The Bridges

by Tarjei Vesaas

  Play with leaves that scarcely touch the surface, floating on gliding walls of water, above the blind, hidden river bottom.

  The bottom wells up to the crust at night.

  That’s not true.

  The dark bottom. No one knows anything about it for certain, because no one can tell what is moving at any time. Moving and changing and gliding onwards.

  In this stretch it never wells up.

  There are limpid reaches further up river where the light penetrates, where bleaching, semi-buoyant, half-objects float around in curves and eddies of which the surface gives no warning.

  Here there are cellars for all weights. The object that glides out on its journey may suddenly be left lying among all the other things that never came any further, lying in such a way that the powerful drift cannot suck it up. The slime follows, smoothing it out so that no grave shows, nothing gives it away.

  In God’s name, let that happen so there’ll be no question of its floating and floating.

  Don’t ever bathe there again!

  Don’t ever, ever drown there.

  The flow against the bridge. The piers further down. They are like blunt axes turned towards noiseless moving walls of water; like black stone axes towards a mysterious current, a current from further than far, which takes more than it gives.

  At last the light leaf has glided past as in a silent dream, and is on its way towards all that can happen on a great waterway. No eye can know what may have passed the axes on the river bottom.

  The axes cleave the current through many greying years. They tell you nothing of what is happening down there. But the blunt old axes are pleasing to the eye—and you glance at them now in this fleet lightning that flares above the waterway, among troublesome images—in the shocked silence after what has been told. Above the water the axes stand immovably, cleaving the river wind.

  How long will it pursue her? As long as she lives. She sees what we do, and then more.

  It will pursue us too for the rest of our lives. The lightning showed us that.

  The waterway on the move through the woods, through the meadows, beneath the bridges, with its hidden burden of unhappiness and degradation.

  What does it all mean?

  We’re being licked by the dog.

  It’s not true! We’re simply down in a hollow at the moment. The river flows magnificently, taking away everything that is put into it and is meant to be taken. There is a grave for such things. If all goes well, you put your burden into it and are freed.

  16

  In a Huddle of Youngsters

  Strangeness all around.

  Why did I come into the middle? Now I can’t move if I want to.

  If I move I’ll touch them. These two.

  Torvil who I know inside and out. Torvil who I want, who I want to go to.

  And you who know nothing about us.

  What is happening deep down inside you, Torvil? If I move I may find hands clutching me. Someone is breathing close to my ear. Everything is so close. Their warmth penetrates me.

  I saw it as soon as you turned up this evening—before that dangerous attraction of yours disappeared with the light.

  What is it you have? I don’t know—you simply have it.

  How much does Torvil know? I can hear him breathing. At this moment nothing is so certain or so simple that it can be explained. One can’t even ask why.

  Intense, constricted, abrupt. Hands at rest. Hands that reached up from an open chasm, with demands and enticement—and without any kind of explanation.

  I can find nothing to say. The warmth from both sides is strange, and bewitching. There is no safety in this warmth, only perversion.

  17

  From a Cellar of Need

  The vision of the river came abruptly. A picture that burnt up at once—as a straw flares up and turns black. The great waterway was gone again.

  The huddle of youngsters had hold of one another, but their grip had loosened. They knew it, they felt it: after this account, there could be no more today. Nobody had the strength to take it further, whatever might have to be taken further. Now it is out in the open.

  The burden has acquired form.

  What is she thinking, from her cellar of need?

  They had no idea, but it fascinated them. They had seen her when it was still light. Now she was hidden.

  When they came from those safe living-rooms.

  They had never experienced anything like this before. They could do nothing but guess about this stranger.

  She stood up straight. At once they tensed, wondering what she would do.

  She said to Torvil, who she could not see but whose hand she still held, not caring that Aud noticed: ‘Is your name Torvil?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When can I see you again?’

  He did not answer as promptly as she must have wanted him to. She could not wait, and turned to Aud, who was still silent.

  ‘What about you then? Aren’t you going to answer either?’

  ‘Of course I’m going to answer,’ interrupted Torvil.

  ‘Whenever you like,’ said Aud, jerked out of her paralysis.

  ‘Yes, of course. Whenever you like,’ said Torvil, almost ashamedly happy as he held her trembling hand.

  She did not say a brief ‘Thank you,’ and make the whole thing casual—instead she complicated the issue.

  ‘I hope you understand why we have to meet, again and again, now you’re mixed up in it, I mean. I feel it’s terribly important for me to be with you. You feel you’ve started on something, surely?’

  Difficult statements to accept when you felt so immature.

  ‘Yes ...’ they answered vaguely, embarrassed.

  She took it the wrong way and winced.

  ‘Haven’t I understood you?’

  It seemed to come from rock bottom. It reminded them of how she must be feeling.

  Aud said, ‘What do you mean? Of course you’ve understood.’

  ‘If you want to we can come here again tomorrow,’ said Torvil quickly. ‘But in the daytime,’ he added.

  Aud could not see his face. But she could not keep it back. ‘In the daytime?’

  ‘Yes. The darkness is confusing.’

  The strange girl did not utter a sound. Aud offered an explanation.

  ‘We’re just hanging around for a few days before school starts. So you can choose whichever day suits you.’ Aud spoke dully.

  ‘Not tomorrow,’ said the stranger. ‘I must have a day to collect myself—because all this is so different from what I had expected. But the next day? I’d very much like to meet you the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘And it’s not just me,’ she went on. ‘You need time to think, too, I expect. That’s just as important.’

  They listened. She added, ‘It’s no good thinking only at night. Everything gets turned upside down then.’

  They gave invisible nods in the darkness.

  After a pause she said, ‘Aren’t we going to have names? I’m called Valborg, but that’s all.’

  ‘And this is Aud,’ said Torvil hastily before Aud could get a word in herself.

  Valborg, he repeated to himself, trying it out.

  ‘So we know each other’s names,’ said Aud. ‘Do you live anywhere near here?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘Yes. I came back and found a room in a hotel not far away. So that’s all right. I have a bicycle too. I left it down by the road.’ They were all standing upright now. It felt empty and cold to be standing alone.

  ‘And you can come the day after tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, but we must agree on the time,’ replied Aud.

  ‘In the daytime,’ said Torvil. ‘I want to see you,’ he said boldly. You could talk like that when you saw nothing.

  ‘Oh, I expect you do,’ she said, in a way that made him ashamed of himself. ‘It was the darkness that helped me to tell you about it. That’s why I asked if I could meet you in the evenin
g.’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘But it’s true we can’t stay in the dark all the time, so I don’t mind. Will ten o’clock in the morning suit you?’ Aud nudged Torvil. There was a slight edge to Valborg’s voice. Was she offended? He had no idea what she might be feeling.

  He said quickly, ‘Ten o’clock suits me fine.’

  ‘And here?’

  ‘Yes. We can’t very well decide on any other place when you’re a stranger here,’ answered Torvil.

  She cleared her throat for the final leave-taking.

  It was simple.

  ‘Thank you for coming. Good night.’

  ‘Good night, Valborg.’

  A crackling underfoot. They had moved a few paces and were trampling on the twigs. A wave of emotion flooded through them. They groped their way through the twigs, afraid of stumbling over the stones as well.

  18

  Aud and Torvil

  Aud and Torvil did not walk any faster once they had left the dangerous spot. They did not run; they were filled with a new feeling. Something remained of the curious fascination they had felt while sitting together, united in the darkness. Despite the terrible things she had told them, they felt drawn towards this young, unhappy person. Strange desires took form.

  Torvil noticed something. ‘Aud, we’re holding hands.’

  ‘Yes, Torvil.’

  ‘Why?’

  She came closer.

  ‘What is it, Aud?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘It’s something special, I can tell.’

  She did not tell him, and he did not press her further.

  ‘Torvil, why are you dawdling so? We must go home.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. It seems like a different world.’

  ‘Don’t you remember what you called it when we left this evening?’

  ‘That wasn’t particularly original.’

  They started walking again. But after a while they stopped to listen. They stopped at the same time. They were listening for something they knew they would not hear: Valborg’s wild grieving.

  They were listening for something that was on nobody’s tongue, but was very real that evening. It was ringing in their ears. Valborg’s grieving in the night-dark wood was loud at that moment.

  ‘What are you listening for?’

  ‘You’re listening yourself.’

  ‘Yes, of course I am.’

  ‘Why on earth should we?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s at all strange, Torvil.’

  They moved on. Torvil asked, out of his own desires, ‘Do you want to talk about her, Aud?’

  ‘Not tonight. I can’t tonight.’

  They walked further.

  And yet—Aud said suddenly, her hand still in his, ‘You had to look at her. There was something odd about her. Perhaps not really, but you imagined there was.’

  ‘Did you think so too?’

  ‘Yes, I saw what you thought.’

  ‘Mm.’

  His head was too full of pictures. He answered a little unwillingly.

  ‘Wasn’t it you who didn’t want to talk about her?’

  ‘That’s right, Torvil.’

  She still had a firm hold of his hand. Now they could see the lights from the houses where nothing intruded to destroy their peace and composure.

  ‘It’s not cold this evening,’ said Torvil.

  ‘No, it’s beautiful. What of it?’

  ‘Do you think she has found a hotel?’

  Aud was brought up short.

  ‘Of course she’s found a hotel! You don’t think she’d use that sleeping-bag, surely? She doesn’t need to hide from anyone. Nobody’s after her. And you heard her say she had money. And there’s nothing that shows.’

  ‘All very true.’

  ‘We could have asked her to come home with us, as far as that goes,’ said Aud.

  ‘She’d never have agreed. We couldn’t have done it either. They’d have been much too surprised. They’d probably have noticed something, too, and then everything might have gone wrong.’

  Gone wrong. A horrible alternative presented itself, an unpleasant glimpse of what might have happened. And might it have happened in their homes? Aud was still so terrified of such an outcome that she gave way once more to despair. She leaned her forehead against Torvil.

  ‘But Aud?’

  Her body was trembling.

  ‘But my dear—’

  ‘I’ve just realized that we can’t do anything for Valborg, that’s all. We’ve started on something we shall never finish, and we have no idea what it is.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, can you tell me what we’re to do? I’m only just beginning to realize.’

  ‘We can be with her, you heard that. She can talk to us.’

  ‘Talk to us!’

  ‘It’s no different now from that evening when you stopped me. Yes, perhaps it is—then we had no idea who it was.’

  ‘Exactly, Torvil. Oh, it seemed so easy then. All we had to do was to rush ahead and do something about it and not think.’

  ‘And now you consider everything’s different?’

  ‘Of course I do. The only thing we can do is to keep our mouths shut and go on keeping our mouths shut.’

  ‘Calm down, Aud, you’re not thinking straight, I don’t know why. But it’s true that all you did that evening was rush ahead blindly—but I’m not sorry I saw you then.’

  She pretended not to hear him.

  ‘We’re not grown-up,’ she said. ‘Neither of us. Nor is Valborg.’

  ‘I imagine she’s learnt something. Tell me, Aud, are you thinking of getting out of ...’

  ‘No, no of course not.’

  ‘I agree with you. Didn’t you feel how she ... how she depends on you? She thinks you understand her.’

  ‘Torvil, I wish it wasn’t so dark right now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d like to see your eyes.’

  ‘Oh indeed?’

  ‘You’re glad it’s dark, aren’t you?’

  ‘All of us were this evening,’ said Torvil sharply.

  ‘I’m sorry, Torvil, we were.’

  They had come no further. The house lights shone from the same distance. Aud had let go of his hand after a while. Torvil said firmly. ‘In any case we must meet her the day after tomorrow, whatever we feel about it.’

  ‘I know, and I dread it now we’ve met her. That’s the effect it’s had on me, meeting her.’

  ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘No, you ... all you did was look at her, as long as it was light.’

  ‘All right, so I did.’

  Lucky they couldn’t see each other. A thought struck Torvil.

  ‘Did Valborg say why she did all this? Hid herself away, and all the rest of it? I can’t remember whether she told us that.’

  ‘She didn’t say anything straight out. She said he seemed to have vanished. You can be sure I was listening.’

  ‘After all, it’s happened to plenty of people without their—’

  Aud interrupted him. ‘Do you think I ought to have asked her why she didn’t tell us? Why she didn’t act the way other people do?’

  Her fretfulness made Torvil feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Why are we needling each other?’

  ‘Because we’re both shocked, I think. We’re wondering for dear life how all this will end. You’re so shocked that you’re blind Torvil.’

  ‘Oh indeed?’

  ‘We’re not grown-up enough for it.’

  ‘No, of course not!’ began Torvil. ‘We simply stumbled into it by accident. We were involved in all this against our will, you know.’

  ‘I suppose that’s what mostly does happen. But don’t pretend to be what you’re not, Torvil.’

  ‘Can you see right through me?’

  ‘I’m not in the mood for doing that every day.’

  They felt a need to snap at each other. The fine stillness of the moment of leave-taking
in the wood could not be recaptured. Nor the mysteriousness when they had listened for the great grieving from the wood. In a moment they were quarrelling.

  ‘Oh, chuck it.’

  ‘The same to you.’

  They had come into the light from the yard, and each saw the bitter face of the other.

  Goodness, straighten it out quickly, they thought. They had to appear with the usual smooth, carefree face that suited the nursery.

  There was no need to remind each other, it all happened quite automatically. They smoothed themselves out during the few paces left to them, and entered the flood of light by the steps looking like good children.

  As luck would have it, someone was standing in a doorway, Torvil’s doorway.

  ‘Oh, are you back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The door closed.

  ‘Well, good night, Aud.’

  ‘’Night, Torvil.’

  19

  Grieving in the Night-Dark Wood

  Not that it might be different. How can it be?

  Not that I see any glimmer of hope.

  Not that I’m calling to anyone.

  Not that I’m thinking as I used to any more.

  I am simply there with the flowing water.

  The water that stands still, yet moves. Every second. Shifting a little today. Shifting a little tonight. Every single day and every single night—and that’s all I can think about.

  It will curve into a thousand places—and I am there, in each of them.

  Even though there is a whispering in the night-dark wood, yet this is no wood through which I am walking. If there is a wood, it is a wood on the bed of the great river, that’s what it feels like. There seem to be forests there, when I think about it. I have been inside them; the current drowns them, and I am with them here on the river-bed. The current passes over the treetops, and whispers soundlessly from tree to tree on the river-bed.

  In the current everything appears enormous to my mind. It’s no use trying to think as I used to. All my thoughts revolve around moving water.

  Clean, cleansing water. Pouring water. At times I see water like floating stars.

  Endlessly gliding water—so that every object turned towards it is polished soft and smooth: after an eternity of gliding, stones are as soft as a cheek—while it changes, changes all the time. Sparkling water above hidden forests and hidden chasms—that’s how it is in my thoughts.