I look at him.
“It wasn’t lacking a little in salt for your taste?” I ask. It just comes out.
A second’s pause and then Rita and Ingrid burst out laughing, it was funny and they can’t help it, I have a little chuckle as well, only Alfred doesn’t laugh, he tries to smile and show that he can take a joke, but it doesn’t quite work, he’s clearly not amused.
“Sorry, Alfred. I didn’t mean to rub salt in the wound,” I say, chuckling again, it’s a really awful, silly joke and I might not have laughed at all if Alfred hadn’t gone into a sulk, as he so obviously has. A grown man sitting there sulking over such a little thing, I can’t help but laugh. And Rita and Ingrid are laughing as well.
“Ooh, where do I get them from, one zinger after another,” I say, laughing and shaking my head as I pick up my glass. “Well, cheers, people!”
They raise their glasses, drink their wine.
“What have you actually got in the gremolata?” Rita asks.
“Parsley, grated lemon rind, anchovies, and garlic,” I say.
“It doesn’t sound all that great when you describe it, but it’s delicious along with all the rest. Isn’t it, Alfred?”
“Hm, the gremolata is very nice,” he says without raising his eyes.
“D’you really think so?” I say, looking down at my plate again as soon as I’ve said it, humming and grinning slyly to myself in a way designed to make him wonder what I’m grinning at. I can’t help thinking of Tony Soprano when I do this, it’s the sort of thing he might have done, a joke after his own heart.
“What?”
“So it’s not bitter?” I ask, chuckling to myself as I spear a chunk of meat with my fork, I go to pop it into my mouth, then stop, lower my fork, and look at the others. “Only … I had actually chopped the garlic, you see, exactly as you said I should, so it wouldn’t taste bitter. But then, once you’d gone, I tossed the garlic I’d chopped and used the garlic press instead. Simply to check whether there was something to it or whether it was just your imagination, you know?”
Alfred looks me in the eye for a moment, then he raises his brows, gives a little shake of his head, and carries on eating.
Silence.
I hear the scrabble of a bird on the gutter directly above the living room window.
Silence again.
“You didn’t?” Ingrid gasps, looking at me and giving me a surprised and rather hesitant smile, a smile that says she’s hoping I’ll say no, no, of course I didn’t.
“I only did it for a joke,” I say with a little laugh and see her smile instantly fade. She sits there with her mouth open, staring at me in horror. “And anyway,” I go on, “it’s always interesting to find out whether it’s true that a dish tastes more bitter if crushed garlic is used or whether we just think that because all those master chefs on TV say so.” I glance around the table and give another little laugh. But no one else laughs, Rita and Alfred keep their eyes on their plates and quietly carry on eating and now Ingrid is eyeing me contemptuously. She holds my gaze for a second or two, then looks down at her plate, pink cheeked, and fiddles with her food for a little longer than normal before lifting the fork to her lips. She’s embarrassed by me now, I can tell by her face, she thinks I’ve gone too far this time, they all do obviously. I don’t fucking believe it, I don’t see how this joke is any worse than the jokes about how salty his bouillabaisse was, Rita and I both made jokes about his bouillabaisse and daddy’s girl Ingrid actually dared to laugh at our jokes, even though she must have seen that Alfred was not altogether happy with us teasing him. Possibly because the oversalted bouillabaisse could be described as an accident, while my little test exposed Alfred once and for all for what he is: a snob and a poser. Maybe that’s why they think I’ve gone too far, what the hell do I know. There’s silence, broken only by the soft rattling sounds from the baby gym, I stare at my plate, eat a little faster and chew a little harder than usual and suddenly I feel my cheeks starting to burn, shit, now I’m blushing as well, there’s no fucking reason for me to blush, but I am and it annoys me. I sit for a moment and then I start to hum softly, do it quite instinctively, attempting somehow to ward off my embarrassment by summoning up and overplaying my don’t-give-a-shit attitude, trying to behave as I imagine Tony Soprano would: sitting here blushing and smirking and humming while I wolf down osso buco and risotto.
Nothing for a few moments, then: “Wow, look at that lady!” Rita exclaims.
I turn and see Sara emerging from the bathroom, looking just about as awful as she did the last time she went to a party, she’s wearing so much makeup she’s almost unrecognizable, her face is totally stiff.
“What?” Sara says, looking at me.
“Nothing,” I say, grinning. I shouldn’t grin but I can’t help it.
“What are you looking at me like that for?”
I give my head a little shake.
“Oh, it’s just that … well, you look exactly the way you looked the last time you went to a party. And when you got up the next morning, you left your face on the pillow,”
I say with a strained little laugh meant to take some of the sting out of this barb, but it doesn’t work, no one else is laughing, they merely sit there, stoney-faced.
“Would you … oh!” Sara cries, acting every bit as insulted as the reaction of the other three allows her to be, she knows they’re on her side, so she pushes out her bottom lip a little farther, pouting as demonstratively as only an indignant teenage girl can. She stalks around the table, sits down, and proceeds to help herself in an ostentatiously aggressive manner.
“Don’t mind him, Sara,” Rita says. “He’s just trying to hold back time.”
I look at her, still grinning.
“Oh, really, that’s possible too now, is it? There’s so much we don’t know, us non–New Agers,” I say. She sticks her chin in the air, maintaining her haughty prima donna expression, but that hit home, she hates it when people make fun of all that New Age crap, so I know that hit home.
“No, David, it isn’t,” Rita says. “But that’s never stopped anyone in midlife from trying.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“Well, anyone who has a midlife crisis is trying to hold back time.”
“Ah, so I’m having a midlife crisis, am I?”
“You’re quite evidently having a midlife crisis,” Rita says. “Sara’s makeup is a reminder to you that she’s growing up and that in turn reminds you that you’re getting old. That’s why you get so upset and resort to making fun of her. You’re scared of dying, it’s as simple as that.”
“Wow, so you’re a psychologist too now, Rita? I didn’t know that,” I say with a strangled little laugh, trying to sound as though I’m enjoying myself and find this absolutely hilarious, but it doesn’t really work, it comes out as more of a snarl than a laugh.
“Oops, I think I touched a sore spot there,” she says. She takes a pinch of Maldon sea salt from the little ceramic bowl and sprinkles it over her veal. “Sorry, David, that’s just how I am. All us O types are the same.”
“O types?”
“Yes, people with blood type O. We’re outspoken and self-assured,” she says.
“Good heavens. I didn’t know you were a Nazi,” I say, grinning at her.
“What?”
“Wasn’t it the Nazis who developed the theory of a link between personality and blood type?” I say. She puts down her knife and fork and stares at me, she’s stung and she can no longer hide it, the haughty prima donna mask dissolves and her face seems to come alive. I glory in that sight, grin sardonically as I pick up my wine glass and take a drink.
“Do you know something, David? In Japan that link is common knowledge and generally accepted. There, if you go for a job interview, you’re asked what your blood type is, dating agencies match people according to their blood types, and some kindergartens split the children into groups according to their blood type.”
“Jap
an and Germany, weren’t they allies during the Second World War? I seem to remember that,” I say, taking an unholy delight in my own remark and smirking as I set my glass down on the table again. “What’s my blood type, do you think, Rita?” I ask.
“A,” she says without a second thought.
“Gosh, yes,” Ingrid says, turning to me. “It is A, isn’t it?” She turns to Rita: “How did you guess?”
“Most antisocial individuals are type A,” Rita says.
“Rita,” I say, “forty-eight percent of all Norwegians are type A.”
“I know,” she says. “And we all know what foreigners say about Norwegians. We’re reserved, introverted, and when we get on a train or a bus, we always pick a seat as far away from other passengers as possible. Take a trip to America, for example, and you’ll see what I mean.”
I simply sit there staring at her for a moment.
“Er … Rita, are you serious? Are you really that gullible?” I ask, raising my voice slightly. I arch my brows, grin, and shake my head to emphasize my amazement that a grown woman could believe such a thing, how ludicrous that is.
“Oh, relax, David,” Ingrid says, looking mildly surprised and giggling tentatively, attempting to smooth things over and convince everyone that we’re having a lovely time, feelings may have run a bit high there for a moment, but it’s all a good laugh, really, that’s the impression she’s trying to give.
“All things considered, I think I’m actually remarkably relaxed,” I say. “I mean, I just found out that my mother-in-law is a Nazi.”
“Stop saying that!” Rita snaps. “I mean it!”
“Jawohl!” I say, looking her in the eye for a second and grinning, then I lean over my plate, laugh and shake my head as I stick my fork in a piece of veal, no one else is laughing, they all think Rita’s New Age theories are a load of bullshit too, but they seem to want to shield her from the truth, that’s why they’re pretending to take her seriously, but I’m damned if I’m going to play that game any longer, I refuse to conceal how unbelievably stupid this is. I pop the meat into my mouth, still grinning, chew briskly. Silence reigns and then, all of a sudden, I feel my cheeks start to burn again, there’s no reason for me to blush, but fuck, here I am, blushing again. I sit for a moment, then pick up my wine glass, I shouldn’t drink so fast, I should take it a little easier, but I don’t, I knock back the rest of the wine in one long gulp and set the glass down with a loud clunk, push back my chair, and get up.
“Where are you going?” Ingrid asks. “David?”
I look at her, smile stiffly.
“To the bathroom, to take a dump,” I say. I know how crass and tasteless she finds language like this, neither she nor her parents can abide such breaches of style and etiquette and I see all three of them instantly recoil in disgust. I smile to myself as I walk off, I don’t need the bathroom, I just need to get away from them, if I sit at that table a moment longer I’m liable to do something I’ll regret, so I need to get out of here, need some time to myself, time to calm down. I push open the bathroom door and go in: it’s like stepping into a sauna, I don’t fucking believe it, Sara has forgotten to open the window again and it’s so stuffy and steamy in here I can hardly breathe.
“Sara!” I yell, I know I shouldn’t yell, but I do, I can’t help it, I’m livid, but I sound almost jolly, I almost sing out her name.
“Yeah?”
“Could you come here, please?”
“What is it?”
“Just come here!” I say, drawing myself up and crossing my arms, a big smile on my face. The next moment I catch sight of something bobbing about in the toilet bowl, it looks like a wet wipe and a couple of Q-tips. If I’ve told her once, I’ve told her a thousand times not to throw wet wipes and Q-tips down the toilet, but she doesn’t fucking listen, it’s no use, I simply can’t get through to her, it drives me mad, so it does, it drives me screaming up the wall. I clench my fists and shut my eyes, tense the muscles and squeeze them so hard it hurts, feel as though my eyeballs are being pressed back into my brain. I stay like that for a moment, then open my eyes again.
And here she comes. She gives me that studiedly languid teenage-girl look of hers, she’s always the same, trying so hard to look as cool and blasé as possible.
“Yeah?” she says.
“You forgot to open the bathroom window again,” I say, smiling, as if I’m doing her a favor by informing her of this oversight.
“Huh … ? Yeah, well, couldn’t you have done it?”
“Oh no, no,” I say with a little laugh.
“But you’re in there, all you have to do is reach out your hand and open it.”
“That’s not the point,” I say. “You’ll never learn to do it yourself if I do it for you every single time.”
“Oh, my gawd,” Sara mutters. She marches straight past me and over to the window. “So I forgot to open the window, so what, it’s not exactly a disaster,” she says, flicking up the hasp and shoving the window open.
“Of course not,” I retort. “The tsunami in Thailand was a disaster. The Holocaust was a disaster. There’s absolutely no comparison. Although as far as the latter is concerned I’m sure Madame Göring in there would strongly disagree.” I’m absolutely livid, but my voice sounds strangely bright and cheerful, it’s like it’s not even my voice. I look at her, smile pleasantly.
“Oh!” Sara cries, sticking her tongue out at me. She flounces past me, looking as if I make her want to throw up.
“Hang on a minute,” I say. I point to the toilet bowl. “How many times do I have to tell you: Q-tips and wet wipes go in the trash can, not down the toilet. They’ll clog it up.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Kindly don’t say yeah, yeah. When you say yeah, yeah like that, you make it sound as if I’m nagging at you for no reason, but I’m not.”
“No-oo.”
I look at her, anger coursing through my veins, I feel as though my insides are melting and floating around in my stomach. I’m this close to opening my mouth and roaring right in her face, but I don’t, I simply stand here, with this pleasant smile on my lips.
“Sara, dear, I’m well aware that I’m not your father, but I do pay my fair share of the bills in this house and hence I have the right to set some rules as to what you may and may not do here.” I’m even calling her “dear” now, my manner becoming more and more amiable the angrier I get. “Remove the Q-tips and the wet wipe from the toilet and put them in the trash can, please,” I say.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Nope,” I say.
“They’re down the toilet, no way am I picking anything out of the toilet,” she says, her voice rising.
“Well, you shouldn’t have chucked them in there then, should you?” I say, laughing shortly.
“I don’t care, I’m not sticking my hand down the toilet, no way am I doing that.”
“Ah, so you think someone else should do it for you, do you?”
“Oh, stop it, will you!”
“No, I won’t, sorry,” I say. I shut my eyes and shake my head, still smiling pleasantly. “Come on, Sara.”
Her mouth falls open, as if she can’t believe her ears, as if she simply cannot believe I mean what I’m saying.
“Excuse me—have you lost your mind?” she cries. “I am not sticking my hand down the toilet, it’s gross.”
“Well, you should have thought about that before you decided to throw things in there instead of in the trash can, which is only a couple of feet farther away,” I say, keeping my tone soft and light. I’m seething inside, but I smile at her. “And anyway, you can use rubber gloves, there’s a pair hanging over there.” I nod to the yellow gloves hanging limply over the rim of the wash bucket sitting next to the cabinet.
Then Ingrid appears in the doorway.
“What’s going on here?” she asks.
“He’s trying to force me to stick my hands down the toilet,” Sara howls, looking aghast at Ingrid.
“Huh?”
“I forgot and threw some Q-tips and a wet wipe into the toilet and now he’s forcing me to take them out again.”
Ingrid turns to me, she doesn’t say anything straightaway, just stands there looking equally aghast. She opens her mouth, then shuts it again as if lost for words.
“Oh, right, so yet again I’m the one with the problem, is that it?” I ask, raising my eyebrows at her, still smiling brightly and that throws her, I can tell, that I seem so cheerful. She looks at me and frowns, she doesn’t know what’s got into me.
“Oh, come on, David,” she says. “Of course she doesn’t want to stick her hands down the toilet, she thinks it’s disgusting.”
“Oh, she does, does she?” I say in that soft, light voice. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to do it then,” and without more ado I take a step forward, bend down, and plunge my hand into the toilet bowl. There’s a little splash and I feel the cold water close around my hand.
“David!”
“Yes?” I say, looking up at her, still smiling brightly as I grope around in the toilet water. She just stands there gaping at me, she thinks I’ve lost my mind, I can tell.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“What’s the matter with me?” I ask. How can she ask me that? I fish out the Q-tips and the wet wipe and straighten up, stand there smiling with toilet water dripping from my arm and hand. She just gapes at me, more convinced than ever that I’ve lost my mind and I rejoice at the sight, I hate their posturing and their snobbery, I hate all the middle-class etiquette, all the conventions, and I hate all the self-control and self-denial necessary to comply with that code of conduct. I hate it with every fiber of my being and it’s so fucking wonderful to go totally crazy, to rebel against all they stand for, all they believe in, it feels so good and so right.
“She … she threw a wet wipe and a couple of Q-tips into the toilet, what’s the big deal?” Ingrid says.
I look at her in feigned surprise.
“Oh,” I say blithely. “Well, if it’s no big deal I might as well put them back.” I toss the Q-tips and the wet wipe back into the toilet, looking at her and smiling so brightly and broadly that my lips feel as though they’re about to crack, mustering all the madness I can now. Ingrid doesn’t say anything, she’s speechless.
Aftermath Page 39