Encircling 2

by Carl Frode Tiller

  “Thanks,” she says, smiling.

  But I don’t stop pouring, I’m deliberately slow to react, fill the glass almost to the brim.

  “Whoa, whoa,” she says.

  And then I stop pouring. I look at her and smile innocently, but she’s onto me, she smiles slyly back at me and I immediately feel a little ripple of happiness run through me. It’s kind of like a sign that smile, a sign that we both want the same thing from this evening. We’re going to get nicely drunk and chill out together.

  “There you go,” I say, putting the bottle down on the table.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  I sit down on the sofa, pick up my whisky glass and take a little sip. It’s good to be past that tricky patch. I feel a surge of happiness, feel my spirits lift, and I have the urge to say or do something to show this, but I’d best wait a while, I mustn’t overdo it and seem too chirpy, otherwise Helen might find this brighter mood too good to be true and then she could take it into her head to destroy it all again, I know her. A moment passes, then I put a hand to my back and wince a little, I don’t even have to think about it, I’ve resorted to this ploy so often that it’s quite instinctive. I try to hide my happiness by pretending that my back hurts.

  “Ow,” I say, half-closing my eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” Helen asks. “Is your back hurting again?”

  “No, no,” I say, but my hand’s still pressed to the small of my back, I’m still wincing. “It’s okay,” I say, trying to sound like I’m putting a brave face on it.

  “Are you sure?” she asks. I look at her and nod, it feels good to have her show concern like this.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, taking my hand away from my back. “It comes and goes, I’m not sure what it is.”

  “Well, if it goes on like this you’ll have to see the doctor,” she says.

  “Nah,” I say.

  “Yes, promise me you will,” she says, putting on a worried expression, overdoing it a little, but it feels good nonetheless and I laugh and wag my head, like I’m playing down the pain in my back, letting her know that it hurts but that I can live with it.

  “Men,” she says, shaking her head despairingly.

  I chuckle softly and take a little sip of my whisky. “Just have to go to the bathroom,” I say, and I go to the bathroom, pee and return to Helen. Her glass is already empty, she’s sitting hunched over her magazine and doesn’t look at me, so I seize the chance to pick up the bottle and fill her glass again. She looks up when she hears the faint glug-glug of the wine.

  “Are you pouring me another glass?” she says, but she’s only saying it for appearance’s sake, I know her, she feels like getting drunk every bit as much as I do, but she likes to think that I’m leading her on.

  “Huh?” I say, giving her a kind of puzzled look as I carry on pouring, act as if I’m not quite with her.

  “Oh, well,” she says. “One more glass can’t hurt.”

  “No, I’m sure it can’t,” I say with a little laugh as I put down the bottle, a laugh designed to encourage her to drink with a clear conscience.

  “Well, if I get drunk tonight, on your head be it,” she says, and then she looks me straight in the eye and smiles that kittenish smile of hers.

  “I’ll take full responsibility,” I say, with a little laugh. “But maybe we should go down to the beach and have our drinks there,” I say. “Seeing as we’ve got a babysitter and all,” I add.

  “Oh, yes, let’s do that,” Helen says brightly, looking at me with wide, rather eager eyes. It feels good to see her like this. Okay, so she’s overdoing it a bit, pretending to be slightly more enthusiastic and delighted by this idea than she actually is, but it makes me happy anyway. I smile at her, have the urge to pay her a compliment or something.

  Moments pass and I’m just about to tell her that she has the loveliest eyes I’ve ever seen, but I don’t get the chance, because suddenly there’s a knock at the door.

  “Yeah?” I call out.

  I stay where I am on the sofa, my eye on the door and who should come in but Per, his massive body almost filling the doorway. He looks at me and grins, standing there in camouflage pants and a white T-shirt several sizes too small that’s probably meant to show off his muscular chest and shoulders. I look at him. I’m not really in the mood for visitors right now, I’m a bit too tired to want any company but Helen’s, but I return his grin and try to look pleased that he’s dropped in, what else can I do?

  “Well, hello there,” I say. “It’s yourself, is it?”

  “Me and none other,” he says, marching into the living room. After a moment Helen gets up and heads towards the kitchen. “You don’t have to go on my account, you know,” Per says with a look of mock surprise. He eyes Helen for a second, then he lets out that loud, bluff laugh of his. He looks at Helen, then at me and I chuckle and act as if to say: nice one, very funny.

  “No, I just thought I might get you something to drink, that’s all,” Helen says.

  “Oh, well in that case, don’t let me fuckin’ stop you,” Per says with another laugh. “Right, well, I’d better sit down before I fall down, eh,” he says, and he drops down onto the leather armchair, cups his hands round his knees and sits there looking at me. He’s about to say something, but before he can get that far:

  “D’you want whisky or wine, Per?” Helen calls from the kitchen.

  “Whisky or wine?” Per repeats. “Only a townie would ask a question like that,” he says, and he looks at me and grins, and I grin back, feel I kind of have to.

  “What?” Helen shouts from the kitchen.

  “Are you trying to insult me?” Per calls back. He slides forward to the edge of the seat, with a look on his face that says he’s only joking, then he sits there with his eyes fixed on the floor and the corners of his mouth twitching with sly merriment. He moistens his lips and waits expectantly for Helen’s reaction.

  “What d’you mean by that, you stupid bastard?” Helen asks. There’s not much she can’t handle, she’s neither upset nor shocked by Per’s way of talking and Per likes that, I can tell. He looks at me and gives a little laugh, then he plants a hand on his knee again and turns towards the kitchen, smiles slyly and smacks his lips, as if to let me know that he’s about to fire off another witty remark.

  “Excuse me, did my wrist look limp to you when I walked in?” he calls. “Hmm?” he adds. There’s silence for a moment, then I hear Helen laughing in the kitchen. “Fuck no,” Per goes on. “You can keep your goddamn Ribena, gimme a whisky,” he says, and then he turns to me and lets out a big, booming hohoho, and I look at him and laugh back, try to laugh as heartily as him, but I can’t quite manage it, it comes out as a half-hearted chuckle and I quickly lift my glass to my lips so he won’t notice, I take a sip and put my glass down again.

  “Just bring the bottle, Helen,” I say.

  “See, now there speaks a real man,” Per cries.

  “Oh, yeah, you’re such big men, you two,” Helen says, coming into the living room with the whisky bottle and a glass for Per. “But maybe we should just go down to the beach now,” she says, “while it’s still warm and sunny?”

  “Yeah, let’s do that,” I say.

  “I just have to pack a few things,” she says, putting the bottle and glass down on the table and disappearing back into the kitchen. I pour a drink for Per and fill up my own glass.

  “Thanks,” he says, wrapping his great mitt around his glass. “I’m half-cut already. I’ve just left Knut and his lady friend, you see, and they got out the gin,” he adds before taking a little slug of whisky.

  “Lady friend?” I say, looking at him in amazement.

  Per smacks his lips, takes his time answering. He sets his glass down on the table and grins at me. He must be enjoying the feeling of having some news to tell and he’s trying to prolong the pleasure by not giving it all away at once.

  “Knut’s got himself a lady friend?”

  “Uh-huh, you mean you h
adn’t heard?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, well,” he says.

  Two seconds.

  “Aw, come on, out with it, man!” I say, raising my voice, letting him know that I’m as impatient to hear more as he wants me to be. He’s enjoying this, I can tell, it’s like the news he has to tell becomes bigger the more impatient I am to hear it, and he laughs happily.

  “Well, you see,” he says. “Three or four weeks ago Knut replied to one of those ads in the personal column. From this Russian woman. And now, fuck me if she hasn’t gone and moved in with him.”

  I realize I’m sitting there gawking at him.

  “Must’ve been love at first sight, eh?” It just comes out.

  And Per laughs that big, booming laugh of his again. I stare at him for a moment, then I burst out laughing too. I feel a little twinge of guilt for laughing at Knut like this, but it was funny and I can’t help it.

  “Yep, must have been,” Per says, coughing and spluttering a bit as his laughter dies away. “But for fuck’s sake,” he says, “I mean I know there aren’t that many women to choose from here on the island, but to actually go and buy a Russian female,” he says, and he looks at me and shakes his head sadly. I don’t say anything for a moment, pick up my whisky and take a sip. He’s probably trying to draw me into talking shit about Knut now; he’s pretty desperate to have a wife and kids himself, Per, and he can’t resist the chance to talk about how desperate other people are, I know. Maybe he’s had this same thought, maybe he’s considered getting himself a Russian female, and now he wants to check what I and other folk would think of that, testing the water to see whether we would laugh at him behind his back if he did. I wouldn’t put it past him.

  I put down my glass.

  “And guess how old she is?” he says, nodding at me as he says it.

  “No!”

  “Twenty-three!”

  He roars with laughter and points at me. “I know—that’s exactly how I looked when I heard,” he says.

  “And he’s what … forty-six, forty-seven?” I ask.

  “Forty-six.”

  “Wow,” I say.

  “What the fuck do you have to talk about with an age difference like that,” Per wonders.

  “I don’t think polite conversation is quite what Knut has in mind.” And we both burst out laughing. I look at Per as he slaps his thigh and gives that big booming laugh of his, a laugh that fills the whole room, and I chuckle happily, pick up my whisky glass and take a sip. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, I feel kind of bad for making fun of Knut for hooking up with a Russian female. I should really say something to let Per know that I don’t see anything wrong with it, but I don’t have the chance because just then Helen comes back into the living room carrying a blanket in one hand and a wicker basket in the other.

  “You’ve no room to talk, you’re eight years older than me, remember,” she says with a nod to me. She takes the bottles from the table and pops them in the basket.

  “Yeah, but I never said I was looking for polite conversation either, did I?” I retort. I turn to Per. He looks at me, then he slaps his thigh and roars with laughter again and I chuckle again.

  Three seconds.

  “Look at you, talking so big now that your friend’s here,” Helen says.

  I turn to her, she looks me straight in the eye and suddenly that cold, hard smile is back on her face, an angry, almost menacing smile. I don’t say anything for a moment, just feel the laughter fading on my lips.

  “Nah, I’m only joking,” I say, trying to keep my smile in place.

  “Oh, is that what you’re doing?” she says.

  Silence.

  I give her a look that says please don’t, my eyes begging her not to grab this chance to fly off the handle, but she’s not about to oblige me. She holds my gaze for a second or two then she picks up her wine glass, knocks back what’s left in it and puts it in the basket too, then she blinks calmly, almost carelessly, turns and looks at Per.

  “Well, shall we head down to the beach?” she says.

  “Yeah!” Per cries. He doesn’t seem to have caught any of this, he slaps his thighs and jumps up. I try to catch Helen’s eye, but she’s not having it, her glance kind of sweeps past me as she turns around and walks toward the terrace door. I sit where I am for another moment or two then I get up slowly from the sofa, watching Helen’s back, tense and rigid as she marches off across the terrace. All it took was one rather tasteless little joke and she’s a completely different person than she was only moments ago. She’s slipped back down into that black hole, that hostile mood again, or at least she looks as though she has. I feel a flicker of unease as I walk out the door.

  We cross the lawn. The terrace door of the cottage stands slightly open and the voices on the television can be heard all the way over here. Sounds like Dad’s watching the football—World Cup semi-finals or whatever it is. We take the path down to the shore, no one says a word and the unease grows inside me, there’s no telling what Helen might do when she’s in this mood, she’s liable to do anything, especially when the wine really starts to kick in. We stroll down the little hill, over the dry, yellow grass and across to the tables and benches on the beach, still without a word being said. An oystercatcher stands on a rock, piping away, and from across the water comes the low chug-chug of a fishing smack. Other than that all’s quiet.

  “Better get some wood for the fire,” I say, making no move to start looking for it myself. It’s a good way to get rid of Per for a while. I’d like to have a word with Helen without him around.

  “I’m on it,” Per says, just as I thought he would, playing the man of action he so wants to be. He wanders off whistling towards the little sandy beach that runs along the edge of the forest, he must have spotted some driftwood over there. I wait till he’s out of earshot then I turn to Helen. She’s set herself down on the bench, sits there with her eyes closed, letting the sun warm her face.

  “Is something the matter?” I ask.

  “No,” she says, but she says it in a short, offhand sort of a way designed to let me know that this isn’t true. She doesn’t even open her eyes when she says it, just sits there, soaking up the sun. I don’t say anything for a moment, just stand there watching her, and I’m about to say that I have the feeling she’s annoyed at me, but I don’t get that far because suddenly she opens her eyes and smiles at me, and it’s as if all her anger is suddenly gone, it’s like turning off a switch, and now she looks genuinely happy.

  “What could possibly be the matter?” she asks, smiling and looking at me as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I don’t answer right away, I feel a bit confused, simply stand there staring at her. Moments pass.

  “Oh, nothing,” I say. My heart sinks a little at these abrupt changes in her mood, but I smile and give a little shake of my head as I bend down to the basket and take out the bottles. These sudden shifts, these mood swings, they confuse me, and maybe that’s the whole idea, I wouldn’t put it past her. I’m not sure if she’s doing it deliberately, but she might feel that confusing me is a way of controlling me, like she doesn’t want me to know where I have her, so she uses my insecurity to control me and make me the way she wants me to be. This is just one of many ploys she’s learned to use earlier in her life, I suppose. When you get beaten and pushed around and have no say in anything whatsoever, obviously you’re going to find other, more covert ways of gaining power, and this is no doubt one of them. I pour whisky for myself and Per and a glass of wine for Helen, pick up her glass and hand it to her.

  “Thanks,” she says, eyeing me.

  And then Per appears. He didn’t pick up the driftwood after all. Instead he’s lugging an enormous tree root, he’d have done better to bring some of that driftwood, but Per is Per and he’ll never change. He’s like a little kid sometimes, and now he wants to show how strong he is.

  “Wow,” Helen says. “Isn’t that heavy?”

  “Heavy?” Per says, as if he d
oesn’t know what she’s talking about. He stands there with this enormous root in his hands, as if to let Helen know it weighs so little to him that he can’t even be bothered to put it down while he’s talking to her. He’s so transparent that I’m almost embarrassed for him, but I can’t help liking him for it as well, there’s something sweet, something reassuring almost, about his rather simple way of behaving and I realize I kind of like it.

  “Yes, heavy,” Helen says, looking at him and laughing.

  Per eyes her for a moment in mock bewilderment then he turns to me and shakes his head. He drops the root onto the ground with a crash and brushes off some bits of bark and dirt that have stuck to his T-shirt.

  “Aw, that’s nothing to a big strapping man like Per,” I say, feeling this fondness for him and saying something I know he’ll appreciate.

  “Ah, I don’t know. I used to be in pretty good shape, but my body’s not what it was,” he adds, as if it’ll look better if he makes light of my words of praise, lend more credence to the compliment while at the same time making him seem like a man who doesn’t like to blow his own trumpet. “But you don’t really need to be that strong now,” he goes on. “Twenty or thirty years ago a farmer needed to have a bit of muscle,” he says, “but now …,” he looks at Helen, nods at her, “… with all the farm machinery we have nowadays, you could run the farm as well as I can, I’m sure.” Then he turns to me and grins. “They soon won’t need us men at all, Ole,” he says, and he bends down, grasps one of the thickest branches on the root. “And then it won’t matter so much if our bodies aren’t what they used to be,” he says, squeezing out a yawn as he snaps the branch in two.

  “Oh, I think you’re wearing pretty well,” Helen says. She laughs and nods at the snapped branch, letting him see that she’s impressed as well.

  “Thanks,” Per says. “I try to stay reasonably fit, obviously,” he says, and then he turns to me. “Well I have to, you see, for the ladies. If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that women are lying when they say they don’t like a bit of muscle, so from that point of view the old biceps do still come in handy,” he says and then he turns to Helen again. “Isn’t that right, that women are lying when they say they don’t like muscles on a man?” he asks her, laughing, then he pauses, turns to me again with a taunting look in his eyes. He’s like a little kid, making fun of me because I’m not as muscular as him.