The Looking-Glass Sisters

by Gøhril Gabrielsen

  Right, then. That’s the state of play, that’s how things are right now, and this is how it has been many times, it’s just a question of getting a good grip on the crutches, gritting my teeth.

  *

  ‘Damn it, straight into the jaws of hell!’

  Johan makes a quick-tempered move at the sudden sight of me in the kitchen doorway. The shock is probably due to the fact that after several months I am once more standing upright in my own house. My hair has probably tangled itself into great big knots and the state of my nightdress and the way my body smells have been affected by my long stay in bed, even though my sister has been attentive in caring for me.

  Ragna gawps at me, absent-mindedly puts down a jar of preserves.

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘No, I’m much better, and I want to be up for a bit!’

  ‘Dear sister, you’re still not well. Go back to your room and at least let me help you change into some better clothes!’

  ‘There’s no need. I’ll just sit here for a bit – it’s so long since I’ve been in the kitchen.’

  I push Ragna aside as she rushes towards me and totter slowly, moaning, over to her empty chair, right opposite Johan. The chair receives me with a loud grating noise; the chair legs scrap across the floor. It really does hurt to sit on a chair, my hips don’t like the unaccustomed position. But I am convinced that this is what is necessary, in addition to the various things that have to be collected in order for me to carry out my assignment.

  I can’t help laughing to myself. Both of them are clearly confused. Ragna places a cup of tea in front of me. I spend a long time putting in the sugar, stirring, and letting my hand shake affectedly.

  I am the centre of attention, but I pretend not to notice, drink the tea slowly, study my nails at length, give a long yawn with my mouth wide open; a belch even emerges from the depths of my throat. Ragna has started to clear up in the larder again, Johan is laying out cards on the table. Then suddenly he stands up and walks into the corridor, starts to rummage around with his outdoor clothes.

  ‘Ragna! Shall we go for a ride?’

  She turns and looks at me uncertainly. I stir my tea absent-mindedly, take a sip from the cup, stare out into space.

  She is silent for a short while. Then she says loudly and abruptly, ‘Coming right away, Johan!’

  Good. Couldn’t be better. The couple have once more been reminded of my existence. For the time being, their married life will continue in the presence of my unmistakable physical existence.

  Collecting all the things I need proves easier than I had anticipated. As soon as they are out of the door, I check the kitchen table on Johan’s side, my former place, and, yes, there I find three thick, black hairs that must be his. I place them in a matchbox, grab a glass and totter slowly but surely back to my own room.

  I put the hairs in the glass, place it on the chest of drawers, and if I’m quick – relatively speaking, in my condition – I can manage to get hold of some more. My heart is hammering, I’m in motion, I cackle and pant in turns, it’s a matter of time, of life, yes, a particular one.

  In Johan and Ragna’s room it’s obvious where Johan sleeps. I’ve worked it out from the sounds already, but the clothes also make it clear: Ragna’s shiny red nightdress sticks out from under the pillow on her side. As best I can, I bend over Johan’s sheet, supported on a crutch, running a nail over the sheet, lifting it slightly, to collect the bits and pieces from his body in a small heap. I sneeze, my nose blocks up: it must be flakes of skin and dust swirling around in the air. But there, right beside his pillow, I discover what I am searching for, the curled, short form, the hardness: a hair from Johan’s private parts.

  There’s no need to try and explain away what I am up to. Something has to be done and this is my means of doing it. But, to be honest, I don’t like it. In horror I witness myself tie a knot in the hairs, then place them in the glass together with a sheet of paper on which I have written Johan’s full name and the most horrible sentences I have ever concocted. And with loathing I see myself place a lit match to the piece of paper and the shameful contents and watch them flare up, and even laugh out loud when everything has turned into ashes.

  Tish, vish, vush, vish vanish… tish, vish, vush, vish vanish… The moans, the booming in the voice; with amazement I hear the sound and the words come, I am lost, entranced by my deeds, I do it automatically, my reason gawping from the sidelines.

  And I go on. I don’t want to stop. The hate in me brings the glass out from its place of concealment behind the bedside lamp, gets me to spit three times into the ashes; soon it will be morning.

  Why all these qualms, these questions of right and wrong, when I know that every day from now on, nine days in a row, I will continue my ritual with incantations and sorcery, and finally pour the filth where it belongs – down our communal toilet?

  No, spare me lifted fingers and sensible talk. The sorcery has already produced results: after only one day I have a feeling of control, the sense that my curse can affect developments in the house. Furthermore, the ritual has a soothing effect on my sudden need for companionship – I do not feel the urge to share a table with the married couple more than absolutely necessary.

  As soon as I get a chance, I lie happily fantasizing about what will soon happen. What will happen to Johan is also not insignificant. The various phases of the transformation can take place gradually or quite swiftly, but that doesn’t mean all that much – it’s the result that counts. I have no doubt that some of my wishes might be a bit excessive for a single carcass, that it is not possible for all of them to be fulfilled, but on the other hand I enjoy thinking about them, so much so that I lie under the duvet shaking with held-in laughter at the images they conjure up.

  In one of the fantasies I see the pair of them in Ragna’s bedroom, where Johan is lying pale and half-dead in the bed.

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ he’ll say. ‘What’s happening, Ragna? Look at this!’

  And he’ll loosen his belt and pull down his trousers, quickly, so as not to lose her interest.

  ‘Just look,’ he’ll say again, and jiggle his hand inside his pants.

  He’ll stare wide-eyed at her, with a glazed look, trying as best he can to ensure her sympathy before he shows her his wretched state.

  ‘Well?’ Ragna will ask, with a touch of impatience in her voice. ‘Let’s see, then.’

  Johan will slowly pull his pants down over the back of his hand, slowly reveal what he is holding between thumb and index finger.

  Ragna will raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes,’ he’ll interrupt, his voice in falsetto, before she has time to say anything. ‘It’s unbelievable.’

  Ragna will lean forward, wide-eyed and shocked.

  ‘Can’t you see it?’ he’ll ask nervously.

  ‘Yes, of course I can,’ Ragna will reply, full of astonishment.

  ‘Doesn’t it look like your sister? Can you see it? It’s bloody well got her face!’

  Ragna will feel faint. What a horrible transformation, what a fate for the poor man. I, with my peering face, will grin at him and her, remind them of my existence, in all their moments of pleasure.

  If I know Ragna, she will quickly work out the consequence of what has happened. She will slowly straighten up, perhaps purse her lips and glance disapprovingly at the deformed manhood, but will then without any mercy decide that Johan must move back to his own house and that henceforth he cannot be used for anything other than hard physical labour.

  *

  A month passes, then a couple more weeks. The sun rolls across the sky around the clock, without ever touching the horizon – it’s already the middle of May.

  The tree outside my window now has small, light-green buds, and fresh shoots are sticking their heads out of the thawed ground: grasses, heather and the first tentative beginnings of what will become rosebay willowherb in large mauve clusters.

  One Monday morning, just after breakfast, Rag
na decides to accompany Johan to the village. I sit at the kitchen table eating – a daily self-imposed chore so that I can better study the state of the master of the house. Unconcernedly, half turned away, I minutely examine him as usual for signs of the imminent fall: a worried look, a sudden movement of the hand, a marked loss of zest for life and desire. But he seems as untroubled as ever, feet planted wide apart, scratching his nose, and there seem to be no other horrors lying in store except for some bruises on his backside from all the potholes in the road.

  I am not worried, consoling myself with the fact that everything in this world takes time. Just look at the spring outside the window. It slides slowly towards fulfilment, almost imperceptibly. The mere thought of my secret, treacherous deeds makes me feel as light as a feather – springlike, pale green.

  Ragna has noticed the change, my good mood, and has been surprisingly gentle of late. Before they leave, she actually bares her teeth slightly, a small, encouraging smile that tells me to take things easy until they get back. As soon as she is out of the door, I slap my thighs, laugh and chuckle to myself: If only she knew what I have been thinking about for the past few weeks.

  Finally, at last, I am alone again – it’s been too long since the last time. I snuggle down in bed among the soft pillows, the warm duvet. How nice to be undisturbed in the house, so marvellous not to be a source of trouble or irritation. I let out a cautious I exist!, try again, louder: I exist! The room shakes with my power, with my presence, and I confirm that I own myself right from the tip of my tongue down to my withered toes.

  *

  I’m woken by Ragna and Johan standing staring at me. They’ve still got their outdoor clothes on, the return trip must have been cold – her nose is dripping. Their looks: I don’t like their looks. Something must have happened to me while I was asleep. Have I have come out in a rash, a tumour, something frightening? I quickly sit up, check the skin on my arm, touch my face, but all seems normal.

  ‘What is it?’ I say with a sudden dryness in my mouth.

  ‘What is it? You dare ask?’

  Johan and Ragna glance briefly at each other. Johan is biting his lower lip and Ragna is breathing out quickly through her nose.

  ‘Yes?’ I attempt.

  Johan stretches out an arm. Before I have time to see what he is holding, Ragna grabs it from him, brings it right in front of my eyes with a quivering hand. She doesn’t need to tell me. I know from the sinking feeling in my stomach, the dizzying sensation that knocks all the air out of me and presses me down into the bed.

  ‘What’s this? Can you tell me that?’

  Her hand is so thin, the sinews and veins wind their way over the bones, and her nails are so sharp, they bore into the blank sheet of paper that is crumpled between her fingers.

  ‘Answer then, damn you. I’ve no more patience left. Answer!’

  To underline that she means business, she grabs one shoulder of my nightdress, shoves me hard against the wall.

  ‘For a while things were quite all right,’ I answer weakly, rubbing the back of my neck with my hand.

  ‘All right? They’re bloody well not all right. It’s all pure obstinacy on your part.’

  ‘You don’t understand. For a while I wanted to leave, but then you refused to talk about it.’

  ‘What’s all this bullshit? I only want a straight answer: was this you?’ She holds the ball of paper up in front of me once more.

  ‘In a way, yes. I didn’t want to, but then I did, but now I don’t want to any longer. And it’s your fault.’

  ‘Don’t want to any longer? My fault? Explain yourself a bit better, will you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s your fault. You never listen to me.’

  ‘My fault! My fault! Are you out of your mind – am I the one responsible for the letter arriving like this?’

  She opens her hand around the crumpled piece of paper, smooths it out with quivering hands, displays the evidence in front of me.

  ‘Yes, if you’d been a bit more open, we could have talked about it.’

  ‘Talked? All you’ve got to do is explain how this blank sheet of paper got into the envelope I sent to the nursing home.’

  ‘But first you have to listen to me.’

  ‘Your excuses aren’t worth wasting a second on.’

  ‘You’ve got to. I can’t stand all this quarrelling.’

  Johan has caught sight of the glass behind the lamp. He wrinkles up his nose, examines the contents with obvious confusion.

  ‘What the hell is all this muck, Ragna?’

  Ragna turns round quickly, stares angrily at the glass Johan is holding.

  ‘It looks like some coal-black filth,’ she states.

  He raises the glass up to the light in the ceiling, turns it round and round; the light can’t filter through the thick black ooze, but some flakes of ash sticking up betray its contents.

  ‘What’s the old cow been burning? And what did she put it out with?’

  Johan sticks his nose into the glass. He grimaces and pulls away quickly again.

  ‘What have you been burning?’ Ragna asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, swallowing.

  ‘There are the remains of some writing here!’

  Johan pokes down into the glass with a finger. Ragna seizes the glass, glares at the contents, turns slowly towards me, disbelievingly, her mouth open.

  ‘Oh, my God. You burned the application. You’ve bloody well gone and burned the whole of my application to the nursing home!’

  I’m about to protest, but immediately realize that it’s almost impossible to come up with a simple and plausible explanation that Ragna might believe. I twist the duvet around me, start to babble about trivialities to give myself time to concoct a story both of them will accept. But a glance in Ragna’s direction tells me that she sees my babbling as a sign of lies and evasion. She yawns loudly and rolls her eyes, is pale and clearly in a state of shock, grabs the collar of my nightdress with both hands, twists it round hard, presses me down into the bed.

  My incoherent babbling stops. I am shocked, me too; quite simply, I cannot think of anything that will explain the pitch-black contents of the glass. A wave of panic rises in my throat. I realize that I am hoist by my own petard, that my future hangs on an impossible choice between two explanations: burning the application or casting a spell on Johan.

  I try to move so I can breathe, catch Ragna’s gaze, but her hands respond by twisting my collar even tighter. My mouth feels dry, useless; I can’t get any air past my lips, any word out of my mouth. I want to swallow, but can hardly move my throat. The only thing I do is think, while my breath bursts and bangs in my throat, Poor, poor Ragna, I have never seen you so furious before in my life.

  III

  Back in the attic

  Three hundred and sixty-five million years ago, at some point during the late Devonian and early Carboniferous periods, 70 per cent of all life was annihilated. A hundred and fifteen million years later, during the transition between the Permian and the Triassic, the same thing happened again, but this time 96 per cent of life in the sea and 70 per cent of life on land died.

  After a seething, breathing, surging, pounding life of reptiles, amphibians, plants, insects, invertebrates, practically everything disappeared in an instant, or perhaps slowly, over time – but a time that we can’t count, a time that does not exist, a time that relentlessly closes around skin and shell, bone and cartilage. Leftovers that also gradually crumble, disintegrate, are gone, for even the decomposition ceases, after a time there is hardly anything left to decompose – not a morsel, a stub, a scrap, not even a sweeping of what was once a great diversity of existence, can be detected in the ocean or on the surface of the earth. Even the dust of what once lived is gone. Everything has collapsed into a slough of oblivion, layer upon layer beneath crusts and in hidden cavities. Disappeared into an infinity of stillness that, using the human numerical system and human concepts, spans a period of several hundred million years
.

  That is how it continues, unceasingly.

  Life comes into being. After one mass extermination then another, after life has emerged and disappeared, reemerged and disappeared once more, after death upon death upon death in an infinity of time, you arrive at the form of a human being – a species among many other species – developed in the course of a few hectic thousand years. Your limbs are long, wobbly and thin, flesh-pink, and you have no shell, bristles or feathers. You belong to a species that walks on two legs, is carnivorous and equipped with a cunning intelligence that, among other things, manifests itself in a desire for dominion over other animals and nature. And you are aware of your own finiteness, the definitive, the ineluctable.

  That is the certainty into which you are created and by which you are created.

  The activity of the earth is death. The smell of the earth is death.

  You turn your face away. Close your eyes, hold your nose. The putrefaction, the disgusting, nauseous filth of the earth, is something you can’t stand.

  You want to live.

  *

  I don’t want to be gone. I don’t want to!

  Hasn’t that always been my mantra? My obsession throughout my life?

  Perhaps I managed to live on only air and thoughts. I’m still here, although somewhat reduced and in an unknown part of the house. I can’t recall, so to speak, whether we have an attic, a whole floor above the kitchen and our bedrooms. I can’t remember either a staircase or a door that leads up here, or ever hearing Ragna on the stairs, rummaging around in the crates and boxes, or being aware of steps above the ceiling when I lay in bed in my old room. Something must have happened since our last clash, Ragna’s rage must have completely taken over. She pushed me down on the bed, that much I remember, but not how I was brought here, transported up the narrow staircase. I don’t understand how they managed; I was probably unconscious. She must have hit me, and she must have hit me hard – large portions of my memory have been blanked out.