by Agnes Ravatn
He nodded, uninterested. This peculiar dialogue, I thought, so up and down. Damn him. Here we were, just the two of us, the crackling of the fire and a faint scent of wet grass drifting in from the garden outside. I poured the remainder of the wine into his glass. The ball was in his court now. I missed getting drunk. Missed the laughter, the confidence, the lack of inhibition. But I didn’t want him to think I was a fool. I felt so young, but not in any positive sense. If only I had the opportunity to say something intelligent. He sipped from his glass. It still wasn’t quite empty. He didn’t look at me. He inhaled sharply as if he were about to say something, but nothing followed. I wondered if he found me attractive, if he thought about me at all, or if in his eyes I was nothing more than a human broom. He probably existed on some kind of spiritual level where such things were of no interest. I suppressed a bitter smile when I thought about how stupid I had been, buying new clothes, all intended for his eyes only. What made me think like that? Did I just miss having somebody? Was it just the fact that Bagge was the only man in my life now, even though I had not exactly chosen him? Out of the corner of my eye I saw him drain the final drops from his glass. I sat with the stem of my own glass between my thumb and forefinger, gently twirling it, a clear indication that I was happy to carry on.
Would you mind fetching another bottle, Allis?
I bounded out of my seat, unleashed from my chains. Red? He nodded. Red, red, red, I repeated to myself as I descended the staircase into the cellar, slightly unsteady on my feet. Shelves of bottles lined every wall. I had the impression that this was good wine, but in reality I was clueless; I picked a bottle at random each and every time. It was odd that he’d never given me proper instructions about which to choose from the selection on offer. I unfastened another button on my blouse and returned upstairs.
It’s good to know that you enjoy wine as much as I do, he said, taking the bottle from me.
It’s not necessarily wine I like, more alcohol in general, I replied.
He let out a brief chuckle, then opened the bottle and poured a little into each of our glasses. This was what I loved about drinking, the spellbinding transformation that a relatively simple tonic could bring about, the creation of an alternative version of oneself. I lifted my glass in Bagge’s direction. He didn’t look surprised, but simply raised his own slightly towards me and looked at me for a split second before bringing the glass to his lips. Together we formed an almost perfect equilateral triangle, Bagge at the head of the table, me at one side and the bottle on the table in front of us. Normally I had nothing against silence, but in that moment I felt almost desperate. A torrent of sentences swept through me, but all were equally impossible to utter. I wanted him to show even the slightest interest in me, I wanted him to want to know more; he barely knew a thing about me. What made him want to keep things that way?
It had grown dark outside, but it was no longer raining. The embers smouldered gently in the fireplace, and I stood up to place another log on the fire. As I returned to my chair, I lost my balance and intuitively reached out for him. He reacted swiftly, gripping my shoulders. I let out a sudden, shrill cackle and he let go. I stood before him.
I’m sorry.
Perhaps you’ve had enough for tonight, he remarked dryly.
I sat down.
No, it’s not that, I just lost my balance. I can handle my drink.
Are you sure about that?
Very. I could still feel the impression of his hands on my shoulders, a strong grip, almost too firm. I took a long swig of my wine as if to demonstrate my tolerance.
It’s been a long day, I said, preventing the silence from descending once again.
Yes. Are you tired?
No, not at all. Are you?
No.
As far as I was concerned, we could stay up all night long. I wanted to hear Bagge tell me that he liked me, that he was glad that I was there. I wanted to ask him if he found it bothersome having me around the house just so I could hear him assure me the opposite was true, a childish impulse. I held my tongue.
Are you afraid of me?
I almost choked on my wine.
Afraid of you? No, I—
He looked at me, his gaze suddenly dark, piercing.
Perhaps a little, I conceded after a few moments. His expression softened at my confession.
I can understand that. But you don’t need to be.
Why do you ask?
No, he replied.
I suppose I’m just a little worried that I might bother you, I said.
He nodded. Well, you don’t.
I felt as if something was eroding me from the inside out. That’s good, I said.
You are just as discreet as I hoped you would be. He looked at me as if he had just paid me a great compliment.
There’s … a lot that I wonder about, I said, as carefully as I could manage.
He nodded.
I couldn’t bring myself to say any more, at least not anything that would fit with Bagge’s impression of me as discreet. The ticking of the wall clock echoed ever more loudly. Tick tock yourself, I thought harshly. I wanted to go outside. I could stand in the garden in the quiet darkness, staring into the black of the night and making myself interesting in his eyes. That would give him something to think about. He’d see that even I was no stranger to peculiar behaviour, he’d realise he wasn’t the only one familiar with that particular art. Or I could just speak up without warning, say: No, that’s enough wine for me! Then make my way upstairs without looking back. Goodnight. But I knew that no matter what I did, it would have no lasting effect on him. That was what someone became after an extended period of self-inflicted solitude – stupid and unfeeling, totally lacking the ability to accept the warmth of others. Where was his wife? Had she left him? I realised that he enjoyed having me there, a spectator to his everyday existence. There was no room for any symmetry here; I was just a necessary audience.
I began to feel drunk, the sensation enriched by the silence and stilted conversation and sheer lack of trust between us. I realised that I was impatiently drumming my fingers against the table. He never let on that he noticed that kind of thing. He looked as if he had more than enough on his mind simply processing his own inner turmoil. But I didn’t. I was growing tired of this constant rejection. The wind outside had died down, the night sky as black as charcoal.
So, are you in good health? I asked suddenly, alarmed at the sound of my own voice shattering the silence. He looked up at me.
I am, thank you for asking.
His expression was a warning: enough now. My heart thumped in my chest, but I held his gaze.
Marvellous, I said, and an abrupt, awkward fit of laughter rushed free; I quickly reined it in. I had finally become one of them. An awful, vapid girl. Bothersome, pecking away at him. Nothing to lose. Something dark surged through me.
What’s your wife’s name?
Why do you want to know that?
Won’t she be home soon?
Not anytime soon, no.
I had lost the ability to control the muscles in my face, the corners of my mouth pulled each in their own direction. I felt like Loki, an involuntary grin fixed on my face, my teeth stained. I thrust my chair back, swaying slightly, then staggered upstairs.
The face in the bathroom mirror gazed back at me, ashamed, the same wide-eyed, frog-like expression I always wore after drinking too much and humiliating myself. It was early. I drank three glasses of water in quick succession and downed a few painkillers. My hands trembled. Bagge’s towel was where he had left it, draped over the edge of the bathtub, still damp. I held it close to my face and breathed in his scent. He’d be sending me packing after last night, back off to the city. I took a long shower, dressed and stood at the top of the staircase, listening out for him. I brushed the blueish stains from my teeth, scrubbed my face and moisturised. I listened again. He hadn’t woken up yet. Cautiously I crept downstairs and into the kitchen. I made a pot of extra-strong coff
ee and sat down at the kitchen table. I waited nervously, imagining what I might say when he got up.
An hour passed. I put on a new pot of coffee to brew. Yet another hour passed. He never got up this late. Perhaps he’d taken a taxi into town after I’d gone to bed, booked himself into a hotel, found himself a prostitute for company, all just to punish me. Suddenly I was weeping softly, even though it wasn’t all that long since I’d last cried. I held back my tears and listened for Bagge, but I could hear nothing from his room. I allowed myself to cry for a little longer. Could I tell him when he got up, reveal the fact that it was my birthday? The thought made me queasy. It looked as if it would be another bright day. I opened the kitchen door and left it ajar, the air already warm. I am nothing, I thought. I am nothing and I have nothing. I’m wandering around like an empty shell. I should give up. Stop trying.
I stepped outside and made my way down to the tool shed. Shame. The image returned to me clearly more often now than before, lurching into my mind with me defenceless to stop it. I saw myself sprawled beneath him like a fleshy, Rubenesque Christmas pig, saw him taking me with my stockings around my ankles. The figures in the doorway out of the corner of my eye, their unexpected appearance like a cold draught. No, no. I can’t go back, I have to stay here. My stomach churned. I found the bucket and gloves, then strode down through the garden and continued weeding, picking up the pace, faster and faster, terrified of losing my job.
I went back up to the tool shed to look for the loppers and wheeled the wheelbarrow over towards the fruit trees. I started work on the shrubbery behind the pear trees. I systematically hacked away at the dog rose, taking trip after trip with the wheelbarrow until I had created a large heap of cuttings. I continued for hours, forgetting all about my hunger. The sight of my brown arms tucked deep inside the roomy gardening gloves soothed me, brown ankles just visible over the top of my work boots. Working outdoors had made me stronger, more robust. I wheeled the final load over to the heap that had formed, sloshed a little water in a circle around the pile and set fire to the lot.
I watched it carefully, raking stray twigs and leaves into the fire with a slow and steady fervour.
Bloody hell, I thought something had caught fire out here! I saw him approaching through the thick smoke.
I’ve got it under control.
Do you have a bucket of water to hand?
Yes. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.
Alright.
I felt as if there was little left for me to lose. After yesterday, it was sink or swim. He hesitated behind the screen of smoke.
Well. Be careful with this lot. I’ll sort out my own dinner tonight.
He turned and marched back up towards the house.
Grey flakes of ash floated in the air, the garden waste slowly turning to charcoal. I started to think of Johs as I stood there with the garden hose in one hand and the rake in the other; Johs, who had never been anything but good to me, yet whose life I had still been willing to reduce to rubble, his and my own. And all for the Director General – ‘K’, as I called him – a man who no longer cared a jot for me. There must have been so many before me. I used to imagine them: pert, firm bodies, perfectly coiffed; scary, superior women. You can’t learn to banish that irrational stupidity that lurks within all of us; can’t accept it as nothing more than the passing delusion it is, and show strength in its presence. Can’t accept that at bottom it is a deep-rooted issue of vanity, that, just as strong as the feelings you have for someone else are your own thoughts about the feelings others should have for you: I am too much for just one person to know! I deserve to be discovered anew: Listen! I love this tune. Taste this wine! It’s my favourite. Hear that? That’s a little of the wisdom that I possess. Feel! This is how I like to make love.
A puddle of black ash and coal had formed at my feet, a little smoke still rising from the damp. I poured a little more water over the lot and dragged the hose back up to the house. I stepped inside and climbed the stairs to my bathroom, my face flecked with soot, then washed and returned downstairs to make myself something to eat. He was sitting in a chair in the living room.
Are you hungry?
He shook his head. I’ve just eaten.
I cut a few slices of bread and ate them with cheese at the kitchen worktop as he sat nearby with a book in his lap. As I tidied the worktop, he looked up from his book.
I’m heading down to the jetty for a spot of fishing.
I turned.
There’s a rod for you, too, if you’d like it. You do like to fish, don’t you?
It was difficult to suppress the wave of elation that rose up within me. I replied that I’d always loved fishing. He stood up and made his way down into the cellar, returning moments later with two rods and a tackle box.
Did you fetch a knife?
There are knives in the boathouse, he said, striding ahead of me and out through the veranda doors.
Silently we walked down to the jetty, Bagge leading the way, a fluttering in my stomach. The summer evening sky was clear and bright.
He picked out an orange spinner for me, telling me it was the best he had. I fumbled for far too long in my attempts to tie the spinner to my line, cursing myself while wishing that I were more nimble-fingered. Eventually he had to help me. I could barely remember how to cast. All the time that I’d lived with Bagge I had tried to cultivate the image of an outdoorswoman, but until this point I hadn’t been very successful in my attempts.
Like this, he said, demonstrating with his own rod.
After three failed attempts, I finally managed a decent cast. We stood side-by-side on the jetty, casting out and reeling in our lines, the pink glow of the evening sky before us. I imagined frenzied conversations between us: the things he’d say, how I’d reply, his amused reaction, laughing as he made an intelligent comeback, chuckling at my deflection, his casts elegant and masculine as he watched me out of the corner of his eye, struck by how beautiful and feminine I was, how lucky he was to have someone like me in his life, my rod whipping back up and over my shoulder, sweeping back out over the water, the spinner whizzing as the line whistled through the air, Bagge looking at me and contemplating what a strong and impressive woman I was, and all the while I’d wonder how to bring up the fact that today was my birthday, and when I eventually did, he would congratulate me, moved by the thought that I was born on this very day, thirty-three years earlier, and what a thought that was, because now I was here with him.
So, it’s my birthday today, I blurted out.
He turned to face me.
Your birthday? Today?
How can it be, I wondered, that I can gush about that fact as if I were eight years old? What an unseemly, overgrown idiot.
Thirty-three?
I nodded, embarrassed, what on earth had compelled me to say it? Hardly an act appropriate for my age.
He reeled in, then put down his rod and made his way into the boathouse. He emerged a moment later carrying a bottle.
Look what I found.
It was a small, half-full bottle of calvados. He removed the cork with a pop and took a swig before passing me the bottle. The spirit was smooth and warm as it trickled down my throat. I passed the bottle back to him.
Happy birthday, Allis.
Thank you, I replied, feeling small, so small.
He took another swig and passed me the bottle once again.
It’s good stuff, I remarked.
Yes.
The sea glistened, pale yellow in the evening light. We hadn’t seen a single rise all evening. He reeled in his line and took another sip of the calvados before passing it back to me. It was an unexpectedly intimate act, drinking from the same bottle. He made it seem like nothing out of the ordinary, but that wasn’t the case.
What are you really doing here? he asked abruptly.
I looked at him.
Why aren’t you in work, why aren’t you around other people?
Technically I’m both in work and aro
und other people.
Well, only just.
The image rushed back, grey, doughy thighs, I forced my gaze to the water to banish it from my mind.
It felt a bit too early to settle down.
Well, now that you’re thirty-three it’s probably about time.
Do you think so?
You can do as you please as far as I’m concerned, Bagge said, passing me the bottle. I took a long swig and finally managed a successful cast.
Don’t worry about your behaviour last night.
Thanks. I’m sorry about what happened. I reeled in as my face reddened. It’s hardly as if your own behaviour was exemplary, I thought.
The sun had gone down; it was quiet all around us. I tried to breathe without making a sound, wanting to avoid disturbing the calm any more than was necessary.
I’ve caught halibut here a few times, he said quietly. At this time of year, they only swim five or ten metres below the surface.
Gosh.
There’ll be mackerel soon, pollock after that.
A flutter in my stomach, I felt a sudden tug at the end of my rod.
I make good fish cakes with pollock, he said.
You’ll have to prove that, I said. He spotted the curve in my rod. I felt a powerful drag at the other end and tensed my whole body, hurriedly reeling in as my heart rate soared.
He threw down his own rod and ran to the rocks behind the boathouse, unhooking a landing net from the wall and running back over. I heaved the wriggling fish from the water.
Ready?
Ready.
He unfolded the landing net and scooped up the strong, shimmering creature, lifting it up onto the jetty. I crouched down and placed a hand along its spine as I struck the fish firmly on the head, three determined, consecutive raps with the butt of the knife.
Well, it’s not a pollock in any case, he remarked after I had dealt the final blow and we were able to survey our catch.
Sea trout, I said.
Yes. Not the biggest in the world, but it looks good. He held the trout in both hands, weighing it up.
A good kilo, I’d say.