by Thordis Elva
I don’t know what it means, but in my dream, you were the student and I was the teacher. It’s probably a result of my fear that you’re alone out there in Africa and the fact that we haven’t been able to talk much since you got there. Added to my awareness of what you’re working on with Tom, of course.
I hope you’re making progress. It’s got to be a strange feeling to meet up somewhere far from home to discuss an incident that took place when you were just teenagers.
Dearest Thordis, know that I love you endlessly and support you 100% on your journey. I hope something beautiful will result of it. Forgive me if I’ve been odd about this trip lately, I think I avoided admitting to myself that you were leaving. As the journey moved closer, the more I suppressed my feelings. I’ll say it again, to remove all doubt, that I understand, respect, and admire what you’re doing — although I sometimes feel a bit left out of it.
Hopefully we can talk on Skype tomorrow. But most of all, I’d like to kiss your soft lips.
If you see this before you go to bed tonight, text me.
xxx
Vidir.
After reading the email, I want to stretch my arms across the Atlantic and wrap them around his neck. I don’t take his contribution lightly. Taking on a big task is one thing, but being forced to let go and trust that everything will work out is an even bigger task. Tom and I may be treading some difficult waters, but the true hero in this story is Vidir. And now he’s having nightmares because of me. My heart beats faster as I reply, telling him that I’m being very careful and can’t wait to hug him in a few days.
Just as I look up from my phone, Tom resumes his seat across the table from me. He is high on adrenaline, ordering wine-baked Camembert and cracking jokes with the waiter.
‘Are you feeling OK?’ I wonder, still suspicious of his drastic change in mood.
‘I’m great, thanks. I’m so relieved after the talk we had out on the grass. Just to have it expressed and it feels somewhat … safer now,’ he answers, gleefully raising his glass.
I raise my glass as well, although my mind is working overtime trying to dodge the questions. What was he so afraid of? That I’d want to rekindle old feelings? If so, was he worried that his guilt would’ve made it impossible for him to reject me — knowing full well how much I’d stand to lose when it comes to the family I’ve built with Vidir? Was he worried that by the end of this week in Cape Town, he’d once again have ruined my happiness?
He interrupts my thoughts when he shakes his head and says: ‘Funny, how fear can lock you up. A psychologist I once saw told me that fear blended with guilt confines you to a point where it can stunt emotional growth. I think there’s truth in that.’ Lowering his voice, he adds: ‘To be honest, I think I’m living proof of it in that my reactions and emotional landscape seem like they are, or have been, bogged down in a certain time and state. With some things, I’m still in my teens.’
‘Like what?’
‘My reactions and “balance” in certain situations seem … like my self-awareness is short of my age. Strange example, but I never outgrew my insecurity over my hairy back. I eventually had laser treatments to remove it, two years ago.’
I react to his confession with a raised eyebrow.
‘I have friends with hairy backs too, and I saw how they managed to make peace with their bodies as they grew older. I didn’t. I clung to my fear. It didn’t help that I had my share of inconsiderate comments. I’ve made out with girls who’ve asked me to put my shirt back on. Petty really, but such things can unhinge my self-confidence.’
‘Ouch. That’s not just inconsiderate, it’s plain rude.’
‘I started to panic if I had to take my shirt off. Or in intimate situations. Sex became … complicated.’ Suddenly, he’s deflated and exposed, sitting across the table from me. His vulnerability creates an imbalance between us. I decide to even the score — and, while I’m at it, to lighten things up a little.
‘I can relate to that. Giving birth messed me up pretty good. Everything tore down there and when it healed, it was all crooked. Not a pretty sight.’
Tom gawks at me, unsure of how to react to what I just said.
‘Vidir and I agreed it looked a bit like this,’ I say, sticking out my chin and contorting my face.
Tom realizes he’s allowed to laugh. Which he does, loudly and heartily.
‘Vidir does a better impression of it than I do, though,’ I say modestly. ‘And yes, sex was complicated for some time. But we decided to make fun of it. Everything becomes more bearable when you’re able to laugh at it.’
He’s wiping his eyes when I add in a more serious tone: ‘Sometimes, I become aware of how easy it would be for me to shame you back into our familiar pattern — you wallowing in self-pity and contempt as the big bad rapist, and me in the role of good-Samaritan free-therapist. But I’m really tired of that, Tom. I’m over it. And here’s the thing: I’m not that different from you.’
He looks at me in confusion.
‘After looking long and hard at what it is that makes people wrong others, I’ve traced it back to a few catalysts, the first being Anger. For example: “I’m fucking you up because you pissed me off”. Then there’s Fear — for example: “I’m fucking you up because you’re a threat to me”; Ignorance: “fucking you up is going to cure me of my ills”; Greed: “I’m fucking you up because you have something I want”; Emergency: “I have to fuck you up or I’ll be screwed myself”; and last is Mental Illness and Addiction: “the voices in my head told me to fuck you up”. I don’t know what your reasons were for raping me that night, Tom. I’m guessing you were greedy and ignorant. You wanted something and you took it, regardless of how it’d affect me. Well, I have done that too. I’ve been greedy and put my own needs first. I may not have raped another person, but I surely know what it’s like to be self-centered and egotistical and take from others. What you took was of great value to me and, in my subsequent anger, I tried my best to break the most valuable thing in your possession: your heart. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not claiming that our actions carried the same weight, nor am I saying that I’ve rid myself of all negative emotions towards what happened. But I think I’m closer than ever to understanding it.’
Before he gets a chance to respond, I add: ‘A few years ago, we hit a rough spot in our correspondence when we disagreed on the purpose of it. You said it was understanding, I said it was forgiveness. But now, I think we were both right. In the end, perhaps they’re the same thing.’
‘I’m sure you know I don’t want any power, Thordis,’ he says emphatically. ‘I think I’ve been trying to surrender it to you because of my stealing from you in the past. Three of the catalysts you named were right. Ignorant. Yes. Greedy. Yes. Anger doesn’t entirely fit, but its ugly cousin frustration does … perhaps like the “flash” I spoke of before. But you hit the nail on the head. You have been the therapist, and I the forlorn victim. I’ve been trying to pour out my apologies, hurt, regret, and sorrow and it’s like … the dog that bit someone sheepishly rolling over in surrender. I wanted to be kicked. Not a nice metaphor, but it feels apt.’
I know what he means and I’m aware of how, when the opportunity arose, I did in fact kick him as hard as I could. ‘Which is why I want us to level with one another, Tom. If you talk about your fears or make yourself vulnerable this week, I do the same. No upper hand any more, OK? Equal, that’s what I want.’
‘Agreed.’
Easter Sunday is coming to an end, and the city is slowly recovering from yesterday’s storm. Leaving the restaurant, we walk past a bellboy sweeping the verandah of a nearby hotel and a bartender struggling with a handful of sunshades into a tavern. All around us, restoration is taking place on the very day that’s dedicated to resurrection. Four trees were uprooted and scaffolding blew off buildings, but nobody was hurt in the storm. And in the midst of it all, vaporous words were wh
ispered and scattered by the wind, ensuring that they’ll never again form the same stinging sentences.
‘I want to show you something,’ Tom tells me.
‘What?’
‘Stuff I brought with me from home. Memories and keepsakes from years ago, all from my time in Iceland.’
I know he’s referring to his torture tools — the things he’s used to torment himself and feed his guilt. He’s often mentioned this box of memorabilia in our correspondence and how he’s forced himself to go through it regularly, hoping to reach a state of mind that will help him understand his actions that fateful night.
I agree to the idea, and we start walking towards Tom’s guesthouse. Our work isn’t done yet, I think as I stick my hand into my bag and squeeze the rock.
His bedroom is considerably smaller than my room at the Ritz. It’s almost too intimate to be alone together in this space, and it would’ve been unthinkable a few days ago. It only has one chair, which I sit down in while Tom digs around in a bag on the floor. A ludicrously large round lampshade made of paper hangs down from the ceiling.
‘Here it is,’ he says in a hoarse voice, pulling out a stuffed plastic sleeve. He empties it on the bed, and the memories are sprinkled over the white sheets. It’s a surprising mix of ticket stubs to dances and concerts, programs, flyers, and photographs.
Astonished, I pick up a purple entrance ticket. ‘Club Tetriz!’ I exclaim. ‘I’d totally forgotten that place! Of course! In Fischersund Street, now I remember! And the Apple Ball, how could I forget?’ I’m rambling excitedly, oblivious to the fact I’m essentially rummaging through Tom’s thumbscrews, his whips and chains.
‘This is my black box and some of the keys I’ve tried to use to unlock my memories,’ he tells me. ‘It’s not much. I’ve tried to use these little triggers to rewind time. This stuff petrifies me though. I don’t like to look at it unless I’m in the right headspace … it feels like evidence.’
I dig a photograph out of the pile, catching my breath at the sight of myself at the Westman Islands festival in 2000, sporting black hair, a tight jacket, platform shoes, and a dangerous gleam in my eye. The picture was taken only hours before the moment of truth that permanently changed our lives …
‘And then there’s this,’ he says, handing me a stack of papers. It turns out to be a collection of poems I wrote and gave to him when I was sixteen. I scan the pages and recognize poetry that is definitely juvenile but not as bad as I’d expected. Just as I look up from the pages, Tom pulls a ticket out of the pile and hands it to me. ‘For years, I thought that was the ticket to … you know, the Christmas dance.’
I take the ticket and study it, instantly noticing that the date is wrong.
‘Look at the picture,’ he says, pointing at the corner of the ticket. It has a drawing of the Grinch who stole Christmas with red, devilish eyes. ‘Creepy, don’t you think?’ he asks, his voice barely a whisper. ‘It all felt very fitting, somehow. That there would be an evil-looking creature on the ticket to the ball. I only recently discovered that it’s the wrong ticket. I don’t even have the right one.’
I look, but the only thing I see is a tacky drawing on an old piece of paper and a broken man holding it. ‘Is there more?’
He shakes his head, pale faced. ‘No, this is all of it.’
My eyes wander from him to the pile on the bed, and back to him. ‘But this is just paper.’ Leaning forward, I pick up a handful of snippets. ‘It’s just paper, Tom.’
He makes a strange, pinched sound; a mixture of a moan and exclamation.
‘This …’ I point to the bed, ‘can’t hurt you.’
The turmoil inside him is palpable.
‘I hope it lost its power over you when you showed it to me,’ I add quietly.
He nods. ‘There’s one more thing, a letter from my parents. I want to read it to you.’
Tom told me in an email a few months back that he’d admitted the violence he perpetrated against me to his parents. It moved me deeply, and I catch myself holding my breath as he pulls out the folded paper I recognize from the bus yesterday, when he decided it wasn’t the right time to share it. Now, he clears his throat and reads it out loud. It’s written by his mother and father, alternately. With love and care, they describe their concern for their son and the depression, shame, and guilt they feel he is consumed with, which is keeping him from finding happiness. Tears well up in my eyes as Tom’s mother describes, with great tact, her thoughts on whether her anxiety during the pregnancy affected Tom’s temperament. It was just so worrisome with the IUD and all, she discloses.
His father speaks of the future and Tom’s proposed meeting with me in Cape Town. He wishes his son good luck, advises him to trust his instincts, and sends his best regards to me. The letter is complete with reading recommendations and a reminder of how much they love and care for him.
Tom looks up from the pages.
‘You’re very fortunate.’
‘Believe me,’ he replies, ‘I know.’
‘Thank you for sharing.’ I gesture towards the bed. ‘All of it.’
The room is a quivering mass. In the center is a skinned man, surrounded by his fear and guilt, and the witness he let into the tenacious core of his shame. He couldn’t be more stripped even if he took off all his clothes.
It’s peaceful and quiet in the kitchen as Tom makes us coffee. The other guests of the villa are either out discovering the city or already tucked in. Tom’s movements seem quicker and lighter after the ‘memorial service’, so to speak. We take our coffee out on the roofed part of the patio, where he lights a cigarette. I sit down opposite him to avoid the smoke. Suddenly, I feel like closing the circle. ‘I need to tell you something.’
‘Sure. I’m listening,’ he says, taking an unsuspecting puff on his cigarette.
Taking a deep breath, I feel my shoulders tensing up at the thought of what I’m about to say. ‘You broke something in me, something that was intact before I met you. I spent the following years in a fumbling search for the right glue to put the pieces back together. Sometimes, I searched the bottom of empty bottles in parties that went on for days. Sometimes, I searched my physical limits. But most of the time, I searched for the glue in other people. As you know, I didn’t feel like I fit in with “normal” people because I had a big, ugly secret. Which is why I identified with individuals who, like me, had something to hide. And most of the time, they were ugly secrets too.’
Our eyes meet through the pale-blue smoke.
‘You’re not the only one to have been violent with me.’
His eyes widen and he sits up straight. Even the smoke from his cigarette seems to await my next word.
‘You were, however, the first, clearing the road for those who came behind you. Who bent me until I broke. Scarring me inside and out.’
His mouth opens in silent shock.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not making you responsible for violence that other people carried out against me. The perpetrator is always the one responsible in every case. But to answer the question of how you affected my life, the answer is that you caused a chain reaction, Tom. After you spilled my blood, I discovered how many sharks there were in the water.’
He pulls his legs up, hugging his knees. He looks so miserable that I almost feel bad for him. Instead, I whisper: ‘You wanted to know what I am really forgiving you for. Now you know. Now you know the context.’
He nods slightly. There’s something shattered in his eyes. At last, he says: ‘Sorry how drained I am after what you’ve told me … It’s you who should be spent, not me.’
‘I didn’t want to write about this in our correspondence. I wanted to do it face to face and have the words … dissolve, in the moment.’
‘It’s best you’ve told me now … but oh God, Thordis …’ he says as his head sinks forward. ‘The thought that what I did tha
t night could cause you more, and more, and more hurt … I don’t know what … to say.’
Of course he doesn’t. Words escape me too, when it comes to the knowledge stored in my muscles and tissues; the things my body knows. It knows the raging screams that escape the throat when being pinned down, it knows the sound that pantyhose make when they rip. It knows what it’s like to fight back with primal wrath that leaves a bloody taste in the mouth; it knows how to numb itself when losing the fight; it knows the burns, the bruises, the breakage. It knows how to armor up with cigarettes and leather and sarcasm and carry on. It knows that it will always keep fighting back even if it kills me because I’d rather die than lie defenseless on my back like the 16-year-old I’ve spent my whole adult life contrasting.
Our eyes meet. We are emotionally depleted and exposed after having peeled back so many layers of ourselves tonight. I wonder if the consequences show as obviously on me as they do on him. His blonde hair is messed up, his complexion is a sickly ash-gray, and both of us are shaking from head to toe.
‘Here,’ he says, handing me his duvet as we step back into his room. ‘This might help with the shivers.’ To cure his own trembling, he puts on a bathrobe over his clothes.
I wrap the thick duvet around me, standing like a white cone under the giant paper ball hanging from the ceiling. The combination makes me look weirdly like a snowman.
‘Surreal,’ I exclaim.
‘In so many ways, Thordis,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘So many ways.’
From Tom’s diary
Sunday
There were so many stars out tonight. Familiar stars too. I made out what I believe to be the distinctive red binary star Antares, sitting low in the night sky. I visualized the world from a distance, and imagined myself walking on another land mass of the Southern hemisphere, far away from my native Australia but still on the lower portion of the earth and facing the same stars. It is truly strange to be here.