by Agnes Ravatn
Back in the kitchen I started to fill the sink with water, but then felt suddenly compelled to return to the bedroom door. I looked down at the floor outside the room and saw something there; crouched down, picked it up. A pine needle. An old trick. I almost couldn’t believe it. It might be a coincidence, I hadn’t swept or mopped the floor in a few days, but I couldn’t take the chance. I carefully placed the pine needle on the door handle, my hands trembling.
Late that evening, he stepped in through the front door as I was standing in the kitchen making a cup of tea.
Shall I heat your dinner up for you? I felt like a housewife, waiting for her husband to arrive home after a long and arduous day at work.
No, I’ll have it tomorrow.
As he passed me his shoulder grazed mine, and I stood perfectly motionless, the steam from the tea clouding my vision. Outside the bedroom door he paused for a brief moment before placing a hand on the door handle. Our eyes met. Quick as a flash I forced my gaze to the kitchen worktop and he disappeared inside. He returned almost immediately carrying a bright-yellow raincoat and a pair of boots just like his own, as well as a pair of dark-blue, hard-wearing work trousers like the pair hanging in the hallway. There must be a shop in town where he buys his outdoor gear, I thought
They’re waterproof, he said.
I would be a miniature version of him. For a split second I was foolish enough to feel pleased at this acknowledgement.
He piled everything into my arms, and without knowing what else to do, I bid him goodnight and hurried upstairs, as if I were so thrilled with my gifts that I wanted to sleep in them.
The miserable weather continued well into the following day. He had plenty of opportunity to observe my gratitude as I traipsed around the garden in my new raincoat, carrying out my solitary march like a protagonist from a Knut Hamsun novel, a strange outsider making life peculiar for everyone. Enveloped in the condensation that had built up where warm breath met cool air inside the rigid hood, I felt safe, content. Wearing my new boots there was nothing that could stop me, no terrain out of bounds. The jetty was grey and beautiful in the rain, ripples on the surface of the water, a low mist floating over the fjord. The rocks along the base of the sheer face were slippery underfoot, I used a hand to support myself as I navigated my way across them. Behind the boathouse it was possible to clamber carefully up the slope, my feet sliding on the wet earth as I grasped at clumps of grass and juniper, eventually reaching the top. I heard a crunch as I accidentally crushed a crab shell underfoot. There was a good view from here out over the surrounding landscape. I could see a few smaller, run-down boathouses dotted along the shoreline heading south, each of them bleached by the sun, but other than that only scrub, woodland and steep hillsides. It warmed me to know that there were no other people here. The low scrub gradually transformed into a deciduous forest, with the occasional pine tree here and there. Just a few days ago the trees had been bare, but now the scent of tiny, wet, bright-green buds tickled at my nostrils, the air cold and crisp. All around me I could hear the sound of miniature drops falling on leaves, the forest floor soft and damp, roots criss-crossing underfoot surrounded by club moss and ferns. Pine needles sticking to my boots. The bubbling of the tiny stream that ran behind the house. I’d always liked this. A silent forest of roots and pine cones. No footpaths to be seen. Better still, this was my forest. The glorious, clear air that I breathed in, it was all mine. There would be berries in the summer, mushrooms in the autumn. I made a mental note of the different species of tree as I walked, lots of birch, but oak too, and alder and aspen.
After half an hour of wandering in a loop that ended where I was sure the house had to be, I came to a small clearing. There were a few brown, wispy tussocks of dead, yellow grass and tiny saplings, but as I moved closer I saw that they surrounded a black circle around two metres across. There must have been a fire here. Curious, I crouched down, my whole body glowing with warmth after my walk. I touched the earth with my fingers. It was a strange place to start a fire. I felt the cool of metal against my fingertips and picked up a nail, holding it up to the light to find it black with soot. I rubbed it gently between my thumb and forefinger, revealing a gleam of copper beneath the outer layer of black. I let it fall to the ground, but as soon as I had done so I caught sight of another, and another again, black nails littered all around.
Back at home I removed my boots and placed them on the steps outside the house. I could see light coming from the window of Bagge’s workroom. As I hung my coat on a peg in the shelter of the veranda, I realised just how much I was sweating. My ponytail was hanging like a wet whip against the nape of my neck. He couldn’t see me like this, red-faced and clammy, he’d be mortified on my behalf; but as I shuffled inside in my socks I found him sitting at the kitchen table with nothing but a glass of red wine for company, gazing into the distance. I’d never seen him do anything like this before. Was it an invitation of sorts – an attempt at social interaction? I hated walking past him; I could never tell if he wanted me to acknowledge him or not, never quite knew if I should carry on walking as if neither of us were actually there; which was more conspicuous – the first option, or the second? I nodded as if he were someone I passed each day on my way to work. Then, just before I reached the stairs, I was stopped in my tracks.
Allis.
Yes?
My hair was clinging to my head, my ears sticking out. Waiting at the bottom of the staircase I hurriedly tried to run a hand through my hair to make it look a little less flat, but it was fine and soaked through with perspiration.
What were you doing outside?
Just taking a walk.
Fine.
He waved me away.
I bounded up the stairs, like a little girl. He made me feel so stupid and inferior, incapable of making my own decisions. His expression, contrived, always scrutinising, as if to demonstrate that I was his, that he could decide where I could and couldn’t go.
I went to bed early that night, a clammy, trembling hand over my heart. I had never had a strategy to protect myself against melancholy, I didn’t have the first clue how to defend myself. I was hypersensitive and overly susceptible to all kinds of thoughts, superficial yet destructive future scenarios, in which my only prospect in life was to fall even further than I already had. It would only be ten, no, five – or perhaps even fewer, three – years before my body and face lost its appeal, so until then I’d have to plough everything I had into intellectual activity, gradually regain some respect, because if not that, then what? Nothing but alcoholism and indignity, trips to the off licence several times a week, no successors, no money – not if I didn’t get a move on and get married maybe. But to whom? I’d been involved in a scandal; everyone in the country knew I was a non-refundable commodity, not to mention entirely useless as far as marriage was concerned. That was unless I managed to commit to something. Something that could consume me. Something that wouldn’t allow me to break free.
Is that everything? she asked as she keyed the price of the coffee into the register.
Yes.
Nothing from back here? she asked, casting a glance over her shoulder to the stand by the tobacco cabinet filled with packets of batteries, painkillers, condoms.
No, thank you, I replied, puzzled.
I paid, picked up the bags and left without a word. I felt the prickle of her smirk at my back as I departed, the skin around my eyes growing puffy, my jaw clenched. I pushed the limits of my fitness as I cycled home, pedalling much faster than I was strictly capable of in my desperation to get away. Could she really be so repulsive? By the time I arrived back at the house, I felt certain. She had finally managed to work it out; it had taken her a while, but finally she knew where she recognised me from. I was no longer just a random intruder, a parasite from the city that had settled in her village, her shop. Finally, she had placed me, and she couldn’t let that pass without comment. She had spied my photograph on her rickety old newspaper stand long before s
he had finally made the connection, but now she had, she was proud and felt obliged to make it clear that she knew who I was. To think that the whore of broadcasting house was buying groceries from her shop – Allis Hagtorn herself, the strumpet that had slept her way onto television screens across the nation. The bicycle gave a thud as it hit the wood stack and I ran up the front steps, knowing that my throat was flushed and blotchy as I stepped inside and kicked off my shoes in the hallway. I needed to get a grip but I just couldn’t. What now? Would I need to move on, find a new village, a new shop? Heavy-handedly I thrust the items into the fridge, with it all coming back to me.
Bagge appeared from the garden, wandering in through the veranda door, and a landslide was unleashed within me. I quickly turned away, hiding my face behind the open fridge door.
Did you get any coffee?
Yes, I murmured from behind the door, my voice thick.
He came over, placed a hand on my shoulder, quickly pulled it away.
I grimaced, squeezing my eyes tightly shut then opening them and staring intently at the cheese.
Has something happened, Allis?
I couldn’t answer him.
Is it me? he asked. Is it something I’ve done?
I shook my head, didn’t want him to see my face, to see how flushed and swollen it had become.
Can you tell me about it?
I cracked. His face softened when he saw my tears, he took my arm and led me across the room, then sat me down in his chair.
You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to, he said, but would you like a cup of coffee?
I nodded.
Neither of us said a word as he made a pot of coffee, I felt ashamed of the embarrassment I must be causing him. He poured me a cup and sat down at the table, facing out onto the garden. It was clear that I could talk to him if I wanted to, but that I didn’t have to say anything if I preferred. More than anything I wanted him to know that it had nothing to do with him, that it wasn’t the weight of my loneliness causing problems; quite the contrary, in fact. But when I finished my coffee I wandered over to the sink and washed my cup, uttering nothing more than a mumbled thank-you. I made my way up to my room and left him sitting at the table.
On brighter days I would hang the laundry out to dry on the clothes rack in the garden. I was always careful to hang our clothes separately. Today, with the weather not quite good enough to hang anything outside, I had hung his clothing from the rickety drying rack in his bathroom and my own clothing up in my room, where I had pinned a few lines from the ceiling to the best of my ability. Even so, inside the washing machine our underwear swirled around in close contact, tangling together in warm soapy water once each week, and I wondered if he took for granted the fact that I did it like this, the most natural way, or if he’d keel over or see red at the whole idea.
Drying on the lines in my bedroom, in the moonlight my clothes cast human-like silhouettes on the wall and ceiling, and when I woke I was forced to acknowledge that I’d had an erotic dream. As far as I could remember, it had been a long time since that had happened. Perhaps it had been my mind’s way of protecting me: There, that’s the way, Allis, we’re cordoning off that space. No more erotic revelations for you, not for a good long while – after all, it’s hardly your forte.
When I served him his breakfast, I found myself caught in a vicious circle – my fear that the unprecedented activity in my subconscious was obvious to see made my body language all the more revealing, which only served to reinforce the notion that even my facial expression alone was giving a detailed account of the dream itself. As I poured his coffee I was paralysed by the thought of my breast accidentally brushing up against his cheek. It was a complete physical impossibility, yet still the thought made me blush, and though he said nothing, I sensed Bagge’s faint exasperation.
He chewed his food slowly as I filled the sink with water. I accidentally added far too much washing up liquid and watched as bubbles overflowed in the most vulgar fashion, water splashing onto my t-shirt, like some sort of misguided suggestive invitation. I did my best not to lean over invitingly, squeezing my legs together tightly as I stood washing the glasses, stiff as a plank.
Is there something wrong with your back?
I’m just a little achy.
He placed his knife down on his plate and pushed his chair back from the table, then thanked me for the meal and disappeared into his room. My face flushed intensely as I slowly shook my head and pulled the plug from the plughole. I’d been considering working on the flowerbeds today, but I didn’t want to be seen sashaying around the garden like some sort of failed vagrant, hunched over the earth. I pulled the recipe book from the kitchen cupboard and took a seat at the table, leafing through the pages of fine, gently sloping script at a leisurely pace.
He emerged from his room an hour later and swept past me, stopping outside his bathroom door and turning to face me. His hair looked damp, which surprised me – he’d just stepped out of his workroom. Even so, I still felt embarrassed after what had happened at breakfast and did my best not to catch his eye.
I need you to make more of an effort in the garden, Allis. You can’t just sit inside all day.
I was planning on heading out there this afternoon.
It’s forecast to be warm from now on, I’m worried things are going to sprout at such a rate that they get out of hand, he remarked, then stepped into the bathroom.
I hate you, I thought. What is he? Why such an obsession with the garden? That wife of his certainly has quite the hold over him.
The soles of my feet skimmed the surface of the water. I couldn’t hold out any longer. I had opened the desk drawer, hands unsteady after weeks of withdrawal, and had turned on the phone. With an uneasy gnawing sensation in my stomach I had dialled the number. What if telephone enquiries were just a hoax, what if I was the only idiot who believed it was actually true that you could call up and ask them about anything – the price of milk, an unknown capital city, anything that crossed your mind?
Yes, I have it here: the first of January 1969, the man at the end of the line replied.
1969?
That’s right.
I didn’t dare ask anything else, but simply thanked him and hung up. Forty-four years old. What had driven a forty-four-year-old man to live such a solitary, settled existence, almost like a leper, no contact with the outside world beyond that he had with me? A noise behind me caused me to jump and I quickly turned around to find him standing just a few steps above where I was sitting on the jetty.
I, eh, I … I said, clasping the phone in my hand, my insides swirling.
I just wanted to let you know, he began, walking the final few steps towards me on the jetty, that I have to take a trip into town. I won’t be back until this evening, so you needn’t worry about preparing anything for dinner.
I nodded.
But do make yourself something, of course.
Of course.
He turned and marched purposefully back up the steps. I remained where I was, sitting on the jetty, until I was certain that he was gone, then made my way up to the house. It was two o’clock. I didn’t know quite what to do with myself. I found a book and took it up to my room, leafing half-heartedly through the pages, then went back downstairs to fetch another. I was restless. The garden was sunny, and Bagge had left the garden chairs out, just under the cherry tree. In a moment of irresistible, unhampered freedom, I found myself heading down the stairs leading to the cellar, where I selected a bottle of white wine, took it back up into the garden with me and proceeded to uncork it. I sipped the wine in the balmy afternoon sunshine, then undressed from the waist up, every bird call or crunching snap of dry twigs in the forest causing me to lurch upwards, hurriedly covering my modesty once again. I felt a rushing sensation in my ears, heard my own breath as it rattled in my throat, I was restored, alert, keenly aware of everything around me. I poured myself some more wine.
I awoke to find him sitting in the chai
r beside my own. Just how long he had been sitting there I had no way of knowing. I had draped my top over my stomach and breasts, the material flimsy, my arms bare. I leapt up and tried to force my arms into the sleeves, to pull it over my head, to conceal my unworthy white flesh. Bagge stared into the distance, no doubt to save my blushes, wearing the same expression of worry and mild scepticism as always, the same knitted brow. He nodded at the empty bottle of wine lying on the grass between our chairs.
I’ll be deducting that from your next pay packet, he said.
Of course, I mumbled, I’m sorry.