To Mother Karen’s despair, they gradually gave up the search.
A month later, an old pauper came to the estate and insisted that the body lay in Veslekulpen, a small backwater some distance below the rapids. Jacob lay crooked around a rock. Stiff as a rod. Battered and bloated, the old fellow said.
He proved to be right.
The water level had evidently subsided when the autumn rains ended. And one clear day in early December, the unfortunate body of Jacob Gronelv appeared. Right before the eyes of the old pauper, who was on his way across the mountain.
Afterward, people said the pauper was clairvoyant. And, in fact, always had been. This is why he had a quiet old age. Nobody wanted to quarrel with a clairvoyant.
Dina sat in her bedroom, the largest room on the second floor. With the curtains drawn. At first she did not even go to the stable to see her horse.
They left her in peace.
Mother Karen stopped crying, simply because she no longer had time for that. She had to assume the duties that the master and his wife had neglected. Both were dead, each in his or her own way.
Dina sat at the walnut table, staring. No one knew what else she did. Because she confided in no one. The sheets of music that had been piled around the bed were now stuffed away in the clothes closet. Her long dresses swept over them in the draft when she opened the door.
The shadows were deep in the bedroom. A cello stood in one corner, gathering dust. It had remained untouched since the day Jacob was carried from the house and laid on the sleigh.
The solid canopy bed with sumptuous bed curtains occupied much of the room. It was so high that one could lie on the pillows and look out through the windows at the sound. Or one could look at oneself in the large mirror with a black lacquered frame that could be tilted to different angles.
The big round stove roared all day. Behind a triple-paneled folding screen with an embroidered motif of beautiful Leda and the swan in an erotic embrace. Wings and arms. And Leda’s long, blond hair spread virtuously over her lap.
A servant girl, Thea, brought wood four times a day. Even so, the supply barely lasted through the night.
No one knew when Dina slept, or if she slept. She paced back and forth in heavy shoes with metal-tipped heels, day and night. From wall to wall. Keeping the whole house awake.
Thea could report that the large family Bible, which Dina had inherited from her mother, always lay open.
Now and then the young wife laughed softly. It was an unpleasant sound. Thea did not know whether her mistress was laughing about the holy text or if she was thinking about something else.
Sometimes she angrily slammed together the thin-as-silk pages and threw the book away like entrails from a dead fish.
Jacob was not buried until seven days after he was found. In the middle of December. There were so many arrangements to be made. So many people had to be notified. Relatives, friends, and prominent people had to be invited to the funeral The weather stayed cold, so the battered and swollen corpse could easily remain in the barn during that time. Digging the grave, however, required the use of sledgehammers and pickaxes.
The moon peered through the barn’s tiny windows and observed Jacob’s fate with its golden eye. Made no distinction between living and dead. Decorated the barn floor in silver and white. And nearby lay the hay, offering warmth and nourishment, smelling fragrantly of summer and splendor.
One morning before dawn, they dressed for the funeral The boats were ready. Silence lay over the house like a strange piety. The moon was shining. No one waited for daylight at that time of year.
Dina leaned against the windowsill, as if steeling herself, when they entered her room to help her dress in the black clothes that had been sewn for the funeral She had refused to try them on.
She seemed to be standing there sensing each muscle and each thought. The somber, teary-eyed women did not see a single movement in her body.
Still, they did not give up at once. She had to change her clothes. She had to be part of the funeral procession. Anything else was unthinkable. But finally, they did think that thought. For with her guttural, animal-like sounds, she convinced everyone that she was not ready to be the widow at a funeral. At least not this particular day.
Terrified, the women fled the room. One after another. Mother Karen was the last to leave. She gave excuses and soothing explanations. To the aunts, the wives, the other women, and, not least of all, to Dina’s father, the sheriff.
He was the hardest to convince. Bellowing loudly, he burst into Dina’s room without knocking. Shook her and commanded her, slapped her cheeks with fatherly firmness while his words swarmed around her like angry bees.
Mother Karen had to leave. The few who remained kept their eyes lowered.
Then Dina let out the bestial sounds again. While she flailed her arms and tore her hair. The room was charged with something they did not understand. There was an aura of madness and power surrounding the young, half-dressed woman with disheveled hair and crazed eyes.
Her screams reminded the sheriff of an event he carried with him always. Day and night. In his dreams and in his daily tasks. An event that still, after thirteen years, could make him wander restlessly around the estate. Looking for someone, or something, that could unburden him of his thoughts and feelings.
The people in the room thought Dina Gronelv had a harsh father. But on the other hand, it was not right that such a young women refused to do what was expected of her.
She tired them out. People decided she was too sick to attend her husband’s funeral. Mother Karen explained, loudly and clearly, to everyone she met:
“Dina is so distraught and ill she can’t stand on her feet. She does nothing but weep. And the terrible thing is, she’s not able to speak.”
First came the muffled shouts from the people who were going in the boats. Then came the scraping of wood against iron as the coffin was loaded onto the longboat with its juniper decorations and its weeping, black-clad women. Then the sounds and voices stiffened over the water like a thin crusting of beach ice. And disappeared between the sea and the mountains. Afterward, silence settled over the estate as though this were the true funeral procession. The house held its breath. Merely let out a small sigh among the rafters now and then. A sad, pitiful final honor to Jacob.
The pink waxed-paper carnations fluttered amid the pine and juniper boughs across the sound in a light breeze. There was no point in traveling quickly with such a burden. Death and its detached supporting cast took their time. It was not Blackie who pulled them. And it was not Dina who set the pace. The coffin was heavy. Those who bore it felt the weight. This was the only way to the church with such a burden.
Now five pairs of oars creaked in the oarlocks. The sail flapped idly against the mast, refusing to unfurl. There was no sun. Gray clouds drifted across the sky. The raw air gradually became still.
The boats followed one another. A triumphal procession for Jacob Gronelv. Masts and oars pointed toward ocean and heaven. The ribbons on the wreaths fluttered calmly. They had only a short time to be seen.
Mother Karen was a yellowed rag. Edged with lace, it is true.
The servant girls were wet balls of wool in the wind.
The men rowed, sweating behind their beards and mustaches. Rowing in rhythm.
At Reinsnes everything was prepared. The sandwiches were arranged on large platters. On the cellar floor and on shelves in the large entry were pewter plates filled with cookies and covered by cloths.
Under Oline’s exacting supervision, the glasses had been rubbed to a glistening shine. Now the cups and glasses were arranged neatly in rows on the tables and in the pantry, protected by white linen towels bearing the monograms of Ingeborg Gronelv and Dina Gronelv. They had to use the linen belonging to both of Jacob’s wives today. Many guests were expected after the burial.
Dina stoked the fire like a madwoman, although there was not even frost on the windows. Her face, which had been gray that mor
ning, began slowly to regain its color.
She paced restlessly back and forth across the floor with a little smile on her lips. When the clock struck, she raised her head like an animal listening for enemies.
Tomas let the armload of wood drop into the wrought-iron basket with as little sound as possible. Then he took off his cap and clenched it between his strong hands. Embarrassed beyond all belief, because he was in the master bedroom, the room with the canopy bed and the cello, where Dina slept.
“Mother Karen sent me because I’m to stay at Reinsnes when the servants and everybody take Jacob to the churchyard,” he managed to stammer.
“I’m to give Dina a hand. If she needs it,” he added.
Tomas did not tell her, if he knew, that the sheriff and Mother Karen had agreed it was best to have a strong fellow there who could prevent Dina from harming herself while everyone was away.
She stood by the window with her back to him and did not even turn around.
The moon was a small pale ghost. A deformed fetus of a day tried in vain to break out to the north and west. But the windows’ surfaces remained dark.
The boy took his cap and left. Realized he was not wanted.
However, when the funeral procession was far out on the sound, Tomas came to the room again. With a pitcher of fresh water. Would she like some? When she did not say thank you or give any indication that she saw him, he set the pitcher on the table by the door and turned toward her.
“You don’t want help from me on the day of the funeral?” he asked in a low voice.
At that, she seemed to awaken. She went toward him quickly. Stood close to him. Half a head taller.
Then she lifted her hand and let her long fingers glide over his face. Like a blind person trying to see with her fingertips.
He felt as if he were being strangled. Because he forgot to breathe. So close! At first he did not understand what she wanted. Standing beside him exuding her fragrance. Tracing the lines in his face with her forefinger.
He slowly turned crimson. And found it impossible to look at her. He knew her eyes were waiting. Suddenly he took courage and looked straight at her.
She nodded and looked at him questioningly.
He nodded in return. Simply to have nodded. He wanted to leave.
Then she smiled and came even closer. Used the index and third fingers of her left hand to open his worn vest.
He retreated two steps toward the stove. And did not know how he would escape before he got strangled or burned, or disappeared from the face of the earth.
She stood for a moment, sniffing his stable odor. Her nostrils were everywhere. They vibrated!
Then he nodded again. In utter confusion.
It was unbearable. Time stood still. He leaned over abruptly, opened the door of the stove, and threw a chunk of wood into the flames. Then he added three damp, sputtering birch logs. To stand up and meet her gaze again was a test of manhood.
All at once her mouth was on his. Her arms were stubborn willow branches filled with spring sap. Her aroma was so powerful that he had to close his eyes.
He could never have imagined it. Not in his wildest fantasies under his worn wool blanket in the servants’ quarters. So he stood there, and all he could do was let it happen!
The colors of the embroidery on her dressing gown, the yellow walls with a vinelike design, the beamed ceiling, the deep-red drapes — they all fluttered into each other. Material merged with material. Limbs with limbs. Movements, furniture, air, skin.
He stood outside himself. And yet was inside. The smell and sound of bodies moving heavily. And deep, two-part breathing.
She put her hands on his chest and undid his buttons. Then she drew off his clothing. One piece after another. As if she had done it a thousand times.
He stood hunched forward, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. As if ashamed that his underclothes were not completely clean and his shirt was missing three buttons. Actually, he did not know where he was, where he was standing, or how he was behaving.
She kissed the naked boy, opened her dressing gown, and let him in to her large, firm body.
It made him warm and brave. He felt the sparks from her skin as a physical pain. His skin tingled against hers, created a picture of her. He stood with closed eyes and saw each curve, each pore on her white body, until he went out of his mind completely.
When they were both naked, sitting on the sheepskin in front of the round black stove, he thought she would begin to speak. He was dizzy with embarrassment and desire. The seven lighted candles in the candelabra on the dressing table troubled him like a warning of hell. Their flickering light on the mirror’s surface revealed everything.
She began to explore his body. Quite gently at first. Then wilder and wilder. As if driven by a great hunger.
At first he was simply frightened. He had never seen such intense craving. Finally, he gasped and rolled over on the sheepskin. Let her pour oil on a fire greater than anything he had ever imagined.
In quick flashes he came to his senses again and to his horror felt himself pull her close and do things no one had taught him.
The air was dense with a woman’s body.
His terror was vast as an ocean. But his desire, enormous as the heavens.
At the churchyard, the coffin decorated with wax flowers was lowered into the grave. Containing the earthly remains of innkeeper and cargo-boat owner Jacob Gronelv.
The pastor tried to speak words that would allow the deceased to slip easily into paradise and not end up in hell’s fire and brimstone. Yet the pastor knew that even though Jacob had been a good man, he certainly had not lived like a wax flower. Or he would not have met such an end.
Some of the funeral guests stood with their gray jowls drooping in genuine sorrow. Others wondered what kind of weather they would have on the trip home. Still others just stood there. Took in everything half heartedly. Most of them felt bitterly cold.
The pastor pronounced his ritual words and tossed his paltry spadefuls of earth in God’s name. Then it was over.
Behind furrowed, serious faces, the men looked forward to the liqueur. The women, with tear-filled eyes, thought about the sandwiches. The servant girls wept openly. For the man in the coffin had been a loving master to them all
Mother Karen was even more pale and transparent than in the boat. The eyes behind her black fringed shawl were dry as she stood supported by Anders and the sheriff. Each with his hat under his arm.
The hymn had an endless string of verses and was far from beautiful In fact, it was barely endurable, until the deacon joined in with his untrained bass voice. He had a need to save every situation, the deacon.
In the large bedroom, behind drawn curtains, Tomas, the cotter’s son, burned and blazed. In seventh heaven. Yet totally alive.
Moisture from human bodies collected on the windows and mirror. A faint odor clung to the sheepskin on the floor, the seats of the chairs, and the curtains.
The room welcomed Tomas the stableboy. Just as it once had welcomed Jacob Gronelv, when he was hospitably received for the first time by the widow of Reinsnes.
The widow was named Ingeborg. And she died one day when she leaned over to pet her cat. Now she had company where she was.
The bedroom was filled with heavy breathing, skin, and heat. Blood thundered through veins. Pounded against temples. Bodies were horses on broad plains. They galloped and galloped. The woman was already a practiced rider. But he rode to exhaustion after her. The floorboards sang, the beams wept.
The family portraits and drawings swayed slightly in their black oval frames. The linen sheets in the bed felt abandoned and dry as dust. The stove stopped roaring. Just stood in its corner and listened openly, without embarrassment.
Downstairs, sandwiches and glasses stood waiting. For what? For Dina, the mistress of Reinsnes, to come sliding down the banister? Naked, her black hair like a half-opened umbrella above her large fragrant body? Yes!
And follow
ing her — half terrified, half in a dream — a powerful young boy clad in a sheet edged with French lace? Yes!
Tomas ran down the stairs on bare, hairy legs and sturdy toes with very dirty nails. He reeked so powerfully of plowed fields that the demure inside air drew back.
They fetched sandwiches and wine. A large glass and a large carafe. A sandwich stolen here and there from the platters so it would not be noticed. They pretended they did not have permission to eat.
After they helped themselves from the platters, Dina gently rearranged the empty spaces. With long, quick fingers that smelled of salty earth and newly cleaned fish. Then she covered the plates again with the monogrammed cloths.
They stole up to the bedroom again like thieves. Sat down on the sheepskin in front of the stove. Tomas left the stove’s double doors ajar.
Leda and the swan on the folding screen were a weak reflection of these two. The wine sparkled.
Greedily, Dina ate smoked salmon and salted meat. Bread crumbled across her firm breasts and down onto her round stomach.
Tomas realized he was in his mistress’s room. He ate his food politely. But drank in Dina’s body through his eyes, with watering mouth and many sighs.
Their eyes glistened over the same glass. It had a long green stem and had been a wedding present to Ingeborg and her first husband. The glass was not of the highest quality and had many bubbles in it. Bought before wealth entered the house through large cargo boats, dry fish, and powerful connections in Trondheim and Bergen.
Well before the funeral guests were expected to return, the glass and the remaining wine were hidden away, far back in the clothes closet.
Two children, one worried and one wild, had fooled the grownups. Jacob’s Chinese dice game was replaced in its silk-lined box. All traces were obliterated.
At the end, Tomas stood at the door completely clothed, with his hat in his hand. She scribbled some words on the black slate that she always kept close by, let him read them, then carefully erased them with a firm hand.
Dina's Book Page 2