Everything Like Before, page 12
I took my time in the hall, and when I came in she was playing patience again. She looked up from the cards and sent me a little smile. There was no candle on the table and no remnants of burnt paper in the ashtray. Well? she said. It’s raining, I replied. You already knew that, she said. Yes, I answered. I sat down by the window. I looked out at the garden but saw only the reflection of the room and of Lucy. After a while, without looking up from the cards and in a quite normal tone of voice, she said: I only need to pinch myself to know that I exist. This statement was brief and to the point, even for Lucy, and when I wholly perceived it as an accusation, I ascribe that to the feeling I had of being hoodwinked, a feeling not lessened on my returning to find all traces of what I had seen from the garden fence erased. I was on the verge of a sarcastic reply but bit my tongue. I said nothing, didn’t even turn my head, but continued gazing at her reflection in the windowpane. She began gathering the cards, but still did not look up. I felt quite stony-faced. She put the deck of cards in the box and stood up, slowly. She looked at me. I couldn’t turn around, I was completely fixed in my own aggrievement. She said: Poor you, Joachim. Then she left. I heard her turn on the tap in the kitchen, followed by the sound of the bedroom door closing, then it went quiet. I don’t know how long I sat bitterly chewing on her last words, several minutes perhaps, but eventually my thoughts took another direction. I got up and went over to the fireplace. It was just as empty of ashes as it had been earlier in the day. I wanted to go to the kitchen and check the rubbish bin, but the thought of Lucy unexpectedly walking in gave me pause. So what if she did? I said to myself, after all, she doesn’t know that I saw her. I opened the cupboard door below the sink and atop the rubbish in the bin lay the charred corner of a playing card. I picked it up, turned it this way and that, confused and at a loss. The questions jumbled in my mind: had she gone and fetched a candle to set a card alight? One of the same cards she’d been playing patience with? Why a candle? Why burn a card? Why had she put the candle back where it was? Which card? I might be able to find an answer to the last question; I dropped the burnt remains of the card back into the bin and went to the living room. The pack of cards lay on the table, I took out the deck and counted them, fifty-three. There was only one joker. She had burned a joker. I looked at the one that was still intact: a winking jester producing an ace of hearts from up his sleeve. I slipped the card into my pocket with a vague feeling of getting even, then put the deck back in the box.
When I went to bed an hour later, Lucy was asleep. I lay awake for a long time, and the next morning I remembered everything. It was raining. I tried to act as though it were a normal Sunday morning but wasn’t able. We ate breakfast in silence, that is to say, Lucy made a couple of mundane remarks but I made no reply. Then she said: You don’t have to sit there saying nothing for my sake. At this I saw red. I was sitting with a knife in my hand and I brought the handle so hard down on the plate that it cracked. Then I stood up and on my way out of the room I shouted: Poor you, Joachim, poor you, Joachim!
I returned home several hours later. I’d planned on saying that I was sorry for being unable to control myself. The entire house lay in darkness. I switched on the lights. There was a sheet of paper on the kitchen table that said: Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow or another day. Lucy
That was how she went out of my life. After eight years. At first I refused to believe it, I was certain that once she had a little time she’d realize she needed me just as much as I needed her. But I now know she didn’t realize that, and just have to accept it, she wasn’t the person I thought she was.
The Nail in the Cherry Tree
Mom was standing in the small back garden, a long time ago now, I was a lot younger then. She was hammering a long nail into the trunk of the cherry tree, I saw her from the second-storey window, it was a humid, overcast day in August, I saw her hang the hammer up on the long nail, before walking to the wooden fence at the end of the garden where she stood, quite motionless, looking out over the extended treeless plain, for a long time. I walked downstairs and out into the garden, I didn’t like her just standing there, there was no telling what she’d see. I went over and stood beside her. She touched my arm, looked up at me and smiled. She had been crying. She smiled and said: I can’t take it, Nicolay. No, I said. We walked up to the house and into the kitchen, and just then Sam arrived. He complained about the heat, and Mom put on the kettle. The windows were open. Sam was telling Mom about a bed that was giving his wife a sore back, and I went upstairs, up to Sam’s room, as it was called, since he was the eldest and the first one to have his own room. I stood in the middle of Sam’s room letting time pass, and then I went back down. Sam was talking about an outboard engine. Mom put some sugar in her tea and stirred and stirred with the spoon. Sam wiped his neck with a blue handkerchief, I couldn’t stand to look at him, I told Mom I was off to buy tobacco, and I took my time, but when I got back he was still sitting there. He was talking about the funeral, about how the priest had found just the right words. You think? Mom said. I asked Sam how old his son was. He looked at me. Seven, he said, you know that. I didn’t answer, he continued looking at me, and Mom got up and brought the cups to the sink. So he’ll be starting school, I said. Of course, he said, everyone starts school when they’re seven. Yes, I replied, I know. I got up and walked into the hall, up the stairs and into Sam’s room, my head felt like it was at the bottom of a lake. I put the tobacco pouch into my suitcase, locked it and pocketed the key. No, I said to myself. I opened the suitcase again, took out the tobacco pouch, took the other pouch out of my pocket, and walked down to the kitchen with both of them in my hand. Sam stopped talking. Mom was drying the dishes with a red-check tea towel. I sat down, put both pouches on the table, and rolled a cigarette. Sam looked at me. There was silence for a long time, then Mom began to hum. What about you, Sam said, you’re still at the same thing? Yes, I said. I’ll never get it, he said. Grown men writing poetry. Not doing anything else, I mean. Now, now, Sam, Mom said. But I don’t get it, Sam said. That’s understandable, I said. I got up and went out to the garden. It was too small for me, I climbed over the fence and began walking across the plain. I wanted to be visible, but from a distance. I walked about eighty, ninety, maybe one hundred meters, then came to a halt and turned around. I could see half of Sam’s car to the right of the house. The air was quite still. I hardly felt a thing. I stood looking at the house and the car for a long time, maybe a quarter of an hour, maybe longer, until Sam drove away, I didn’t see him, only the car. Mom came out into the garden immediately after, and when I saw that she’d seen me, I walked back. She said Sam had to be off, he said to give you his regards. You don’t say, I said. He is your brother, she said. Ah Mom, I said. She shook her head and smiled. I asked if she wanted to have a rest, and she did. We went in. She stopped in the middle of the room. She opened her mouth wide, as if she wanted to scream, or as though she needed air, then she closed it again and said in a feeble voice: I don’t think I can get over it, Nicolay. I just want to die. I put my arms around her frail, bony shoulders. Mom, I said. I just want to die, she repeated. Yes, Mom, I said. I led her to the sofa, she was crying, I laid the blanket over her legs, her eyes were squeezed shut and she wept loudly, I sat on the edge of the sofa, looked at the tears and thought of Dad, that she must have loved him. I placed my hand on her bosom, in a way I was aware of what I was doing, and she stopped squeezing her eyes, but didn’t open them. Oh Nicolay, she said. Sleep, Mom, I said. I didn’t take my hand away. After a while, her breathing was steady, and I got up, went into the hall, up the stairs and into Sam’s room. The train wasn’t leaving for almost five hours, but I was sure she would understand. I packed my suitcase, putting the black suit in last. My head felt like it was in a large room. I went down the stairs and out the door. I walked the whole way to the station, it was quite far, but I had plenty of time. I walked along thinking that she must have loved Dad, and that Sam…that she probably loved him too. And I thought: it doesn’t matter.
The Other Dream
I came outside one day and saw they had torn down the house next door. I hadn’t noticed anything, but then fortunately I’m hard of hearing. It was a strange spectacle, even with my poor eyesight. It had been a big house with many rooms, now all the rooms were gone, reduced to a surprisingly modest pile of bricks and splintered wood.
The empty space so surprised and preoccupied me that I became sidetracked and forgot why I had gone out, so I went back inside.
I took the stairs. It was good to have a sit down afterwards; sometimes your efforts are rewarded: I fell asleep. It’s a pleasant state, although often too short-lived.
As was the case this time.
* * *
—
I think I hear somebody place a hand on the doorknob, but I can’t be sure, my partial deafness often leads me to imagine things.
Then there’s a knock at the door.
At first I pretend to think it’s the usual dream, not the other one.
But then there’s a second knock.
I don’t want to open. I got over feeling guilty about letting people go away empty-handed long ago. I remain sitting perfectly still in the chair for a long time.
Then there’s a third knock.
Now I can’t possibly open, whether I want to or not. Even so, I have to admit, I grow a little anxious.
Forced by this feeling of unease, I get up quietly and move towards the hall, but before getting too far I hear the door opening. I know it was locked.
I hurry to sit back down.
I’m afraid.
I have no defense against physical force. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep; God knows where that idea came from. I hear footsteps. They come closer. Then stop.
I don’t open my eyes, I want to give him time, and thus avoid him doing anything rash.
I can feel the quivering of my eyelids and the pounding of my blood.
After the Funeral Service
My brother’s funeral service took place on March 6th. It was a Tuesday. He’d been dead nine days by then. That’s far too long, I think.
It had rained a little every day but on Tuesday morning the sky was blue. I called up Maria to say I wasn’t going, that I’d fallen ill.
Maria’s my sister. She didn’t believe me. At first she said I was being a coward, then she began to beg and plead.
For my sake, she said, please.
I didn’t answer. I heard her crying.
Are you crying? I asked.
Please, she said, I can’t take any more.
Then I told her I’d go after all.
* * *
—
The funeral service was at eleven. I’ve attended four burials or cremations before but never so early in the day. I was at Father’s, because he died before Mother, and I went to that for Mother’s sake. I wasn’t at my mother’s, she was dead after all. I couldn’t take it, I loved her so very much.
So why should I attend Karl’s – for Maria’s sake, I suppose. I am quite fond of her as well.
So I went.
There were four men standing outside the small chapel. I only saw them from a distance. I looked down as I walked past them, and continued looking down as I made my way between the rows of benches to the front, knowing that was where the next of kin sit.
Maria had kept a place for me. I sat between her and Henriette, Mother’s sister. She took my hand and held it awhile. She’s over seventy years old.
Maria’s two children were sitting on her other side, as was their father, that is to say Maria’s husband. He’s a shopkeeper. The children do not resemble either of them, perhaps because Maria and her husband, Kristian, are so different. Neither do the two children resemble one another. Personally, I would have preferred to resemble Mother, but I don’t.
A few minutes passed, then a low deep tone came from the organ, followed by some notes of a higher pitch that lay on top of the deeper one. It was so beautiful, and I pictured a large, placid lake surrounded by green trees. Then the sound began to swell, rippling the surface of the water and bending the trees in the wind. The priest was rather young. He was dark-haired and had a high-pitched voice. He spoke about Karl as though he knew him. He talked about the seemingly chance events leading to Karl being where he was at that exact time, and how that also went for the man in the oncoming car. He didn’t elaborate on why he’d said seemingly, even though that had to be the word that was supposed to give the sentence meaning.
It wasn’t a particularly good speech and nobody took to tears, not even when he said that we, the bereaved, must not hold in our inevitable, life-giving grief.
They were the exact words he used. I didn’t understand them, which is why I remember.
* * *
—
It was easier, in a sense, to leave the chapel than it had been to enter, even though those of us on the front row of benches went first, which meant the people sitting behind had a good view of us. Perhaps it was due to the organ music.
I walked beside Henriette. She had wanted to be alongside me. She’s twice as old as me. She lives just fifty meters from where I do. I live on the third floor of an old apartment building, she’s on the first floor of a neighboring block, only a parking lot, a wire fence, and some rather high linden trees separate the two buildings. In autumn and winter, as well as early spring, before any leaves appear on the trees, I can see her when she’s standing by the cooker or sitting at the kitchen table. She’s aware of that, I told her once, and she said: That’s nice to know.
When we emerged into the harsh light all I wanted to do was get away, so I told Henriette I’d like to go to Mother’s grave.
May I join you? she asked.
We walked along the side of the chapel and past the church. The graveyard is situated on a south-facing slope between tall, straight pine trees that cast large shadows.
Are you often here? Henriette asked.
No, I said, are you?
No, she replied.
As we stood by the grave, Henriette said: I suppose this is where Karl will be laid to rest now.
Did Maria say that? I asked.
No, but it would be only natural. It is a family plot after all.
I don’t want to be buried here, I said.
You don’t?
Do you want to be buried here? I asked.
I don’t know. Do you think I should be?
I made no reply. Then I said: You were very fond of Mother, weren’t you?
Oh yes. I loved her very much.
Do you think they’re gone now? I asked.
I can’t see them, she said, but if you want we can go through the gate at the bottom of the graveyard.
Georg
I’d known Georg in passing, from about four or five years back. I was sitting by myself sober, with a beer. He walked over from another table and sat down without asking. He did however ask if I could buy him a beer.
No, I said.
He ordered one all the same.
You’re on a bender, I said.
For the last four months, he replied.
I didn’t say anything. He said I was a decent sort.
Sure, I said.
You know why? he said.
No, I said.
Doesn’t make any difference, he said.
He asked again if I could stand him a beer.
No, I said.
The waiter arrived with the beer. Georg paid. Then he picked up my tobacco pouch and tried to roll a cigarette. He couldn’t manage and it ended up all over the tablecloth so I rolled one for him.
While I was doing that, he asked me what went through my mind when I woke up one day and it was all over, and I lay in bed and knew it was all over, and just lay there, longing for her to come back, what went through my head then?
Felt sorry for myself, I said.
You’re honest, he said.
I made no reply.
Am I in the way? he asked.
Of what? I said.
Good one, he said, good one.
I didn’t say anything; I thought: best to leave.
Seen Inger at all?
Inger? I said.
The woman you were married to, for fuck’s sake!
No, I said, not for about six months.
Can I ask you something? he said. You don’t have to answer but can I ask you something?
Ask away, I said.
You’ve always been so damned good at talking, he said, you always say the right things and forever have some clever answer at the ready. But there were times, when you were still together with Inger, that she’d come over and ask me if I thought you meant what you said.
And? I said.
No, that was it.
You were going to ask me something, I said.
I have asked, he said, don’t you get it?
Will you buy me a beer? he said.
No, I said.
