She changed everything around, rewrote the lists, rearranged the order of things. Because he always had to be the one who decided. He wanted to be right, and was right, because he was precise and his memory was accurate. But that list, oh, it made her sick. That man’s level of painstaking accuracy. He had kept an account of their mutual possessions, but never forgotten that they were placed in his house. Now he shrank her, now she saw how little her contribution was worth. She was to leave their home, with the few belongings she had brought into the household. What they had obtained between them was to be divided and although she could claim sole ownership of some items, gifts and heirlooms that had come into her possession during their time together, there were not many.
Cessi, she wrote, drawing a thick red line beneath. Of course she did not have a typewriter as he did, her lists did not look as credible as his, but still. Hartvig, she wrote in red in the margin: I am the one who sews, certainly not you, so it is only fair and reasonable that I should have the new electric clothes iron. After all, I will be keeping your – our – children’s clothes in order. I have been stripped of everything but the children shall not suffer because of it, they shall be well turned out in their clothes. I want the iron, even though it was your father who gave it to us as a present:
1 electric iron
1 copper pot – small – antique, 3 legs
1 copper pot with round handle
1 copper teakettle
1 pewter jug
1 porcelain standard lamp
1 wrought-iron wall lamp
2 table lamps, metal
1 lamp stand, broken
3 electric heaters
1 iron biscuit mould
1 waffle iron
1 alarm clock
12 demitasses
12 dessert plates
2 large serving dishes
1 antique white tureen
1 antique white faience bowl
6 antique crystal goblet glasses
1 antique crystal sugar bowl
The crystal jam bowls are mine, Hartvig, they come from my family. Likewise the crystal saucers. So you were wrong on that count.
3 antique crystal carafes
3 jam spoons
1 cold-cuts fork
1 cake server
1 baking tin
2 soup ladles
1 potato dish
3 fruit knives
2 ashtrays
8 flat white plates
8 deep white plates
1 wringer
1 vacuum cleaner
1 laundry basket
1 zinc tub
1 enamel bucket
1 ironing board with sleeve arm
1 electric kitchen stove
1 Jøtul wood-burning stove
2 antique travel chests
1 antique wooden food box
1 sewing table
4 mahogany chairs
2 Windsor chairs
1 escritoire w/ top
1 corner cupboard (birch, two parts)
1 drop-leaf table
2 armchairs w/ cushions
2 oilcloth chairs
1 large white mirror. 1 large bathroom mirror
2 yellow beds
2 yellow bedside tables
1 folding bed
2 kitchen stools
2 angel pictures
1 painting of my mother
2 photographs (my family)
Various vases and ornaments
There, but you must also find me a place to live. Whatever were you thinking? I have no means, no savings. I can hardly work, I am sick, Hartvig, being heartsick makes me bodily weak, one thing is a consequence of the other.
Only now does she think about the garden. They had sowed potatoes at the start of the war, there were berry bushes from before but they planted several more, Hartvig loved the garden, not her, it was too much, that goes without saying. Or rather, she was not sure. She missed it dearly now, that delightful, big green garden. Her garden, after all. They hired help to tend it, different sorts. Young men. Oh, to be young again, free to dream of healthy, firm bodies, tender, strong embraces. Not that it was so nice to be young. No. It was horrible. But when she saw those young bodies now – that soldier they had as help before they were all sent home. He came into her kitchen with potatoes in that big wire basket, small clods of clay sprinkling on the floor, but she said nothing about that, stood instead in the doorway looking at that slender, taut behind in blue overalls as he bent over to put the basket down. She would so dearly have liked to have taken hold of it. Squeezed it, had him between her thighs, yes. He had a broad upper torso tapering into a narrow waist, and powerful muscles in his upper arms that tensed when he was carrying something heavy. That was a lovely autumn. Big, soil-flecked carrots sticking up between the potatoes. The girl transferred them to a tub and began scrubbing them vigorously. The soldier’s eyes on her, it was unavoidable, unfair. Men were brutal. They went for young flesh. Golden potatoes, she and Hartvig weighed them, almost 150 kg that autumn the soldier was there, in ’45.
No, she liked the garden, anything else was a lie. Hartvig told lies about her, diminished everything. Said she was not bothered with it. But the soft, deep red raspberries she took lightly between her fingers and dropped in the bucket! Gooseberries were nastier to pluck, she used a fork, pulled the berries off the stalk with a careful motion. She liked the work with the berries. Jam making. The big pot, the steaming glass jars she fished out of boiling water before pouring in the jam.
Now it was lost. The garden, the work. That disaster could strike so easily in that house was another thing entirely. Endless screaming between the walls of the living room, things being broken, the images were blurry, but it was like a storm of sorts. She tries to see if there is anything within the storm and within that again, but it is indescribable. She attempted once to explain it to Dr Vold.
What happens, he said, when you sense this rage coming on? Try to feel it. You are here now and quite safe, but when you find yourself in a fury in the living room, as you describe, what happens within you then?
There is, she says, the living room and the light, the daylight, and within it there is a face and it is called rage, it is my father’s face, but there is something more, that once I am whirled into, I am sucked back, in time, you see, lose the power of speech, it is as though I am in a place I have been before but can no longer see.
Are you a little girl then?
Yes, I might be, it is early in life, and what is sucking me backwards is a spiral, it is black or white, no, I don’t know. But my mother.
Yes?
No, I don’t know. One really just wants to begin over again, doctor. A kind of peaceful sleep. Snug, soft.
It sounds like a baby’s existence.
No, maybe not. Yes, but no, if you understand what I mean. I’m older as well.
You are also an adult?
Yes, but not then. I am perhaps … upset.
You become upset.
Yes.
Then you scream?
Yes. Then I scream. And then the air turns cold, there is lamplight in the living room and darkness outside the windows, and everyone is running around in all directions.
Who?
The children. Through all the rooms in the house. It is far too big. We never intended having so large a house. Dark everywhere, impossible to keep heated. It’s Hartvig’s face. Leftovers from dinner. Lamb chop bone. The cold fat. I’m afraid. It is these words, doctor: unease, rage. Like falling. Not knowing where you are.
What is it that starts you screaming? Makes you furious?
The fact that I cannot hear myself think. That they’re speaking to me. No, it can be anything at all. When I have a lot to do, when it’s just like that, inside me. I don’t want it to happen. It’s outside me. I can’t get any peace.
What do you scream?
I don’t remember. All manner of horrid things. I tell the boy he is evil and mean. Changeling, I shriek, chang
eling. Because I can’t make him listen to me. How can you be my child? All we are is kind and you respond by being mean. Won’t listen won’t listen. WILL YOU LISTEN! And to think you are blessed with such loving parents. Changeling. To the girls? I don’t know. With them it is mostly that I am screaming. Not so much what. That they are to stop nagging, stop bickering. NONE OF YOU CARE ABOUT ME! CAN YOU NOT SEE HOW HARD I WORK? I scream that. You don’t care about your own mother.
Do you think that’s true?
I can’t manage any more, doctor.
Do you want to continue screaming?
No.
What do you want?
I’m so tired. I don’t get enough sleep. Even making jam is too much. The white spiral.
Where does it want to lead you?
I don’t know. To before all the bad. All the bad that’s happening, it’s not me. So it isn’t actually happening. The children will understand. I’m not like that. I’m just so tired and worn out. Sick, doctor.
15
On the way up the steps to Majorstuhuset, heading for the train, I felt I wanted to buy something. I did not want to go home, and did not want to think, but I wanted something, that is to say, I wanted to feel the desire for something, a direction. So I turned around. I could think of several purchases to make. Espresso coffee. Red wine and new trainers. I had a sudden sense of anticipation: now I had an errand to run, alternative courses of action, a task.
As I crossed the street, I saw the man from Baker Hansen standing outside the 7-Eleven on the large paved area next to the Vinkelgården building eating a hot dog. He had his scarf in his pocket, one fringed end trailing in the snow. He wiped some ketchup from around his mouth while staring at me.
I stared back, do you want me to brain you, smash your face in, shithead?
I passed close, wanted to spit on him, your existence disgusts me, but brushed against him with a rigid shoulder and hurried on in the direction of the coffee shop. There could be no hesitation on my part, that would only provide him with an opening, enough time to make contact.
It seemed dark in the shop after the harsh light outdoors. I ordered a bag of espresso-ground Blue Java. My hands trembled on the counter. The bag of coffee was warm and soft, the smell both penetrating and soothing. I felt I needed to sit down. There was a bar stool free in the corner by the window. I leaned my head and shoulder against the wall and looked out. He was still standing there. His stomach was sticking out over the waistband of his trousers in a tight, gaudy jumper, visible beneath his open jacket. What was it he actually had in his pockets: keys, a mobile phone, a wallet, change, screws, a tape measure, a bill plucked from his letterbox as he hurried out? Things like that, no doubt. A fitting for a water pipe, car keys, a padlock. Only wellies on his feet. What made him think that I was interested? Was he actually interested? His type, did they not just want to latch on to someone, avoid being alone?
I was cut from the same cloth, it must be written on my forehead: better to be kind and docile than rejected and abandoned. Why else would I attract nutcases; whether they were straggly and clingy like small puppies, or snorted and raved, had all kinds of crap on their mind that they wanted me to take on board, they followed me, stuck to me, God knows why, what did they achieve? I just let them talk. Answered if I was able, but it did not seem as though they listened, I was the one who was supposed to listen, that was what they wanted. Jesus, Mum, Tuva says, why do you do that? Someone has to take them seriously, I say, they’re human beings, just like us, but Tuva waves my explanation aside and says, then they ought to behave like people, you have to show them you have respect for yourself, Mum, or they won’t show you any respect. Set boundaries, y’know.
When I was young they were constantly following me, and they were often as old as Dad. Horrible sights of naked, white backsides, all too slack and wobbly, boneless, I wanted to vomit, really. But now I could not shudder in disgust or be insulted, soon I would be just as old.
I was like them.
So which of us was less human? Me or the man with the scarf? The contemptible one or the one showing contempt?
But for God’s sake. Can you be more or less human, can a human lose their humanity, is that not just a theoretical delimitation, a play on words? And perhaps the words make sense, but not when I am among people. Out on the street. Then I am always afraid. The empathy in a face impossible to grade. He followed me down Bogstadveien. I crossed the street and walked back up on the other side, went into United Bakeries and found my way to the toilet at the rear of the premises. Once in there I locked the door, sat down on the toilet seat and did not open until someone rattled the door handle for the fourth time, a customer had fetched one of the employees. On my way out I brushed against the jam bowl beside the cutlery and napkins, making it fall. Shards of glass and strawberry jam splattered on the floor and the meddlesome customer called out after me, hey, aren’t you going to clean up after yourself?
My scalp itched beneath my hat, my head was unbearably hot.
No, I thought. No. I am not my best at the moment. Look at me. I am not up to it. Someone else can clean up.
I hoped he was gone, but when I got a little way down the street, I spotted the sagging jacket over the stooped back, the wellies slipping on the snow-covered pavement. For fuck’s sake, did he not have a job, was he on benefits? Feeling hatred, I ducked into the nearest clothes shop, Yoko Loko or whatever it was called. There were no customers and the girl behind the counter left me alone. I tried on dresses, trousers and tops in the cramped changing room while my eyes and nose ran, I began to blubber because there were too many clothes to choose between and I was not able, I was not able, I lost heart, but at the same time the longer I kept at it, the more important it became to make a decision. The pressure of thinking made my temporal arteries thump, I tried to weigh up the pros and cons of each article of clothing, be efficient, because this was a task requiring a result within a certain time, if not there would be no purchase, I would end up paralysed and leaving the shop empty-handed. In that case I would have wasted time. What a waste, what a failure.
Eventually I decided on a pair of tight jeans and a blue denim shirt. The clothes fitted well, I looked youthful, a little cowgirl-like, Joan Baez-like, but not too much.
What a cool combination, the Swedish shop assistant said, really worth the money.
Christ almighty, money. Could I not get away from it?
‘Working Class Hero’ by John Lennon was playing as I paid, and for a moment I wondered if it was supposed to be ironic, but I noticed they also sold Mao jackets and Che Guevara hats, and realised the music was only intended to associate the clothes with the right attitude, it was as basic as that. Most things are simply thought out.
But I did not belong to the upper class, did I, even though I had access to money? I was outside everything. Me and the money were floating somewhere outside it all. I was an artist. Kept by my parents. Supported by patronage. I could not manage to escape. It was too late to break with that. Poor thing. The children were born and had grown up. The work was done and the books written. Loss after loss. Even if I gave up the grant and refrained from writing another word for the rest of my life, I would still live off Mum and Dad’s money. Advance inheritance, followed by inheritance, a house worth millions of kroners, but you cannot call privilege like that incarceration, a closed loop, it would be unethical in a world such as ours, ungrateful, but it could still be true. It was true: I was not outside, on the contrary, but I wanted out, I was filled with rebellion and the urge to break free.
I saw no sign of him, but guessed he was there somewhere, waiting. Further down the street, in a shop perhaps, out of sight, on the lookout for me. I crossed Schulz’ gate. Jews lived in this area before the war. I do not know why that should pop into my head on this particular day, a day with all its sparkling snow that should put you in mind of Sunday outings on cross-country skis, Norwegian culture in its purest form, and by that I meant pure nature. Because nature is pu
re to Norwegians. We even regard a rotting animal carcass as pure provided the remains are located deep in the forest, that is to say, when the bacteria occur in a natural form. That is to say, not in a rubbish bin. Not in the city. We value pure, natural and undiluted forms. We are not mystics, we are not dark. We are us. On the outside we are easily recognisable. Inside, we are governed by emotion, but are also unemotional, distant from the world. We love nature, but not people. The others.
I did not get any further with these thoughts, hardly understood what I meant myself, but had a sense of seeing something double which simultaneously swapped places, almost the way down can be up, and up down. Something internal changing places with something external. But so what really? All these thoughts, and I was the only one aware of them, in a few years both the thoughts and I would be gone, so why was I so obsessed with them? This reasoning, the closest I came to something substantial.
I wanted to drown the man with the scarf in white snow, bury him, make him go under and disappear.
Deep down we ignore mixed forms, I thought, we do not want them, and consequently neither do we see them. We are not so indiscreet and rude as to bad-mouth our neighbours’ mixed marriage in plain speech. But unconsciously we can be, like when we are two-faced.
Genocide so distant, external enemies, fear.
We attack ourselves with emotions instead, those closest to us.
Granny told me how she used to see the Jew riff-raff, that a whole community lived in tenements on Schulz’ gate, they hung out the windows in the afternoons and were different, dark. Or was it Sorgenfrigata? I always mixed those two streets up. The irony: sorgenfrei, carefree. Granny laughed at the Jews, hook-nosed hawkers, she used to say. And when she did it made me think of something I did not dare to mention: Granny’s own hooked nose.
At the junction with Professor Dahls gate I caught sight of him going into the Arabian café. I knew it well, had often sat there writing because the premises were dark and had an atmosphere that was hard to pin down, a sort of energy induced by restlessness. I think it was due to the owner, or rather the friends of his always coming by. One or two would sit on chairs behind the counter. Or stand hanging around the till discussing something in Arabic, gesticulating, visibly concentrating. Tight-fitting white T-shirts, Marlboro packets and lighters, a smell of aftershave, they brought all of that along with them into the café where I sat squinting down at my notebook. However, they usually sat at one of the tables outside, where they could smoke. The owner served customers at the till while talking to his friends at the same time, or he took his glass of coffee outside, sitting with them until a new customer was on the way in the door. He did not look at me when I ordered coffee, never smiled in recognition when I entered.
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