The Tempest

by Steve Sem-Sandberg

  For days afterwards, I behaved like a wounded animal, dragging myself back to what used to be our safe places on the shore of the lake. I took Johannes’s binoculars with me, and a book about bird spotting and a notepad where I entered every observation I made as precisely as I could. Time, place, species. 5 May. 3.45 p.m. Red-throated diver, in reeds at Näsudden. To record bird sounds I brought a simple tape recorder that I had borrowed from Simonsen. The diver sounded spooky, like the unearthly call of a ghost in the silence, the bittern like a very small bass tuba. I taped the lot, noting the time and place as well as the duration and strength of the sound. And then, suddenly: the tremendous weariness, paralysing everything, whenever I heard the high-pitched whine that warned of yet another aircraft coming close, the clatter of birds’ wings slapping against the water as all the species I had fancied myself observing secretly flew up and became visible to all comers, just in order to escape the grotesque metallic bird that flew so low beneath the clouds and from which I tried to distance myself by pressing my hands against my ears as hard as I possibly could. And that was how it began or, rather, how it ended: now I wrote down everything, not only what I cared to observe but also what I did not want to see. 6 May. 8.45 p.m. Minna with M outside Brekke’s grocery store. I had stood some fifty metres away, hidden around the corner, and felt like throwing pebbles at the pair of lovers to force Minna to pay attention to me, even though I knew exactly how that would end and what kind of attention I would receive. Instead, I stole both her packets of tobacco and cigarette papers, hiding the loot in a hollow under a tree stump near the two mooring posts for the rowing boat. I kept other things of hers under that tree stump: a comb, a pair of nail scissors and a can of hair spray, and a pair of earrings shaped like stalactites that one of the lads must have given her, and I also stored a small selection of foodstuffs such as tinned fruit and chocolate wafers that I had brought as traveller’s fare, and there I would lie on the shore next to the boat and pretend that I was looking out for the bittern, while hoping that she would come walking beneath the trees along the path and call out to me: Andreas? are you there? have you seen my …? And then I would show her everything I had and things would be like they used to be between us, so we would sit together, splashing with our feet in the water, and peel oranges and eat the KitKats and talk or, at least, Minna would talk, spinning another one of her improbable stories that would form a roof over both our heads; it would be like an arching, sheltering, colour-flecked fantasy cover that I could crawl under for safety and, at least for a while, forget myself and all about me that was altogether too obvious and bulky or hurt too much. I was so preoccupied by preparing this escape route of mine that I heard nothing until a twig broke just behind me and I turned to see him come walking, just twenty metres away. Him: Kaufmann. Fully kitted out: he carried a rucksack and a lunch bag, held a gigantic butterfly net and, hanging from a lanyard around his neck, an odd-looking object (I later realised that it was a magnifying box used to examine insects). Oddly enough, all I felt was astonishment. Only a few weeks earlier, when I had dared to walk to the main house on the farm and he had caught me on the veranda, only to invite me in and offer me some scraps off their table, I had felt an almost nauseating disgust: I remembered how everything about him had seemed repulsive, from his long-fingered hands with their well-kept nails and liver spots to his elaborate, polished manner of speech. Out here in the open air, he looked frail and vulnerable, lanky and skinny in his thin, white cotton clothes, his long neck protruding like a beanstalk from the carefully buttoned shirt collar; an impression that was made stronger by the way he held his head to the side all the time, as if secretly listening out for something, and how sharp his shoulder blades looked (as I noted when I later saw him from behind), the shell-like forewings of an insect about to take off. He walked like an insect, too, with probing, cautious steps, as if with twitching antennae. That I had suddenly found a long-sought opportunity was clear to me at once. Not to kill him. Whatever Minna had said, the idea remained utterly abstract to me. What I wanted was my sister’s attention again. If I hit him on the head with a stone, Minna could not ignore me any longer, she simply would have no choice. And my head was so full of the beautiful vision of what this would mean to me that I totally missed my chance. When I came back to my senses, the woodland path lay in front of me, shimmering with sun and shadow, and not a sound to indicate where he had gone could be heard from anywhere. But, from that day onwards, I waited for him with a new, ambitious eagerness. It didn’t take long to work out that he had certain routines, so fixed one might have set one’s watch by them. Not that he walked the same way every day, but he regularly followed favourite paths and visited and investigated certain selected sites. With great effort, because of his stiff back and inflexible joints, he would crawl about, lifting stones and peering at the ground under the root plates of fallen trees. Once, I even saw him surrounded by white butterflies, just as in Minna’s story. True, these ones seemed to be quite ordinary cabbage whites. I realised that he must have charted the entire forest in minute detail and kept areas of terrain under constant surveillance. The next time he passed by, I was prepared. I had understood that his near vision was poor, and that he found it especially hard to keep his balance when light and dark made shifting patterns against the shadowy depths of the forest, and so I had borrowed a strong rope from Johannes and stretched it across a path. I hid in the clump of ferns a few metres away, clutching a rough block of stone that must have weighed more than a kilogram. I had found the stone behind another tall bunch of ferns and carefully scraped all the moss and soil off it, and tested it against tree trunks and other likely surfaces to make sure that it would not slip out of my hand. But when the time came for me to strike, it still felt shapeless and heavy and slippery and the arm that held it had gone strangely limp and unwilling. The day was humid and sultry and the sun was hidden behind a slight haze that down by the lake made the light white and opaque. There was not a breath of wind. Where I lay curled up behind the wet ferns with the stone in my hand, the entire forest seemed to be roaring even though no sound was heard. Kaufmann was making his way with, if anything, steps more uncertain than ever, and when he stumbled on the rope, he went forward with his whole body, as if felled by the blow of an axe. And it was as if he already knew what would happen: he was very still, made no attempt to get up or even to move a little, and all the things he had brought (butterfly net, lunch box, magnifying device) were scattered around him. Perhaps that was why I stalled for a moment. Or perhaps there was another reason. He was lying on his front, both liver-spotted hands stretched out like claws, and I remember the strange smell that hung in the air around him, a smell I had never noticed before despite the many times he had passed by me less than a metre away. The smell was dankly thick and oily, as if from some kind of fuel, but at the same time more astringent and piercing, and when I finally bent down over the apparently paralysed old man, the smell overwhelmed me and almost made me faint. But I struck him all the same, or tried to. I hit his head first and then (when he still refused to defend himself) the rest of his body, his neck and upper arms and shoulder blades, then his back and legs. The later the blows, the more aimless and feeble they grew. As if I hit out mostly to alert him and make him get up. Because it was so weird, the way he did not resist, did not twist or twitch, not even when the stone struck his head. He just lay there on the ground, flat on his belly. In the end, I could not bear to keep hitting him. The stone fell from my hand. Somehow, I managed to straighten up and run away, faint from the smell rising from his body and from the dawning insight into what I had attempted.

  And, predictably, what I feared most happened soon enough: Mr Carsten came to see us. It was around half past six. The strong evening sun made the upstairs windows look scratched and dusty. Downstairs, the doorbell rang its mechanical ding-dong. I heard Johannes walk to the door, watchful as always on the rare occasions when someone rang the front doorbell. As for me, I stayed in my room, sitting with
the hand that had held the bloody stone squeezed between my knees, which would not stop shaking. No need for me to hear Mr Carsten’s voice to imagine him standing there with his muddy boots far apart and his false half-smile and his kan de tell me now, Johannes and do de not think there’s some’at wrong wi that lass and so I want to know wat de are going to do aboot it …? But Minna was nowhere to be seen. Not that night, or the next, as I recall. And although it would be several months before Mr Carsten acted on his threat and Minna was placed in a foster home, I cannot remember a single time when she let on, even with one word, that it was I who had wielded the stone that almost killed Kaufmann. Or that it was she who had commanded me to do the deed. The consequence was, of course, that I had to keep carrying the bloody stone. I still do.

  *

  Only one route reaches the farm from around the back: it goes across the high ridge at the northern end of the lake. The vegetation there is quite different from the low-lying meadows near the lake. Fir trees dominate the forest that forms a tall wall around the mossy outcrops of rock, and the paths dwindle and disappear. You have to make your own way between the boulders and climb down while holding on to supports like exposed roots and branches that slip treacherously in your grip. Once up on the ridge, it becomes obvious that the view of the farm from the Yellow Villa (that is, what I always saw as I grew up) shows no more than a frontage, with the main house and the long barn fused into a close, compact facade. Seen from the interior of the island, the farm lies open and quite unprotected. There is an expanse of rough meadow between the farmyard and the edge of the forest where, after the winter rains and the frost, the grass has been folded over into tufty ramparts. Kaufmann’s house stands at the far end of the uncut meadow. The building was designed as a romantic take on the simple, rustic style that was popular at the turn of the nineteenth century: two storeys high, it has a tall hipped roof which ends in a small domed turret topped by a spire and weathervane. There is a first-floor balcony and a veranda of white-painted wood that runs along the southern side of the house. In the past, a pergola covered the way to the servants’ entrance at cellar level, but Mrs Kaufmann let the last of the staff go after her husband’s death and then had the doorway blocked off. A garage with a turf roof has been built to the side behind the house and then comes a row of stable blocks, one – the last in the row – with direct access to the paddock laid out by Mr Carsten just before Kaufmann’s death. The pump-house ruin is located on the opposite side of the meadow, another old carriage shed stands next to it and, a little further up the slope, is the farm manager’s cottage, a miniature version of the main farmhouse but without the turret and the spire, the balcony and the long veranda. A horse trailer has been parked behind the house, and a yellowy-brown Volvo 240 with mud splashes on its bumpers. The many new, criss-crossing tyre tracks in the rain-soaked mud in front of the farm manager’s house make it likely that he is at home. Although something, perhaps simply my old fear, stops me from approaching any further, I scan the villa through the binoculars several times. Presumably, the new owners have not moved in yet since there are still curtains and potted plants in the windows and the outlines of seating can be seen through the sun’s reflections in the window panes. A door slams on the other side of one of the outbuildings and a dog barks, a sharp, excited yelp that lingers in the damp air. Soon afterwards, Mr Carsten limps into sight, pushing a wheelbarrow that contains a garden fork, a spade and two rattling galvanised buckets. I cannot remember when I last saw him at close range. Possibly that time, ten years ago, when he turned up unexpectedly at my flat in Carl Berners Square in Oslo, dressed in a suit and a fedora hat, although he was unshaven and drunk, and the suit looked as if he had been sleeping in it. He tried on his most ingratiating smile and asked for my sister, but I fended him off and kept him outside the door. Since that encounter, he has aged visibly. In the past, he could move forward quite quickly despite his paralysed leg. Now, one shoulder and half his upper body slip markedly sideways with every step, which means that, every so often, he has to come to a halt and lift his stiff leg clear so that he can get going again. As he proceeds towards the potato patch with his waggling, swayback gait, he reminds me of Johannes telling Minna and me about the Chilotes and their mythical invunche, boys schooled from birth to be the guardians of their native islands: these boys had one leg crushed and tied to their back to stop them from running away, and all their bodily orifices, from mouth to anus, sewn up so that nothing of the knowledge stored inside them could be leaked to strangers or enemies. The wind is growing stronger and drives the rain in long, pale curtains between the main house and the stables and barns. I have advanced quite far into the yard, before the dog catches my scent and comes running towards me, barking all the time. Mr Carsten shouts at the dog and swears at it while he extracts a lead from a bulging pocket in his coat and manages to attach it to the dog’s harness. He has clearly not been expecting any visitors but pulls himself together with admirable cool. So, here he is, our little mongrel, the bastard boy! Back to the island to disturb a dead man’s sleep, right? So, how are things, laddie? There is something about his chesty, rough voice with its obvious Danish inflections and drawling vowels that in an instant takes me right back: those powerful ding-dong notes from the ground floor that rang out through the house, the creaking treads as Johannes went downstairs to open the door, the kan de tell me now, Johannes, the draught through the opened door and their low voices reaching the laddie who sat with his bloodied hands gripped between his knees. But Mr Carsten seems not to feel that his choice of words is anywhere near as meaningful as I do. While he limps away, crooked and with his neck bent, to find somewhere to tether the dog, who pads around him anxiously and gets more and more entangled in the lead, I hear him complaining in the familiar fed-up, whining tone he always resorts to when he does a run-through of the state of things in general, while swaying on and off the dead leg as if not only that leg alone but everything that he has been burdened with during a whole life is hurting him now. People, he says, addressing the dog, are running in and out of here all the time. Private Property, it says. Can’t they read? (How many times have I heard him utter just these words?) Coming along here, asking for the mistress. Helga, too, has passed away by now. No one to take on the farm, the lot of it has gone now, executive sale it was. He turns away, spits in the direction of the wind. The few lumpy little potatoes he has managed to dig up must be the first this year and, down there in the bottom of the bucket, they look like tiny, crumpled faces. Rather like his, in fact. Well, how long will you be staying here? I ask. Until the new owners come along to take over. The talk is, they’ll start up fur farming again. There’s equipment left from old Brandt’s time, peace be with him! That last phrase is uttered in a low voice; he is still turning to the dog, which is lying down in the flattened grass, its head just visible. The silence bursts open and through the rain-soaked ocean of air above us sails, with almost unreal slowness, yet another terrible steel body, a clashing, screaming nightmare that prevents any single sensible thought. Johannes is dead, I say, but you must know that? Then, at last, he looks at me with what I at first take to be a satisfied smile but then see expresses pure anxiety. It is as if his rigid, lifeless face cannot produce anything except comical grimaces and half-smiles. So wat? he says. The words sound as if spat from his mouth. I wait until the plane has sunk below the ridge and the roar that it pulls behind it has stopped echoing. I have come to give you these, I say, and try to offer him a handful of copied receipts that I found underneath the pile of newspapers. Received from Johannes Lindalen for services (various) – the sum of 1000 (one thousand) kroner, signed C. Gerhardsen. The bundle is made up almost exclusively of receipts for payments to Mr Carsten, every time for relatively modest sums: seven hundred to one thousand kroner, at most (on two occasions) fifteen hundred kroner, but made in close succession, some with only a couple of days between them. What is all that? he says, without more than a quick glance at the papers I try to present to him.
Receipts for blood money? I suggest. Did Johannes pay you to get Minna off the island? I have no idea whether this is true or not. I am assuming that there might be a link because the receipts were made and signed the autumn Minna was forced to move. I don’t understand what you’re on about, Mr Carsten says, suddenly busy again with his fork and his bucket in the potato patch. And where is her birth certificate kept? Whose? he says. Minna’s, I say. By now, he no longer looks alarmed, only scornful. Listen, you little motherfucker, he finally says (or, more like it: he croaks), I never gave a fuck about what happened to Johannes’s little bastards and I don’t want to know now either! It strikes me how much he has shrunk during all the years that have passed, as if he has always been on his way back down into the sour soil where his muddy boots are planted now. I despise him boundlessly. Not that he notices. Now he even attempts a more conciliatory tone. Johannes is dead all right, he says, so tell me, what’s the point of digging up all the old things now? We are all just as deep in it, all supping from the same bowl, isn’t that what people say? he says, and swings the garden fork in the air. And that means you as well, laddie. Behind the dull film of rain, his face looks almost normal: one half of it crunched up as if squinting through the rain, while the other, healthy half carries on watching me with an open, clear and soberly appraising eye. He speaks with no hint of deference, but then he never did, however loyal to his masters and superiors he has pretended to be over the years. A mongrel, a bastard child, those were the names he called me. Perhaps we never change in the eyes of our enemies. I turn my back on the shrunken old man in the potato patch and walk down to the Yellow Villa, my head pushed forward against the rain. I have just put the key into the lock on the cellar door when the most awful noise hits me. It comes from inside the house. It sounds as if a horde of people are incessantly talking across each other. I pull the door open and run upstairs. The voices go on talking, in bursts between interruptions of something like raucous, evil laughter. I stand in the doorway to what was once my room, staring at the long draperies of static sweeping across the lit TV screen. Now and then, coinciding with moments when the TV noise shifts into almost-human voices, the flicker stops and freezes into something that is vaguely reminiscent of a body or a wall or a landscape, before it rapidly dissolves into empty flashing again. And the television was not the only device Johannes left switched on when the electricity was cut off. All the lamps in the sitting room are on. And in the kitchen, on the shelf above the sink, the radio is muttering away. When everything is switched off again, I curl up opposite the blank screen with my back to the wall and my knees pulled up against my chest. For some reason, my whole body is shaking.