wide selection, I’m hopeful I’ll find something. If I do, I’ll send you a picture, of course.’

  The timer on the screen tells me we have less than two minutes left.

  ‘Can we talk on Skype tomorrow night? I’ll be at home,’ Vidir says. ‘I miss you, honey.’

  ‘Of course we can. I miss you too.’

  Moments later, I walk out of the internet café, lost in troubled thoughts. My grandmothers didn’t know I was traveling to Africa. Yet they didn’t ask. I wonder how my trip was explained to them? And that unread email from Vidir. I need to respond to it asap when I get back to the hotel.

  I arrive at the café where Tom and I decided to meet up. Soft reggae music plays on the sound system, and a pungent smell clings to the furniture. Tom sits inside, reading the papers. He looks up when I enter and gestures for me to come quickly. ‘Look!’ he says, pointing at the horoscope for the Aries sign.

  I read out loud. ‘You’re busy facing your past and settling old disputes. Forgiveness will play a key role.’ We look at each other, flabbergasted. ‘Are you kidding me!?’

  ‘Yep, that’s a joke,’ he says, excited. ‘One hundred per cent.’ He tears the prediction out of the paper for a keepsake, fishing a ragged mobile phone out of his pocket and smiling like he’d just heard a good joke. ‘I got a text from my mother. She has auto-correct on her phone and it messed up her message. She probably meant to write “Love you, Mum”, but instead, she sent me this.’ He hands me the phone.

  I read:

  Lo ego you. Mum.

  ‘It may not be too far from the truth, actually,’ he says with a laugh. ‘My ego has taken quite a beating in the past few days.’

  We walk across the Promenade and sit down on the soft grass next to it, munching on the chocolate Tom had bought. Teenagers on rollerblades dare each other to go faster, giggling and shrieking. Mothers push fashionable strollers past us, deep in conversation. Eager dogs in all shapes and sizes drag their owners along the beach.

  ‘Your turn,’ Tom says.

  I try to remember where I left off in my life story. ‘I’m aware that I’ve made my teens sound like a period of prolonged suffering. That isn’t true. I have good memories too. I got elected to the student council and wrote in the school paper as well as working shifts at a local fast food restaurant to be able to afford some traveling of my own. I did some acting and made some really colorful friends along the way. And I didn’t only date assholes. As a matter of fact, I had a wonderful boyfriend when I was eighteen, a great guy I’ll always care about. But I was running hard from my past, living life at two hundred miles per hour. Having ideas like drinking a six-pack of beer on the roof of a high-rise with my feet dangling off the edge. Somehow it was always … all or nothing.’

  Tom nods eagerly. ‘I can relate to that. I’ve been so dangerously reckless, it’s a miracle I’m even alive. Once, a couple of friends and I got the idea of soaking a tennis ball in petrol, lighting it on fire, and playing “fire golf” for an entire night. When you hit the ball, there was a blue explosion and it left a streak of fire in the night sky,’ he tells me with a gleam in his eye. He describes how he lay on the roof of a car, inebriated as hell, holding onto the rusty roof-rack while his friend drove ninety miles per hour, all the while screaming with laughter and urging the driver to go faster.

  These ridiculously dangerous ideas make perfect sense to me. I remember exactly what living too fast felt like. It takes a certain carelessness, a lack of respect for your own life …

  Idly, I pluck up a strand of grass. ‘Speaking of recklessness … Intimacy was, of course, a problem throughout my teens and twenties. Sex was—’

  Suddenly, Tom scoots away. ‘I have to move away from you,’ he interrupts, fumbling for words. ‘It’s … my taste hasn’t changed,’ he says, rocking back and forth with unease.

  Baffled, I shake my head.

  ‘I just don’t want to fuck this up. But my taste hasn’t changed, Thordis … it’s an aesthetic attraction.’ The words seem to surprise him and he gasps in shock. ‘Oh God … I mean, you look the same. Shit. I just needed to say it because please trust me when I say I would never make a move towards you … but in the same breath I don’t want to hurt you by moving back and creating a distance between us. Not when a connection is important for what we’re here to do. I wouldn’t dream of … that would be the lowest thing I could imagine.’

  Before I can utter a word, he hides his face in his hands, cowering in the grass.

  I sit and stare at the human armadillo next to me. Why is he hiding? Is he crying? What am I supposed to do?

  Tentatively, I hold my hand over his back before patting him lightly. ‘Look at me.’

  He doesn’t move.

  ‘Look at me, Tom.’

  Finally, he reluctantly looks up, shamefaced. His hair is a mess and his cheeks are flushed.

  Locking eyes with him, I ask: ‘Don’t you think I feel it as well?’

  Suddenly, the lawn where we’re kneeling opposite each other feels like an island, separating us from the vibrant flow of people on the Promenade. ‘We used to be a couple, Tom. It’s only normal for there to be attraction between us. But it doesn’t mean anything and as a result, it doesn’t matter. I’m glad it’s been acknowledged thou
gh, to get the awkwardness out of it.’

  He nods slowly.

  ‘… and so we can make fun of it and move on,’ I add with a grin. ‘Quote of the day, right?’

  He lets out a nervous laugh as his clenched body starts to relax. ‘Jesus, that was frightening. Such a relief to hear you say that.’

  ‘Good,’ I say, smiling back.

  ‘So good to have that extreme honesty with you! Whoa … that needs to be celebrated. Handstand …’

  To my surprise, this isn’t a figure of speech, and he actually does a handstand. I’m weirded out when he starts to stumble around the lawn on his hands. It’s almost six o’clock and an apricot line rests on the horizon, like a shimmering filling between the gray skies and the sea. I pull out my phone and step aside, pretending to take sunset pictures, but the truth is that I’m a bit unsettled by the emotional gymnastics taking place. The questions pile up in my head. Is he simply relieved after airing his fear of unwelcome feelings threatening our mission, or is this some kind of ego flip as a result of me acknowledging that the attraction is mutual? Or is he masking other feelings altogether with this spontaneous romp?

  I slip the phone back into my bag while also slipping back into my cool. ‘I don’t know about you, Stranger, but in my world, it’s happy hour.’

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ he says with a broad smile.

  We sit down in a nearby restaurant that offers free Wi-Fi. The email from Vidir sits at the top of my inbox and I read it when Tom disappears to the bathroom.

  Hello love,

  I’m sitting here in my parent’s summerhouse, thinking of you and missing you dearly.

  I had a terrible dream last night and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. I was a music teacher, taking a student of mine on a walk down to the harbor. My student was a young woman. We decided to go sailing. She boarded the boat ahead of me but when I was going to board, the owners of the boat wouldn’t let me. They pushed me away, untied the boat and sailed off, kidnapping my student. I made it aboard another boat and figured out where they’d gone. Then, I realized that they’d locked my student up in a building along with other girls, where they were being raped repeatedly. By the time I managed to rescue her, she was broken and scarred by her ordeal. I felt awful for having invited her on an innocent walk to the harbor.