Pieces of Happiness

by Anne Ostby

  Sina’s voice is hard and jagged. Lisbeth peers at her inquisitively. For the most part, neither of them gets too involved in what she quietly calls the minilectures at Vale nei Kat; it’s usually Kat and Ingrid and sometimes Maya who do the talking. But right now, all eyes are on Sina.

  “It’s hardly news that men can’t keep it in their pants. It’s always been that way.”

  Something foreign and wounded lies beneath her terse words. Lisbeth stares at her, but Sina doesn’t meet her gaze. A sudden silence sinks over the porch. Sina’s chair creaks as she leans forward and grabs Lisbeth’s cigarette case. “And we trust them too, don’t we? That’s not exactly unique to Fiji?”

  Lisbeth leans back, sees that the hand holding the match is quivering slightly.

  “What pisses me off”—Sina’s voice is calmer now—“is when they tell us to watch how we dress. How we behave. Us! As if that has anything to do with whose fault it is. And by the way”—she hesitates a moment—“it’s not just women with short skirts and great tits who are exposed to sex.”

  Lisbeth stiffens; is Sina hinting at her? What a strange thing to say—exposed to sex? Like a sudden rainstorm or a car accident. She waits for Sina to continue.

  But Sina doesn’t, and the surprise over her outburst is tempered by sorrow; it floats out over their heads in the gray cigarette smoke.

  “You mean rape?” Lisbeth finally asks.

  Sina shrugs, as if she’s suddenly lost all interest. “Call it whatever you want.”

  “Well, most of us do like it—being exposed to sex, as you say.” Kat chuckles. “The consensual kind, that is.”

  Sina shrugs again. She obviously has no intention of contributing further to this discussion.

  “Well, that’s one of the things we’re here for, isn’t it?” Lisbeth dares to speak up again. “How else would children be brought into the world?”

  “Oh my God, Lisbeth, sex isn’t just about making babies!”

  Lisbeth squirms and mumbles, “No, no…” But in the next moment, Kat’s laughter trumpets out across the porch and Lisbeth is sure she misunderstood, that her friend didn’t mean to rebuke her.

  “I don’t have kids, but I’ve been exposed to sex, as Sina calls it, and been happy about it. Haven’t you all?”

  She looks around with challenging Kat eyes, but her laughter rolls down the walls and lands on the floor. Sits there, butting up against the baseboard, like a day-old deflated balloon.

  “It’s like fårikål.” Maya’s tone is matter-of-fact recalling the traditional pungent dish of boiled cabbage and mutton with bone, seasoned with whole black peppercorns. “There’s nothing better when you only get it once in a while. Seasonally. But if it were on your plate every day, you’d eventually start to lose your appetite for mutton. Sometimes the smell is enough. Or just the thought of it fills you up.”

  Lisbeth is not the only one grinning now, she knows Kat and Sina are picturing the same thing she is: a naked Steinar with twisted ram’s horns covering his ears. His pointy nose quivering, sniffing boiled cabbage and peppercorns.

  “What fills you up?”

  Ingrid appears around the corner of the house, flashes an oblivious smile, and holds out a large plastic bowl of green beans. “These will be great for dinner. What were you saying, what fills you up?” She kicks off her flip-flops at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Nothing,” Kat says. Her laughter still dances in her voice. “At least I hope not quite yet.” She throws the ball right into Ingrid’s lap: “What about you? Are you done with sex?”

  Ingrid freezes on the bottom step. She turns in surprise toward Kat’s curious, carefree grin. Lisbeth feels the empathy well up inside her. Poor Ingrid! With her lumpy body and her big feet. The sharp eyes, and the clothes that cry out for help. Poor, poor Ingrid! How could Kat be so heartless?

  But Ingrid’s not offended; she doesn’t pick up the bowl of beans and walk stiff and indignant into the house. On the contrary. She takes off the scarf wrapped around her head and dries her face with it.

  “No, why?” She tosses the ball back to Kat. “I think I’m just getting started!” Her laughter is playful, as if she’s sharing a joke with Kat alone. “Or do you all think the ship has sailed for a pale kaivalagi?”

  Lisbeth does a double take, staring at her. Is this really Ingrid talking?

  It is and it isn’t. The thick, bristling hair is definitely Ingrid’s, but it’s flipping outward at the ends, suddenly taking up more space. Her brown eyes are makeup-free as always, but there’s someone stirring in there, someone with glittery eyeshadow and bright red lips. Her hips in the faded sulu are wide and heavy, but Lisbeth spies deep, swaying rhythm in them, a fearless claim.

  “It’s not over until the lights are turned off,” Ingrid says, smiling mysteriously, before grabbing the beans and disappearing into the house. “And I don’t intend for that to happen anytime soon!”

  The slam of the screen door echoes in the air for a few seconds.

  “Well, I’ll say!” It’s Sina who breaks the silence. “Still water and all that!”

  Kat laughs. “Ingrid knows how to tell it!”

  Lisbeth looks around, confused—is she missing something here? But before she can process the thought, Kat’s eyes fall on her again.

  “And you, Lisbeth? You’re not having any more children, so it’s over for you, then?”

  Lisbeth puts out her cigarette and folds her bony hands in her lap. Pictures her strong, agile, red-nailed fingers in an elaborate dance across Harald’s back. He liked to feel the scratching down his shoulder blades, not too hard, not to draw blood, just enough so she wasn’t just “lying there like a lump of dough.” “That’s the absolute worst,” he’d said one of the first few times they slept together, “when the chick just lies there like a sack of potatoes.” She’d nodded and smiled and made sure to keep moving. To carefully run her nails down the freckled skin of his back, to stop just in time when he flipped her on her stomach and held both of her wrists locked in an iron grip above her head while he finished. The smack on her butt afterward: “You know you’re a hot piece of ass.” The gratitude she had felt. For being a hot piece of ass.

  “Of course it’s not just for making babies,” she says, feeling her face flush bright red. “Of course it’s good…for us too. It’s only—natural,” she stutters at last. She could never bring herself to call it hot. Has it ever been that? Hot? Being hot, she’s enjoyed that thoroughly. But thinking it’s hot—has she ever?

  Suddenly it’s in her nose. The smell of the young man’s sweat, a dark, strong prickling. The flex of his arm muscles as he helped her up from the ground. The strong, hard chest she pressed up against—the shame cascades silently through her: he pushed her away! But the heat remains in her body, a throbbing red heat she can’t remember the last time she felt. A reverberating wish that makes her hands tense up in her lap as she forces them to stay still. What if I’d said it? I want you; can I have you?

  One week later, she sees him again. Lisbeth and Ingrid have been in Rakiraki with the truck, Vilivo behind the wheel. Ingrid had insisted she could drive, but Kat had been skeptical: “The traffic is horrible right now because of the sugar harvest; the trucks drive like maniacs to get in line at the mill in Ba.” She’d been right: they ended up behind teetering towers of sugarcane and were constantly passed by more trucks with even higher and more precarious loads. The new gaskets for the water pump, which had been on the blink, were on the truck bed, along with a sack of the imported rice Kat loves and new upholstery material for the cushions on the rattan couch.

  Lisbeth is bowled over by the heat and is half dozing, pressed up against the window, when they approach Korototoka. Suddenly Vilivo slams on the brakes and she is hurtled forward before the seat belt stops her.

  “Sorry, ma’am, I just have to go talk to my friend Salesi over there on the rugby pitch. Just a minute!”

  She looks behind her; Ingrid is in a deep sleep in the back seat. She turn
s back round and follows Vilivo with her eyes as he jogs over to the trampled grass. It looks like there’s a time-out in the game; most of the guys are sitting in the shade, some are throwing the ball loosely back and forth. Broad shoulders, short black shorts. Big hands around the oval rugby ball. Noise, roughhousing, pushing and shoving. One of them throws himself down on his back and spreads his arms wide. Now Lisbeth sees there are girls there too, around the edge of the circle. Slender brown arms, their hair in perky buns, shyness behind waves of teasing laughter. In denim cutoffs they sit cross-legged, sipping plastic bottles of yellow soda. Vilivo approaches the circle, where one guy has just jokingly pushed a girl over on her back. She giggles and kicks in his direction, long calves dancing in the shadow play under the tree. The guy bends over and grabs one of her ankles, pretends that he’s going to drag her along the ground away from the others, she squeals in protest and whacks her soda bottle in his direction. As Vilivo steps up to them, the guy releases the flailing girl. He gets up and turns toward Vilivo, greets his buddy with a wide grin. Lisbeth feels the redness in her face pour down the rest of her body like a shower. She wants to sink down into her seat, disappear behind her sunglasses. It’s him. The smooth upper arms with clumsy blue tattoos. The genuine concern in his eyes: “Ma’am, are you okay?” The shoes on his feet are shiny and new. Black, with neon green stripes down the sides.

  The guys are done talking. Her assailant slaps Vilivo a high five and turns back toward the girl. Tears up a tuft of grass and throws it at her before nudging her in the arm. She shouts and explodes in a string of vowels that mix gleefully with his laughter.

  30

  Kat

  He looks exactly the way I pictured him. A combination of shabby cowboy and pathetic business fiasco—am I being cruel? A black leather jacket hanging over his arm, a pastel blue shirt with sweat marks down his back, unbuttoned one button too far. His stomach sagging over the big shiny buckle of his belt.

  But when Armand Guttormsen embraces his mother, it’s with something resembling happiness. He towers over Sina’s plump figure and holds her tight. I keep my distance until the moment of reunion has passed, and his handshake surprises me—it’s firm and long. “So this is the plantation owner,” he says in a hearty, booming voice. “Thank you for coming to get me.”

  Coming to get him—did I have a choice? His smiling courtesy makes it difficult to be as curt as I’d planned, and the words that come out of my mouth are “It’s the least I could do.” His smile grows wider; he obviously agrees.

  He dozes off for most of the car ride. A day and a half of traveling is exhausting, and he has a problem with his back, unfortunately. He’s had it for years, he tells us as he wiggles around in the passenger seat. “And there’s not exactly a lot of room to stretch out in those cramped airplane seats. If you can afford to fly business, it’s another story, but…”

  Sina turns away in embarrassment, as if it’s her fault that poor Armand has to travel in economy class. I feel the irritation prickling: “Well, there aren’t many people who can afford a ticket to Fiji at all. It’s expensive enough, right?”

  Instead of answering, Armand turns toward his mother in the back seat. “I didn’t get much for your car, by the way. There was more rust on it than I’d realized.” He lowers his voice now, but I can still hear him. “When my partner gets started on the Lithuania business for real, you’ll get your money back. With interest, I promise.”

  I can see Sina’s blank stare in the mirror, it glides off her son’s face and out the side window. He turns toward the front again. “I think I’ll take a quick snooze, if that’s okay. You don’t have anything to drink, do you? Some water or something? A beer would taste pretty damn good right now, if I’m being honest.”

  —

  When we get home, Lisbeth and Ingrid have lunch ready. They smile at Armand’s compliments, and Lisbeth keeps heaping more food onto his plate. She’s wearing more eyeshadow than usual, and a necklace with large, flashy rhinestones around her neck. She giggles when he gives her a flirty wink. Lisbeth can’t help being Lisbeth, after all. But even Ingrid laughs at his lame quips—I find myself needing some air and invent an errand I have to run in the village. “I’ll be back in an hour or so,” I tell Armand. “Then I can walk you over to Mosese and Litia’s house so you can see where you’re going to stay.”

  “There’s no rush,” he replies without looking in my direction. “I’m perfectly fine here.” He leans in toward his mother and pats her hand on the table. In a loud, jovial voice: “I’m so glad to see you’re doing well here, Mom.”

  —

  Salote sits on the top step outside her house. She waves to me as I approach. “Bula, Madam Kat! Do you need something?” She gets to her feet and pulls out the key to the padlock.

  I shake my head and tell her I just felt like going for a walk. “I’ve spent too much time sitting in the car today, Salote.”

  The store proprietress is well informed as usual. “Yes. You’ve been to the airport.”

  “That’s right. Sina’s son got here today.”

  “Yes. The big bosso from Australia.”

  I try to clarify: “Sina’s son isn’t from Australia, he’s from the same country as me. Norway. In Europe.”

  Salote nods, no problem. In Korototoka, foreigner automatically means Australia, which is plenty far enough away.

  “And Armand isn’t anybody’s boss. As far as I know, anyway.”

  Salote looks more skeptical at this. “But he runs a business? That’s what Ateca says, that he runs a business, like me.” She points proudly toward the padlock. “Madam Sina told her he does a lot of different kinds of business. Internationally.” The last point is accompanied by a proud smile, as if she herself were running a major export and import business from her counter in front of the dusty shelves of biscuit packets and matchboxes.

  Oh God. If this is what Ateca’s been telling people, there’s probably no end to the expectations Mosese and Litia have for their new tenant. Armand Guttormsen has been here only half a day and he’s already given me several headaches. But this isn’t something I can discuss with Salote, and I force a smile.

  “Sina’s proud of her son,” I say quickly. “I guess all mothers are.”

  We sit back down on her front steps.

  “Ateca says he’s in good health, even though there’s white in his hair,” Salote says.

  We agree that it’s best when people are in good health. She wants to know where his wife is and how many children he has. I tell her Armand isn’t married, has no kids.

  “Why not?”

  Again, I wonder what Ateca’s been saying. I tell her there are many kaivalagi who don’t get married or have children. That they move out of their parents’ house and live alone and work. Salote starts laughing so hard she coughs, and I have to slap her across the back. “What’s the point of that?” she asks when she catches her breath.

  —

  That night we celebrate Armand’s arrival with a glass of wine. Ingrid plays hostess with beans and pumpkin from the garden, and even Lisbeth seems to like the chicken, although it’s swimming in a thick, fatty sauce. The two bottles I’ve been keeping in the pantry are gone in the blink of an eye, and I have to shake my head when Armand suggests another round: “A toast to Mom, I think, who’s been lucky enough to find this wonderful coop of hens. And no rooster to bother you, either!”

  He laughs so hard at his own joke that he barely hears me respond apologetically that no, unfortunately the wine supply has now run dry.

  “So,” he says, and leans back in his chair with ease. “What is it you’re up to these days? Cocoa?”

  I nod and can feel my smile growing stiff. It’s cocoa we’re up to.

  “Is there any money in that? I mean, is that the big business down here?”

  I’m too tired to be offended; I know I’m never actually going to have a serious conversation about the commercial side of the farm with Armand Guttormsen.

 
; “We manage,” is all I say.

  He furrows his pale, almost pink brow. “I’m just thinking of Mom,” he says. “I just want to make sure she’s secure.”

  I have to bite my tongue to hold the swear words back. What the hell is he sitting there and saying? That I am financially responsible for Sina now? And he wants to make sure I’m up to the task? My eyes dart over to Sina, who is staring down at the table and fiddling with a spoon. My sleepiness is gone, I’m grasping for words.

  But I don’t have to say anything. It’s Ingrid, of all people, who shares our business concept with Sina’s son:

  “We’re going to start making chocolate,” she says. “Our own recipe. The taste of Fiji. Pure and simple. Pieces of happiness.”

  Her voice when she says it—suddenly it dawns on me, a bittersweet realization. Ingrid finally knows a thing or two about happiness. The dark, succulent kind, the kind you stake your claim to.

  Armand doesn’t ask any more questions. He glances back and forth between Ingrid and me. Thinking, scheming, calculating.

  —

  Maya has already yawned a few times, and now she gets up and leaves the table. Sina shoves her chair back right away and follows her out. Armand looks at his mother, astonished: “Are you going to bed already, Mom?”

  I’m about to suggest that it might be a good idea for all of us to call it a night, but Lisbeth is one step ahead of me. “Maya’s tired,” she chimes in. “She doesn’t see so well in the dark, and Sina’s kind and helps her out if she stumbles along the way. Especially after a little wine.” She smiles at Armand. The look she throws him leaves no doubt that this doesn’t apply to her—Lisbeth can handle a glass or two whenever it may be, without letting it throw her off balance. She stands up suddenly. “I can walk you over to Mosese’s,” she offers casually. Pulls her green blouse down over her hips and runs her fingers through her hair. “That way I can have a smoke on the way home.”

  Armand shoves his plate away from him. “Well, who can resist an offer like that?” he says, grinning back. “Can I bum one off you?”