Unformed Landscape

by Peter Stamm

  “But I’m not in any doubt,” said Kathrine, and tossed her cigarette end across the street. “I always thought I didn’t have any choice. And then when I was with Morten…”

  “But basically, it doesn’t matter what a man says,” said Linn. “The main thing is having a good time.”

  “I realized that I don’t really like Thomas,” said Kathrine. “I never liked him, from the start,” she said. “It’s strange. I think I loved him. Or something like that. I wanted to stay with him. But I never liked him.”

  Thomas could never be a friend to Kathrine, just as Helge had never been her friend. She had never truly liked either of them, maybe that was why they had become her lovers, and then, a little fortuitously, husbands. Helge had been a wild man, and annoying because he never did what you asked him to. But Kathrine had soon realized that at the critical moment, he failed, drew in his horns. She had said as much to him herself. When it’s a question of your personal advantage, you draw in your horns. And Thomas? Thomas had represented the chance of beginning a new life. No longer to have to work, to have enough money, to be able to travel. Kathrine thought of the big house, the many lovely rooms, the garden. She thought of the afternoons when she had been visiting, sitting in the garden and reading. And Thomas’s mother had come out to her, offering homemade lemonade and cakes. She had sat down next to her, and embroidered one of her Bible verses, one of which she already had hanging in every room of the house. I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. Thomas’s father, who had a Biblical citation for every situation, chose the verses, and Thomas’s mother embroidered them.

  “This is the one he chose for you,” she said, and smiled. “We can hang it by the door to your apartment. Do you like the colors?”

  Kathrine stayed for three days in the hotel with Johanna, Inger, and Linn. She took lots of photos. In the daytime, the four of them went skiing, in the evenings they went out to eat, and once they went dancing. There were even some men around, and they spent a cheerful evening together, but not more than that. Once, Kathrine wanted to go to the library, to look at her e-mail.

  Morten had written to her. He hoped Kathrine would be back soon, he was missing her. She might at least say hello, wherever she was.

  He doesn’t sound too worried, she thought, but she didn’t mind, and she wrote back quickly to say she was in Narvik, that she was fine, and would soon be back.

  The others had had a look around the library by now. Johanna said there were probably more books than people who knew how to read. Just because we live up here doesn’t mean we’re thick, said Kathrine. Inger said she had once read somewhere that the brain activity of people in the North was diminished by the long evenings. “Just like with marmots,” said Johanna. “They spend their summers getting fat, and in winter they sit around at home, watch TV, and commit incest.”

  “Did someone turn you down, then?” asked Linn.

  “There isn’t anyone there,” said Johanna. “I wouldn’t be in a position to get turned down by one of those fishheads anyway.”

  “Am I a fishhead, then?” asked Kathrine.

  “There’s nothing I can see, but it might still come,” said Johanna.

  That evening, the four of them went to a disco, and Johanna was aggressive again. Kathrine had danced with a man, quite close and quite long. And when she returned to the table where the other three were sitting, Inger said she thought the Norwegians were racists, because they didn’t ask Swedish girls to dance.

  “To look at you lolling there, no one would have thought you wanted to dance anyway,” said Kathrine.

  “Kathrine has more fun than we do,” said Johanna. “Nothing in her purse to buy a beer, but full of good cheer.”

  Kathrine got up and left. Linn followed her to the hotel a few minutes later. Kathrine was sitting on the bed, crying. Linn sat down next to her, and put her arm around her.

  “Johanna didn’t mean it like that,” said Linn later, as they were lying in their beds. They had the light out, and were talking a bit, as they had on the previous nights.

  “I don’t fit with you,” said Kathrine.

  “You fit with me, but maybe not with the others.”

  “I’m not more stupid than any of you. And as for not having any money… I’m going home.”

  “To your husband?”

  “To my friends and my mother and my kid. Back to my village.”

  “Johanna has such a hard time with her boyfriend,” said Linn. “He’s a successful lawyer, and he puts her under a lot of pressure. He wants her to have a career like him. But she’s not as good as he is. And then, as a woman… Inger is the best attorney of the three of us. I don’t know what it’s about. I don’t care. But Johanna gets upset.”

  Kathrine repeated that she would leave in the morning, and she was a bit disappointed that Linn didn’t try to talk her out of it. That might be the best thing, she said, it’s a pity, but Kathrine should know what was best for her.

  “Yes,” said Kathrine, and then, “No.”

  “You can stay another day, can’t you?” asked Linn. She had gotten up, and sat down on the edge of Kathrine’s bed. “I’ll pay, it’s all right.”

  “The Polarlys is coming by tomorrow,” said Kathrine. “I know the captain. I’d like to sail with him.”

  “Do you need money? Just say. You don’t have to pay me back.”

  “No. I’ve enough.”

  “Can we stay friends?”

  “Sure, if you like.”

  “I do like,” said Linn, and kissed Kathrine. “I like you.”

  Kathrine had to leave early. Linn awoke when the alarm went off. She didn’t get up, but she stayed awake, and watched Kathrine pack. Then they hugged, and Kathrine left. She took the early bus to Harstad, where the Hurtig Line boat was due to sail at a quarter past. On the Polarlys, she asked after Harald. He was still asleep. As she was sitting over breakfast, he wandered down into the dining room. He had shaved off his beard. He approached Kathrine’s table with rapid strides, she stood up, and the two of them embraced like old friends.

  They drank coffee together, and Kathrine told her story. Harald said he had told his wife about her stay. At first, she had been furious, but in the end she believed him, and now everything was all right again, perhaps even a bit better than before.

  “We talked. At least that.”

  Then Harald had to go on duty, and go up to the bridge. Kathrine put away her luggage, and went up and joined him.

  “Have you got a son or a daughter?” asked Harald. “And how old is your kid? And what’s he or she called?”

  “He’s a boy. He’ll be eight in… two weeks.”

  “And what’s his name?”

  “Randy.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Kathrine said she didn’t feel like it. She said she and Randy weren’t particularly close. And never had been, she thought. She was so tired after the birth, by cesarean section, and then the postnatal depression, and her mother was there the whole time, looking after her, and giving her advice. Kathrine had found breast-feeding painful, she had gotten a breast infection, and Helge hadn’t been any use at all, and had only offended her mother, until she stopped coming. Then things had gotten really difficult. Randy. Kathrine didn’t like the name, even. It was Helge’s idea, after some musician he liked. It hadn’t been an especially good time.

  “Tell me about him,” repeated Harald.

  “He’s going to end up like his father,” said Kathrine. “I once caught him torturing a dog.”

  “All kids do that.”

  “No, they don’t,” said Kathrine, “all kids don’t do that.”

  “He’s not to blame for his father. You chose him.”

  “And what if I did? He’s still like Helge.”

  “Maybe he’ll grow up, like Helge grew up.”

  “Did you study psychology?”

  “My wife’s like you. That’s why I liked you straightaway. But…”

  “But?” />
  “What’s good for a man isn’t necessarily good for a kid.”

  “You’ve got no idea what it means, bringing up a child. You’re never home.”

  “You don’t have to listen to me,” said Harald, and turned away. “We don’t have to talk, either. Look out the window. Maybe you’ll see a seal.”

  They were silent for a long time. Finally Harald said, “Why did you marry him, if he’s so awful?”

  “We were OK together. As long as he was sober. And then the baby came along.”

  “They don’t come by themselves.”

  “I slept with him. I didn’t want to be alone, and I’d had a few. OK?”

  “And even if he does turn out like his father, give him a chance, at least. It’ll be hard enough for him, up there.”

  “Randy,” said Kathrine. “My son Randy.”

  “And anyway, what did he do to the dog?” asked Harald.

  The night they were supposed to reach Hammerfest, there was a storm. Over supper, the head steward went from table to table, and informed the few passengers that after ten thirty there would be rough seas for a couple of hours, but there was no danger. The captain apologized. But it’s not the captain’s fault, said Kathrine. But we always get complaints when there’s a storm, said the steward, I don’t get it either.

  And in fact the storm began within fifteen minutes of the predicted time. Kathrine was surprised, but the steward said, it isn’t the time, it’s the place. We’ve steamed into the storm, and we’ll steam out of it again.

  The tourists had disappeared into their cabins, one by one. The lower deck was blocked off, but the doors to the upper deck were open, and Kathrine went out into the fresh air. She sat down on a chair that had been left out, and was slithering across the deck in the up and down of the waves.

  All that could be seen was what the ship’s lights illuminated. A small circle of light, the deck and the bridge and the rain showers, the spray in the air, which was not cold. The sea rose and fell, its movements were powerful but almost silent. What was loud were the wind and the diesel engines that were shaking the whole ship.

  Somewhere out there were Alexander’s men and the other fishermen. What about Alexander? He was dead, drowned, he wouldn’t be back. What if I fell into the water, thought Kathrine, maybe one of the trawlers would fish me up. They would fish me up with a lot of fish, perhaps they wouldn’t even be aware of it until they were back in port. But the sea was so big. And if you fell into it, the probability was that you would go to the bottom. No one was fished out. Lots of people drowned, but no one was ever found.

  Kathrine stepped up to the rail. As the ship plunged into the waves, she saw the foaming sea below her. It would have been easy then.

  Under the waves, the sea is quite calm, Christian had told her once. He had gone scuba diving in Spain or Portugal. You can swim under the waves, he had said, it’s only immediately below the waves that you start to feel their movement. But underneath, it’s calm and peaceful. All sound seems at once close and remote under water. Quiet, said Christian, but clear as glass. Kathrine knew that too, from the indoor pool in Tromso. That was where she had belatedly learned to swim, in the customs school, and she wasn’t very good at it.

  She thought of the fish moving in the depths, through the calm water, in darkness, suddenly being plucked up to the surface in a net, into the storm. Thousands of fish, squirming fish, pulled up onto the deck of the ship, an enormous body of fish, tipped into the hold, where they continued to wriggle and finally suffocated, or were killed by the fishermen. Kathrine thought of the tuna fish in Boulogne, with their old, earnest faces that looked almost human. She thought of how people died. Whether you continued to try and swim. The brief moment when you went down, before you suffocated. When you stopped struggling for breath, stopped thrashing about with your arms. The instant in which he’d given up, and maybe swam a couple more strokes, not to get to the surface, there was no point, and he knew it. A couple of strokes. And the calm, the quiet under the water. The fact that the last moment is supposed to be happy.

  The ship was picked up by a wave, and Kathrine had to grip onto the handrail to avoid falling into the water. The sea was now a long way below her, she saw the gleaming hull of the ship, and the water streaming off it. Before the ship dipped again, she let go of the rail, and ran the couple of yards back to the door, and stepped into the little room.

  Kathrine looked out the window. The storm was now almost silent, and it seemed to be a long way off. She wiped her hand over the cold glass, over the bumpy layer upon layer of gloss paint, the brass rails. All at once she felt very feeble, and sat on the floor with her head against the wall. For a long time she didn’t think about anything, she wanted not to think about anything. She made slow circling movements with her hands over the fitted carpet. She thought, nothing can happen to me, I’m safe here. I’m going home now.

  Finally, she stood up, and swayed through the long corridors of the ship, and down the stairs to the deck where her cabin was. The cheap cabins were all below the waterline. She heard the loud churning of the engines that drove the ship through the waves. For a moment, she thought of the gulf below her, the depth of the sea, death that was just a thin sheet of metal away. But it didn’t frighten her anymore. She thought of how many times the Polarlys had made this trip, through how many storms that were much worse. It was a question of the place, not the time. She had never been afraid when she had flown to Tromso with Thomas and Randy. She lay on her bunk, and the ship rose and fell. Then, as suddenly as the storm had begun, it stopped. The next day the ship was once again sailing through calm waters.

  “Are you worried?” asked Harald. “You’re so quiet.”

  “It was my mistake,” said Kathrine. “I cheated on Thomas. He was faithful to me. I lied to him.”

  “You didn’t tell him everything,” said Harald, “and you had every justification in sleeping with another man.”

  “Making love to another man, you mean,” said Kathrine.

  She looked at the radar screen, on which the green shadow of the coastline was gradually moving past.

  “You shouldn’t be so dogmatic about lies,” said Harald. “We all tell lies. What if you had never found out with him?”

  “But I did find out.”

  “You would have been the happy wife of a rich and successful man, living in a beautiful house. Imagine.”

  “You mean I should go back to him, and pretend everything he told me was true?”

  “Talk about it with him, and then forget it. It hasn’t changed anything.”

  “If I could understand it. If there was a reason. But this…”

  “What are we without our lies?” said Harald.

  “It was so strange. You should have seen him, sitting alone at the table.”

  “You want to know everything, don’t you? No secrets. What do you think you’d see if you cut someone open?”

  Kathrine looked into Harald’s eyes, and shook her head.

  “Lies aren’t secrets.”

  Kathrine sat on the observation deck. The room was almost dark. The ceiling was a man-made sky, with hundreds of little lights for stars. Kathrine thought of the evening she had lied to Thomas, and how easy that had been. She had lied to Helge before him. She had lied to her parents and her teachers. She lied every day, every hour. It wasn’t hard. When her boss asked her about her weekend, when her mother asked her how her kid was doing at school. She even lied to herself. When she persuaded herself she was a good wife to Thomas, a good mother to her kid, that they were a happy family. That Randy didn’t need that much attention, was happier on his own, or among his friends. That his eyes were OK, if there was a problem, he would grow out of it. When she had convinced herself that everything would turn out all right, even though she knew nothing was.

  Actually, compared to her, Thomas with his little hiding place was a liar on an insignificant scale. How lonely he must have been all those months. As he sat at the table in his p
arents’ hut, unable to go home, looking at his watch, how terribly lonely. And she hadn’t understood him, and had left him sitting there. She hadn’t been a good wife to him.

  The Polarlys had sailed into the fjord, the lights of the village had appeared, and were getting brighter. The sea was quite flat. It was warmer than the air, and little mists formed over the surface of the water, rose up, and dispersed in the air. The ship was slowing down, and everything began to shake gently. The little glass tables on the observation deck jingled softly like glass bells.

  Kathrine went up to the bridge, to say good-bye to Harald. He asked where she would spend the night. She said she didn’t know where her things were.

  “I can’t let you leave the ship at half past one at night, not knowing where you’re going to sleep.”

  “I’ll find somewhere. They’re all friends of mine, after all. I’m sure someone’s still in the Elvekrog.”

  When Kathrine left the ship, she turned to look up at the bridge and wave, but she couldn’t see anyone behind the dark windows. Good luck, Harald had said. She had forgotten to ask him why he had shaved off his beard.

  Kathrine stood all alone on the dock. It was snowing gently. She didn’t have money for a taxi, so she started to walk past the warehouses into the village. There were lights on in the windows of the houses. Kathrine passed the new hotel, the furniture store, and the shop for ship’s electronics. She passed the police station, the old people’s home, and the town hall. She stopped for a moment in the square in front of the post office. She looked back at the town hall and thought, if someone somewhere in the world has logged onto the village Webcam, they’ll see me standing here. She was just a shadow, three or four dots high.

  The door to the Elvekrog opened, and Kathrine heard laughter and singing. As she walked past the bar, she saw Helge standing on the street. He was reeling slightly, and fussing with his Harley. Kathrine stopped, and he turned and looked at her glassily. Hey, she said, how are you doing? Helge laughed. You didn’t stick with him any longer than you did with me, he said, the woman’s got no patience. You’re a bad wife, but a good woman, he said. Oh, we had a good time. He turned and got on his motorbike, without starting it. Beauty of the night, said Kathrine softly, and then, louder, be careful, you shouldn’t ride your bike when you’re drunk. Helge laughed to himself, but he didn’t say anything, and she went on her way. When she reached her mother’s house, she heard the rattle of Helge’s bike. She had a key, and her mother had a sound sleep.