Only Human

by Kristine Naess

  Once in a while, she says to Dr Vold, naturally, I have conjugal duties, as all married women do.

  Dr Vold leans forward in the chair, his elbows on the desk, holding the fountain pen between his hands as he absent-mindedly screws the top on and off, and asks:

  Do you find yourself masturbating on occasion?

  Well, I mean really, she replies, turning her head away. She does not even want to think about it, that sort of thing does not belong in here. The room fades completely to grey, she can vaguely make out the windows, as bright patches far away.

  Dr Vold asks why she wishes he was old, and this time she just tells it like it is, that with age comes experience. That was probably a very stupid thing to say, because now he no doubt thinks she means experience of women, so she hurries to add that, moreover, older men no longer dwell on erotic matters. Now it is getting impossible. Dr Vold is by no means an elderly man, now he must think that she thinks that he harbours such thoughts about her, or even worse, he will assume that she entertains such thoughts about him, which she certainly does not. Or rather, she does, but that has nothing to do with this, with sitting here in his office.

  A man must win his wife over and over again, he then says.

  She feels intense warmth in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps he finds her attractive, he looks at her and would like to have what only Hartvig is entitled to. The purely erotic. Besides, it is true.

  Hartvig is a practical man, she says, but she knows that is not the right word either, it is something else.

  Ah, so he’s good with his hands, Dr Vold says, that’s a fine attribute.

  But Hartvig is by no means skilled in that way, she is, she can both sew and do carpentry. It is more that he is so level-headed. In everything, she says. And quick to reason, but slow when it comes to action.

  He’s perhaps extremely rational?

  Yes, that is the word. She nods. But it is not.

  He can have such a cold look in his eyes, she says. No, I mean ironic. He looks at me as if looking down from a mountaintop.

  Or is it the opposite? Suddenly she is unsure. She can become terribly annoyed when he is too kind and lays his hand upon her, her body becomes too hot, she cannot breathe.

  No, I don’t know, she says, I really don’t know.

  Dr Vold leans back, folds his arms across his chest and nods at something, although she does not know what. He then looks at the clock on the wall and says that their time is up for the day, and she can schedule a new appointment with his secretary, a fortnight should be suitable.

  She gets to her feet, takes one step and picks up the brooch. Holding it in her hand, she can see it resembles one of Mama’s, the shiny green enamel.

  Someone seems to have lost this.

  The doctor thanks her, but barely raises his head, the consultation is finished, he sits making notes in her journal, now she is merely another patient, one of many who come and go, she wants to cry again, does nothing matter?

  She could sew an outfit to match that brooch. She usually listens to the wireless when she sews. It is a recent acquisition, a gift from Hartvig. To offer you some diversion in your spare time, he said, by which he meant a number of things, she understood that. That he had a guilty conscience for being away so much, but would not admit it. Moreover, that he was of the opinion she could do more work than she does. Giving her a radio was a way of saying that. She is not stupid. He does not consider sewing actual work. Not even when she had made him an entire suit had he appreciated the amount of work involved. After all, she was able to sew, so she should just get on with it, there was no more to it. That was the way Hartvig thought. But it was kind of him, to get her a radio. The Heyerdahls do not have one yet.

  It is comforting to listen to the weather forecast, they often broadcast it. She has heard some lectures too, about the home and child-rearing, but that put her so out of sorts, irritable. As if she was not already aware of the mistakes she made. These know-it-alls, Brinchman and Mrs Grude Koht or whatever their names were. She does do one thing right, the boy gets good food and plenty of sleep, wears proper clothing and footwear and gets lots of fresh air in their lovely garden. What they said about not subjecting children to distressing scenes was more difficult. But she knows there are worse things, oh yes, she herself is living proof of that. A sudden and uncontrollable temper. Life is wicked. Oh dear, no, she would rather listen to the music they play, that seems to send waves of gladness over her, as it were, that is a feeling of happiness, she thinks. And then cigarettes, they are like chocolates, she cannot just have as many as she likes. She has to wait at least an hour between each one and the next. At times, she can have both Freia chocolate and her cigarettes out on the table. Smoking is even more enjoyable when you suck on a piece of cooking chocolate at the same time, as well as take a few sips of coffee. No matter if it is lukewarm. She probably drinks at least eight or nine cups a day. The sight of the cigarette packet also makes her happy. She tried out her new brand as soon as they began to advertise it. It was the picture on the packet that attracted her, those clean, deep colours, blue and green, besides, it was new and did not look like any other type she had seen before. She looked at the billboards up at Majorstua and Nationaltheatret stations, and took pleasure in the knowledge that she had just such a packet in her handbag, that she was a part of what was happening, and for once it was something beautiful. Blue Master. She liked the sight of the blue horse rearing up. Oh, she has such a yearning for beauty, she really does. As sensitive people often do.

  Moreover, smoking helps keep her slim.

  She goes into the wardrobe on occasion. She is really good at sewing, everyone says so. She slides the clothes on their hangers, takes out dresses, suits and blouses she has made. She is slender at times, no one can say otherwise. She has lovely outfits, and dainty feet.

  5

  Beate really likes her suntanned skin. She has rolled up her shirtsleeves, the white material accentuates her colour. Her arms are thin, which is nice, but she would rather not have hair on them, although it’s fair and not that thick. She does not dare shave, because then it grows longer, darker and thicker, Selma told her so in second year at school, that you must never shave hair, that just makes it worse. Nor does she want to wax them, she has heard it is really sore, and makes your skin red and bumpy. Besides, now in the summertime, the golden hairs look quite nice against the brown of her skin. Actually, Beate considers, she has, in a way, model’s arms, and is struck by a sense of summer nights, Mediterranean heat, a dark ocean, something cinematic, something she has not experienced or even been close to experiencing. It sweeps over her, followed by a craving she wants to escape from, a disgusting feeling. Like after masturbating.

  Beate walks about, her body an unattainable fantasy for most. Beate is in fact beautiful. She and her body are of course inseparable, yet all the same she is not certain that her body is her. She does not think this in so many words. Beauty is not such a boon as you might be inclined to believe.

  Beate looks in the mirror hanging in the hallway of the functional apartment where she lives. The room is painted white, and the strong light from the energy-saving light bulb in the ceiling makes everything cast sharp shadows. When she moves, the shadows lengthen. The white shirt reaches midway down her thighs, she is wearing her tight faded jeans beneath, nothing is wrong, she is tanned enough, slim enough, pretty enough, the clothes are right, she is pleased and applies deep pink lip gloss.

  Outside, light rain is falling, Beate opens her jacket, the wind blows warm against her throat, small droplets land on her shirt and face. She plugs the earphones into her iPhone, puts on some music and walks out onto Skovveien.

  The music makes Beate happy, it pounds within her. The pavement is wet but the air is warm, she smiles at passing men and their hungry looks, walking past on nimble feet, gazelle, she thinks, graceful, sexy, her nipples chafe against the shirt material and her sandalled feet are moist.

  She is looking forward to the lectu
re. It is strange: a professor stands there speaking in front of a whiteboard. Sometimes searching for words and clicking a little back and forth on her laptop, perhaps pulling down the projection screen to show them a PowerPoint presentation with keywords, graphs and charts. In a way it is pretty boring, while at the same time Beate gets the feeling of something unfamiliar taking root within her, she begins to picture things. Other countries, other times, strange faces. But it requires strenuous, almost unbearable, effort. She feels that somebody wants something from her, it is an exacting, unchecked demand. A hand that wants to drag her in. Further and further in. Into serious matters. Like when she is at Bea Britt’s. It is a relief to go for coffee in the canteen with the others afterwards.

  Sometimes she does not attend the lectures. Today she is going to two: Evil in the history of ideas and What is a childhood? Oh, Beate is so looking forward to it, she cannot get enough of what the lecturer says, everything ignites her interest, clusters images: forests, flames and crucifixions, cries towards the night sky, asylums, hospitals, institutions, muddy farmyards, the beating of child labourers and pauper apprentices, the tiptoe of feet in the drawing rooms of the bourgeoisie, the caning of a hand, china cups, factories and mines. If she had spoken of these things with Bea Britt, she would immediately start talking about the children, with tears in her eyes, the small, defenceless children, alone and vulnerable, how could they feel loved in such circumstances? Beate thinks she herself must be lacking in some essential emotion, because she does not think about the children, she just wants to be there, struggle and decry, speak to the people, move them to protest, go forth together. With a man by her side. A strong man. A handsome one.

  She knows several boys, who like her and shift uneasily when she sits down beside them. Ones who are into music, activist sorts, farm boys, different types. Who smile and whisper things to her, tilt their heads to look at what she is writing in her notebook. Or who just stare straight ahead, stiff with shyness. Diligent students with considerable knowledge, who would gladly include her in their earnest ways and their Sunday hikes, their frozen pizzas and some treat in the form of going to see a film and having a beer, but just one, because they do not squander their money. Sometimes she wishes she was like them, but not so often, because their ascetic way of life rubs off on their way of thinking, making everything so boring and she wants something different, she likes intensity, heated discussions, visions, venturing grandiose analyses, your own. But no matter, they are boys, they are receptive and she likes them, Beate has always liked boys. Girls do not like each other in that way. At least they do not like Beate. She is too pretty. Beate knows the kind of things they think about her, and not only think but say. Badmouthing Beate is a subject all of its own. She is stuck-up, they say, smug, thinks she is pretty and perfect. Or at least that was what it was like in secondary school, now she is not completely sure. There are so many girls at the university here in Blindern. A lot of them are pretty. A lot of them are clever and pretty and slim, all in one.

  Erik is different from the other boys. Good-looking, of course, and neither shy nor serious, on the contrary, he is pushy, jokes and flirts, dares to stick his neck out, asks questions during the lectures and has strong opinions. Fortunately there are always lots of people about when she has talked to him, around a table in the canteen, outside the door to the lecture hall, she does not know how it would go if it were only the two of them. Cringe, so embarrassing.

  She wonders how things would be if she stopped being perfect and pretty. Suppose she goes through a change and is suddenly completely different, ordinary, or ugly, gets loads of spots, puts on weight, what would she do then? Die? She is not quite sure where things are going from here either in, like, the future. That seems so blank, yet filled at the same time, confused and disorderly, and when she ponders it, she always ends up thinking about love and sex, no matter what.

  She has only had sex once and that was during all the end-of-school partying, she regrets that, it was horrible. All the same, she wants so much to experience it again, only in a different way, the next time will be completely different, and she just does not know how she is going to manage to wait, you cannot want something so badly without it happening, it must be right around the corner, maybe already under way.

  She can picture it. Being naked with a man. Him saying: I didn’t know you were so beautiful. Sometimes these images are all she sees, she fantasises about being plunged into a mad love affair, and cannot manage to concentrate on anything else, it can last for hours. She knows, therefore, what it is to love, to be loved, that is how it is. But afterwards, when she is walking on the street, looking around her, it is gone, empty. She sees only trees, houses, lawns, roadways, cars, people, nothing.

  She buys a chocolate bar, but regrets it as soon as she has eaten it, it is only empty calories, her blood sugar will soon fall and she will be starving by teatime, because now she cannot eat lunch. It is either-or, chocolate or an open sandwich, otherwise she will put on weight. Now the whole day is out of balance, she is on the verge of tears.

  She had planned to walk the whole way to the campus at Blindern, across Majorstua, past the students’ union and between the university science labs, but there is not enough time, so she takes the tram and gets off in Majorstua to take the underground. Skipping the lecture had not occurred to her, but she begins to consider it while waiting on the platform. If the train to Holmenkollen comes first, she thinks, I will go up to Bea Britt. The Holmenkollen train does not come first, but she waits for it all the same. She wants to go to Bea Britt’s place. The missing girl, Emilie, has something to do with it. She feels a kind of tension in her body the entire time, the girl is the first thing she thinks of when she wakes up, and she checks the online newspapers on her iPhone before getting out of bed. It is a serious matter, something gruesome has happened, something out of the ordinary, everyone is following it, Beate is not the only one checking the Net more often than usual and turning on the TV to watch the evening news, anxious to hear the latest.

  She can study at Bea Britt’s. She has done it before. Sitting at her kitchen table. Bea Britt does things around the house then. More often than not in the living room, the door ajar, and Beate can see her sitting on the sofa with her eyes closed, or sometimes listening to music or watching TV. She can go out to the garden, be gone for a while and return with something in her hands. Flowers, maybe, or tomatoes, plums and apples if it is autumn. Now and again she will work at the kitchen bench even though Beate is reading in the same room. Cut vegetables, cook, bake. Sigh, stop what she is doing and look out the window. Make a comment if someone passes by on the quiet road. There’s the man in the baseball cap, she will say, he’s at the gate gawking again. Beate will go over and stand beside her. It is not the first time she has seen him, Bea Britt has pointed him out before. A loner, Beate says, or, actually he seems a little backward, I think, retarded. Always wearing that cap, and just standing there, even though he must know we can see him.

  No, Bea Britt will then say, he’s not retarded, it’s something else.

  A nutter then, Beate says, returning to her books. There is a limit for how strange a person can be, she thinks, feeling suddenly irritated. Bea Britt always has to make a problem out of things, nothing is allowed to just be normal.

  Sometimes she will see Bea Britt write something in a notebook, but only on rare occasions. Seldom, considering she is a writer. What does she think about? She looks as though she is pondering something so intently, her features darkened.

  Whatever she is reading has a different effect on her when she reads it at Bea Britt’s. It takes on a darker cast she does not understand. It might be due to Bea Britt taking everything she says so seriously. She listens and responds as though they are talking about profound, inescapable truths, things you have to take in, yes, almost take on and suffer for. If Beate brings up something about the plight of some children in the seventeenth century, the events seem to grow and somehow meld with the kitche
n, they are face to face with them, with all the terrible things which befell them, and life outside, here and now in Slemdal, hardly exists. It is as though Bea Britt has everything within her the entire time. The whole world in her body and the more that comes the more she is filled. It cannot be good. But all the same, it is as if Beate needs to be in proximity with it. Even though what is written in her books assumes unfathomable depths at Bea Britt’s kitchen table, threatening to drag her down into the darkness. She needs it. For everything written to have physical meaning. The thought of having sex fades when she is here.

  It is dark and raining outside. Beate lies down on the sofa. Bea Britt has taken some berries from the freezer and is making redcurrant jelly at the worktop, the radio is on but the volume is low. It must be a repeat of BluesAsylet, because she can hear the voice of presenter Knut Borge between songs. Bea Britt’s sofa is soft and deep. Beate places a cushion under her head to avoid feeling as though she is sinking down into all the softness. Through the window, she sees the branches of the huge birch tree swaying in the wind. The street lamps are on, their light reflected in the raindrops on the pane.

  Beate dozes, but now and again the music on the radio pulls her back up to the surface, the tones seem so powerful out of context, then she nods off again, but she is not aware of doing so before she wakes to hear Bea Britt crying in the kitchen. Beate sits up and coughs, places her feet heavily on the floor and coughs once more before going out to the kitchen. Perhaps they have found that girl, has there been some news on the radio she did not catch? But Bea Britt is not crying any longer and neither does she say anything about the Emilie case.

  Do you know that girl who’s gone missing? Beate asks.

  No, Bea Britt replies. She’s just a girl I usually see walking by with her dog. That’s why it feels so close, more real somehow, when I know who she is.