Have these words been read in my proximity without my noticing the ill-will that surrounds them, the cold they release into the room? I feel like hitting myself. It strikes me as a possibility that I have dully and indifferently witnessed the planning of my own deportation.
I sharpen my senses. Follow Ragna’s daily activities with apparent lack of interest from the sidelines, stay more often in the kitchen, keep my bedroom door open and an ear cocked to everything taking place out there: the sound of drawers opening, paper rustling, pen being put to paper. I listen out for possible telephone calls. But everything is as usual, and there is just that sentence quivering between us: You’ve got to go.
*
Ragna is only out of the house on rare occasions, when she goes to the village, which happens less and less now that Johan has taken over the weekly shopping. When she does go, I have my only time alone in the house. Then I take over all the rooms.
I like to look through her drawers – the smell of the wood and a musty tinge from her clothes. Here I find the reverse image of Ragna. Everything she takes care of tells me something different from what is expressed between us. The lace handkerchief, elegantly laid out around the brooch that has two stones missing, the amber ornaments, the old bottle of perfume that’s turned rancid: Ragna’s dreams of something better and finer, dancing and grand parties.
It’s the second Monday in August and, surprisingly, Ragna has gone off with Johan to the village. She announced this after my morning care. I pretended to ignore it, frightened of revealing my expectation, the agitated tingling sensation at the thought of being alone – to rummage through her things, perhaps find a letter from the nursing home, the draft of an application.
After waiting for a while, I am inside her room. I poke the door with my crutch, pull a chair over to the dresser, sit down, open the drawers, enter the forbidden land of Ragna.
All the contents are old acquaintances: every nightdress and sock, every jersey and pair of tights. Her jewellery, the long amber necklace and ear clip. Not for the first time do I preen myself in the mirror above the dresser. And once again I perceive this image of Ragna staring at her own perfect mirror-image, the jewellery that confirms her daily sacrifice, that she could have been a woman in a finer, more glamorous world.
In the bottom drawer I find a white box I haven’t seen before. I place my hand on the lid, let it lie there for a while before lifting it off. The contents are red, the material shimmers in my hands: a thin nightdress, a bra and – I don’t understand it to begin with – a tiny pair of panties. At the bottom, underneath the shimmering material, there lies a silver case: a crimson lipstick that smells sweet.
I hook up the bra, pull it over my head and down over my blouse. I do the same with the panties, bend down and pull them up over my trousers, lift my backside a bit in my chair, pull the elastic until it fits round my hips. I heave myself up and, with one hand on my crutch, I grab the lipstick and smear it on my lips with my face close to the mirror.
So this is Ragna. Her white body in red underwear. Johan must have ordered it – the cups are distinctly arousing, they bulge out, begging to be filled. Ragna is utmost poverty, a lifelong lean year, but Johan is hungry. If nothing else, the packaging stimulates the appetite.
Supported by my crutches and wearing Ragna’s bra and panties, I move from room to room to flaunt myself. I take a leisurely cup of coffee and eat the biscuits that Ragna has laid out before leaving, I open the front door so as to be gaped at by birds, heather and moor, I display myself to the lavatory, to all the things in my bedroom and hers. Gradually, I make her red secret pale, dull and my own – something Ragna doesn’t know. And in this way there is a shift in the balance of power in the space of just a few hours. I know everything about her little fairy tale, and she knows nothing about mine.
*
This erotic side to Ragna makes me wonder if her life – all these years in loneliness – has actually been as dull as I have tended to believe. For there’s no denying it, something jars in the way she behaves when meeting Johan. This abandon, this moral decline, the way she crudely and freely indulges in physical intercourse, they do not suggest an inexperienced woman. It’s possible that this sudden wantonness is merely biological, that it has lain dormant and unexpressed in her, waiting to be woken by the right man. But, and this is my theory, it may well be that she has become increasingly aroused as the result of a number of shameless encounters. It may well be that for several years now Ragna, on her trips to the village, on her weekly visits to the shop and the post office, exploited the opportunity to unleash the desire that had built up in the course of a long, strenuous week of nursing and domestic duties, and that on this day in the week she let it all go, her clothes included, that she lay down in a house, a home, with some acquaintance or stranger, giddy and playful, just like the hunting dogs we had for a short period.
Can I have overlooked situations like this one:
Ragna, who, flushed with excitement and expectation, places small and secret objects in her bag, things intended to seduce, to arouse desire? Ragna, who shouts ‘Back soon!’ with a rusty voice, short of breath from the blood pounding inside her, who says, ‘See you later!’, full of hidden urges? Ragna, who, heavy with lust, calls out, ‘I’ll be back just after eight!’
And, God help me, I can almost see it: Ragna, who for twenty-nine years runs light-footedly among the taut, sap-filled birch trunks, along the muddy country road towards the open expanse of emptiness and who there, blood-sated and dazzled, panting, imagines the hours ahead of her.
‘Yes, master! I’m ready for anything!’
*
Back in the chair in her room, and having returned the underwear to where it came from, I start to wonder about Ragna’s real reason for going to the village. This sudden decision to leave – she’s been gone for several hours. Is she doing some serious shopping? A new snow scooter? I make a mental list. She needs a new coat, possibly some kitchen equipment. But there is really only one explanation for my uneasiness: Ragna is of course meeting with the staff of the nursing home.
I see it all: Ragna is probably sitting at this moment wringing her hands, on the very edge of the chair in the principal’s well-scrubbed office.
‘Please be so kind as to help me,’ she says in a weak voice. ‘I’m completely worn out. You can imagine it yourself: never any help, my work set out every day from morning to evening!’
The principal nods sympathetically, hands her a glass of water to encourage her to go on. Ragna swallows and tries to pull herself together, makes an effort to keep back her tears, but is surprisingly down-to-earth and clear in her account.
‘My sister is much worse on her legs, the spasms have increased and she often wakes up with cramp at night. She needs help for practically everything, even the most intimate arrangements,’ she says, brushing away the tears gathering in her eyes.
‘What do you mean, the most intimate?’ the principal asks gently.
‘I have to wipe her behind,’ is the meek reply. ‘She can’t manage that any longer.’
‘And?’ the principal says searchingly, encouraging her to continue.
Ragna swallows again and averts her eyes.
‘It’s the fault of the spasms. When she wipes herself she sometimes falls to the floor, and, well… you can imagine.’ She lowers her gaze, shy like a young girl, studies her hands.
The principal takes a deep breath and straightens up.
‘Terrible,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘But I gather that is not the worst thing?’
‘No!’ Ragna says with a sob that causes her voice to break. ‘The worst thing is that she has become so suspicious and aggressive! She rummages in my things and flails around with her crutches for no reason!’
‘How awful, how unbelievable,’ the principal says, and exchanges a concerned look with the nurse who has appeared and is wiping the sweat from Ragna’s brow.
Meanwhile, the principal fishes out a sheet of paper t
hat she stamps with great authority and energy. She places the sheet on a shelf marked ‘Admissions’, rises and strikes the table with both hands.
‘There’s no doubt at all that you must have help! I’ve never heard of a worse case. Not only is your sister becoming increasingly disabled, but she also shows every sign of mental confusion. We will offer you all the support and assistance you need, Miss Ragna, from today!’
*
‘Come on, open the door!’
Someone is hammering on the front door. I’ve locked it. What else can I do? I’m lost, my time’s over. Through the window I’ve seen Ragna and Johan arriving. And it’s worse than my worst fears: they are accompanied by three powerful men.
‘What on earth are you up to? Open up, I said!’
Ragna shakes the door. Johan swears in the background.
‘It’s not that simple!’
‘What do you mean?’ she answers angrily.
‘To get rid of me.’
‘Pull yourself together. What are you babbling about?’
‘I won’t do it. I’m not moving!’
‘Open the door, damn it!’ she says, shaking the handle.
‘Those men,’ I try to say, placing my mouth close to the wood. ‘You’ve fetched help,’ I whisper softly.
Ragna kicks the door. Her voice is sharp.
‘What the hell are you talking about? These are Johan’s mates from Finland!’
‘Finland? They’re from the nursing home.’
‘Are you ill? Unlock the bloody door.’
‘You don’t fool me.’
She kicks the door again in reply and steps away, then starts talking to Johan. I place my ear up close. There’s something that doesn’t seem right. I can hear Ragna and Johan heatedly discussing things, but without any interruptions from the three men, who are standing talking a language there’s no mistaking.
‘Ragna,’ I say, banging on the door. ‘Ragna! Who are these men?’
Ragna comes back and places her mouth close to the door.
‘They’re from Finland, like I just told you. They’re old workmates of Johan’s. They’re here to put up a house for a building company and he’s invited them over.’
Ragna’s furious, so furious that what she says must be true. Het up and confused, but also suddenly frightened about the consequences of having insisted something else was going on, I turn the key in the lock. Ragna heaves at the door before it’s fully open. Her jaws are clamped shut, and if we’d been on our own she’d have hit me now, as she passes me. Johan follows immediately behind. He’s really mad and he hurries after her into the kitchen. The Finns are clearly at a loss. They stand there, stamping their feet and spitting on the ground. I quickly register that two of them are Johan’s age, perhaps because of their weight, but the other one, a scrawny little bloke, must be a bit younger. Johan calls to them and waves them in. They enter reluctantly, distrustfully, nudging each other when they discover me up against the wall in the corridor.
‘Jee-zus,’ one of them mutters as they pass.
Ragna makes pancakes, the smell filling the house; a thin film of moisture now covers my bedroom window. I lie on my bed, listening to what’s taking place out there – Ragna and Johan, who are having guests for the first time. Conversation is halting, reduced to short sentences and words of one syllable, and I assume – since I can’t see them from the bed – full of facial expressions and gestures.
Laughter comes easily. It takes only a word or two for loud guffaws to hit the wall. I smile indulgently, think that it would hardly be as amusing if I weren’t in the next room, that they are idiots and charlatans who are trying to outdo each other showing off.
The noise level increases: the sound of sizzling from the frying pan, the clattering of plates and cutlery being laid out, feet shuffling, chairs scraping against the floor, huffing and puffing, hands that grip and let slip. I’ve never heard a racket like it. I shut my eyes, transform the sounds into pictures so that I can more easily follow what is going on out there, search for a reason for the visit: Finns, what are they doing here, when it comes to it?
‘Can I invite you men to partake of some rather decent firewater?’ Johan asks.
‘Vitun hyvää,’ the Finns answer.
The cork is rolled off the bottle with a flat hand in a rapid movement, it’s easy to hear. It falls to the floor and rolls round. Cupboards are opened, glasses set out, drinks poured. There is much swilling and toasting, clearing of throats and contented sighing.
Ragna approaches the table, the men grab their cutlery, stick forks haphazardly into the pile of pancakes.
‘Helvetin hyvää,’ says one of the Finns with his mouth full.
‘Helvetin hyvää,’ the two others agree, and toast Ragna and Johan.
After the meal, the men dig out a pack of cards. While they try to agree on a game and on rules, Ragna disappears unnoticed into her room. Through the thin wall I hear her pulling out a drawer; it must be the bottom one, for now she’s lifting the lid off the white box.
My heart hammers with shame and anxiety on my sister’s behalf. There’s a rustling of fabric, more huffing and puffing. Oh, God, now she’s putting on the bra and smearing her lips with red grease. After a short while she’s out of the room. I can’t see her from the bed I’m lying on, but a strong whiff of partying and the promise of an available woman seep all the way to my bedside.
One of the Finns catches sight of Ragna and gives a loud whistle.
‘Madonna!’
The laughter resounds, there is a chinking of glasses and more toasts.
‘My woman! My wifey!’ Johan yells.
Ragna giggles nervously, the scraggy bag of bones, with not an ounce of shame in her. She’s given a seat at the table and a glass is put in her hand, and now she’s knocking them back; I can hear from her swallowing how her throat is greedily working away. The cards are shuffled and dealt. Ragna expresses her delight at her hand, one of the men grunts, there’s more drinking, slurping, the card game’s started.
An hour passes. The first enthusiasm has died down, the roars of laughter are more infrequent, tension has built up. A chair is shoved hard against the wall, the legs tilt from the floor. One of the men gets up and trudges across the kitchen, opens the door to the corridor with a bang, then the front door, and outside, under a sky that’s turning grey, he relieves himself over the heather with contentment and low moans.
Johan is drinking, he’s the one pouring liquor down himself, and the conversation between him and the Finns suddenly grows quiet and intense. And Ragna? It must be Ragna who gets up so suddenly that a chair falls over. She heads to the worktop and turns on the radio, tries to find a channel with music.
The voices have dropped to a mumbling bass, the music stops me from making out the words; they’re talking about something outside, but all I can hear is the sharp accent of the Finns, along with Johan’s and Ragna’s familiarly pitched voices.
Clothes in motion through the air, unsteady feet across the floor. Why aren’t they talking any longer? And this rustling – is it paper being spread out? The silence inside gives way to a sudden noise of repressed sounds that rise up from every nook and cranny: the wind sighs heavily against the window frame, there’s a trickling from the stream outside, the rippling must be coming from the bogs and the small suggestion of a whimper must be the door of my room, which is vibrating almost invisibly from the unaccustomed pressure that is building up from the breathing of many people.
Sounds and images merge – first the one, then the other – and it almost makes me shake my head, it’s hardly credible: from what I can hear, the thing that must be happening is that Ragna has lain down on the kitchen table and pulled up her skirt, and she’s now letting each of the men take her in turn, and during all this Johan is proudly observing the proceedings.
What moral decline. What depravity – and in our own home! Ragna is as if transformed, utterly bewitched. What can’t such behaviour lead to? Yes, I alread
y fear the worst, the consequences, if she continues with her sexual excess in future: possessed by drink and lust, she will abandon herself to every newly discovered desire and go off with men, never to return. After a while, she’ll end up a drunken wreck on some sofa in Finland, servicing randy Finns all day long in every conceivable set of undergarments – yellow and blue and red and with cups that are far too big. And then the tragic finale: Ragna in the arms of the Finns and Johan, through hot nights that become years, while I lie rotting in this bed, slowly, little by little, in this dreadful spot that will become overgrown and disappear from the rest of the world.
I know it, my fate’s already sealed, I’ll end up as food for mice, rats, birds and carrion. Soon I’ll be fertilizer for cloudberry moors – and what cloudberries! Pink heads, the German will think, the illicit picker, and pop the berry into his mouth. The mosquitoes will dance. The juice, the small pearls of moisture that make the German’s nose quiver, is nothing but molecules of my acidic corpse fluids that will soon mingle with his sweet blood.
In the midst of this whirl of thoughts, this picture of my future life, I get a sudden sinking feeling in my stomach: the rustling paper I’ve just heard – of course, it’s obvious, how could it be anything else? They’re planning to have me sent away, that’s what they’re doing, the cunning bastards. They must be writing the plan down, word by word, step by step, how it’s to be done. That’s why the Finns are here. Johan’s accomplices, his companions!
The Looking-Glass Sisters Page 4