A Change of Time

by Ida Jessen

  I drew up the chair and sat down at the bed, and put my hand on his.

  A twitch passed over his closed eyelids. He did not move. But he was awake.

  I tried to think of something to tell him. Carl’s visit, the peat, the eggs on the step, the wind, the lamp. Winterreise, that I had been unable to listen to, because it was not he who had put it on, bending over the gramophone with his back to the room, carefully putting the needle down, and then, once it had found its groove, abruptly straightening up to remain standing there, brimming with anticipation, immersed in something that was of no one else’s concern, until the first tones struck up and he raised his arms and began to conduct. So delightful. But the thought unraveled.

  October 14

  “How fortunate that you should come now,” said Nurse Svendsen. “Here, let me take your coat. He’s awake. He’s just eaten. Four slurps of broth, full of vitamins. Hurry along. He’s so looking forward to seeing you.”

  She beamed. I handed her my soaking wet coat and hurried along to his room. The light inside was dim. A small lamp on the bedside table had been turned on. He lay with his arm over his eyes.

  “Does the light bother you?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  I turned it off. It would have been natural to have kissed him then, but his arm was in the way and I was unable to reach his face. I could not kiss his hand either, since the position in which it dangled at his cheek in respect of the pillow precluded any approach.

  “It’s raining,” I said.

  “So I hear.”

  “It’s a lovely sound.”

  “Hmm.”

  “A lot of people have been asking about you.”

  “Hmm.”

  I drew the chair up to the bed and sat down.

  “It’s been such a long time since we spoke,” I said. “The house feels empty.”

  “Line will be looking after you, I’m sure.”

  “I’ve given her some time off.”

  His hand twitched ever so slightly. “It’s your own fault then.”

  “Yes.”

  Renewed silence.

  “Is there anything you want?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Mette Svendsen says you’ve had some broth.”

  He said nothing.

  “She was so happy you’d eaten.”

  “She’s a good nurse.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  I found a handkerchief in my bag and blew my nose as quietly as I could.

  He moved his arm away from his face and placed his hand palm upwards on the cover. I leaned forward and took it in mine.

  “I hear you’ve been writing,” I said.

  “Yes, a little.”

  His hand lay so still in mine.

  “I wrote to you too,” I said.

  He gave my hand a faint squeeze.

  “Were you able to read it?”

  “Yes.”

  Behind me, the weather washed down the panes. Sudden lashing bursts, followed by softer precipitation. When we were small, Agnete and I thought that gentle rain sounded like the almspeople eating their porridge in the dining room. A quiet slurping, courteous. Nurse Svendsen came tiptoeing with tea and a cheese sandwich for me. She paused in the doorway, but I waved her in.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb,” she whispered.

  “It’s quite all right, he’s gone back to sleep,” I replied.

  “Perhaps he’ll wake up again shortly.”

  He was still asleep when it was time for me to go. The train leaves at 17:03. For a brief moment, I thought I might take a room at the hotel. I could easily have done so, but I did not. I suppose I thought it unnecessary. I could have been sitting with him now. I am sure he must have woken up again. Perhaps he is awake at this moment. Mette Svendsen will tell me tomorrow, beaming with the news. She is a good nurse. Attentive to the needs of others. Nothing ever too paltry as not to awaken her enthusiasm and interest. One should be grateful indeed. He reminded me, and indeed I was.

  What will I do when he is no longer here? Who will then remind me of what I am to think? Who will keep me in place?

  I shall have to find my own place.

  I can almost hear his voice: “Poppycock,” it says. Meaning: Don’t be so conceited, woman.

  Time for bed.

  October 15

  I did not in fact sleep at all last night. It has been a long time since I have lain awake in such manner, utterly awake. Naturally, I thought about Vigand, and the fact that I have never known anyone quite like him. The pillow was hard, and the mattress was hard, and yet I told myself that if only I lay still instead of tossing and turning I would at least find some measure of rest.

  During his time here he has done so much good it would defy most any audit. No one can say of him that he is snobbish and superior, nor that he tends his own interests. He has no idea what “own interests” even means. There is something impervious about him that some people I am sure find objectionable, but which I think is innocence. With the fierce contempt for death that only a young man can possess, he came here of all places and became district physician for fourteen impoverished and far-flung parishes, and that contempt has never left him, though time has passed and others in his position would have grown rather more complacent. There had never been a doctor here before he came, and in the first twenty-four years he was on his own. No part of the country is like Vejle’s western tracts. It was hardly even on the map then.

  I have heard that as recently as in 1870, ninety per cent of Thyregod parish was heathland, and I am sure it is true, for what I remember best from when I first arrived here are the sandy roads. Sand as fine as any beach, sand like flour. The very moment one became confident in stride, one could step into a hole. It was as if the sand were a thing alive, shrinking back suddenly at an encroaching foot, with not a measure of firm ground beneath. Johan Nielsen, who carried goods between Give Station and Thyregod, turned his cart over almost daily. I know the children found sport in recovering wares from the ditches, having surprised them once at break when they were standing in a huddle behind the building with the publican’s Oscar in the middle. All through the day I had been unable to fathom what they were up to at recess. When I came upon them they fell silent and shuffled closer together with their backs towards me. Their hands were clutching bars of violet soap. Oscar had discovered a whole box and hidden it away in the boys’ washroom. Not a single bar had they unwrapped, but passed them instead from hand to hand with the utmost reverence. Later, I wondered what they would have done had it been sweets they had found. Would they have been quite as steadfast? I think so. Eventually, I am sure they would have succumbed, though only after a very long time. I sent Oscar to the grocer Hansen with the soap, since his name was on the box. He came back in the middle of the next lesson, cheeks slapped fiery red, bristling.

  And the same children it was, with Oscar Vestergaard, Janus Vestergaard, and Jens Thiis Hansen the most prominent among them, who saw Vigand be thrown from the cart on his way out to Hedebjerg Farm. Having no driver of his own at the time he had to make do with whatever transport he could find. Most had only rigid work carts, for which reason he had his own spring seat that could be fitted to the box. Perhaps it had not been properly secured, or perhaps the straps were poor. At any rate, he and the seat were catapulted far into the field when the cart ran into a hole, and the boys came back after recess fizzing with excitement and gossip. “T’dowtor, ee wor scrabblin’ aboot in t’muck wee’s backside in t’wind. Yee shud’v hordim cuss,” they cried. “Wot’s tha bluddi plaen’ at, Jens Madsen? If tha’s garn dee’ell, yee c’n let me’s off forst!” Their little voices were a shrill and gleeful chatter. It was at that time the consumption was rife in the district and I did not care at all to hear them speak of the doctor as if he were a poor simpleton whose misfortune they c
ould crow about. Such manners derive not merely from the children themselves, but also from the way matters are talked about in their homes. We had yet to become acquainted. I hardly think he had cast an eye on me. I told them that Dr. Bagge saved lives, and that next time it might be their father’s or mother’s. I was so angry it gave them quite a fright. I think it made them unsure of my judgement. As I recall, I punished them with detention. And a nasty composition for homework. Probably other things besides. The three of them.

  Now, however, it strikes me that Vigand would most likely have been amused if he could have heard them. The way they clucked and squawked, like a brood of hens. And the notion of poking fun at people behind their backs would certainly have appealed to him.

  His breathing was different today. Normally it is without resistance, but not today. It was as if he were having to scrape about at the bottom of his chest. I called Mette Svendsen in. “He’s sounded like that since you left yesterday,” she said.

  “What does Dr. Eriksen say?” I asked.

  Mette Svendsen patted my hand.

  “What does he say?” I asked.

  “It may be a long while yet,” she said. “He can pick up, and he can fall back.”

  “How much is a long while?” I asked.

  “He’s not in pain, that’s the main thing,” she said.

  “How can we be sure?”

  “We make sure.”

  So his sleep was drug-induced. I wondered what had happened after I had gone the day before. Had he complained? Did he make it clear to them that he was in pain? And could he not bring himself to do so while I had been there at his side?

  When she was gone, I leaned across the bed. He was bony and unyielding beneath the cover, and his breathing became a groan. I straightened up again with a jolt and stared at him.

  “Vigand!” I said.

  After I left him, the notion of getting on the train and returning home to the cold house seemed inconceivable. There would be a fire to light and food to cook. I couldn’t do it.

  I walked along the street. I had stayed behind too long. It was late and I would have to walk briskly if I was going to catch the train. But I ambled, and dwelled on the illuminated windows. I have always been fond of walking in darkness and seeing windows lit up, making plain that people have a home and a place in which they belong. I am drawn by it. But it is not always a comfort, nor always a joy. It may happen on occasion that one considers such lights in the knowledge that the life and joy and warmth one sees is for others. That is not for me. I dawdled.

  There were carriages and motor cars outside the hotel, clearly there was a function of some sort. The windows shimmered, and the insides of the panes were thick with condensation.

  My feet went up the steps of their own accord, without my will. I asked for a room. I have no idea what expression I was wearing, but Fru Lorentzen, who normally chattered unceasingly, ushered me earnestly upstairs.

  As soon as she was gone, I lay down on the bed with all my clothes on. When a knock came on the door shortly afterwards I did not reply.

  “There’s some food for you,” a boy called out in a bright voice. “I’ll leave it on the tray here.”

  I am not sure how much time had passed before I brought it in. There was a portion of clear soup with thick, gritty meatballs in it and a slice of buttered rye bread, left on the table outside the door. Water and aquavit. I put the tray down next to the bed and fell asleep.

  It is a good room I have been given. It is warm. Not just heated up towards evening, but all through the day. Hotel rooms can smell of rot and age, but this one smells of baking from the kitchen. It is adequately furnished: a bed, a table and chair. A washstand with a chamber pot. A mirror. A lamp.

  The fat has congealed on the surface of the soup. I skim it off into the chamber pot and eat up everything in the bowl. I eat the rye bread too, and drink the aquavit. And then I lie down on the bed again.

  I am so grateful not to be at home in the big red house on the hill. It is not my house. Very soon I shall have to move. But to where? I have not prepared myself for anything. This has all come so much sooner than we had imagined. We have never spoken about it. Our words have always been small. It is how we have lived.

  It is how we must die.

  I sat up with a jolt. A door opened downstairs in the hall. There was a stamping of boots, voices. Presently, more voices, men and women. Laughter. After some minutes they stopped. Then a scraping of chairs in the function room, until that too died away. Shortly afterwards, there was a knock on my door, and when I got up to see who it was, Fru Lorentzen was standing outside.

  “Just wanted to see if you were all right,” she said.

  “How kind,” I said. “And thank you for sending up that soup. It was delicious. Thank you very much.”

  “It’ll do you good, I can assure you. Did you eat up? Let me take your tray.”

  Leaving, she turned and paused in the doorway: “What I meant to ask was if you’d like to come downstairs tonight? It’ll be just the thing for you, I’m certain. Have you seen the poster?”

  “No,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “Johannes V. Jensen, the famous writer. He’s come to read for us.”

  “Oh, but surely I couldn’t? Hasn’t he already begun?”

  “Yes, you can. Of course you can. I’ll smuggle you in. I was going to look in for a minute myself. Come on, I’ll take you down. It’s fifteen øre a ticket, but we won’t bother about that.”

  “No, really,” I said.

  “I insist,” she said. “We’ll be quiet as mice.”

  She whispered on the staircase: “He’s brought his wife with him. They’re staying the night here and going on to Vejle in the morning.”

  The forbidding, dismal days

  Will never, never leave.

  Brooding languid is the haze

  No light by man perceived.

  Not even storm and snows

  The year on us bestows.

  From morn to eve a fog

  Nature sleeps, the dog.

  A lectern had been brought into the function room and behind it stood the great author himself, gaunt and grey, the lights glittering in his spectacles. I sat down and told myself I must remember everything I saw and heard, but with every sentence, every gesture I tried to impress on my mind, the one preceding it was immediately forgotten. He is not a sparkling speaker. The test I set myself proved that my memory is like a sieve. Everything runs through it. Moreover, forcing myself as I did meant only that I became far too aware to take anything in. He spoke of his myths and of his latest collection of poems, The Seasons, but apart from this one verse I cannot recall a jot. It came back to me just now, line by line.

  Its rhythm suits the days, which pass and pass. And the evenings too, it seems. But then one becomes unsettled by the final line, as if shaken from a slumber.

  He had drawn quite an audience and only a single chair in the middle of the room was free. I had intended to stand in the doorway with Fru Lorentzen, but she nudged me forward and repeatedly urged me inside, and eventually I complied, if only to put an end to her whispering. The author paused in full flow and heads turned. Thankfully, my boots did not creak, and I held my head high, accustomed to such looks, and whereas at home they may prompt me to look down, I must nevertheless often have taken time to reflect and wished I could react differently. So I held my head high and fixed my gaze on the two round lenses behind which his eyes presumably were concealed. I was not impolite. And yet he resumed before I had taken my seat. As if having satisfied himself that it was all right to carry on. But now I’m being snooty, I flatter myself.

  The crow-bird’s hideous rasp

  Is winter’s horrid cry

  In his voice the gloom enclasped

  He angles in the sky.

  Gr
ey as the mist he is

  The tar of night is his

  From land to town a straggler

  The raucous haggler.

  And then this verse comes to me too. One line follows so surely from the next. I write it down as I recall it, no matter that in the morning I could cross the street to the bookshop and purchase a copy of The Seasons. But perhaps it is a book I do not care to own.

  On my way up the aisle I glimpsed the audience. Pastor Grell from Thyregod was there with his wife, and the new publican, who conceivably has thoughts of repeating such an evening in Thyregod, though I would think it somewhat unlikely that literature could draw folk from their homes in such a place. S. P. Carlsen was there, and Peter Carlsen, who had Carl with him. There were others too.

  As mentioned, I made an effort to listen. When it was over, the author was the first to remove himself. I remained seated until the room had emptied. But just as I thought everyone had gone, he came straight towards me, and although I had had more than half an hour in which to prepare myself, I was quite unprepared.

  “Good evening, Fru Bagge,” he said.

  “Good evening, Peter Carlsen,” I said. Then I remembered what I was going to say: “Thank you for the apples,” I said.

  He lowered his head ever so slightly. “They were Carl’s own idea.”

  “I understand he’s been taking lots of photographs,” I said.

  “Yes, he’s rather smitten with his photography. Every krone he earns he spends on it. But his pictures are indeed excellent. And his camera seems to be the very thing.”

  “He’s promised to show them to me.”

  “Then you can be sure he will.”

  We stood for a moment. “He’s here tonight, as it happens,” he said. “He thought he might get a picture of the author.”

  “You get out a lot, Peter Carlsen.”