The Woman Who Borrowed Memories: Selected Stories

by Tove Jansson

  “I know, I know, stop going on about it. I just have to check one or two little things.” His thin face was clenched with anxiety, and his hands had started shaking again.

  He’s going to get better.

  “He’s going to be fine,” the doctor had said. “A month’s peace and quiet is all he needs. He’s overworked; it’s the school’s fault.”

  “What time is it, Elsa? Do you think it’s too late to call the headmaster? Just to make sure he understands clearly, really clearly. I mean, so I can explain in detail.”

  “No. Don’t phone again; it’s not necessary. Don’t even think about it.”

  But of course he does think about it, all the time. The school understood a long time ago that his resignation wasn’t to be taken seriously. They understood that, and they want him back as soon as he’s well again.

  Arne turned to his wife with the weary intensity of repetition. “Bloody school. Bloody kids.”

  She said, “You ought to be working with much older students. They’re too young, they don’t know any better. You just have to understand—”

  “Oh really? Understand them? All you need to understand is that they’re hellish little wild beasts who will stop at nothing, nothing, I tell you, to destroy my work and make my life a living hell.”

  “Stop it, Arne! Calm down!”

  “Right. Calm down. Wonderful. Nothing makes me feel less like calming down than someone telling me to calm down!”

  Elsa started laughing. Her tension simply dissolved in a huge laugh, a laugh that suddenly made her beautiful.

  “You idiot!” he shouted. “You stupid woman!” In a rage, he emptied his bag out onto the floor, turned his back on it, and covered his face with his hands.

  Elsa said very quietly, “I’m sorry. Come here.”

  He went to where she was sitting and, with his head in her arms, he said, “Tell me again how it’s going to be.”

  “We come closer and closer. Papa’s boat is small but very sturdy. We’re on our honeymoon. You’re sitting in the bow and you’ve never been in the islands before. With every new skerry, you think we’re there, but no, we’re going all the way out, right out to an island that’s hardly a shadow on the horizon. And when we land, it won’t be Papa’s island anymore, it’ll be ours, for weeks and weeks, and the city and everyone in it will fade away, till in the end they won’t even exist or have any hold on us at all. Just pure peace and quiet. And now in the spring the days and nights can be windless, soundless, somehow transparent . . . No boats will go by for days at a time.”

  She stopped. He said, “And then?”

  “We won’t need to work. No translating. No post, no telephone. No demands. We’ll hardly even open our books. We won’t fish or plant anything. We’ll just wait till we find something we want to do, and if we don’t find anything we want to do, well, that won’t matter, either.”

  “But what if we do want to do something?”

  He always asked that question and she always answered, “Then we’ll play. We’ll play at something totally silly.”

  “Like what? What do you play on the island?”

  She laughed and said, “With the birds.”

  He sat up and looked at her.

  “Yes, with the birds, the seabirds. I collect dry bread for them all winter. And when I come out in the spring, all I have to do is whistle and they know me. There are white wings everywhere; they take the bread right out of my hands in full flight! The loveliest game you can imagine.”

  They both stood up. Elsa raised her arms to show how the big gull came to her, and then she told him how it felt when its wing softly brushed her cheek and when its cold, flat gull feet trustingly landed on her hand. She was no longer talking to him but to herself, talking about her own gull, the one who came back each spring and tapped at her window with its beak; the gull she called Casimir.

  “What a name,” said Arne.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Elsa threw her arms around him and looked up into his face. “What do you think? Shall we go to bed?”

  “Yes, but you know what a restless sleeper I am these days. I don’t want to keep you awake. Fruit juice or water?”

  “Water,” said Elsa.

  It was evening when they finally set out. A warm sunset still lingered over sea and sky. It was dead calm and indescribably beautiful. The large islands were soon behind them, and only very low skerries marked an invisible horizon. Arne was sitting in the bow. From time to time he’d turn and they’d smile at each other. She drew his attention to a long flight of migratory birds going past on their way north, and she pointed out several long-tailed ducks, their wings beating at lightning speed close above their reflections in the water. “The welcoming committee!” she shouted, but he couldn’t hear her over the motor.

  When they arrived, a screaming cloud of hundreds of seabirds rose chalk-white against the evening sky. Arne stood looking up at the circling birds, the painter in his hand.

  “They’ll settle down,” said Elsa. “But you see, they’re nesting right now. We just need to watch out for the nests right next to the cottage.”

  They secured the boat and carried up their bags, and she gave him the key to unlock the house. Inside was a single low room with four windows. A damp chill had settled in it. All four windows looked out on a sea with no horizon.

  “It’s totally unreal,” said Arne. “Like being on the top of a mountain or maybe up in a balloon. I think I can sleep tonight. Shall we leave the unpacking till morning? We don’t need lamps, do we? What about lighting a fire?”

  “We don’t need anything,” said Elsa. “Everything’s fine.”

  The birds started screeching before dawn, like a thousand furies spoiling for war. Their feet tramped over the sheet-metal roof as if laying siege to the cottage. They were everywhere.

  Arne woke Elsa. “What’s the matter with them?” he said.

  “They’re always like that in the morning,” she said. “One starts screeching and all the others start. They’ll soon quiet down. Let’s go back to sleep.” She took his hand in hers and fell asleep again at once. The birds went on screeching. He tried to ignore it, but he could feel his old fear creeping closer, his horror of noise, of anything out of control. Then he found refuge in the memory of last night’s proud fulfillment, in a renewed longing to shelter and protect, and so the clamor of the birds lost importance.

  The sun rose, drowning the whole room in strong pink and orange light. Outside the cottage it was quiet.

  I’ll learn to be calm, he thought. I’ll learn.

  They drank their morning coffee.

  Suddenly there was tapping at the window. Elsa leaped up and exclaimed, “It’s Casimir! He’s back!”

  An enormous herring gull was pressed against the windowpane. It looked impatient.

  “Is there any more coffee?” Arne said.

  “I’ll warm it up. Just a minute . . .” Elsa quickly put some dry bread to soak, cut a piece of cheese rind into convenient little bits, and carried it all out to the front steps. She whistled her birdcall, raised the dish with her beautiful round arms, and Casimir came and stood on her hand while he ate. “Look at that!” she called. “He remembers me!”

  Arne asked, “How long do they live?”

  “Forty years, if they’re lucky.”

  “And they always come back?”

  “Always.”

  Arne was the first to see the eider. She was sitting on her nest under a bush by the steps, almost indistinguishable against the gray-brown spring soil.

  “A good omen,” said Elsa earnestly. “And she didn’t fly away even when we came near. Now she’ll stay till her chicks hatch. Isn’t that lovely?”

  Arne studied the eider, fascinated. To him the bird’s long face seemed full of patience and wisdom. She sat completely still.

  He said, “I’ve never seen an eider before. I’ll sit here on the steps for a bit.”

  “You do that, darling. I’ll unpack.”

 
; Arne sat a long time watching the motionless bird, a clever bird that knew she had nothing to fear.

  Very slowly he walked past her and farther up across the island. But as he neared the navigation marker at the high end, he was attacked. A raging swarm of howling birds dive-bombed him, again and again, purposefully and maliciously, like Stukas. He screamed back at them and waved his arms in panic. He felt their wings beating on his head and suddenly he was bitten, a wicked little nip. He cowered on the granite with his arms over his face shouting, “Elsa! Elsa!”

  She came running and shouting at the same time, “It’s their nests! There are a lot of nests on this side. I should have warned you.”

  They went back down to the cottage, and he flung himself on the bed and stared at the wall.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Elsa. “They’re very aggressive at this time of year and there are too many of them. And if you stand up to them it makes it worse—”

  “Don’t I know it. Too many children in every class, in every bloody class. And if you stand up to them, it just makes it worse. Don’t say it. I’m going to sleep.”

  Towards evening he went out to have a look at the eider. Two gulls were giving a strange performance on the rock slope nearby. With a rapid series of short sharp cries and powerfully flapping wings, the cock besieged his hen.

  Arne went back inside. “It’s bestial,” he said. “It’s disgusting.”

  “Do you think so? I think it’s beautiful. Shall we have vegetable soup today or would you rather have chicken?”

  “Whichever you like. I don’t care.”

  Elsa lay awake listening to the cries of the long-tailed ducks. She would have enjoyed telling him about the long-tailed ducks, those mysterious birds, and getting him to listen for their seductive calls far out at sea, but after the incident with the terns she didn’t dare talk about birds. His hands had started to shake again and for several days he wouldn’t leave the house. He’d only go as far as the steps, where he would sit and watch the eider. Once he said, “She seems so content with everything, doesn’t she?” And he asked when the chicks would hatch.

  Casimir had become a problem for Elsa. The tapping at the window had to stop. She moved the box he liked to stand on and hid his food dish. But wherever she went, the huge bird followed her with his plaintive, ingratiating chirping. Arne watched and made sarcastic remarks. In the end she practically stopped going out. It was only while Arne was reading or asleep that she rushed through her outdoor chores, threw Casimir’s food on the granite slope, and sneaked back into the house. They had become excessively cautious with each other and talked only about safe everyday trivia.

  Then one night the wind changed and began to blow from the northeast. The shift in the wind woke Elsa, and she went to the window to check on the boat.

  “Arne,” she said, “the boat’s pulling at her moorings.”

  Down by the shore she was careful to explain what needed to be done. He took time over it and fixed the lines quite passably. The birds were silent.

  In the morning Arne was in a better mood than she’d seen him in for quite some time. Thank God, he was finally cheerful. As usual he went to look at the eider, who was sleeping under her rosebush.

  “She’s asleep,” he whispered. “When the leaves open, she’ll feel more protected. Don’t you think?”

  “Oh yes,” said Elsa. “She’ll be just fine, then. Why don’t we go for a walk along the shore and look for firewood? We’re out of kindling and I can’t get the big pieces to burn without it.”

  “I can fix that,” said Arne. “I’ll go and chop you some kindling. Easy, it’ll take no time at all.”

  She let him go, forgetting about the gull that nested beside the woodpile every year. When she finally remembered and rushed out to call him back, it was too late. She met him coming back with the ax dangling from his hand. He threw himself down on the bed and said, “There were three eggs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Three eggs. Three birds. I threw them in the water. Plus the nest.” He was silent a moment, then said, “The nest floated away. But the eggs sank like stones, straight to the bottom.”

  Elsa stood and stared at his dismissive back. She didn’t want to tell him that if you take away a seabird’s nest and eggs, she’ll just build a new nest and lay new eggs in exactly the same place. She went down to the woodpile, found the crime scene, filled the place with stones, then waited behind the shed till the gull came back. The bird examined the stones, tried to cover them with her body, got up again, walked around, sat still for a while, tried again, then began collecting dry grass in her beak and stuffing it clumsily between the stones.

  “You idiot,” Elsa whispered. “You damned, stupid idiot . . .” She wanted to weep, and suddenly she was sick and tired of Arne and all his imaginary terrors, his pretentious sensitivities. She ran to the cottage and sat on the edge of his bed and gave him a detailed and somewhat cruel account of the gull searching for her eggs.

  He listened in silence and then when she had finished he turned and lay on his back and just looked at her. Then he smiled. “So what shall we play at now? Try to scare each other? Hunt for eggs? It was you who said we should find some silly game to play.”

  Elsa got up, went to the kitchen counter, angrily prepared Casimir’s food dish, threw open the door, and whistled.

  Arne shouted, “You’ll disturb the eider! Can’t you feed that damned gull on the other side of the house!”

  Casimir came. The same persistent piercing cry, the same strong soft wings touching her face, the same firm grip on her hand. She laughed out loud, let the dish fall, and grabbed the gull with both hands, overcoming the powerful resistance of his wings. It was just exactly as she had imagined it, a great silken-smooth life force caught and held in her hands. To her astonishment, the rare, furious joy of clasping the creature in her arms suddenly went right through her and took her breath away—and at that moment the huge bird twisted out of her grasp, soared out over the shore, and vanished. It was very quiet. Elsa stood where she was without turning around.

  Arne said, “I was watching.” His voice was distant and dry.

  It was a mild, overcast day, the sort of hesitant weather when nothing seems to move. The leaves of the rosebush were on the point of opening, wrinkled and light green. Arne didn’t look at the eider but he knew she was still there, an honorable companion.

  They probably should have brought a radio with them but they’d finally decided on a long, blessed silence. That had been the plan. Towards evening a thick mist rolled in from the sea, bringing an even deeper silence. In an instant the island became unreal, diminished, as if the cottage’s four windows had blinders of thick white wool. Ideal conditions for the eider to take her chicks down to the water.

  Elsa made their evening tea. They drank it while reading their books. After tea, Arne went out on the steps—at just the right moment. The eider was making her way slowly down the slope, her chicks in a line behind her. It was unbelievable, fantastic, such a remarkable thing to see that he called to Elsa so she could see it too. And at that moment came a powerful beating of wings and a great white bird dived out of the sky and seized one of the chicks. As Arne watched in helpless horror, the eider chick disappeared down the bird’s throat bit by bit. He screamed, rushed forward, picked up a stone, and threw it. Never before in his life had Arne thrown anything straight and true, but he did so now. The bird fell on the granite slope, wings outspread like an open flower, whiter than the mist, with the legs of the eider chick still sticking out of its mouth.

  “Elsa, I’ll kill you!” he cried.

  She was standing beside him. She touched his arm lightly and said, “Look, they’re marching along undisturbed.”

  The eider and her remaining chicks were heading on down to the water where they disappeared into the mist.

  He turned to her. “Don’t you see what’s happened? I’ve killed Casimir. I attacked him, took him out!” Wildly excited, he lifted the
dead bird by one wing and walked down towards the water to throw it into the sea. Elsa stood and watched him go. She decided to remain silent and not tell him that this wasn’t Casimir, or even a herring gull that he was consigning to the deep. And that, of course, her own gull would never come back.

  Translated by Silvester Mazzarella

  CORRESPONDENCE

  DEAR Jansson san

  I’m a girl from Japan.

  I’m thirteen years old and two months.

  On the eighth of January I’ll be fourteen.

  I have a mother and two little sisters.

  I’ve read everything you’ve written.

  When I’ve read something I read it one more time.

  Then I think about snow and how to be alone.

  Tokyo’s a very big city.

  I’m learning English and studying very seriously.

  I love you.

  I dream one day I’ll be as old as you and as clever as you.

  I have many dreams.

  There’s a Japanese kind of poem called haiku.

  I’m sending you a haiku in Japanese

  It’s about cherry flowers.

  Do you live in a big forest?

  Forgive me for writing to you.

  I wish you good health and a long life.

  Tamiko Atsumi

  Dear Jansson san

  My new birthday today is very important.

  Your present is very important to me.

  Everyone admires your present and the picture of the little island where you live.

  It’s hanging above my bed.

  How many lonely islands are there in Finland?

  Can anyone live there who wants to?

  I want to live on an island.

  I love lonely islands and I love flowers and snow.

  But I can’t write how they are.

  I’m studying very seriously.

  I read your books in English.

  Your books aren’t the same in Japanese.

  Why are they different?

  I think you are happy.