by Linda Olsson
She sat down and pushed a slim package across the table. ‘Your present,’ she said. ‘Happy birthday, Veronika.’ Veronika unwrapped the package to reveal a small leather-bound book. The leather was dark brown, cracked and worn.
‘It’s my mother’s diary,’ said Astrid. ‘You will find the recipe for the fish balls in there. But also so much else.’ She stood and walked around the table, sitting down on the chair next to Veronika’s. ‘It begins like a diary. In April the year I was born. Here, look.’ Astrid carefully opened the book on the first page. ‘To Sara on her birthday from Tate. It was a present from my grandfather. And you will see that it reads like a diary at first. She didn’t write daily, just now and then. But here, at the beginning, it contains dated short notes about her life. It’s personal and straightforward. As you read on, you will see the difference.’ Astrid turned the pages slowly, her eyes scanning each one. ‘I have read it so many times, each page is clear in my mind. Every word, the look of the ink on the page. I don’t need it any more. But I want to see it in the hands of someone who will protect it.’ She closed the book and pushed it towards Veronika, her hand still covering it. ‘I can’t think of a better keeper.’
Veronika was close to tears. She took the book and held it in her hands. ‘Oh, Astrid.’ She bent forward and placed a kiss on the old woman’s forehead. ‘I will keep it and I will protect it. Thank you.’
Astrid returned to her seat opposite Veronika. ‘Don’t read it now. Wait until you are ready. There is no hurry,’ she said. ‘There will be time.’
Veronika nodded slowly.
‘When I woke up this morning, I thought about my birthday a year ago,’ she said. ‘And I thought I would never again be able to enjoy a birthday.’ She looked at Astrid and stretched out her hand across the table, reaching for the old woman’s. ‘But you have given me the best birthday I have ever had.’
‘Remember, it’s mine, too,’ Astrid said, and smiled.
33
. . . and he who gazes towards the stars will never again be quite alone.
Summer had turned. Although the weather remained sunny and warm, with each morning the air grew a touch crisper, the light a shade sharper, the evenings a notch darker. The apples on the trees in Astrid’s orchard were ripening, and one day Veronika helped her pick the cherries that remained after the birds had explored the old tree. There weren’t enough to make jam, but in the afternoon they ate the sweet berries seated in the shade on the front porch.
After dinner one evening Veronika sat at her kitchen table. Her book was taking shape, and she was watching the path it took with growing excitement. It wasn’t James’s book, she knew that now. This book had intruded and she was beginning to think that this was just as it should be. She would write James’s book. Just not yet.
She stood up and stretched her arms over her head while she walked towards the door. Out on the front steps she could see the bright yellow full moon smiling in the black sky just over the treetops. It was a Saturday in mid-August and she had invited Astrid for a traditional crayfish dinner. They had adopted a comfortable routine that involved daily walks and dinner once or twice a week, alternating the hosting. Life had taken on a gentle, predictable rhythm. Veronica felt at peace, resting in the present.
She was just about to sit down on the steps when she heard the mobile ring, muted sounds from upstairs, yet ripping the peace with its unexpected insistence. She ran up the wooden stairs and caught the call on its last ring. It was her father.
The moon had inched higher in the sky as Astrid arrived, carrying a bundle of small paper lanterns attached to an electric cord. ‘I found these in the storeroom,’ she smiled. ‘I have no idea if they work. They might be dangerous to use.’ But Veronika took the bundle and began to untangle the cord. She had set the table for two, with red paper napkins and the customary silly paper hats and bibs. There was a serving platter with a mountain of small freshwater crayfish topped with heads of dill. There was bread, butter and two kinds of cheese. And an iced bottle of aquavit. The laptop sat on the kitchen counter playing traditional drinking songs.
Astrid watched Veronika struggling with the cord and she reached out and took one end. Between them they managed to sort out the tangles and Veronika stepped up onto one of the chairs, tying one end of the cord to the fitting holding the window blind. Then she moved to the other side of the window and attached the other end. The string of lanterns hung in a deep bow across the window and when she plugged the cord into the wall socket all but one lit up. Astrid turned off the lamp, and with only the lanterns and the candles on the table, the room took on a different ambience. The corners disappeared into obscurity, and the table looked festive, perhaps even a little mysterious. Veronika changed the music to a CD with folk music. And they sat down to eat.
‘My father rang today,’ Veronika said, as they were finishing the last crayfish. Astrid looked up, still sucking on a shell. ‘He rang to tell me he is coming back to Sweden to live. He has accepted an offer of early retirement. He asked if I would like to come and visit once he has settled in. And then perhaps take a holiday with him. Make another trip together.’ Veronika absentmindedly pushed the crayfish shells about on her plate with her finger. ‘He said he has missed me.’ She had her eyes on her hands, but her mind was elsewhere. ‘And I realised I have missed him, too. I have been thinking that perhaps one day I should go back to New Zealand. That perhaps I need some kind of closure.’ She looked up at Astrid. ‘I have been thinking that I left without finishing my life there. That I need to go back.’
Astrid wiped her fingers on a napkin. ‘I think that if we just listen to ourselves we know what it is we have to do,’ she said slowly. ‘And I have come to think that however much it hurts, however hard it is, we have to listen. We have to live our lives.’ She looked at Veronika, her head tilted a little as if she were trying to find the right words. ‘You have been here half a year now. I think perhaps it is time. When you are ready. There is no hurry. But the day will come when your decision will be clear.’
She poured herself a small glass of aquavit and handed the bottle over to Veronika. ‘Let’s drink,’ she said, and lifted her glass. ‘To you, Veronika. To your life.’ She set the glass on the table and looked at Veronika, her head cocked. ‘There is more to do,’ she said. ‘It’s lingon berry time. And mushroom time. Will you come with me into the forest?’ Veronika nodded and it was decided.
But the following morning Veronika woke up to the sound of rain. She looked out the window but there was no view; she could hardly see Astrid’s house through the heavy downpour. It rained all day and towards the evening it shifted, as if reducing its force in order to last longer. Dressed in raincoats and boots, the two women went for their daily walk but the day in the forest had to be postponed for three days.
Then, finally, clear skies. They left it another day, to allow the ground to dry out a little. It was early and the air had not yet warmed when Veronika knocked on Astrid’s door. She stood on the porch waiting, and filled her lungs with the clean air. The smell of autumn was distinct now after the rain. Wet leaves, bark. Sand and clay.
‘It’s not that either of us will need the jam for the winter,’ Astrid had said with an odd little smile, her eyes locking with Veronika’s. ‘It’s just that I think it is one of the nicest things to do here. And I think you should know.’ She had paused, as if wanting her words to sink in before she continued. ‘If the weather is good, we can take lunch. And we will visit all my secret places, where the berries grow in abundance. We may even find some mushrooms, though it’s a little early.’
As Veronika took another deep breath of the glassy air, she knew it would be a perfect day. Astrid opened the door, her basket in her hand and wearing her cut-off boots. Veronika had a small backpack with their lunch. They set out across the fields and into the forest, where the semi-darkness underneath the dense firs was still and cool. The terrain sloped upwards and Astrid walked slowly. Veronika’s eyes were on the old w
oman’s back. Although her steps were slow, they seemed confident, as if she were in her own element. She seemed to find sure footing naturally and she moved with grace and purpose.
The dark forest gradually thinned as they reached higher ground. Eventually it gave way to tall pines, seemingly nourished only by the white moss that covered their roots. The trunks stretched straight and branchless towards the sky and the air was filled with a smell of resin and pine needles. The moss was dotted with the small red berries and they began to pick. The berries grew in clusters and they could sit down comfortably and pick from one spot for quite a while. Veronika focused on her task, the sun warm on her back now. When she looked up she found Astrid lying back on the moss, looking up at the sky.
‘Thank you, Veronika,’ she said.
Veronika smiled. ‘What for?’
‘Oh, for all of this,’ Astrid said. ‘All of it.’
Their baskets heavy with berries, they walked on and again entered the forest. Beside a large block of granite, Astrid stopped. She stretched out her hand and patted the moss that covered the stone. ‘This is it. My praying stone. Where I used to stop, when I still believed that prayers mattered.’ She stood still for a moment, lost in thought, her hand resting on the stone. Then they continued, Astrid leading the way through the dense forest. Veronika could see no path, and although Astrid kept holding branches aside for her to pass, they were both scratched on their arms as they pressed forward.
Then, abruptly, the forest ended. They parted the branches and stepped out into bright sunshine. And it was just as Astrid had described it. A circle surrounded by a solid wall of trees. Soft grass, silky and shiny in the sun, the colour of dry flax, sprinkled with wild strawberry plants, their leaves yellowing. It was strangely still, not a breath of wind, soothingly warm and absolutely peaceful. Above, the sky rose glassy blue and without a speck. They sat down on the grass. Veronika took a berry from her basket and let the tart freshness fill her mouth. They were both silent.
Later they unpacked their lunch, sandwiches and coffee, and ate, taking their time. The sun warmed here in the shelter of the trees and they removed their jackets and lay down on them. Veronika looked up into the achingly clear sky. The rest of the world felt distant, unreal. She closed her eyes.
Suddenly she felt Astrid’s hand on her arm. ‘Look,’ the old woman whispered. The sun had sunk a little lower in the sky and the shadows from the trees had advanced into the clearing. Veronika’s eyes followed Astrid’s gaze. A large grey bird flew soundlessly across the blue circle above. An owl. Astrid put her finger across her lips and whispered a soft ‘Shhhhh’. The bird swept back and forth over their heads several times before disappearing into the darkness of the trees. They sat up and Astrid turned to Veronika and smiled. ‘Time to go,’ she said.
On the way back, Astrid took a different route, where thick moist moss covered the ground, giving a misleading impression of softness. Underneath, there were deep crevasses and stones, and they had to watch their step. Astrid kept her eyes on the ground and when she suddenly stopped and bent down, she had found a patch almost covered in bright orange mushrooms.
‘Ah, look here,’ she said. ‘Milkcaps, saffron milkcaps.’ From her pocket she produced a small knife and began to cut off the mushrooms. ‘Nobody else picks these,’ she said, without looking up. When she finally stood, she had a small heap of mushrooms in her basket, on top of the dark red lingon berries. ‘Look,’ she said, holding up one mushroom. ‘They bleed when you cut them.’ She broke of a piece of the hat and drops of dark red sap collected along the edge. ‘Looks like blood. Perhaps that’s why people don’t like them.’ She returned the mushroom to the basket and wiped her fingers on her trousers. ‘Appropriate for a witch, though,’ she said with a little smile.
They continued and Astrid found more mushrooms and filled her basket to the rim. When they left the forest and slowly made their way over the meadows down towards the houses, the sun had sunk below the rim of treetops, colouring the sky over the village a pale pink, softened by the mist rising from the river.
‘I’ll clean the mushrooms and we can have mushroom omelette for dinner,’ Astrid said. ‘If you like,’ she added with a quick look at Veronika. ‘And before dinner we can clean the berries and make the jam. Let’s carry the little cooker outside.’ She put her basket down on the porch steps. ‘I’ll open the window and go and get the extension cord.’
‘I’ll run over and get some wine, then,’ Veronika said.
While the sun set, they cleaned the berries, which ran through their fingers, dry and shiny. They had both picked cleanly and there was just the odd pine needle or small leaf to remove. When they had gone through both baskets, Astrid’s large pot was half filled with berries. She added the sugar and placed the pot on the stove. The sweet smell of the boiling jam filled the air as they sat back with their wine glasses. Astrid began cleaning the mushrooms, dropping one at a time into a bowl while the scraps landed on the towel that covered her lap. She looked very comfortable, working swiftly and expertly, tossing the clean mushrooms into the bowl with a flick of her wrist.
‘You were right,’ Veronika said. ‘It’s been a perfect day.’
Astrid looked up and smiled. ‘I thought you would like it.’ She looked up at the sky, intensely dark blue now, with a tinge of purple. ‘There is nothing quite like it. Perhaps it is a human instinct, this urge to harvest before the winter. Picking berries and mushrooms. Preserving. Preparing. I have always found it so very satisfying.’ When she had finished cleaning the mushrooms she picked up the towel from her lap and stood to shake it. ‘And it is my favourite season, autumn. Some see it as the end of the year. Death. But to me, it has always felt like the beginning. Pure and clean, with a lack of distractions. Time to set your house in order and prepare for winter.’ She sat down again, leaning back against the wall and turning the wine glass between her stained fingers. ‘And it is. My house is in order,’ she said.
They stayed on the porch, and when the air grew chilly and the mist began to rise, Astrid went inside, returning with two woollen blankets. They wrapped themselves and sat comfortably in the gradually deepening darkness. Veronika looked up into the sky and as her eyes adjusted she watched the intensely blue-black void fill with stars.
34
Give a word or two
and it’s easy to go.
All our meetings
should be just so.
All Saints Day. The first Saturday in November. Veronika was in the kitchen, lighting a fire in the stove. The weather had turned cold, but the last few weeks had been still and gentle. The landscape looked as if it had been softened by a kind hand, with light snow on the ground and a thin veil over the sky. There had been sun, but it sat low in the sky, pale and filtered through fog that lingered throughout the day.
Her packing was almost completed. She had arrived with little luggage and she hadn’t added much, yet the process felt like a major undertaking, associated with intense and disparate feelings that she could neither fully understand, nor control.
She was driving to Stockholm the following morning to meet her father. She had made no further plans, but she had talked to him briefly about New Zealand. ‘It’s one of the few places I have not yet seen,’ her father had said. ‘I have never been to New Zealand.’ He had said nothing further and she had not responded. She felt she needed more time to decide if she wanted company on the trip. And she thought he understood.
Packing, which was a process she normally dreaded and deferred to the last minute, felt different this time. Still an upheaval, a major task, yet somehow filled with purpose, even an element of anticipation. Although her plans were still not fully developed, her actions were conscious and deliberate. She was ready, and she was in charge.
Yet, here at the table with her coffee, looking out the window at Astrid’s house, she was overcome by entirely different feelings. The consequences of her imminent departure suddenly surfaced in a rush. It had weighed like a dist
inct physical pain that she had carried with her constantly, but submerged, at the back of her mind. Going about her preparations, she had woken up with the subconscious awareness of a lingering sadness. Now she marvelled at the realisation that her mind could contain such contrasting feelings simultaneously. She realised that she had made the house and the village her home. That for the first time she was facing a departure that would be tinged with sadness.
She looked across to Astrid’s house, and although she could see no sign of life, the house itself seemed alive. Slowly, she stood and went upstairs to finish packing. Her suitcase sat open on the bedroom floor, beside two boxes containing her books and CDs. She pulled out the drawer of the bedside table and picked up the few items inside: a clasp for her hair, her small notebook, a pen. And then underneath, the small diary Astrid had given her for her birthday. She sat down on the bed and opened the book. She had taken it out a couple of times before, but each time she had returned it to the drawer unopened. It had felt as if she needed more time, a different perspective, to be allowed inside the pages. Now she carefully opened it, initially not reading, just looking at the script. The handwriting was strong and driven and some pages had small drawings in the margin. There were sketches of plants and birds. Some pages seemed to have been written in several stages, as if the writer had returned to them with additional comments or second thoughts. Towards the latter part of the diary entire paragraphs were crossed out, the ink obliterating the underlying text. Veronika slowly turned back to the beginning and started to read.
This book arrived for my birthday. I have had no mail for such a long time, but here it is, together with a letter. I don’t understand why there is no mention of the child. I have written every other week, just like before. Has he not posted my letters?
But they are well, both Tate and Mamele.
Veronika turned several pages.