by Maja Lunde
Edmund stood completely still, frozen. Before his body had been like the sea by a peninsula, winds and waves met and collided with one another, chaotic, unruly. The restlessness was not only in his body, it was also in his soul. One minute he would show his good-natured side, and fetch a bucket of water just to be nice, the next minute he emptied the bucket across the floor in order, as he explained it himself, to create a lake. Reprimands had no impact on him. If we raised our voices, he just laughed and ran away. Always running, that was how I remembered him, the small feet, never at rest, always running away from some catastrophe or other that he had instigated, from the capsized bucket, a broken porcelain cup, knitting unraveled. When that happened, and it happened often, I had no choice but to catch him, and hold him tightly while I pulled the belt out of the loops on my trousers. I had come to despise the hissing sound of the leather against fabric and the jangling of the buckle as it struck the floorboards. The anguish over what was to come was almost worse than the actual blows. The sensation of the leather against my hand and the belt buckle, I clung to it—I never hit with that end, not like my father, who always slung the buckle through the air so it hit the back hard. I clutched it tightly, so it dug into my palm and left behind welts. The leather against the bare back, the red marks that blossomed out of the white skin, like twisting vines. In other children, these red welts helped to settle them down, and the memory of the punishment remained in the child’s consciousness, so the next time they would avoid making the same mistake. But it didn’t have that effect on Edmund. It was as if he didn’t understand that all of his impetuous actions led him back to the belt, that there was a connection between the lake on the kitchen floor and the subsequent blows. But it was nonetheless my responsibility to continue and I hoped that deep down he also noticed my love, understood that I had no choice. I disciplined him, therefore I was a father. I hit him as the tears swelled in my chest, while the sweat ran and my hands shook, I wanted to beat the restlessness out of him, but it never helped.
“Where are the others?” I asked, because the house was so oddly quiet.
I regretted it right away. I shouldn’t have asked about them. Not when he had finally come in to see me. Not when it was finally just him and me.
Edmund swayed slightly as he stood there, as if he were struggling to keep his balance, didn’t know on which leg he should rest his weight.
“In church.” So it was Sunday.
I tried to sit up in bed. I lifted the blanket a bit. The stench of my own body hit me. When had I last bathed?
But if he noticed anything, he didn’t show it.
“And you?” I said. “Why have you stayed home?”
It sounded like an accusation when it should have been a thank-you.
He didn’t look at me, stared into the wall above the headboard.
“I . . . I was hoping to have a chance to talk to you,” he said finally.
I nodded slowly, while I strove to keep my face from disclosing how exceedingly pleased I was about his visit.
“Good,” I said. “I appreciate seeing you very much . . . and have been hoping you would come for a long time.”
I tried to sit up, but it was as if my skeleton could no longer hold me upright, so I supported myself on a pillow. That in itself was an enormous effort. I resisted the urge to pull the blanket all the way up to my shoulders to shut in the odor. I could barely stand the smell of myself. How had I not noticed it before, how badly I needed a bath? I lifted my hand to my face. The stubble, which had never been especially thick, had now managed to grow into a shaggy beard several centimeters long. I must have looked like a caveman.
He stared at my toes, which were sticking out from under the blanket. The toenails were long and dirty. I quickly pulled my feet out of sight and sat up in bed.
“Edmund. Tell me. What’s on your mind?”
His eyes did not meet mine, but there was no shyness about him when he delivered his message.
“Perhaps Father can get out of bed soon?”
A blush of shame rose to my cheeks. Thilda had asked. The girls had asked. The doctor had asked. But Edmund had never come to my bedside before.
“I am so infinitely pleased about your coming,” I said in a voice that was on the verge of breaking. “I would like very much to explain.”
“Explain?” He pulled one hand through his fringe. “I don’t need any explanation. I just want you to get up.”
What was I supposed to say? What did he expect from me? I tapped my hand against the mattress, a small inviting gesture. “Sit down, Edmund. Let’s talk a bit. What have you been doing lately?”
He didn’t move.
“Tell me about your schoolwork. With the good head you have on your shoulders I assume it’s all smooth sailing?”
He was preparing for the autumn, when he would be attending school in the capital. We had scrimped and saved for his schooling and now he was finally almost ready. I felt a sudden stab in my chest. His tuition, could it be that Thilda was spending it, now that I was lying here like this?
“I presume that nothing has changed. The plans for school are as before?” I asked quickly.
He nodded without any evident enthusiasm. “I work when I find the inspiration.”
“Good. Inspiration is an important incentive.”
I reached out my hand to him. “Come and sit down. Let’s have a proper conversation now. It’s been such a long time.”
But he just stood there. “I . . . have to go downstairs.”
“Just a few minutes?” I tried to keep my voice light.
He tossed his fringe, did not look at me. “I’m going to study.”
I was glad he was working, but still, he could certainly sacrifice a little more time, now that he had finally come.
“I just want to hold you,” I said. “Just for a minute.”
An almost inaudible sigh escaped from his lips, but all the same he came over to me. Finally he sat down beside me, hesitated a moment and gave me his hand.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
His hand was warm and smooth. It radiated with life, became a bond between us, as if his healthy blood ran through me. I just wanted to sit like this, but there was no mistaking his ever present restlessness. He couldn’t manage to hold his arms still, changed position, his feet twitched.
“Sorry, Father.” He stood up abruptly.
“No,” I said. “You needn’t apologize. I understand. Of course you have to work.”
He nodded. His eyes were fixed on the door. He just wanted to get away, leave me lying here alone again.
He took a few steps, then stopped himself, as if he remembered something, and turned around again.
“But Father . . . can’t you at least try to find the will to get out of bed?”
I swallowed. I owed him a proper response.
“It’s not that I lack the will . . . it’s . . . the passion, Edmund.”
“The passion?” He lifted his head, the word had apparently stirred something inside him. “Then you have to find it once more,” he said quickly. “And allow it to move you.”
I had to smile. Such big words from that ungainly body.
“We are nothing without passion,” he concluded with a gravity I had never heard from him before.
He said nothing more. Just left the room—the last impression I had of him was the sound of his footsteps against the floorboards out there. They disappeared towards the stairway and then down and away. But I still felt I had never been so close to him before.
Rahm was right; I had forgotten my passion and allowed myself to be consumed by trivialities. I demonstrated no enthusiasm in my work, which is why I lost Rahm. But Edmund was still there, I could still show him, make him proud. That way we could grow closer. Through the honor I would bring to the family name, our relationship would blossom and bear fruit. That way I would perhaps also find my way back to Rahm, so it could be the three of us after all: father, son and mentor.
I
rolled over onto my side. I threw the blanket off my foul-smelling body, and then I got out of bed. This time it was for good.
GEORGE
I was building hives in the barn. That’s what I often did this time of year. While spring was gearing up, nature about to explode with greenery and everyone talked about how nice it was, while everyone just wanted to be outside and enjoy it, I stayed inside under crackling fluorescent lights and hammered away as if possessed. This year more than ever. Emma and I hadn’t talked very much since Tom left. For the most part I stayed in the barn. To be honest, I was afraid to start a conversation with her. She was better with words than I was, that’s often the case with women and more often than not she got her own way. She was also often right, once I had a chance to think about it. But not this time. That much I knew.
So that’s why I was in the barn. From morning till night. I repaired old hives, constructed new ones. Not standard hives, not in this family. We had our own design. The drawings hung on the wall of the dining room—framed. It was Emma who had done it. She had found the drawings in a clothes chest in the attic, where they lay because everyone in my family knew the dimensions by heart anyway. The chest, a real going-to-America trunk, could easily have been sold to an antique shop for a nice lump of cash. But it was nice to have it up there, I thought. Reminded me of where I came from. The chest had traveled across the pond from Europe, when the first person in my family put her feet on American soil. One solitary woman. Everything stemmed from her, from this chest, from the drawings.
The yellowed, brittle paper was about to crumble into pieces, but Emma rescued it with glass and heavy gold frames. She even made sure the drawings were hung in a place without direct sunlight.
I didn’t need them anyway. Had built these hives so many times I could do it blindfolded. People laughed at us because we built them ourselves. I didn’t know any other beekeepers who built their own hives. It took too long. But we had always done it that way. These were our hives. I didn’t speak about it out loud, didn’t want to brag, but I was sure the bees were happier in our hives than in the mass-produced standard boxes. So people could just go ahead and laugh.
The equipment was ready and waiting in the barn along with thick, fragrant planks of wood.
I started with the boxes. Cut out slots with the electric saw and pounded the planks together with a rubber hammer. It went quickly; it was work that had visible results. The frames took longer. Ten frames per box. The only thing we bought prefabricated was the metal queen excluder, with 4.2-millimeter openings to ensure that the queen stayed inside the hive and the smaller worker bees could come and go freely. There were limits.
The work kept me from falling asleep. Out here in the cold barn where the sawdust flew like snowflakes through the air, drowsiness didn’t overcome me the way it did indoors. Besides, it was impossible to sleep to the angry sound of the electric saw. I usually wore earmuffs but now I took them off, let the sound fill my head. Then there wasn’t room for much of anything else.
I didn’t notice Emma come in. She could have been standing there watching me for a long time, had at least had time enough to put on safety earmuffs. When I turned around to get more wood moldings I discovered her. She just stood there with the big, yellow plastic earmuffs over her ears. She smiled.
I turned off the saw.
“Hello?”
She pointed at the earmuffs and shook her head slightly. Fine. She couldn’t hear what I said. We stood there like that. She continued to smile. No mistaking it, that smile. Menopause was a big topic these days, the women whispered when they thought we weren’t listening, about hot flashes, urination, night sweats and, yes indeed, we also picked up on that: reduced libido. But Emma was as she had always been. And now she stood there wearing earmuffs and it wasn’t hard to understand what she wanted.
It had been a long time, long for us. Not since before Tom was home. We became shy with him in the house, afraid he would hear, just as if he were still a toddler sleeping in our bedroom with us. We started whispering every time we got into bed. Moved carefully, lay right down under the duvet and quietly turned the pages of our respective books. And afterwards, after he had left, it simply hadn’t come up. I hadn’t even thought about it.
She put her arms around me, kissed me on the mouth, with her eyes closed.
“I don’t know,” I said. My body was stiff and slow, no pep in me. “I’m a little tired.”
She just smiled and pointed at the earmuffs again.
I tried to take them off, but she removed my hand.
We stood there like that. I held her hand. The smile remained plastered across her face.
“OK.”
I pulled out a pair of earmuffs, too. “Is this how you want it?” For some reason or other I came to life. It wasn’t quiet, it was never quiet when you shut everything out, the hissing of the brain, of my own breath, the heart pounding, all of it invaded you.
We kissed, her tongue was soft, her mouth open and warm. I pulled her up on the carpenter’s bench. Her head was level with mine. The air was cold, my fingers were like icicles against her skin. She winced, but did not pull away. I tried to blow on my hands, don’t think it helped much, because she trembled when I tried to push them under her sweater. She lay back on the table, with her legs dangling towards the floor. I kissed her on the stomach but she pushed my head down. Her body jerked when my tongue hit the spot. Perhaps she moaned, but if she did I couldn’t hear it.
Then we both lay on the table. She was on top. It didn’t take long, it was too cold for that. And the boards of the table were too hard against my shoulder blades.
Afterwards she took off the earmuffs, pulled up her pants and tucked in her shirt. Before I could say anything she had gone.
She left behind the warmth of her body, suspended in the air above the carpenter’s bench.
Gulf Harbors. There it was again. Gulf Harbors. The words wouldn’t go away, kept messing around in my head, Gulf Harbors, kneaded, like dough, Gulf Harbors, Harb Gulfors, Bors Gulf-harb, I shook my head hard, wanted to get rid of them, but they were damn well there all the same, Gulf Borsharb, Bors Harbgulf, Harb Forsgulf.
It was hot there now. I checked the weather report yesterday, without Emma noticing. Don’t know why, I just happened to find a national weather forecast on TV and sat there waiting for Tampa to show up. I could see that there wasn’t much precipitation this time of year. There was still a raw chill here, but the dream summer had already arrived there. The nightlife. Barbecuing. Dolphins. Manatees.
Gulf Harbors.
The words were permanently stuck, it was impossible to get rid of them. So they would have to stay.
She was something, Emma. I was lucky to have her. No matter what happened. That wouldn’t change, even if we did move to Florida.
TAO
The Day of Rest finally arrived. Unannounced, like every year. We were not notified until the evening before that the Committee had decided the citizens had finally earned the right to a day off. The official announcement was made by Li Xiara, the Committee’s leader, a woman who always presented the Committee’s most recent decisions to us, on the radio, and on battered information screens. Her chanting, dispassionate voice was the same, regardless of whether the message was good or bad. The pollination was finished, she now reported, the blossoming season was almost over. They could treat us to this, she said, we, the community, could treat ourselves.
We had been waiting for this day for weeks. More than two months had passed since we’d last had time off. While the tendons in our lower arms grew more and more inflamed from the repetitive brushing movement, while our arms and shoulders grew stiffer and stiffer and our feet perpetually tired from standing, we worked and waited.
For once I was awakened not by the alarm, but by the light. The sun warmed my face, I lay in bed with my eyes closed, feeling how the temperature slowly rose in the room. Then I finally managed to open my eyes and look around. The bed was empty. Kuan was alrea
dy up.
I went to him in the kitchen. He was having a cup of tea and looking out at the fields, while Wei-Wen played on the floor. It was so quiet, a day of rest for all of us, as had been decided. Even Wei-Wen was playing more calmly than usual. He drove a red toy car around the floor while making a soft rumbling sound.
His soft neck, the close-cropped hair, the short fingers clutching the car, the mouth buzzing so intensely that a little spit was pressed out between his lips. His enthusiasm. He could probably sit like this for hours, create roads down there on the floor with all of the vehicles he had, cities full of life.
I sat down beside Kuan, took a sip of his tea. It was almost cold; he must have been sitting here for a long time.
“What do you want to do?” I said finally. “How do you want to spend our day?”
He took yet another sip of tea, just a little sip, as if he were saving it.
“Well . . . I don’t know . . . what do you want?”
I stood up. He knew what he wanted to do. I’d already heard him speaking with some of his workmates about everything that would be taking place in the center of the little place we called the town, an eatery was being set up on the square, long tables and entertainment.
“I want to spend the day with Wei-Wen,” I said lightly.
He laughed softly. “So do I.”
But his eyes didn’t meet mine.