Only Human

by Kristine Naess

  Oh, she felt so alone. She was only human after all, and there were doubtless not many people who would have managed to show their child such patience in the situation she found herself in, very few in fact, she fancied. Alice had often said the same during his upbringing. Dear Cessi, she said, you ought not to judge yourself so harshly, you react in a perfectly natural manner. He is a sweet boy, truly he is, but he is also exacting, and you devote more time to him than most other children are granted. One must not demand the impossible of oneself either, dear.

  It did her good to hear that, and it was true, it really was. Nonetheless she would be troubled, disheartened, on the verge of tears. But perhaps Alice was right and she did demand too much of herself, perhaps that was the reason she reacted as she did.

  Finn never got enough, he was a drain on her, a dark drain, he never let up, followed her around the house, demanding and demanding. Not any longer, needless to say, not in that way. He called on the telephone now instead and was brutish, or came around unannounced, after something, although she did not know what.

  I’m drinking too much, he might say. I can’t sleep at night. Or as is the case now: I’m seeing a psychiatrist. I would hardly have needed to do that, Mum, if everything was as it should have been. If you hadn’t been so bloody selfish, he said. He said this. Him! That self-centred, self-absorbed boy, how had he turned out like this, what had she actually done wrong? Spoilt him perhaps, given him too much attention.

  Now he and this psychiatrist were of course discussing his childhood and his wicked mother, yes, they are doubtless in complete agreement, that she was wicked and to blame for all Finn’s difficulties. That must be the reason why he suddenly wants to talk about all kinds of things, the psychiatrist has put thoughts in his head and got him asking about things he ought to have the sense to hold his tongue about.

  Why did you send me away so often when I was little, Mum? Was it because of the war?

  She should have seized the opportunity and said, yes, naturally, because of the war, why ever else? We wanted to look after you, you see. She should have told him she became unwell, was worn out from looking after that enormous house, from two childbirths in quick succession, infants screaming at night.

  Something along those lines, that was what she should have said, but she did not. Because Finn was standing there with that sullen, accusing face of his, and then there was this pickle about which of the children would get to live in the house, the irritation welled up within her. They just came out, the words she knew she must not say, but she was unable to stop herself, she said what he expected to hear, but what he hoped was not the case.

  The war, no. I really do not think you realise the toil you put us through. You were so difficult.

  It was true, that was exactly what he was.

  Goodness, how nasty she was. That cold feeling all the way through. But he asked for it. He should not have asked, no, he should not, that just made it— she could hardly tell him that she realised it was wrong, a dreadful mistake to send him away. Then it would be her fault, and that she could not accept, was not able to. Because look at him. His life was a shambles. He had always been that way, so it could not be because of her.

  Dear God, it could not be, could it?

  Why did he go right for her in that way, he should not have, he should have realised that she could only give him one answer to that question. It lay there, ready to use, because she had spoken of it with so many people over the course of the years, including Hartvig, and the conclusion was always the same: she could not have acted any differently. They had a tearaway on their hands, kind and good at heart, but exceedingly, exceedingly demanding. His little sisters had to be protected as well, safeguarded from his eruptions of violent jealousy.

  So he had his answer, and at the same time she looked out the window, hoping he had not heard, that the words had just disappeared into the air and everything would go back to how it had been. Because it was old news, that is exactly what it was, he had heard that he was difficult a thousand times before, even though she may not have said it was the reason they sent him away, not in so many words. No, naturally they had not spoken of it, but told him they wished he would become calmer, learn to concentrate and listen to what was being said to him. Become a good, kind, hardier boy, on the whole, without the mischief and disruption. Competent, experienced teachers were required to that end, that is what they had said, in words adapted to a child’s level of understanding, naturally, she thinks they said that in any case.

  Are you staying for dinner? she asked, getting up from the chair, I had assumed you would.

  He stood there with his stony expression and she made sure to totter a little, then he would see that she was getting old, no longer so steady on her feet, he had to be kind to her.

  You fucking cow, Finn said, you fucking, selfish bitch.

  And she could not help it, she had to laugh, it bubbled up from within, because this corresponded exactly with something she had always felt, a furious urge to shake and destroy.

  27

  Knut was not the right one for me. Neither was Ketil, nor any of the others. But one of them might have been, I could have been lucky, I know people sometimes are. They say so themselves, in magazine interviews, to friends, at parties. Love at first sight, they say, bull’s-eye, could not live without him, that kind of thing. Before I got to know Ketil I thought he had what it took. That I could be myself together with him. Afterwards I started to believe maybe that would not be possible with anyone at all.

  Because is that not how it is, when you become close enough to a person, you forget you ever wanted to get so near, forget how you imagined loving a man, that the mere sight of his hands would turn you on and make you happy? That he was like your brother, your best friend, yes, you yourself almost.

  But why?

  How close is too close?

  Every time I attempt to answer I am wrong. But what then is right? Provided something is wrong, does that necessarily mean that something else exists which is right? I am not so sure.

  The thoughts are banal. But the mystery is deep.

  Beate was sitting on the sofa. Her white blouse was buttoned wrong, her hair gathered in a loose bun, moist strands of hair sticking out on the nape of her neck, she was not wearing any make-up, had come from the swimming pool, was beside herself over something to do with Erik. She cried and said she did not know the reason, did not know why nothing was right with her. Things were not like before, just a few weeks ago she could succeed in everything, could have whomever she wanted, felt strong. Is Erik bad for me, she asked, is he like poison, is he? Are you meant to feel this way?

  You’re just in love, I said. When you are not on your own any more. Then you have moments like this.

  I heard what I said, but did I believe it? Even though I recognised it. Because was that really how it was supposed to be? Every time I met a man I felt I lost myself. And I was not even really in love. It was just my imagination. When I returned to my senses, I saw that the man concerned lacked judgement, backbone or something else. It just could not work out.

  But Beate was different. She did not make wrong choices. That would not be possible, I told myself, Beate is healthy.

  You just need a rest, I said. A hot bath, something to eat, some sleep. A night spent watching TV or chatting to a friend.

  Female advice. Some mothering. Was that all that was needed?

  I was not even her mother. Perhaps that was the point. Love had to have certain boundaries, everything could not merge together, she could not go to Anita with this.

  Beate wanted to be loved the way she was loved as a child.

  Me too.

  The impossibility of it grew stronger for every day I lived.

  Imagine being ninety years old. And all you want is warmth, affection. Talk about the wrong way around, because who is going to give you that then?

  One summer morning right after my divorce from Knut, Anita and Beate came to visit. We borro
wed the house while Dad was on holiday. Beate was about three years old.

  Anita and I sat in the dining room drinking tea while we looked at the children playing in the garden. It was chilly inside the house, the dark house with the big stone cellar. We both had cold feet and goose bumps on our arms, we laughed, because it was the warmest day of the summer so far. Anita was wearing a red singlet and her skin was already tanned. Fair hair and radiant eyes, she was beautiful, of course. Now and again we listened out to what the children were up to outside. Tuva was a few years older than Beate and Georg, she wanted to play mummy, especially to Beate, place her on the swing and lift her down, take her in and out of the sandpit, until it all got too much for Beate and she cried for her mother. Anita went out and lifted her up, brought her in and sat with her on her lap, sang to her and kept her amused. I have never seen Anita so happy.

  Isn’t summer the best? she said. Shall we go for a swim?

  Beate came with me to pack the swimming gear. I had a big basket I used to take along to the beach, when Beate saw it she wanted to crawl inside, and I let her. Once inside, only her head was visible and she looked at me and laughed. I carried her down the stairs in the basket. There is nothing special about this memory. Apart from it being a happy one.

  A happy memory: the joy of being with the children, all the flowers in the garden. The air shimmering hot above the tarmac, the hot bus ride. Cooling off in the water afterwards and the afternoon turning to evening. The lights of the boats out at sea, the feeling of the water becoming soft, smooth as the blankets we were sitting on, but moist, moving like an animal.

  Beate slept on the blanket while the others took one last dip. I lay beside her and nodded off too.

  On the way home on the bus, Tuva was bad-tempered and difficult, would not help carry the things, would not sit next to us, hit my hand away. I spoke sharply to her and she began to cry: did I love her? Did I love her more than Georg? Just as much, I replied, I love both of you more than anything in the world. But that was not the problem. What she was really wondering about was Beate: did I love Beate more than all the people in the world? I knew that was what she feared. She was wrong, of course. Not all love is alike. But the love I have for my own children is unlike anything else.

  What Anita thought, I do not know. She sat with Beate asleep on her lap looking at us without smiling, then turned her face to the window.

  When I think of this memory, the core of it is to be found outside the frame, as it were. It was the moment I opened the door. Right after Anita and Beate had rung the bell. I opened the door and there they stood, Anita at the foot of the steps, Beate one step from the top. Some rays of sunshine were stealing through the fir trees, shining on her chubby knees, her hair and eyes, while the rest of her body lay in shadow. What was it I saw in Beate’s eyes? My own love. It flowed so freely in her. The child is the scene of the crime, that is what it meant.

  Happiness is not boring. But it is manifest for the most part when it is lost. As hope, an ideal, a flag in the distance. Knut ceased to interest me. Or did he begin to annoy me, was it more that? How peevish he was. He always had to have the last word. That kind of thing. There was suddenly no forbearance any longer. His body did not appeal to me. On the rare occasions we made love, I closed my eyes and pictured someone else. I always chose a specific man, yet never someone I actually knew. But most nights I slept alone, huddled up imagining I was nestled against a safe body, my best friend. I considered these fantasies a terrible secret, almost infidelity. I knew Knut would regard them as such, I could not say anything to him about them. But after the divorce everything dissolved, the secrets became nothing, my fantasies seemed insignificant.

  Perhaps it is true what people say, that feelings are fleeting, changeable, but I do not believe that, no, I do not, because ABSOLUTE love does exist, it is UNYIELDING, that means we must yield to it, it is the LAW.

  Yes, I sound like a commandment hewn in stone, and it is probably no coincidence, that culture speaks in me, even when it is natural law I am trying to put into words. It is true I cannot see it from outside, but I know that if it disintegrates I can also fall to pieces, I have a mental image of it, how ‘tree’ is torn from ‘river’ is torn from ‘sky’ and is levelled off and blown up, and it is the meaning that disappears, a death of sorts, like Alzheimer’s, or an actual death, to die from grief. What I am trying to get to is that transitoriness has limits. My God, have you forsaken me? I understand now what it means, My God, have you forsaken me? it means: my love, why are you not here, why can I not feel what I need to feel in order to be human enough?

  There are so many ways to depict reality. But I have never liked to create an illusion. Why should I act as if I do not exist, me, the narrator, why should I hide? It is completely obvious that I am not to be found anywhere but here. I am the illusion. I turn on the wrought-iron lamp above my head and shed tears into the ceramic mug of red wine.

  After my failed attempt in the winter to give up being a writer, I decided to move out of the house. The prospect paralysed me. I bought fifty flat-packed moving boxes at Clas Ohlson, but could not face assembling them. It had snowed and the light from outside flooded harshly through the windows high up on the wall. I was standing in my Pantheon, even though there was no aperture in the ceiling, no cupola, only flat ceiling, with a circular stucco, devoid of decoration. My mobile lay on the windowsill and played its ‘Hey Jude’ ringtone. Tuva had chosen it for me. You do date from the sixties, don’t you? she said and laughed, I’ve heard that it’s good for old people to see and hear things that remind them of when they were young, she said, laughing even more, you need to have an age-appropriate sound, Mum.

  It was Anita who rang. Just called, as though nothing had happened, after such a long time. She was wondering if she could borrow the Persian rug I had on the first floor, she said.

  Borrow, I asked, can you borrow a rug someone else is using?

  Yes, because Anita was planning to buy one herself, in the same colours, if she could find it. But they were so expensive, she had to be sure she liked it, that a Persian rug would fit into her home office and, not least, she had to convince Ståle.

  You’ll probably just end up hanging on to it, I said, that is what will happen. I won’t be able to bring myself to ask for it back.

  No, Anita said, of course you’ll get it back, it’s only a month we’re talking about.

  They came round the following day, stood in the kitchen all busy and energetic, not bothering to take off their coats. Anita did not even have the time to remove her shoes, and I understood why: she had new boots, red Ilse Jacobsen wellington boots, her black trousers were skin-tight, her jacket only waist-length and everyone could see she had a flat stomach. Anita was, quite simply, sexy, as attractive as her young daughter, yes, I assumed men who saw them together would think that, and it was how Anita wanted me to see her. She wanted to outdo me, but Jesus, I was an empty vessel and did not try to hide it, I hardly made any noise never mind the most noise, I could not conceive what she thought I had. And Anita was not the only one. What was it they thought I had within me, all those who circled around: the man in the baseball cap, Beate, Anita, what was it they wanted so badly, I had nothing, only darkness, and what did they want with that?

  We have to be going, Anita said, we have a lot of things to do. We’re heading to Smart Club cash-and-carry to buy in food for the weekend, and Beate really wants to go to Ikea, which is fine, I can pick up some new plants and flowerpots at the same time. They’re pretty much okay, plants from Ikea, don’t you think?

  She wanted me to come along, eat in the café, like we used to, when the children were small and we went there to eat Swedish meatballs. That was so nice, wasn’t it, Bea Britt? she said. As though nothing at all. But it was not nothing. It was jealousy, I was sure. Talk about back to front. Anita wanted for nothing, on the contrary, she had everything I myself dreamt of, and still she was jealous.

  Give me a hand, Ståle, Anita sa
id. They lifted the table off the rug, and Ståle rolled it up. The parquet floor was visible. The varnish was worn in several places, the wood greying.

  Thanks, Bea Britt, this is really kind of you. Anita hugged me. Do you want to come along …?

  She stood there in her black, expensive clothes and for a moment she looked like she did when the children were small and we were still best friends.

  Of course I went along. Even though something was amiss, I did not know what, but I wanted to go, like in the old days, to eat meatballs at Ikea together with Anita, Beate and Ståle. I was going to pull myself together, find my way back to my old self, become who I once was.

  So there I sat, in the back seat, with the Persian rug I had inherited from Granny. There was not enough room in the boot, so Ståle had to place the rolled-up carpet sideways in the car over the seats both front and back. I looked at the back of Ståle’s neck. I would have liked to put my hand around it, it was slender, with a pronounced cleft between the sinews, strong. Why could Anita not just be content?

  She was the one driving. I looked down at my hands and thought they looked chunky, clumsy like the hands of a child, but old all the same, the skin had become coarse and wrinkled in the last few years, the veins prominent. Now they lay idle in my lap, limp. I had the same feeling in my body as when I was a child. When I was tired or wet and it had been a long time since anybody had touched or spoken to me. And I could not say it, because I did not know. I just waited. Anita was a two-faced cunt.

  We picked up Beate outside the SATS gym in Solli plass.

  Ikea in Furuset or Slependen? Ståle turned as she got into the back seat, trying to see her over the top of the carpet.