The Story of a Marriage

by Geir Gulliksen

  * * *

  —

  The front door wasn’t locked. She put her skis in the hallway, took off her boots as quietly as she could. She walked softly and calmly into the light. I wasn’t in my usual place in the kitchen. She knew by the silence in the house that the kids were asleep. Our youngest boy breathed deeply and audibly, the door to the oldest was closed. The ceiling light was on, and a pile of papers lay on the kitchen table.

  She called my name but there was no answer. She glanced through the papers, they were the plans of the house. What would I be doing with those? Then she heard me, I was coming up from the basement, up the spiral staircase that we’d been so proud of when we had it installed, white and smooth like a skeleton. She saw me as I climbed through the vertebrae, dark and ominous against the white.

  We looked at each other, she said Hi, I was a bit late after all. She didn’t get an answer to that either. I said I hadn’t heard her come in. She thought I looked quite happy, perhaps she could relax. I was, after all, the person she always confided in, even about Gunnar. She told me a story he’d just told her. He’d received a call from a man who’d been a former neighbor. They’d had a couple with kids living next door to their previous house. They used to chat over the fence, sometimes they had dinner at each other’s houses, their kids played together. One day the neighbor’s wife had put her hand on Gunnar’s cheek, in front of everybody. She’d stroked his face, and then left. They’d had no contact with each other since Gunnar and his wife had moved here. But now this old neighbor, the man, had rung Gunnar to tell him that they were getting a divorce, and that their break-up was Gunnar’s fault. His wife, he said, thought about nothing but Gunnar and it couldn’t go on. That was the story. And she laughed as she told it, just as she had with Gunnar. But I just stared at her, shaking my head as though I didn’t understand.

  —That’s a weird story.

  —Yes, isn’t it?

  —There’s something that doesn’t quite fit. Don’t you see? There’s something missing in this story. What did he do to her?

  —Nothing, they were just neighbors.

  —So Gloveman is someone that everyone just simply falls in love with? It’s beyond his control?

  —I didn’t say that.

  —But that’s what he’s said. That was probably what he wanted you to hear, don’t you think?

  —He just told me about something that had happened to him.

  —But what do you think he said to her? When they talked, this woman and Gloveman, what sort of conversations do you think they had? Do you think he talked to her in the same way as he talks to you?

  —No, I don’t think so.

  —But imagine if he did. Imagine if he had just as close a relationship with her as he has with you, and then he just went off. Maybe they slept together, or maybe he simply got the confirmation he needed from her, and that was enough. Why did they move, do you know?

  —They’ve got three children, they needed more space.

  —Is that all? Are you sure?

  She regretted telling me, she’d only meant to share an amusing little anecdote with me. It also occurred to her that she might have brought a certain slant of her own to the story, a certain pride in Gunnar, in his being a man that other women fell for. Why shouldn’t she share that with me? After all, I wanted her to share everything. But now she decided she couldn’t tell me about Gunnar anymore, it had taken a completely wrong turn. She didn’t want to hear another word about him from me. She pointed at the documents on the table, and said

  —What are you doing with those?

  —It’s a floor plan of the house.

  —I can see that.

  —I thought we’d need it if we’re going to talk to an agent.

  —An agent?

  —An estate agent.

  —Are you thinking we should sell the house?

  —I think we should go far away and start again. Do you remember we talked about living in the Lofoten Isles for a year? I think we should do it. As soon as possible, actually.

  —The Lofotens?

  —Yes, or even further north perhaps. Finnmark, Svalbard. You’ll like it. You can go skiing as often as you like. You can walk in the mountains, climb. I’d like to start too, in fact.

  —But my job is here.

  —You can get a job anywhere. You’re a doctor.

  —But I like my job here.

  —I know.

  —I know you know.

  —I’m not sure why you started working behind a desk.

  —You encouraged me.

  —I encourage you in whatever you want. But now we’ve got to get out of here.

  —Why?

  —To save our love. Our life. The family.

  —Surely things aren’t that bad.

  —I’m afraid so.

  —But need you be so afraid?

  —You won’t stop seeing him. You won’t be able to.

  —Do I have to stop seeing him? We’re just good friends.

  —You’re attracted to him. You fancy him.

  —Yes, I know I’ve said that.

  —And he wants you.

  —I can’t be sure of that. And neither can you.

  —He wants you, that’s obvious. And you want him. And I want you to be free, to do what you want, with whoever you want, you know that.

  —But suddenly that’s no longer valid?

  —You’re my wife and lover. I don’t want you to stop being that.

  —I’ve not said that I want that to stop.

  —No?

  —No.

  —I’m worried that you’re not in control of the situation. You don’t know what you’re doing.

  —I’ve got a new friend. A friend. Oughtn’t it be possible—between the two of us more than any—for me to have a friend who just happens to be a man?

  —Absolutely. But I no longer recognize you. You’re never here with me these days. I’m frightened that everything’s going to fall apart, don’t you understand?

  —I can’t quit my job. I can’t move.

  —Why not?

  —I want him in my life.

  She said it, and she felt her eyes start to smart, the surface of her face start to burn, her hands, her toes, her knees, her groin, her earlobes start to burn. She let the tears run, it was like pissing on yourself, or like vomiting. She cried, she didn’t turn away, didn’t dry her face, just continued to look at me as the tears ran.

  * * *

  —

  I got up and walked away, I leaned on the kitchen worktop and turned toward her and said

  —is that how it is?

  and she said

  —yes

  and I said

  —you won’t stop?

  and she said

  —I can’t,

  and I said

  —you won’t stop seeing him? Whatever it leads to?

  and she said

  —I can’t,

  and I said

  —Okay, then I have to surrender, I have to find a way to hold out,

  and she said

  —does it have to be so difficult?

  and I said

  —but have you thought about how this will end?

  and she said

  —what do you mean by how it will end?

  and I said

  —what will happen to us, to you and me, and between you and him, have you thought about it? If you like him so much, where will it end? How will things be between us in the end?

  And then she said, in a toneless voice, unwillingly, she noted it herself:

  —No, I have not.

  * * *

  —

  She doesn’t want to think about such discussions now, why would she, she wants to mo
ve on, still they come back to her, out of nowhere. She’ll be sitting in the car, running up a staircase, staring into her computer at work, and my face will suddenly appear before her. The thought of my face. And she’ll remember something we said, the way I leaned toward her, my voice when it grew harsh and fearful. There was something in my eyes that would never relent. She wanted to avoid my gaze, to look away, but couldn’t. I was her husband, her lover, the man she lived with. Everything hinged on the fact we had once met and fixed each other’s gaze. And because of that she sat there and absorbed the fury and despair that I’d built up in all those hours that we were apart, until in the end it subsided, burned itself out and faded.

  She remembers how I sat down in the chair and turned away. I wiped my hand over my face, again and again, I wanted to tear it off, to leave my old face behind and go on without it. She remembers all this, sees it before her, hears our voices within that room that no longer exists. My voice that hounds her and never lets up, the voice that goes on arguing, brutal and relentless in its insistence that everything I fear is true. And she tries to maintain a distance. Her voice grows lighter, more breathy and less resonant, she can barely hear herself. No, it’s not like that. No, why do you say that? No, no, I don’t know, no.

  She remembers it, remembers it all, puts a hand over her eyes, and then lets it pass, lets it sink to the bottom, and forgets it again.

  * * *

  —

  A two-story house, in a neat row of other identical houses. A quiet street. Black-stained timber walls. White foundation walls and window frames. A red front door, which she often misses. She liked to come home, it looked as though the house was in the middle of a forest, a fairy-tale house. Though the door wasn’t arched on top, and the house wasn’t really in the middle of a forest. At the back was a little garden with gnarled old fruit trees. The trees were much older than the houses, they were originally planted as part of a huge orchard belonging to one big farmstead. The district got its name from this farmstead. The local school and shopping center were also named after it, long after its demolition.

  These terrace houses had been built in the 1960s, and now it looked as if the trees had been planted within the fences: four little trees in each little garden. One of the trees in our garden had a strong, low-hanging branch, perfect for a swing. In fact the previous occupants had made one. A raw plank of wood with two coarse ropes, the kind of swing you’d imagine in a sun-glinting dream of childhood. Our children often sat there, stretching their legs with their chubby bare knees. And whenever they sat on the swing, they’d start to sing. First the older one, then the next. Each summer and all summer one of our children would sit on that swing and sing, all through the years, it seemed, for as long as the little dream of our family lasted.

  * * *

  —

  And now she had come home, and I had waited for her, and I had said What will happen to us? and How do you think this will end ? She couldn’t think about it, couldn’t talk about it, needed to keep it to herself, and she said

  —Shouldn’t we just go to bed?

  and I said

  —Do you want to?

  and she said

  —Yes, please, I’m so tired.

  And so we did, we got undressed together and got into bed together and lay side by side. We couldn’t sleep. She turned to me and stroked my cheek, she put her arms round my neck. She felt my hand on her hip, she moved closer to me and then we started again, those gentle sounds, the murmuring and laughter and whispers, and she lay on her back, and I lay on top of her, and she said

  —do you want to?

  and I said

  —yes

  and she said

  —come on then

  and I said

  —all right

  and then she heard me say

  —our hearts must never close.

  Could I really have said that? Like a refrain from a second-class pop song, she was sure I had, and it said something about just how far things had gone with us, with me, and she said

  —no

  and then she said

  —yes

  and then she said

  —I love you!

  even though she thought she shouldn’t have said it, not now, but still she said it, and we both said it, we yelled it into each other’s faces, shouted it so it might be true again and she put her arms around my back and hands on my neck. She clawed at my back, felt with her nails for any unevenness in my skin. She heard me say something, but for her my voice had melted away. She felt her pulse beating in her ears, as though a carpenter was somewhere in the house banging a hammer on the walls. A moment later she must have fallen asleep. She was woken by the lamp going out, and by my lifting her thigh. She felt me enter her again, and she heard me say how lovely she was, how lovely it had been between us, that I wanted her one more time. My voice was warm in her ear, I was confident and sure, I was no longer fearful. She had made me feel safe, or we had made each other feel safe. I asked if she’d had a good ski trip, and she said she had. I wanted her to tell me about it, she told me where they’d gone, how far away it was, how lovely and how tranquil. She described the sound of their skis, the fresh fallen snow, the ski tracks, the moonlight, the shadows of the trees in the ice-blue snow. She heard me ask who had gone first, and she knew where I wanted to take this. She said that in the beginning he’d gone first, and that she’d watched him. I asked if she thought he was handsome, and she said yes, he was handsome, he held himself well, he was strong and walked with a fine rhythm. I moved inside her, she heard herself breathing and heard me say that I could see him before me, his back, his back on top of her. I said that I knew it would happen, it had to happen, there was no other way, one day she would lie as she lay now, on her back in bed with him on top of her. She heard me say that I wished I could be there then, that I could see her then, see her hands on his bare back as he lay on top of her.

  —That’s just something you say, she said.

  —Yes, I said. But I do see it, and I know it’s going to happen.

  —You won’t be able to tolerate it.

  —I will. As long as I know that you’re mine, you can do anything.

  —I don’t believe that one bit.

  —Wait and see, it’ll happen.

  —You really believe it? You’d offer me up to him?

  * * *

  —

  Et cetera, et cetera. She doesn’t want to think about it anymore. But she can’t stop thinking about it. About how she lay under me in the dark and imagined herself elsewhere, in another bed, with another man, with him. And how when we had both come, I no longer wanted to talk about him, that it was as if he had suddenly ceased to exist, and this troubled her in a way that she couldn’t even understand herself. All I wanted was to hold her close, to lie with my face in her neck.

  Fortunately I fell asleep after that, and slept through the night without waking her. The following day we both got up, she took a shower, I woke the kids and we had breakfast. The kids went to school, first the youngest, then the oldest, then the house was empty, apart from the two of us. She was nervous I’d start to question her. She needed to go, she got ready, put on the dark green skirt that reached just above the knee, and the white blouse that was too tight across the shoulders. She knew it did something to me, though that was no longer her reason for choosing it. She put on some eyeliner, just a touch, so faint it was almost invisible, but it gave her confidence. I stood and watched her.

  —Are you going to meet him today?

  —I’m just having a coffee with him after work.

  —You’re making yourself nice for him.

  —I’m only trying to look my best. As usual.

  —Yes, but now you’re doing it for him.

  —Have you got a problem with that?

  I shook my head. My eyes
were glassy. She had to rush out. She pushed me gently aside, went to find her bag, her phone, everything she needed. I followed her, I hadn’t shaved yet, hadn’t taken a shower, my hair was sticking out like a bush on one side of my head, evidence of which side I’d slept on.

  —Will you get together with him, d’you think?

  —That’s not a scenario we need to contemplate.

  —Scenario? I don’t understand what you mean.

  —I don’t think it’ll happen.

  —You know, you don’t need to lose me if you get together with him.

  —I don’t think you could handle it.

  —What won’t I handle?

  —Not being number one for me.

  —Number one?

  —Yes.

  —Would I be number two?

  —Yes.

  I stood and looked at her, a book in one hand and a glass in the other. My face was red and blotchy, as though I’d been slapped. She thought: I need to go now before this goes too far, otherwise it might take all day. She said:

  —I feel so much affection for you, Jon.

  And that was wrong, of course, she shouldn’t have said it, she shouldn’t have used that phrase, she realized that instantly. She watched the color drain from my face, and then return almost immediately. She could see I was irritated, or agitated, as though I’d gone into meltdown and was trying to pull myself back together. I threw my book on the floor, went to the sink and emptied the glass, set the glass down, too hard. I said something about it not helping if she pitied me. She said she really had to leave for work now. It was as if our jobs meant nothing to me any more, as if I was hell-bent on creating a drama, beyond which nothing else existed. Not that she could say that, of course.

  We stood and looked at each other.

  She took her bag and scarf.

  And then, as so often before, my face somehow softened.

  I went over to her and gave her a hug. She returned it, she felt me kiss her cheek. A little too wet for her liking. She looked up at me, I was taller than her, though not as tall as him, and the difference surprised her. But she mustn’t think about that now. I drew her close and said in her ear