In the Name of Love

by Smith, Patrick

  Only occasionally did something intimate slip in, like the time when he said that Anders had always seemed someone who led his life exactly as he wanted, realizing too late how the remark might sound to her. After a brief silence she ignored it and instead asked him about growing up in Ireland. To cover his embarrassment he answered carefully, trying to be as objective as he could.

  ‘By and large, fairly standard stuff for the time. We were taught the things the children of middle-class parents were taught all over Europe. Emotion must be disciplined, rationality alone gives constancy, civilization means curbing nature’s unpredictability, man’s success depends on imposing his order, his logic on the world around him.’

  ‘It does?’ she said. ‘Goodness.’

  He looked at her dark eyes, the black hair hanging close by her cheeks, and she burst out laughing. She was laughing at him and he found himself relieved she could do it so openly.

  ‘Was it really like that? It sounds like a training programme for – I don’t know. Some sort of übermensch.’

  ‘I think all boarding schools probably are. Training for something or other is almost always going on.’

  ‘Didn’t you like your school?’

  ‘We had some good teachers. And plenty of games. It was very anglophile.’

  ‘In Ireland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did being an anglophile school involve?’

  ‘Rugby in winter. Cricket and tennis in summer. No Irish sports of any kind. There were four hundred of us so we could have our own leagues and divisions. The disadvantage was there was no contact with girls. None.’

  ‘Ah! Now I understand.’

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘Why you’re so hopeless. No, really, you are! You seem so gauche sometimes. Other times you’re full of charm, of course.’

  On the way home, thinking of this, what he remembered was less the words than the special quality of her voice, a little provocative, a little tantalizing, above all, intimate and trusting. He sensed a joy held back in her, a joy that at moments like this bubbled up and might, if let free, transform her and the world around her.

  The first weeks of March were cold and beautiful. The days ran past like an elusive stream. On one Wednesday, an afternoon with sunlight sharp as glass, he waited for her outside her yoga club and suggested they go for a walk instead of going to the konditori. She shook her head.

  ‘You don’t want to?’

  ‘It’s not a question of wanting.’

  ‘You’re worried about what people might think? Is that it?’

  ‘What does it matter what people think?’

  ‘What is it then? There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say.’

  ‘You’re too honest a person to have anything to be afraid of.’

  ‘Honest with who?’ she demanded. ‘I don’t care what people think but I do care about what’s happening to me.’

  She looked at the other pregnant women who were coming out of the yoga class and then looked back at Dan. ‘I wish it would wear off,’ she said. ‘Whatever it is. I wish we could go back to being what we were. Casual friends.’

  Her saying it shocked him. It showed a side of her he hadn’t seen before. It also showed him the stage they had reached without his noticing it.

  ‘Nothing’s happened to change that,’ he said.

  ‘It has. You know it has.’

  They were still standing on the pavement outside the yoga club. Some women passed close by. He waited until they had gone and then he asked her, ‘How?’

  She hesitated and looked away again, down the street after the women. Her hair had blown across her face. For the first time he felt an urge to touch it, move it so that it fell into place. She stared back at him, looked him straight in the eyes. The blood had drained from her cheeks, revealing the bones beneath her skin.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I need that tea.’

  In the konditori he asked her if she had known Anders for long before they married. At first she didn’t answer. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’ she demanded. He waited as the blush crept over her cheeks.

  ‘Six months,’ she said abruptly. ‘We met on Anders’s boat one weekend. There were six of us, three couples.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. He didn’t want her to go on and she knew why. She shrugged. Whatever happened on the boat between her and Anders would likely have happened behind their respective partners’ backs. It wasn’t pretty. But he liked the way she’d looked straight at him when she said it.

  ‘You know, you’re one of the strangest people I’ve ever met,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to make of you.’ She’d thought him so secure at first, she said, like one of the rocks in the middle of the sea out where he lived. ‘That’s the impression you give. But behind it you’re constantly alert aren’t you? I don’t know what for, but you are.’

  She asked him if he had always been like this. He said he didn’t suppose so since no one had ever remarked on it before. She lifted out the teabags from the pot the waitress had brought and poured their tea. ‘Do you have someone out there?’ she asked without looking up.

  ‘You mean a woman?’

  ‘A companion. Someone to be with.’

  ‘No.’

  Out on the street, parting, she looked at him, examining him. ‘Maybe I’d understand myself better if I’d met you before.’

  Before what? he almost asked. Did she mean before she became pregnant? A pulse beat in his head.

  On the way home he found himself thinking of other things they might do together, blameless things which would not harm her in any way, such as taking a thermos of coffee and crossing the long bridge to the little island beyond the Society Park and sitting on one of the beaches there when the sun was out. Or going through the woods around the town, walking on the layers of dead leaves. But in fact they did none of these things. They continued to sit in the same konditori and talked to each other and that, he understood, was what they both wanted, and felt they had a right to.

  But soon a week became a long time to wait. He drove to Norrtälje and walked the streets hoping to run into her. He had lunch in their konditori and then walked around again, looking down every street. By three o’clock he knew it was hopeless. He went back to his car and drove to the house north of the town.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said as soon as she opened the door. ‘I should have telephoned.’

  She said it was all right. She stood to one side to let him in.

  He didn’t want to look at her so he studied the room instead. Dark red wallpaper. Eighteenth-century furniture in the gustaviansk style of the house.

  ‘I really should have telephoned,’ he said again.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘What does it matter?’

  In the room she said she was glad he had come. She had been going to ring him. She wouldn’t be at her yoga class on Wednesday.

  ‘I’m having lunch with Pappa in Stockholm.’

  The news dismayed him. At the same time he saw how ridiculous this was. Did he really begrudge her lunch with her father? Then she said, ‘Would it matter if I were a little late? At Tösse’s?’

  His soul shot up.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Then we can still have tea?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like something to drink now? Coffee? Some­thing stronger?’

  ‘No thanks. Really. I just thought I’d drop in.’

  They sat opposite each other, each on an old carved wooden sofa with its two side cushions, its three back cushions. They talked about the garden which was visible through the French doors, then about the book she’d been reading, Eyvind Johnson’s Några steg mot tystnaden. She didn’t press the conversation. It came or it stopped. She gave no sign that she had other things to do. It struck Dan that her sitting here could merely be the politeness of someone well brought up. Then he realized that she didn’t mind the silences
. To her they seemed natural. It must, of course, have been obvious that he wanted to see her alone, that if he had wanted to see Anders he would have gone to the showroom. She was surely aware of all this. Finally he said, ‘You’re very quiet sometimes.’

  ‘It’s just the way I am. You must be used to it by now.’

  ‘I’m not used to anything about you.’

  She looked at him.

  ‘I think a lot about you,’ he told her, ‘but I can’t get used to any of it.’

  ‘No, don’t say that. Please.’

  ‘But it’s true,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing to be afraid of,’ he added, ‘it’s just that I like your presence, that’s all. I like to hear your voice.’

  ‘You shouldn’t,’ she said. ‘Please.’ Seconds passed. A minute. He heard her breathe. She closed her eyes. When he drew back in his seat she took a deeper breath and looked at him again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, although he did not know what he was sorry for. He asked if he might phone her occasionally here at the house. She said, ‘Of course. What did you think? Call me any time. Call me tomorrow. I’m here all day. Let it ring, I may be out working in the garden.’

  But he didn’t. He sensed that if he started to call her, if they started to have the sort of conversation that one has on the phone in circumstances like theirs, it would end up causing trouble for her.

  The following Wednesday, when she was due to drive into Stockholm, it snowed all day. As the time passed waiting for her in Tösse’s Dan began to worry. Finally she came. She said she was double parked outside. Her face was flushed, her hair was all over the place.

  ‘We’d better get out of here,’ she said. Her voice sounded hard.

  When they were sitting in the car a horn from a car blocked behind her blew gently, just a tap.

  ‘Oh shut up!’ she muttered as she put the car in gear.

  They drove down the main street towards the park and the water, then turned off on the road out of town. He asked her where they were going. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Anywhere.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep last night,’ she said. ‘Not a wink. Pappa noticed at once. He asked if I was all right and I couldn’t answer him. He knows something is up.’

  She kept her hands high on the wheel where her fingers could move, which they did, continuously, restlessly.

  ‘What’s wrong,’ he asked her. ‘Why are you so irritable?’

  ‘I’m not irritable!’

  ‘Yes you are.’

  ‘I’m tired. That’s all. It doesn’t matter.’

  When they came to a crossing she said, ‘Which direction?’

  ‘Am I to decide?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To the right.’

  But suddenly she pulled over and stopped on a broad patch of earth before a dirt lane leading in among the trees. She sat quite still with her hands on the steering wheel and looked out through the windshield. There was nothing to see but reddening snow all the way down to the water. The low March sun made mauve the shadow of each birch trunk.

  ‘Do you want to walk a bit?’ she asked.

  ‘Is that what you want to do?’

  ‘I want us to talk to each other.’

  ‘Let’s talk then.’

  But for a long time she remained silent. She made no move to leave the car. When she lowered the window a little, enough to let in the cold air, noises came from the frozen bushes in the ditch beside them, small noises from rustling animals, maybe birds.

  ‘You didn’t call,’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I waited. I waited all day.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought it best not to.’

  Again she was silent. Then she took a breath. ‘In my situation, there’s nothing I can say that would be right, is there?’

  She laughed in a brusque unnatural way and closed the window. He saw the blood creep up into her cheeks.

  ‘Was it because of Anders you didn’t ring?’

  He looked at her in surprise. Before he could answer she said, ‘I think it’s the first time in my life I’ve lain awake all night.’

  She made a hole in the mist on the side window with the edge of her hand and stared out at the meadow that led down to the sea. He could smell her warm skin. After a while she pressed her fingers against the glass. Her fingertips flattened as though she was trying to press out the window. They sat in a silence loaded with the unspoken.

  Madeleine turned towards him. Her eyes moved quickly over his face. Her hands clasped the steering wheel again and he saw that her knuckles were white. He couldn’t hear her heart, but he sensed its insistent beat. He had no idea what to say.

  Two gulls had begun to clip around the car, searching for scraps. One of them swerved to chase off another bird, a plump lead-coloured seabird he recognized but couldn’t recall the name of. Madeleine turned away from him again, back towards the side-window, and he knew it was because she didn’t want him to see the tears in her eyes.

  ‘You and I,’ she said.

  When she did not add anything he said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t know where we are with each other.’

  He understood now what she meant but he had no answer to give, or none that would have satisfied her. The hunted bird’s white rump flashed in front of the windscreen as it sheered away. From the sea came the crunch of broken ice and waves on the stones of the shore. Madeleine took a deep breath, let it out unevenly. He looked at her face with its scarcely discernible violet shadows under the eyes. What was he to say? He wanted to protect her from harm, from hurt of any kind. He was deeply fond of her, already she was a close friend. He knew she had hoped for more.

  She started the car. The discussion was closed.

  7

  The afternoon Madeleine Roos drove out to the island was his fiftieth birthday. She said she had had to ask twice for directions. She held out a small package. ‘From us both,’ she said. He opened it. A book of Tomas Tranströmer’s poems. Det vilda torget. When he had thanked her he asked, ‘Why didn’t you ring? I might not have been at home.’

  ‘I didn’t want to ring.’

  She smiled and rose on her toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  ‘Happy birthday.’

  They walked along the coast. A day of early spring sun­shine, calm, the light still pale. South of Österbåts the wind rose. They heard the ropes smack and drum against the flagless poles in front of the summer houses. Down by Förängen the sea began to roar outside the bay. The waves reared up out of the massive water and the crests came flying in to deposit creamy edges at their feet. They climbed out on the rocks, swaying to keep their balance, pulling quickly back with shouts of laughter when an especially big wave threatened to submerge their winter boots.

  Soon their eyes grew so wet from the wind they could no longer see and they decided to cross over to the lee side of the island. The storm wasn’t as relentless there, it came in lashes, then dropped again. Smoke leaked out of local people’s chimneys before it disappeared in jerks. They could talk.

  Passing the churchyard she said Anders had mentioned that his wife was buried on the island. ‘Is her grave in there?’

  ‘Yes. There’s nowhere else one can be buried here.’

  He showed her the old wind-dried bench on the church landing stage where the boats used to put in when people came from neighbouring islands to attend Sunday service. The bench had a beautiful patina, a silvery grey surface soft and rough as cigar ash. They sat on it a while. A forgotten flag gave a series of brisk little slaps before the wind caught it again and stretched it full out. She pushed her fists deep into the side pockets of her suede coat. A gesture he had grown fond of. Her stomach pressed clearly against the fabric. He asked her how much time was left. Five months? Six?

  ‘Are you looking forward to it?’ he asked spontaneously and found his question strange as soon as he said it.

  She flinched, then got to her feet. He too stood and saw her dark pupils float in liqui
d. He touched her arm but she moved away. As they walked home her coat was pulled tight down by her balled fists in the pockets.

  Sitting in the kitchen they talked more frankly than they had before, as though his question had forced open something in her. She told him that Anders wanted to know the sex of the child but she didn’t.

  ‘I don’t want to know if it’s a girl or a boy. I just don’t.’

  She was close to crying again, and he took her hand. Her nails dug into his palm.

  ‘You want it to be a surprise?’

  ‘A surprise? No! Oh, I don’t want to go on about it,’ she said. Once more the tears began to slide down her cheeks. She brushed them off with the fingers of her free hand, first one cheek, then the other, and looked away a moment to steady her voice.

  She asked him about Carlos, about his plans and his ambitions. Dan said Carlos now wanted to be a criminal defence lawyer in New York. ‘He claims there are so many crooks around it’s an assured living.’ Madeleine smiled. At that moment it seemed as if her smile would be enough. Without any need for anything more. Ever.

  They were still holding hands when she took hers away, gently, and looked out the window as though something was happening out there. But nothing was. There was just the darkening sky and the black-veined skeletons of the fruit trees and the two snow-capped rhododendron bushes, the same as before. She looked back at him. ‘You wouldn’t be betraying her,’ she said. ‘It’s surely what she’d have wanted for you.’

  He felt his shoulders stiffen, a reaction he at once disliked.

  ‘It’s not like that,’ he told her.

  ‘No? What is it like?’ she asked softly.

  ‘I know she’s dead. I know she’s gone for good. I’m sick of thinking about it but I’m sick of trying to think about the future too, as though there were any future worth having.’

  ‘We all need to tell ourselves a few white lies now and then. Is that so bad? It’s part of being able to live, isn’t it?’

  She stared at him briefly. She brushed her hair back, exposing her face.