The man remains seated on the bench, and she turns and walks back, passing in front of him. He looks at her this time, but with indifference, complete indifference. How strange things are. If it were twenty years ago and she was still Hartvig’s wife, in the midst of life with all its hustle and bustle and the pain and the nerves, then he would no doubt have given her a look. It was not uncommon then for men to do that. And she returned their looks, pretended to drop her handbag or her cigarette packet, oh dear, she might say, and it had happened, not very often, but certainly a few times, that a man had run over to help. Once, God help her, why had she not seized the chance that one time she had it? It was this very area she had been strolling around back then, spring was in the air and she had been to the theatre with Alice. She accompanied Alice to the bus afterwards, but decided to take a walk in Frognerparken before catching the tram home herself. To Hartvig, the house and her responsibilities. It was fine thinking about what was at home as long as she was away from it, but she knew how it would be as soon as she crossed the threshold. As though in a trap. And once home she would not be able to think of life beyond the four walls of the house, the roaring and the racket and her extraordinarily boring day-to-day life with Hartvig, she was a prisoner. So she dragged out her night for as long as she could, thinking she was not so old yet, there were still opportunities to be free. Oh yes, she would be free, but she did not know that then, the tragedy that was in store. It struck her now, how that might not have happened if she had seized her chance that evening.
She had made her way towards the Monolith, that tall granite structure rising towards the sky, among all the other people who had been enticed outside by the fine weather, had walked up the steps and, standing on the platform below it, she had looked out, the light was as though in Paris, she thought, exotic, dim and glimmering. Then someone had stopped and stood near her, a tall man in a light coat, he looked at her, and without a second thought, she took the cigarette packet from her handbag and made a show of searching for a lighter. He took it as the invitation it was and asked if she needed a light.
We must have both seen the same film, she said and laughed. He was no dimwit, because he took the hint and bent forward in an affected manner to light up her cigarette, and said, in English:
Can I help you, miss?
Oh, he was quick on the uptake and easy on the eye as well. She laughed again: Yes, Mr Gable.
Oh, he said, oh, I’m not sure which film we’re in, do you know?
They continued speaking English for a while, it was such fun, she completely forgot herself.
Your English is really terrific, he said eventually, so much so I am beginning to wonder where I am. Shall we walk a little in order to find our bearings? And he offered her his arm. Fortunately she was wearing gloves so her wedding ring was not visible. I must still look like a housewife, she thought, or even worse, an old spinster. Alice said she had a lively face, but what good was that, she was over forty after all, and it was almost unbelievable that such a handsome man would walk here alongside her. Perhaps he wanted to swindle some money from her, was that what this was about?
She pushed the thought from her mind, because the chat flowed so freely, the laughter too, no, they did not speak of serious things, but neither of foolish matters, he was in point of fact no simple-minded man. His sense of humour was neither embarrassing nor boring like Hartvig’s, his remarks were intelligent and sarcastic, his observations about people very apt. They strolled slowly around the park, it was growing dark now, they kept bumping into each other, walking arm in arm, and he no longer laughed all the time, and she was so aware of his proximity, of something dark coming from him, that pulled and was no laughing matter. Just before they reached the main gate he came to a halt and looked her right in the eye. Now it is going to happen, she thought, now it is going to happen.
May I invite you to accompany me home, miss? May I?
Then she ruined it. She has gone through it in her mind, and spoken to Alice, countless times over the years: did she ruin the best experience she could have had, or was she actually about to be duped?
She thought so, as she stood there, that he was a swindler. No, not at first, at the beginning she was filled with great happiness: she was worth something after all, she was not just mean and angry and ugly, and if she was, it was only because everyone at home had made her so. Because here was somebody who saw her for how she really was. But the next moment realisation washed over her, how easily fooled she was, how ridiculous, she had heard of his sort, what were they called, gigolos? It was probably written across her face, her yearning, and besides she was middle-aged, easy prey.
Are you trying to fool me, mister? Are you?
She tried to maintain the same jocular tone, but it was no good, he could undoubtedly see by looking at her that she meant it.
Well, I mean really, Alice would later say, one cannot suddenly invite a strange lady home and not expect her to be suspicious?
But Cessi knew it could be done, was possible for them, there and then, because they had hit it off, there was a rapport, she told Alice.
A rapport, Alice said, he might have been taking you in, if he was that type of professional, then he could probably make any woman believe that he and she were birds of a feather.
But be that as it may. Cessi would have put up with him being a professional too, just to experience something else for once in her life. It could not therefore under any circumstances have been rape if she had gone with him. Christ, why had she not just gone with him?
He could have killed you, Alice said.
Be that as it may. Anyway, that was not how it was, and she knew it, even though she agreed that Alice was right. But she only did so in order to be able to live with it. For allowing the opportunity to pass her by. They had stood there, and she could still have saved the situation, steered it in the right direction, because now he was quite serious and she could rest assured, he was not trying to deceive her in any way, because this, he said, was something quite special, surely she had also noticed that?
I’m married, she said, and his face closed.
It may well be the case, he said, that you are married, but I have already considered that, and it is neither here nor there. It does not matter. Surely we can enjoy ourselves for a short while.
Well, I never, Alice said, one cannot simply stick one’s head in the sand like that, no, just be happy you saw sense, you would have had problems with him, he didn’t respect you. After all, you did say you were married …
Yes, it was the fact that she said it, not the fact that she was, she realised that afterwards, that was why his face closed, because he saw the way things were heading.
She had stood there thinking you have to do the right thing, Cecilie, because the images flew through her mind, and that horrid feeling swept through her body. Do not behave like the harlot you were, the hussy, the one the boys laughed at, you little whore. They lifted up her skirt and held her arms behind her back while they took turns rubbing her breasts and sticking their hands between her legs. She would never go there again, nowhere near it, never. She could not, was not able.
No, I mean really, she said. It was very nice to meet you.
She put out her hand, but he just bowed, wrapped his coat around himself and walked off.
Nothing would have been horrid or nasty with him.
Perhaps she did the right thing all the same, because no situation should be so abruptly either or, now or never.
Maybe it was both things, Alice said, to console her. Maybe he really was an opportunist, you know, but at the same time was particularly taken by you.
But in those kinds of cases it cannot be both. She knows that. It has to be one or the other, true or untrue.
24
Her skin is sore, her mouth is sore. They stay up at night, sleeping long into the day. Yesterday they did not get up at all, but remained in bed, talking, making love, nodding off and waking again. It was not until nine in th
e evening that they grew so hungry they got out of bed. They went to town to eat a kebab and afterwards walked back to the student halls in Kringsjå, through the Palace Park, up Bogstadveien, past Marienlyst and through the university area over to Sognsveien. At Café Abel they stopped for a beer. They drank and could not stop, they laughed the entire time, at what she does not know, everything. Erik’s stories about growing up in the suburb of Jar, with three brothers, football, ice hockey, skiing and the kindest mother in the world. As kind as hers. Maybe they should start a Facebook group, Erik said, they could call it the Kindest Mothers’ Association. Yes, instead of talking about someone behind their back, talking them up in front of everyone, I’ve seen something like that on Facebook. We can good-mouth our mothers instead of bad-mouthing them. And then they laughed, it was completely stupid, just nonsense, nothing really.
But what is a kind mother, imagine if she actually is not so kind? Erik said.
That made Beate uneasy. Why did he have to mess around like that, she did not like it, did not want to speak badly of her mother, that was where she drew the line. My mum is everything to me, she said, imagine how horrible it must be to have a mother who isn’t kind. The thought made her cry, and then Erik’s eyes watered up. Out of sympathy, he said, they’re tears of sympathy, and again they began to laugh.
But now she is crying from her very depths. Erik is still asleep. There will be no lectures today either, it is way too late and she is much too tired. The tears will not let up, because she feels things are coming undone, that she is losing her grip, the days are going by and how is she to pass the exam? She is nauseous or hungry, dizzy when she stands up. All the same, she does not say no to Erik when he wakes up, not to kissing, not to sex, not to his suggestion of going to the swimming pool.
Erik makes porridge, but she cannot face eating, just drinks a little coffee instead. Her fingers look fat. Maybe Erik thinks they are ugly. Everything about him is so perfect. His back, shoulders, upper arms beneath his T-shirt, his hips and bum in his jeans. Large, strong hands, with long fingers and wide fingertips. He takes hold of everything with such assurance, but is gentle when he needs to be, when her hair has caught on the catch of her necklace, but takes a solid grip when he is lifting something heavy, unscrewing something, holding her tightly. He can do everything and he does not cry. She can only do girlie things with her fingers, and today they cannot do anything, but lie like white sausages on the table, and tears roll down her face. He becomes worried, thinks he has said something wrong. She does not know what it is, she says, there are just so many feelings.
She is daft and girlish. So many feelings, my arse. And he is so nice all the time. It is too much, all this, all too much. What is she going to make of herself, Jesus, what is she going to make of herself in this world, nothing?
She stands at the edge of the pool, freezing, cannot face jumping in, the water is only eighteen degrees. Erik comes out of the changing room, sees her, smiles, dives in and swims the front crawl back and forth once, before swimming over to her, taking hold of the edge and looking up:
You coming in?
But she cannot get in. It is not possible. She starts to cry and says she needs to be alone. Can we talk on the phone tomorrow instead? she asks. Erik gets a sad look in his eyes, but she begins to walk towards the changing room. The floor is slippery and cold. Dear God, he must not let her leave this way.
He does not. He comes after her, puts his arms around her shoulders. It is unpleasant, he is wet and cold, yet at the same time it feels too warm to stand like that, his skin sticks to hers, she wants to break free. He asks if she does not like him any more. Of course I do, she answers, of course, and rests her cheek against his, even though her body does not want to. She just needs to get some sleep, she says, be by herself for a bit. He says he understands, that it is probably a good idea. But she does not know. Is it a good thing that he is all right with it? That he says, okay, fine, then he can read a bit in the meantime, he cannot put his studies on the back burner either, after all. Not a word about her studies. And afterwards he just dives right back in. He is going to swim 1,500 metres before he starts studying, he says.
The tears continue to flow in the changing room. She cannot see what she is doing, attempts to put the key into the padlock on the locker door, but cannot make out the keyhole through her tears, does not notice the puddle on the floor and slips, puts her hands out but loses her balance, banging her knee on the bench.
He manages everything. Being together with her, sleeping, eating, swimming, laughing. And studying. While she is just falling apart. Studying is the last thing in the world she could face right now. She does not want to do anything. The shampoo bottle is wet and slips out of her hand, falling to the floor. She cries about that too, about everything.
Going home on the underground she calms down. Things seem more normal. Men look at her as usual, so she has not become ugly all of a sudden. She can have anyone she wants, if she wants. But she does not. She wants to go home. She wants to go home, but she goes to Bea Britt’s.
She is cold from being outside with wet hair, from all the crying, from a lack of sleep. She asks if she can have a bath to warm up. Stands on the warm floor tiles and undresses, lies down in the bathtub, dozes. Her pubic hair sways in the water. It is her hair, her privates. Or are they Erik’s? Do our genitals always belong to someone else? Mum and Dad took responsibility for her entire body while she was growing up, and now someone else has taken over.
She had love. That is what she remembers. Mum and Dad’s hands. Warm bodies. The feeling of her arm around a neck, of hair between her fingers, of her lips when she rubbed them against Mum’s cheek.
Compared to that, Erik is unfamiliar, a stranger, will always be a stranger. But she misses him, and is suddenly afraid because of what she has done.
Erik. The way he walks. His eyes. His voice. His smell. As though he is her. How could she go from him? How can she lie here calmly? She has to get up, right now, has to get a move on. Imagine he does not want her any more? Her heart beats hard and fast. She needs to see him right away, to make sure everything is all right, tell him she did not mean it, whatever it was, she did not mean it, it was a mistake and she needs to put it right as quickly as possible.
How can he have been with other girls? To think that he has. His penis inside someone else. His arms, smell, skin – with another. It could happen again, why would it not? Why should she be a better choice than anybody else? She is not. But now, right now, she has been chosen, and she must not let go, how could she have been so stupid?
She does not have the time to dry off properly and her clothes stick to her skin, wet hair dripping onto her blouse. Imagine he dumps her. She has shown how weak she is. He could not be bothered with that kind of crap, not Erik. After all, he can have anyone he wants. How could she take such a chance? She is spoilt. They have been waiting on her hand and foot constantly, her mother, her father, Bea Britt. Her, the only child. Beautiful and gifted. But they have not noticed her failings, no, how immature she is, governed by a need to be taken care of. Needs that surface when she least expects them.
No missed calls. Will she seem nagging if she rings? She does not know, simply does not. No matter what she does it will be wrong. It was wrong of her to leave. But wanting too much is also wrong. She calls him up all the same. He does not answer the phone. Bea Britt comes into the hall. Her arm brushes against the key hanging on a string from the wall lamp, making it dingle back and forth. The light shines through the sheer material of her blouse, Beate can make out the contours of Bea Britt’s arms inside.
Only Human Page 18