“Don’t tell me you’ve become a socialist along with everything else,” he says wryly. “All I’m saying is that I’m sick and tired of the way you reduce me to a victim of my own childhood,” I cry. “I’m fed up with all your pseudo-psychological spoutings,” I say and I nod sharply at him, never taking my eyes off him. “Oh, well, pardon me for being so stupid,” Egil snaps. “Oh, for God’s sake,” I say, and again I screw up my face and I gaze at Egil and smirk. “So, are you going to start acting all hurt and hard done by now?” I ask.
“No,” Egil says. “I’m simply telling it as I see it,” he says. “I was stupid enough to believe in those pseudo-psychological spoutings and I still am as a matter of fact,” he says. “It may sound facile, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to it,” he says, and he pauses, stares at me. “I can’t live up to the standards you set, and if your father were alive today I doubt if he’d be able to live up to them, either,” he says. “He’s never loved little Silje as much as he does now, twenty-five years or more after his death,” he says, “and nobody can compete with a man like that,” he says.
“D’you know something, Egil?” I say, my voice quivering with anger. “The man you’re competing with isn’t dead,” I blurt and I hear what I’m saying and I realize how surprised I am by what I’m saying. “In fact, he couldn’t be less dead,” I say and I’ve no idea where it’s all coming from, it just comes. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Egil asks and he looks at me and frowns and now there’s nothing for it but to keep going. “It means exactly what you think it does,” I say, and I stare at him and I’m struck by how plausible I sound and I can see that Egil believes what I’m saying and I see how his face changes, his face grows pale and still. “Oh, yes,” I say and I’m laughing inside, a great peal of laughter rings out inside me and I stare straight at him and nod. “That’s precisely what it means,” I say, my voice quivering slightly.
“Who?” Egil asks. “I doesn’t matter who,” I say. “Is it that smarmy bastard you were talking to at the Christmas party last year?” Egil asks. “It doesn’t matter who it is,” I say again. “The hell it doesn’t,” Egil says and now he’s losing his cool. “But why should it matter?” I ask. “Because I want to be sure I punch the right man,” he says. “Oh,” I say with a contemptuous sneer. “Don’t be so pathetic,” I say and I look at Egil and Egil stares at me. “It’s him, I know it is,” Egil cries. “I saw the way you two were drooling all over one another,” he says. “Christ,” he says.
Then there’s silence again and the moments pass and I hold his gaze. “Well, if I’ve been doing emotional somersaults and if I’ve been trying to get you to do them too, it might be because I’ve been trying for so long to save our marriage,” I say and I hear what I’m saying, and again I’m struck by how true it sounds. “The worse things got, the harder I tried,” I say. “And feelings may have …” I say, and I pause for effect and in my mind I see how I look, and I see how natural I look, how genuine I seem and I look at Egil and I see how pale he is. “I don’t know,” I continue, “feelings may have run pretty high sometimes,” I say, and a moment passes, then Egil takes a deep breath and lets it out again, and he shakes his head, then he walks straight past me without so much as glancing at me, walks over to the wicker chair under the window, sinks down into the chair, bends forward and runs his fingers through his hair. He sits like this for a few moments, then he straightens up, lets both hands flop into his lap and sits like this, gazing blankly into space, laughing mirthlessly and shaking his head, and yet again I’m struck by how true all of this seems, it seems almost more true than what is actually true, more real than what is actually real.
“I feel so stupid,” Egil says. “I feel so fucking gullible and so … ridiculous!” he says. “Here I was, thinking that everything was okay,” he says. “Christ, and all the time you’ve been …” and he breaks off, looks at me again and pauses with his eyes fixed on mine. “Who is it?” he says and his voice is suddenly deeper than usual, and it strikes me as very apt that his voice should be slightly deeper than usual, and it strikes me that this seems more and more real. “No,” I say. “I’m not going to say who it is,” I say.
There’s silence again and Egil looks at the floor and the moments pass, then he suddenly looks up and gazes at me, his eyes wide and intent. “It’s Trond,” he whispers and I hear what he says and I realize how surprised I am when he says it. “It’s fucking Trond,” Egil says, and more moments pass, and we stare at one another, there’s total silence and I’m just sitting here staring at him and the longer I sit like this the more convinced he’ll become that it’s Trond. And I picture to myself that it’s Trond I’ve been having an affair with and it strikes me as very apt, assigning this role to Trond, and the moments pass, and I feel my heart pounding and I feel my pulse pounding and I just sit here.
“For fuck’s sake, Silje,” Egil says, staring at me in shock. “Have you been cheating on me with my own brother?” he cries. He stares at me, looking more and more shocked, and now he’s utterly convinced that I’ve been cheating on him with Trond, and I just sit here, I make no effort to deny what he’s saying, it could have been Trond I’d been unfaithful with and it’s so appallingly apt that he should believe Trond’s the one I’m having an affair with. “For fuck’s sake,” Egil says, then he looks at the floor again, runs his fingers through his hair again and I just sit there staring at him, and I realize how powerful this is, it feels as though we’ve hurled ourselves into some sort of force field, and I feel the power coursing through me, life courses through me.
“Now I see why you’re always so nice to him,” Egil says, “and why you’re always so keen to stand up for him,” he says, and I hear what he’s saying and yet again I’m struck by how true this seems, how all the pieces seem to fit and how much more real this is than what is actually real. “So that’s why we never get to meet his new lady friend,” Egil says. “It’s you he’s … All that about the waitress is just a pack of lies,” he says, and he looks me in the eye and he pauses. “How long has it been going on?” he asks. “Not very long, a few months.” It just slips out. “And how many people know about it?” he asks. “Not very many,” I say. “Not very many?” he says, raging now. “In other words, more than just the two of you,” he says, glaring at me, and I hold his gaze and a moment passes, then he lowers his eyes. “It’s so … it’s so humiliating,” he says, sounding distraught now. “Okay, so who else knows about it?” he asks. “Do any of my friends know about it?” he asks. “Don’t ask me that, Egil,” I say, and I picture myself as I say it, picture how my face takes on a slightly agonized look and I can almost feel the pain which this agonized face reflects. “It doesn’t really matter,” I say. “It fucking well does matter,” Egil cries. “It matters to me because I’d like to know which of my friends I can trust,” he says. “None of your friends know about it,” I say. “Oh, don’t give me that, dammit,” he says. “If none of them knew anything about it you would have said so as soon as I asked,” he says, staring at me, and he waits and I look at him, saying nothing, then I look at the floor.
“They know, they all know,” he says softly, then he pauses. “I can tell by your face,” he says, raising his voice slightly, then he pauses again and I just stand there saying nothing, and the longer I stand like this, the more convinced he’ll become that he’s right, and I just stand there. “Fuck’s sake, Silje, I’m all alone now because of you, do you realize that?” he says and I look up at him and he looks at me and then he turns away and the moments pass and then all of a sudden he starts to laugh. “Oh, this is so funny,” he says and he laughs in a way I’ve never heard him laugh before. “This is so bloody funny,” he says. “So that’s why Trond has been drinking so much lately. God, I’ve been so blind,” he says, and I hear what he’s saying and yet again I’m struck by how well he gets the pieces to fit, how true it all seems, truer than the actual truth.
“And what do you intend to do now?” he says.
He’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor, and he gives a faint shake of his head and a moment passes. “What do I intend to do?” I say. “Well, it was you who fucking started this,” he cries. “Well, I can’t be the only one to blame for our marriage going so badly wrong that it’s come to this, can I?” I say. “You’ve got some fucking nerve,” Egil yells and I flinch when he yells and he straightens up and glares at me. “Not only do you cheat on me with my own brother,” he cries. “And not only am I just about the last one to know about it,” he says, “but now you’re blaming me for it.” “No, I’m not,” I cry. “I’m saying that it happened because of the way our marriage has turned out, and I think we’re both equally to blame for that,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying and I’m struck by how well I’m arguing my case. “Bullshit!” Egil snarls at me. “This is your fault and yours alone, this has all come about simply because I couldn’t live up to the ridiculous standards you set for how a man’s supposed to behave when it comes to love and romance,” he says. “You’re living in a bloody romcom and since I haven’t been able to comply with your demands you’ve gone and thrown yourself at that idiot brother of mine,” he says. “There,” he says, “in that hopeless dreamer you’ve found someone who can satisfy your ludicrous romantic yearnings,” he says, then he pauses, gives a bitter laugh. “But when it starts to become routine it’ll start all over again,” he says. “And you’ll go looking for somebody new,” he says, grinning fiercely at me. “Just you wait,” he says triumphantly, “just you wait, you’ll see I’m right,” he says.
“There you go again,” I cry, “putting yourself above reproach,” I cry. “Stop saying that, dammit,” he yells at me. “It makes me sick to hear you quoting that moron brother of mine.” “Well, you do it,” I yell back and the fury erupts inside me. “If I’m having an affair with another man it can’t possibly be because of what’s happened to us, can it?” I roar. “Oh no, it’s because I’m not living in the real world.” I pause and I glare at him and my eyes feel as though they’re growing too big for their sockets. “How far are you actually prepared to go to maintain the illusion that you’re perfect?” I roar. “The real world is too dull for me, so I have to take a lover who can bolster my faith in a romantic fantasy world.” I hear what I’m saying and I hear how true it is, what I’m saying, how right I am. “What a load of bloody rubbish!” I roar. “You’re the one who’s living in a fantasy world, Egil. You! You’re living in a fantasy world in which you’re perfect – and anyway, it’s not true!”
There is total silence. “What’s not true?” Egil asks, and he looks straight at me. “I’m not having an affair with Trond or anyone else,” I say and I hear what I’m saying and I realize how surprised I am by what I’m saying, by the fact that I’m giving the show away just like that. “And I never have, either,” I say. “It’s not true,” I say, and I look at him and I try to smile an airy indifferent smile. “Huh?” Egil says, and he stands there with his mouth half open, staring at me, his eyes round and intent. “It’s not true,” I say. “I lied,” I say, then I let out a high, rippling laugh and the moments pass and Egil just stands there gazing at me in astonishment. “Oh, come on,” he says. “Do you think you can get out of it that easily?” he says, but I can tell by his face that he doesn’t quite know what to make of me. “It’s true,” I say. “I lied,” I say and I smile that airy, indifferent smile.
“But,” he says, then he pauses. Then: “Why did you lie to me?” he asks. “I don’t know,” I say and I give a little shrug and I give that high laugh again, but my laughter is too bright, my laughter is too shrill and something suddenly breaks loose inside me, something large and heavy breaks loose and I can’t stop it, and Egil is eyeing me gravely and I look a little to one side of Egil and try to keep smiling that airy, indifferent smile.
“Silje, what is it? What’s the matter?” Egil asks, and I hear the creak as he gets up from the wicker chair. “You’ve got me really worried now,” he says, and I hear him walking towards me and I look to the side and try to keep smiling that airy, indifferent smile, but I can’t, this big, heavy thing breaks loose inside me and it falls through me, it falls and falls and I feel my head start to spin. “Is it true; were you lying?” he asks. “Yes,” I say briskly, trying to sound bright and cheerful, but it’s no use, it comes out as nothing but a forlorn little gasp, and now Egil walks up to me and now I feel his hand on my shoulder and I can tell that he means to draw me to him and comfort me, and a moment passes, then I brush his hand off my shoulder.
“Silje,” he says gravely. “I really hate ending up like this,” I say, and everything slides and falls inside me and my head is spinning faster and faster and my eyes flick back and forth. “I really hate it,” I say. “Ending up like what?” he says. “All overemotional and unhinged,” I say. “A hysterical female, or the standard image of a hysterical female,” I say, and a moment passes. “But I’m not,” I scream. “I’m not a hysterical female,” I scream. “And yet I always end up seeming like one,” I say, and a moment passes, and now I feel the tears welling up. “And now I’m going to start crying, too,” I say and the sobs roll through me and this great heavy weight falls through me. “Oh, shit!” I gasp and then there’s silence and I feel Egil’s hand on my shoulder again.
“Silje,” he says. “No,” I scream at him, and he jumps when I scream, and I brush his hand off my shoulder again. “Don’t touch me!” I scream. “Silje,” he says. “Just don’t touch me,” I say. “I don’t understand … I feel so confused,” he says. “You make me feel so confused, Silje. I want to help you, because I know you’re having a hard time of it,” he says, and he looks at me, his eyes wide and intent. “But I don’t want your help,” I cry. “I don’t want to be this hysterical female who goes to pieces and has to be helped and comforted by you,” I say. “I hate that, I hate you and I hate myself and I …” I say, and then I collapse in floods of tears, I double up, put my hands on my knees and gaze at the floor, I shake my head and the tears roll down my cheeks. “I don’t know what to do,” I sob. “I’m so tired, I hardly sleep at all at night now, I just wander around in a permanent daze,” I say.
“Come here,” Egil says, and he takes a step towards me, puts his arms round me. “No,” I scream, and I raise my fists and pound his chest, and I see the look of bewilderment on his face as he staggers back a pace or two. “Would you just listen to me for once?” I scream. “Back off!” I scream, but he doesn’t back off, he comes up to me again and he raises his arms and he puts his arms round me again and I try to push them away and I try to shove him back, but it’s no use, he’s too strong and he holds me tight. “Let me go!” I scream, and I wriggle and squirm. “Let me go!” I scream again, but he won’t let me go. “Silje,” he says. “Calm down! Silje!” he says and he holds me tighter still and I feel his warm breath on my neck and I feel his fingertips digging into my back. “There, there,” he says, and there’s a moment’s silence and then I feel the strength start to drain out of me, this strength I’ve been filled with, this life I’ve been filled with, it seems to seep out of me and I feel myself snuffing out, feel myself withering and dying and I don’t have the strength to keep going and I bury my face in the hollow of Egil’s shoulder and I cry and he strokes my back and I cry and cry and he rocks me gently from side to side.
“I’m sorry, Egil,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying, whatever was talking through me is gone and I can hear myself giving in. “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s okay, Silje,” he says softly. “I don’t mean to be like this,” I say. “I don’t know why I’m like this,” I say. “Why I say things like that to you when they’re not true,” I say. “It’s okay, Silje,” he says, and then there’s silence and I straighten up and I look to the side, I can’t look at Egil right now, so I stare at the cooker. “But I’m hardly ever happy any more,” I say. “And it hurts so much,” I say. “I have everything I could possibly want, but I’m never happy, and I don’t know why,” I say. �
��Sometimes I think I’ve figured it out,” I say, “suddenly I feel I understand, and then … the next minute it’s gone and I’m still none the wiser,” I say and there’s silence again and then all of a sudden I start to cry again, all the fury and strength is gone and I feel that heaviness inside me again. “I’m hardly ever happy any more, Egil,” I sob. “And that’s hard on you and the kids,” I say. “They’re suffering because of me,” I say. “I can tell … and that makes it even harder,” I say, and I cry and cry, and Egil’s hand strokes and strokes my back. “Oh, Silje,” Egil says, and he hugs me tight. “You mean the world to me and the girls,” he says. “Oh,” I say, wiping the tears from my cheeks, “don’t say things like that, Egil,” I say. “It took me just days to get over Mum’s death, and I don’t think my kids would need much more than that to get over me,” I say and I hear what I’m saying and I realize how much it hurts to hear what I’m saying, and I realize how empty and heavy and tired I am. “Nor would you, come to that,” I say, it just slips out. “What are you saying?” he asks, and a moment passes, and I give a big sigh and wipe away the tears. “I don’t know,” I say. “I just don’t know any more,” I say, and the moments pass and there is total silence. “I love you,” Egil says, and the moments pass and I sigh. “I love you, too,” I say.
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