The Bird Tribunal

by Agnes Ravatn

  I pulled the dictionaries from the living room shelf and carried them up to my room after he left me. I had come across the word before, but I couldn’t find it listed in any of the books. I tried some alternative spellings and eventually found skjemtarverk, used to describe an irremediable act, a crime so serious that no fine or any other kind of reparation could atone for it. It was listed in an old copy of the national law of King Magnus the Law-Mender, ‘Magnus Lagabøtes landslov’. The culprit was proclaimed an outlaw and any man was free to take his life. Skjemtarverk described the vilest of human behaviour, I read, murder, mutilation, the height of dishonourable actions. A nithing was the most contemptible of life forms, a person whose honour had been entirely removed. What did it mean, dreaming of this kind of thing? It’s hardly as if I was totally unfamiliar with the irrational reasoning of dreams: I was capable of imagining that I was anything from a prisoner of war to an executioner, regardless of the time of day. But the degree of precision in his story, the logical chronology, so certain, so animated. Not like any other dream, where everything seems to be perfectly in order as you lie there, but which swiftly disintegrates in the light of day, leaving behind nothing but flaky fragments of some back-to-front world. The fact that his wife had been in the dream, and all as he had been lying on my bedroom floor. The glistening green mallard’s head. A rapture of guilt.

  I was careful to buy everything we needed to avoid having to return to the shop later in the week. Eventually I placed the basket on the counter. Just keep your head down and your mouth shut, I thought, my dislike palpable in every nerve ending. She said nothing, I did the same, and she began entering my items into the register. The red, nubbly skin of her throat, just beneath her weak chin. After I handed her the money, she stopped for a moment.

  Yes, that was a terrible business with his wife.

  What?

  I looked at her and held her gaze to show my strength. I couldn’t let her think she could get away with slinging malicious comments around for me to drag home like some kind of idiot.

  Not that there was any way out.

  I’m sorry, I’m not sure I know what you—

  Perhaps you weren’t invited to the funeral? Too much to be getting on with in the ‘garden’, eh?

  A smirk flickered across her lips as she handed me my change.

  I left without a word, opening my bicycle panniers and shoving the things I’d bought inside so aggressively that I felt eggs breaking. I had to tell Bagge, he had to know what she had said. Not a single neighbouring house anywhere near his, and yet she knew that I worked in the garden. That was the stupidest part, the thing that agitated me most was the idea of someone observing my pathetic attempts at gardening. The image of him, clean-shaven, standing there in his black suit. Was that how things really were? I couldn’t allow the woman in the shop to gain any more control over me than she already had. As long as I thought of her as no more than a shopkeeper – not as an individual, but as part of some vague, hostile force – then it would be easier to kill her, I thought. But she already had a face, a voice. Could it really be true that his wife was dead? ‘Not that there was any way out’.

  *

  He didn’t come out of his room when dinner was ready. I knocked at his door several times, called out from the veranda. He was gone. I slipped my feet into my sandals and made my way down through the garden. I found him at the end of the jetty in a light shirt, fishing rod in hand.

  So this is where you’re hiding. Dinner is ready.

  He turned around.

  Damn it, I’d forgotten all about the time.

  Caught anything?

  Nothing.

  He followed me up the steps.

  Aren’t you having anything? he asked, as I placed the plate on the table before him.

  You usually eat alone.

  Do I?

  My God, yes, you have done ever since I arrived. I always eat after you.

  Why is that?

  Because you told me that’s the way it would be. I eat after you’ve gone back into your room.

  He gazed up at me in disbelief. He seemed to be struggling to believe it. I almost asked him if he had gone mad, but I didn’t dare say the words aloud in case there were some truth in them.

  But doesn’t your food get cold?

  I nodded in the direction of the stove.

  That’s why I use the foil.

  But don’t you want to eat with me, I mean, wouldn’t that be simpler?

  Well, yes. Is that what you want?

  Of course I do, Allis.

  I set a place directly opposite him. This is it, I thought, she was right, I’m forcing my way in. She would always be right.

  It was the first time we had eaten together, indoors in any case; we’d cooked the fish and sausages outside, but this was a formal situation, an institution, dinner at the table. The man sitting opposite me, I thought, is this a man in mourning? Yes, of course, that’s it, he’s in shock. Confusion and memory loss, textbook symptoms. Could it be true? Where had she been all this time, had it been a long, drawn-out illness? He’d hardly left the house since I’d been here, he had only taken, what, four trips into town since April?

  This is good. What is it?

  It’s coley.

  From the shop?

  I nodded.

  We ate in silence. I did what I could to prevent my cutlery from clinking against the crockery, avoided alerting him to my presence in case he had forgotten that I was there. He chewed his fish slowly, his knife and fork tiny in his huge hands, taking the occasional sip of his water. His hair was sleek and black, thick stubble covering his chin, he hadn’t shaved since he had come home. I had no idea how to ask him, I wanted to get it out of the way before we finished eating, but the food on his plate gradually disappeared and I found myself unable to say a word.

  Eventually he stood up.

  Thank you for that.

  You’re welcome.

  I had to say something. I took a deep breath.

  Sigurd.

  He turned.

  Yes?

  Would you like a cup of coffee?

  Yes, please. Maybe in half an hour or so?

  OK, half an hour it is.

  I sighed inwardly, wondering if there was a number you could call, some kind of national or municipal authority you could contact to find out if somebody had died. No, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. But the newspaper, the obituaries. If the funeral had taken place on Friday, then it was possible there was an announcement on Monday or Tuesday or sometime thereabouts. But no. I cast the thought aside once again, this wasn’t something that I should be getting involved with.

  When we were sitting at the table with our coffee, I made the mistake of bringing up what I’d been mulling over.

  The woman in the shop, I heard myself mutter into the air absent-mindedly.

  Yes?

  Do you know her well?

  He looked at me, puzzled.

  Do I know the woman in the shop well? No, not at all.

  No? OK.

  Why?

  How should I put it? I tried to recall the exact words she had used, then took a deep breath.

  She’s been making comments recently.

  His grey eyes locked onto my own.

  What kind of comments?

  I tried to remember her exact words.

  It all started – I swallowed – when I had to stick my name under yours on the letter box, because—

  What did you say?

  He placed his cup down on the table beside the saucer.

  Because my mother had received a batch of post for me, and she needed to forward it to me.

  You put your name on my letter box? When?

  When you were away, last week.

  He said nothing.

  It was only there for a day. Two at the most.

  What kind of comments has she been making?

  Just odd things.

  Like what?

  It’s as if she wants t
o isolate me, to try to frighten me.

  What has she been saying?

  I took a deep breath.

  Is your wife dead?

  He stood up.

  You can’t go.

  He remained there as if his feet were pinned to the floor.

  Sigurd, please—

  Yes, she is.

  He stood there, staring at me intently as he uttered the words.

  Yes, she’s dead.

  I felt something inside me fall away as he said the words, while another part of me seemed to soar.

  Did it happen long ago?

  I tried to utter the words as tenderly as possible.

  When I was away.

  He didn’t look at me, his gaze transfixed on something and nothing in thin air before him. I didn’t want to say too much, I wanted to let him decide if he wanted to talk about it or not.

  I’m so sorry.

  He took a seat once again, sideways this time, facing away from me.

  Thank you. Did she say anything else, the woman in the shop?

  No, nothing in particular.

  He gazed vacantly straight ahead.

  Was she ill?

  Yes, what else?

  He was so hostile that I didn’t dare ask any more questions. I remained where I was, not touching my coffee for fear that it might seem that I lacked respect. I wanted to say ‘I feel for you’, but it would have sounded ridiculous. He gave no indication that he might say anything else, but he remained where he was.

  Was it the funeral you came home from on Friday?

  Yes.

  He had acted so strangely that day, the way he had slept on my bedroom floor that night, and yet at the same time he had never been better company.

  I’m so sorry.

  You’ve nothing to apologise for.

  No, no. So he wasn’t interested in platitudes. It was fine, I could understand that. But why hadn’t there been any other signs? Had she fallen ill on this trip of hers, or was that just another fabrication? All of her things in the locked room upstairs, it must have been a long time since she had last lived here. We sat there for a good, long while, neither of us saying a word. I was glad he didn’t get up and leave me.

  Can I get you anything?

  He looked up.

  There’s some coffee left.

  Yes. Thanks.

  I stood up to pour it into his cup. All of a sudden he grasped my wrist and the glass pot fell to the floor and shattered, coffee spilling everywhere. He held me tightly, roughly, then hissed at me.

  It’s just question after question with you, you never stop!

  I’m sorry!

  He let me go and I fell back, took a few steps away from him, managed to regain my balance, then heard the crunch of glass beneath my feet. Fortunately I was wearing slippers. Her slippers. He leapt up and stormed out and into his room. I could hear my pulse thumping in my ears, everything had happened so quickly.

  The dustpan and brush were stacked up by the fridge, and I managed to sweep up the shards of glass on the floor, hunched over all the while, head bowed, convinced he was skulking behind me, constantly prepared to duck out of the way. I ran a cloth under the tap, got down on my hands and knees and mopped up the spilt coffee, then, hearing his bedroom door open, I glanced over my shoulder.

  Allis, I’m sorry.

  How many times would he have to say it?

  It’s OK.

  I mean it, I’m so sorry about what happened.

  And I mean it, it’s OK.

  I stood up, walked over to the kitchen worktop without looking at him and rinsed out the cloth.

  You have to forgive me.

  I turned around.

  I do! I forgive you! I forgive you whatever it is that needs forgiving!

  He looked at me, aggrieved. I took a step towards him.

  It really doesn’t matter, I mean it. Here.

  I reached out a hand and he took it, squeezed it tightly in his own, his eyes closed. He pulled me close in an embrace with his free arm, my nose pressed up against the hollow of his throat, my arms hanging limp by my sides, I could hear his heart beating. He let go of my hand and wrapped both of his arms around me, squeezing me tight. My knees trembled. He grasped my shoulders and gently pushed me away, gripping me with both hands, staring at me with a grave expression.

  Allis.

  He let me go. I was on the verge of collapsing, like a ragdoll. I grasped the dustpan and opened the kitchen cupboard, tipping the shards of glass into the dustbin and hearing them clink against one another as they landed.

  Allis.

  I looked up.

  You need to get away from me.

  What?

  He stood up straight and looked down at me, then swiftly shook his head.

  No, he said. I’m sorry.

  I didn’t know what to do or say. I bent down to pick up a stray piece of glass from beneath the table, where it glittered in the evening light. He just stood there, observing me with a sorrowful expression. Now is the time to be generous, I thought. My God, the man has only just buried his wife. He turned away from me and headed back to his room.

  Instead of crying I drew in deep breaths, I had nothing to cry about, though I had once read that, chemically, tears had a soothing effect. I felt the pressure of my subdued sobs fill my chest as I stood up and started on the washing up.

  Just as I finished up, he re-emerged.

  Allis, can you come outside with me?

  I turned around, surprised, slightly afraid.

  Now?

  There’s something I need to show you.

  What is it?

  He put on a pair of shoes that had been left by the veranda and opened the door.

  You’ll see. Fetch a jumper.

  Slowly I walked towards him, slipping my feet into my sandals and following him through the garden into the red, warm June evening. He headed in the direction of the steps leading down to the jetty.

  You know I don’t swim.

  I know.

  I followed him down the steps. Darkness was beginning to fall. I was afraid of him, he was unstable, he could be about to show me anything;

  I pictured his wife’s coffin in the boathouse, all manner of ideas charging through my mind as I made my way down the steps. He must have sensed it, because he stopped and turned to face me.

  There’s nothing to be afraid of.

  That’s exactly what he would have said even if there were something to fear, I thought.

  When we reached the jetty, the garden chairs were already down there waiting for us.

  Sit down.

  He passed me a blanket.

  Was this what he wanted to show me, the fact that he had carried the garden furniture down here? For a long while we sat without speaking, gazing out over the water as the sun set, a mild evening breeze blowing in, everything otherwise still and tranquil.

  By around nine o’clock I was beginning to grow impatient.

  What was it that you wanted to show me?

  Wait.

  All right, then.

  All kinds of thoughts ran through my mind as I sat there, slightly drowsy, slightly cold. I thought about my life before: university, television, cities I’d visited, childhood summer holidays, conversations I’d had with people I barely even knew but which I still remembered word for word to that day, bicycle rides and the supermarket where I used to do my shopping when I first moved away from home, my grandmother’s handwriting.

  There, he said.

  What?

  Look, now.

  What?

  The moon.

  The moon had suddenly taken on a deep-red hue, a searing white crescent around the top half of the glowing sphere.

  A lunar eclipse, I said.

  Yes.

  I’ve never understood how they work.

  Well, what if you had to make a guess?

  I’d much rather not.

  Come on, you’re not getting out of this one.

  I was bei
ng called upon to reveal my true ignorance. A solar eclipse was fair enough, but what about this?

  Uhm, the sun passes between the earth and the moon?

  He shook his head with the merest flash of a smile.

  I thought hard.

  No, OK. Well, I don’t know.

  The earth passes between the sun and the moon. The moon is in the earth’s shadow.

  So there’s no sunlight on the moon’s surface?

  Exactly.

  I regretted not having thought things through more thoroughly.

  The shadow cast on the moon, it’s the earth’s shadow?

  The earth’s shadow, sweeping over the surface of the moon. For a moment there was something so powerful in that. It was like seeing the earth from a new perspective, even if only in the form of a shadow, and a tiny fraction of one at that.

  It was how Aristotle proved that the earth is round, he said.

  Ever so slowly, the moon was consumed by the red gloom. We sat in silence and observed the spectacle taking place before us.

  Right about now, he said, that’s it at its smallest.

  We sat there in almost complete darkness and silence, not a sound beyond the gentle lapping of the water and his breathing, only just loud enough to be heard. I felt content, calm. And unhappy. I had a strong desire to speak freely, properly, seriously, but it was impossible. Perhaps he wanted the same thing, but he had to be the one to go first. I wanted to hear about his wife. Had they been living apart? Why? I was sitting beside a widower.

  Let me look at you.

  What?

  Let me look at you, he repeated.

  I turned to face him.

  You’re beautiful, Allis.

  Now that it’s dark, maybe.

  Beautiful in the light, too.

  Do you really think so?

  Yes. Of course.

  You’re a handsome man.

  I’d said it now. But he had been the one to say it first. My face grew warm; I couldn’t help but smile. He got up, standing in front of me as the deep-red orb disappeared behind him.