And then Alfred appears as well, stands in the doorway regarding us.
“What’s going on?” he says.
“We’re trying to clog the toilet,” I say, beaming at him.
“What?”
“We’re busy clogging the toilet,” I say, as if deliberately clogging a toilet is a perfectly normal, everyday thing to do and he just stands there looking bewildered, also speechless. He looks at me, then Ingrid, then me again. “No, I don’t know why we’re doing it either. But then, as we know, common sense counts for nothing in this family,” I say, getting in a little dig at Rita’s unutterably stupid New Age theories while I’m at it, then I turn to Ingrid, still smiling. “Should I put any more in, do you think, or is that enough now?”
Alfred merely shakes his head and walks away.
“David, this isn’t funny,” Ingrid says.
“Oh, no?” I say.
“David. I …”
“Hang on a sec, just let me close this window,” I say, and I step over to the window and close it. “I don’t know who keeps letting all the steam out after they’ve showered. Don’t they realize the bathroom will dry out if they do that?”
“David. Stop it!” Ingrid cries. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Damned if I know. But I’m sure I’ll be fine once your mother’s plant starts to do its work,” I say, reaching out and stroking the plant with my finger.
“Stop it, for fuck’s sake!” Ingrid says, really shouting now. I’ve never seen her lose control in front of her parents, but she looks very close to doing so now. She glares at me, but I’m not about to quit now, I give her a quick little smile, then lean to the side and look past her.
“Rita,” I call merrily, almost singing out her name just as I sang out Sara’s name.
“Yes?”
“How long d’you think it will take for your plant to redress the energy balance in the bathroom?”
“David.” Ingrid says, lowering her voice again, almost whispering. She gazes at me with wide, grave eyes, her mouth slowly dropping open, she honestly has no idea what’s got into me, she’s genuinely shocked, she stares at me as if she doesn’t recognize me. A moment and then I seem to come to my senses, as if whatever had taken hold of me suddenly loosens its grip, as if I’ve woken from one waking state into another, and I just stand there staring back at her, but now I have to give myself a shake, because this won’t do—just because you’re aware that you’re acting like a madman is no guarantee that you are not, in fact, mad, so I really have to pull myself together now, I mustn’t let this go any further, there’s no telling what might happen if I do that. There’s total silence, I nearly say that I was only joking, but I don’t and I won’t, not a living soul would ever believe that this was all just an innocent joke, it’s so implausible that Ingrid could never even pretend to believe it. We stand there looking at one another for a moment, then I simply turn away and wash my hands, I can’t think of anything to say, I’m suddenly very tired, feel myself starting to sag.
“Not so much as another drop of wine!” Ingrid snaps.
I turn and look at her. She eyes me sternly, she thinks I’m drunk, she thinks it’s the wine that made me say and do the things I’ve been saying and doing, but it wasn’t, the drink may have gone to my head a little bit, yes, but that’s not why it happened, it happened because they’ve been bugging me all day and I finally had enough, but for her to put it down to me being drunk is just a way of absolving herself and putting all the blame on me.
“Not a drop!” she repeats. There’s no sign that she realizes how offensive her parents can be, it doesn’t even seem to have occurred to her, she simply assumes that I’ve been acting as I have because I’ve had too much to drink. She locks eyes with me for a second or two, then turns on her heel and walks out. I watch her go: the straight back, the taut neck, and the ponytail bouncing in time to her firm step. A split second and then I feel my anger returning, but it’s a different sort of anger this time, a heavier anger, something large and weighty seems to break loose and start to shift. I turn off the tap, dry my hands, and go back into the living room. It sounds as though Alfred and Rita are asking Sara how it feels to be Henrik’s big sister, they’re laughing and trying to look and sound as though everything’s fine.
I sit down, my limbs heavy.
“Oh, my God, he’s adorable,” Rita coos, nodding at Henrik. He’s lying on his back, gurgling and reaching eagerly for the figures on the baby gym.
“Isn’t he?” Ingrid says.
“So, have you decided on a date for the christening?” Rita asks, eyes on Henrik as she says it. She gives it a moment, then turns to Ingrid and smiles. I look at the table, feel that heavy anger stir again, feel it rise up inside me. Rita knows very well that I don’t want Henrik christened, she knows my stepfather was a vicar and that being brought up by him has made me proof against any sort of preaching or religious coercion, she knows I’m a dyed-in-the-wool atheist and the last thing I want is to enroll a tiny, unwitting infant in any church. I have nothing against Henrik joining a church when he’s old enough to decide for himself, of course, but I would never cram a religion or a philosophy down his throat and Rita knows I wouldn’t, that’s exactly why she’s asking, it’s her way of paying me back. She talks as if she takes it for granted that we’ll have Henrik christened and the moment Ingrid announces that I don’t want him christened she’s going to act all disappointed or huffy or preferably both, oh, yes, and she’ll probably pretend to feel sorry for Ingrid, poor Ingrid, whose husband won’t allow her to have her child christened. Ingrid swallows what she has in her mouth and gives her mother a quick smile, looking rather flustered now.
“Not yet,” she says, bending her head over her plate again. I stare at her, what the hell is she saying: not yet? What the hell’s that supposed to mean? She’s talking as if we do actually intend to have Henrik christened after all.
“So where’s it to be—Nidaros Cathedral?” Alfred asks as he picks up the pepper mill and holds it over his meat. I hear the soft rasp as he twists it. “Nidaros Cathedral, the eleventh of September, now wouldn’t that be … oh, yes!”
“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Rita says before Ingrid has a chance to reply, sounding much too enthusiastic, she’s only saying that in order to cast me in an even worse light when it becomes clear that I don’t want to have Henrik christened, I know she is, I mean how dare I deny her that pleasure, how can I be so cold, so heartless, that’s the seed she wants to plant in our minds—in fact, who knows, she may even be trying to blackmail me into it, maybe she’s stupid enough to think she can make me do what I know several of my friends have already done, that she can force me to chicken out and let my child be christened just to keep my parents-in-law happy.
“Yes, well, we’ll see,” Ingrid says, sounding more and more flustered, trying to dodge the issue.
“Oh, by the way, Alfred, I’d like a new sewing machine for my birthday,” Rita says. “The old one’s broken and I’ll need a machine so I can take in the christening robe.”
“Do you have to take it in?” Alfred asks.
“Oh, yes. Jonathan was a lot bigger than Henrik, you know, he was the spitting image of you.”
“Hm,” Alfred says, nodding. “I think we can afford a new sewing machine.”
I look at them, not quite sure what they’re talking about, but then it dawns on me, they expect Henrik to be christened in the robe Jonathan wore for his christening, fuck, they’ve got it all planned, they’ve already discussed the whole fucking thing with Ingrid, they’ve talked her into having Henrik christened, I realize that now, so that’s the “robe” Rita was referring to earlier, I did wonder. That’s why Ingrid was so quick to divert our attention, she hadn’t seen anyone outside, she said that only because she didn’t want to discuss the arrangements for the christening while I was there, she knows how opposed I am to having Henrik christened so she’d rather talk to me about it in private. She’s probably told her
parents not to mention the subject in front of me, but they pay no mind to that, of course. They know it’s harder for me to refuse when they’re here and that’s exactly why they’ve brought it up. I stare at the table, anger coursing through my veins, my heart beating faster and faster. And it’s no coincidence, of course, that Alfred suggested holding the christening on the eleventh of September, they’re actually trying to pressure us into having Henrik christened by making it known that they would like his christening to also be a way of paying tribute to Jonathan. Their precious Jonathan, the hero who died in the terrorist attack on 9/11, they’re making it known that they would like him to live on through Henrik, knowing full well, of course, that this will make it difficult, not to say impossible, for me to say no to having Henrik christened, I mean how can I refuse them something that would mean so much to them, that’s how they want me to think, it’s a fucking violation, an attempt by them to use Henrik as a means of fulfilling their wish to honor Jonathan. It’s such a rotten fucking trick it’s unbelievable.
“Oh, dear, I get all choked up just thinking about it,” Rita sighs. She puts up a hand and wipes away a tear, she’s fucking crying now, she’ll do whatever it takes to make it hard for me to deny them what they want. “I don’t dare to think what I’ll be like in the church,” she continues. “I’ll probably howl my way through the whole thing.” She gives a sad little laugh and wipes away another tear, it’s unbelievable, she has no fucking shame, that woman, and neither does Alfred, now he’s started as well, swallowing hard, clearly overcome. And I’m sure he is, they’ve never got over what happened to Jonathan and I realize this must be tough for them, but that’s just too fucking bad, this is manipulation, it’s a violation and I won’t have it, I won’t put up with it, it makes me so damn mad, I grab the wine bottle, fill my glass to the brim as if it were a glass of milk, eye Ingrid levelly, and send her a stony grin as I raise the glass and take a great gulp, I don’t give a shit what she says I can or can’t do, I’ll do what I like, I’ll fucking show her, but she doesn’t look at me, she doesn’t dare to meet my eye, she gazes at her plate for a moment, then glances up at Rita and Alfred.
“Oh, by the way, David has a new book coming out in the spring,” she says, abruptly changing the subject. She knows how angry all this christening talk makes me and she’s probably hoping that talking about my new book will put me in a better mood, partly because—like everyone else—I like to talk about myself and my work and partly because it gives her a chance to boast about me to her parents.
“Oh, really?” Alfred says. He puts a hand to his mouth and gives a little cough, as if composing himself after his earlier display of emotion.
“How exciting,” Rita remarks. She’s acting as if everything is back to normal again, smiling at me now, both she and Alfred are smiling at me, partly, I suppose, because they think I’ve made a fool of myself and they want to help me regain my dignity, so to speak, and partly because they think their manipulative tactics are well on the way to succeeding. They’ve presented their plans for a christening without a word of protest from me so I imagine they’re feeling quite relieved now, and not only that, they know that the longer we sit here and the better the mood around the table becomes, the harder it will be for me to put my foot down, which makes it all the more important to act as if everything in the garden is lovely again.
I take a big drink of my wine, let out a long, indignant harrumph as I set down my glass.
“So what’s it about?” Alfred asks.
“It’s hard to explain,” I say and leave it at that, I don’t feel like talking about my book so I refuse to be drawn, but he’s not to be put off.
“I’ve often thought that … as a writer you’re in a unique position to address important issues,” he says, biting into a piece of meat.
“But you think I’m not making proper use of that position.”
He wags his head as he finishes chewing, making it clear that that is exactly what he means, he doesn’t want to come right out and say it, but now that I’ve said it he can’t really deny it, that’s what that wag of the head is saying, Christ, he’s got some fucking nerve. I look down at my plate, use my knife to nudge some risotto onto my fork, and pop it into my mouth.
“Well, I do wonder why there are so few Norwegian authors writing about the major issues of our day. We’ve been at war with Afghanistan since 2001 and with Iraq since 2003, we live under the constant threat of terrorist attacks, but hardly any of them are writing about that. Our democracy is under threat, our freedom is under threat, but the very ones who have a way with words, who could actually make a difference, they’re not even getting involved in the debate. Now that I do not understand.”
“Why do you say we?” I ask.
“Sorry?”
“Why do you say we when you actually mean the United States and Americans?” I say. “Whether you like it or not, nine out of ten Norwegians are against the invasion of Iraq. And what you’re really asking, I guess, is why don’t I express support for the US in my writing, right?” I know I have to watch what I say here. I know what a touchy subject this is for Alfred, Rita, and Ingrid, I know how personally they take it and how quick they are to construe any criticism of the US as criticism of and an insult to Jonathan, because seeing Jonathan as a victim of the battle between good and evil helps them to make sense of and derive some comfort from his death, and for anyone to question this view and argue that things aren’t that black and white is tantamount to saying that he died in vain, that he was merely a random casualty rather than a victim of a battle between good and evil, and the inherent senselessness of such a thought is more than they can bear. But I’m damned if I’m going to take any of their bullshit either, my writing is the only thing in the world I care about as much as Henrik and Ingrid and if there’s one thing I cannot abide it’s people trying to tell me what I should or shouldn’t write.
“Not at all,” he says. His voice is cool and calm, but he’s starting to lose his temper, I can tell, he lowers his knife and fork and looks me straight in the eye. “Let me ask you a question. Would you dare to write about Islam in a way you knew would offend fundamentalist Muslims?”
I consider him, initially uncertain how to reply, I’m not entirely sure where he’s going with this.
“I don’t know,” I say. “The problem has never come up for me.”
“I bet you anything you wouldn’t dare,” he says. “But the very fact that you don’t respond with a clear and unequivocal yes, that you hesitate and have to think about it shows that democracy is under pressure and that the fight to safeguard freedom of speech concerns you. In fact, as an author, making a living from writing exactly what you feel like writing, I would say it concerns you in particular.”
I eye him steadily as I lift my wine glass and take another swig, feel that heavy anger coursing through my veins.
“So this is not really about whether you agree with me or not,” he goes on before I can answer. “What I’m trying to say is that this is the biggest, most crucial issue of our time and we all have a duty to take a position on it.”
“Don’t tell me what to write … ,” I say.
“What?”
“Fucking Yank,” I add under my breath, staring in fury at my plate.
Silence.
“David?” Ingrid says softly, sounding almost frightened.
“What did you say?” Alfred asks.
I place my knife and fork on the edge of my plate, rest my elbows on the table, and lean forward, look him in the eye.
“Let me ask you a question, Alfred,” I say, throwing his own words back at him and mimicking his American twang. “Suppose I had been a victim of incest as a child and that as an adult I had used literature as a form of therapy, that I had written myself back to health, so to speak. In such a situation how do you think I would feel if someone were to tell me that unfortunately this topic wasn’t important enough and that I really ought to write about Islamic fundamentalism or the
climate crisis, or famine in Africa, come to that?” I say, my voice shaking slightly. I glare at him. He hadn’t seen this coming, I can tell, he doesn’t say a word, simply sits there staring at me, openmouthed. “Because, you see, I would take that as an insult, it would be like being abused all over again, in fact!” I say, my hand trembling with fury as I pick up my glass and take a sip of wine. “So, what I’m trying to say … Alfred,” I drawl, echoing him again, “is that every writer has their own, often very personal, reasons for writing as they do and one should be extremely fucking wary of telling them how to write or what to write about,” I say, my hand still trembling as I set down my glass. “Most people understand that,” I say. “But not you, because you’re an American and like most Americans you think you can do whatever you want whenever you want—yeah, and not only that, you actually think the people you order around value your input,” I say, sneering at him. “You and Rita, you come waltzing in here … you try to dictate what we should eat and drink, you try to dictate how we should decorate our house, how we should arrange our furniture, you try to dictate whether and when our baby should be christened and … and … even the subject matter of my books, even that you think you can dictate. And then, to top it all, you expect us to be grateful to you. You simply assume that you always know best and that you’re doing us a favor by telling us what to do, so you expect us to fucking well thank you, you expect us to bow and scrape and be polite, obedient guests in our own home,” I say. “Just as the majority of Americans expect the Iraqis and the Afghans and the people of all the other countries they’ve invaded and destroyed throughout history to do.”
“I was simply trying to get a discussion going, David,” Alfred says. “I simply wanted to talk about a subject on which not all sane, sensible individuals may necessarily always agree. But you … there’s simply no talking to you. You either sit there saying nothing no matter how much you might disagree with what’s been said, dismiss it with some flippant or sarcastic remark, or blow your top completely … as if you want to scare us and put us off saying anything that might be in any way controversial.”
Aftermath Page 40