by Lisa Strømme
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Herr Munch,” she said. She tilted her head and smiled at him sweetly through the side of her mouth before saying the most startling thing. “I believe you know my sister, Milly.”
Munch searched the road for an answer.
“Yes,” he mumbled eventually. “Fru Thaulow and I knew each other some years ago.”
“She’s Fru Bergh now,” Tullik said.
“Of course, I had heard.”
“We were going to see Herr Heyerdahl,” I said, noticing the tremble in Munch’s hand.
“Hans is entertaining the enemy. I had to get away,” he said.
Tullik laughed her infectious giggle.
“The enemy? You don’t mean all those boring Kristiania guests, do you, by any chance?”
Munch’s sad eyes ignited when she understood the reference. “Boring, conceited,” he said.
“Self-absorbed, empty,” Tullik said. “Sometimes the boredom drives me to distraction.”
Munch took a draw on his cigarette and looked at her as though she was an exhibit in a museum. He was puzzled by this flame-haired creature, delighted by her, curiously drawn to her as though she were something mythical, like a mermaid or a nymph.
“Have you been to the bathing house, Miss Ihlen?” he said. “It’s marvelously invigorating. I’m heading to the beach right now, as a matter of fact.”
“What a wonderful idea,” she said. “Johanne, let’s go bathe!”
“But we don’t have our bathing clothes,” I said.
“It’s after twelve,” Munch said. “The white flag will be raised, for women’s bathing.”
“Then let’s go take a dip, Johanne. It will be refreshing.”
“But…”
A troupe of angry protesters paraded through my mind, buttressed by my mother with her condemnation and scorn. Being seen with the Sinful Man? Encouraging Tullik’s involvement with him, knowing how her family feels about him? Bathing without bathing clothes? Do you want to lose your job and your reputation in one day?
“What about Herr Heyerdahl?” I said.
“Oh, he can wait,” Tullik said, waving her hand as though swatting a fly. “And besides, he already has guests.”
She effortlessly twisted reality to fit her world and made a perfectly reasonable case as to why we should abandon our plan and instead follow Munch to the beach.
First it was Julie Ihlen, then Fru Berg, then my mother. Now it was my turn. I could not refuse Tullik or deny her these whims, despite my own better judgment. Reluctantly, I turned to meet my fate and trundled back down the hill behind Tullik and Munch. Her golden mane seemed to envelop him as they moved closer together, the upper half of their bodies leaning toward each other as though pulled by an unseen force.
6
RUBY
Thus, in physical phenomena, this highest of all appearances of color arises from the junction of two contrasted extremes which have gradually prepared themselves for a union.
—THEORY OF COLOURS, JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE
As Tullik and Munch drifted naturally toward each other, I was careful to stay a few paces behind them. Their conversation was not fluid, but their silences were comfortable, and Munch seemed relaxed in her company. We reached the bottom of the hill and passed the fishermen’s huts. My heart pumped. If anyone saw me, it would only be a matter of minutes before my mother knew about it. I kept my head down and tried to hide behind Tullik’s delicate little body.
When we reached Munch’s house I wanted to keep walking, but Tullik and Munch stopped at the gate, and I was forced to linger there like a dog with its owner.
“You can walk through my garden, if you like,” Munch said. “Take a shortcut to the beach.”
“Oh, how kind!” Tullik beamed, following him to the gate.
I scurried after them. At least we would be partially shielded by the trees, and being in the garden would be less conspicuous than out on the road. Passing through the gate, I found myself once again entering his forbidden world.
The paintings were still outside leaning against the studio wall. The dark lady was still unsettled by her shadow; the pregnant woman with the cherries was still forlorn. I noticed that more paintings had appeared. Scattered throughout the garden were canvases of differing shapes and sizes resting up against rocks and hedges, placed at random. Seeing the square blocks of color merge with the plants and flowers surrounding them was like looking at an exhibition of nature.
“Oh, how magical!” Tullik said as her eyes scanned the scene. “An outdoor gallery!”
“I’m giving them the horse cure,” Munch said. “I leave them outside. It gives them life.”
Tullik wandered between the paintings, stopping here and there to view them, which she did intensely, agonizingly slowly.
Munch’s eyes followed her with biting fascination. Apart from Inger, Tullik must have been one of the only women to take such relish in looking at his pictures. She showed none of the abhorrence expressed by the other Kristiania ladies and plunged herself into the paintings with open indulgence.
My own temptation got the better of me, and the grip my mother held on my conscience once again began to slip. I was drawn to a painting of a busy street at sunset. People were rushing toward me, as though running from the canvas, their faces filled with panic, eyes staring, startled and afraid. Against the rush of faces, in the middle of the road was a figure standing with his back to me, dark, thin. Apart. The lone figure was facing the inevitable coming of night, accepting its imminence, alone. Was the figure Munch? Was that how he saw himself?
Beside the street scene was a picture of a man I recognized. It was Jacob, the bathing-house attendant. His face was rough and weather-beaten. Munch had etched the years of Jacob’s hard life into the canvas with relaxed precision, and the scattered, loose strokes of the brush brought the old man to life as his skin glowed in the yellow shine of a buttercup clump growing beside the painting.
Tullik was engrossed in a picture of a washerwoman; it must have been Fru Bjørnson, a substantial woman like Fru Berg, with thick arms and a determined posture. She took in washing and ironing from all over Åsgårdstrand. There appeared to be a sense of dignity and calm about the ordinary woman going about her work while Munch, the silent observer, stole a moment of her life.
Every single picture was a piece of life. The subjects were not posing, like models, and hardly seemed aware of the painter who was watching them. They were simply going about their business in their natural surroundings, undisturbed and real.
Tullik tipped her head from one side to the other as she studied the washerwoman and her daughter, Constanse, standing beside her in the picture. Then she returned to the studio, where her eye settled on the dark painting of the woman troubled by her shadow.
After a while, Tullik raised her hand like a pupil in a classroom. She turned to look for Munch, but found that he was already standing right behind her.
“What makes you paint like this?” she said.
“I try to paint life’s unsolvable riddles, the things that perplex us,” he said. “I try to paint life as it is lived.”
“People say it’s not possible to paint the way you do,” Tullik said, lifting her hat to the painting before her.
“It’s not easy,” Munch said.
Tullik laughed.
“No, no,” she said. “They don’t question your skill. They say it’s vulgar, uncouth.”
“The truth can often appear vulgar, can it not?” Munch said. “And lies can shine like beautiful stars.”
“Take this one, for instance,” Tullik said, pointing at the sketch of Jacob. “He looks like a noble man, but he’s just the bathhouse attendant.”
“Yes, I call him The Native,” he said. “His life has a purpose, and he knows what that purpose is. Not like the guests from Kristiania, the people a
t the hotel who are constantly trying to find new ways to pass their time. Where is their sense of purpose? Do they find it in newspapers and magazines, in restaurants, or during the promenade on Karl Johan? They accept Jacob’s help when it suits them, without ever knowing that his life’s purpose is being fulfilled just by serving them. Do you think they ever find real happiness, like the people here in Åsgårdstrand who find it in simple things like earning their keep?”
“The little people are the greatest people,” Tullik said without looking at me. “They may be little, but they don’t care about the little things. And this woman, here,” she said, turning back to the dark lady and her shadow, “who is she?”
“That’s my sister, Laura,” he said, moving his hands, following the outline of Laura’s body with his fingers. “She is consumed by fear. She’s always trying to escape her own shadow but cannot break free. Poor Laura, she suffers when people ridicule my art and mock me.”
“I can understand that,” Tullik said. Her hand brushed his arm in a reflex action that she herself was unaware of. “I think I could be that way too.”
Munch did not answer but took a small piece of charcoal from his pocket. He began to sketch the outline of another woman around Laura’s body and softly wove Tullik into the picture until there were two dark figures clinging together, seeking escape from their own shadows.
Tullik looked at the picture. She swept her hair back and returned her hat to her head in a similar act of completion.
“Come, Johanne,” she said, speaking to me but looking at Munch. “Let’s bathe.”
She held her arms up, pretending to fix her hat into place for longer than was necessary, inviting his eyes to roam her body. Even I was captivated as the sun lit her flaming hair and melted in droplets over her white dress.
“We’ll see you at the beach, Herr Munch,” she said. “Thank you for this most interesting exhibition.”
Munch lifted his hat as Tullik wandered dreamily away. We tramped through the long grass and past the outhouse, a tall sentry box at the bottom of the garden. Tullik howled with laughter as she scaled the wire fence, teetering as she straddled it, but still managing an undignified wave over her shoulder to the painter she knew was watching.
We walked past the Grand Hotel and the Kiøsterud house, then along the pebbled beach to the Central Hotel, another of the four hotels that housed the summer guests. The pier was humming with anticipation, and a crowd had gathered at the far end, hungrily awaiting the arrival of the postal boat due in, bringing with it wages sent home from men at sea. A few sailors skirted the pier, and a young man dangled his feet into the water, pulling a small rowing boat toward him with his toes.
The bathing house was surprisingly peaceful when we arrived. By now my clothes were sticking to me, and I could not deny the enthralling temptation to dive into the water. Munch was right: the white flag was flying above the changing hut beside the boxy, roofless tent that shielded the female bathers from view.
“You see,” Tullik said, “we don’t need our bathing clothes; we’ll be hidden behind the tent.”
“We can ask Jacob for towels,” I said. “He gets them from the hotel.”
We strode out along the rickety wooden pier to the bathing area. A young girl sitting on the ramp was playing with a dog that barked enthusiastically as we passed. I tensed and quickened my pace to deflect the attention. Jacob was molded into a deck chair on the veranda. The striped fabric of the chair sagged beneath his body, and his hat was drawn down over his face, leaving only his whiskers and beard in view. He appeared to be sleeping, but at the clip of our heels he sprang from the chair as though it had been set alight.
“Ladies,” he said, readjusting his hat.
“May we borrow some towels?” Tullik said.
“And some bathing clothes,” I added.
Jacob raised his fingers to his mouth and punched a loud whistle into the air.
“Marie!” he hollered to the little girl with the dog. “Run and get the ladies towels and bathing clothes.”
The girl jumped to attention and disappeared to the hotel.
“That’s the granddaughter. She gets a few øre for helping out,” he said, scratching his wiry chin with his cracked old fingers. I looked at his face, noticing all the lines Munch had sketched with such care, now moving and changing shape as Jacob spoke.
Prompted by the mention of money, Tullik delved in her pouch for some coins.
“How long do we get?” she said.
“As long as you like,” Jacob said. “It’s quiet today. Visitors are at a music recital at the town hall.”
Marie came running back with her arms clinging tightly to a bundle that concealed her face. We took the towels and bathing clothes, and Jacob unlocked the changing hut.
“Ladies,” he said again, showing us in with a crooked bow before returning to his deckchair.
Tullik undressed hurriedly, throwing her clothes onto the bench as though they were infected. Uninhibited, she stripped naked before me, and I awkwardly averted my eyes from the flash of pale skin by my side. She reached for a towel and swung it around her shoulders, while I unhooked my corset and paused to enjoy the liberating sag.
“I’m going in,” she said, ignoring the costume Marie had given her. “Hurry!”
I looked at my bathing costume with its frilled sleeves and long pantaloons. Spurred by Tullik’s inhibition, I picked up my towel, wrapped it around my naked body, and climbed down the ladder at the back of the hut.
There was a loud splash behind me as Tullik plunged into the water, followed by a spluttering and gasping sound as she came up for air.
“Woo-hoo!” she yelled. “It’s magnificent!”
I slipped my towel down into the railings by the ladder and lingered on the ledge for a second. Tullik giggled. Her lips were wet and gleaming, and her hair floated around her like golden seaweed.
“Jump!” she said.
I gripped my nose, hopped into the air, then sank into the delightful coolness of the sea.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” she said when I popped to the surface. “So bracing and refreshing!” She swam in circles around me as I pushed my hair back from my face and wiped my eyes. Then she flipped over onto her back and swam up and down in lengths from one end of the tent to the other, her arms stretching out purposefully over her head and her small breasts appearing at the surface. She continued to flip and turn, at moments disappearing underwater long enough to make me nervous. Then she shot up again with the water spraying around her, dripping from her face like liquid gold. It was as though she belonged to the sea, like Rán, the sea goddess we used to read about at school. All that was missing was the net she used to capture men who ventured out to the ocean.
“You know, Johanne,” she said, her eyes glistening in the sun, “on days like this I could do something daringly adventurous, couldn’t you?”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Something bold and reckless.”
Our arms moved in circles by our sides as we faced each other while our legs kicked frantically below us to keep us afloat.
“Do you think Munch is at the beach yet?” she said.
Immediately I sensed the danger that tempted her. Something had spiked within her since the meeting with Munch. It strengthened her fearlessness and eased it up to an intrepid new level.
“Perhaps,” I said.
Her face shone like melting fire, and she fixed her eyes on mine with an intensity I had not yet seen in her.
“I’m going to go see,” she said, alive with excitement.
“What do you mean?”
She swam to the edge of the tent and lifted the oilcloth.
“Tullik?” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Wait here. I’ll be back,” she said.
She nosedived into the water and disa
ppeared into its depths.
I swam to the wall of the tent and tried to raise the cloth enough to see through to the other side, but it was held firmly in place by ropes and wooden poles, and I feared the entire structure might collapse all around me. Instead, I swam back to the ladder, pulled myself out of the water and up onto the ledge. I snatched my towel, chiding my own recklessness as I covered myself. At the corner of the tent I managed to slide my finger through a small gap in the oilcloth. Peeking out, I saw nothing but the long expanse of sea gliding in and slapping against the rocks. Stretching onto my tiptoes, I pulled the gap wider.
“Tullik,” I whispered, frustrated. The thought of Nils Ihlen came to mind. I imagined being dragged into the admiral’s office to face an interrogation. Why had I allowed Tullik to swim away? Why hadn’t I gone after her? How irresponsible it had been of me to let her go. Because of me, she had drowned. Then, out of the corner of my tiny round window, I caught sight of a head materializing from the water. I held my breath. The head was sleek and cut through the waves like a dolphin. When it emerged a little more, I could see the long mop of hair attached to it and knew it was Tullik. I blew my relief out through my lips. What are you doing? She continued to swim diagonally toward the beach. Where are you going?
She stopped abruptly and began to crawl on her hands and knees. The water was so shallow she could no longer swim. With the depthless waves pooling around her, she came onto her side facing the beach, her shoulder and hip now clearly visible out of the water. Propping herself up on her forearms, she looked out toward the beach. Now her entire upper body and hips were exposed. One shoulder was slightly dipped, and a curtain of hair fell forward over her arm. The other shoulder was gleaming white in the sun. The intense rays lit her breasts and the curve of her waist and hips. She stayed there for a few moments like a wild woman washed up with the tide, ethereal and golden, proud and unashamed. After a couple of minutes she gently lowered herself back into the water. As her skin slowly submerged, I knew that somewhere on the beach, somewhere out of sight, a pair of sad eyes was watching her, and a hand was dancing frenetically across a page.