by Linda Olsson
It looked inviting when it was ready, and we sat down to eat.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve dined this elegantly.”
“You find this elegant? Just a salad and some bread and wine. I’ve seen far more elegant dinners.”
“Oh, that’s not what I meant. You can see that someone has made an effort to make this not only tasty but also very beautiful to look at.”
Emma served and we began to eat.
“Have you opened the envelope?”
I had completely forgotten. Suppressed it, perhaps. I shook my head.
“I’m sorry if it’s difficult. That was never my intention.”
“It’s not difficult. I just forgot.” I put down my cutlery.
“Everything to do with Mother is . . . hard. I just can’t do it. I don’t want to.”
I searched for words, something I could say without releasing all I had worked so hard to hold back.
“When I think back, only sad memories surface.”
Emma looked at me. “Don’t you remember that she used to sing with us?”
“With us? I do remember her singing. She had such a beautiful voice. What she might have made of it if she had not met Father. And had us, Amanda and me. But I do not remember her singing with us. Possibly to us. But not much of that either. Besides, I can’t sing. So it couldn’t have been particularly inspiring to sing with me.”
“Do you see everything that one-dimensionally? So darkly?”
“What do you mean? How else should I see it? I think I see it as it was. If you have another picture, it might be because you had, not just another father, but another mother too. We are not the same person in different relationships.”
“That’s right, of course. But we still lived together, the two of us, for more than ten years. Same place, same mother. Not everything could have been different.”
“I don’t know, Emma.” I searched her face, where the candlelight chiseled out its features. I had always thought Emma took after Mother. Now I could see that this was just a superficial likeness. The colors, her posture, some gestures. But here, up close, I could see no other similarities at all. Nor could I see any resemblance to the younger sister she had been as a child. It was an unfamiliar face, one I could relate to more easily.
As if she had read my thoughts, she looked up while she too put down her cutlery.
“When I was little, I thought you were so beautiful, Amanda and you. I wanted to be like you, look like you. Once I brushed my hair with Mother’s mascara to make it dark. Do you remember? Mother was furious.”
I shook my head.
“It was as if everything about you was stronger, healthier. Not just your dark, curly hair. Mine was blonde, almost white, and dead straight. Like Mother’s. And your skin was a little tanned even in winter. I just got pink and freckled in the sun and very white in winter. You were made to be out and about, but I was best suited to some dark corner. I just couldn’t get enough of watching you. I remember how you used to climb up the tree behind our building, lithe and strong like monkeys. Then you sat up there and watched my awkward attempts to follow. I would stand there, crying, until Amanda took pity on me and came down. But you stayed up there. Always out of reach.”
“Out of reach. That’s an odd expression when you consider it. You can look at it from two sides. Who is reaching for whom? I never felt out of reach. It was just that nobody reached out for me. Nobody but Amanda. I have so few memories of my father. A handful of photos, of course. I can see that we looked like him. But I have so few real memories. After he moved out, we only saw him for a week or so during the summer holidays. And then he used to come for a brief visit at Christmas. But they were awkward visits. He was so obviously there to see Mother. And Mother was so obviously not interested. It was a game involving the two of them, really.”
“I do remember him, actually. I used to dream that he was really my father too.”
“Why? Your father adored you. You were his little princess.”
Emma’s response took a long while.
“I don’t really know what my father felt for me. I have no memories of us doing anything much together. He came and he went. Mostly, he went. That’s what it felt like. And when he was home, it was as if we all had to tiptoe around him. I wasn’t afraid of him. Not for my sake. But it scared me how our home changed when he was there. It was as if he pulled me away from you. As if I was an object that belonged to him, an object that was useful to him in some way. At his funeral I was all alone. Mother certainly wasn’t there. I think she was abroad. She had met Robert by then. And Mother and Father had been divorced for quite some time. There wasn’t really any reason for her to be there. Other than for my sake, I suppose. I remember that I cried inconsolably. I have no idea why, because I don’t think I grieved for him really. Perhaps I was ashamed of my lack of grief? Or else it was the insight that I was now completely alone.”
“Mother was still around.”
Emma stared at me as if she wasn’t really sure if I was serious.
“Like you said, Mother had left us a long time ago. Perhaps she had never really been present. I have always had a feeling of being conceived as a part of her plan to catch Father. And then, when she lost interest in Father, she lost what little interest she might have had in me.”
“At least you were once a wanted child. Not a mistake to be regretted, like Amanda and me.”
“I’m not sure. I might have been wanted, in some way. But when nothing turned out the way it was supposed to, I became a burden. A responsibility she didn’t want. Sometimes she would look at me with what felt like revulsion. As if there was something wrong with me and I didn’t match the expectations that she once had. But that was on the odd occasion when she took any notice of me at all. Mostly, I was invisible. And eventually her restless chase for something else resumed, and I ceased to exist. I agree with you. I don’t think she ever found what she was searching for.”
I topped up our glasses.
“I have wished I could talk to my father. If only for a little while. Be allowed to ask my questions and hear his answers. Have his version of how it all began. Because I can’t for the life of me imagine their love affair. If that is the correct term for our conception, Amanda’s and mine. I can’t understand how two such ill-matched people could be attracted to each other. But I may not understand anything at all. For neither of them ever said how it was in the beginning. It might have started as love. Perhaps they were happy together for some time. I hope so, but that is not how it feels. Sometimes I watch adult daughters with their fathers, and I envy them so. Actually, I think I longed for my father even as a child. I longed for him to be more present in our lives. I remember that he held me close when we sat in the church at Amanda’s funeral. Neither of us wept anymore, but Father kept squeezing my arm hard, again and again. I had no idea then that he was so ill. I have never found out if he knew. But he died just a month later. I thought we had our whole lives ahead of us. That the grief was going to connect us in a new way. Because we were the only ones mourning Amanda like that. We had agreed that I was going to come and live with him. I was just going to finish the term at school, and I had already more or less left home and was living with Olof’s family. But when the term ended, Father was no longer there.”
“You’re saying you were the only two mourning Amanda. But you are forgetting me,” Emma whispered. “I mourned her terribly. And I had nobody at all to share my grief.”
She started to collect our plates and cutlery, then she stood up, for a moment looking down at me.
“We have to talk about Amanda. Sometime we have to do that.”
I twirled my glass in my hand.
“There is nothing to talk about, Emma.”
She didn’t reply, just disappeared inside. I thought she would return, but after I had waited a good while I stood up and blew o
ut the candles. I leaned against the banister and looked out over the sea. It was a starry night with strong moonlight. It was late and the sounds were soft, but I could see the odd person still strolling along the quay.
I was wrong. We did need to talk about Amanda.
DAY FOUR
No dreams. None that I could remember anyway. And no lingering feelings. I could tell that it was later than I had intended, but I remained in bed for a little while. I heard discreet sounds from the kitchen downstairs. Emma was up. I registered it as a fact but with no particular reaction. Perhaps I was getting used to her presence.
When I came down the stairs, I could see that she had set the table on the patio, but I couldn’t spot her anywhere. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down. The metal seat felt cold through my dressing gown. A small bird with a red chest landed at the top of the wall and sat watching me for a while before it lifted and landed in the fig tree a little farther up. There it began to sing. The small body seemed to gather all its strength before each quaver and the downy red chest feathers ruffled up. From where I sat, it looked as if the chest was covered in blood, as if the bird sang with its last strength and at a terrible cost.
I didn’t notice Emma until she was right beside me. I looked up and thought she looked better.
“Good morning,” she said, and sat down.
“Good morning. You look like you’ve had a good night.”
She nodded.
“Yes, it’s been a long time since I slept right through an entire night. I woke up early and went for a walk to town and bought bread.”
This time I helped myself to a croissant. It was still warm. I tore off a small piece and popped it into my mouth. The little bird sat among the fig leaves, still singing. I stood up and stepped onto the edge of the flower bed. From there, I could just reach the top of the wall if I stretched out my arm. I placed a few breadcrumbs there, sat down again, and pointed to the bird. It took just a moment. We watched it soundlessly sweep down and snatch a crumb, only to disappear among the leaves again.
We smiled and it felt almost genuine.
“What do you say? Shall we walk to Cap de Creus?”
As far as I could judge from the square above us, the sky was absolutely clear. “I think we’ll have another fine day.”
Emma nodded. “Sounds good. Do what you need to do first. You decide when we leave.”
All agreed, I went inside to get ready.
I heard the music inside me. It struck me that it no longer made me sad. There was something more to it. An odd sense of gratitude perhaps. An unfamiliar warmth.
* * *
At a leisurely pace, it would take us just under two hours. It felt as though Emma moved a little lighter, and I had no difficulty adapting my pace to hers. When I walk alone, I don’t see the landscape in the same way as I do when I have company. I see it more intensely and at the same time I don’t see it at all. Intensely when I take pictures. Or when I stop to enjoy the view. And not at all when my thoughts wander, and I can walk long distances without noticing my surroundings. When startled out of my thoughts, I can feel embarrassed in the same way I used to when I woke up sleepwalking when I was little.
But now I was not alone. I was walking side by side with my sister, and as I adapted my step to hers, I tried to see the landscape as she might see it. I couldn’t imagine that she found it beautiful. The barren terrain with sharp rocks and spiky plants couldn’t possibly appeal to Emma.
“It’s beautiful.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
“Really?”
“Yes, I think it looks as if it was created only yesterday. And at the same time it looks ancient. It’s as if everything came to a halt in the midst of being created. As if someone just tired of it and left it to its fate.”
I let my gaze run over the gray, stony landscape. The sky was blanching in the intense sunlight. A glimpse of sea was visible on the horizon. Emma had described it well. It looked like the enormous land mass had poured forth toward the water and the momentum had abruptly halted while the volcanic melt was spilling into the depths of the sea.
About halfway, we took a break and sat down on a rock a little off the walkway. From there, we had a wide view over the sea.
“I think Pau will take us up this way tomorrow. So you will see it all again but from a different perspective.”
Emma had her eyes on the sea.
“It will be very different. Everything depends on perspective.”
We had some fruit and water, and Emma offered a few pieces of chocolate, a little melted in the heat.
“How are you feeling? We’re at least halfway by now.”
“Absolutely fine. It’s lovely to be out like this. I had almost forgotten the feeling. Just walking, not having to think at all. Total freedom.”
We arrived at our destination just before one. In spite of the fine weather, the restaurant was half empty and we had no problem getting a table in the shade outside.
“It feels as if we are sitting right at the edge of the earth, at the last frontier. As if there is nothing beyond the sea.”
I nodded.
“Yes, everything worldly feels distant. That is how I feel when I am in Cadaqués. Alone in the house, I sometimes find myself wondering if the world still exists outside. And even more so out here, of course.”
“I can imagine how lonely you might feel in that large house.”
I hesitated for moment before I responded.
“It has nothing to do with the house. The truth is that I feel less lonely there than I do anywhere else. I feel safe there.”
I imagined Emma couldn’t understand what I meant. But she nodded slowly.
“I am not sure if I understand how you feel, but one reason why I haven’t sorted my own housing is that I feel safe in my old home. But it is a false sense of security, I have come to understand. No security at all, really. I will have to leave it one day. I am well aware of that. And that day is rapidly approaching. I’m living on borrowed time and no closer to an idea of where to go. Thinking about it makes me panic.”
“Yes, perhaps there isn’t that much difference between how we live our lives, you and I. My house represents a brief time in my life when I was completely happy. Everything that reminds me of that time is in that house. When I am there by myself I occasionally experience moments when the memory almost comes alive. It might be music. A fragrance. A dream. Or just the view over the sea.”
Emma’s hands were playing with the napkin, but her thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. Then she looked up.
“But to live like that is not living. You can’t live your life backward. Not in the long term. I just don’t know how to take a step outside again. I have locked myself inside for so long. I have no memories of the kind of happiness I think you are describing. But all the things I have experienced, I experienced there, in my home. I can look backward, but when I try to look forward, I see nothing. And that is so terribly frightening.”
“I still think you may have gotten further than I have. That your insight is greater. That you may already have taken the first step. You are just not aware of it. But I, I have nothing pulling me. Nothing that forces me to pick up my life again. I can stay hidden here in my house.”
It looked like Emma started to say something, then changed her mind.
“You have told me so much about yourself, Emma. About Olof and the children. But I have given you hardly anything.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything. What I have told you, I told you for my sake. Not yours. I needed to talk about Olof. It’s as if one sees things more clearly when one tries to put them into words. It has been so lonely carrying this sad story of the divorce. So look at it as my self-therapy. It comes with no obligation to reciprocate.”
A fleeting, slightly self-conscious smile touched her lips before she took a sip o
f wine.
“To me, telling is certainly no therapy. I think I carry my sad story around because I don’t want to put it down. It is all I have, and I don’t know how I would be able to live without it surrounding me all the time. I was afraid before your arrival. Afraid and furious. I didn’t want to share any part of my small world with anyone else. I have inhabited it for a year now. At first I didn’t leave the house for days. And all this time I haven’t invited anyone inside.”
I couldn’t understand what it was I was doing. But I placed my glass on the table and met Emma’s eyes.
“When I stood there, after the funeral, and invited you here, I regretted it the moment the words popped out of my mouth. I had no idea why I uttered them. But when I thought about it the other day, I realized it was hubris, quite simply. Do you remember that Mother used to say you should be careful showing that you are happy? Even to yourself? That to do so is to challenge fate?”
Emma nodded.
“Yes, I do remember. But I absolutely do not believe it. I think it’s a terrible thought. For most people, there is so little happiness that surely you must be allowed to embrace it?”
“Yes, that makes sense. But I cannot shake the feeling Mother planted in me. I think I have held back all my life. Been careful not to show real happiness. Real love. Well, feelings generally. But at that moment when I invited you here, I refused to listen to Mother’s warning. I really wanted to show how happy I was. I wanted you to know. Perhaps particularly you. I wanted to share it with you.”
“Why me? You keep saying we hardly know each other.”
I shrugged. “I can’t explain. An indication of my arrogance, I suppose. Completely stupid. And I knew it instantly. But it would be a year before fate caught up with me.”
The waiter appeared and we ordered coffee.
“When you told me how you felt when you met Olof, I realized that it had no likeness to my feelings for him. To me, he was really just a friend. A steadfast and loyal friend. And I escaped into that security when everything collapsed at home. But Olof opened no doors for me. He blocked them. Suffocated me with his love. I wanted to live! It felt like my life hadn’t even started yet. And I could see nothing beyond Olof as long as he was close to me. He closed all roads, blocked all exits. When I looked at him, all I could see were his expectations. Expectations that I knew I would not be able to live up to. Eventually, I couldn’t stand looking at him.”