The Glitter Scene

by Monika Fagerholm

  “Do you have kids?”

  “No.”

  “Have you been married?”

  “No.”

  His “almost” goddaughters are the ones who have made these angels, he explains, and gave them to him for Christmas. When they were little, they are grown up now. And they have names as well, the angels, that is: Sister Blue, Sister Red, or if you want, the Astronaut, the Nuclear Physicist. “Which one do you think is which?” the Manager asks jokingly as if it were a particularly interesting thing to ponder and answer, it is neither, just idiotic. AND you cannot see a difference anyway. Both are just as ugly, the empty toilet paper rolls benevolently camouflaged in water color, but she does not say that, Maj-Gun shrugs her shoulders, says nothing.

  They eat ham and turnip casserole for three days. And listen to music, the same opera, during the day too. She says that he can leave the door ajar, she likes music.

  On the television, the news, the third day: a dictator and his wife have been shot. An old couple is lying dead under a wall on frosty ground—the image, black and white, opens the newscast. Thick winter clothes, fur, do not look peaceful, or wretched, just dead. Terrible people, terrible regime. And soon fresh earth and sandy earth, that serves-them-right-earth will soon be shoveled over them.

  But “djeessus!” comes out of Maj-Gun’s mouth then, loud and clear, whistling between her teeth, it is also a surprise. From Carmen, Lucia, small electric lights to this. The first image from the first real newscast since the highlights on Christmas Eve.

  Maj-Gun puts her hand over her mouth—

  Then the Manager turns the TV off in the middle of the news.

  They sit in silence on either side of the dining table.

  And the Manager suddenly speaks, softly. Says serious things to her. She should not be ashamed. Regardless of what has happened, life must go on. Also her life.

  Then he adds, word for word, and calmly: that he liked her so much there in the newsstand.

  When she said the kinds of things she said, who she was. She was not like other people, like no one else. She should not misunderstand him when he says this but there is so much life in her.

  It becomes quiet again. So much life, and suddenly, just because he says it: everything she once was comes pouring into her—

  But stop now. Because in the following and immediately: Susette with the big eyes, the globes, a whole world.

  “If you weren’t so curled up in your own suffering, Susette.”

  Her own voice from somewhere—had she actually said that, had she personally really said that? Yes. And it comes back. Susette falling in the hangout. Her eyes during the fall. The emptiness in them, not even surprise. Before she came to lie there, dying and dying.

  And Maj-Gun, what is she doing here? Justice, the law. Why doesn’t anything happen?

  Later, in the Manager’s living room, she has started crying. A big child’s big tears: screaming and shrill and insistent, and then, while she is crying, it comes out of her. She left her friend to die in the boathouse. And everything else too, pell-mell: the Boy in the woods, the jealousy, Susette, the fight, the meeting, the boathouse—and the snow, the cliffs, and the snow.

  Why did Justice not come? What is so wrong with it?

  And now when the crying, many weeks after, in the Manager’s apartment, Boxing Day 1989, is set free in the quiet apartment, how it sprays out of her eyes, nostrils, mouth, all orifices. Tears, snot spray over the rest of the ham, the mustard, and turnip casserole on the plate.

  At first the Manager does not say anything. He lets her cry. Does not come to her to give her a hug, comfort her or the like. Nor does he put the TV on again, or some other record in order to drown it out, does not leave but goes to the kitchen to get more paper towels, which they have used as napkins during their meals, and tears a few sheets from the roll that he gives to Maj-Gun to snuffle in.

  Then he sits down on the other side of the dining room table, clears his throat, and says, “Maj-Gun. Should we start from the beginning? Your friend, Susette Packlén. Right? She isn’t—dead—”

  At first Maj-Gun is so absorbed in her crying that she does not even hear but then it forces its way inside, she stops crying, everything stops, stop—and a desertlike silence follows.

  The Manager’s mouth is moving. In a state of shock she only sees his mouth moving at first, but the anesthetic slowly eases and she hears as well.

  “And is in good health. She has been tired and upset. They traveled to Portugal during Christmas to rest. She and her fiancé.”

  Fiancé?

  But, the Manager adds, “of course it’s a tragedy,” and then he tells an amazing story that does not match up with anything at all.

  There has been a fire, in the cousin’s house, the whole house has burned down. Bengt, Solveig’s brother—yes, they’re good friends, Solveig and the Manager, have known each other their entire lives—had fallen asleep with a cigarette in his hand. The fire truck came, but it was too late.

  It was burning. That house is located pretty remotely, the Manager says, and the weather was bad, it took some time. And when the call came in, there was nothing to save. A tragic accident, even though he was “an alcoholic, washed up,” says the Manager.

  “I’ve understood that they were close in some way.” The Manager is talking about Susette now, about Susette and Bengt, though it takes a while before Maj-Gun understands this too. I was the one who loved him. On the other hand, right when she is about to say it, like a real objection, a type of reflex just like all of the millions of “djeessus” that come out of her mouth as soon as she does not pull herself together, it hits her again again again: but it was just a story. And in the same moment, how that story leaves her; it is almost terrible.

  The Boy in the woods. Bengt, and at the same time. She had been there with him. She, Maj-Gun, that exact same day, beer (he had been drinking) and cigarettes she had brought with her and then yes… dot dot dot… this and the other but damn it, “What are you babbling about?” how he had looked at her like a crazy person and laughed at her, but then everything was already over. No one came, she was alone with him, a complete stranger whom she did not know, and in some way was afraid of too.

  But: she had been in that room, that house. And he: so alive. And he: lying on the floor in the room.

  •

  But why, Manager, why why had he not said anything earlier?

  The Manager says that yes, he should have said something, he knows that. In particular, he should have asked when she had gotten more energy and become more herself again. Says that again, herself, with almost happiness in his voice. But then… in the beginning. She was so weak. And the other apartment: had been such a shock to him too. He had not understood very much, first lately, in this apartment, it had started dawning on him that it might be a question of a misunderstanding.

  But he had known that they were friends after all, she and Susette Packlén who had had Bengt in her apartment. Not living there, Susette had explained to the Manager several times. It was the neighbor lady who alerted the Manager to the fact that Susette had Bengt there, and that if he was living there then a notice of change of address should be filled out. So the Manager had asked, but of course he knew what stories like that could be like, here today, gone tomorrow. But Susette Packlén had flat out denied it and held her ground.

  And yes, he also knew of course what it could be like between girlfriends, if jealousy was playing a role, or otherwise, discord, sadness over the other one having left. He had not been able to imagine that she, Maj-Gun, had gone around brooding in another way.

  And yes, that mess in the apartment, and—yes, he had been shocked too. Thought about asking about it too, when she got better, but on the other hand, had not wanted to bring it up. He had thought, yes, has thought, that it was so nice seeing her get her strength back and become… hersel—

  This is where the Manager stops, as if he had suddenly become confused. That it was absurd.

&nb
sp; But he tries to explain, as businesslike as possible. He has enjoyed having her in the apartment. The days that have passed, and celebrating Christmas… which there was not anything really special about… but, in any case…

  •

  SO he has gotten it together again, gotten a grip and told her everything he had de facto set about doing for her during this time. Contacted her family, spoken with her father the Pastor on the phone, the old vicar whom he knows and has in confidence, between two old men, been able to tell him a little more about the situation, her condition, and kept him updated the entire time: to the others he said that she has severe angina, but everyone has been worried about her. And her brother Tom Maalamaa had personally been in touch.

  He had also been in touch with the newsstand, the Head Office, been connected to the correct personnel department via the operator… and her landlords down in the town center whom he is acquainted with too. Said that she is recovering at her parents’ home, with the Pastor’s family, who live in another county. Her landlords, Gunilla and Göran, sent many warm greetings to the patient and are not worried at all about the rent being paid. Maj-Gun has always been a hundred percent exemplary boarder. It has been easier that way, this white lie, the Manager explained, referring to himself as well: for example his job as a teacher at the school where both Göran and Gunilla are his colleagues and Göran a Lions brother, outside of work.

  “Angina!” A breeze through Maj-Gun’s head, something she once said on the telephone. To Solveig, Susette’s employer, the only conversation in that horrible apartment which, in that moment, and for always, seems like a million years ago. Then it dawns on her, so she does not need to ask anything else about the matter that is for certain. The angels on the television set. Solveig, Rita. “My almost goddaughters, friends for a long time.”

  And maybe, a little, Rita, Solveig—and Bengt. Three siblings, the three cursed ones. Something she also always knew but had not thought about in relation to anything in reality, so to speak. Exactly because it still has never been real to her, a story.

  The Boy in the woods. “The one who killed out of love.”

  “But what are you babbling about?” That is what Bengt said, she will not forget it, when she, on that horrible day, had actually said that to him. What are you babbling about? He quite simply had not understood a word.

  But WHERE is Susette Packlén? It was almost ridiculous later, because in the midst of everything Maj-Gun has known the answer to that question too, before she even finished thinking that thought.

  “Portugal.” The fiancé. Djeessuss! Djeessuss! Tom Maalamaa who spoke with the Manager, about his fiancée.

  But djeessuss too, which cannot be said either, not to the Manager, not to any one at all.

  The polo shirt, the blazer, and the disco. Susette and love. Oh God. “The Book of Quick-Witted Sayings.” A blank page, “Tom’s world.” Djeessuss.

  She remembers herself at the disco. Sitting, squeezed onto the sofa, in an unbearability, though nothing compared to later unbearabilities, but out of whack, Melancholy. Susette dancing on the dance floor. Rag doll. Dance my doll. For a while it had been a bit entertaining. As if that which connected them—rug rags, long strips, loom lengths—made it possible to control her, Susette, as it were. Perhaps stated exaggeratedly, but still. “You are so easy, Susette,” which she had also said once.

  Susette who was dancing, disappeared, slipped away on the dance floor. One among the crowd, bodies, bodies, smoke. And then, in that moment, how Maj-Gun had suddenly thought, a pang inside her. A pistol in the bathroom, in a bag. “God, Susette, what are you doing with a revolver in your sauna bag?” The utterly incomprehensible.

  That which had become so clear when Susette slipped away, disappeared, on the dance floor.

  That Susette was a stranger. That she, Maj-Gun, knew nothing about her.

  “I’m fascinated by the Death in her.”

  And then, at the disco, she caught sight of her brother. Tom Maalamaa, in the throng at the disco, on the dance floor. Like a fish in water, the blazer, the polo shirt, and those crooked idiotic cones that were running down along his cheeks. Then she immediately got up, careful so that her brother should not see her, and left the disco. Because it had first been, at the sight of her brother in the crowd that she had, there in the throng, squeezed onto the sofa, been gripped by… not shame, but some type of hopelessness in her that was out of step, fat or skinny, it was not important, but so old. And not on her life had she wanted her brother, who immediately would have understood, the only one in the world who would have understood, to see it.

  Goatee? she asked him roguishly on the phone when he called a few days later. Rather unexpectedly, and despite the teasing tone, she had been a bit happy, certainly. He had not understood what she was talking about. She said that she had seen him at the disco, he sounded surprised, oh, she had been there. Yes, she said, with a big group of young people, other shop assistants and the like, from newsstands, and they had so much fun, so much so that she only caught a glimpse of him in the crowd, but was so caught up in the music then, the young people, the dance, that she lost sight of him and when she looked for him she could not find him.

  She also said, as if in passing but certainly oh so meaningful, that Susette had been there, and he was rather surprised about that too. And she knew her brother well enough that she could tell when he was lying and this time he was telling the truth.

  “Hee hee hee… maybe you want her phone number?” she chirped on the phone. “Do you want to get in touch with her? She’s quite lonely.” Because that had been before she brought the cat food to Susette’s apartment and everything had fallen apart for her.

  But he took the phone number, Tom Maalamaa. That he had.

  And my God, they HAD gotten together, and oh God, everything about Susette—what you did not know about her. Scissors in the cabinet, dried blood—

  But the Boy in the woods, Bengt, what was he to her?

  “I don’t know anything about anything.” Again, Susette in the hangout. No, unavoidable. It had been real. And when Maj-Gun had hit, not even then had Susette been unsympathetic.

  And it IS for real, cannot be talked away, pushed away. “If you weren’t so curled up in your own suffering.” Everything else disappeared in the presence of this attempted murder, a concrete action almost carried out. Susette’s big eyes, the boathouse, the snow. It happened: and she, Maj-Gun, had to remember it, carry it in her consciousness, it always had to be there.

  “I was so angry so angry so angry…” she says to the Manager. “Probably jealous too. I thought I was… in love with him…”

  “Maj-Gun, I’ve understood that she has had a difficult time,” the Manager says. “But she is going to therapy. Some great sorrow in her past. Unresolved,” the Manager determines and it is probably true, very true, because that is also what Susette, many years later, in the future, will say. “Like being in a forest. Not finding your way out.”

  I love you. Running over the plains. All stories, and blood. “Can you imagine killing out of love?” Susette. Duel in the sun. Bengt. Djeessuss. Oh God. Tom. Someone in a polo shirt. Tom Maalamaa came and got her. And behind her it was burning.

  “But it’s better now,” says the Manager. “Everything is better now. And now it seems like she and all of us are ready to move on. You too, Maj-Gun—”

  Yes. But first. Bengt. She has to say it anyway.

  “But Bengt—”

  “It’s very tragic,” the Manager says again and though it can seem indifferent there is still nothing sugarcoated about it.

  The angels on the TV. Rita, Solveig—and the third one, the brother Bengt.

  Pictures on the wall. His pictures, drawings. Blue pictures. “The Exhibition.” The Winter Garden.

  “Did you know… him?” Maj-Gun asks carefully.

  “Of course. Were very good friends, the three of us. The kids had no real childhood. I knew them since they were little. Tried to help them as
best I could. Especially the girls.

  “But,” he adds, “it can, well… you know, sound… the way it sounds. But, it wasn’t exactly unexpected, what happened. But, dear Maj-Gun. You need to think about yourself now. You have so much inside. So much life.”

  And then he catches his breath, stretches, and asks her about the future, what she is planning on doing now, on becoming “when she grows up.”

  •

  “I am grown up, Manager. I don’t know. I—I wanted to become a pastor once, I think.”

  And then she starts relating an episode from her childhood, at the rectory. That childhood, that rectory: one Sunday at the dinner table, her brother Tom Maalamaa, who was a pompous brooder as a teenager and this particular Sunday he brooded a bit more than usual and realized what he decided to “proclaim,” to his gathered family this Sunday in particular, his word that too, wearing a blazer, which he always did back then, despite the fact that he was only fifteen or sixteen. That HE did not have a calling to become a pastor and would, for that reason, unfortunately not be able to pass on the family tradition from father to son.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” he added, like in an old-fashioned movie. One of those brooding films that played nonstop in his head at that time; they had in common that it was always his alter ego in the lead role that, after long scenes in an inappropriate childhood, youth, ended the same way: with the alter ego becoming “famous,” something “successful,” Gustav Mahler, Ingmar Bergman, the like.

  On the other hand, Tom Maalamaa had on this Sunday afternoon explained that he understood that he could “serve humanity” in another way and had in other words come to the conclusion that he would become a lawyer. He had already mail-ordered the compendium for “the preparation course” for the admission exam at the law school.

  “Where is your girlfriend?” was all papa Pastor asked with a small roguelike glint in his eyes, when Tom Maalamaa had stopped speaking, because that girlfriend with the big eyes, cuute, who never said a word, but who, during the past few months, had been present at all of the Sunday dinners at the rectory, was not sitting at the place at the table where she usually sat despite the fact that the place had been set for her: the chair was gaping emptily for a quiet and big-eyed Susette Packlén, poking at her food, in tight jeans, boots.