The Girl Between

by Lisa Strømme

  “Well, you have to try to stop her,” she said to Caroline, who was leaning toward her with her hands laced in prayer in front of her lips. “It’s silliness. Childish silliness. He can’t be interested in her, not really.”

  “Of course he isn’t,” Caroline said. “But you know what she’s like, with her fancies about painters and artists.”

  “The man can’t get over me,” Milly said casually. “It’s so tiresome.”

  “Mother’s only just recovered from all of that, and she’s glad to see you happy with Ludvig now. Imagine her shame if Tullik had an affair with the same man. It seems we’re never to be rid of this mad painter.”

  Milly laughed, then pressed a gloved hand to her mouth.

  “It’s not funny,” Caroline said. “Can you not imagine the shame it would bring to this family?”

  “I’m sorry,” Milly said. “I just find it so amusing… He’s still besotted with me, isn’t he? He adores me. And he thinks he’s getting a piece of me through my little sister. How terribly pathetic. You must put an end to it, Nusse, darling, before she starts believing his lies.”

  Milly opened her parasol and paraded the few steps to the back door as though she were stepping out on Karl Johan during the promenade.

  “Ludvig, darling, it’s time to go,” she called. “Lila, sweetheart?”

  Caroline gave me a hard stare as she pushed her chair under the table.

  “Get on with your work,” she said, looking down her nose at me, as Milly did.

  An event was made out of Milly’s departure. There was endless unnecessary fuss as she and Ludvig stepped into the carriage, throwing kisses into the air like the king and queen, creating a stage for themselves on the wagon. Lila was wedged in beside Milly like an accessory: a pretty flower or a piece of jewelry. She waved neatly, like her mother, her fingers bound up in lacy gloves.

  When the fanfare was finally over and the last of the horses’ hooves echoed away on the road, I was confronted by Ragna in the kitchen.

  “We need milk,” she said. “You’ll have to get some from the dairy at the rectory. Take this can.” She thrust a tin can into my hands and pointed to the front of the house. “You do know where the rectory is, don’t you?” she said, speaking slowly as though I were an imbecile.

  The question didn’t merit an answer, but I nodded. “Of course,” I said, swiping the can from her hands.

  “And don’t be long. I’ve a lot to catch up on after this visit.”

  I welcomed the break from the house. The atmosphere had been cumbersome in Milly’s presence, and Tullik and I had not spoken since Sankthansaften. I had been into her room only to clean and dust around her. Every time I entered, she buried her face in her book, a thick novel called Devils. She did not speak to me and spent hours in solitude while her two older sisters colluded against her.

  I collected the milk from Isabel Ellefsen at the dairy, a girl my age with a plump figure and strong arms. Our mothers were acquainted, and I had seen her at church on Sundays, although we had never spoken to each other much before.

  “How do you like it at the admiral’s?” she said, pouring the milk into the can with expert steadiness.

  “It’s fine,” I said.

  “They’re a good family. You are lucky to work for them.” She leaned closer toward me and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Just watch that Ragna,” she said. “She doesn’t miss a thing.”

  I thought it a strange thing to say, coming from a dairymaid who could not have known Ragna well.

  “Comes over here, those dark eyes darting everywhere,” she said, screwing the lid onto the can. “Is it any wonder she hasn’t found a man to marry her? Tries to be all meek and mild, but I’m not convinced. My sister said she was engaged once. He left her for another. Escaped before it was too late, and you can understand why. Just you watch her. There’s something those eyes aren’t telling you.”

  I wanted to ask her a hundred questions, but knew I could not be caught gossiping at the dairy. I hadn’t considered why Ragna was not married and couldn’t possibly imagine her being engaged to anyone, or in love with anyone for that matter. Isabel handed me the milk as though she was raising a glass, proposing a toast to our conniving.

  “You watch her, Johanne,” she said, “because you know she’s watching you.”

  I took the milk and hurried out, wondering if Isabel genuinely knew something about Ragna or, more worryingly, if she knew about something Ragna might have seen. Me. Graveyard. Canvas.

  When I reached the church, Ragna was in the front garden picking mint. On the other side of the street, below the linden tree, a man was lingering in the shade.

  “No,” I whispered. “Not now, Munch. Not now.”

  I clung to the wall of the church and waited to see what he would do. He was leaning against the tree trunk and looking up at the house, holding a long tube, a scroll. He seemed lost and abandoned, and a cold sadness spread across my chest. I wanted to run to him but was afraid Ragna might see me, so I tried to get his attention by swinging the milk can. His eyes were fixed on the house, scrutinizing every plank of wood, every hammered nail, every roof slate, and every pane of glass for the thing that had been stolen from him. It looked as though he would wait there forever until it was returned.

  While Ragna was hunched over the herbs, I sprang out from the church and waved at him. When he saw me, he came rushing over.

  “Johanne!” he said.

  “Shh!” I held my finger to my mouth and beckoned him around the back of the church. When we were out of sight he handed me the scroll.

  “Please will you give this to her?” he said. “I can’t work without her. She has not come for days. I can’t paint. I can’t think.”

  “You expected her to come?” I said. “After…”

  “After what?” His sad eyes darkened, and he pressed a hand to his chest.

  “Milly,” I said.

  The single word was irrelevant to him, and he rushed on without a thought.

  “I cannot work without her, and if I cannot work, I cannot live. You must take this to her. Please, Johanne, you must bring her back to me.”

  It was impossible to ignore his desperation. He was gasping. Tullik was the air he needed to breathe. Perhaps he had only been protecting her the other night on the beach? Perhaps he had kept his feelings for her concealed so as not to expose their affair to her family? Whatever the reason for his behavior, I could not question him now. I took the scroll solemnly from his hand.

  “Tell her I’m waiting here,” he said. “I will wait by the tree as long as I have to.”

  Ragna had returned to the kitchen and met me with a suspicious glare.

  “Where’ve you been? I only asked you to go to the dairy.”

  “Sorry,” I said, handing her the milk. “I was talking to Isabel.”

  “And I was waiting,” she said.

  Her eyes flitted across my body, and I winced. She stared at the scroll of paper, unraveling it with her eyes. She knew. She knew it was a sinful painting from the Sinful Man.

  “I have sweeping to do,” I said, rushing away from her, “on the upstairs landing.”

  Caroline was with her mother in the parlor, and the admiral had retired to his office. Fru Berg was buried in clothes and sheets at the mangle, and I could only guess that Tullik was in her room. Henriette the cat guarded the door.

  I stepped over Henriette’s tail and knocked. “Tullik,” I whispered, “may I come in?”

  She did not respond.

  “Tullik,” I said a little louder, “I have something for you.”

  The door finally opened, and Henriette slid inside, brushing against Tullik’s legs with a soft meow.

  “What is it?” Tullik said. Her hair was hanging loose. She had been sleeping.

  “May I come in? I need to talk to you.” />
  She walked back into the room and allowed me to follow her.

  “Here,” I said, closing the door behind me. “I have this for you.” I handed her Munch’s scroll.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “I think it’s a painting. It’s from him. He’s waiting for you.”

  “I won’t see him,” she croaked.

  “I don’t think he will leave until he sees you,” I said.

  “What about her?”

  “It’s like he doesn’t even know her name.”

  Tullik hesitated for a moment, then snatched the scroll from me. She closed her eyes and cleared her throat before opening it.

  The woven paper uncurled in her hands, and when it became too big to hold, she laid it on her bed.

  The painting was haunting.

  A soft watercolor and ink sketch, it was of Tullik, in the water, on the day she swam out naked and lay before him at the beach. He had painted her as a mermaid, her lower legs curling up softly into a tail. His signature column of moonlight lit her pale skin, and her luxurious auburn hair hung down over one shoulder and rested in waves over the other. It was Tullik, in all her ethereal and elegant beauty, a tantalizing vision, a mythical creature born of a summer night.

  Tullik’s eyes flew hungrily across the sketch.

  “Is it me?” she said, tears appearing.

  “Of course it is,” I said, “exactly as you were that day.”

  At the foot of the page were the words E Munch, Mermaid 1893.

  “My poor darling,” she said. “Where is he?”

  “At the linden tree.”

  “Then help me get ready. I must go to him.”

  She hurled herself at her wardrobe and pulled several dresses from their hangers.

  “Which one, Johanne?” she said. “Which one?”

  “Any!” I said. “You’re beautiful in all of them.”

  “Am I? Do you really think so?”

  “Of course I do,” I said, pushing her hair from her shoulders.

  She chose a light-cream summer dress. Her hair flowed down her back, and she pumped a fresh-smelling perfume around her neck and behind her ears.

  “Tell them I’ve gone for a walk in the forest,” she said, “if they ask.”

  I bowed myself into her deception and once again became the keeper of Tullik’s secrets.

  When she had gone, I stared at the painting for a while. Tullik’s beseeching expression beckoned me to her, drawing me into the sea. Her submerged hands and her curving tail seemed to make her helpless. Come, she said. Come embrace me in this moonlit water. My fingers traced lines around the tips of her hair. The thick strands of it floated like orange seaweed on the water’s surface. The bright shine of the moon bronzed her skin and set fire to her hair. She was living fire, living, breathing, liquid gold. The essence of life itself.

  • • •

  June joined hands with July in a feverish pact of steaming intensity. Temperatures soared, bringing the hottest summer in living memory. While most of us withered, Tullik blazed in the heat. Her skin warmed to a soft tan, her hair was even more glorious than ever, glowing with golden streaks where the sun had bleached it. Her very soul was scorching with life and thrill and danger.

  The heat made the admiral and Fru Ihlen apathetic. They moped about the house with great effort as though they were constantly sedated. Caroline was no better, lolling from one room to the next in an endless search for shade or the last gasp of a breeze. Fru Berg was beside herself with irritation. Her puffy cheeks shone as red as apples, and she was forever wiping her brow with her forearm, unable to ebb the tide of perspiration that rolled from her temples. But Ragna was resolutely alert. Like a lizard, her senses piqued in the heat. Her black eyes were as sharp as ever and her attention unbending. She followed my every move as I lied and hid to uphold Tullik’s charade.

  We lied about musical recitals and bathing afternoons. We lied about dances at hotels and dances on the beach. We lied about walks in the forest and fruit picking, and all the while Julie and the admiral lapped up our lies as though they were the sweet nectar of the flowering honeysuckle. As long as Tullik did not stay out too late they did not ask any questions, and for a while, as she had vowed, Tullik did exactly as she pleased.

  Then the bohemians arrived.

  Of all people, it was my mother who informed me. The Sunday evening announcement was made at the dinner table.

  “The barbarians have arrived,” she said. “I heard them all night.”

  “Hmm?” Father said, puffing on his pipe. “Who?”

  “Those people.” She huffed. “At his house. They came in from Kristiania a few days ago. Up all night with their devilish reveling and drinking. It’s a disgrace.”

  “Who are those people?” I said.

  “You don’t want to know, Johanne,” she said. “You should keep away from that kind of sinfulness. We don’t want it spreading. These friends of his are a sorry crowd. Lowering standards. You make sure you steer clear of them. Goodness knows, I might have to find a job for you in the city, send you to Kristiania. Borre won’t be far enough away. It seems like Herr Heyerdahl is the only one with any decency.”

  They were probably writers and painters. Tullik was bound to find them irresistible, and I knew that sooner or later I would be caught up in a lie about a dance or a walk and find myself among the very people my mother feared the most. Then what? Would she really banish me? Send me off to Kristiania? After dinner I rushed from the hut and ran straight out to the rocky shore where the sea was calling me. Kicking off my shoes and peeling off my stockings, I hopped and ran to the waves. I lifted my skirt and waded into the water. Tilting my face to the call of the ocean, I inhaled the setting sun, the salty air that spat against my skin, and the squawk of gulls winging above me. I stayed there for a long time, trying to find a way to avoid the unavoidable.

  When I eventually turned back, the sky had become dark, and I searched for my shoes in the shadows. My stockings would never be found. I couldn’t even remember where I’d cast them.

  “What are you doing, Johanne?”

  The voice came from the rocks ahead of me.

  It was Thomas.

  “Looking for my shoes,” I said. “I came out for some air.”

  “It’s been so hot,” he said. “The women are suffering in the heat.”

  “It grips you tight,” I said. “Even down here by the sea, there’s hardly anything to grasp on to.”

  “Will you walk with me?” he said, grinning and offering his hand.

  “Only for a short while.”

  We headed out along the steam pier and stopped halfway to lean against the railings. Even at night, when it was tired, Åsgårdstrand was beautiful. The hotel windows were aglow against the balmy summer evening. Lanterns hung along the veranda that stretched across the back of the Grand Hotel. Some were hung in trees and made pretty patterns from the dark branches. The boats bobbed gently in the harbor at our feet, and the only sound was of the water swaying and sploshing against the harbor walls.

  “Have you thought any more about that proposal?” Thomas said, nuzzling against my neck.

  “Only that I’m too young,” I said.

  “It’s not a no, though?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s not a no.”

  Talk of marriage was like an invitation for my mother to join us, with all her consternation and her shaking head.

  “I should be getting back,” I said, stepping away from him.

  “My father’s letting me take the boat out alone next Sunday,” he said. “Do you want to come with me, on an adventure?”

  “I doubt my mother would allow it,” I said.

  “Does she have to know?”

  I had become such a seasoned liar that I should have slipped easily into a new lie, but I found th
at my appetite for deceit was waning, and I balked at the thought of more lies; the thoughts I had to think, the tales I had to tell, the tracks I had to cover. A murky spiral. Brown. Dark umber. Gooey and black.

  “I can’t promise anything,” I said.

  We sauntered back past the hotels and along the track toward the fishermen’s huts. The peace of the evening was shattered when we passed Munch’s garden. A woman was squealing with laughter. I looked over the fence and saw her join hands with a man and dance in circles up and down the hill. The shadowy presence of men with cigarettes loomed around them, and I heard the sound of glasses clinking and corks popping. One man was singing, another clapping.

  “I see crazy-man Munch has guests again,” Thomas said. “Went on all night last night, from what I heard.”

  I stood and watched as the couple spun back down the hill toward us.

  “They’re making up the rules as they go along.” Thomas laughed. “Maybe we should be more like them?”

  I wanted to agree with him. I wanted the freedom that spilled from Munch’s garden. I wanted a taste of it, even though it was tainted. It carried a danger whose consequences were too great for me to bear, and yet I was drawn to it, sucked in by its allure. I wanted to join the dance that whirled beneath the trees, for Thomas to take my hand and twirl me through the paintings that were scattered about the hill. With nature growing up all around it, immersed in the sun and the moon and sea, it was not a dance of destruction, but a dance of life.

  I wanted to join the dance of life.

  12

  ULTRAMARINE

  As the upper sky and distant mountains appear blue, so a blue surface seems to retire from us.

  —THEORY OF COLOURS, JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE

  Swirling green. Emerald. Jade.

  Exploring. Tentative. Moving. Crawling. A touch of cyan. Opening the prism.

  Tullik. Wandering. Hands reaching out. Hands retracting. Away from the sun. Into the unknown.

  I follow. Curious. Inquisitive.