by Agnes Ravatn
Let me look at you.
I sat and stared up at him, smiling warily.
Let me see.
I gazed up at him, puzzled, unsure what it was that he wanted from me.
You’re so beautiful.
Thank you.
Don’t you want to take off that big coat, Allis?
This was it. But here? With some hesitation I pulled my arms out of the coat sleeves and laid it across my lap, sitting there in nothing but my flimsy t-shirt. He sighed, his mouth slightly open, his tongue pressing against his front teeth.
So beautiful.
I parted my lips slightly and looked up at him.
My darling. Darling Allis.
I didn’t know what to say.
You have to let me see you. More of you. Can I, please?
Could he? He stood over me, the moonlight forging a faint contour all around him. His gaze was mild and dark, tender. Slowly I pulled my t-shirt over my head.
Oh, Allis.
He sighed again.
You have to show me.
It was cold. I felt goose bumps rising in the cool night air. I looked up at him, uncertain. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. I reached around behind my back with both hands and unhooked my bra, taking it off and placing it on the wall. His eyes narrowed.
Oh, Allis, he whispered.
I trembled slightly. Breathed deeply. He took a step forward and leaned down towards me. Gently, he pressed his face to my cheek, his lips to my ear. I closed my eyes, his warm breath sending chills down my spine.
Whore.
He stood up and turned to face the fjord, the moon, then slowly climbed the steps up towards the house.
I felt a prickling sensation behind my eyes, every sound distant, muffled. I was aware only of my own breath, every gasp for air stinging my lungs. My legs quickly lost their strength, but I had to keep going. Only black mountains, grey fields and dark windows, scarcer with every passing mile. Only an expanding nothingness lay before me. Like cycling out of the cosmos. The roomy work jacket kept the upper half of me warm, but my hands and feet were ice-cold, clad in nothing but lightweight sandals. How could a main road be so deserted? I would need to stop and rest before long, but there was hardly a bus stop along the way, only the roadside ditch and a guard rail separating me from the sheer cliff-side that dropped down to the fjord, the water glittering with self-satisfaction in the moonlight. I had no plan, only knew I couldn’t stop, couldn’t turn back, not this time, I had to get away.
I had set off in the opposite direction from the shop, which was also the opposite direction to the town, as well as to my parents. I couldn’t be certain how far I was from the nearest village, for all I knew I might be stumbled upon the following morning at a quayside somewhere, frozen to death down by the fjord.
Just as I was considering turning around, I started to see houses appearing along the way. The road became wider, a yellow line appearing in the middle, just around a bend, I must be getting close to something. My legs were stiff and numb, my toes blue-white in their sandals. My last ounce of strength helped me up a gentle incline, my feet pedalling laboriously. When I reached the crest of the hill, I stopped and looked out over the horizon, the bright light of the sign down below. I was too weary to feel happiness, but made a mental note and freewheeled downhill. I hopped off my bicycle and my knees almost gave way beneath me, forcing me to lean against one of the petrol pumps for support. I pushed the bicycle around the corner in the dark of the night. The automatic doors slid open. A woman in a red uniform with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail glanced up from behind the counter with a look of surprise.
Could I use the toilet, please?
She looked me up and down quickly before nodding in the direction of the door. Aching and stiff, my teeth chattered as I made my way there. Once inside, I closed the door behind me and turned on the hot tap. I held my hands beneath the searing hot water and watched them turn from white to dark pink, swelling under the running water. I splashed some water on my face and rubbed away the sweat and dust from the road. I ran a hand through my hair, brushing it from my face and scraping it into a ponytail with a hair tie I found in the pocket of my shorts. I straightened up, pulled my shoulders back and inhaled deeply, shaking, a crackling in my ears, the taste of blood in my mouth, still out of breath. My hands trembled from gripping the bicycle handlebars so tightly. The fluorescent light on the ceiling blinked, a cleaning schedule hanging by the mirror on the wall. A ballpoint pen dangled from a piece of string. People’s signatures, each one a statement: Yes, I was here, I cleaned this toilet on this date or that date. Everything in order. It suddenly struck me as so significant, every signature symbolic of a clean, industrial bleach and rubber gloves. I felt tears welling up. Civilisation. The sight of myself in his enormous dark-blue coat, hastily unhooked from where it had been left hanging by the woodpile. How insignificant I was, in spite of everything. I could so easily lose my grip; I could so easily be crushed by almost anything. My endurance threshold was so very low. Whenever anything became difficult, I realised just how little I was capable of withstanding, how pathetically weak my backbone truly was, followed by a quivering lower lip and an imminent escape.
A brief knock at the door, timid.
I need to close up now.
I’m coming, I replied hurriedly. Turned the tap on again, stuck my hands under the stream, turned it off again, dried them with a paper towel. Unlocked the door. She was standing by the exit with a bunch of keys in one hand.
Is everything alright? she asked, looking down at my feet, my toes bare, my shorts just visible under the bulky work jacket. She cast a glance outside.
You didn’t drive here?
I cycled.
You’re not wearing much. Are you going far?
I hesitated.
Can I drive you anywhere?
I looked at her. Ten years older than me, maybe. The kind of wonderfully dependable person that this country is filled with, efficient and kind, a mother to all in need. Brown hair and freckles, resolute, with a wide stance, just the kind of person you could depend upon to help sort things out when required. In that instant I realised I had become the kind of person that needed help, the care of others. I was filled with a leaden depression at the thought of being so isolated. While others were of flesh and blood, eating together, weeping together, I was a scarecrow out in the field, human-like yet not quite human, cut off from society, all alone; but a scarecrow at least had a purpose, and that was something that I lacked.
I’ll make space for your bicycle in the back.
I walked towards her, looking outside. There was a motel just over the road. I could stay there for the night, explain the money situation, ask to have the invoice forwarded onto me. How far was it to the airport from here? There would probably be buses passing through here on the hour, or I could take a taxi there, assure the driver that I’d pay him as soon as I was able to. And the plane ticket? That kind of thing sorted itself out, anyone could see that I wasn’t in a great place in life, and isn’t that what people do? Help each other out when it’s needed most? I could take the plane back to Johs, we could try again. It wasn’t a crazy idea, and perhaps the time was right.
Feeling somewhat uplifted, I realised that this was my greatest strength: I was a problem-solver, in spite of everything, forever forward planning when I found myself in a sticky situation, immediately preparing my potential escape routes, and always with a trace of enthusiasm, because difficult circumstances were good starting points for life changes, great or small. That was exactly how it had been with K: I’d been struck by the sudden realisation that I could finally withdraw from society with good reason. That had been how I had stumbled across the advertisement.
She stood there, waiting for me to answer. She looked like a referee for a handball team in her red uniform.
Which way are you headed?
North, she replied.
Me too.
Great! Let’s go, she said, h
olding the door open for me before turning out the lights and locking up after us. I fetched the bicycle from around the corner, wheeling it over to her pickup truck and lifting it up and into the back. I took a seat in the front, she started the car and we drove away from the petrol station.
Are you going far? she asked.
Not far.
Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?
Yes.
Slowly I trundled the bicycle along the drive, leaves crackling under the wheels as I passed between the pale trunks of the birch trees, the picket fence and house before me. There was no sign of light in any of the windows. I leaned my bicycle up against the fence, silently opened and closed the gate and approached the house as quietly as possible. I was determined, I could feel it pulsing through my body, filling every blood cell. I wasn’t going to turn around. I made my way along the outer walls of the house and up the steps, my sandals clacking, then pushed smoothly and silently on the door handle. Locked. I walked back down the steps, a cacophony of thoughts and voices crowding my mind. I stepped off to one side of the flagstones as I walked around the house, climbed the two steps leading up onto the veranda and walked up to the veranda door, attempting to look through the glass into the darkness of the living room. My gaze roamed around the room, from the kitchen at the far end to the tiny stove, the table, his chair – I found myself staring at a pale face, two large eyes glaring back at me. I screamed, clutched at my heart and screamed straight at him. He was motionless in his chair, a dead gaze. I stumbled backwards and was on the brink of losing my balance when I saw him leap from where he had been sitting and tear open the veranda doors.
Go away!
His eyes were dark hollows, he looked ill, as if he were soon to depart this world.
No! I cried back at him, clenching my jaw, teetering on the edge of the veranda, every muscle in my body tensed. You need me!
No, Allis! You need to get away from me!
I paused, then grabbed at one of the herb pots hanging along the veranda railing and threw it down at our feet. Shards of terracotta and earth flew upwards. He shrank back.
No! I’m not going anywhere. You’re in mourning.
He looked down calmly, slowly shaking his head.
No. I’m not.
Don’t you get it? I asked.
He looked up at me. The cold and distress was making me shake, my feet bare but for my sandals, my long, cold legs protruding from my shorts and his coat. My teeth chattered, a sudden and overwhelming power flowing through me from the indignation deep within my chest.
I have nowhere else to go!
I shuddered, his image hazy, stepped to one side and then back, darkness consuming me, dizziness coursing through me, watching as he lurched in my direction.
Sounds from the kitchen downstairs woke me. Intense delight radiated through me, I was here. My body was damp with sweat, the sheets clinging to me. I tried sitting up in bed but my arms couldn’t take the weight. The noises I’d heard from downstairs came to a halt. I heard his footsteps on the stairs.
Allis? he murmured outside my bedroom door, knocking softly. His close-cropped head peered around the door.
How are you?
How did I get up here?
I carried you up last night.
Is it early?
It’s morning. Can I get you anything?
Something for my fever. Have a look in the bathroom cabinet.
He left the room and returned with two tablets that he placed in the palm of my hand, followed by a glass of water. I swallowed the tablets and lay back down. He left the room, the sound of his steps on the staircase followed by rustling in the kitchen. After a short while I heard him returning upstairs. He knocked on the door and came in carrying a glass of red juice and a steaming bowl.
Porridge.
He set it down on my bedside table with a hint of pride. I smiled weakly and thanked him. He left. I laid my head back on my pillow, couldn’t face the prospect of eating anything in spite of his pride. I closed my eyes, a cold shiver creeping over me. I flipped onto my side and waited for the tablets to take effect. My skin felt paper-thin, so delicate.
When I woke up again he was sitting at my desk and looking at me. The bowl remained untouched on the bedside table.
What’s the time?
Almost four.
In the morning?
He chuckled silently, shaking his head. He leaned in towards me, calmly placing a hand on my forehead.
We need to take your temperature, he said, picking up a thermometer from the desk and carefully placing it between my lips. It bleeped after a few moments and he snatched it out and reviewed it, his forehead wrinkled.
Get some sleep, Allis.
When I next woke up, I was alone. The light outside told me it was early evening, and I was trembling, my muscles aching. I listened for noises from downstairs, but heard nothing. After a while I heard a bicycle creaking as it was wheeled through the garden, then his footsteps, outside, up the stairs, at the door. I closed my eyes and turned to face the wall. From the other side of the door I heard a knock, I didn’t answer. He gently pushed the door open and stepped inside. For a moment he stood silent and motionless in the middle of the room, then I heard him remove something from a bag and place it on the bedside table. He retraced his steps out of the room and left the door ajar, I regretted having pretended to be asleep. I turned to look; he had left me a bag of grapes.
I’d had nightmares, but I couldn’t recall what they had been about, only felt aware of the night terrors buried deep within me, flaring up whenever I dwelled on them. At breakfast time he tried to persuade me to eat a little porridge again, I had a few small spoonfuls of the soft, slimy oats, but no more than that. He took my temperature every three hours, it hovered between 39°C and 40°C all day, my body engulfed in a cold sweat, freezing.
In the afternoon he came up to my room with a bowl of mashed banana and a spoon, and immediately I felt like a child again. He looked concerned, my temperature had increased.
Shall I call the doctor? he asked.
No, it’ll pass. I just need a few days.
What is it?
Flu, I think.
Who could you have caught it from?
It feels like flu.
He stood up and opened the window. My teeth chattered.
We just need a little fresh air in here.
I nodded. Took a sip of juice. I felt awful, yet so pleased to have this kind of access to him. I hoped I’d never be well again.
He sat down.
Is there anything I can do for you?
No.
If your fever hasn’t come down by tomorrow, we’re calling the doctor.
I accepted his statement with a nod.
He stroked my forehead.
You’re soaking wet.
I nodded.
He paused for a moment.
Are your pyjamas damp?
I nodded.
He stood up.
I’ll pop them in the washing machine.
He stood at the door then walked out of the room. It was all so vague. I pulled my pyjama top over my head, my arms and legs aching. I threw the top and trousers across the room, both landing just by the door. A moment later he popped his head around the door, glanced down and leaned over to pick them up. Here, he said, throwing a piece of fabric in my direction and closing the door behind him. I picked up the nightdress, it was grey, soft cotton, and I felt relieved that it was such an everyday, comfortable item, had feared she might have worn sensual, flowing silk garments that I’d never be able to carry off with any dignity. I pulled the nightdress over my head and stuck my arms through the sleeves, then lay back down.
The room was in complete darkness. He was sitting in the chair by the desk.
You’re dreaming.
Am I?
No, you’re awake now, Allis. But a moment ago.
I can’t remember a thing.
You were afraid.
Is it n
ight time?
Yes.
He was sitting in a strange light, the room spinning around him. My stomach felt hollow, but I wasn’t hungry.
Are you really here?
Yes, he said. I’m here.
We were silent. I felt yet another feverish shiver creep over me, scraping my way through the trembling convulsions. He came over and tucked the duvet more snugly around me, then sat back in his chair.
What’s happened to you? I heard my own voice mumble, sounding peculiar, muffled.
He hesitated.
What have you done, Sigurd?
It was my voice, but it was so distant.
I saw him turn to face me, looking down. His head was bowed, his posture crooked, the moon shining on the back of his neck.
He paused, breathed deeply, paused again.
I need to know, I heard my voice mumble, confused. I felt myself disappearing, sinking back into sleep.
It was just beginning to grow light outside, not a single sound to be heard. He was still sitting there.
Can you tell me something, Sigurd?
Tell you what? he asked, expressionless.
A story.
Silence. I heard him draw breath.
It was summertime, five years ago, he eventually began. The hottest summer that I can remember. We swam out from the jetty every day in July. It was unreal, that’s the only word that I can think of to describe it; it was impossible to do anything: we couldn’t work, we could barely be bothered to eat. One day we were down by the jetty from morning all the way through to the evening, swimming, sunbathing, sitting in the shade then swimming all over again. Our bodies were burning by the time evening fell, we lay on the wall at sunset with a bottle of calvados, drunk and happy and dizzy with joy.
He stopped.
Calvados, I thought.
I braided her hair down by the jetty, it was thick after swimming in the salty water. I always did that for her, especially before she played a concert, she wasn’t all that good at doing it herself. Then we decided to take the rowboat out. We had an old, beautiful Oselvar, a little traditional three-strake færing. As dusk fell, we picked up a fishing rod and pushed the boat out into the shallows, staggering all the while. I can remember her laughing behind me as I took an unsteady step and almost tripped over trying to clamber inside.