by Linda Olsson
Few of the graves looked well kept and only one or two showed signs of recent visits. Only one was new.
‘When I leave this house, it will be for the cemetery. I have chosen the space, and it is paid for. I needed to make sure I would have my own space there, you see,’ Astrid had said when they passed the church one day.
And here it was, Astrid’s space. A small granite plaque lying flat on the ground, no proper headstone. Just her name, and the words:
. . . nu vill jag sjunga dig milda sånger.
Beside it lay another plaque, the same size and colour, but aged, and with the name Sara only just legible underneath moss and lichen.
Veronika reached into her pocket and pulled out two pieces of New Zealand greenstone. She held them in her palm, closing her fingers around the shapes. They were smooth and warm. She placed one on each plaque. She squatted and let her fingers trace the words of the single line in the new granite.
. . . nu vill jag sjunga dig milda sånger.
Now let me sing you gentle songs.
She remained there, eventually dropping to her knees, running her hand over the cold surface in front of her.
The sudden distant barking of a dog pulled her back, and she stood slowly and made her way back to the car.
She drove past the shop, closed now, and with frayed billboards announcing special offers to no eyes. She took the last sharp turn off the road and up the steep hill. There were no lights on in any of the houses along the road. At the crest of the hill she turned left onto the unsealed road, past the fence with the row of mailboxes. The small timber sheds behind were just shadows.
She stopped outside the gate and got out. The soft hum from the cooling car motor was the only sound. She could smell last year’s leaves and wet soil in the process of freezing yet another night. She paused for a moment and looked at the silent house in front of her, then opened the gate and walked up the path. The gravel was frozen solid, hard and dry under her feet. The keys bounced against her thigh as she stepped up onto the porch, and when she fished them out they were warm to the touch. She put the old key in the top lock, but it wouldn’t turn and she had to press her shoulder against the door and pull the handle upwards before the lock reluctantly yielded. The patent key opened the lower lock silently at the first attempt.
She had expected the air inside the dark hallway to be stale and chilly, but instead she stepped into semi-darkness that was warm against her face: unscented, dry and comforting. It was as if the house had been waiting for her. It had been cleaned, aired and heated. It was ready. She stretched out her hand to switch on the lights, but changed her mind and continued on in darkness. She walked slowly along the hallway, her hands outstretched like a sleepwalker’s, but as she entered the kitchen the pale light from the window was enough for her to find her way around. She stood by the window and looked out over the field where the grass lay flat, covered with a thin patchy layer of icy snow. She put her palms on the cold glass and pressed her forehead against it.
Her old house sat silently across the field, its black windows staring back at her without recognition. There was a child’s swing set on the front lawn and the hedge along the road had been trimmed. It was no longer an orphan house.
She sat down at the kitchen table and placed the envelope in front of her. She pulled out the papers, then lifted the envelope and tipped it upside down. The letter fell out onto the tablecloth. A thick envelope, the paper yellowed and the glue so dried that a strip of sellotape had been added to keep the flap down.
It had her name on it, and the familiar handwriting was elegant, although a little uncertain: Till min käraste Veronika. To my beloved Veronika.
Veronika’s hands smoothed the envelope and she felt a small lump inside. She shook it gently and a small object slid out, landing on the table with a soft thud. Astrid’s gold pendant. Veronika picked it up and the fine chain fell between her fingers. It was a small oval locket with a star engraved on the face. She threaded the chain between her fingers, closed her hand around the pendant and rested both hands on the envelope. She looked out the window.
Then her hands searched the edge of the table and found the handles of the cutlery drawer where she knew Astrid kept her candles. She collected the brass candlestick from the mantelpiece above the stove and the box of matches from their place on top of the firewood in the basket on the floor. She lit the candle and began to read.
36
Let a good wind blow.
Let white snow fall.
Västra Sångeby January 2004
My dearest Veronika
You sit at the kitchen table. It is March again. A night like the one when you first arrived. You have lit a candle and I can see your hands on the table, holding this paper. Your face is clear, your shoulders relaxed. Your hair is falling freely in all its curly abundance, but I think you are unconsciously pushing it away from your face, gathering it at the nape of your neck.
But I could be completely wrong, of course. These words may never be read. Or you could be anywhere in the world when my letter reaches you. But if all goes to plan, you will be here. In the kitchen where it all began. There are candles in the drawer underneath the table. Matches on top of the firewood by the stove. You should have found the house tidy, but stripped to the bare necessities. I don’t want it to impose on you. Make demands. I wish for it to be a gift with no ties.
That first evening in March I was right where I place you now. By the window. I think of it now as the first spring sunshine on the ice of a lake frozen solid. It seems to me that ice somehow thaws from underneath. The warmth comes from above, but it is only when the depths below have warmed that the ice finally recedes. It grows porous, water begins to seep through, it loses its grip on the shores. Watching you arrive was that first light after such a long darkness. I watched the outline of your slight figure in the tunnel of light made by the headlights of your car until you were finished unloading. I stayed by the window long after you had closed the door. I watched the lights go out, one after another. And I think I knew that life had returned.
You have known me as no other person has. And I like to think that I have known you a little. There was a long time when I took comfort from having nothing. Nobody. But now I know that we are not meant to live like that. I am not sad that my insight came so late. I am grateful that it came at all. To some, my life may seem tragic. Wasted. That is not how it appears to me. You have given me a new perspective. You pulled me out into the bright life again, opened my eyes. Made the ice thaw. And I am so very grateful.
Love comes to us with no forewarning, and once given to us it can never be taken away. We must remember that. It can never be lost. Love is not measurable. It cannot be counted in years, minutes or seconds, kilos or grams. It cannot be quantified in any way. Nor can it be compared, one with the other. It simply is. The briefest brush with real love can sustain you for a lifetime. We must always remember that.
Don’t grieve for me, Veronika. Do you remember how I said that it is sad when we forget the faces of those we love? I now think that we never do. I think that we imagine that they are lost, when what has happened is that they have become a part of us and can no longer be explored objectively. I would like you to think of me like that. Knowing that I will always be with you, though you may not be able to recall my face.
My dearest Veronika, with this house come no tasks, no musts. You are free to deal with it as you like — give it away, abandon it, sell it. But I hope that you will choose to accept it. It is a house in need of love and happiness. Deserving of it. I somehow think its time has come. Whether with you — as I hope — or someone else is not so important. I like to think that there will be children running up and down the stairs. I imagine it full of people for Christmas, New Year and midsummer. I think of leisurely summer days with children playing in the garden, picking the wild strawberries.
But then, more than the house, I think of you. This is the second time in my life that I have initiated a
separation from someone I love. But this is so very different from that first time. Not sad in the normal sense of the word. I am long overdue to leave. And I like to think that you are ready to face life.
Live, Veronika! Take risks! That is really what life is about. We must pursue our own happiness. Nobody has ever lived our lives; there are no guidelines. Trust your instincts. Accept nothing but the best. But then also look for it carefully. Don’t allow it to slip between your fingers. Sometimes, good things come to us in such a quiet fashion. And nothing comes complete. It is what we make of whatever we encounter that determines the outcome. What we choose to see, what we choose to save. And what we choose to remember. Never forget that all the love in your life is there, inside you, always. It can never be taken from you.
I would like you to think of me with a smile. Remember, there was love. It was just that I had allowed hatred to block the memories. Now, I think that my life ends in a triumph of sorts. I have retrieved the love of my life.
My dearest Veronika, it is all your doing. You arrived that dark March evening and you fundamentally changed my life. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am. This house is but a small, inadequate — and potentially perhaps demanding — token of my heartfelt gratitude.
You gave me this CD player and I am playing Brahms again. The sonata for violin and piano, which my mother used to play. That also you returned to me. The music. There was silence, such a very long silence. Then you entered my life and brought it back. It has been heartbreaking, but also so very wonderful. I can’t think of a more beautiful piece of music than this sonata. I listen to the second movement, and though I must admit that tears blur my vision, they are not sad tears. They are soothing, warm on my cheeks. I look out the window. It is a clear day, early afternoon with a warm slanted light on the snow. It is still and I can see the smoke from the chimneys of the houses down below in the village. Soft grey pencil lines against the intensely blue sky, where the approaching evening is already deepening the colour by the minute. This, too, is your gift to me. The ability to take in the view. To see the beauty. And it is so very beautiful.
I am happy, Veronika. Very happy. And so very, very grateful.
I would like you to take the time to get to know the house. I somehow think that you can bring to it what you brought to me. Life. I also think that perhaps the house can give you what you seem to be searching for. A home. That whether you choose to make it your home, or just your quiet refuge from time to time, it will give you a place to call home. A place to leave from, and to return to. Whatever you decide, Veronika, it must be for you. Not for me, or anybody else.
Do you remember that day by the lake, reading Karin Boye? There is a poem by her called ‘Morning’ that I find so very beautiful. The last lines are:
. . . for the day is you,
and the light is you,
the sun is you,
and all the beautiful, beautiful
awaiting life is you.
Now blow out the candle and go to bed. Sleep well, my dear Veronika, and wake up to the new day tomorrow.
your
Astrid
37
. . . and all the beautiful, beautiful awaiting life is you.
Veronika smiled when she realised she had absentmindedly gathered her hair, pulled it away from her face. But tears were falling from her chin onto the table.
‘Astrid, I have finished the book,’ she whispered. ‘I hope you will like it, because it is your book. I came here with a bag of sorrows and a book to write. You helped me see that the sorrows were also love, joy and laughter, to be carried lightly and for ever. The book ended up being very different from the one I had in mind, but it is written, and I have it with me today, in my suitcase. I wish you were here at the other side of the table, with your coffee mug between your hands, ready to hear me read to you. Giving your approval with small nods of your head. But I think you know. And I think you approve.
‘There was a sense of urgency to your story. A matter of completing something that began long ago. Healing something that had been hurting for such a long time. So, here it is, your book, Astrid. I have called it Let me sing you gentle songs.’
The candle spluttered and went out. Initially the room seemed very dark, but as her eyes adjusted, the light from a nearly full moon shone on the snow outside and a frail white light reflected into the room.
It was time to go to bed.
Good night — good sleep I wish for you,
my fellow wanderers.
We stop our song and part our ways — so what
if we never meet again.
I have told you a little and poorly of that
which has burnt in me and so soon will burn out,
but what love that was there, no corruption knows —
good night — good sleep to you.
DAN ANDERSSON, ‘Epilog’ (Epilogue) in
Efterlämnade dikter (Posthumous poems), 1920
Author’s note
Astrid and Veronika is the tangible result of my acceptance to the inaugural postgraduate course Writing the Novel at the University of Auckland. Without the course, the book would probably never have been contemplated. Without the constructive criticism, constant encouragement and professional advice of my two tutors, Witi Ihimaera and Stephanie Johnson, it most certainly would not have been completed. I am deeply grateful to them both.
I have written in my study, which overlooks the skyline of Auckland city, where the dramatic shifts in light constantly threaten to distract. Yet, the process of writing this book has taken me to the other side of the world; in fact, as far away as it is possible to travel without turning back again. My native country has filled my mind with unprecedented intensity. But this book could not have been written anywhere but here, in New Zealand. The distance was essential.
Many have supported and encouraged my writing: tutors, fellow writers and friends. I thank you all, and especially Linda Grey-Hughes, who set me on track and insisted I could do it. To my editor Rachel Scott — my sincere gratitude. She approached my manuscript with all the best qualities of a good editor: interest, sensitivity, thoroughness, patience, respect — and a good sense of humour. This book belongs to her too. To my friend and fellow writer Lisa M. Skoog de Lamas a special greeting, wishing her a continuous and complete recovery, and a speedy return to writing. I have missed the benefit of her critical eye and total honesty in the process of writing this book.
Finally, my love to my husband Frank, who gave me the space and the time.
Linda Olsson
Auckland, September 2005
Sources of poetry cited in the text
I am grateful to the following individuals and organisations for the permission to quote from poems and song lyrics. I have been deeply moved by the generosity, trust and kindness extended to me. My special thanks to Mats Boye, whose early unconditional permission to quote extensively from Karin Boye’s poems and to include my own translations set me out with confidence on the pursuit of all the other permissions.
Fleur Adcock; Rolf Almer on behalf of the estate of Bo Bergman; Monika Kempe on behalf of the estate of Erik Blomberg; Mats Boye for quotes from Karin Boye’s poems; Brita Edfelt for the verse from the poem ‘Demaskering’ (Unmasking) by Johannes Edfelt; the Administration of Literary Rights in Sweden (ALIS), for the licence to use lines from the poem ‘Grekland’ (Greece) by Gunnar Ekelöf; Professor Erik Allardt for the lines from the poem ‘Ljust i mörkt’ (Lights in darkness) by Ragnar Ekelund; Aina Enckell for the permission to use lines from the poem ‘Bäst bygges’ (Best you build) by Rabbe Enckell; Gösta Friberg; Lars Grundström for the lines from the poem ‘Må–’ (May–) by Helmer Grundström; Susanna Gulin for lines from the poem ‘Skuggan i rummet’ (The shadow in the room) by Åke Gulin; the Hjalmar Gullberg & Greta Thott Trust Fund for permission to use lines from two poems by Hjalmar Gullberg: ‘Lägg din hand i min om du har lust!’ (Put your hand in mine if you so wish!) and ‘Människors möte’ (Human enc
ounter); Erland Hemmer and Marie Louise Hemmer for permission to use a line from Jarl Hemmer’s poem ‘Stilla kväll’ (Still evening); Bengt Lagerkvist for permission to use lines from Pär Lagerkvist’s poems ‘Vem spelar i natten?’ (Who plays in the night?) and ‘Solig stig är full av under’ (Sunny path is full of wonder); Ehrlingförlagen AB for permission to use a verse from the song ‘Visa vid midsommartid’ (Song at midsummer time) by Rune Lindström; Finlands svenska författareförening (Society of Swedish Authors in Finland) for permission to use lines from Arvid Mörne’s poem ‘Ensam under fästet’ (Alone beneath the firmament) and lines from the poem ‘Jag var ett speglande vatten’ (I was a reflecting water) by Emil Zilliacus; Margaret Orbell for permission to use lines from her translation of the poem ‘Mātai rore au’ (Love song) attributed to an unknown Maori tribe; Stiftelsen Övralid (The Övralid Trust) for the permission to use lines from Verner von Heidenstam’s poem ‘Månljuset’ (The moonlight); Notfabriken Music Publishing AB for the licence to use one verse from the song ‘Veronica’, lyrics and music by Cornelis Vreewijk, copyright © 1968 Multitone AB, by Warner/Chappell Music Scandinavia AB, printed with permission from Notfabriken Music Publishing AB.
All translations by Linda Olsson unless otherwise stated. The translations make no attempt at conveying the poetic quality of the original work, but are here to give an idea of content only.
Epigraph
Bo Bergman, ‘Sömnlös’ (Sleepless) in Äventyret (The adventure) 1969. Reprinted in Vera Almer and Sven Lindner (eds), Bo Bergman: Dikter 1903–69, Albert Bonniers Förlag, Stockholm, 1986, p. 168.
Chapter 1
Cornelis Vreeswijk, ‘Veronica’ from the album Tio vackra visor och personliga Persson, Metronome MLP 15313, 1968.