by Linda Olsson
Emma had lit a cigarette. She looked at me with a pensive expression.
“No need to do anything much at all for my sake, Maria. As you can see, I am not in great shape.”
“But it’s just a short walk. Fifteen minutes or so. Just up the hill behind us and down into the next bay. You walk along the road, and we can take our time. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
It took a moment before she answered.
“I have been ill,” she said eventually. “I can’t manage as much as I used to. At least not for now.”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea.” I gave her an inquiring look. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shook her head.
“Of course you didn’t know. I am much better now. And I’ll get better still. I’m just tired, that’s all. But I’d rather not talk about it. I just thought I should explain why I’m so slow. A short walk today will be just fine. You don’t have to walk at my slow pace, though.”
Ever since she stepped off the bus, I had been surprised at how changed she appeared. Now I was relieved that she had volunteered a kind of explanation. Even if she hadn’t said much. I felt I couldn’t really ask anything further. It had to be on her terms.
“Of course we’ll walk together.”
* * *
When we had climbed the steep slope and reached the top, we stopped to enter the small chapel. The entrance to the cemetery was open, but Emma shook her head.
“No thanks. Not for me. But I’m happy to follow you into the chapel.”
I’m not sure why, but I have become more and more fascinated by religious buildings of various kinds. Perhaps I am searching for something inside them. This particular small whitewashed chapel had especially touched me ever since I first saw it. Perhaps more than the cathedral in town. The chapel doesn’t seem to be used for regular services, but it always looks clean and well kept. As if someone is looking after it. The white walls are largely lacking decorations. The whole space is simple and unadorned. We sat down on one of the wooden benches.
“It’s brighter here,” said Emma. “Here, even I might find a little peace.”
Unexpectedly, it was as if we both managed to find a moment of rest. We remained in the cool, light room for quite a while.
On our way downhill we stopped now and then to take in the view. It was difficult to understand that it was October. Little white sailing boats drifted on the sparkling sea in the distance and the olive trees’ gray-green foliage shaded the slope below us. Emma stood with her hands resting on the top of the wall that ran along the road.
“I can understand why he wanted to live here.”
“Who?”
“Salvador Dalí, of course. That’s his house down there, isn’t it?”
She pointed toward the white house down by the sea. It wasn’t one house, really, but a collection of small buildings that had been connected. I had often compared it to Carl Larsson’s house in Sundborn. A home that had been allowed to grow organically as needs had required and ideas had been realized. The result of different kinds of investments: creative, practical, and financial. And an expression of the owner’s personality. As different from my own home as one could imagine. My house was no expression of my personality at all. It was a protection. A fortress.
We had a knowledgeable and pleasant young guide, and the group of visitors seemed genuinely interested in what she had to tell. As for me, I struggled to muster much interest this time. The rooms seemed somehow more faded and dustier than during my previous visits. It saddened me. When we had wandered through the public parts of the buildings, we were left to explore the garden on our own. Emma and I walked up to the top of the hill and inside the small building that sat on its own up on the highest point. Inside, a black-and-white documentary was playing on a loop, and there were chairs placed along the wall. We sat down. The film contained short clips from Dalí’s life as well as interviews with him. It struck me that his ever-present wife never seemed to have a word to say. Yet she was such a strong presence in their home. And in Dalí’s art. But perhaps this was as it should be. Perhaps a muse has to maintain a measure of mystique behind her secretive smile. And who knows what their relationship might have been when they were alone, without an audience?
After the semidarkness inside, we were blinded by the sun as we came outside. Emma put on her sunglasses.
“Did you hear what he said? About his dead brother? A brother he had never met but whose name he was given. During his entire childhood, he felt his parents were really addressing his brother when they used his name. That they continued to love the lost child through the living. And he later realized he was forced to kill the brother inside in order to be able to live his own life.”
Emma seemed to be deeply touched.
“I don’t know why, but it struck me that perhaps I became Mother’s only child. That I was all three of us. And at the same time never really felt as if I existed.” She looked at me with an awkward smile.
“I’m talking nonsense. I was just so strangely affected by that part about the brother. But I think it’s time for something to eat now.”
“Yes, it’s lunchtime, absolutely. There is a small place a little further on. Simple, but their grilled fish is nice.”
We walked slowly along the beach, and suddenly I felt Emma stick her hand under my arm. I wasn’t sure if it was because she needed support or for some other reason. But, either way, I allowed it to happen.
We had grilled prawns, cuttlefish, and halibut and drank the local white wine.
“It feels a little odd to sit here and have wine in the middle of the day.” Emma lifted her glass and toasted. “A little wicked. And wonderful.”
The friendly owner walked between the tables and chatted to the guests. He recognized me and gave me a wide smile as he approached. Maya and I had often eaten here. But it felt like a long time ago.
“I brought my sister today,” I said, and introduced them to each other. “Emma has come to stay with me for a few days.”
Marcello turned to Emma and asked a few polite questions. Emma smiled and suddenly she seemed to relax. It was as if she had a social persona that she was able to switch on as required. One that was very different from the person she was in private. I watched her talk and gesture happily, and I could see Marcello’s delight.
“I hope your sister becomes as attached to this place as you are, Maria. And that she will return. I hope to see you both here again soon.”
I nodded but said nothing.
It seemed like the walk back was easier for Emma, but when we stepped inside, she said she wanted to take a rest. I walked upstairs and sat down by the computer.
The third day. I don’t know much more about Emma, even though she has told me about Olof. And that she has been ill. But somehow it’s still as if she is not really telling. Or perhaps it is me not listening properly. Perhaps I don’t want to know. And I am still trying to avoid telling anything much. Not entirely successfully. This and that slips out, things I have not at all intended to tell. I am not sure what Emma wants to hear. If she wants to hear anything at all. Or if she needs to talk more than anything. My dream about Amanda has lingered all day. It might be Emma’s presence that affects me.
I stopped typing. And suddenly I couldn’t hold back my tears. They took me by surprise, completely. I stood up and walked onto the terrace and pulled the sliding door closed behind me.
And there I was, weeping like a child. It was as if it would never cease. The tears flowed, as did snot. I sobbed uncontrollably.
It took a long while before I calmed down. I sat in one the chairs and pulled my knees toward my chest. Curled up. As if I was trying to comfort myself.
I let my eyes rest on the familiar view. And I thought about my first day there. It is peculiar that you can remember being happy but still be completely unable to evoke the feeling. That
’s not how it is with grief. The memory of grief is always accompanied by the feeling. I remembered how we stepped inside the house the first time. How we slowly walked upstairs and downstairs, more and more excited. Explored all three floors. And finally ended up here, on the terrace, side by side. And I remembered how deliriously happy I had been. But now the memory brought only sadness.
I must have dozed off because I woke with a start when I heard Emma open the door. She brought coffee and placed the tray with cups and biscuits on the table. Then she pulled her chair into the sun, unfolded it, and stretched out.
“Anna just called.”
I looked at her, where she rested, seemingly unconcerned, her face to the sun and her eyes closed.
“I can’t remember when she last called. She wants to come home for Christmas. But I haven’t given Christmas a thought. It feels distant and unreal. Like something I used to do a long time ago. I don’t even know where I will be living then. Or if I will be up to having another Christmas.”
I sat up in my chair.
“Are you not still living in Mariefred?”
“Yes, but the house is on the market. Olof has been generous, allowing me to stay on this long. There was so much to deal with when I became ill. I wasn’t up to making a decision about where to go, on top of everything else. So he agreed that I could stay for the time being. Olof works in Stockholm now, and he has a flat there. So the house has to be sold. We can’t afford to keep it. And I don’t want to stay there anyway. I think.”
There was a brief silence.
“I don’t know what I want. Or, rather, I want nothing. I can’t even begin to imagine how my life could evolve. So I can’t make any plans at all.”
“Perhaps you just need a little more time.”
“Or perhaps quite the opposite. Perhaps I should realize that time is precious. That I need to make some decisions. Begin to walk in some direction.”
I stood up, poured the coffee, and handed Emma her cup.
“Now I’m afraid I didn’t sound encouraging enough, happy enough, when I talked to Anna. I never know with her. How she is. What she really wants from me.”
“Do you need to? Isn’t it enough that she calls? Think of your feelings for her. Not the feelings you think she might have for you.”
I heard the church bells chime, not sure why. It might have been for a wedding or a funeral. Or just ringing in the Sunday. I closed my eyes against the warm afternoon sun and listened to the chiming and realized that for the first time in a very long time I was aware that a weekend was coming up. The sun had moved beyond our chairs and the terrace was in the shade when we finally stood up.
“Perhaps we should go shopping? We promised to bring lunch for the boat trip.” Emma walked ahead, toward the steps, tray in her hands. Then she stopped. “And I was going to suggest that I make dinner at home tonight. If that’s all right.”
* * *
Since I ate out more often than not, both my pantry and my fridge were miserably empty. Emma checked them and wrote a list of things we needed to buy.
The fish counter at the small supermarket didn’t open until after seven, when the fishing boats returned with the day’s catch, so it was almost dark when we set off. We stopped on the way and had a glass of wine. Several of my favorite places had closed for the season, but when people from Barcelona and the inland returned for weekends, some opened again.
“That color suits you.” Emma wore a blue linen dress and a matching cardigan. My compliment was honestly intended but she looked skeptical.
“I don’t think anything suits me anymore.”
“You got some color from the walk today, I think. That suits you too.”
I wore the same jeans as before and a similar T-shirt. Nothing much to comment on. And that might have been the intention. Not to be noticed.
Emma regarded me with her head a little cocked, as if assessing me.
“You don’t seem to care much what you wear, do you? I admire that. I wish I could ignore it too. But I feel I need to dress with care. Put on makeup. Hide. And when someone makes a kind comment about how I look, I assume they’re referring to the clothes, not me. It feels like a pat on the shoulder, an acknowledgment of my efforts, nothing more.”
“But I meant you. Not your clothes. You look good in what you are wearing. I’m not sure I would have noticed those garments on someone else. Or in a shop. It’s you who look good in them.”
To my amazement, she blushed. And turned demonstratively to make contact with the waiter and ask for the bill.
We took our time in the supermarket, and I was surprised at how much fun it was. We talked about what to bring for the boat trip the following day.
“Do you think we’ll go ashore somewhere? If so, perhaps we can bring a small grill? If you have one?”
“I don’t think it needs to be that elaborate. Some bread, cheese, olives. I think that will do just fine.”
We gathered what we needed for the lunch, and then Emma focused on the dinner.
“Is there anything special you would fancy? Or something you don’t like?” She gave me a searching look. “I have no idea what you like. I don’t remember anything from when we were little. What did we eat?”
I shrugged. “There were times when there wasn’t much to eat at all. But that was before your time, I think. After our father had left and before your father came into the picture. Later there was more money. But the food didn’t improve very much. In hindsight, I have sometimes wondered if Mother had some kind of eating disorder. I just can’t picture her at the table. She used to stand by the counter while we ate. I can picture her there, leaning against the counter with a cigarette in her hand. Funny, I don’t usually remember that she smoked. Nor do I remember that she ever seemed to look forward to a meal. I think she would have preferred not to have to be involved at all. That’s how it felt. As if it was a chore, never a pleasure. I think both Amanda and I ate to survive. I remember we were often hungry, but not that we enjoyed the food. So when you ask me what I like and what I don’t like, I struggle to give you an answer. As you must have noticed, I have most of my meals out. I am hopeless at cooking, but I enjoy other people doing it for me. I’m embarrassed about that. It feels immature somehow. As if I have an unsatisfied need for some kind of care. As if the food is not so much food but a symbol of something else. But you must have a different view entirely. I remember your lavish dinner parties. How you invited us for Christmas dinner and birthday lunches in your beautiful home. Olof and you. Or was it mostly you?”
Emma shrugged.
“Yes, I guess it was mostly me.” Again, she looked at me with a thoughtful expression. “When I listen to you, I wonder if my relationship with food isn’t somehow similar. I do like cooking. But it has never really been about the food. It is a way for me to express love, I think. But it wasn’t food my family needed. How Olof felt about it, I never knew. I think perhaps he understood that it meant a lot to me. But I don’t think he ever understood how to respond to it. I don’t think food was anything other than nourishment to him. He never seemed particularly interested. And to expect him to understand how charged it was for me was probably to ask too much. When I put the food on the table, it was really to tell them how much I loved them. But what I did was never enough, never the right thing. Then when Anna became ill, our meals turned into torture. And my efforts only served to make them worse. For me, it was as if she rejected not just the food but my love.”
“I had no idea that was how you felt. And I had no idea Anna was ill. I was overwhelmed. Everything was perfect in your home. I just felt I didn’t fit in.”
Emma walked slowly down the aisle, and I followed.
“I thought I’d make something simple. A salad perhaps,” she said without turning around.
And that’s what we decided.
* * *
Emma didn’t want
any help in the kitchen, but I stood on the other side of the island, watching her slice tomatoes. I placed my phone on the counter and connected it to a loudspeaker and turned on some music. We had often listened to music when we first moved in. During evenings on the terrace. In the morning when we had our coffee. And when Maya cooked. That time had its own musical score. I hesitated before I decided what to play now. The time before the music finally flowed forth felt longer than I had anticipated. For a few seconds, I wondered if I had lost the music.
Emma looked up.
“What is this?”
“The singer’s name is Arianna Savall, and she sings in Catalan. When I first discovered her, I used to listen to her not just because I thought it was beautiful. I wanted to learn the language too. But nothing much has come of that.”
“It’s very beautiful, regardless.”
Every song brought memories from those early days. But again I was unable to re-create the feeling. Just remember it and allow myself to be filled with immense regret.
“Yes, the music is lovely,” I said. “This particular one is called ‘Ya salió de la mar,’ which I think means something like ‘she came out of the sea.’”
I felt my eyes brim with tears. Again. I sensed Emma’s eyes on me and gestured to her to ignore me.
“Don’t look at me. It’s just been a long time since I heard this.”
Emma had made a salad with fresh tuna and plated it elegantly on a dish I hadn’t even seen before. She had chilled white wine and water, sliced bread and found a basket for it. We carried everything upstairs to the terrace. The metal table had rusty spots and needed cleaning. Suddenly I remembered that there were tablecloths in a drawer in the kitchen, and I went downstairs to get one. I also found a few tea lights, but I had to search for a while before I found matches in the small cupboard on the wall by the fireplace. It didn’t occur to me to ask Emma for her lighter.