Only Human

by Kristine Naess

  And what happens to our memories when we die? Are they arranged according to age, do they lose colour, float in a lake in a dark wood? Do they revolve in a circle, as in life, not leaving us in peace? Or do they become dazzling works of art in our abstract bodies? Maybe Dante was closer to the truth than he knew, maybe after death we no longer have any control over time, we are here one minute, and there the next, in forms unimaginable to us. Heavily regulated, that is the common feature. Controlled by poverty or wealth, age or gender: each body in its own cage, that is hell.

  Anyway, I was in Amsterdam at the time, with a group of young, well-functioning women. Being young is an asset. Having many friends who live and think the same way you do also helps, a little apparatus of power.

  In the evenings we drank red wine and talked about art and men. It was easy. I was recently divorced, released. Does anyone really understand how important motherhood is? I shouted across the table, not of course that you’re allowed to say that, the law of life isn’t allowed to apply. Yes, my friends shouted, you are allowed to say anything, here’s to motherhood, and we drank champagne, here’s to Jesus Maria, I shouted at the top of my voice, and the bubbles rose in the glass, they are one.

  The children and I lived in a rented apartment in Torshov, I was young and anticipating everything to come, not least admiration and recognition: I would take up my deserved place as an author. Not to mention love.

  I rinse and wring out the floor cloth in the warm soapy water, fix it to the end of the mop handle and push it with long strokes over the dark, floral-patterned linoleum. It is dusk and I switch on the wall lamp with the red shade. A key on a string hangs from the brass fitting. They found it among Granny’s things, Dad thought it was a house key but it did not fit. The lock must have been changed, he said, because he recognised the key. It was the one she took from him, the one he was not allowed to have any more, because Granny wanted to decide when he was in or out. He was not allowed in when she was resting, nor if he was petulant, or if his sisters had any little girls visiting.

  18

  16 March 1951. As though he were her solicitor. Yes, that is actually what it is like. She is now Miss, now divorced, but she still has to submit her accounts for inspection. The only progress is that she is spared that green account book he would insist on looking over every evening. I must enter my expenses, he would say, but that of course was a pretext, he had his own little book where he recorded purchases, tram tickets and restaurant meals. He was keeping an eye on her, like a factory inspector or some such. Was it necessary to buy the good butter again? he would say. Or ask if she could not sew the children’s clothes from cheaper material. She laughed at him, called him a skinflint. And said worse things than that. Do you know, she said, we could save a few bob on your short legs. It wouldn’t cost that much to make you a pair of trousers. Then we could still afford good-quality clothes for the children. That was nasty, but she got so angry, yes, really rasped. It was harder during the war. Naturally they had to be more prudent then, it was wholly necessary. They planted potatoes, and Hartvig hammered together a little henhouse, albeit in his ham-fisted way, at the bottom of the garden. Then they had chickens and could have eggs. He was right, of course, everybody had to tighten their belts. All the same, she felt like hitting him. His behaviour, like that of a headmaster. Stingy, miserly was what he was. No, words failed her. Now she just copies her own notes onto a sheet of paper once a month, in rough figures, and posts it to him. Naturally, often as not he will ring up to say he wants the different items specified. Did the children’s school things really cost this and this much? And the figure for miscellaneous expenses was very high, was it not? Why did he have to give two hoots about it, why did they have to talk to one another at all? His cold, businesslike tone. There was no way back. Oh, but she was sure he regretted leaving her. When he heard her voice. She is after all the mother of his children. She knows how she ought to be. She can be like that, knows she can. Could stop being so demanding, discard her nerves. She says it to him: I am different now, I am much calmer. More patient. You know that I am kind at heart, that all of it was due to mental pressure, my temper. The boy is difficult, you have to admit that. And there was the war, and the girls, those difficult births. I know I have been wicked to you. But I am normal when things are normal around me. You are just being stubborn and unreasonable as always, surely it is possible to try again, to forgive. What is it you actually want of me? What? Charity, Hartvig, have you completely forgotten the faith you were brought up in? I promise things will be different.

  Everything hurts.

  The children belong at home, it is their childhood home. How I have toiled in that house, the miles I have traipsed through the rooms. Up and down the stairs. I know all about it. You know very well that I took care of the upkeep. What it has cost. What you have saved on craftsmen’s expenses. Yes, after all it is your house, you must know.

  She is aware of course of Hartvig’s new lady friend, but cannot take her seriously. She does not think it will be difficult to forgive him, on the contrary, she understands only too well his need to seek solace with someone at this painful time, she does not begrudge him that, no, and she will make sure to tell him as much when the opportunity arises, then he will understand how selfless she is. Hartvig does not really want this divorce, even though he says he does, because she knows that, really, he loves her dearly. It should not, therefore, prove any great problem for him to disregard this new dalliance. Perhaps it will die out by itself, as relationships of a passing nature often do. No, Cessi is not concerned about that, and lets him know just as sincerely as she is able in a letter.

  My heart is sick, she writes. I am devastated. You are being very hard on me. Soon we will have been apart for two years. I had hopes. I yearn for you. I realise now that my erotic feelings for you are alive. That I am alive, for you, only for you, my darling! You can come here at any time, I will welcome you with open arms. You will find everything a man could wish for, here, with me. You are the only one for me, I have told you that many times. Surely it cannot be too late. Have I really lost you? Do not be so hard. Think of the children.

  Dr Vold says that she is physically strong. Nevertheless she is sick. Weak. It is her nerves. More than that. She is frail, yet all the same they think her strong. In that case, she says to Dr Vold, I must be too weak to bear my own strength. There must be something wrong with me. Yes, not that she cannot work. But suddenly she will just be lying there. Utterly spent. Like the time she dug up the plot to lay a lawn. I am being very, very, very good, she thought. But Hartvig just took all her hard work for granted. No, perhaps that was not quite the same. But the tears welled up, she felt so alone with everything. And no doubt you think everything is perfectly all right, she screamed at Hartvig. Then it took a bad turn. Oh, that screaming. But it seems everything rests with her. Everything is a critique of her. The children criticise her as well. They obviously do not understand a thing. What she does for them. All of them. Life is not worth living. She says so too. Life is awful. Upon hearing that, Dr Vold wants to admit her into care. She does not need to be asked twice. He is so strong, Dr Vold. Things just sort of fall into place when he talks to her, what he says seems so simple and natural. That she must have faith, and forgive herself. That she can seek forgiveness, not only from God, but from Hartvig as well. But Hartvig has been hard as stone since the day he produced the separation papers. That was when all hope was lost, she told the doctor. Dr Vold had then spoken to her about love and altruism. Atonement, reconciliation and humility. Things of that nature. She wept, it felt so good, finally it would be possible to rest. But afterwards she had to manage for herself. The effect of his words only lasted a day or two, thereafter everything tightened and tensed up again, and it was at least a week between appointments. She was really down, she cried and asked the doctor to take her home, take me home, she sobbed, but he misunderstood, thought she missed her home with Hartvig, but she wanted to go to the doctor’s, w
anted him to put things straight inside her, rearrange her head, like he said in jest once, how sometimes a rearrangement is what is needed.

  No, she did not want to go to the doctor’s either, but home, she did not know where and how, but home, to someone who loved her. But there was nobody. Not any more. And it had never been Hartvig. He was right about that. She had never loved him. Not sufficiently, with his looks, and how terribly punctilious he was, it was his weakness she could not bear. She was not weak herself, but he made her so, yes, then she probably was also. One had to keep one’s own house in order after all. It was so very confusing. Oh, but she was furious. So Hartvig had met someone else ages ago but had not said a word until now. That was the reason he was capable of being so hard-hearted, she was no longer desirable to him. She was pushed out, discarded, had no home any more. The other woman was to come and take over her house. She had put an extraordinary amount of work into that home, shaped it, and put her stamp on it, unfair was what it was, grossly unfair. That her ‘sins’ should overshadow everything else, her illness should blind them to the good she had done for them. She could not help her nerves. And God and Dr Vold knew she worked hard on herself.

  She pictured them in bed, how Hartvig now appeared strong all of a sudden. His clearly defined jaw and sensitive mouth, the strong arc of his nose, he was manly, if one ignored his lower body and his short legs, and she could do that if she looked at him through the other woman’s eyes. That crabby, skinny, pale scarecrow.

  Ah, it made no difference. She was so tired anyway. As for Hartvig, that fancy woman was more than welcome to him, she could have him.

  She just had to face it: she had been downgraded. Removed from her own house. Rejected by her husband. All the same she knew she was the one Hartvig wanted. Not that other woman, all cold and correct. That was exactly what Hartvig liked in a woman, the hot and fiery, he liked her, Cessi.

  She was not as he thought her to be, not as he made out, she wrote to him, you do not understand a thing, you see, you know I am kind. And love you, my darling, darling Hartvig, do not think that I am unaware of having hurt you. She wrote in that way. So he could see for himself that she had changed. How she had suffered since their parting, been ill the entire time. Her nerves deranged. Was there no allowance to be made for that? But she did not write a word about his lack of consideration, he would not be able to accuse her of being bitter. Forgiveness, Dr Vold had said, reconciliation. There is no point coming with accusations, you have to show through your actions that you have changed. Yes, I have been chastened now, she said to the doctor, and he took a note of that, but made no reply, it was impossible to see if he approved. Would it have helped? Hartvig did not call upon her, on the contrary. So how could she demonstrate to him how different she was, that he could rely on her now? She talked to him in her head, about all the things she used to turn to him with. A great many practical matters, naturally, but also when she needed comforting and support. Because all those people, the maid, Mrs Heyerdahl, the neighbours, Hartvig’s silly friends, they could be so nasty to her. Of course she did not take it lying down but afterwards she wept, and Hartvig consoled her. Don’t take it all in the worst possible way, he said, don’t mull over it any more. It felt good to talk to Hartvig about their acquaintances, it was a source of amusement to them. They related small incidents to one another and had a good laugh about them, particularly Cessi’s friends at the women’s circle. Women are dreadful, she said to Hartvig. He drummed his finger on the table, looked at her, smiled and said that he was fortunate to have a wife so unlike those cackling hens.

  But now he did not want her any more.

  She had a thousand good reasons to write to him, and did so, she was still in possession of her rights. There were the children, all the particulars relating to the apartment, and she wanted to try and make him see how wrong he was about her. She was everything he wanted. Yes, she was really quite a different person, but she needed the opportunity to prove it. She pictured it, how she would love and obey him, be humble, how her anger would simply dispel, how he would apologise for his former impatience, all the scenes, that were not really her fault, but down to circumstances. And now that Finn had grown up there would soon be more harmony at home, he would be around less, it would be her, Hartvig and the girls, so very, very much easier.

  Finn, her adorable, darling boy. If only he had not been so quick-tempered, so testy. Still, the worst of it was all the nasty things he said to her, she could not take that sort of criticism, she was too sensitive.

  Dr Vold mentioned something else, which had annoyed her. He spoke about getting outside the four walls of the apartment, introducing a little variation, applying herself. Her, apply herself, she was responsible for three children, one of whom was very, very difficult. Well, Finn lived with his father, that was true, yes, imagine, poor thing, together with that terrible woman, she was not kind to the children, she was mean, and mean to Cessi’s dear, darling boy. She might not be responsible for the big house any longer but she was on her own, Dr Vold should not forget that, she was a lone, vulnerable mother who was badly off. A great deal of her time went on darning the children’s clothes, making food for the two little girls, keeping house, cleaning, yes, taking care of practical matters. She could not afford a maid any more, after all. How was she supposed to find the time to work outside the home? She was so angry she almost screamed at Dr Vold, but managed to get hold of herself at the last minute and laughed, yes, you are almost speechless now, she said. But did he reply? Oh no, he sat there with that stony expression of his, utterly impossible to interpret.

  Oh, it was actually lovely with the apartment, not that she let on, how good it was to sit on the chair with a cup of coffee and a cigarette when the girls had been safely packed off to school. In her own apartment. The only thing was it did not come free of charge. Hartvig’s stern, businesslike letters followed into the bargain. She would never be spared having to answer to him, he oversaw all that was coming in and going out. Well, for the most part, to get back at him she wrote rather rough, illegible lists of income and expenses, and always to her advantage, naturally. But this month she accounted for every single krone she had spent on food, so he would understand that it was too little, she could not live on what he paid for the children. He was well aware that she drank beer now and then, so she could not very well leave out the measly few bottles she had bought last month, nor the smoked salmon she and the children had enjoyed the weekend Finn was visiting. She had fancied he might be so churlish as to point out what he referred to as her overconsumption, but had not wanted to believe he would. He wrote that she could no longer carry on feeding the children delicacies, not in the financial situation in which she now found herself. She must see to it that she found employment, yes, there ought not to be any hindrance to her finding work now.

  I’m over fifty years old, she sobbed in Dr Vold’s office, and for close to twenty of those years I have worked hard in Hartvig’s house, for him and the children. I’m not strong, she said, look at me, I’m not strong.

  It has been a while since the divorce now, Dr Vold said. What did you dream of when you were young? Perhaps you could look at this as a fresh start, an opportunity to breathe life into your dreams? You have spoken a great deal about the pleasure you derive from sewing and making clothes.

  She sobbed, was not up to imagining any longer. She did not know. What did she dream about? Of getting away, first and foremost. She did not know where, wherever she would find love and beauty. Find peace from all the terrible agitation and disturbance, such powerful forces, as difficult to grasp as the muscles of the sea should it have any, because it does not have muscles, it is seething turmoil without let-up, squalls, chaos.

  I do have an extraordinary sense of beauty, she said to the doctor, adore music and colours. But I do not know if I ever believed I would make anything of myself, not in any real sense. My emotions have always proved such a great difficulty, they have been in the way, as it were. But
I was good with my hands. Everyone said so. Then Mama got me a place at the dressmaker’s workshop, you know. It was what I wanted too but it was terrible, how they bullied me. I did not fit into working life. But it is true what you say. Back then I did think that perhaps, in time, I could start up my own dressmaker’s. I might have managed to as well, had it not been for the circumstances. My father. My mother. And now look. A difficult son. Two girls at a vulnerable age. A husband who does not want anything to do with me. They just criticise. All of them. I cannot take it.

  Oh, but you manage a great deal, Mrs Viker.

  19

  A writer cannot cry as much as I do, I say to Beate, and she looks out the window and says, at this time of year it’s better to be outside than indoors, at least when the sun is shining. The cheek of her. Beate is coming round all too often, I wish the rain was splashing down on my white plastic chair, and on the radio, drowning the radio.

  It has been two weeks since Emilie disappeared, and the police are keeping their cards close to their chest. I have been eliminated from their inquiries, but the man in the baseball cap has been passing by my gate every day lately. His huge form slowing down, his face gawking up at the house. Sometimes he comes to a complete stop. I get the feeling he sees me, even though I have withdrawn far into the room.