Everything Like Before, page 11
“You don’t understand. You’re going to be happy about it too.”
“I just don’t know what’s in my own best interests, is that what you mean?”
“You don’t know how I feel.”
“You think you’re going mad.”
Her tone of voice, no longer intended to be persuasive, took on a harsh, cold timbre that left him perplexed when she said:
“Don’t you dare not take me seriously! Don’t you dare!”
He realized he had gone too far, but was incapable of admitting it, so he said nothing, but suddenly felt extremely uneasy and insecure.
There was a long silence. He glanced at her; the last thing she had said still showed in her face, her expression simultaneously aggressive yet impassive.
“What kind of job is it?” he eventually asked.
“At the department store.” Her tone was cold, implacable. “In the kitchenware section.”
Most of the customers there would be women, he thought.
“This is all very sudden,” he said. “And we did have an agreement, after all.”
“I’m aware of that. But that was then. Besides, you said that most of my earnings would be eaten up by tax.”
“And you thought keeping house couldn’t be anything but wonderful.”
“Yes. I did. We were wrong, both of us.”
“We’re not going to be much better off, if that’s what you think.”
“We won’t be any worse off, at least.”
She spoke as if she knew and he did not pursue the issue. All in all she spoke differently, the aspect of semi-inquiry behind her words, which he was accustomed to and liked so much, was gone.
He was hit by the realization he had lost. He could not prevent her from doing what she wanted. He had a choice between being defied or of being accommodating in such a way so as to not suffer defeat.
He thought for a moment, then rose to his feet and said:
“Do you want a beer?”
“Now? No, thanks.”
He returned from the kitchen, placed the glass and the beer bottle down on the coffee table, but remained standing.
“I can see now that this means a lot to you, and you do know that I’ve always had your best interests at heart, even though I may not always have been able to see what really was in your best interests.”
“But still more able than me?” she interjected.
He did not understand what she meant, but he found the impatience with which she said it hurtful. Here he was, about to grant her her wish, and she cut him short like that!
He shrugged resignedly, then poured the beer into the glass, but remained standing.
“Sorry,” she said. “I interrupted you.”
He took a drink.
“Be that as it may,” he said, “what I was intending to say was that I think you should take the job, although you’re probably planning to do that, regardless of what I think.”
He met her gaze, she had a strange look in her eyes, and he was unable to interpret it. He looked away and took a swig from his glass. Then he waited, but she did not say anything. He waited and waited, took another gulp, emptying the glass, before filling it up again.
Finally, with her eyes fixed on her lap, in a tone of voice he was still unable to interpret – it sounded so flat, as though the words were coming from far away or almost as if from out of nowhere – she said:
“Of course, you know I wouldn’t do it if you didn’t think it was right.”
The Grasshopper
Maria made an inappropriate remark about him in front of the others; it peeved him. He did his best to seem unperturbed, but when the guests had gone, and Maria said she was tired, he opened another bottle of wine and put a log on the fire. Aren’t you coming to bed? she asked. He replied that he wasn’t tired and felt like another drink. She looked at him. Tomorrow’s another day, she said. I’m aware of that, he said, and that was the only hint of aggression he managed to express.
He stayed up for an hour. He drank two glasses of wine. Then he took the bottle into the kitchen and emptied most of the wine into the sink. He brought the bottle back out and placed it beside the empty glass.
He woke up late the next day and he was alone in bed. He got up right away. The house was empty but the table was set for breakfast – but just for him. The coffee in the thermos was lukewarm. He drank two cups. The Sunday paper lay beside the plate. He picked it up and went out onto the veranda. Maria was on her knees in the vegetable garden, almost hidden behind the dahlias; he pretended not to see her and sat down with his back to her. He opened the paper and sat looking over the top of it: some treetops, a pale blue sky. He sat like that until he heard footsteps on the gravel and her voice behind him: Good morning. He lowered the paper and looked at her. Good morning, he said. She pulled off her gardening gloves and came up the steps. Did you stay up long? A couple of hours, he said. That long? she said. He folded the paper, without replying, and then he said: I was thinking about paying Dad a visit. But I’ve invited Vera to lunch, she said. I’ll be back by then, he said. You won’t make it, she said. So we’ll eat an hour later then, he said. Just because you suddenly decide that you want to visit your father? He did not reply. She went inside. He got up and went in after her to get his coat. You haven’t even eaten, she said. I’m not hungry, he said. He met her gaze; she studied him. What’s the matter with you, she said. Nothing, he said.
Later on, as he was driving out of town in the direction of R, he felt almost cocky, and he thought: I do as I please.
Halfway to R he left the motorway and drove toward the end of the Bu fjord. There was a small outdoor café there, and he bought two sandwiches and a coffee. He sat under a tree and looked out over the fjord. He lit up a cigarette. Now and then he checked his watch. He smoked two more cigarettes, then got to his feet and walked slowly back to the car.
He drove the same way back and arrived home before they had sat down to eat. Maria asked how his father was, and he said: He didn’t recognize me. Vera said it must be difficult seeing your father so utterly helpless. He nodded. They sat down to eat. He poured them red wine. They ate roast beef. They talked about everyday things, he offered the odd yes and no in agreement; his thoughts were often elsewhere, but he made sure the whole time that the wine glasses were never empty. And when, toward the end of the meal, Maria wanted to hear more about his father’s condition, her questions collided with an aggressive thought he had just had, and his reply was rather rash and dismissive: You’re suddenly very interested in my father. There was silence. Then, in a low voice, Vera said: That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, Jakob. No, he answered, almost as quietly, but it’s got nothing to do with you. He took hold of his glass, his hand trembling. I think you ought to explain yourself, said Maria. He didn’t reply. I don’t know what to think, she said. He leaned back in his chair and looked at her. He said: Dad is fine. He doesn’t know what’s going on around him anymore, but if the nurses are kind to him, then he’s in safe hands. So he’s fine. It grew quiet again, then Maria said: You could have just said that straight off. There are a lot of things that could be said straight off, he said. What do you mean by that? she said. Do I mean something by it? he said. Really, she said, now you’re just being impossible. She stood up and began to clear the table, and when Vera got up as well, she said: No, no, just sit down. Jakob saw Vera hesitate, then she picked up the vegetable bowl and the gravy boat and followed Maria into the kitchen. Jakob poured himself some wine, then got to his feet, picked up his glass and went out onto the veranda. He smoked a cigarette, then he smoked one more. His glass was soon empty. Vera came out. She sat down. What a summer, she said. Yes, he said. But actually, she said, August is quite…there’s something wistful about it, don’t you think, like it’s the end of something. He looked at her, did not reply. As a child, she said, I always associated August, especially the evenings, with grasshoppers, their chirping, I thought it was so nice. Now there are no grasshoppers anymore. Aren’t there? he said. No, she said. He looked at her; she was sitting with her head lowered, examining a fingernail. He said: Would you like some wine? Yes, please, she said. He went in and fetched a bottle and a glass. Maria was not there. Vera was sitting in the same position, as though lost in thought, and when he had filled her glass, then his own, he stood looking down at her for a moment and a sudden warmth passed through him, like a jolt, and he said: You look so pretty. Me? she said. He did not reply, just sat down. There was silence for a while. Then she said: It’s a long time since anyone has said that. Can I have a cigarette? He held the pack out to her. I didn’t know you smoked, he said. No, she said, I’ve quit. He gave her a light. From the doorway, Maria said: Oh Vera, really. I know, said Vera. Has Jakob led you astray? Vera looked at Jakob and said: Yes, in a way. But I made up my own mind to follow him. Maria came out onto the veranda, pulled a chair over to the table and sat down. Jakob asked if he should get her a glass, he felt light and free. He fetched the glass and poured some wine into it. Vera blew smoke rings. Look, she said, I can still do it. You’re playing with fire, Maria said. Yes, Vera said, I’d almost forgotten how good it was. I told you, said Maria. Vera blew more rings up into the almost still air. You’re putting your willpower to the test now, said Maria. Spare me, said Vera. She looked at Jakob and added: Maria’s never quite got over being the big sister. I can see that, he said. Rubbish, Maria said. Maria doesn’t play with fire, Jakob said. Oh, I’m sure she does, Vera said, isn’t that right, Maria? Everyone does. Maria sipped at her glass. Could well be, she said, but I avoid getting burned. Jakob laughed. Maria looked at him. Vera put out the cigarette. It’s humid, said Maria. Yes, said Vera. Imagine if there was a real thunderstorm. And a bolt of lightning struck that ugly house over there. Oh, Vera, really, Maria said. Jakob laughed. Do you think that’s funny? Maria said. Yes, said Jakob, that’s why I laughed. It was completely quiet, for a long time, then Maria got to her feet. She stood for a moment, then walked to the steps and down into the garden. Say something, said Vera. He did not reply. He poured wine into her glass. I’m getting tipsy, she said. And why not, he said, that’s what wine’s for. I think I’ll be off, she said. I’d like it if you stayed, he said. I’ll just turn naughty, she said. So do, he said. Naughty girl, she said, looking at him. He looked away but could feel she was still looking at him. Are you getting nervous now? she said. Not nervous, he said. What then? she said. Maria came across the lawn. The carrots are bumping into one another, she said. Bumping? Jakob said. They need to be thinned, she said. She came up the steps and placed three small tomatoes on the table. Taste how good they are, she said. Vera picked one up. I think I’ll find myself a man with a garden as well, she said. Yes, why not? said Maria. And a veranda like this, said Vera, where you can sit even when it’s raining. We never sit here when it rains, Maria said. Of course we do, Jakob said. I often sit here when it rains. You do not, said Maria. I certainly do, said Jakob. I would have sat here in any case, Vera said. She put the tomato in her mouth. Along with my husband, she said. What husband? Maria said. The one with the garden and the veranda, said Vera. You’re tipsy, said Maria. Yes, indeed, said Vera. I’ll make some coffee, said Maria. She went inside. Vera took a large gulp of wine. Coffee! she said. Jakob filled up her glass. Thanks, she said. And a cigarette, if you have one. He gave her a cigarette and a light. Is it true you sit here when it’s raining? she said. On occasion, he said, but it’s been a long time since I have. So it wasn’t true then, she said. No, he said, but there was no way Maria could know that. But you made her out to be a liar, she said. No more than she made me out to be a liar by saying that I haven’t sat here. But that’s the truth, Vera said. Yes, but she doesn’t know that. Maybe she knows it because she knows you, said Vera. She doesn’t know me, Jakob said. Maria came out and put down three cups. She looked at Vera but didn’t say anything. She went back inside. Poor Maria, said Vera. Jakob did not reply. I’m going to have a coffee and then I’ll be off, she said. He did not reply. She put out the cigarette. Maria brought the coffee, poured it into the cups and sat down. Jakob got up and walked into the living room, down the hall, and out onto the street; he stood for a moment, then he set off toward the center of town.
He came home two hours later. Vera and Maria were sitting in the living room; they still had not switched on the lights. There you are, said Maria. Yes, he said. We were just sitting here wondering where you’d got to, said Maria. I had to buy cigarettes, he said. It was completely quiet for a time, then he said: It’s getting cloudy. Yes, Maria said, we saw that. We heard a grasshopper, said Vera. Oh? Jakob said. He glanced at her; she looked away. He took the cigarette pack out of his pocket. Would you like one? he said. No thanks, said Vera. I’ve quit again. He lit one for himself. Anyone care for a beer? he said. They did not. He went to the kitchen and fetched a bottle, took a glass, came back, and sat down. Nobody spoke. Well, I’d better be off, Vera said. You’re welcome to stay the night, said Maria. I won’t, but thanks, said Vera. After all, there’s no one waiting for you, said Maria. No, come to think of it, there isn’t, said Vera. I don’t have anyone waiting up for me. You make it sound like you feel sorry for me. Nonsense, said Maria, nobody feels sorry for you, why would anyone feel sorry for you? No, that’s what I’m saying, said Vera, so don’t ask me to stay because no one’s waiting for me. I could just as well stay even if someone were waiting for me. Yes, of course, said Maria. Vera got up. Are you leaving? said Maria. I’m going to the toilet, said Vera. Jakob followed her with his eyes. She’s so difficult, said Maria. Jakob did not reply. Maria stood up and switched on the floor lamp. And you just disappeared, she said. He did not reply. She stood beside the light; he didn’t look at her. He heard her breathing was fast and heavy, then she said: I can’t take this much longer. Right, he said. Is that all you’ve got to say, she said. He did not reply. Oh Christ, she said. Jakob heard Vera coming down the stairs. Maria switched off the light and sat down. The room was almost dark. Vera came into the living room, went over to the open veranda door, and stood looking out. Jakob got to his feet. I should be getting off before it starts to rain, said Vera. Jakob walked down the hall and into the guestroom. He closed the door. The bed was made. He stood for a few moments looking at it and felt a quiver run through him. Then he went to the window. The cloud bank had drawn very close; it split the sky in two. He pulled a chair over. He sat with his elbows resting on the windowsill looking out at the dusk. After a while he heard low voices coming from the hall, then the door being opened, then it went quiet. He did not move. Suddenly a wind swept through the leaves of the tree outside the window, and a few moments later the rain came. She didn’t make it, he thought. He tried to detect sounds in the house, but heard only the rain. It had grown almost completely dark. And all at once it went bright, and a few seconds later distant thunder could be heard. Maria will be scared now, he thought. There was more lightning and more thunder; he counted the seconds; the intervals grew shorter and shorter. She’s scared now, he thought. He got up and went to the door, opened it slightly, and listened. He stood like that for a while, then he went down the hall into the living room. Maria was not there. He went back out and up the stairs, into the bedroom. She was lying with the duvet over her head. Maria, he said. She pulled the duvet aside. She was fully dressed. I was so scared, she said. There’s nothing to be scared of, he said. I thought you’d left, she said. He went over to the window. Don’t stand there, she said, please. He saw her reflection in the pane. It’s not dangerous, he said, we have lightning rods. I know, she said, but it scares me, and it scares me even more when you stand there. He took a couple of steps back; he could still see her. She got out of bed. Looks like it’s over now, he said. I thought you had gone, she said. Where would I have gone, he said.
The Joker
One Saturday evening in late November I was at home alone with Lucy. I was sitting in the chair by the window, she was at the dining table playing patience, she’d been playing it constantly of late, I didn’t know why but figured perhaps she was worried about something. It’s so hot, she said, could you open the window a little. I agreed that it was rather warm, and moreover unseasonably mild out, so I opened it. The window faced the back garden and a small copse and I stood for a few moments listening to the rain falling softly. Maybe that was the reason, the soft rainfall and the silence, in any case what can occasionally occur did occur: that great emptiness descended, as though the very meaninglessness of existence creeps inside and unfolds within like an endless bare landscape. You can close it now, Lucy said, even though I was still standing looking out. I’m going to take a little walk, I said. Now? she said. I closed the window. Just a short stroll, I said. She continued playing patience without looking up. I went into the hall and put on the raincoat and sou’wester I usually only wear while gardening in bad weather. Maybe that’s the reason I went out to the garden instead of onto the road. I walked right to the end, where we grew winter cabbage and there was a short bench without a backrest that had been there since Lucy inherited the house. I sat in the rain and darkness looking up at the light from the windows, but due to the downward slope of the garden I couldn’t see Lucy, just the ceiling and the topmost part of the walls. After a while it grew too chilly to sit still; I got to my feet, intending to climb over the fence, walk through the copse and out onto the road by the post office. But on reaching the fence I turned, and that was when I saw Lucy’s shadow on the inside wall and a small part of the ceiling, and I couldn’t understand how that could be, where a light that could cause her shadow to fall there could be coming from. I climbed up onto the fence where it was possible to hold on to the bottom branch of a large oak tree; I balanced on the fence, stood up straight, and saw Lucy by the table, a candle burning in front of her, holding something in one hand that was also aflame, although it was impossible to see what. Then the flame went out, and Lucy stood up; as she did so it was as though the entire room fell into shadow. The next moment she’d disappeared from view. I waited a while but she didn’t return. I jumped down on the other side of the fence and went into the copse, I wondered what she had burned, I felt hoodwinked, I know that’s exactly how I felt because I pondered the thought, even wondered where the expression ‘hoodwinked’ came from. I followed the path until I came out on the gravel car park behind the post office, where I stopped and weighed up my options, then walked back the same way, which wasn’t far, only a couple of hundred meters, and then I arrived back at the fence.
