by Lisa Strømme
Ragna moved to a cupboard on the far wall and took out a rag and a bottle of clear liquid. She banged the two down on the kitchen table without looking at me. The bottle wobbled precariously for a few seconds, and I caught it just before it fell. My eyes almost melted from the fumes that hit me when I removed the lid.
“Rub your hands with it,” Ragna said and returned to her peas.
The liquid stung my fingers, finding its way into all the tiny cuts and cracks in my broken skin. As I rubbed the cloth across my palms, my hands smarted and the stinging spread all the way up to my ears. I yelped and bit my lip. Ragna did not turn around nor show any concern. She continued to systematically pop the pods and scrape the peas out with her fingertips.
Tullik was growing impatient.
“Come on—we can rinse it off at the water pump,” she said.
I rushed to the garden and flung my hands under the tap while Tullik pumped the handle. Fru Berg was sitting with her bucket, scrubbing something small and white at her washboard.
“What’s this? What’s this?” she said.
“My hands are stinging,” I said. “Ragna gave me some liquid to get the polish off. Feels like nettles.”
Fru Berg scowled and threw the garment she was washing back into the bucket.
“Let me see,” she said, pushing the bucket aside with her foot and groaning as she heaved herself up. “Has she given you turpentine?” She examined my hands. “Good Lord above. You’ve reacted badly to that. I’ll get some calamine and the oil.”
She returned a few minutes later and began dabbing my fingers roughly with a milky liquid. When it was absorbed, she rubbed oil into my skin in a circular motion, which was meant to be soothing, but her coarse thumbs scratched against my hands and made it worse.
“Can’t have your hands idle now, can we?” she said. “There’s plenty to be done today, with all the floors, and those front windows need doing again.”
I shot a glance at Tullik, who raced to my defense. “Johanne’s coming with me to Åsgårdstrand today,” she said. “It’ll give her hands a chance to recover. I’ll get her some balm at the chemist’s while I’m there.”
Fru Berg’s beady little eyes became so wide with surprise that, for the first time, I actually noticed their color. They had always been black to me, but now I could see that they were hazel tinged with flecks of green. Fru Berg had been with the Ihlens since the girls were children, and unlike Ragna, she was not above speaking to them sternly.
“What about everything that needs to be done here?” she snapped. “You can’t take Johanne away today, Miss Tullik.”
I thought Tullik would see the impossibility of it and say, No, of course, Johanne has work to do—how silly of me, then I would be released from their disagreement and free to return to my chores. But Tullik was insistent.
“I can!” she said defiantly. “I checked with Mother and she has allowed it. Now, if you don’t mind, Fru Berg, we must go.”
The air flew out of Fru Berg’s cheeks, and her face deflated. I half expected her to wither like a dripping candle and collapse to the ground. She tried desperately hard to think of something to say, puffing up her cheeks again and again with varying degrees of strain. But she knew she was defeated. She could not contradict Julie Ihlen’s decision and had no choice but to let us go.
“Well, don’t be long then,” was all she could manage, but Tullik was already leading me away, and Fru Berg’s words became nothing but filmy bubbles, floating weakly skyward before bursting into the air.
5
SCARLET
The middle of this circle will appear bright, colorless, or somewhat yellow, but the border will at the same moment appear red. After a time this red, increasing toward the center, covers the whole circle, and at last the bright central point.
—THEORY OF COLOURS, JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE
The sun was already high in the sky as Tullik and I crossed the road. We passed the church and headed down the lane toward the forest where the dark pines invited us into their shadowy world.
“It’s so cool in the woods,” Tullik said, removing her hat and pulling the pin from her hair, “so magical. Do you believe in fairies, Johanne?” She skipped between the trees with her arms outstretched, brushing her hands across the peeling bark. “And trolls? And spirits? Do you think ghosts haunt these woods?”
The sun picked lines through the branches and illuminated her as though she were a drop of early morning dew glistening on the silver pad of a birch. As the light caught her dress, I could see the outline of her legs as she danced majestically through the forest, twirling and sparkling like a veil of stars. Tullik was ethereal, a being not wholly of this world, molding and shaping everything solid and earthly to fit her fantasy.
She continued to weave through the trees and then stopped abruptly behind a thick birch, clinging to the trunk of it and tilting her head.
“Did you hear that?” she said.
“What?”
“That noise. That cracking sound? Was it footsteps?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“My father used to tell us stories about trolls and the huldrefolk,” she said, looking about her as though watching the imaginary creatures approach. “I’ve walked these woods at dusk, when the sky is gray but not dark. I’ve seen shapes and shadows, moving like ghosts, seen yet unseen, among these trees. Have you, Johanne?”
“No.”
“And you don’t hear that?” she said. “It’s getting nearer.”
I closed my eyes and listened but heard nothing, only the comforting slap of waves at the shore and the occasional caw of the crow.
“There’s nothing there, Tullik,” I said.
She was still cowering by the tree.
“Check over there, behind me,” she said.
I walked toward her, probing the woods, but heard nothing out of the ordinary.
“Really, Tullik, there’s nothing there.”
I thought she was playing make-believe, like a little girl. For a moment it was difficult to accept that she was almost five years my senior, a young woman who had already turned twenty. As I approached her I could see that she was genuinely afraid, and even when I reassured her, she would not let go of the trunk.
“Come on, Tullik,” I said, peeling her hands from the tree. “There are berries over there by the path. Let me find some for you.”
She reached for my arm and gripped it tight, as though I was asking her to jump from a great height. Her eyes were fixed over my shoulder on the invisible evil that approached.
“It’s all right,” I said. “Really, it’s all right.”
“Don’t let go of me,” she said.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Tullik.”
She clung to me like a frightened child as I guided her back to the forest path. Stunned by this sudden change in her demeanor, I didn’t know what to say. I led her to the side of the track where I reached into the hedge and plucked a ripe strawberry.
“Do you want to taste it?”
Immediately her face changed. The fruit vanquished the band of villains in her head.
“It’s so sweet,” she said, throwing the strawberry into her mouth and becoming Tullik again. “How did you know where to look?”
“Practice,” I said.
We dallied at the strawberry bushes, and I took her down to the shore. There was no concept of time in Tullik’s world. She seized every moment and stretched it or shortened it according to her will, allowing her instincts to lead her. We slipped out through the trees and walked along the coast, jumping across the stones, stopping to look at pebbles, gazing out to sea and pointing at ships on the hazy horizon.
The Nielsens’ large, white farmhouse appeared on our right as we emerged into Åsgårdstrand. On this side of the woods it was easier for me to associate myself w
ith Tullik. Now we were in my territory, and in Åsgårdstrand I had never been bound by the restraints of employment. We continued along the path until it widened and joined Nygårdsgaten at the slope of the hill. The road was quiet. Its only occupant was Fru Book’s pony hoofing at the dust in the shade. Fru Book was out weeding her garden, and her head shot up over the fence when she heard us coming.
“Hello, Johanne,” she said, acknowledging me through the jasmine with an outstretched hand.
“Do you know everyone here?” Tullik said.
“Almost.”
“Where is your house?”
“Up there,” I said, pointing around the bend and up the hill.
“Can we go?”
“We don’t live there at the moment. Herr Heyerdahl is renting it.”
“Herr Heyerdahl is living in your house?” she said.
“Yes. He rents it every summer with his wife and children.”
“Then we must go meet him,” she said, stopping in the road, swinging her hat by her side.
“Why?” I said.
Tullik laughed.
“Why, Johanne? To see his paintings, that’s why! To see him at work, of course!”
“The hill’s terribly steep,” I said.
“So?”
She had already spun around, and I had no choice but to follow her.
We trekked up the hill in the blistering heat, passing the gardens where rhododendrons and lupins were beginning to flower. The sun stretched its arms around us, making the climb ever more arduous. We had just rounded the bend and begun the final ascent when we met a woman carrying a basket, hurrying toward us. It was Mother.
“Johanne?” she shouted from several yards away. “Johanne? Is that you? What are you doing here?”
Her gaze crossed from me to Tullik and back again as a multitude of questions swept her face. Was I being sent home? Had I failed the Ihlens? Had I done something wrong? Had I brought shame to my family? For a moment I enjoyed her confusion. I could see she was struggling to find a reason why her daughter would be out at this time of day with a fine young lady from the city.
“This is Miss Ihlen,” I said. “Tullik, this is my mother, Sara Lien.”
Tullik was as gracious to my mother as Julie Ihlen had been to me and held her hand out politely.
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Fru Lien,” she said, suddenly reeking of Kristiania society.
Mother was flustered by the attention and began her rehearsed Herr Heyerdahl lecture.
“Oh yes, hello, Miss Ihlen. I do hope Johanne is not causing you any… She isn’t, is she? I was just on my way to see the Heyerdahls. You know they rent our house in the summer? I thought I’d offer them some… But they have guests at the moment, from Kristiania. Do you know Herr Heyerdahl’s work? He painted Johanne once, did she tell you?”
“Yes. In fact, I was hoping to go meet him right now,” Tullik said.
“Oh no!” Mother said, turning her disapproval on me. “You can’t go to the Heyerdahls’ now, Johanne; they have guests. Didn’t I say? Friends from Kristiania.”
“Then maybe I will know them?” Tullik said.
“They’re mainly painters, I think,” Mother said, her eyes still on me. Her voice was tight, as though she were trying to swallow a reprimand aimed at Tullik. Knowing she was sinking fast, she turned on me again. “But what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at work, Johanne? I hope she hasn’t—”
“She’s doing a fine job,” Tullik said. She slipped her arm around my shoulders, and a bolt of affection for her rushed through my body. “I asked her to come with me today. My mother gave us permission. And we need to pay a visit to the chemist; Johanne needs some balm for her hands.”
“What’s wrong with your hands?” Mother turned on me accusingly. “You have good working hands.”
“Turpentine,” I said, hoping the word alone would suffice.
“Then get some lavender balm,” she said, digging in her pocket. “Here, I’m sure I have a few kroner. Or you can put it on our list at Herr Backer’s.”
“No, no,” said Tullik. “I’ll get her the balm. She’s our employee. We need some for the house anyway.”
Mother made an affected curtsy and moved closer toward us, herding us back down the hill.
“You should take Miss Ihlen to the pier, Johanne. Or go for a walk along the beach where there’s movement in the air. You could choke up here. There’s not a breath.”
“It’s quite all right,” Tullik said. “I’d like to see Herr Heyerdahl. I’m sure our visit won’t be too much of an inconvenience.”
Mother had an odd look on her face. I had seen it before, in circumstances where she was desperate to argue, but her surroundings, or the presence of others, kept her lip tightly buttoned. Like Fru Berg, there was nothing my mother could do to deny Tullik her wishes. She lifted her chin and forced an uncomfortable smile to her lips.
“Very well then, have a pleasant day,” she said without making any further reference to me, or my hands, or my employment at the Ihlens’.
Tullik and I continued to climb until we reached the final stretch of road that led to our cottage. Both of us were wilting under the oppressive sun and had to stop and rest every couple of paces. Our eyes were pulled to the fjord, and we stood there drinking it in, filling our bodies with the overwhelming sight of it, the immense blue that sparkled and stretched out into forever.
“No wonder the artists come here, with this view,” Tullik said. “Who could fail to be inspired by it?”
“They tell me they come for the light too,” I said. “Apparently it’s quite peculiar here. The old farmers say it’s because of the ancient bluffs that formed when the ice melted thousands of years ago. They say the shape of the landscape bends the light and that’s why we’re always bathed in gold. That’s what the artists love about it.”
I lifted my face to the sky and allowed the light to wash over me. As my skin tingled in its heat, I remembered what he’d said, about subjects in paintings, how they grow and change like life, how they are life.
“I can understand it,” Tullik said. “It’s truly captivating. But how do you manage in the winter? All the way up here in the snow and ice.”
It was impossible to imagine the winter at the present moment. My blouse and skirt were damp and sticky, and sweat was trickling down the small of my back. The sun’s rays were beaming through every part of my body; my throat was dry, my brow was clammy, and my hands, still stinging from the turpentine, were now frying in the heat. I longed for the winter, just for a second of it. How wonderful it would be to throw myself down in the deep snow and breathe the clear, cold air that froze my nostrils and reddened my nose.
“We walk,” I said. “You get used to it.”
“On a hill as steep as this I would have to be pulled with a rope!” said Tullik.
“I think it must be something about living here,” I said. “Our bodies seem to know exactly how to bend coming up the incline and exactly how to lean going down it. There are very few places in Åsgårdstrand where people actually stand upright.”
We were just laughing about this phenomenon when I saw a man coming through our gate and out into the dusty road.
“Look at him then, Johanne,” Tullik said playfully. “Is he a local? Is he bending at the right angle? Can you tell?”
I stopped to look at him properly. He was wearing a straw fedora with a black-and-white band and a dark jacket that hung low about his body. I couldn’t see much of his face, but instantly I understood why my mother had been so guarded. The strong jawline and broad brow were unmistakable. The man approaching us was Edvard Munch.
“He’s not from here, no,” I said. “That’s Munch.”
He was striding toward us, holding a cigarette in one hand and a sketchbook in the other.
“What should
we say?” Tullik said, buzzing with energy.
“Don’t say anything,” I said. In all my years of observing Munch, I had come to know his mannerisms and the unusual way in which he interacted with people. “You can’t approach him. He walks about with his eyes half shut, like he’s in a dream, not really paying attention. But then, if he sees something that interests him, he stops.”
“Do you think he’ll stop for me?” she said.
I remembered Munch’s fixation with Tullik at the dance, how he had sketched her so purposefully.
“I don’t know,” I lied.
He was getting closer. He puffed on his cigarette and looked out at the sea. The dramatic fjord had captured his attention. The blue-violet surface was beckoning him. He was studying it, committing the subtle details of it to his memory: the way the sunlight caught the waves and how the color changed at varying depths. I had often seen him paint without ever looking at his subject. He lodged every image in his mind and could bring it to life in another time and place entirely.
Tullik dropped her hat.
“Oh, now look at me,” she said, slowly bending to pick it up. “How clumsy.”
Munch was so close now that when his eyes returned to the road and he saw Tullik crouching in front of him, he had no choice but to stop.
“Excuse me, madam,” he said, halting.
Tullik raised herself up. She straightened her shoulders and pushed her hair away from her face.
“Sorry, sir. I dropped my hat,” she said breathlessly.
Munch took a step back. His eyes opened fully, and he removed the cigarette from the corner of his mouth.
“Johanne?” he said, tucking his sketchbook under his arm.
For a moment he wrestled with the same questions my mother had struggled with. He looked from Tullik to me and back again.
“This is Miss Ihlen,” I said, coming to his rescue. “She is staying in Borre for the summer. I am working as her housemaid. Mother got me the job. That’s why I couldn’t come to paint with you—I’m sorry. Tullik, this is Munch.”
He held out his hand, and Tullik reached for it gladly.