A Modern Family

by Helga Flatland

  I couldn’t help but laugh when I realised what he meant, it was such an absurd situation, hard to take seriously yet understandable, and Olaf’s guilty conscience was genuine. Obviously I’m going to tell her it’s all nonsense, but at the same time, it’s worked, it’s like she’s come to her senses, somehow. And even though I feel bad for tricking her, it’s nice to see that she’s pulled herself together and realised the gravity of the situation. Olaf, it’s going to be alright, I said. Maybe you don’t need to tell each other everything.

  Olaf stopped popping over quite as often after that conversation, and initially I thought it might be a case of embarrassment, but then I realised it was because he and Liv were growing closer once again, as he had described to me on one of his last visits. It’s not like it was before, he said, but maybe that’s OK, it’s more honest now in some sense. I nodded, swinging between feeling used and being pleased on their behalf – and realising that I couldn’t relate to anything he was saying.

  ‘Is this you?’ Anna asks, standing at Dad’s bookshelf and looking at a large photo from our childhood where I’m standing naked between Liv and Ellen, each of them holding my hand on a beach in Portugal.

  ‘Yes, Dad always says it’s very me,’ I tell her.

  Dad thinks that my expression in the picture says a lot about my personality as a whole: smiling and squinting and sceptical and open all at once, as he puts it.

  ‘What a lovely little boy,’ Anna says, turning to Dad who is standing behind her and who accepts the compliment with a wide smile.

  She’s investing in me, acting like a girlfriend would, someone looking to the future, I argue inwardly, and I resign myself to the thoughts associated with this new, reluctant pathway. Anna strokes the picture of me, running her finger over my bare chest and my tiny scar.

  ‘Did you know that Håkon was born with a hole in his heart?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Honestly, Dad!’ I say, embarrassed, mostly because I’ve told Anna about my heart defect, the operation, the exaggerated melodrama, all in an attempt to impress her, or at least to arouse some interest or sympathy. Maybe even her maternal instinct. Oh God, this is hopeless.

  ‘Yes, he’s told me,’ Anna says. ‘An incredible story.’

  Olaf looks at me, but before anyone has a chance to say another word, the doorbell rings.

  So concerned with biology, yet unable to cope with this, Anna said in my kitchen a few months ago. She dangled half a pepper in front of my face, the same one I’d impulsively chucked across the worktop with a frightened cry when I’d found what Anna calls a baby growing inside it. It’s just a baby pepper, she said. That’s not biology, that’s a biological aberration, I replied. I couldn’t even laugh, had to turn away as Anna removed the incomplete red clump from the core and ate it. OK, Adolf, let me check the rest of this veg for biological aberrations and get them out of your way before we continue, she said.

  I’d invited her to mine for the first time, it was January – the day after Ellen had introduced us to Paul, and I felt as if her enthusiasm had spread to me. I was so nervous that all of my tiny neuroses seemed to flail with twice the intensity. Things were still straightforward at that point; I recognised the familiar tingling sensation, sweaty palms and quickened pulse in her company as signs of my interest and desire, just as I’d experienced with others in the past. There was nothing conspicuous about anything, nothing apart from Anna herself; I’d experienced all these inner processes and thoughts before now. I fall in love just like anyone else does, I told Karsten when he asked me whether I missed properly falling for someone. No, I don’t think so, he said, falling in love paves the way for feelings of possession, you can’t get away from that. You’re wrong, I don’t need to possess the person I’m in love with, I’d prefer that they’re free, I replied. I meant what I said; until then I’d only ever experienced tiny flickers of jealousy in former relationships, nothing that couldn’t be rationalised. Nothing like the dark hell that had now claimed me, seizing control of body and mind.

  I met Anna at an event. I try to subdue the romantic side of the predestined nature of meeting in the way Mum and Dad did. It was a panel debate on female writers and male readers, and I’d reluctantly agreed to go with Mum – she can’t attend things like this alone, it’s an irrational handicap that she herself is well aware of but which, ironically enough, worsened both after the divorce and once things had ended with Morten.

  It’s not possible to discuss the fact that male readers prefer books written by men, I said. How are you supposed to discuss people’s individual preferences? But that’s precisely it, I don’t think it’s a matter of preference, it’s about the fact that men almost subconsciously consider books written by women to be literature for women, while books written by men constitute literature, full stop. And stories written by men with a male protagonist satisfy the interests of everyone, while stories written by women about women are only of interest to other women, because they focus on women’s themes such as emotions and children and can’t be considered to have any other overarching themes beyond that – take male authors who write about their fathers, for instance, they’re supposedly writing about something more universal, Mum said almost without drawing breath while rolling her eyes. Ugh, it’s an old-fashioned problem, as we’ll see. For some reason, the literary world is lagging behind in the race for equality, she said. Maybe it’s a matter of art and freedom of choice, perhaps that’s why it can’t be controlled, I said. No, it’s just old prejudices that are to blame, Mum said. That and a bunch of old gits, she added.

  It was Mum and Anna who were first to meet. Anna had been engaged throughout the debate, I’d noticed her sitting in her seat in the row in front of me and squirming with irritation, shaking her head with such fervour that her curls brushed the face of the man sitting next to her on numerous occasions, and groaning loudly at poorly constructed arguments. For what it was worth, her physical objections suggested we saw eye to eye on things, and I was pleased to hear her sigh and groan in all the right places, pleased that someone was expressing my own thoughts on the matter. All the same, I thought to myself, she’s one of those sorts, the kind to make longwinded contributions at events, and if there’s anything that drives me mad, it’s that. The kind of person who just loves the sound of their own voice, who refuses to withdraw from a list of speakers even when they know their arguments have already been made, or who can’t contain themselves at the close of a meeting or a lecture when in reality everybody has packed up and is perched on the edge of their seats waiting to leave, thrusting their hand in the air to pose a pointless question in spite of the fact that the event, whatever it is, is already running five minutes over. But Anna didn’t pose pointless questions, she made a concise comment at the end that kept to time, focusing on the role of publishers, the media and critics, questioning who was given space to air opinions, who was taken seriously – and she closed with a well-aimed jab at the white, middle-aged male domination of the literary scene that caused at least five short-haired heads in the front row to freeze.

  Mum’s eyes shone with enthusiasm after the event and she elbowed her way through the dense crowd to grab Anna before she disappeared. When I found her again, she was out on the steps with Anna, smoking, of all things. It looked so forced, but it always looks forced when you see your parents doing something that somehow initiates you into a confidential adult world, removing the divide between parent and child by revealing their own fresh, hidden sides. Perhaps it also looked forced because as far as I know, Mum hates smoking. Come and meet Anna, Mum said. This is Håkon, my son. Anna smiled, switched her cigarette to her left hand and wrapped her strong, cold fingers around my own as we shook hands.

  We stayed behind after Mum had left. I like your mum, Anna said. Yeah, she’s intense, I replied. I don’t know if that’s exactly the word I’d use, Anna said, she’s engaged, it’s so nice to meet people with opinions, people who say what they’re thinking. I can see the same thing in you, too, I said
, smiling. And what about you? Anna asked, simultaneously replying to her own question. I laughed, but since then I’ve been preoccupied with showing Anna the clarity within me, that I have the highlights with which she’s so concerned.

  Two weeks and three meet-ups later, I invited her to mine for dinner. In contrast to the other women I’d met, with whom I’d introduced my thoughts on freedom and relationships as early as possible to avoid any misunderstandings, I hadn’t brought it up with Anna quite yet. We hadn’t actually talked about ourselves in that way at all, she hadn’t even asked if I was single. It was a new experience. Earlier processes with vastly different women had followed the same introduction: map the other person in relation to yourself, explain things in the correct order and at the right speed, reveal and surprise with a sense of good timing. I hadn’t realised I followed such a set pattern before meeting Anna, who wasn’t concerned with talking about herself or about me at all – not unless it fitted into a larger context, such as providing an example to prove a point, or as part of a self-ironic joke. After meeting her twice, however, I felt I knew her better, that she’d shown me more of herself – and perhaps more important sides – than if she’d regaled me with me a chronological tale of her life and break-ups and childhood.

  She looks like you, Karsten said when I showed him a picture of her. No, wait, she looks like your sister. Which sister? I asked him. Both of them, he said. Have a think about that, he said, laughing. I don’t think she’s much like Ellen or Liv, not in terms of her appearance or personality, but it struck me that there was something familiar about her, something safe and comfortable, something recognisable, all while being totally different and exciting. It’s almost impossible, I said to Karsten, I can’t put my finger on it. You can’t put your finger on what love is, that’s kind of the point, he replied.

  In my intoxicating anxiety and anticipation, I’d spent a few days planning how to introduce the theme over dinner, since I had a strict rule not to sleep with potential partners or even with obvious one-off flirtations before I’d clarified my own standpoint. That’s stupid of you, Karsten told me once, nobody else goes around and flags up the opposite – nobody inclined to being overly dependent or desperate or possessive goes around telling people they’re never going to stop calling you if you happen to sleep with them. Either way, it’s neater this way, I replied.

  But Anna didn’t make way for an intimate conversation over our pepper-less curry, in spite of the candles and the roaring fire, the soft music, she wouldn’t allow things to affect her, her temperament seemed to be the same, regardless of her surroundings. After three glasses of wine I grew impatient; the less interested she appeared to be in me and my feelings, the more pressing it became for me to tell her that I was opposed to entering into monogamous relationships.

  So, what about you? I asked, interrupting her at completely the wrong moment, in the middle of a sentence. What do you mean, what about me? Anna asked. What’s your situation, or however I should put it, I said, taking a large gulp of wine to hide the fact I was blushing. Anna started to laugh. My situation? she repeated. Yes, let’s be honest, I don’t know much about that, I mean, I know how you feel about most things, from literature to politics to refugees to interior design, but I still don’t really know much about your life. Well, you know that I live in Majorstua, I’m a freelance writer for various newspapers, my sister calls me a lot, Anna replied. That’s true, though your phone is suspiciously silent today, I said, but I was thinking more about relationships, beyond this so-called sister of yours, I said, smiling, feeling sweat oozing from the pores at my hairline, hoping it wouldn’t start to trickle.

  Aha, Anna said, leaning back, it’s that conversation. She seemed resigned, but even so, I regretted what I’d said almost instantly, I felt ordinary and banal for bringing it up, entirely lacking the highlights she held so dear. No, no, I protested, this isn’t any kind of conversation, I was just curious. Forget it. No, I don’t want to forget it, it’s fine, this is the infamous fourth date, after all, she said, and I melted a little when I heard her describe our meetings as dates. I thought it was the third date that was infamous, I said. Aha, of course, Anna said, laughing. Well, I don’t know much about that, in truth – I don’t know much at all about traditional relationships, she said. What do you mean? I asked her. Well, I’ve tried all that, several times over, but it’s not for me, she said. So, I just need to be honest and tell you I’m not looking for anything serious, regardless of how clichéd that might sound. I held my hands up to demonstrate how unclichéd it sounded to me. In reality I wanted to ask her what she meant by serious – I was more serious than I’d ever been – but I let it go. What about you, Anna asked, what kind of relationship do you have with relationships? I believe in free love, I said. Romance or friendship – every relationship should be free, if you ask me. What do you mean by free? she asked. Free from the straitjacket that society forces us to adhere to, I don’t believe collective external structures have any place in emotional relationships. I think it should be up to individuals to define how they want to relate to a partner or spouse. For me, it’s also about the fact that I don’t want to promise something that I don’t believe in, I don’t think it’s healthy or constructive to vow that you’ll love someone for the rest of your life, for instance – how could you? Why shouldn’t a person look at every unique relationship they have and say: this has a value of its own, regardless of how long it lasts. If it ends tomorrow, whatever has passed between us has held significance for me, I replied, and realised that I was partly talking as if on autopilot, afraid of things ending with Anna before they’d ever really begun. That’s interesting, Anna replied, but how does it actually work in practice? At the risk of belittling your theories, we’re talking about what most people refer to as an open relationship, wouldn’t you say? she asked, smiling slightly. You might call it that, I replied. I don’t believe in monogamy, I don’t believe that humans were created to be monogamous, and I think we take it too much for granted that we should live in a way that other people decide for us, I carried on. But it can probably still work, even though we’re not created that way, don’t you think? Anna asked, now leaning across the table with an earnest curiosity. Yes, of course it can work, but what if something else could be even better? I replied, and it knocked the air out of me a little to see Anna agree with my arguments; I wasn’t used to being met with a nodding, enthusiastic smile. The principle is the whole point, I added, and noted how important it was for me to state my final argument. There’s no point in going around sleeping with other people for its own sake. Quite the contrary, I said, and flaring up within me I felt the same reluctant, unfamiliar need for something I didn’t want to explore, something I had no desire to feel but which had caused cracks to form within me over the past few years. Have I told you I was born with a hole in my heart, by the way? I said.

  Dad makes his way quickly into the hallway, picking up the entryphone and pressing the button that opens the front door to the block of flats. I can hear Ellen’s footsteps in the stairwell, the rattle of her heels as she clicks up the stairs.

  ‘Happy birthday, old man,’ she says, embracing Dad as he opens the door to the flat.

  Dad laughs slightly half-heartedly and takes Ellen’s coat.

  Liv emerges from the kitchen again when she hears Ellen’s voice.

  ‘Would you taste this for me?’ she asks, blowing gently on a spoonful of sauce before popping it in Ellen’s mouth.

  ‘Very nice,’ Ellen says. ‘A little bit more lemon, maybe?’

  Ellen isn’t a particularly gifted cook. More often than not she adds too much salt and lemon to anything she does make, but Liv doesn’t ask Olaf, Dad, Anna or me to taste it, homing in on Ellen instead. I console myself with the knowledge that it’s a gesture on Liv’s part, intended to normalise things, but even so, it hurts a little to see my two sisters in such a seemingly natural interaction with one another, just as it has always done, with me on the outside looking
in.

  On the whole, I function as a replacement if one of the two can’t be there for the other or doesn’t want to be, for some reason, such as after the divorce, when I seemed more important to both of them – but when Liv believed that Olaf had been unfaithful to her, and when Simen walked out on Ellen, they found their way back to one another. I don’t feel as if either of them felt there was anywhere else to turn but to one another. At the same time, there’s nowhere else I’d turn other than to them. I know they love me, and I don’t doubt that I have a better relationship with my sisters than many other people – not to mention the fact that we’re more alike than any of us would actually ever admit. I can see myself in both Liv and Ellen without looking too hard, catch glimpses of myself in their expressions and gestures, the way they think, talk, laugh – as well as the things they laugh at – but even so, throughout my childhood I often wished for a brother, not instead of, but in addition to having them both.

  Ellen walks into the room, hugging everyone, including Anna.

  ‘It’s so lovely to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you,’ Ellen says.

  It’s like being trapped in a bad comedy where everyone consistently and unintentionally makes comments that embarrass me. What’s happened to our family’s sense of tact? We used to be quite good at feeling our way forward, knowing what should be said when and to whom and how it should be formulated without needing instructions in advance. But then, I’ve never been quite as conscious of what people think or believe about me or my family, never quite as much as I have with Anna.