A Fool, Free

by Beate Grimsrud

  I phone home to Norway to say Happy Christmas. Say that I’m on holiday in Spain. In the evening, I suggest that we should all go to midnight mass. Three of the other patients want to come and we’ll be accompanied by a nurse. We can’t go anywhere without a chaperone. The nurse has never been to midnight mass before and thinks it might be interesting. When we reach the church, the first patient wants to go back to the unit, there are too many people here. The nurse doesn’t know what to do, because that means that everyone should go back. But he lets the three of us go in and sit down. When he comes back the church is packed and the service is about to begin. Then the next patient wants to go back. The nurse says that my room-mate and I can stay if we promise not to leave. We promise. When he comes back again, the service is almost over.

  It’s so beautiful in the church. Real candles and an orange glow in the air. I have to close my eyes so the others can also see all this beauty. I feel Christmas inside me. It’s much stronger this time than the last time I was in church. My room-mate wants to go back. I’m left on my own. I want to experience it all. Even take communion, no idea why. God ceased to prod or move me many years ago. God isn’t after me any more. Doesn’t look. Doesn’t find.

  I stand in a long queue down the centre aisle. It’s uncomfortably crowded. Survival is the only thing that unites us. I have decided to stay standing. Hear the words of the boxing coach, have forgotten what the priest said. Focus, focus, focus. As long as there are holes and spaces in our world picture, we’ll need God. Focus, focus, focus, that’s what helps us survive. Up by the altar, I get down on my knees and think to myself that I might even say something to God tonight. But the words don’t come. I leave the church by the main door, where the nurse is waiting. He didn’t manage to experience much.

  Back to the hospital. All three of us lie in our beds in our room on Christmas night. Then a retired night sister comes in wearing a Santa hat over her grey, curly hair. She gives each of us a present. It’s a small magnifying glass. A pink one, a neon green one and a yellow one. I’m touched. Three grown women unwrapping a toy from an elderly lady with no children, who works holiday weekends for company. The magnifying glasses are flimsy, unusable. They look like they come from a vending machine. I’m the only one who needs a magnifying glass. It feels like a sign.

  On Christmas Day, I’m lying on the extra bed and have just finished listening to an audio book. I’m sobbing my heart out. It’s not Espen. It’s me. I am Eli. Grown-up tears from a source that never runs dry.

  Then Manne, my doctor, comes in. I don’t say hello. Just cry. He sits down on the edge of the bed. ‘Why are you so sad?’ he asks after a while. At first I can’t answer. Then I say: ‘I’ve been listening to “The Christmas Oratorio” by Göran Tunström. He read it himself with his Värmland dialect. It’s so beautiful. I’m crying because it’s not possible to write a more beautiful book, and I’ve got a whole pile of audio books to listen to that just can’t compare with this one.’ Manne says nothing. I burst into tears again. I’m surprised that he’s come in to see me over Christmas, but don’t want him to say Happy Christmas. Which he doesn’t. He says nothing. He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. Then he gets up and leaves. I continue to cry. I didn’t tell him the whole truth. It’s not just that nothing could be more beautiful. It’s because the main character loses something and ends up in psychosis.

  I do a tour of the corridor, into the dining room and back again. There’s nowhere to go. The chairs, tables, plastic Christmas tree, walls, rooms, beds, the worn screens between the beds, and armchairs out in the corridor. I switch off the main light. Lie on my bed. My room-mates are lying silent and invisible behind the screens.

  I get up again and do the same round again. Down to the dining room. Most patients are at home on release. I help myself to a peppercake and a cup of coffee. The coffee tastes disgusting, I only take a few sips, then put the mug back. Soon I’ll take another one. Look forward to it and then put it back. I go back to my room, lie down on my bed. Muse that people in prison aren’t allowed to chop wood. Nor those in a psychiatric ward. That feeling of lifting the axe, hitting the wood in the right place. The sound of the wood splitting. The power. The next piece and the next. I long for the country. For the woodshed. For the chopping block and axe from Norway. And then to just sit and look into the fire. The heat and smell of birchwood.

  It’s mealtime again. Most people are sitting by the table. Then a long-legged older man with an unkempt beard comes into the dining room, in nothing but his underpants. He’s painted his lips black. ‘Please go and put some clothes on,’ says one of the staff. ‘Why? I am who I am. I’ve got more education than you. I’m a qualified doctor. It’s just that they took away my licence. Could I have it back, please? The less you lot bother me, the better I am.’ ‘Go to your room and put on some clothes,’ the nurse says again.

  He stands up and dances out. Not long after, he comes tottering in in red high-heeled shoes, a minimalist black shiny skirt that barely covers his behind and a red shiny top that stops at his naval. His long hairy legs and stomach are on show for everyone to see. He looks less dressed than he did in his underpants.

  The snow disappears. Spring arrives with its wet days. It doesn’t make much difference in here. Nothing makes much difference in the unit. A long stretch of just being here. It just carries on. Day and night.

  I want to be seen through the walls, through the ceiling in my bed, where I lie for days on end. Wait for the door to open, and some eyes, a voice to come in. For long periods I feel lonelier here with all the nurses and patients than I did on my own in my flat. Do you have to rush screaming out into the corridor to get attention? Can’t someone see me where I am? In silence.

  The summer comes. I’m given a partial release. Lolo has come to an arrangement with Olof, my care coordinator, that I can spend three days in the country and four in the ward. I only want to be in the country. ‘I could be invisible,’ I say to Lolo. ‘You will never be invisible. You just have to get a bit better.’

  I get depot injections of Trilafon every week. My whole body is stiff. Shaky. I move my arms in an odd way. Don’t know what to do with them. What did I do before? Even have to think about how to walk. How my mouth moves between my jaws. There’s a strange creaking sound when I eat. I have no will power. Nothing interests me. I look at the shed I built the summer before last. Now I can’t even hammer in a nail.

  I try to talk to Manne about the fact that I’m over-medicated. He won’t agree to my demands for a lower dose. The threat of being sectioned hangs heavy on our conversation. I’m free, but only if I do what they say. I get depot injections because he suspects that I don’t take the pills. Which is true, but not as often as he thinks. It says in my journal that I’m suspected of poor compliance, which means I don’t cooperate.

  Manne goes on holiday. I ask the locum doctor for less medicine. ‘You’ll have to wait until your regular doctor comes back.’ I don’t know how to get my spark back. My body, my thoughts, my presence and my independence. I run along the windy forest paths. I’m the slowest runner in Sweden. Focus, focus, focus. Stop at the cliffs. Take off all my clothes and watch the sun go down. I dive into the glittering water wearing only the plaster left on my bum after the injection.

  Things start to feel stable again. I’ve been in and out for over two years now. I’m out again. Work is going well, I’ve written a novel and the whole process has been enriching. I’ve travelled around with the book doing readings. But the most important thing for me right now is that I have a bigger team working with me in the hospital. A support network that works. Finally. That’s to say, certain nurses have a special responsibility for me, and I get to know them and they get to know me. That’s never happened before. I now meet the same nurses in the day centre when I’m at home as I do in the secure unit when I’m in hospital. It’s a unique way of working, which makes me feel secure, which in turn provides stability. They come to visit me at my workspace. I’m in telep
hone contact with them almost daily.

  I would never have managed to live at home without their help. They have meetings with my friends and work with them. My friends are now received very differently than before. I’m on my way out into life. Will soon finish the film about Kiril. Start a new novel. Start boxing again. Spring is in the air. I breathe it in. The trees are no longer grey and closed. They’re alive and sprouting. I look up. See children playing football and my body remembers.

  I’m at a big party for Lisen’s husband. It’s his fortieth. I feel incredibly strong. I feel like a tree. I’ve got a crown of leaves hidden beneath my skull, just wait, you’ll see it soon enough. I get to the party early to help. I dominate and start organising, giving everyone tasks. Point to where the chairs and tables should be. Just how strong and healthy can you be? I’m about to take off. Think the others are a bit useless. No doubt they’ve got their own problems.

  I look after the bar for the whole party, carry food in and out, light the candelabra and put out snacks. I’m wearing Prince Eugen’s green tartan, fitted suit and dark sunglasses. I feel as though I’m in a film. I feel seen and loved. See myself from outside. How I weave elegantly between the guests, my small talk. ‘How are you?’ Better than you think. As usual, but worse. But no, I say, ‘Fine, thank you.’

  I meet the head of TV documentaries and he wonders how I’m getting on with the film. ‘It’s going fine,’ I say. Even though it’s not. I’ve been away from it for so long. Another film-maker comes over and talks about his new film, about the aborigines in Papua New Guinea. No need for burkas there, the women are bare-chested and cast their eyes down when men speak.

  Have I become MP, am I part of the plot from start to finish? Today it feels like that. Someone congratulates me on my latest book and how well it’s been received. Someone asks how I am. They’ve heard I’ve not been well. Not just borderline, where they often think they are themselves, but way over on the other side.

  ‘Yes, fine thank you.’ ‘That’s good to hear. Really, you’re fine?’ I laugh. ‘You look strong.’ No more questions, I think to myself. I need to be left in peace. But they keep coming. More questions. ‘How are you? I hear that you’ve not been well. Good to see you.’

  See me? What do they see? I know that I’m lying a little, and then a bit more. Answering so that I’m normal, so that I am what I think they hope I am. What do I feel? An incredible power. They talk about their children and their careers and their mid-life crises. When you suddenly realise that you will never be part of Médecins Sans Frontières in Africa. That the collective in San Francisco will never happen. It didn’t happen for me either. But nor did I turn out like them.

  I move between the tables. No more questions. I dance. I feel invincible in the music. But what is it I want to conquer? I don’t know. Move with great energy. Alone, but with all the others around, between and with me. ‘Dance, and I’ll conduct,’ says Prince Eugen. I look up and catch someone’s eye.

  I dance into the small hours. The lights are switched on and the caretaker arrives. It’s time to wrap up. I meet an old friend of a friend. She’s become a hypnotist. She looks at me with intense eyes and says things that make me uneasy. I’ve taken off my sunglasses and the bright light burns my eyes. I get her card, but already feel hypnotised. There’s something dangerous inside me that is about to come out. I slip in and out of myself.

  I’m on top now. Can you stay on top without starting to slide? It’s my turn now. To feel whole.

  The day after, I stand in my colleague’s room at the workspace. ‘I’m breaking up,’ I say. Something breaks. I shout in my head. I search in my thoughts. ‘Eli’s not here. I am Erik,’ I say. His voice has taken over my thoughts. My body. As though he has got inside me. I’ve become him and he keeps Eli at bay. Don’t know how the morning has been or how I got here.

  My colleague looks at me in surprise. ‘Should I call the hospital?’ ‘No.’ She rings all the same, and we take a taxi there. We have to wait to see a doctor. Erik wants to leave, but is stopped and my doctor comes immediately. I say that I’m called Erik and that Manne doesn’t know who I am. Manne says that he knows very well who I am and that I know who he is. Erik denies it. ‘You’ve never met me before. Not Erik.’

  I say that Erik has to show him the suit that he has at home, that he has to go and get it. And now. Manne is completely uninterested in the suit and the conversation is soon closed. Manne doesn’t have much time. Erik is obsessed with showing him the suit. ‘It’s not Erik’s suit, he’s just borrowing it. It’s Prince Eugen’s,’ I say. ‘You’re not at the party now,’ my colleague says. ‘That was last night.’ I remember dancing half the night in Prince Eugen’s checked suit. I have to get back into the suit to be able to explain the transformation.

  Yesterday I was Eli. Today I am Erik. Doctor Manne is wrong. He doesn’t know Erik. Two nurses take Erik under the arms and lift him over the floor, up the stairs and into the unit. ‘Don’t leave me,’ Erik says to Eli’s colleague. ‘We’ll keep Eli, so we can let you out,’ the staff say. My colleague leaves, hiding her tears in her spring coat.

  Erik kicks and tries to get free. Suddenly there are lots of people in the room. ‘You have now been sectioned in accordance with the Mental Health Act,’ Manne says. Erik is wrestled down onto the bed. His trousers are pulled down. He is given several involuntary injections.

  After a few hours on the ward, Erik is still obsessed with getting Prince Eugen’s suit from home. He stands by the main door, which is locked. He’s shooed away several times. But then finally, when there is no one there watching, the door is opened from the outside. He slips out. He runs fast. They shout after him, but no one gives chase. He runs all the way home, and sits down on the bench outside the block of flats where Eli lives. He doesn’t have the key. The sun is shining. He leans back on the bench. Where should he go? He can’t get into the flat and how is he then going to get hold of the suit? The keys are locked up in the hospital with Eli’s things. He has no money either. No bag. He sits in the sun for a long time. Who can help him to get in? The police?

  He sets off towards the police station which is round the corner. The woman behind the window asks what he wants. ‘My name is Erik and I need help to get into my flat.’ ‘You’ll have to ask a locksmith.’ ‘But I don’t have any money.’ ‘Take a seat then, and I’ll speak to the boss. What did you say your name was?’ ‘Erik.’ ‘Nothing else?’ ‘No, nothing else.’

  He sits in the waiting room and waits. After a while, he gets restless and wants to leave. He stands up, and notices how quickly the woman darts out from behind the window and locks the door. ‘You’re to wait here and talk to the boss,’ she says. Behind a glass wall, the head of police is making a frantic phone call.

  He stands up and comes out to shake hands. He’s very friendly. He’s wearing a uniform. Sits down next to Erik and says: ‘I recognise you from the papers. You’re an author. Your name is Eli. Not Erik.’ ‘No, I’m Erik. Eli’s not here.’ One of Erik’s legs is shaking. The policeman starts to talk about an exhibition he’s seen. Portraits of well-known people from the arts, by a famous painter. ‘And you were there. It was a good picture. It wasn’t a picture of Erik. It was Eli.’

  Erik starts to feel uncertain. Thinks about Prince Eugen’s suit and the orange checked tie. He should have had it now. The head of police starts to talk about other artists that Erik knows. Then he interrupts the conversation with small sentences like ‘where is the key to the flat?’ and without thinking, Erik has said ‘in the hospital.’ ‘Which hospital is that?’ ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Erik replies. ‘Where have you come from now? You’ve got no coat, key or bag.’ Erik looks down. They were having such a nice time.

  ‘Are you not going to tell me?’ ‘No, I want to get into the flat. Can you help me?’ ‘We’re trying to help you as best we can, Eli.’ ‘Erik.’ ‘Sorry, Erik,’ says the friendly policeman. ‘I’ve read one of your books. You’ve definitely got your own style and la
nguage. Who writes them?’ ‘Eli,’ says Erik. ‘She’s not here.’ The policeman asks if he would like a cup of coffee. ‘No, I want to go home to the flat and put on Prince Eugen’s suit.’

  The policeman goes and gets two cups of coffee. Erik heads towards the exit. ‘We’re closed,’ the policeman says. The door is locked.

  Erik doesn’t ask what they are waiting for. But every now and then the policeman’s soothing, friendly chat is broken when he goes in behind the glass wall to talk on the phone. Erik drinks his coffee and is shaking so badly that he spills some. The policeman finds new subjects to talk about all the time. Is he sitting beside me because he thinks it’s nice or to pass the time? What are we waiting for? There’s only the two of us here now, Erik thinks.

  At that moment, two enormous policemen come in through the door and grab hold of him. The head of police snaps at them and says that it’s urgent, they closed an hour ago and have had to wait too long. The tone of his voice was completely different when we were speaking. It makes me uneasy. The policemen each hold one of Erik’s arms. We aren’t able to say goodbye properly.

  The head of police who seemed so kind has called in these gorillas. They lift Erik up and carry him out of the police station. They carry him over the street, he’s as light as a feather in their hands. They bundle him into a police car. Once he’s sitting upright, he tries to open the back door, but can’t. The car glides silently through the city. He asks them to drive to Eli’s flat. They say yes, but they’re lying. They stop in front of the hospital. Both policemen are standing ready by the door when Erik gets out. He’s thought about making a break for it, but it’s impossible to loosen their grip. They carry him into the unit, into the farthest room, where the door to the corridor is then locked. They don’t let go. Stand there holding him. He tries to get free. The staff thank them.