MARIA: I don’t quite fit that profile, I’m afraid. My family were Methodists.
DAVID: Are you a Methodist?
MARIA: Yes. Or … well, to be honest, I don’t know. I’m in the middle of a difficult process, you might say.
DAVID: Are you considering leaving the church?
MARIA: Uh-huh. But we’re talking about you here.
DAVID: Yes, I imagine that must be difficult. Particularly if your family isn’t happy about it.
MARIA: David.
DAVID: Yeah, yeah. [pause] Oh, by the way, I received an interesting e-mail today.
MARIA: Oh?
DAVID: From an ex-girlfriend. [laughs] She had put an ad in the paper, with a picture of me, saying that I had lost my memory and needed help to find out who I was.
MARIA: Really?
DAVID: Yes. And she’d attached a document containing letters from people who’d known me at different times in my life. Who had obviously replied to the ad.
MARIA: Good heavens …
DAVID: I only had time to read a little bit here and there before I had to dash, so I don’t yet know exactly what it’s all about. But it was a good idea.
MARIA: It would be interesting to read it.
DAVID: Okay, well, I can forward the e-mail to you. I just have to read the whole thing first. To see whether it’s fit for public consumption. [laughs]
Trondheim, June 25th, 2006. French or American?
I LAY THE MANUSCRIPT on the office desk and get up. A wave of hysterical laughter rolls toward me from the television as I open the door, I shake my head and swear under my breath, I don’t know why Sara always has to have it turned up so loud, it’s impossible to be in the same house as her when she’s got it as loud as that. I go downstairs, my right hand skimming the banister.
“Turn that down, Sara,” I say, glancing at her as I go through the living room on my way to the kitchen. She’s sitting in the armchair with her legs tucked up under her, gazing at the TV and eating ice cream from a little bowl, she makes no move to turn down the volume. I give a little grunt as I carry on into the kitchen, I’m sick and tired of her rebellious-teenager act: she turns everything, absolutely everything, into a fight. I get myself a can of beer from the fridge, pop it open, and wander over to the kitchen window, I ought to see about getting that pile of gravel raked out, I suppose, there’s hardly any room for the car with it sitting there. I grab the bag of nuts off the counter, pour some into my hand, and toss them all into my mouth, stand there munching and looking out of the window for a minute, then I take a big drink of my beer, put the can down, and get the veal shanks, chorizo sausages, and the bag of carrots out of the fridge. I’d better get started on the dinner now if I’m to be finished by the time Alfred and Rita get here. It usually takes about three hours to make osso buco and they’re due to arrive around six, as far as I remember. I open the corner cabinet, take out the cast-iron pan, and place it on the burner, glancing back at Sara as I do so.
“Turn down the TV, Sara,” I say again, a little louder this time, but it does no good, she acts as though she neither hears nor sees me, doing everything she can to provoke and defy me. I’m about to ask her for a third time to turn down the volume, but I don’t. Instead I go down the stairs to the basement, into the TV room, and pull out the decoder plug. I turn to go straight back upstairs, then think better of it: if I do that she’ll know it was me who disconnected the cable TV and I don’t want that, I can’t face arguing with her right now, so I go into the utility room, open the freezer, and take out a loaf of bread, we have almost a whole loaf in the bread bin already, but there’s slightly less chance of her suspecting me if she sees me bringing something up from the basement, so I take it anyway.
I whistle to myself as I go back up the stairs.
“The TV’s gone dead,” Sara says. She’s sitting there pointing the remote at the television, clicking and clicking.
“Oh?” I say, looking at her and raising my eyebrows as I cut through the living room. “That’s odd.” I carry on into the kitchen. There’s an apple lying on the countertop, not even half-eaten, only a couple of bites out of it and there’s no question as to who’s been at it, there’s the clear imprint of front teeth with braces in the browning flesh of the fruit. I whirl around to face Sara. “How many times do we have to tell you not to help yourself to anything you can’t finish?” I say, slamming the frozen bread down onto the countertop.
“What?”
“There’s an apple on the countertop here with one, maybe two bites out of it!”
I hear her groan.
“Now, you see, I simply don’t understand why we should spend money on food if we’re going to chuck it in the trash instead of eating it,” I say. “But perhaps you can explain that to me?”
“Rotten fucking TV,” she mutters, not even answering me now, letting me know how little she cares by concentrating on getting the TV to work again.
“And by the way, I was planning to serve that ice cream for dessert this evening, so I hope you haven’t taken more than one helping!” I say. “Because if you have, you’ll just have to run down to the supermarket and get some more.” I pick up the half-eaten apple and drop it into the trash can, she knows she’s supposed to clear up after herself, but I can’t be bothered nagging her anymore, I take a big gulp of beer and make a start on the osso buco. I hear Sara swearing to herself, then she gives up, bangs the remote control down on the table, and stomps off to her room.
Peace for a while.
Then I hear Ingrid come in from the veranda, sounds like she’s out of breath from mowing the lawn, although I’m sure she isn’t really, I bet this is just another act, to make me think she’s worn out after doing a job that I was supposed to do. I take a sip from the beer can and set it down again, hear the soft pad-pad of bare feet on the parquet floor, but I don’t turn around, pour red wine and marsala into the pot and turn up the heat to bring it to a steady simmer.
“Would you mind moving that bag of nuts?” she says, talking to me as if this is her kitchen and I’m only the hired help, her tone imperious, rather brusque.
I turn and look at her. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I’d forgotten His Majesty was on his way, but I don’t, I merely grin and shake my head, then turn away again, to show her how ridiculously over the top all this fuss over Alfred is, it’s nothing but an act from start to finish.
“For God’s sake, David. He could die, you know.”
“I knew he was allergic to nuts, but I didn’t know it was that bad, I didn’t think the sight of a bag of nuts would kill him. But of course,” I say, picking up the bag and putting it back in the drawer.
Silence.
“Er, are you planning on drinking many more of those before Mom and Dad get here?”
I turn and look at her, frown.
“What?”
“I’m just wondering what sort of state you’ll be in by the time they get here,” she says.
I let my jaw drop slightly, to make it look as if I’ve never been so insulted.
“You don’t need to look so surprised, David. I mean, it’s not like it’s the first time.”
I feel the anger from before returning, am on the point of saying something about how you need to be drunk to get through a whole evening with her parents, but I don’t, and I won’t, because if I did, then I would be the baddie and I won’t give her the satisfaction, so I don’t say anything, just pick up the can, carry it over to the sink, and pour out the rest of the beer. White froth spills over the drain and spreads across the bottom of the sink and the pungent, acrid smell of beer fills my nostrils. Total silence. I shake out the last drops of beer and put the can down next to the faucet, turn to Ingrid, smile sweetly at her, then cross to the stove and turn down the heat.
“For fuck’s sake,” she mutters.
I turn around.
“Sorry?” I say, eyeing her quizzically.
She shakes her head.
“Nothing. But could
you at least rake out that gravel before Mom and Dad get here? So they can actually park the car.”
“At least? Well, I am actually in the middle of making dinner for them.”
“Well, I thought maybe you could do it while the dinner is cooking. But never mind, I’ll rake out the gravel as well.”
“I’ll rake out the gravel as well,” I repeat with a scathing grin. “Oh, poor you, having to do all the things that I’m supposed to do.”
She goes to say something, then stops, shuts her mouth, puts up a hand, and digs her fingers into her thick hair. She stands like that with her hand on her head, staring at the floor, looking more hurt and upset than angry now. She swallows once, then again.
“I don’t know why it has to be like this. I want us to be friends, David,” she says, giving a little sigh as she lowers her hand and looks up at me, sad eyed. She’s afraid the tension between us will be so palpable that there will be no chance of dispelling it before her parents get here, I can tell by her face and her voice. She swallows once, twice. There’s a part of me that wants to go on punishing her and I almost say she should have thought of that earlier, but I don’t, and I won’t, I’m just as tired of being caught in this vicious, bitter cycle, I don’t want to be angry anymore.
“I want us to be friends too,” I say and I see how relieved and happy she looks as soon as I say this, it means so much to her that the atmosphere should be good when her parents get here. She eyes me gratefully, almost tenderly. I smile, it feels so good to shake off all this bitterness and anger. A wave of warmth spreads through me, a sense of peace.
“Sorry,” she says.
“No, it’s me who should say sorry,” I say.
And she comes over to me, draws me to her, and buries her face in my chest and I nuzzle her hair, it smells faintly of rosemary. We stand like that, holding each other for a minute without speaking, then we pull apart.
“Hm, that smells so good,” she says. She regards the pan of osso buco, juts out her chin, and kind of sniffs the air. I look at her and smile, it doesn’t smell good at all, not yet, it smells of evaporating alcohol, she’s only saying this to bolster the good mood, so to speak, I know.
“Yeah, it’ll be good when it’s done, I think,” I say.
“I’m sure it will.”
I get out the Parmesan and start to grate it, running my right hand steadily up and down and watching as the fine tendrils fall from the wedge of cheese into a little yellow heap on the chopping board that Sara made at school once.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Ingrid asks. “Something that even I can’t make a mess of?”
“Not really, no.”
“Oh, thanks a lot!” she cries with a quick lift of her eyebrows, pretending to look offended.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I chuckle. “But I only have the gremolata and the risotto to do now. The osso buco just has to sit and simmer till it’s done.”
“No, no, it’s okay, don’t apologize,” she says. She takes a feeding bottle out of the basin, unscrews the little plastic ring, pulls off the rubber nipple and puts the whole lot in the dishwasher. “I can put stuff in the dishwasher, though, right?”
“Idiot,” I say with a little laugh as I tip up the chopping board and gently sweep the heap of grated Parmesan into a bowl. It feels so good to have broken out of that vicious, bitter cycle, to be friends, it makes me happy. “What time is it anyway?”
“Five o’clock.”
“Right then, I’ll go and rake out that gravel now,” I say, doing a sudden about-face, saying I’ll rake out the gravel after all, I didn’t mean to say it, but I do—another instinctive step toward burying the hatchet, I suppose.
“No, it’s okay. You can do it later,” she says, furthering the peacemaking process by doing a similar about-face.
“I really ought to do it now if I’m to be finished by the time they arrive.”
“They can park on the street for now,” Ingrid says. “In one of the visitor spaces.”
“It won’t take long once I get started,” I say.
“Yeah, I know, but why don’t you do it tomorrow, instead?”
“Are you sure?” I ask, taking a pinch of Parmesan and popping it into my mouth.
“Yes, yes.”
“Okay,” I say, and swallow the Parmesan.
I pick up the bag of mushrooms, tip them onto the chopping board, and start to slice them. There’s the odd little clump of black soil on a couple of the mushrooms, I brush this off onto the countertop and quickly inspect the rest, but they’re all nice and clean, snowy white.
Silence.
Then Ingrid says: “I love you so much, David.”
I turn and look at her, hear the jingle of the ice-cream van farther up the street.
“I love you, too.”
“I want us to be happy together,” she says.
“So do I, Ingrid,” I say.
We stand there smiling and gazing into each other’s eyes for a second or two, then we both turn away. I put the mushrooms into the dish next to the bowl of Parmesan, then go over to the sink, wipe away the glistening droplets of water that have gathered on the tap before rinsing my fingers—there’s always a bit of condensation when the weather’s hot.
“He managed to fix the tap then?”
“Gosh, yes, so he did,” I say. I turn the tap on and off a couple of times to test it and, sure enough, it’s fixed, as good as new it seems. I feel my conscience prick me as I turn off the tap again, I shouldn’t have said what I did to Halvorsen, that was out of line. I turn, about to say this to Ingrid, but I don’t get the chance.
“Oh, but he’s so funny,” she says with a little laugh. “It’s maybe not right to call him simple, but …”
I regard her. This is her way of atoning for what happened in the garden, I realize that, she tried to make me look small and inadequate by casting Halvorsen as the knight in shining armor coming to her rescue and now she’s doing the same again, only the other way around so to speak, trying to boost me by belittling Halvorsen.
“Ah, no, I don’t think he’s simple,” I say as I bend down and dry my hands on the dish towel hanging under the countertop.
“He said ‘indegrients.’”
“He said what?”
“When we were in the garden … Joachim was telling us about his food-and-wine holiday in Tuscany and when we were talking about Italian cuisine, Halvorsen said ‘indegrients’ instead of ‘ingredients,’” she says, giggling. I look at her, I don’t want to belittle Halvorsen, but I snigger anyway, she needs to make amends and laughing along with her is a way of helping her to do this.
Then I hear the front door opening.
“Hello,” someone calls. It’s Rita.
I take a deep breath and let it out quietly, so Ingrid won’t hear me sighing. I feel myself bristle as soon as her mother walks through the door, there it is again, that sense of sullen resentment that always overcomes me when I’m with Ingrid’s parents. I try to fight it, but it’s no use, it hits me anyway. I see Ingrid’s face break into a big smile the moment she sees her mother. I take another deep breath, mustering the energy to put on a smile, then I turn around and see Rita standing in the hall with a small potted plant in her hands. She looks like an aging movie star from the sixties, buxom but by no means fat, and wearing bright red lipstick and a pair of big sunglasses that she has pushed up onto her head.
“Oh, look, they’re here already,” Ingrid exclaims. She hurries over to her mother, lays a hand on her left shoulder, and gives her a hug. “Hi, Mom,” she says, rocking her back and forth before gently pushing her away and surveying her. “You look lovely.”
Rita tilts up her chin, looking even more like a movie star.
“Ah, if only I didn’t,” she says in her rather husky voice.
“Oh?”
“Yes, because then people might understand how I’m really feeling.”
“Oh, no, is it that bad?” Ingrid asks.
“
No, no,” Rita says. “I’m not great, of course, but I’m only saying that so you two will feel sorry for me. You know that!”
“Oh, Mom!” Ingrid says, laughing and shaking her head as if she despairs of her.
“This is for you, by the way,” Rita says, handing her the potted plant.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I thought you could put it in the bathroom,” Rita says and by you she means Ingrid, not us, as she always does when talking about anything to do with the house, as if this is Ingrid’s domain. I’ve tried to explain to her that that’s not how it works here, but it makes no difference.
“The bathroom?” Ingrid says.
“Yes, there’s so much water energy in there, you see, and plants give off wood energy, so they bring balance and harmony to the room,” Rita explains, and I feel myself bristle again. I’ll have to pull myself together, I have to be a bit more tolerant, a bit more forbearing, I get just as angry and upset every time she starts spouting her eternal New Age, feng shui crap. “Just you wait, you’ll soon start to feel much more serene in there,” she says.
“Okay, well, I’ll put it in the bathroom, then,” Ingrid says. “But where’s Dad?”
“Well, you know I can’t carry anything, not with these hands, so that means more for him to do. But he’s coming.”
“I’ll see if he needs some help,” Ingrid says and she sets the plant down on the bureau and goes out to look for Alfred.
I smile at Rita.
“Hi,” I say, going up to her. “Good to see you.”
“Yes, all right, don’t overdo it,” she says, batting her eyelids and wafting the air with her hand.
I smile and try to look as if I find her amusing, but it doesn’t quite work, all I can manage is a pained grimace.
“Are you suggesting that I didn’t really mean that?” I ask.
“Yes, I probably am, I’m afraid,” she says. She wriggles out of her jacket, takes Ingrid’s hat off the hook, lays it on the shelf with one hand, and hangs her jacket on the hook with the other. She knows full well that I haven’t been looking forward to their visit and she makes a liar of me by joking about it like this, she’s challenging me to deny what she’s saying about me, even though she knows it’s true, thus making me seem like a conflict-shunning fool who’ll go along with everything she says. I’m so tempted to play her at her own game and be just as blunt in return, I’m so tempted to usurp the role that she has given herself in this little charade and say no, you’re absolutely right, I haven’t been looking forward to your visit at all, in fact I’ve been dreading it. But I can’t, because then she would tell me she was only joking, of course, and I would be left looking like an ill-mannered son of a bitch yet again.
Aftermath Page 35