The Last Boat Home

by Dea Brovig

  ‘First the Reiersen boy. Then the circus freaks.’

  Her father picked her up. He shook her and she screamed. His fist hooked her jaw. Cowering by his boots, Else curved her back into an absurd shield. Needles drove into her skull when he pulled her up by a fistful of hair.

  ‘The Devil is in you.’

  He made a cage of his arms. His stink plugged her nose, tickling her throat until she retched. Her father spun her around and bowed her over the workbench. One hand gripped her head, mashing her cheek into its surface. Else’s fear stunned her. The walls billowed. The floor seemed to list under her feet.

  ‘The Devil is in you,’ he said and tore at her trousers. Johann fumbled behind her at his waist. His body curled around her, pinning her under him. His skin was hot on her skin, his breath in her ear. Else’s howl was driven from the pit of her heart when he pushed into her. The force of it rammed her stomach into the workbench. Splinters bit her cheek, dripping runnels of blood onto the wood. Her father folded an arm around her waist, a brace to hold her still.

  ‘Little whore,’ he said.

  He grunted and lunged as if to stab right through her. She felt herself splitting apart. Her muscles slackened. She stared at the light that wrinkled the walls and became limp. She listened to the murmur of the fjord, saw its waves wash her away.

  When he had finished, Johann pulled back. The clink of his belt. His labouring lungs. He stumbled to the open trapdoor to relieve himself. His piss purled into the water below. Else drew up her underpants and trousers. Her legs buckled and she slumped to the floor. She folded herself under the workbench, pressing her pulped cheek to her knee. She hardly registered the figure stepping into the doorway. Johann’s back was to them both when he crouched to pick up a Norges jar. He gave it a shake before unfastening its top.

  ‘What have you done?’

  Else closed her eyes at the sound of her mother’s voice. She dug her knee into her cheek, felt the blood hot and slippery on her skin. Her body shuddered with a rush of nausea.

  ‘Johann, what have you done?’

  Her eyes blinked open to a vision of her mother clutching an oar, wielding it at her father. Johann laughed when he stood, but his nostrils flared with rage. Dagny tightened her grip on the oar.

  ‘So help me God,’ she said.

  Johann kicked aside an oil can and charged at his wife. Dagny brought the oar swinging round. A moan slipped from her lips when it connected with his skull. She dropped the oar. Else saw her father tipping backwards. Arms flailing, boots skittering, his heel came down on a Norges jar that shot out from under him. His eyes flickered with panic. He teetered and tumbled through the trapdoor’s open hatch with a shriek.

  A thud, then a splash. Then nothing. Else waited for the roar that would signal her father’s resurrection. None came. She looked at her mother, who stood as if set in plaster. She crawled out from under the workbench and to the hole in the floor, peeking down at the skiff’s moorings. Her father lay a foot from the barbed rock ledge, spine twisted, arms and legs spread at his sides. The fjord’s skin had sealed above him. It twinkled in prisms of sunlight, placing jewels in his mouth, in eyes that seemed to stare through her to something terrible. Coils of blood melted from his temple into seaweed that fluttered in the tide. A jellyfish trailed its tentacles over his throat. At his temple, a rock appeared to sprout from the bone into the silt, taking root and fusing him with the seabed.

  A touch made Else gasp. Her exhalation came in a low, anguished cry.

  ‘Else. My Else.’ Her mother’s fingertips spread nettles over her cheek. She wrapped Else up into a bosom heaving with sobs.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Else whispered.

  Her mother followed her gaze into the water. Johann’s lips were parted in mid-scream.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ she said.

  She put her arm around Else’s shoulders and began to lead her to the door. On their way out of the boathouse, she paused to wipe the blood from the oar’s blade with an oil rag that she reclaimed from the floor. She clutched it in her fist as she helped her daughter down the stairs. Together, they staggered across the yard.

  Now

  Summer 2009

  ELSE CARRIES A tray of dishes, cutlery and wine glasses through the back door and begins to lay the table for four in the garden. She wipes down the wood, shakes out the blue trim of a freshly ironed tablecloth and anchors the napkins under the forks. Once she has arranged the tea lights in clusters, she pauses at a rosebush and chooses a stalk for the centrepiece. Two sunset blooms spread their petals under a third, tight bud. She snips the stem with a pair of scissors and brings it with her into the kitchen.

  Music from Marianne’s stereo pounds through the ceiling. Her footsteps jar with the bass as she flusters about her bedroom. She has not shown her face since she arrived home from the Hong Kong Palace earlier that afternoon and disappeared upstairs. Else knows she is dreading dinner. As she models outfit after outfit in her mirror, she is anticipating the evening’s awkwardness and wondering if Mads cares, if he loves her enough to endure it.

  Else loves her enough. She will behave. Whoever Marianne leads through the door later on – whatever he looks like, whatever he says – she will be civil. She will not ask difficult questions. She fills a cream jug with water for the flowers and tries not to think about whether Mads will be staying the night.

  She is whisking the ingredients for a marinade when Liv wanders into the room.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ she asks.

  ‘We’re having salmon,’ Else says.

  ‘Do you need help?’

  ‘There’s not a lot left to do,’ Else says. ‘The salad still needs to be made.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘How about decorating the cake?’

  While Else seasons the salmon fillets, Liv shakes a punnet of raspberries under the tap before setting them out to dry on a sheet of paper towel. She turns the cake onto a platter under Else’s supervision. A whiff of chocolate rises from the dark sponge.

  Marianne sails into the kitchen. ‘Have you seen my sandals? The gold ones. You know, the gold ones?’

  ‘They’re in the hall with your other shoes,’ Else says.

  ‘You made a cake?’

  ‘We have to have dessert,’ Else says. ‘It’s a special occasion.’

  ‘It’s a quick dinner before Mads and I go out,’ says Marianne.

  Without missing a beat, Else stirs the rice bubbling in a pot on the cooker. She replaces the lid and reduces the heat, then flips the salmon in its marinade. Beside her, Liv interrupts her job of ordering the berries in a pattern on the cake to consider her mother.

  ‘You look nice,’ she says.

  Else studies her daughter, whose skirt barely covers her underwear. Under her inspection, Marianne draws herself up. Else bites her bottom lip. She washes her hands at the sink and wipes them on her apron.

  ‘You do look nice,’ she says and carries the roses outside.

  She is sitting in the garden nursing a glass of wine with her eyes hooded against the sun when she hears the doorbell. Her eyelids flick open. Her body tenses, but she forces herself to stay put. Else examines the table, smoothing a crease from the cloth with the flat of her hand. She wipes the lipstick from the rim of her glass with her thumb. Takes another sip. Wipes it clean once more.

  Liv bolts from the kitchen and down the steps onto the lawn. A magazine is rolled in her fist. She throws herself into a chair and props her bare feet against the wicker of its twin beside her. Small shrugs betray her excitement with each breath. She grins at her grandmother and pretends to read.

  Marianne appears in the doorway holding a stranger’s hand. A tattoo sprouts from out of his shirt collar and up the side of his neck. Orange, yellow, red. Else thinks she spots a beak, or perhaps it is a talon. A similar style of penmanship leaks from his sleeves down both forearms. Mads flashes his teeth at Else and Liv and takes in the garden scene with a slow sweep of the eyes. Else disli
kes him at first sight.

  But she will behave.

  She watches him swagger down the stairs with the confidence of someone expecting an easy victory. She gets to her feet. Her lips part in what is designed to be a benevolent smile.

  ‘My,’ she says, ‘isn’t that an interesting tattoo.’

  Marianne’s face seems to crack. Liv jumps out of her seat.

  ‘Mormor …’ she says.

  But Mads is laughing. ‘Glad you noticed it,’ he says.

  ‘How far does it go?’

  ‘All the way,’ he says. He thrusts a bottle of wine into Else’s outstretched hand. ‘I hope white’s okay. Where do you want me?’

  Mads rubs his palms against the T-shirt stretched over his chest and turns to the table. Else gestures at a chair. There is a hole in his earlobe the size of a nostril. Her lips part, but Marianne cuts her off.

  ‘We can’t stay long,’ she says.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ says Mads. ‘The Manhattan will wait for us all night if we want it to.’

  ‘How wonderful,’ says Else. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Liv follows her into the kitchen. ‘Mormor,’ she says, ‘what was that?’

  ‘Hm?’ Else slots Mads’s bottle between two cartons of milk in the fridge and pulls another from the middle shelf. ‘Will you pour the wine? Water for you.’

  ‘Be nice,’ says Liv and returns to the garden.

  Else fluffs the rice in its pot with a fork before scooping it into a serving bowl. A cloud of steam escapes the oven when she opens its door, scorching her cheeks. As the haze clears, she reaches for the casserole dish with her oven-mitted hands. The tops of the salmon fillets are golden. The sprigs of thyme laid out on each one are shrivelled and crisp.

  Her tray is loaded with the fish, the rice and a bowl of salad when she rejoins the others. The discussion dies as she approaches the table. She frowns.

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘I hope you like salmon.’

  ‘Smells great,’ says Mads.

  He lifts his glass once Else has found her seat and tips it to her.

  ‘Skål to the cook,’ he says.

  The meal begins in silence. The smacking of lips, gulping of wine and children’s cries from a neighbouring garden only emphasise the absence of conversation. Else picks at her food and peeks at Mads, who shovels heaped forkfuls into his mouth. Marianne looks miserably at her watch. Else clears her throat.

  ‘So, Mads,’ she says. ‘I hear you’re a dancer.’

  ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘When I can afford to be.’

  ‘And when is that?’

  ‘When it pays,’ he says.

  Else arches an eyebrow and fusses with the pepper grinder.

  ‘Most of the time I work in the garden centre,’ he says.

  ‘Does that pay?’

  ‘Mamma,’ hisses Marianne and Else shrugs. Mads’s eyes remain bright with his smile. He finishes chewing and wipes his mouth on his napkin.

  ‘It’s all right for now,’ he says. ‘I’ll have to find something else come winter. If you hear of any jobs going, let me know, all right?’

  From where Else sits, she has a better view of the artwork on his neck. An eagle’s beak gapes at his jawline, as if the bird is preparing to swallow his head.

  ‘What about you?’ Mads asks. ‘Marianne said you own a shop.’

  ‘A spa,’ Else says.

  ‘Does that pay?’ asks Mads.

  ‘I don’t think you’d be right for the place.’

  ‘More wine anyone?’ says Marianne and fills her own glass to the brim. Mads reaches for her free hand. He gives it a squeeze and does not let go and something slips behind Else’s ribs. She watches him lift Marianne’s fingers and brush them gently with his lips before their hands tie a knot across the table. Else feels her eyes prick and is not sure why. She wants to protect her. That is all she has ever wanted since Marianne was born.

  She loves her enough.

  Before Else speaks, she makes an effort to soften her tone.

  ‘What sort of dancing do you do?’

  ‘All sorts,’ says Mads.

  ‘You must have a speciality, though.’

  ‘He’s a flamenco dancer,’ says Marianne.

  ‘Well,’ says Else. ‘That doesn’t sound very Swedish.’

  ‘My mother’s Spanish,’ Mads says. ‘My grandmother came to live with us when I was six. I used to watch her dancing in the kitchen after school. She’d try to teach me the steps. She taught me everything I know.’

  ‘What’s flamenco?’ asks Liv.

  ‘It comes from the gypsies,’ Mads says. ‘Flamenco was a way for them to express their suffering. No one wanted them. They were persecuted. They used dance to show their anger and pain at was being done to them. But it’s not just about sorrow. That’s why I like it. It makes room for every passion, also love and joy.’

  ‘That sounds sensible,’ says Else.

  ‘I wish I could have met your grandmother,’ says Marianne.

  ‘So do I,’ says Mads. ‘You would have liked each other.’

  The second bottle is empty by the end of the main course. Else and Liv take in the dirty plates, leaving Marianne and Mads to a moment of privacy.

  ‘It’s going well,’ whispers Liv.

  Else scrapes the fish bones into the bin under the sink. ‘Mm,’ she says. ‘She seems to be calming down.’

  ‘No, I mean, you’re doing well,’ says Liv. She kisses her grandmother’s cheek and disappears through the door with the dessert bowls and spoons. Else stays behind to load the dishwasher. When that is done she adds the finishing touches to the cake, sprinkling powdered sugar over the sponge and the raspberries. Before carrying it into the garden, she checks her mobile phone. She has two missed calls: one from Petter, one from Lars. Else contemplates the display until its light dims.

  ‘Mormor, are you coming?’ calls Liv.

  ‘Coming,’ she says.

  Without listening to her messages, she puts down the phone. She lifts the cake platter and steps outside.

  ELSE LIES STILL, staring into the nothingness above her. The house seems to tick in the darkness, though there is no one left to wait for. Liv is home, safe in her room. Marianne and Mads are further down the hall. Marianne and Mads. Else tests the union of their names again and again. Marianne and Mads, lying together in her bed. She imagines their limbs twined in sleep, their breath soft, simultaneous, while Marianne presses her nose to his tattoo.

  Else twists and turns, wringing her unrest into the sheets, flopping from her side onto her back. She stretches her arms to the edges of the mattress and arranges her spine down its middle. She flexes her toes, points, flexes. The bones in her feet give off a satisfying crack. As the digits of her alarm clock count off the minutes, she broods on the tender looks that her daughter shared with Mads through dinner. With her own eyes, she has seen that Marianne loves him and, what’s more, that Mads loves her in return. What happens now if he changes his mind and leaves? What will happen to Else if he stays?

  She is ashamed as soon as the thought arrives, but still tries to conceive of the life that Marianne, Mads and Liv could build away from the home that she has held together for so many years. Else listens to the house, to its overbearing silence, and repeats Petter’s assurance that loneliness can be borne. She summons a picture of him standing on the deck of his sailing boat, wind-blown behind the wheel as he steers a course into the sea.

  A grey morning light sneaks around the edges of the curtains, coaxing objects in her bedroom from out of the shadows. The brass handles of her wardrobe doors. The vase of cut peonies on her dresser. The clock reads 04:46.

  04:47.

  04:48.

  She knows that daybreak has been and gone. She reaches for the glass on her bedside table and takes a sip of water.

  04:50. It is late enough.

  Else slides her feet from under the duvet and into the slippers parked on the floor beside her bed. She shuffles to the window and
yanks open the curtains. Her body is bathed in light.

  The day looks clear, the sky as blue as she imagines the Mediterranean to be, but the air will be chilly at this time. She chooses a pair of jeans from a pile of laundry waiting to be sorted on her armchair, zipping them up before pulling a jumper over the loose sway of her breasts. From the bottom drawer of her dresser, she finds the shawl that used to belong to her mother. She blankets her shoulders and breathes in deeply, hoping for a trace of a scent that has long since faded.

  Else tiptoes up the corridor, past Liv, past Marianne and Mads, Mads and Marianne, and down the stairs. Once she has retrieved her phone from the kitchen counter she steals into the hallway, where she straps on her clogs and lets herself out into the street. No one is up. She has the morning to herself. She strolls by her neighbours’ houses, glancing at window boxes as she goes. Peder Wiig’s clematis is doing well. Janne Haugen’s roses less so. The bugs have been at them; they are beyond saving now. Else draws the shawl closer across her chest to quell a shiver while the soles of her shoes slap the asphalt. She turns onto Torggata, where hot dog boxes clog the gutters.

  At the bottom of the hill the fjord spreads out like the night sky, the ripples of water twinkling in the light. Else is out of breath when she reaches the harbour. She places a hand on her chest to steady her heart. The waves nudge the concrete of the Longpier. A breeze pinches her cheeks, ruffles her hair, soothes the headache behind her eyes. She recovers her mobile phone and dials the numbers for her voicemail.

  ‘You have two new messages,’ says the automated voice.

  ‘Else. Petter calling. I hope you’ve received my messages. I won’t bother you again if you’d rather not see me, but ring me if you would.’

  A beep, then Lars’s voice replaces the first. He sounds agitated after Petter’s formal tone.

  ‘It’s me,’ he says. ‘We have to talk. It’s important. Call me as soon as you get this.’

  Else hangs up the line. Her hand drops to her stomach, her fingers rigid around the phone’s plastic. She looks out across the fjord to the islands that shelter the town from the sea. The rock is weather-beaten and stubbled with lichen. Three hundred years ago, before the harbour was equipped to receive merchant ships, crews would offload their cargo there. Rumour has it that brothels serviced the sailors while rowing boats ferried goods to the mainland. Else does not know whether the stories are true.