We lay beside each other, and I whispered in her ear all the things I wanted her to do. She had always liked that, my words could almost make her come, but now she said
—Can’t we just fuck?
and I said
—Right away?
and she said
—Yes, an ordinary Norwegian fuck,
and then we did it, or rather: I did it to her. She lay on her back, without moving, she parted her thighs, or I parted them for her, she can no longer remember, but I forced myself inside her. I lay with her, I lay on her, I laid her. I shoved my thing in her opening, shunted it in and out. A totally normal Norwegian fuck, fast, rhythmical, hard. She lay on her back, unable to keep her eyes open, unable to keep her mouth shut. She let herself be shoved up the bed. Let herself be laid, filled and taken, let herself be done to, and I was the one doing it. She saw my face over hers, sweating, hot, breathing with my mouth open, as if I were running.
She thought of the man she’d started to know. His neck, his arms, imagined him leaning over her. I leaned over her, took her without saying anything. It was good, even if it didn’t last very long, and she liked it that way, fast, hard and without a word. She lay with her legs and arms sprawled to the side. She lay under a man who wanted her more than he wanted anyone or anything, she knew that, but was it enough? She didn’t know, she didn’t think about it, not now. I thrust myself into her hard, in and out, out and in, again and again and again and again. She forgot to think about him, and then she did not forget him again.
She had to say it, to shout it, to hear her own voice. She said darling. She said darling, my darling. She said you’re completely divine. She said my name: oh Jon, oh Jon, oh Jon, oh Jon. She said if we ever split up. She said though we’ll never split up of course, but if. And she said then we’ll have to have a secret affair, you and I, because I don’t want to stop sleeping with you, you know that? It was a sweet thing to say. And she saw the change that came over my face, that a light went on for me, or that a darkness fell, how else could she explain it? I was alone now, in this world that had been ours, hers and mine. She saw that I knew what had happened to her, I must know it now, she had finally said it. She called my name again, she thought about him and called for me. Her voice was tender and husky in that dark room, she felt it work its effect on me, that voice, a gentle moan. And it affected her too. We yelled, we both yelled loudly and for a long time, then it fell silent and it was over.
7
One evening later that autumn Timmy came home; she’d been out riding, which made a strong impression on our youngest boy. She was wearing riding boots and tight jodhpurs. He’d never seen her in these clothes before, and she told him she’d borrowed them. She’d met a man who owned a horse and was going to teach her to ride. She had borrowed them from him. An acrid smell came from her, the boy came up in a rash and his eyes itched. She hung the clothes in the hall, went for a shower and came back looking more like herself again, in her dressing gown and with wet hair.
But that night he woke up and remembered that his mother now had a horse. He’d got it into his head that this horse was very small. She couldn’t live without this horse. True enough, she had lived without it up until now and been fine. But now that she knew of the horse’s existence, how would things turn out? It was a brown horse, no bigger than a dog that reached her knees. She left home each evening to be with her horse. It visited her whenever she was alone. It didn’t like anyone else. It didn’t like her family. Or rather, it liked him and his brother, and perhaps even their father too, but it was his mother it wanted to be with. It waited for her at the end of our road, on the edge of the forest. Sometimes it came and walked beside her without a word. Just her and the horse. Its mane was black, its pelt a rich brown, the color of old logs, or new-turned earth in a shaft of sunlight, like his mother’s hair in the pictures he’d seen of her when she was a child long ago. Now she had black hair with a fringe, like the horse with its thick dark mane that hung over its eyes. They resembled each other, with large brown eyes and long dark eyelashes. Her horse stood and peered up at her. It contemplated her with a calm she’d never known before. To think such peace could exist. She saw herself in that big black unflinching horse-eye, she saw her life change there, and she said
—I want you in my life.
The horse continued to observe her, a dark, steady, insistent gaze. It was the horse that had said it. The horse wanted her in its life, and now she repeated its words. It leaned in to her, she felt the weight of that strong horse-body against her thigh. It pushed itself against her. And then it began to visit her at home. Each time she was alone in a room, the horse would come. It would stand by the wall, turn its head and watch her intently. Each time it would seem as though the horse had been waiting for her. She ought to have come sooner. It shook its mane, it shook its tail, and its coarse hair brushed against the wall and it crossed the floor toward her. Its hooves would clatter and scrape the hard parquet, leaving marks that everyone would see. Though that didn’t bother her at all. She could think of nothing but the fact that she finally had a horse.
The horse wanted her on its back, wanted to take her with it. It grew, it was no longer a little horse that reached up to her knee, it was big. The horse grew so huge it filled the entire room. The boy’s mother had to stretch up to put her arms around its neck. Now it was she who reached only to its thighs. In the beginning the horse had shrunk itself to fit into her life, but now it wanted to carry her away. And as soon as she let it have everything it asked for, it began to grow. It grew enormous, it filled her whole life, she could see nothing else.
He saw himself lying under the large belly of the horse. His mother was up on its back, he could see her riding boots, their soles, and he heard her voice, tender, intimate and filled with warm breath, so familiar to him. But she was talking to the horse, and as he listened to her voice, he heard that it was different, darker and deeper, and he couldn’t understand what she said. He knew that when he woke up the next morning, the horse would have been to visit her again. And, true enough, he found its tracks on the floor, deep gashes in the parquet and stairs. It had scraped against the wall. It had gnawed the chairs. It had gnawed the edge of our bed. It had been in the bathroom, he could see it had peed on the floor in the corner, leaving a large pool of golden acrid urine. It had been thirsty, and in its search for water it had gnawed at the edge of the bath. It had bitten off a gigantic piece. The porcelain bore the marks of huge teeth, he found the piece on the floor and placed it carefully back so no one would see what the horse had done. He stood watching as the porcelain grew together, and the cracks smoothed away. On its way out of the house, the horse had chewed up his father’s shoes that stood in the hallway, and he heard me say:
—What’s happening here?
But the horse wasn’t bothered. Nor was the boy’s mother, she thought only about her fine horse. She took the horse into work, it stood under her desk, she put her hand between her knees and found its warm head there. She caressed its pointy, buckled, glossy and mobile ears. She placed two fingers on its cold wet muzzle. She guided her hand into its mouth and felt its long yellow teeth. She let it bite her. She sat very still and let the horse do what it wanted to her. When she got home in the early evening, she brought her hand to her face and sniffed it. She was happy to have found this horse, happy that such a fine horse existed in the world and that it was hers. And he, our little son, was happy too. He hoped that she would tell me about the horse soon, since he was sure I didn’t yet know she had it. She would allow me to sniff her hand and then say Can you tell what I smell of now? And I would answer that she smelled of horse. I would say How lucky you are to have such a fine horse, I am so happy for you.
He imagined a brown horse with a coarse black mane, at first it was very small and then it grew very big. He was the youngest in the house, and he liked animals more than anything else. He inhabited these ro
oms together with us, sat at the table, lay in his narrow bed, ran across the parquet floors. He kept close to us, always, as often as he could, and our voices went right into his body.
8
On New Year’s Eve she got up long before anyone else in the house. She managed to stick to her plan, and was out on her skis by seven in the morning. It was still so dark she had to wear a headlamp. She had bought a new one for me for Christmas, a rather expensive, lightweight one with a rechargeable battery, which she now borrowed. Plump snowy troll-like shapes loomed at the edges of her vision. She was scared she might encounter an elk, fresh tracks zigzagged across the path, and she noticed a deep hollow in the snow where a large animal must have gone onto its side, lost its balance. Could an elk lose its balance in this deep fluffy snow? It seemed even less likely that an animal would have lain down to rest. She stopped for a moment and breathed, the ski tracks were pristine, the snowplow must have been here recently. Or more correctly, the grooming machine, one of those terms Timmy used so casually. Whatever its name, it hadn’t been long since it had passed by. It was clear that between the snowplow and her arrival, only one skier had been here, but his tracks—and she was certain it was a man—came to an abrupt end. His tracks simply vanished at the top of a hill, as though he’d been lifted up into the sky. She was a little frightened of the dark, more than a little, and tried not to think too much about the possibility of meeting an elk. She continued up the slope, concentrating her mind on her technique, pushing herself just hard enough to feel her body respond to the effort. She felt strong. She was now one of those people who could cover vast distances, and she’d gone further than she intended before deciding to turn back. She headed swiftly down again, it was light now and many other skiers were out, mainly middle-aged men skiing alone, all with self-consciously straight backs and a determined, elegant kicking action, particularly, she noticed, when they met her. Occasionally she’d overtake one with a feeling of a triumph.
She saw nobody she knew, and had decided not to look for anyone either. She hadn’t even taken her phone with her. She didn’t need to meet Gunnar every time she went out, she needed nothing more than this, to get out early before anyone else, and to go fast on her skis. She turned off the headlamp, but left it to dangle round her neck, where anybody who wanted could see it. Perhaps they’d think she’d been out skiing all night. Two elderly women appeared ahead, skiing slowly side by side, she had to go to the very edge of the track to avoid bumping into them. She used her poles frequently, moving fast and enjoying her mastery over speed. Life was simple, right now it had never been difficult, she had mastery over her body and technique, her equipment was good and she handled herself well. She had mastery over existence itself, she was the person she wanted to be.
She was back home before nine, stamped off the snow on the steps and carried her skis into the hallway. She unlaced her boots and kicked them off, and went into the kitchen where I’d lit a fire in the new clean-burning wood stove. We’d stopped using electricity for heating and switched to wood burning, it was more economical, greener, created an ambiance and gave that vintage touch, as she said, poking fun at the middle-class values we’d made our own. We were mildly socially aware and quite sporty, although nobody used these words now, we said we liked to stay informed, that we were active, and liked to keep on the go. She pulled off her outdoor clothes and hung them over a chair to dry. The room was light, warm and tidy, the newspapers lay unopened on the table. I’d taken them in, she saw that I’d cleared the snow and made a neat path to our postbox. The kids were still asleep, or at least in bed, she could feel that sleep reigned over the house, even the furniture was at rest, the chairs standing with open laps. I was probably in my study down in the basement. No doubt I’d heard her come in. She let the tap run until the water was ice cold and filled a glass. (Blue glass, hand-blown, bought on holiday in Italy.) She drained it in one big gulp, as always. Cold water in her mouth, down through her throat and chest, settling in her stomach. She refilled it again and drank the second glass as she considered what needed doing. Almost nothing, she’d already prepared the turkey yesterday evening, she wanted to make a salad, otherwise everything would look after itself. But first she wanted a cup of coffee and to read the papers, to sit at the table and luxuriate in the feeling of having done a good workout. She started the coffee machine and stretched while she waited. She nibbled the head off a marzipan Christmas pig, it belonged to one of the kids—they weren’t really keen on marzipan anyway. She thought that she should take up yoga again. She took her cup—white porcelain, plain—to the table where she sat and browsed through the newspapers. There wasn’t much to read, or perhaps she couldn’t concentrate on what there was. She was eager to tell me about how far she’d been, and about the elk tracks. She opened her laptop and looked at the news. A fire, a bus accident, something about the weather, a piece about the year’s craziest excuses. She didn’t open her email, or check her phone. She rested in the tranquility of the familiar. She heard a door and assumed it was one of the kids going to the loo, but then moments later she heard footsteps on the stairs above, it was me coming down. She straightened up a little and pulled her laptop toward herself, allowing me to see her, before she lifted her head to say hello.
She was still fresh and red-cheeked, she could feel it herself, she’d been out and was pleased with herself. She gave a little stretch as I crossed the room toward her, then she felt my hands on her shoulders, her neck, down her back. I closed my hands over her breasts. They drifted down toward her waist, I felt her skin under her vest, cool to the touch, I grabbed her hips, she knew I liked that, it hinted at sex, which was probably why I did it; it was a signal. I leaned over her and kissed her on the neck, her cheek, her neck again and then the nape of her neck. She turned to face me, and we kissed each other on the mouth. Our lips were dry, so we opened our mouths and kissed with tongues, let our lips grow wet and hot. Everything swelled and yearned to be touched. She reckoned we had just enough time to go to bed before the kids got up. I still had my pajamas on, she stroked my inner thigh. She could feel I’d had the same thought. She put her hand on my crotch, outside my pajama bottoms. She told me how much good it had done her to go skiing, that she’d seen nobody out before daylight. She told me about the elk tracks, about the hollow where an animal had lain, and about the tracks of the skier who had vanished into thin air. She described the other skiers, those who’d arrived only as it grew light, and how they’d mainly been men.
—Typical. All the women are at home making the dinner.
—Precisely. I’m so lucky not to have to live like that.
—You think you’re lucky?
She stroked the small of my back and said
—Yes, very lucky,
and I said you are indeed; there was a pause, then she laughed with a look of feigned outrage, and I said that I’d meant to say I was lucky too. We both laughed, and she said
—Have you had a good morning?
She wanted to ask whether I’d done any writing, but stopped herself. She knew I didn’t like her to ask whether I’d been reading or writing, or what I’d been doing. It was best not to inquire in case I hadn’t achieved anything. She’d learned that I didn’t like to talk about what I was doing, my determination flagged every other day, every other hour, and then I didn’t want to discuss my children’s books or my popular science articles. She also knew that I would sometimes want to after all, that I’d suddenly be eager to talk about my writing, she just never knew when. Which was why she just asked if I’d had a good morning, and I said
—I’ve been reading Simone de Beauvoir. I don’t know why I haven’t read her before.
—Surely you’ve read her before?
—Well, yes, but I put it aside, and I shouldn’t have. She writes with such vitality, such freedom, she writes about love, about devotion, she talks completely openly, it seems. Although it’s quite obvious she’s talking
to Sartre, that her focus is on him and her relationship with him. She writes to him from the US, she went there to visit Nelson Algren, she had a relationship with him, you must know.
—I don’t remember who Nelson Algren was.
—He was an author. I wouldn’t say things were exactly easy between them, although suddenly any problems seem to vanish, when she mentions how they had slept together early one morning. In Chicago, I think, in the cabin they stayed in perhaps. Can you imagine? She writes about sleeping with another man who she’s involved with, telling Sartre how this relationship with Algren has suddenly grown so tender and close, after she’d thought it was so impossible.
—And that was how they lived?
—Yes, but in other letters I’ve read between the two of them, jealousy is clearly at work. They weren’t meant to feel jealousy, but it seems they did. When one of them falls in love with someone else, the other has to find someone to fall in love with too. As though they’re trying to outdo each other. But not this time. She gets so deeply attached to Algren, I think, and she’s full of it when she writes to Sartre, and then it seems so simple. As if it were inescapable, and thus absolutely fine.
—How did he respond?
—Who?
—Sartre?
—I don’t know. I don’t have his letters from that period.
—Shall we have a little lie-down?
—It’s already gone nine, we’ll have to be quick.
—Do you think they’re awake?
—I don’t know.
We followed each other into the bedroom and closed the door as quietly as we could. We had quite big children now, we’d grown up together. We couldn’t count how many times we’d slept together, not that it was important, we weren’t planning to stop. It was more fun to count the times we’d slept with other people before we’d met. Once we’d been inexperienced and awkward in our different worlds. Once we’d hidden from our parents to take off our clothes with boyfriends and girlfriends, and now here we were hiding from our children to be naked together. She pulled off her top and leggings while I watched, then lay down and waited for me to take off her pants (she didn’t like the word knickers, so I never used it). She was wearing boxers anyway. I pulled them off with studied slowness, and said
The Story of a Marriage Page 8