We sat on a rock where a sort of grass-covered lane leads up to the graves.
Otto had been quiet all afternoon. He sat there with his elbows propped on his knees and his head resting in his hands, and neither of us spoke for a long time. Then he said softly: “You know . . . there is one thing. I think . . . I know that it’s my duty to tell you this.”
He paused and then said: “I have . . . I’m not . . . I’ve . . . I’ve known other women, you see . . . before.”
After a moment, he said, “I can imagine that you find this horrifying . . . I can tell from looking at you. I know that’s what you must think. And I couldn’t make myself tell you before. You don’t understand it, of course, and I can’t explain it . . . not because I want to make excuses . . .”
I tried to say something, but he interrupted me.
“Not in the past couple of years. Not since my sister Lydia died. You know, Mrs. Jensen. She had such an unhappy marriage. Then I promised myself certain things. But before that . . . It’s not something you can understand. When a person is younger, then it’s not . . .”
“Otto, you mustn’t tell me anything more!”
“Do you think it’s that terrible?” he said, standing up.
Then I stood up, too. What I felt was merely confusion and shame for myself. At first, when he began to speak, I was filled with enormous astonishment. It wasn’t something I’d ever thought about, at least not since we had become engaged. A year or two earlier I might well have discussed the question of what a man should admit to, etc. It was a topic avidly debated at the time, and I would have been within my rights. But as he talked and I saw how pained he felt, and how awfully serious this was for him, I felt so ashamed and humbled that I hardly dared look up. I thought that never, ever had my love for him been anything more than a wish that he would think I was lovely and kiss and pamper me, that I could put my hands on his broad shoulders. But never had I looked for his soul, seeking to treat it with kindness and love.
“No, no, Otto. You mustn’t say another word. My dear, what right do I have to demand such a thing from you? It has never, ever occurred to me to give you an account of the bad things I’ve done or still do—my ugly, evil, petty thoughts or deeds. I haven’t even begun to think about how much I will have to change in myself now that we’re going to be married.”
“You? Oh, Marta, Marta . . .”
“Tell me everything if you want to tell me. I know that I’ll be able to understand you . . . now. Everything that you want someone else to know and discuss with you—I beg you to tell me all that. But there’s nothing I demand to know or think I have the right to ask you about. Because we know that we can depend on each other, and we are terribly, terribly fond of each other—aren’t we?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you how much I love you—that you can take it like this!”
Then we walked, close to each other, up and down the old wet lane where the raindrops fell and glittered the whole time, and I was unspeakably happy and a little ashamed that Otto thought I was being so splendid.
“Yes, after we’re married, dear,” said Otto, and with that we kissed until we could hardly breathe. And as we headed back home, I felt a superior sense of compassion for all the other couples we encountered.
OTTO’S FATHER AND BROTHER-IN-LAW came to the wedding. My father-in-law was not particularly pleased with the arrangements we had made. He had wanted us to go up to Løiten and hold the wedding there, since my own parents were dead. We had been to Auli during Easter, but it wasn’t very pleasant. Even though they were very kind to me, I could tell that they would have preferred Otto to marry a girl with money, and they found me too “refined,” although God knows I tried to be as reserved and modest as I possibly could. But Otto was sweet and thoughtful and took great pains so that I wouldn’t notice any ill will, which made me enjoy the trip in spite of everything. And Helene, my sister-in-law, was one of the sweetest persons imaginable.
We had a civil ceremony, and then I hosted a dinner at the Grand Hotel. Two of my girlfriends had made the arrangements, and it was quite a success, so that my father-in-law and Tomas Nordås were in very good spirits before Otto and I left.
When I went to my room to change out of my good blue suit and patent-leather boots, my landlady had already started clearing things out. She had removed the linens from the bed, and the tablecloth had been folded and placed on a corner of the table. My own belongings were piled in one corner; they were to be taken over to our apartment that evening.
I shed a few tears, feeling a bit sentimental as I changed my clothes. Then Otto appeared as I was standing there, fastening my shirtwaist. He forgot to knock.
“Oh, pardon me, but you’d better hurry. It’s almost four, you know.”
He started repacking my knapsack, taking several things out of it and putting them into his own bag. He picked up some underclothes, and I saw him turn slightly red.
“You’ve brought along enough stockings, haven’t you?” he said and buckled the straps.
Then we hurried up Maridalsveien in the brilliant sunlight. Otto’s grocer, Helgesen on Sandakerveien, was going to drive us to Nitedal.
There was something rustic and festive about Helgesen’s property that reminded me of all the good times in my childhood, with the stalls and storerooms all around, the pump in the center of the courtyard, and the doves on the roof.
“Well, I was just about to give up on the two of you,” said Helgesen. “Oh, so this is your missus, Oulie? She’s a tiny one, and pretty too, that she is.” He congratulated me with a strong handshake.
Otto chatted with Helgesen a bit as we drove, talking about people in Nitedal and Maridal I didn’t know. To me it sounded so peaceful and pleasant. The city seemed unreal and far away. On the farms around Maridal Lake, the hay had been gathered in stacks. In some places they were taking the hay in, and in other places they were just starting to cut the rye. From the other side of the lake came the clanking sound of a reaper, and Otto and Helgesen eagerly and earnestly talked about the prospects for the year. As we drove into the forest, Otto took my hand and squeezed it, but we didn’t speak.
“Well, have a good time, the two of you. Farewell, Oulie, farewell, Madame!” Helgesen grinned as he dropped us off.
We didn’t say much as we walked along the forest path. Otto looked back at me a couple of times, to ask if he was going too fast, and made some remark or other about how many trees had been toppled by the wind—the path was often entirely blocked—and about how wet it was in the marshes now. Once he picked a handful of white orchids and gave them to me.
“Aren’t they pretty? Pin them to your blouse. They would look good there.”
It was getting late, and the sunlight was golden up along the rim of the ridge. Here and there a ray of sun fell across the path as we walked at the foot of a cliff along a small rushing river. The sun glinted on the spray and on the wet birches and elderberry bushes. Bluebells and monkshood were everywhere.
“Oh, how magnificent they are,” I said, and Otto turned around.
“Do you like them? Yes, they’re beautiful. There are lots of them right below the cabin,” said Otto. “Well now, that’s a fine thing. The footbridge is washed out.”
We had reached a little waterfall. At that point the river was wide and deep, and there was only a single round log for a bridge.
“Give me your hand,” said Otto. “But dear, sweet Marta—what is it?”
My heart was pounding so hard that I was shaking, and I could feel that my face had turned white. My hand was ice-cold.
“But my dear, are you frightened?” whispered Otto.
I threw my arms around his neck and hid my face. It wasn’t really fear; it was more like a physical tension. When at the same moment my foot landed in a marshy hole and water seeped in over the edge of my boot, my whole body seemed to freeze. My skin contracted, and I felt so naked in my clothes.
“We’re almost there,” whispered Otto. “It’s just up this ri
dge.”
It was a steep slope.
“All right,” said Otto as he stopped to catch his breath.
Below us, down a sheer drop, lay a big, gleaming lake. And some distance away, on a little green rise in the midst of the setting sun, stood a small gray hut. We came to a split-rail fence, and Otto moved the logs aside.
“So now we’re home,” said Otto, putting his arms around me. He kissed me, and I sensed it was different from any of the kisses he had given me. It was a kiss of welcome. We walked across the embankment. There was a profusion of violets and wild pansies, and in every pile of stones grew monkshood and fireweed. The lake below us gleamed among the birch trees and alder thickets.
On the stoop we found a bucket of milk and a basket of potatoes. A huge bouquet of wildflowers lay next to them.
Otto opened the door and let me enter first into the dimly lit room.
WE STAYED ONLY TWO WEEKS AT THE CABIN. That was the extent of Otto’s summer vacation. And God knows, it passed quickly enough. Yet when I think back on those days, I see a thousand happy memories.
I remember one night when I woke at the gray light of dawn. First I sat in bed for a long time, looking at Otto, and I felt almost scared at being so happy. I couldn’t make myself lie down and go back to sleep.
Finally I got up and, with only a shawl over my nightgown, I sat on the stoop and looked at the mild, hazy morning.
I had been sitting there for a long time when Otto suddenly called me.
“My dear . . . why are you sitting out there? Are you already up?”
With a sudden feeling, rather like shame—or fear at disclosing something that I wasn’t sure he would understand—I told him that I had gotten up to make coffee to bring to him in bed.
“Oh, God save me. What an amazing energy you have all of a sudden—and what a wife you are, too. So wake me when it’s ready,” said Otto, and he lay back down to sleep.
ONE EVENING WE GOT LOST. It was as dark as a summer night can be when we came to a big marsh that we didn’t recognize.
“The smartest thing would be for us to stay right here,” said Otto. “Would you be awfully afraid to sleep outdoors for one night?”
I thought it would be splendid. I had never spent a whole night outdoors before.
We made a narrow bed for ourselves among the blueberry tussocks. Otto wrapped his sweater and my jacket around our feet, and then I lay down with my head on his shoulder and looked up at the sky, which was a pale blue even though it was quite late, and at the mountain right across from us, which was outlined black and sharp against the yellowish-white horizon. The delicate pale yellow glow that moved along the edge of the sky, eastward, was reflected in the pools of water on the marsh.
Occasionally we would doze off, then chat for a bit. Suddenly Otto said: “Dear, when the two of us have a little boy, his name will be Einar. I had a brother by that name.”
He had mentioned this brother once before, when we were visiting Auli at Easter. I had seen the family gravesite near the church, and Otto told me that Einar had died when he was accidentally shot.
Now he lay there, talking about his brother, their childhood, about that winter afternoon when they were skiing on the mountain and Einar took an entire load of buckshot to the thigh. How they struggled to bind the wound but couldn’t stop the bleeding, and then his leg began to freeze off as they dragged him down on his skis.
“Then Andreas, our friend, started crying. We couldn’t get him to stop. And we didn’t know exactly where we were, either—just the general direction—but as you probably realize, we didn’t have much time. I remember that there were so many stars out that night, with bright moonlight and new snow on the icy crust. And how I prayed to God—and felt so small.
“But you know, on a night like tonight, I feel just as small. I thought about what you said. If there is a God, my dear, then we’re lying here before him like two little mice in a hollow.”
I pressed myself closer to him, in quiet, delighted amazement at hearing him say exactly what I was thinking just then.
We went up to the cabin every Sunday until late into the autumn.
That was before it became so common to have a cabin. Ours was just an old crofter’s cottage. Back then, before we rebuilt it, there was only a kitchen with a fireplace and a four-poster bed, and no furniture other than what had been left behind by the crofter, plus two or three folding chairs that Otto had transported up there and lots of pots for flowers. Otto loves flowers and has his own way of arranging them. All he has to do is put a couple of flowers in a cup, and they look beautiful.
We kept adding improvements over the summer: embroidered tablecloths and a sofa with cushions under the window.
In the main room there was a stove where we cooked. Otto was the chef. He claimed I wasn’t good at making anything and took over all the cooking in his shirtsleeves.
“Marta, my dear, what a hopeless creature you are!”
EVERY EVENING we would walk to Lillerud for milk. Otto was best friends with everybody over there, and I was immediately taken into the family. On those long cool evenings I would lie on the embankment and talk to Ragna and the children, while from up on the ridge we heard the bells of horses wandering freely in the forest. And I would listen for Otto’s voice as he sat on the steps and talked to Mother—Ragna’s mother—and Ragna’s husband.
Life up in the forest made our relationship happy and harmonious. A tender and joyous intimacy would arise of its own accord as we spent days roaming in the woods, picking berries—climbing over heaps of raspberries among lush ferns, where I was afraid of snakes, and where cowberries blushed red on old gray tree stumps, or hiking along shadowy blueberry slopes with golden rays of sun on velvety soft moss, plodding through marshes where Otto dashed about, picking the scarce and tiny cloudberries, which he instantly presented to me, all of them. Then he would describe the abundance of cloudberries there used to be back home, and we’d end up telling each other all kinds of things about our childhood and youth—eventually everything. Otto knew practically every road and path in all of Nitedal and Nordmarken. He knew every bird song and the habits of every animal, and about weather portents and stars and such things. After all, he’d been roaming around in those forests and meadows ever since he was a tyke. And out there I was simply Otto’s little girl, and he took such care of me.
THE SMALL BUILDING that was our first home has been torn down. I’m almost glad about that now; it would have been painful to walk past and see other people living inside. But on that evening several years ago when Otto and I walked by and saw that they had begun demolishing the place, we stopped and looked at each other. I started to cry, and Otto seemed just as sad as I was. The house was empty and the garden fence had been torn down. Several of the trees lay toppled onto the raspberry bushes that Otto had planted. We went into the garden. The veranda door stood open, so we went inside and wandered through the empty rooms. All the windowpanes had been removed. We didn’t say much, not even as we walked home. We were both feeling sad, as if we had lost a beloved refuge for our thoughts. That was back when I was so dissatisfied with my life, and I thought it seemed symbolic that they were tearing down and destroying the place where I had once been so happy.
When we got home, Otto went into the garden, where he puttered around, tending to the roses, which he had just wrapped up against the frost. This was late in the fall. When I came onto the veranda to call him for supper, he said in such a sad voice: “We should have taken all the roses with us when we moved. It’s such a pity what’s happened to them. And my raspberries—just when they were starting to get big.”
IT WASN’T A VERY FANCY HOUSE, our first one, but Lord, it was cozy. The house had once been a coachman’s residence or something similar for a country estate and later a wooden veranda had been added to one side. The house stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, which Otto called the “appendix.” The branches of the maple trees in the yard seemed almost to meet overhead. It was unbeliev
ably muddy in the spring and fall. The children always looked like pigs when they came inside, but I didn’t have the heart to scold them. I often would have liked to be a child myself, making cakes out of the greasy black mud and running a grocery store from a board laid across two bricks.
What odd things Otto would bring home! It’s true that I often thought they were terribly ugly, all those urns and vases of his. But I was touched that he was trying to be inventive in order to please me and decorate our house, which made him so proud. He was always up early, and while I got dressed he would rush in and out, telling me which roses were now in full bloom or that he had picked radishes for breakfast.
In many ways he was quite childish. During our engagement, he had tried to hide this from me. Back then he was also very afraid of seeming naive or provincial. After we were married, he wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about this anymore—just as I could no longer hide how in love I was with him. And he would frequently use his boyishness to flirt with me. Among other things, he had a penchant for making remarks that were slightly risqué, but always in such an innocent and youthful manner. For example, he never grew tired of joking that it was actually unseemly that our maid’s name was Olerine, which gave rise to vile images of “cholérine.”
He was immensely amused by my school stories. One Sunday we invited my whole class over for hot chocolate. Otto was a splendid host for nineteen girls and teased them until we were completely giddy, all twenty of us. After that the class was utterly smitten with “the teacher’s Pappa.” That was during the second year of our marriage, when Einar was only a few months old.
Lord, how I boasted about that child. But Otto was even worse. And how he pampered me the entire time before the birth. The poor man. While I was convalescing, he had bought a hanging lamp. It was supposed to be a surprise for after my confinement, but he couldn’t resist telling me about it long before, and he carried me into the room, wrapped in a woolen blanket, so I could see it.
Marta Oulie: A Novel of Betrayal Page 4