And for that I hate you, David.
Only days before Torkild e-mailed me to say that Malin didn’t want to see me anymore and that they would like me to cancel a planned visit to Svalbard, I had been writing an article about Rigoberta Menchú and the indigenous Guatemalans and while working on this I came across a little story that would later give me an idea of what to do with all the hate I felt for you. Or no, that’s wrong—I’m making it sound much more planned and rational than it actually was. Well, anyway: the story told of how Alfred Nobel came to establish the Nobel Prize. I don’t know whether it’s true, and it really doesn’t matter here. In any case, according to the story it had been rumored, wrongly, that Alfred Nobel had died while on a lengthy trip abroad. The newspapers in his homeland printed this news. They then received and published a number of obituaries, which Nobel naturally read on his return—and was not well pleased with what he read, to put it mildly. Because the picture his obituarists had painted of him was not exactly flattering. As a chemist at his father’s arms factory, developer of the explosive nitroglycerin, and inventor of dynamite, he had to suffer seeing himself described as a man who had promoted the spread of death, suffering, and destruction during his lifetime. The story goes that he was so upset at being saddled with such a posthumous reputation that he made up his mind to be a better man and to devote the rest of his life to serving humanity. As part of this undertaking he bequeathed the vast fortune he had made from arms sales and the like to a foundation, the income from its assets to be used to award five prizes, a Peace Prize and four others.
You can see where this is going, can’t you?
At first the thought of putting an ad in the newspaper to say that you had lost your memory and thus trick people who had known you well into writing about your life was just an idea, something I toyed with at idle moments, a daydream, mere musings. But I couldn’t shake it off, it was too good, and as time went on I began to feel that it would be a shame if it was never acted upon. Nonetheless, I don’t think I would have yielded to the temptation to put my plan into practice if I hadn’t gone to Kjersti Håpnes’s place for drinks one evening, got rather merry and very talkative and told her the whole story. Not only did she love the idea and get very excited about it, she also managed to convince me that it was the only right thing to do. “Let the bastard have what’s coming to him, he’s a rapist and all rapists deserve to know what it feels like to be raped,” I remember her saying, and as someone who had always found it offensive to hear people compare the experience of being exposed to public ridicule to rape (misusing and thereby devaluing one of the worst crimes I could ever imagine, I used to say), I realized that I agreed with every word she said. Because in precisely the same way as a victim of physical rape I had been used as a device in your novel. You transformed me from a person into an object with which to satisfy your literary needs. Without giving me any chance to respond or defend myself, you defined me in the eyes of the world, and since the way I am regarded determines how I am treated and hence how I regard myself and the world around me, it also determines how I interact with the world. In other words, it’s all about power. Just as a rapist exerts power and control over his victim, so you exerted power and control over me.
When the book was first published, I was very surprised to think that you could have betrayed me by committing such a rape, if I can call it that, but looking back on it now it seems perfectly natural. That was just how you were. What I described, earlier in this letter, as open-mindedness, I could just as easily have described as indifference and cynicism. As I’ve said, you made me feel secure and encouraged me to talk freely about things I would never have dared to talk to Mom, Torkild, or any of my friends about, but the impartiality that made you seem that way to me was not primarily the mark of a humane and compassionate spirit as I imagined back then. It was a sign that you weren’t particularly interested in how I or anyone else was faring. In fact you didn’t seem to be interested in the world as such at all. I don’t quite know how to put this, but it was as if you viewed the world purely as a story and were interested in it only in that way. Everything you experienced, everything you saw, heard, smelled, or felt, every situation in which you found yourself and everyone you met, everything, absolutely everything was a story to you, a story you adapted, put your own stamp on, and then retold in your writing. That was all you were interested in. You didn’t care about—no, more: I don’t think you were even capable of envisaging the impact your stories had on the world at large. When you see everything as a story, you eventually lose sight of the world to which the stories relate, and obviously once that happens you cannot see the consequences of the tales you tell either. The same went, of course, for the honesty, outspokenness, and fearlessness I attributed to you earlier. Take the way you laid yourself bare in your novel, for example, the way you put yourself down and described yourself as an asshole and a common drunk, liked by no one. Well, once one knows that you were totally blind to the consequences, it’s not hard to understand that you could be capable of this. Contrary to what it says in the blurb on your book, this does not mean that you were brave. It means that you had immersed yourself in your writing and cut yourself off, so to speak, from the outside world. The potential consequences of what you wrote simply did not exist as far as you were concerned. Naturally you were capable of imagining that there would be a reaction and that people would look at you differently once the book came out, and naturally you were capable of comprehending that I and others would be hurt and upset by what you had written, but you were not capable of absorbing this, you understood it, but you didn’t really feel it.
Whether you do now, after having read all those letters about yourself and could, therefore, be said to know a little more about how it feels to be raped, I can’t say. And to be honest I no longer care. I may have placed that ad in the paper out of anger and a desire for revenge but over time, and especially since I started this letter, the self-preservation aspect has become ever more important. Not that vengeance isn’t a form of self-preservation in itself, of course. But writing down and comprehending what happened, presenting my own version of our time together and of what you wrote in your novel, that has proved to be a much more effective form of self-preservation. Not least because I now know what to tell Malin when she eventually confronts me with what I did to her. In fact this letter has been written more for her than for you. Before I started writing it, I had no clear answer to how she and I came to lose each other. I’ve always known, of course, that it had nothing to do with a lack of mother love on my part, but only now do I realize what a large part my own need to be free played in events, and the knowledge that someday Malin will learn this, that someday she will understand and, I hope, forgive me for the choices I made, that is a great comfort to me. As for you, David, like I say, I don’t care about you. Or at least, that’s not altogether true. To be perfectly honest, after having read all those letters, I care more than I really want to. I don’t think I will ever forgive you for what you wrote about me in your novel and part of me hates you with a passion, but the more I think about them, the more of an impression the letters make on me and another part of me simply can’t help hoping that all will be well with the person they speak of.
DAVID
Trondheim, June 25th, 2006. Well, use the green pen
I LOWER THE BOTTLE OF FORMULA into the pan of warm water and turn to Ingrid, trying to look mildly surprised.
“Is Sara still in the shower?” I ask, even though I know full well she’s still in the shower, I can hear her, so I don’t really need to ask, but I do anyway, as a gentle hint to Ingrid that I think she’s been in there far too long, I thought we’d pretty much agreed that I should talk to Sara as if she were my own daughter, but Ingrid always gets upset if I criticize the girl, she tries hard not to, but she can’t help it and I can’t face getting into all that right now, I hardly slept a wink last night.
Ingrid kisses Henrik on the forehead, turns to me, and smiles
.
“Yes,” she says and carries on tickling and fondling Henrik, she doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t seem the slightest bit bothered that Sara’s using up all the hot water.
Silence.
I pick up the coffeepot, pour myself a cup, take a sip, and stand there staring at the bathroom door. God knows how many times I’ve told Sara not to spend too long in the shower, but she couldn’t care less, she stays in there for ages and ages, I don’t get it, why can’t she be more considerate. I look at Ingrid again, but she has eyes and ears only for Henrik. She lifts him into the air and brings his face close to hers. “Hello, hello,” she coos in the babyish voice she always uses when talking to him. She closes her eyes and rubs her nose against his, murmuring “hello, hello” again as she does so, then she sets him back on her lap and goes on cuddling and petting him. I’m just about to ask if she doesn’t think it’s time Sara turned off that shower, but I don’t, I can’t face her getting annoyed on Sara’s behalf, I’d better wait a little while longer at least.
“When will your mom and dad be here?” I ask.
“This evening sometime.”
“I thought I might make osso buco for them,” I say.
“Okay,” she says, just “okay,” doesn’t even look at me when she says it, makes it sound as if osso buco would be fine, but no more than that. I didn’t expect clapping and cheering, but she could at least thank me by showing a little more enthusiasm, she could have said “Osso buco would be lovely,” or “Oh, great,” or something like that.
I look out of the kitchen window, a truck from the DIY warehouse goes by, and the chandelier in the living room tinkles faintly as it trundles over the speed bump.
Silence again.
And Sara goes on showering and showering, she must have been in there for at least ten minutes, it’s unbelievable, I don’t get it, why can’t she be a bit more considerate. Well, that’s it, enough is enough. I set my coffee cup down on the countertop, stroll down the hallway to the bathroom door as casually as I can, and switch off the bathroom light. I don’t think switching the light off while she’s in there is particularly funny, but I laugh anyway—an instinctive attempt to conceal my irritation, I suppose, the fact that she spends too long in the shower isn’t really that big a deal, not worth getting upset about, so I automatically try to hide my irritation by laughing and making a little joke of it.
“Hey! Turn the light on!” Sara yells.
“You turn off the shower and I’ll turn on the light,” I say.
“Turn the light on!”
“No.”
“Arrgh!”
Then Ingrid wanders up with Henrik on her hip. She smiles, puts her head on one side, and eyes me imploringly, she too treating this as a funny little incident but also wanting me to stop while the going is good, that’s what that look on her face is telling me, I know.
“David, come on,” she says.
“She’s used more hot water in the past ten minutes than I use in seven or eight showers, Ingrid,” I say, making myself smile as well.
“I know, I know. But you hardly stay under long enough to get wet,” she says.
“I only take a quick shower because I know there are other people in the house who’re going to need hot water. And besides, I know how much it costs.”
“We’re not poor, David.”
“That’s no reason to waste water,” I say.
“No,” she says, still smiling. “But turn on the light. She’s nearly finished.”
I look at her, I don’t want to turn the light on, but I do as she says, feel my mood sour still further as I do so, it’s both cowardly and wrong to let Sara win this battle and it annoys the hell out of me to do it.
“I’m going to buy one of those meters they have on campsites, where you have to put in ten kroner to have a shower,” I say, trying to keep smiling. “I’m going to go online and order one this very evening.”
“Yeah, yeah,” says Ingrid, wagging her head. She sets Henrik down on the floor, crosses to the stove, and takes the bottle of formula out of the pan. “She’s fifteen, David,” she goes on and I think I detect a hint of irritation in her voice, but she’s still smiling, possibly trying to mask the fact that she’s annoyed now as well, I don’t know.
“So? Last time I checked, hot water cost as much for a fifteen-year-old as for a thirty-six-year-old,” I say. She doesn’t answer, merely raises her eyebrows and shakes her head despairingly, then she tips the baby bottle upside down and shakes a few drops of formula onto the inside of her wrist, on the pulse point, to check the temperature of the milk. “And did you know that the lifetime of a Norwegian bathroom has been shortened dramatically over the past twenty years?” I say, keeping my smile in place.
“No, David, I didn’t know that,” she says as she lifts Henrik onto her lap and eases the bottle nipple into his mouth.
“And that despite the fact that the general standard of said bathroom has improved considerably,” I continue.
“David!”
“Well, it’s true. Time was when people only used to take a shower once or twice a week, but now they shower at least once, sometimes twice, a day and if you’re not careful that can lead to problems with condensation and mildew.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay!”
“Yeah, yeah? Do you realize that the bathroom is the most expensive room in a house, Ingrid? One hundred and fifty thousand kroner, that’s what it costs for a new bathroom, did you know that? And as if that weren’t enough, dermatologists say it’s not good for us to shower so often, it dries out the skin and makes us more susceptible to skin diseases,” I say, then pause. “But hey, what the hell, one hundred and fifty thousand kroner for a skin disease—peanuts, right?”
“Oh, my God!” Ingrid sighs, no longer able to conceal her annoyance, she tries to introduce a laugh into that last word, but it sounds more cross than cheerful, that laugh.
“I’m just trying to be sensible, Ingrid,” I say.
“Well, stop it, please.”
“That wouldn’t be very sensible,” I say.
“Oh, somebody help me, I’m stuck in here with a tight-fisted northerner,” she cries, glancing around the room with a look of desperation on her face, making one last attempt to make a joke of the situation, offering us the chance to treat all of this as a little farce in which I play the role of the oddball, the country bumpkin, and she the exasperated city girl so to speak. I feel myself growing even more annoyed. By making me out to be an oddball, she turns everything I say into silly nonsense and that pisses me off. Because it isn’t just silly nonsense. Okay, so I’m exaggerating slightly, which makes it easy, of course, for her to cast me as the crazy guy from the sticks, but I do honestly believe that Sara spends far too long in the shower, I honestly believe she’s spoiled, and I honestly believe it’s time she woke up and started listening to what we say. After a moment Ingrid turns to me and smiles blithely and with apparent sincerity, inviting me to smile back and thus acknowledge this as an amusing little interlude that is now over, I know that’s what she’s doing. I look at her, if I smile back I’m as good as admitting that I was wrong and that it’s perfectly okay for Sara to carry on the way she’s doing, and I really don’t want to do that, but I do it anyway, I manage a little grin as I pick up my coffee cup.
“Have you finished the shopping list?” she asks, changing the subject, as if to show that we’re totally done with this.
“Yep,” I say.
“Right, well, I’ll go and do the shopping as soon as Henrik has gone to sleep. Maybe you could wash the hall and bathroom floors while I’m away?”
“Okay, so should I borrow some hot water from next door, or what?” I say, I ought to let it go, but I can’t.
“What?” she says, not quite with me, but then the penny drops, she closes her eyes, sighs: “Oh, David, really.”
“I’m only asking,” I say. I drink the last of my coffee and put the cup in the sink, give her a little smile as I take a couple
of slices of crispbread out of the pack and place them on the chopping board.
“Well, ask her to turn off the shower if it means that much to you,” she says.
“I just did that.”
“Yes, but try speaking properly to her,” she says.
“Ah, so I don’t speak properly to her?”
“Not always, no,” she says.
I look at her, give it a moment.
“Oh?” I say, sounding offended, and I realize that I am rather offended, it’s not always easy being stepfather to a fifteen-year-old girl and, all things considered, I think I’m doing pretty well. I never imagined I could be as patient and self-sacrificing as I’ve proved to be since I became Sara’s stepfather and Henrik’s father and I don’t like to be told that I’m not good enough.
“David,” she smiles, putting her head on one side and giving me the look of someone about to explain something that ought to be obvious to anyone.
“You turned off the light and started shouting about condensation and the damage she was doing to her skin and the bathroom with all her showering. That’s hardly speaking properly to her, is it.”
“Ingrid, I was only trying to make a little joke of it. If I ‘speak properly to her,’ as you put it, she’ll only tell me not to try to act like I’m her father.”
“Oh, now you’re exaggerating, David.”
“Am I?”
She doesn’t say anything, just looks at me, opens her mouth slightly, and tries to act surprised.
“Well … if it’s that bad, we need to talk to her about it,” she says.
“Yes, we do,” I say, even though she’s quite right, I am exaggerating slightly, we have some pretty lively arguments, Sara and I, but we’re always friends again afterward. I turn away, take the lid off the cheese dish, pick up the cheese slicer, cut a couple of slices, and lay them on the crispbread, all I can hear are the gurgling sounds from Henrik’s almost empty bottle.
Aftermath Page 30