“Just be still,” Justine soothed. “Just sit down and be still.”
Berit had become hysterical.
Justine had taken her by the shoulders and forced her back into the chair.
“He’s frightened, you see. With you screaming and thrashing about like that.”
Slowly, Justine worked the sharp, black claws from her head; she trembled from discomfort. She saw his sharp beak and she began to cry.
It was not like Berit Asarsson to cry.
“He was just a little curious…”
“He scared me half to death! Why do you keep a bird like that in the house!”
She pulled herself together and went out on the balcony to smoke. When she returned, the bird was sitting on top of the bookcase.
“What’s the deal with you? Are you pretending to be an Asa goddess? Is he like Odin’s birds Hugin and Munin?”
“An Asa goddess? Oh no, this isn’t a raven like them.”
“It sure looks like one.”
“Ravens are larger.”
Justine had warmed up the glögg again, filled Berit’s mug.
“How’s your clothes? Any bird poop?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I’m ashamed of myself, but that’s another story from our childhood, damn it all.”
She was able to go to the bathroom and clean off the worst of it. When she returned, Justine had lit a fire in the fireplace. “You must dry off before you go back out. It’s cold, well below zero.”
And Justine had patted her on the cheek and helped her sit down in the chair, wrapped a throw around her and gave her more to drink.
“Justine, I’m going to be totally smashed from all this.”
“Would it matter?”
“Fuck it all. I want to get plastered.”
They had sat there for a long time, and the fire was warming and she thought that it had been a very long time since she had felt so relaxed-and all this in spite of Curt Lüding’s meeting for the beginning of next week. She felt as if she were dozing off and wished that someone would massage the soles of her feet while she was sitting there, and just as she felt the longing for it, Justine slid down to the floor and drew off her socks.
Justine’s hands were quick and warm; they kneaded and pressed.
“Oh how nice you are, Justine; what a great talent. Where did you learn massage?”
“I don’t know what to say. I didn’t study massage…”
“But you can really… oh, sweet Jesus, that feels wonderful.”
Justine kneaded up her calves, massaged and pulled.
“You are tense, Berit. What’s the matter? Things not going well for you?”
“Oh, I’m just fine, this, this is fantastic…”
“I don’t mean right now. Otherwise. With your life.”
Her face fell, forced back tears, sniffled.
“Some days it feels like everything is coming to an end,” she said huskily. “Don’t you sometimes feel like that?”
Her hands pushed down and worked in.
“You have a knot here, Berit, right in the middle of your footpad.”
“I know. I think that I’m always giving and giving and giving but never… anything in return. The boys, they’re not boys any longer, they’re all grown up, young men, handsome, devilishly handsome. They did their army stint and came back wearing the uniform of the crown. When I see them, whenever one of those few occasions occur where I see them, I can’t imagine that I really carried them, that they were growing in me and I gave birth to them during the pain of childbirth, that they nursed at my breast, that I’ve changed their diapers, and watched them grow… We can’t even talk to each other any more, Justine. Well, maybe we could if we had some time, if I were alone with them on a desert island and there were no other distractions, no one livelier than their old mom.”
“And your husband?”
“Oh, well… since it’s now just me and him again… it’s difficult. If you had been married and had children, you’d understand what I’m getting at. For many, many years, everything has been centered on the kids. You do your best to keep them safe from danger and temptation; your whole life revolves around being a good parent; you don’t have enough in you to be a good partner, too… not enough energy… too much work all day long… and then one day it’s all gone. The birds have flown the nest. So you sit there and stare at each other, man and woman, and have no idea how you’re supposed to act any longer.”
“What about taking a trip? Doing something fun?”
“We did that. Went around the world last year.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. Not the same guy I got engaged to, the one who admired me and wanted to make love over and over again on the very same day.”
“Well… what were you expecting?”
“Not this alienation at any rate. This alienation frightens me, scares me shitless.”
She was half-lying in the chair, sliding toward the floor. There was an ache behind her eyes from too much glögg, too much crying.
“Don’t you ever feel alienated, Justine? Are you content with your life?”
“I’m starting to be.”
“Starting to be? What do you mean, starting? In fact, you haven’t said anything about yourself. You just let me ramble on and on.”
“Not much to say.”
“Of course there is.”
“Maybe. What’s your line of work?”
“I’m in the publishing business. Or was, I have to soon say. He’s going to fire us all. I’m dead certain about that.”
“Any hints about it?”
“Hard times, you know. I’m not worth much on the job market nowadays. Too old.”
“Naaah.”
“Seriously, I’m forty-five, Justine. So are you for that matter. I don’t know anything else except working with manuscripts. What am I supposed to do if I can’t do it any longer?”
“Can’t you start your own publishing company? People always like books?”
“Yeah, right, do you know how easy that is?”
“Your husband?”
“I don’t want to live off his income. No, no. Freedom is the most important thing that a person owns. You know that yourself. Maybe that’s why you didn’t get married.”
“You don’t have to be married to feel imprisoned.”
“Hmmm.”
The bird cawed up on the bookcase, and then flew down like a big black veil. He landed on the floor and hopped over to Justine. Berit screamed and pulled her feet back on the chair.
“Oh yes, he loves to eat the toes of former classmates.”
Justine tickled him on his neck; he fluffed himself up and looked thick.
“I’m sorry… but aren’t they a bit disgusting?”
“Different tastes.”
“He’s like your child, isn’t he.”
“Probably even more than that.”
“Animals never let you down. Isn’t that true, Justine? People always say so, is it true?”
“It depends on what one expects from one’s pet.”
“Once… the boys… they’re practically the same age. Jörgen and Jens. The police called… we had to go get them at the hospital. They had drunk so much that they couldn’t make it home. You can die of it, you know, alcohol poisoning. It was worse for Jens, he was so small; he was lying in the embryo position when I arrived. I wanted to just scream, Justine, my little baby. Why can’t they stay with you forever?”
Chapter ELEVEN
She bought herself a car, a Volvo. It was so new that no one had owned it before, but it didn’t lack personality. It stood, red and elegant, in the dealership window, and Justine stepped inside and opened the front door. Even the smell was new. It was warm, comfortable, and had automatic transmission. Of course she could bargain, but she didn’t feel like it.
She took out the money and returned the following day.
The salesman said, “This is one great car. It has a lot of pow
er. You’re not going to regret it.”
“I know.”
“Fast as a silver bullet. If you’re going to drive in old Deutschland, you’re even going to pass the Porches.”
“I’m not planning to drive there,” she said. “But thanks for the tip.”
It was snowing. Thin, light flakes which swirled in the wind and made it difficult to see. The snow tires were in the trunk. The salesman said that he could put them on for her, but she would have to wait one more day.
“But you can feel safe on these tires. They are stable, yearround tires, made for the Scandinavian climate.”
In the Vällingby roundabout she skidded. She corrected the skid without any difficulty.
A strange, funny name came to her mind.
The High-Wire-Artist. Well, why not?
Flora sat in the armchair next to the window. They had supported her with pillows and tied her to the back with a restraint.
Justine had run up the stairs. Now she was standing in the room and clumps of snow were melting next to her boots.
“Great! You’re awake,” she said. “I’m going to take you out.”
The woman’s lip moved, a string of thin saliva.
The door slid open, a nurse pushing a wheelchair. A strange woman sitting in it, her long veined hands picking at something on her knee.
The nurse said, “Look Flora! You have a visitor. Isn’t it wonderful that your daughter has come.”
“I’ve bought a new car,” said Justine.
The radio was on; someone was crying in the hallway.
“I can only dream of that!”
“Why do you say so?”
“Me, buy a car! How much do you think nurses earn?”
“Take my old one then. It’s all right, for the most part. If it’s acting up, just spray it with some 5-56. Then it works like a dream. I don’t need it. An Opel Rekord, take it and say it’s a long-term loan, drive it till it falls apart.”
The nurse turned red.
“I didn’t mean to…”
“Well, I’m not going to use it any longer. One car is good enough for me. It’s at my place; you can pick it up whenever you get around to it. It’s just in the way.”
“I couldn’t really…”
“Otherwise it goes to the junkyard.”
“It runs?”
“Certainly it runs.”
“I don’t get it… Why did you buy a new one then?”
“You only live once. I can so I did.”
“Well, that’s one way to look at things.”
“Or how you see yourself.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Justine gestured.
“How’s she doing?”
“Same as usual.”
“I’m thinking of taking her for a test drive.”
“Isn’t it a bit cold?”
“And what of it?”
“Well… well, why not? Didn’t you say if you can do something, you should?”
“Exactly.”
“It’s just… Can you get her dressed yourself? We are a little short today. I have to take care of Märta here. She is Flora’s new roommate, by the way.”
She was as thin as a paper doll, no control over her arms and legs. If you bent them back and forth, they’d break at the fold.
Justine carried her to the bed. She hardly weighed more than the bird. She put on socks, flannel pants, a cardigan and a jacket. Also plaid cloth slippers and a shawl for her head.
She called to the nurse.
“Is this enough, do you think?”
“Sure. But it’s easier to get them dressed when they’re sitting.”
Justine took her step-mother in her arms. She could tell how the emaciated body trembled. She got a strange taste in her mouth.
“Use the wheelchair to get her downstairs.”
“I can do it. She doesn’t weigh more than a four-page letter.”
“A wheelchair is more appropriate.”
The nurse adjusted the knot under Flora’s chin.
“Flora,” she laughed. “You look just like an Easter witch.”
She took the elevator down with the wheelchair. Two women in white dresses stepped in at the same time. “Oh, how nice it will be to get outside for a little while.
Don’t you think that will be nice?”
“She can’t speak,” said Justine.
A sound came from Flora’s throat, a gurgling noise. But the women were already talking about something else. They stepped out now, and one helped maneuver the wheelchair out of the elevator.
She left the wheelchair in the foyer while she went to get the car. She drove right up to the glass doors. She placed her hands under Flora’s body and lifted her into the passenger seat. She fastened the seatbelt around her. Flora’s eyes wandered randomly; her shawl slipped down on her forehead.
“It’s been a long time since you were outside, right? Have you ever been outside since you…”
She stepped on the gas and skidded immediately.
“Whoopsie! This can be a little risky. Where do you want to go? Not home, though, you’ve been there too much. No, let’s go on the highway instead. I have to check how fast this baby can go.”
On the curve entering E-18, right past IKEA, she had such a major slide that the car turned and stopped facing backwards. There was a hiccoughing sound from Flora. Flora’s hands were lying like wilted leaves in her lap. Justine touched them; they were ice-cold. She hit some buttons; the heat came on. Then she turned the car and swung out onto the highway.
She turned on the radio, same channel as at the nursing home, Megapol. She recognized the melody, something from the time she had been together with Nathan, and a blow hit her in the stomach. She turned up the volume and he was with her now. He sat in the back seat and he leaned over towards her; his hands caressed her breasts. Everything was like it had been before they got on that airplane; he was good to her, and kind.
No. Flora was here… Justine had zoomed into the left lane and she whooped as if she had to override the sound of the motor. As if the snow and wind could have made her weaker.
“It’s the first time that I’m driving it. Really driving it. I wanted you to be here, too.”
Pedal to the metal, all these lousy small cars, she was on the Autobahn now, why not. She signaled them, but they stayed where they were like stoppers; she swung to the right and passed them. Stepped on the gas some more, felt how the car took over.
“My High-Wire-Artist!” she yelled.
The salesman explained that it was called turbo-power. He had a special kind of voice which he used just for women. She noticed he was married, imagined him throwing himself on his wife, driving his turbo in.
“Power,” he said and opened the hood. Everything was new and clean in there. He stroked the motor; his hand was pink and common.
When he handed over the keys, he took her wrist and held tight.
“Here’s my business card,” he said. “If you need anything, just call.”
The woman beside her had bowed her head, as if she was sleeping. A weak odor was streaming from her pores, melting into the new car smell.
“How fast do you think we can go?” yelled Justine.
The speedometer was trembling at 180 now, zigzagging. It was before noon; there was a great deal of traffic. Exit signs, fields. She stayed in the left lane, no one was ahead of her any longer. But someone was behind her. The police? No. A white Mercedes, driven by one lone man. He hugged her tail, wasn’t letting go. She hit the gas pedal again, noticed his round mouth in her rearview mirror.
He was tough, swung to the right, ready to pass. No way. The High-Wire-Artist could not be passed. She sped up, he gave her the finger. Then she saw his car careen off the road right into a barbed-wire fence.
She loosened her grip on the wheel.
She moved into the right lane, and stayed there until they got to Enköping; turned into an OK gas station. Parked. She heard Na
than’s wild laugh behind her: my dearest, my Amazon.
I’d cut off my breasts for your sake, you know that.
She lifted Flora’s head, stroked her cheeks with her sleeve. The deep holes of her eyes, as if they had flooded.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s just the speed and the wind.”
When she let go, Flora’s head fell back to her chest.
“Do you want anything? Coffee or something? We are on a day out. Think about what you want, Flora. I’m going in to use the bathroom for a minute.”
As soon as she entered the gas station, her legs started trembling.
No! Nathan was not supposed to see that!
She found the restroom and went in, locking the door. Someone had scrawled graffiti over the walls, threatening words.
She took some headache medicine, drank water straight from the tap. She stood there for a minute and pulled herself together.
She saw her own eyes in the mirror, her face rigid and terse. She looked like herself, but then again not.
“You bitch,” she said, and the woman in the mirror began to laugh.
Chapter TWELVE
Berit filled the tub and took a long warm bath. She was freezing from the inside out. She lay in the bathtub and thought that every small bone in her body had turned completely to ice.
They had eaten supper, she and Tor, one small take-out pizza per person. She was not hungry, ate just a bit from the center. He noticed her plate when she cleared the table, but he didn’t say anything.
She said, “We should have gotten a dog, don’t you think?” He shrugged his shoulders.
Then he went to his little room on the second floor which he liked to call his office; the room had been the boys’ playroom. A car track had run from one side of the room to the other, and the boys and their playmates had sat in there and built Lego sets. They managed to build an entire city. Now everything was packed into boxes and stored in the garage or in the basement. She couldn’t remember. One of these days they’d be taken out again, she surmised, when the grandchildren started coming.
Tor had made the room into his own and she had nothing against it. There were always papers he had to deal with, or phone calls he had to make. They had driven out to IKEA and gotten the Kavaljer desk, the Kristofer desk chair, and the computer table Jerker. They spent one Easter vacation painting the room white and nailing plasterboard to the ceiling. Berit found a remnant of cloth that was just big enough to serve as a length of curtain. Then it was finished, the little home office.
Good Night, My Darling Page 9