“I’m really pissed off with you, Egil,” I say. “You! The trip to Brazil has nothing to do with it, and the fact that you dare to bring that up is so condescending,” I say. “Do you really think that I’m so … so easily pleased?” I say. “Just treat her to a little trip or something every now and again and she’ll be happy. Is that really how you see me?” I ask. “I’m really pissed off with you, Egil,” I say. “With you,” and I hear what I’m saying and I’ve no idea where the things I’m saying are coming from, I’ve no idea who it is that’s talking through me, but I’m seized by, I’m caught up in this fury and I glare at Egil and he looks bewildered and alarmed. “What is it, Silje,” he asks, “has something happened?”
“Oh, would you just listen to me,” I shout and I hear myself shouting. “I am listening,” he says. “No, you’re not fucking listening,” I cry. “’Has something happened?’ you ask! I told you, you’re pissing me off,” and a moment passes and Egil just stands there eyeing me gravely, then he walks up to me and he puts out his hands and now he’s going to put his arms round me and I feel the fury erupt inside me and I brush his hands away. “Stop it!” I yell at him. “Don’t go playing the psychologist!” I yell and I feel my eyes widening, the fury making my eyes widen, and I stare at Egil with big, wild eyes, and Egil looks at me in alarm. “I’m not playing the psychologist, I only want …” he says, then he stops and just stands there looking at me.
“You just want what?” I cry, “you want me to see myself as a hysterical female who needs to be soothed and comforted.” I say. “You want to shift the focus away from yourself and the fact that you would try the patience of a saint,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying, hear how credible, how genuine it sounds and I’ve no idea where it comes from, what I’m saying, it just comes out.
“Silje … you don’t even believe this yourself,” he says. “Stop telling me what I believe and what I think, dammit!” I shout. “I’m sorry … but, er,” he says, and he glances to one side, flings out a hand, then turns and eyes me helplessly. “Do you really think I’m that calculating?” he asks. “Do you really think that’s why I wanted to comfort you?” he asks. “You’re always making me feel guilty about something,” I say. “Even when I know I’m not really to blame I always end up believing that I am,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying, and I hear how true what I’m saying is and I feel my confidence growing. “Oh, honestly, Silje,” he says. “You can accuse me of a lot of things, but saying that I’m to blame for you feeling guilty for everything under the sun, that’s going too far,” he says. “Aren’t you the one who’s always saying how you women learn from when you’re little girls to turn grief and anger and shame inward? Right, so don’t go blaming me,” he says. “Well, you being the way you are doesn’t help, that’s for sure,” I say. “Me being the way I am?” he says. “Yes,” I say. “Okay, now that you’ll need to explain,” he says. “All your nit-picking, it’s all just petty stuff, but when you put it all together it’s … it’s unbearable,” I say. “Like the way you came in and switched off the lamps in here in the middle of the day, or the other day when I was cooking pasta,” I say, staring at him, “and you suddenly walked in and moved the pot to another ring that was closer to it in size,” I say and I hear what I’m saying and it suddenly occurs to me that what I’m saying is true. Egil really did come in and switch off the lamps in here in the middle of the day and he really did walk in and move the pot while I was cooking pasta the other day, and I look at Egil and Egil looks at the floor and Egil runs his hand through his hair and sighs.
“Yes, well,” he says. “If it was just the once I wouldn’t have bothered,” he says. “But you do it every time you make dinner,” he says. “I mean, as far as I’m concerned that’s exactly …” he says and then he stops. “It’s like going into the bank and paying money into the electricity board account and not getting anything for it,” I say, putting on a whiny voice and screwing up my face as I say it. “I’ve heard it all a hundred times before, so spare me.” “Well, why don’t you just stop doing it?” Egil says. “Then you wouldn’t have me nagging at you,” he says. “Why do you think?” I cry, then I pause with my mouth half open, and my eyes wide open. “I do it to provoke you, obviously,” I say. “I’m sick and tired of your nit-picking and I have to make some sort of protest,” I say, and a moment passes and he just stands there looking at me and gently shaking his head. “How about talking things through instead?” he asks. “I can’t be bothered discussing things with you, Egil, because I know you’re right,” I say and I almost give a little start when I hear myself say this, because what do I mean by it, what am I saying now, where’s this voice taking us now, and another moment passes and again he just stands there staring at me. “I’m sorry, Silje, but now … now I’m confused,” Egil says, giving me a puzzled look, and a moment passes and then my mouth opens. “I’m not stupid, Egil,” I say. “I know very well it’s a waste of energy to put a little pot on a large ring, but the fact is that you can waste a lot of other, much more precious, energy by constantly fussing about piddling little things like that,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying and I hear how true it is, what I’m saying, I hear how well put it is, and my confidence simply grows. “I may overdo it sometimes,” Egil says. “But it just so happens that most of the days in life are ordinary days, and if we don’t give some thought to the habits we acquire in our ordinary everyday lives we’re not going to have very good lives,” he says. “Oh, spare me the platitudes,” I say and again I make a face. “The problem is that … well, you’re … you’re such a tight-ass,” I say. “I think we’d both be much better off if you were a little more easy-going,” I say. “Because I can’t be bothered … I can’t live up to all of the ridiculous demands you make,” I say, “and I can’t be bothered feeling bad about all my silly little mistakes,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying and I hear how genuine the things I’m saying sound and I’ve no idea where all this is coming from.
“Ah, now I’m starting to get the picture,” Egil says. “Well, it’s high fucking time,” I say and I hear how triumphant my voice sounds, it rises almost to a falsetto at the end of the sentence, and I look Egil in the eye, seething with anger, and Egil looks straight back at me. “It’s your mother you’re talking to, right?” Egil says, and he looks at me, and I just gape at him, what does he mean by that, what’s he blabbering on about now? “Huh,” I say, frowning. “That’s who these complaints are actually aimed at, isn’t it?” he says. “Your mother.” “What are you blabbering on about?” I ask. “You may not see it yourself,” he says, “but I see it, because I lost my father and I can clearly remember how it felt, to know that it was too late to say all the things I’d meant to say,” he says. “I’m sorry,” I say, narrowing my eyes and shaking my head. “Now you’ve lost me,” I say.
“There are times when I hate my father for treating my brother and I so differently,” he says. “And I knew I would have to talk to him about that if I was ever to come to terms with what that did to me – the poor self-image, the jealousy and … yeah, well,” he says. “I never dared to, though,” he says. “And when he died I was left with all these accusations and grievances and no idea of what to do with them except to offload them on to Trond,” he says. “All the anger, all the sludge, all the stuff that had been building up inside me and that I really ought to have taken out on my father, I took out on him,” he says. “And now you’re doing the same thing to me,” he says. “Don’t you see that?” he says, and then he pauses and there’s silence, and I wait, I wait for the voice inside me to reply, because now I have to reply and I pop my lips. “You know what?” I say, and then I stop. I look at the floor, shake my head and a moment passes, then I look up at Egil again and I open my mouth and I wonder what I’ll reply, but I have no chance to reply because Egil jumps in again. “It’s a perfectly natural reaction,” Egil says. “It’s all part of the grieving process and once you’re able to distance yourself a little from Oddrun’s de
ath you’ll see that I’m right,” he says and there’s silence again and I look at Egil and I raise my eyebrows and shake my head. “Do you think so, Egil?” is all I say. “Well, you paint a pretty harsh picture of Oddrun,” he says. “Or, at any rate, of the way she was before your father died and she began to let her hair down,” he says. “I’ve heard more than a few stories about the lengths she would go to in order to make you understand what nice girls did and didn’t do,” he says. “And as far as I know you never plucked up the courage to confront her about that,” he says and then he pauses for a moment and I just stand here looking at him and I shake my head and grin ruefully. “For fuck’s sake, Egil,” I say. “So if you look at it that way it’s good that you lash out at me like this, that you don’t give a toss about being a nice girl,” he continues. “Because it means you’re finally rejecting the rules and regulations she imposed on you and that you’ve always felt bad for not following,” he says. “I felt exactly the same when my father died. I was grief-stricken, heartbroken, but I also felt freer than I had felt in a long time,” he says.
“You know what, Egil?” I say, and then I pause and something’s got to be said now. “Either,” I say, “either you’re so stupid that you actually believe all this pseudo-psychological crap you’re spouting or you’re every bit as dazzled by your own brilliance as I think you are,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying and I’m trying to figure out what I actually mean and I look at Egil and realize I can’t just leave it there. “Dazzled by my own brilliance?” Egil says. “Yes,” I say and then I pause. “You simply cannot believe there could be anything wrong with you,” I say. “If anyone criticizes you it has to be for one of two motives: either they’re out to get you for some reason or they’ve got it all wrong,” I say. I couldn’t agree more with everything I’m saying, what I’m saying is true. “It’s not really you I’m getting at, it’s my mother … my mother!” I say, my voice rising almost to a falsetto at the end of the sentence. “Have you ever heard anything so downright fucking stupid?” I say.
“You can say what you like, Silje,” Egil says. “It looks like I’ve touched a soft spot, though,” he says, and a moment passes and I just stand here staring at him. “For fuck’s sake,” I say, then I pause “Would you listen to yourself, Egil,” I cry, my voice almost cracking with delight and fury and I fling out my hands as I say it. “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” I say and as the words leave my mouth I realize that this actually is exactly what I’m talking about. “When I get mad at you like this you automatically dismiss any idea that I might have reason to be mad at you,” I say. “You immediately assume that I’m mad at you because you’ve touched a soft spot,” I say, and I hear how true it is, what I’m saying, and I realize how furious I am with him for being the way I say he is. “In your world you’re always right, Egil,” I say. “Why are you like that, why are you so pathologically afraid of not being perfect?” I say.
“Hey,” he says. “Now I think we ought to just calm down a bit, because this isn’t serving any purpose.” he says. “Listen to yourself,” I cry. “You’re trying to evade the issue again,” I say. “Silje,” he says, jutting out his chin as he says it and blinking both eyes slowly as he says it. “Take it easy,” he says and he holds one hand up, palm outward and I stare at him and the fury grows inside me, because now he wants me to think that I’m being hysterical again; the calmer and more responsible he appears to be, the more hysterical and out of control I’ll seem and he wants me to seem hysterical, and I feel my eyes bulging in their sockets and I stare at him with wild, staring eyes and a moment passes and I have to calm down now, I mustn’t fall into this trap, I have to pull myself together now, and I take a deep breath, I have to breathe more slowly now.
“It’s no use,” I say, and I hear my voice quivering with anger, and a moment passes and I look at him. “I’m not getting through to you,” I say, sounding a little calmer now, and there’s silence, and I hold his gaze as I shake my head. “Could you not make a little effort to listen to what I’m saying, Egil?” I say, and a moment passes and Egil looks at me, then suddenly he draws breath and sighs and I realize how angry this makes me, him standing there acting as if he despairs of me but is, nonetheless, a big enough man to listen to what I have to say.
“All right,” he says, and he looks at the floor. “I’m sick of it, Egil,” I say, “and I have been for a long time,” I say. “I’m sick of you taking me to task for everything I do that doesn’t measure up to your standards for proper behaviour and good manners,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying and I hear that I’m saying the same as I said just moments ago and Egil sighs again, then he gives a breathy little grunt and sends me a look that says he’s fed up hearing me harp on and on about this. “I’m sick of it, because it makes me feel that I’m never good enough,” I say. “I’ve heard all this before,” he says, giving me a studiously jaded look, then he closes his eyes and nods and at that I feel the fury explode inside me. “You’ve heard my words, yes!” I roar at him, and Egil’s whole body flinches and he gazes at me, shocked, and I take a step towards him and I stare at him with my big wild eyes. “But you haven’t taken in a single word of what I’ve been saying,” I cry. “Because as soon as it registers with you that I’m actually criticizing you, you go on the offensive, without giving any thought to whether my criticism is reasonable or not,” I say, and I hear how true it is, what I’m saying, and for the first time it seems as if he is actually hearing what I’m saying, for the first time it seems as if I’ve got through to him. His face changes, the calm expression is gone and all at once he looks flushed and angry. And I stare angrily at him.
“Well, let me tell you something, Silje,” he says. “If what you say is true, then I’m certainly not the only one in this house who sets impossibly high standards for other people,” he says. “Oh, really,” I cry. “And what, pray, are these impossibly high standards that I set for you?” I ask. “Well, I’ll tell you,” he cries. “You set unreasonably high standards for how I’m supposed to respond emotionally, for the feelings I’m supposed to show,” he says. “I see,” I say, holding his gaze. “Meaning?” I say.
“Meaning it seems it’s not enough for us to love one another,” he says. “It’s not enough that we respect one another and treat each other decently, we also have to live up to all your ideas of the great love affair,” he says. “You’re supposed to be the only woman in the world who can make me happy and I’m supposed to be the only man who can make you happy,” he says. “There’s no end to the depth of the feelings you expect us to show to one another,” he says. “I feel like an emotional bloody acrobat sometimes and I just can’t take it,” he says.
“Well, let me tell you something, Egil,” I say. “We wouldn’t have lasted a week as a couple if it hadn’t been for such hopelessly romantic notions, as you call them,” I say. “Oh, really?” he says. “Oh, really?” I cry. “What do you think would have happened to us if either of us had started telling the other that they could be replaced at any time by anybody?” “I see, so you’re saying you could have swapped me for just anybody,” he asks indignantly. “No, it’s you who’s implying that,” I shout. “No,” he says. “You’ve got it all wrong,” he says. “If we’re to function as a couple maybe we need illusions like that,” he says. “But the point is that the role you’ve given me in this charade feels so implausible that I have real trouble playing it,” he says. “The things you’ve scripted for me to do and say seem so false that I sometimes find myself thinking that everything we have together is false, that our whole relationship is founded on imaginary emotions,” he says and then he pauses for a moment and he stares at me and I stare at him. “Do you know what I think? I think you miss your father!” he says.
“What?” I say. “This tremendous need you have to feel that you’re the only woman I could ever love, I think this could be traced back to the image you have of you and your father,” he says. “Oh, honestly,” I say, “I don’t know
whether to laugh or cry,” I say. “How often have I had to listen to stories of how he used to shield you whenever Oddrun threw one of her tantrums?” he went on. “How he looked after you and gave you all the love that you needed, but that Oddrun could never give you,” he says. “Daddy’s little darling,” he says. “Precious little Silje,” he says. “That’s what you miss now, that’s how you want me to make you feel,” he says. “I’ve often thought that that’s why you have such huge expectations where love is concerned,” he says, and the moments pass and he stares at me and I stare at him.
“What is it with you?” I cry. “Why do you have to link everything I say or do to my parents and things that happened when I was a child?” I ask. “I mean, if I were to psychoanalyse you the way you’re always psychoanalysing me, I could say that you are the way you are because you grew up with a father who loved your brother more than he loved you,” I say. “I could maintain that the reason why you’re so dead fucking set on being perfect is that you’re still a love-starved little boy who’s doing everything he can to win as much of your dad’s attention as he gave to Trond,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying and I realize how pleased I am with what I’m saying and I’ve no idea where the things I’m saying are coming from, they just come. “Perhaps that’s what your pernicketiness and your pragmatism is all about. Perhaps this is a technique you’ve developed in order to be as perfect as you believed your father wanted you to be,” I say, then I pause for a moment, not taking my eyes off him.
“The only problem is, though, that it’s so bloody easy to say something like that,” I say. “But we’re not that simple, Egil,” I say. “Even you’re not that simple,” I say. “Perhaps it would be just as true to say, for example, that your nit-picking and your craving for perfection is part and parcel of the job you have,” I say. “One might perhaps say that the nit-picking and the pragmatism and everything else is a strategy you’ve developed in order to do a good job,” I say, “a strategy designed to enable the shop to survive in the marketplace,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying, and I’ve no idea where it’s coming from, I can’t remember any of this ever entering my head before, it just spills out of me, and a moment passes and I don’t take my eyes off Egil and I see a resentful look come over his face.
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