by Agnes Ravatn
Should we save it for tomorrow or eat it tonight?
We have to cook it now, he said, looking at me with a serious expression on his face. This is the first fish of the year. We’ll light a fire in the grill.
He emerged from the boathouse with a board in one hand and knelt down, placing the fish on it. He sliced the abdomen and grabbed the innards, twisting his hand and tugging them from inside the fish before slicing them out. I couldn’t look away. He looked handsome with blood on his hands. He threw the innards into the sea and a gull dived down, instantly snapping them up. He cut off the head, stood up and returned to the rocks, washing the fish in the fjord as the gulls screeched overhead, as if deranged.
*
It was dark all around, only the occasional flicker of light to be seen across the otherwise black water. We ate quietly, accompanying the fish with sips of cold white wine. I had baked the fish in foil with mustard and dill, the embers of the fire still crackling. It was a cool night, I had wrapped myself in a blanket.
I’m curious to know what you’ve run away from, he said.
Because I’m here, you mean?
Yes.
Well, I am here, that’s true.
You are.
How can you be sure that I’ve run away from something?
Don’t you think I can tell?
Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was looking right at me. It wasn’t clear what signal he was sending, I locked my gaze on the black fjord.
How much longer … I began, hesitant … how much longer will you be out here by yourself?
You mean, when is Nor coming back?
Nor?
That’s her name. It’ll be a while yet, she’s a long way away.
Something inside me sank. Nor. She had a name; she existed. I didn’t ask anything else, in case he clammed up again. I clasped my glass and sipped from it to disguise my disappointment. He saw me and reached for the bottle, topping up my glass without either of us saying a word. This had become our version of conversation. Drinking, raising our glasses to our lips, topping up one another’s wine, fetching fresh bottles. I still felt a certain pride at having caught the fish while Bagge was there to see me. I hoped he’d been impressed, that he felt I had skills, could provide for us. I couldn’t allow myself to feel disappointed just because his wife had a name. I knew perfectly well that she existed; what was wrong with me, daydreaming that other people’s wives weren’t real? Allis, I berated myself inwardly, you’re not that person anymore. You’re someone else now. It was a satisfying thought. I repeated it to myself a few times. You’re someone else now. It’s possible for you to be something else. A mild breeze blew in across the fjord, tousling my hair, carrying the salty scent of the sea. I felt a calm wash over me, and that moment, the sensation of sitting in the darkness with him bordered on the heavenly, his low, calm voice breaking the silence only now and then; I almost convinced myself that I could feel the warmth of his body. I wondered what he did, what he had worked as, or what he still worked as, who he was.
What did you do before coming here? he asked out of the blue, as if he had read my mind and wanted to beat me to it.
My job, you mean?
Yes, what did you do?
I’m a historian.
Really? I would never have guessed that.
Why not?
He seemed surprised.
I’m not sure.
Hard to imagine a historian without a history of her own?
He gave a brief chuckle.
I spent a few years teaching at the university.
He said nothing.
Early Norwegian history. That’s my main field of interest.
Still he said nothing.
We drank in silence. I was tired and drunk, swaying inwardly. I looked out over the shining water, lapping gently at the seaweed.
Can I trust you? he asked brusquely.
What do you mean?
Are you trustworthy?
What, you mean generally speaking? I attempted a smirk, but couldn’t quite manage it.
You know what I mean.
No?
He didn’t look at me. I took it as more of an accusation than a question, but perhaps that wasn’t fair. What is he asking me, if I’m loyal?
Why do you ask?
I need you to be worthy of my trust.
I’m worthy of your trust, I said. I tried to utter the words with a quiet insistence. I turned to him. I am. Are you?
He evaded my gaze, sitting and looking out over the fjord without answering. I am, I repeated inwardly.
I can be exactly what you want me to be, I said, regretting my words the instant they crossed my lips. The statement rang hollow, spineless; it would be best not to say anything else. I took a deep breath and held my silence.
Kyrie eleison, whispered Bagge. He turned to face me and stared. I couldn’t help but laugh at the way the moonlight made his eyes glint like a cat’s.
What did you say?
And Kyrie elysium.
He fell silent and looked instantly remorseful.
That would be a nice name. Even nicer than Allis, he said.
Elysium?
Yes. You should change it.
Idiot.
He poured the remainder of the wine into his glass and stood up.
Elysium? he said, facing me.
Allis, I said.
Elysium Hagtorn.
I know what Elysium is.
What is it? he asked.
To enter Elysium? It means to die.
He took a step back towards the edge.
Would you like to swim with me, Elysium?
He pulled off his shirt, letting it fall on the ground and moving backwards as he held my gaze. I sat there, unflinching. His expression was so strange. Like an animal.
What is it about you?
He said nothing, continuing his slow walk.
Would you?
I don’t swim, I replied tersely.
Step by step he inched away until he was standing right at the edge of the jetty, then he threw himself backwards and disappeared. I sat on the wall, not a sound to be heard but the echo of the splash he had made as his body had entered the water, playing over and over again in my head. I rushed to the water’s edge and stared down into the black sea. A single splash, then nothing more. He was gone. I was almost in doubt about whether he had really been there to begin with. I waited for some instinct or another to propel me into action, but I simply stood there, gazing downwards, paralysed, bewildered.
I— I—! I could hear myself gasping, but I just stood there, rooted to the spot, the same panicked wheezing sounds escaping me over and over, as if I were trying to explain myself: I— I—! my mouth gaping, my eyes wide open and fixed on the murky depths. Hello! I screamed. Hello?!
He burst through the surface of the water with a great gasp. I screamed.
Why didn’t you save me, Elysium?
He climbed the ladder up onto the jetty and walked towards me, dripping wet, laughing. The animal in him. Something surged through me and I slapped his face as hard as I could then turned tail, sprinting up the steps.
Elysium! he called after me.
I ran as fast as I could, I had to get away from him before he came after me, before he came to take me. I looked back and caught a glimpse of him, his torso gleaming brightly in the moonlight, gasped and forged ahead, exhausted, on through the garden and over the crest of the hill, into the forest. I glanced back once again to see him coming up the steps in his soaking wet trousers, his dark, wet hair slicked flat against his head. He spotted me. I ran further, on and on, deeper into the forest, my knees all but ready to give way beneath me, to drop me down onto the soft forest floor. I stopped in the middle of the forest, scrambling to gather my thoughts, regain my breath. The forest at night, black and silent, nothing but the sound of my breathing to wake all that lay dormant. I looked back, thought I saw him, hurried through the bristly trees, twigs scratching at my face, tugging at my bl
ouse, tearing at the fabric. Tonight I die. I was forced to stop again, hid behind a large oak and tried to take deep breaths. I stood there, stiff, feeling hands grabbing at me from all sides. My lungs burned, I tried not to make a sound but wheezed as I fought hard for each breath. At that moment an owl broke the silence of the forest with deep, groaning hoots that resonated through the trees. I listened for the sound of twigs snapping underfoot; if he was approaching then he’d catch me. I had no idea how deep into the forest I had run. I froze. He was insane. My cheeks were scorching; I was cold with sweat. There could be animals out here, but what kind? Red deer and roe deer just as terrified as I was, but what else? I started to think about what I might stumble across deeper in the forest. Sooner or later I’d surely come out at the main road, or did the road run parallel? I could keep walking until I heard the sound of vehicles, but there were so few on the road at night, and no houses, nothing. Even if I made it through the forest, out onto the other side, what awaited me there? The very same thing I had run away from. I took a deep breath, hesitated. What had made me react the way I had? I was suddenly engulfed by shame. The wolf in him.
I took a step away from the tree and allowed my gaze to sweep over the forest, pitch black all around. There was no sign of the outside light by the veranda. Slowly I started walking, trying to retrace my steps. Dark, grey, silent night. I crept through the forest, over the dry leaves. My heart was in my mouth. I halted abruptly at the sound of someone shouting.
I’m sorry!
I took two steps forward, listened again.
I’m sorry! He was bellowing the words.
I stopped for a moment then carried on walking.
Allis! I’m sorry!
His silhouette at the edge of the forest, calling out at the top of his lungs.
I’m sorry!
I stopped thirty metres or so from him and stood there, stiff, encircled by the forest, watching him as he rambled back and forth in despair.
I’m here!
He stopped and gazed in the direction of my voice then caught sight of me. I wanted to call out and ask if it was safe to come down, if he was a threat. Slowly he approached me. He looked distraught. One of his cheeks was blood-red.
I’m sorry, Allis.
I said nothing.
I’m so sorry about what happened.
It’s OK.
He stood directly in front of me, shirtless. He placed a hand on my shoulder. Silent. I looked down. He let go. We walked down the bank together, shy of one another. He stopped in the garden.
Will you come inside?
He walked ahead of me, in through the back of the house, stopping in front of his bathroom door.
Are you cold?
A little.
Shall I make you a hot drink?
I nodded gingerly, couldn’t help myself.
I’ll just get changed, he said, opening his bathroom door.
I climbed the stairs to my room, standing in the middle of the floor in a state of uncertainty before unbuttoning my blouse. There was a tear in the left sleeve. I pulled off my trousers, then pulled on a pair of thick woollen long johns and warm socks. My thighs and arms and legs trembled, though my pulse was finally returning to its normal rhythm. I listened for sounds from downstairs. I pulled on a pair of trousers and a jumper and made my way down to the kitchen.
He was standing at the stove wearing a white wool jumper, his hair still damp. I took a seat at the table. The moon was shining more brightly than I had ever seen before, it must have been well past two o’clock in the morning, perhaps even three. He turned to me.
Better?
Yes.
Good.
He took the pan off the heat and filled a mug that he passed to me.
Hot toddy with red wine.
The mug steamed gently, the scent of cinnamon. I brought it to my lips and took a sip, the steam making my forehead damp.
It’s good.
My wife makes it in the winter, he mumbled.
He took a seat at the table, seemed suddenly timid. This is what life is like for him, I thought. Nothing to prevent him sitting up all night long. He experiences twice as many moods as the average person, the entire spectrum. I peered cautiously at him, trying to judge from a neutral standpoint if I should leave, if he could hurt me.
You think I’m dangerous, he said just as the thought was crossing my mind.
No! I blurted automatically, but changed my mind, forcing myself to look him in the eye. Have you given me reason to think anything else?
He looked at me with surprise, then his expression changed, his brow weighed down with sorrow. I regretted my words.
You just can’t seem to behave like any normal person, I muttered, trying to adopt a sardonic, scolding tone.
He gave a fleeting smile.
No, he replied. His black hair shone.
I took a sip from my mug, feeling wide awake. I caught a glimpse of our reflection in the veranda door, his broad, white back, his outline, my own eyes like two black holes, my fringe draping heavily over them.
Why did you come back?
From the forest? Where do you think I should have gone?
I was sure that was you gone for good.
Really?
He said nothing.
I was afraid, I said, smiling apprehensively, embarrassed.
So was I.
I looked at him.
Afraid that you wouldn’t come back.
He stood up, fetched the small pan from the stove and topped up our mugs before placing it back down again.
Then you’d have had to come and get me.
I would have.
He gazed at me with the faintest hint of a smile. My head felt warm and I took a long sip. He looked at peace. He sat upright with his hands around his steaming mug. I placed my hands in front of me on the table, tried to relax. His hands, brown and strong. Warm. I felt a vague flutter in my stomach, an empty, sad flutter. If only those hands could just touch mine.
But now it’s definitely time for bed, Bagge said, without warning. The legs of his chair scraped hard against the floor as he stood up. He crossed the room, heading for his bathroom, then stopped.
Sleep well.
The tool shed was full of things that could be put to good use; there were broad, light-coloured planks arranged in piles against the walls. They were heavy, but I managed to carry a few out into the garden and set to work. The night’s mist had just lifted, and the sun gently tickled the nape of my neck. The illustrations in the gardening book didn’t make the task ahead seem particularly difficult, but it might just as easily have been true that my limited skills prevented me from knowing.
He hadn’t appeared at breakfast, but now he walked towards me, surprised to find me toiling away in the grass with planks, the ends of which I was attempting to nail together.
What are you doing?
Building raised beds, for the vegetable garden.
Vegetable garden?
Did you need them for something else?
He shook his head.
No. But it’s good to have some extra supplies lying around, so make a note of how many you use.
OK, I said. Make a note? Where exactly? He only ever said these things to exert his control over me. He looked as if he were about to turn around and walk back up to the house, but his gaze remained fixed on me. He took a deep breath.
Allis, about what happened yesterday—
Don’t worry about it, really, it’s fine.
I looked him in the eye to show him that I meant what I said, and I felt sure I saw his brow lift slightly.
I need to go into town, he said.
Will you be back for dinner?
I’ll have something there. I might be late.
How late, do you think?
He shrugged. I might need to stay the night.
He disappeared back inside the house and I carried on with my woodwork. Shortly after I heard his footsteps crunching over the gravel, a large leath
er satchel slung over his shoulder, his back disappearing through the gate.
I had felt sombre when I had got up that morning; so it felt good to lose myself in physical work. It was the only thing that helped – aching muscles, mild, green air in my lungs, the sun on my back. Even so, now that he was gone, my sombre mood returned.
As I carried on working on the raised beds, I pondered how I’d get a hold of bags of soil without a car. I’d need to visit a garden centre. I had no idea where the nearest one might be, but I’d probably need to go into town. I estimated that I had enough materials to knock up three two-by-one-metre boxes.
By the time they were finished, I was exhausted. I left them on the grass and went inside to take a shower. Afterwards I made myself a simple dinner and went up to my room to read some more of the gardening book, but I couldn’t concentrate and set the book aside. A combination of alcohol and too little sleep, I thought to myself. My eyes roved around the room as I lay motionless, a restless sensation working its way through my body. Eventually I opened the bedside table drawer and plucked out my mobile phone. I hadn’t touched it since the day I had called directory enquiries. I hesitated for a moment, then turned it on. Waited. Tapped in my password. Waited. One message. It was from my mother, telling me that the university and Johs had forwarded all of my post to her, and that she needed an address if she was going to be able to send it on to me. I replied with the address without giving his name, unwilling to offer it up to her, knowing that they’d only start snooping around or turn up unannounced for a visit. I let out a brief, horrified chuckle at the thought of my father meeting Bagge. I did feel a short, sharp stabbing pain in my chest at the thought of Johs, not because I missed him, but because I had left him there to deal with all of the paperwork. I knew I had to take charge and deal with the separation and divorce, but the thought alone was enough to leave me feeling drained.
I went downstairs and found a roll of freezer tape in the kitchen, scrawled my name on a piece and wandered up to the roadside, where I stuck it under his name on the letter box. I did my best to make it look as temporary as possible, in case he caught sight of it on his way back, or, God forbid, if his wife were suddenly to appear. I forced out a nervous laugh, a painful twinge in my stomach.