by Linda Olsson
They reached the city just before ten and found a carpark outside the domed shopping mall. There was still a little time to go before the shops opened so they decided to take a stroll in the park across the street while they waited. When they saw the doors open they returned and went inside. Seemingly the only early shoppers, they walked slowly past shop windows where the displays looked as drowsy as the city itself. The summer clothes and holiday articles seemed a little faded, as if covered in light dust, resignedly waiting to be dismantled to make room for next season’s displays.
In one shop a thin young girl with bleached straight hair stood behind the counter. She had a small mirror in her hand and was occupied applying lip-gloss with her finger. She showed no sign of having noticed the two women. Astrid walked up to the rack where an assortment of one-piece swimsuits hung listlessly. As they had expected, the choice was limited. There were three in the right size: one black, one white with appliquéd rhinestones, and one in a bright floral pattern. Astrid was looking at the rack, her face set in an expression that Veronika couldn’t quite interpret, when the girl approached.
‘Looking for a swimsuit for your mother?’ she asked Veronika, ignoring Astrid.
‘That’s right,’ Veronika said. The girl held out the black swimsuit, a sensible creation with low-cut legs and wide shoulder straps. It dangled on her finger, while her eyes seemed focused somewhere across the shop floor.
‘Can I try this one?’ Astrid said, taking the brightly coloured floral patterned suit from the rack.
‘Sure,’ the girl said, still not looking at her customer. ‘Fitting room’s over there.’ She nodded in the direction of three cubicles along the wall and turned her back on them before she had finished the sentence, returning to her place behind the counter where she resumed her make-up application.
Astrid disappeared into one of the cubicles. Veronika could hear her undressing, and the curtain across the door bulged as she moved around inside the small space. Then the curtain was abruptly pulled aside and Astrid stepped out into the bright fluorescent light.
‘Well, what do you think?’ she said, posing with arms outstretched and one foot in front of the other. The skin of her legs was bluish white and hung loosely over her thighs. The low-cut neckline exposed the tops of her flaccid white breasts. Her hair seemed charged with static electricity and framed her pale face like a fragile halo. There was a moment of absolute silence and Veronika slowly raised her hands to her mouth. Astrid’s eyes twinkled and simultaneously both women burst into uncontrollable laughter. It began as a muted giggle that rapidly escalated until tears streamed down Astrid’s face as she laughed out loud. Veronika had to bend over to catch her breath and Astrid sank down onto a stool outside the fitting room.
‘Wonderful,’ Veronika said when she had finally recovered enough to speak. ‘I think it is absolutely perfect.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Astrid said, and returned to the fitting room. Veronika could hear her chortle behind the curtain. The girl at the counter stood immobile, her glossy lips half open.
The swimsuit in a bag, they wandered out into the summerdrowsy city. It was too early for lunch and there was nothing more either of them needed to buy. They walked aimlessly and when they passed an ice-cream kiosk they stopped and bought a cone each. They went and sat on a park bench in light shadow underneath some trees.
‘You know, I have never been here before,’ Astrid said. ‘I am grateful to you for letting me see all this.’ She lifted her hand that held the ice-cream and indicated the surroundings. ‘I am taking it all in, and I am enjoying it, but I realise now, when I actually see it, that it doesn’t matter that it has taken me a whole life.’ She sat with her face turned towards the sun, occasionally licking the ice-cream. ‘I’m sure there are extraordinary places that I will never see. But now I don’t mind.’ Her voice trailed off. ‘This day is enough. I know now that it would have made no difference. It was never about the place.’
Veronika reached inside her blouse and pulled out the greenstone pendant. She opened the clasp, took it off and held it up against the sun.
‘Here, Astrid, look,’ she said. The old woman bent over and their heads touched lightly as they both looked at the stone. ‘If you have the right heart you can see everything you love in here. The lakes, the forests, the sky. The entire universe.’ She held out the pendant for Astrid to touch and the old woman let her fingers run over the smooth surface. ‘I haven’t worn it since the day James died,’ Veronika said. ‘Because I lost my heart. And there was nothing for me to see.’ She tied it around her neck again. ‘But this morning I put it on. And I think I can see it. I think I can see the beauty again.’
Astrid looked at her. ‘Yes,’ the old woman said. ‘Yes, there is beauty. You just have to have the heart and you can see it anywhere.’
After a short stroll through the quiet streets, they returned to the car and drove off.
The pension was a substantial old wooden house, painted pale yellow, in a village where all the other buildings were the usual rust-red. It looked like a queen bee, sitting in a large mature garden at the peak of its summer abundance, surrounded by a village of reddish-brown worker bees. They parked outside the gates and walked slowly up the path to the front door. To their right there was a herb garden with rows of parsley, dill, chives and basil. Tall hollyhocks grew along the front of the main building, on either side of the front door. A large grey cat was asleep on the front steps and a wagtail fearlessly pranced on the grass just below. There was silence as they walked through the open front door and along the hallway, and they met nobody. But just as they entered the dining room a slim woman approached with a welcoming smile. Up close they could see that she was not young, but there was an appealing energetic air about her. She spoke with a slight foreign accent and this, together with her brightly hennaed hair, made her seem intriguingly out of place in this old and staid environment.
She suggested lunch inside and coffee in the garden after-wards, and Astrid and Veronika sat down at a table in the dining room. Astrid looked up at the waitress. ‘It’s Veronika’s birthday today,’ she said with a small nod.
The waitress pressed her hands together and her smile was wide and genuine. ‘Ah, how wonderful! Let me serve you a birthday drink.’ She turned to leave. ‘On the house, of course,’ she added over her shoulder.
The room was spacious and the understated furnishing made it feel even more so. The wooden tables and chairs were painted the traditional pale grey. The wooden floor was worn and scrubbed a soft pale grey too. There were no curtains, but each window had several potted geraniums on the windowsills. The overall impression was serene and ageless, a gentle backdrop for people and food that may have looked the same for hundreds of years. Initially, they were the only guests.
Veronika was depositing her backpack on the floor beside her chair when she remembered the unanswered mobile call. She pulled out the phone and called the message service. She listened to the recording and unconsciously her face softened and she smiled. ‘It was my father,’ she said when she had returned the phone to her bag. ‘Wishing me a happy birthday.’
The waitress returned with two glasses of sparkling wine on a small tray. ‘Happy birthday,’ she said as she put the glasses on the table.
Astrid took her glass and held it up. ‘Happy birthday, Veronika,’ she said. ‘I hope you will come to my house tonight for dinner. I have no present for you with me.’ Veronika smiled and nodded.
There was no menu and the entrée was self-service from a small round table across the room. There was homemade rye bread, dried as well as fresh, and butter. A small juniper-wood bowl with pale brown soft whey-cheese, a bowl with fried chanterelles, a mixed salad of a variety of leaves and flower petals. Egg halves and a small bowl of whitefish roe. Two varieties of marinated herring. Small new potatoes sprinkled with dill. They helped themselves and sat down to eat.
As they finished the entrée and sat waiting for the main course, a man and a woman
arrived and sat down across the room. Veronika could hear that they were speaking English: she thought they might be American.
‘My father,’ Veronika said, turning the glass in her hand. ‘When I was a child I thought he could do anything. Take away any pain, make my world safe and comprehensible. It was always just the two of us, all alone in the world. But I never stopped to look at him. To consider the man. He was always just my father. And he allowed me to believe that the main purpose of his life was my well-being.’
‘A good father,’ Astrid said. ‘A loving father.’ She looked up. The wine had painted her cheeks pink and Veronika suddenly thought she could again see beauty in the old face. ‘Parents have such formidable power. They can protect you from all the pain in the world. Or inflict the hardest pain of all. And as children we accept what we get. Perhaps we believe that anything is better than that which we all fear the most.’ She looked out the window, where the hot summer air stood still. ‘Loneliness. Abandonment,’ she said. ‘But once you accept the fact that you have always been alone, and will always be, then your perspective can begin to change. You can become aware of the small kindnesses, the little comforts. Be grateful for them. And with time you will understand that there is nothing to fear. And much to be grateful for.’ She lifted her glass and drank the last mouthful. ‘For me, the realisation took a lifetime. Don’t let it take you that long, Veronika.’
The main course was served at the table: minced moosemeat patties with lingon berries and creamed morels. It was rich and they ate slowly, pausing to talk or just quietly resting in the kind of company that makes no demands.
Afterwards, they made their way into the garden behind the main building, where a coffee tray had been placed on one of the tables. The waitress insisted they try the chocolate cake, a house speciality, and despite both women’s remonstrations, she brought a plate with one piece of dark soft cake and two spoons. And once they had tasted a spoonful each, they somehow found the space for the rest. It was early afternoon and the day was at its peak. Swallows chased insects above their heads and the air was filled with the fragrance of a large jasmine just along from where they sat.
‘I am not sure how we will be able to eat again today,’ Veronika said. ‘I think we will have to take a swim before dinner. Try out your new swimsuit.’ Astrid smiled and nodded. ‘We’ll make it a late supper,’ she said.
Just then the mobile rang again and this time Veronika managed to reach it in time to take the call. She could feel Astrid’s eyes on her face when she answered, but then the old woman turned her face towards the sun and closed her eyes. The conversation was short, but the smile lingered on Veronika’s face well after she had returned the phone to her bag.
‘My father again,’ she said. ‘Let me tell you about when I last saw him.’
31
Like a driven wave,
Dashed by fierce winds on a rock,
So am I: alone
And crushed upon the shore,
Remembering what has been.
Veronika
The week after the funeral I rang my father. I was still unable to find the words, but he knew my voice. He asked no questions. He said, ‘I am here.’ And then we were silent.
He met me at the airport. He stood waiting, immaculate in his grey business suit, white shirt and tasteful tie. It was early morning; he must have come straight from home.
He hugged me briefly and took my luggage trolley. No questions, no searching looks. Quiet, unhurried efficiency. ‘Let’s get this over with as quickly and smoothly as possible,’ was the look on his face and the language of his movements. We walked through the strangely still arrivals area, where people seemed to move soundlessly, leaving no litter, no smells. We continued in silence to the carpark, deposited my luggage in the boot of his new Japanese car and drove off.
I hadn’t seen my father for over a year. I looked at his profile as he manoeuvred the car out through the tollgates of the carpark. He had aged, filled out a little. The chin was less defined, the hair a little thinner on top and a touch greyer around the ears. Up on the highway, he turned on the CD player. Frank Sinatra. In spite of everything, I smiled. I looked out the window at the passing landscape. In the winter morning light it looked tranquil. A watercolour. Dormant fields and bare trees. No people, no movement. Then, as we approached the city, concrete walls began obstructing the view, and eventually we were amid a complex web of roads, intricate layers of swiftly moving traffic. ‘Fly me to the moon,’ on the CD player. High-rise buildings so close to the car that it felt as if we were driving through a tunnel inside them, people going about their business on either side.
My father lived in a spacious apartment on the second floor of a three-storey building. We parked in the garage underneath and took the lift up. In the hallway I recognised the small Korean chest, the framed antique map of Stockholm. I walked into the lounge, where the two red sofas stood facing each other with the chess table in between, as they had in so many other living rooms. I was in a dream where things were familiar and strange at the same time. The small guestroom was ready, the bed made up and towels laid out. A hand-drawn map of the neighbourhood sat on the small desk with an envelope on top, no doubt containing money. But my father was off to work.
After he had left, I sat on the bed, hands between my knees. Why was I here? I walked slowly through the maze-like hallway, lined with my father’s books, and with earthquake stops between the top shelf and the ceiling. Everything was tidy, silent, still. In the kitchen the fridge hummed, the benchtops were empty and clean, the stove and the sink shiny, as if never used. I went up to the window and looked out. Across the road to the left there was a small park, with mature trees lifting bare black branches towards the white sky. Straight ahead, on the other side of the narrow road, there was a low old wooden house. On its tin roof an old woman was crouching, a large black and white cat by her side. She wore a rust-coloured jacket, a white kerchief covered her hair, white gloves her hands. A sack sat between her knees. She was picking persimmons from the branches of the overhanging tree. Slowly and gracefully, she stretched out a gloved hand, folded her fingers around a bright orange globe, twisting it gently one way, then the other until it snapped loose. Continuing the fluid movement, she deposited the fruit into the sack before reaching out for another. Meanwhile the cat sat motionless, its deformed tail outstretched behind it.
I remained there, watching, and when I left the woman was still going about her work, the cat beside her.
I went into the small guest bathroom and undressed. There were mirrors along the entire length of the room on one side, and I stood in front of them, naked. I looked at myself and could see no major changes. My skin was still tanned, with my breasts and a triangle over my pubic area a contrasting white. I ran my palms over my flat stomach and felt the emptiness behind the unblemished skin. I turned around and looked into the mirror over my shoulder. My buttocks were white and a thin white line ran across my back just under my shoulderblades. My hair had grown and fell over my shoulders. But there was no major difference, no visible sign. I turned to the mirror and put my hands on my breasts, then hugged my shoulders, closing my eyes. But there were no tears.
After my shower, I went for a walk. The map was detailed, with precise notes in my father’s tidy handwriting along the margins and on the back. It outlined the way to the station, the nearby shops and restaurants, Yoyogi Park and Meiji Shrine. It explained the system for numbering houses and gave some useful phrases in Japanese. It finished with his phone numbers. He had signed it in Swedish, ‘Pappa’. I walked downhill, with no particular destination in mind. The weather was clear, but the light seemed faint, as if filtered through gauze. I walked past the park and on to the shrine. There were people here, families and couples, some tourists, but mostly Japanese visitors, moving unhurriedly, stopping along the gravel road to pose for photographs.
Inside the shrine a procession of young men dressed in white, with black headgear and black clogs, crosse
d the courtyard and disappeared into one of the buildings. I walked up the stairs to the main shrine, where a few visitors were praying and throwing coins into the wooden container in front of them. I stood in the shade, leaning lightly against the wall, watching. An old lady was right in front of me, her hands raised in prayer, handbag dangling on her arm. A young couple stood further away, a small baby in the father’s arms. I passed the counters selling religious paraphernalia and walked down to the stand with wooden prayer tablets. There must have been hundreds, hanging in layers on a large four-sided structure. Mostly, the scribbled messages were prayers for world peace, health and happiness, good exam results, babies. But some were more personal, some very moving. Some were lighter, funny or flippant, like the one that stated: I wish that next year I will get to see Naomi in her thong. I smiled, but I couldn’t think of anything to wish for.
In the evening my father took me to a small restaurant in Shibuya. We decided to walk, as the evening was crisp and clear. In darkness the city was transformed. Where in daylight I had seen awkward modern buildings entangled in cables hanging from concrete pillars, there were now mysterious, dimly lit alleys with paper lanterns swaying lightly in front of half-open doors. The air smelled of cooking; we passed laughing young couples. At the main crossing in Shibuya we stopped and allowed the throng of people to flow past. Bodies drifted by, seamlessly, nobody bumping into anybody else, nobody even brushing against us. We walked on, surrounded on all sides by moving people. Faces, mouths that talked, laughed, exhaled cigarette smoke. Hands gesticulating, smoothing hair, closing over a match flame, holding other hands. So close we should have been able to feel the warmth of the bodies, smell the odours. But we were separate. Separate from the surrounding crowd, and also from each other. Cocooned in conjoined bubbles, bobbing along in the crowd, but not belonging. Together in an alien world, but solitary.