Astrid and Åsa must love me the least, the long-term absentee. Had Astrid and Åsa and Bård had a nice time at the café in Frogner Park, had they felt their sibling love for one another deep down, had they felt the ties of blood?
I sat by the river wrapped up in the big parka Lars wears for smoking, reading Rolf Jacobsen’s poems, and came across this one: Suddenly. In December. I’m up to my knees in snow. I talk to you, but there’s no reply. You’re silent. So, my darling, it has happened at last.
I sat at the partly frozen river thinking about how often I had tried to imagine Mum’s or Dad’s death, how often I had feared that I wouldn’t live to see it, that I would die before Mum and Dad. And now it had happened. Suddenly, in December. And I was overcome with gratitude: Imagine that I would live to see this.
And yet.
Did Dad have a grave? Had he been cremated, I imagine he must have been because the coffin was lowered through the floor at the chapel, to an oven so that he could be cremated, incinerated. I hadn’t asked. Mum and Dad, Astrid and Åsa had made it a tradition in recent years, Astrid had told me, to light candles on Halloween on our grandparents’ graves. I didn’t know where they were buried, I hadn’t asked. Lighting candles on our grandparents’ graves on Halloween wasn’t something we had ever done when I was a part of the family. After Bård and I were marginalised, they had started new traditions to strengthen their unity.
~
I sat by the river reading Rolf Jacobsen’s poem ‘Suddenly. In December’. How quickly it can happen, it’s like flicking a light switch. Where does it all go, the face of the deceased, the images behind her forehead, the dress she made and everything she brought to the house, it’s gone now, under the white snow, under the brown wreath.
Imagine that I would live to see this.
And yet.
I have a portrait of Anton Vindskev in the guest bedroom. Below the portrait is a sculpture of a luscious, chocolate-brown Caribbean lady smoking a cigar, just like the ones he was so infatuated with. One night I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, I got out of bed and went to the guest bedroom where I hardly ever sleep. I found a book, a conversation between the Danish poet Benny Andersen and the Danish clergyman Johannes Møllehave, which always has a calming effect on me, I started reading it and from time to time, I would glance up at the picture of Anton and remember all the times I’d been with Klara and him in Café Eiffel. I feel asleep in the early morning hours and when I woke up, I saw that Klara had called several times. When I got hold of her, she said that she had some sad news, that Anton was dead. Anton had felt unwell the night before and had gone to an out-of-hours clinic where he collapsed in the waiting room and died.
Later that same day, as I sat working at the dining table, the heavy chandelier above me started to sway. It’s Anton saying goodbye, I thought.
I went to Hamar to talk about the dramatization of Rolf Jacobsen’s poetry. I felt calm, I was well prepared, I would be staying the night so I took the dog.
As I drove along the River Glomma in beautiful winter weather underneath a blue sky in a bright light that made everything float, I felt light, bordering on happy. The traffic was light, I felt light, I checked into an almost empty hotel and took the dog for a walk, I had a beer in the bar while I reviewed my notes and walked to the theatre. There I spoke to nice people who wanted what was best for one another, who wanted what was best for me, that was how it felt, we discussed the challenges of turning poetry into drama and I became better informed, I thought, and went back to the hotel, it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet, the evening was mild and dark. I took the dog for another walk, and sat in the restaurant, the only guest. The kitchen hadn’t closed, they put a candle on my table and lit it, I drank red wine, I looked out at the snow which glittered and glistened in the yellow glow of streetlights outside the window, I had Atlantic cod and I relaxed, it was over. I had said my piece, I had got it off my chest, my heart was unburdened, I thought: Imagine that I would live to see this.
I slept well. I woke up to a morning in Hamar just as bright as the one before. I walked the dog in the snow and ate a delicious breakfast in the hotel dining room with three other guests. Fried eggs and fruit with yoghurt, while I gazed at the snow outside and the snow-covered, undulating ridges on the horizon. I drank coffee with hot milk and read the newspapers, I drank more steaming hot coffee with milk and read the newspapers, just to waste time. I had no plans for the weekend except for thinking deep thoughts about the theme for the next issue of On Stage.
As I left to drive to Lars’s house in the woods knowing that the weekend lay free ahead of me, that the road lay open ahead of me—there was practically no traffic—between calm, white snowdrifts under a shining sun, I thought: Imagine that I would live to see this.
Anton Vindskev was dead, and Anton’s many possessions had been orphaned. Anton’s purple boots missed him as did all of his funny hats that couldn’t be worn by anyone but him. Klara tried to console Anton’s purple boots and Anton’s fishing hat and all of Anton’s clothes and the other things in his flat, but they were inconsolable.
Anton was to be buried in Norway and Klara returned from Copenhagen one cold and miserable day in February. We went to the funeral together. It’s a dress rehearsal for our own, she said, and grew sad at the thought that only one of us would experience the other’s, it would have been such fun to go to it together. But that’s life, or rather, that’s death. She was practising the art of losing, she said, given that it was inevitable. You ought to lose in style and with good grace. She listed everything she had lost recently, and I was impressed that she could remember it all, keys and wallets and make-up bags and mobile phones and earplugs and necklaces and her late father’s cufflinks and apartments and cabins and cats, and now also Anton Vindskev. Just today, the day of the funeral, she had lost a Visa card, her hearing aid and her glasses so that she couldn’t read the words of the hymns we were singing or hear the eulogies which were given. She practised losing with style and good grace and not ruining today by mourning yesterday’s losses or fearing tomorrow’s potential losses, to be like the lilies of the field and the birds of the heaven, which are present in the now, silent and obedient, to gather moments of joy with which she could warm herself if times got tough, she had a feeling that times might get tough.
Bård called and asked where I was, I had mentioned that I was going to San Sebastian. I said that I was in Lars’s house in the woods.
So you’re in the country? He laughed, a little forced.
Astrid had called him. They had found an envelope in Dad’s safe. On the front it said that it was to be opened with all his children present. They were hoping to open it at eight o’clock the following evening. Bård had said that he thought I was in San Sebastian, but it would appear that I wasn’t. I was in Lars’s house in the woods and could I, in theory, be at Bråteveien at eight o’clock the following evening?
Yes.
He said that Astrid feared that the contents related to me. That the letter from Dad, which was to be opened with all his children present, was about me. I could see why she was worried, but I didn’t think for a moment that it would be.
Bård thought it might say that Dad had killed someone during the war. At times we had wondered about it. I think I might even have overheard something to that effect when I was little, that Dad had hit a child with his car. But later I’d thought that it was displacement, something less dangerous and easier to live with, that he ran over child once, that it was another child and not me.
Bård said it was most likely to do with investments, possibly a secret bank account in Switzerland.
~
They hadn’t opened it. Bård had asked them outright if they had and they assured him that they hadn’t, that they intended to comply with Dad’s instruction that all his children must be present. They had probably found it together. They were clearing out the house in Bråteveien prior to it being sold and sorting out Dad’s things, Dad’s clothi
ng and Dad’s spectacles and slippers and underwear, which might be missing Dad and be inconsolable, it must be strange to go through a close and recently deceased person’s most intimate possessions, but perhaps it was also a fine thing to do. I wondered what they had done with his things. They had been sorting through Dad’s stuff, found the code for Dad’s safe, and had opened it together. If Mum had discovered that letter on her own, she would have opened it regardless of what it said on the front, out of sheer terror, but they found it together and no one had dared to say what the three of them were presumably thinking and wanted to do, which was to open it! So that they could destroy it, in case it said something that reflected badly on them. If Mum had discovered it on her own, she would have opened it, and if it had said something which reflected badly on her, she would have destroyed it. But they found it together and none of them dared to suggest that they open it without Bård and me being present because whoever did so would be admitting to fears about Dad’s relationship with Bård and me, and none of them wanted to admit to harbouring such fears. Besides, the envelope might contain information which must be shared with Bård and me, and then it would come out, it would become known that they had opened it against Dad’s, the deceased’s, expressed wish and that would be awkward. But couldn’t they open it in such a way that they could reseal it? Mum was capable of suggesting it, I thought, should it prove necessary to share the contents with Bård and me. And if it didn’t prove necessary to involve Bård and me, but the contents still reflected badly on them, then they could destroy it. Mum was capable of suggesting that they open the envelope to see what it contained, and if it was something which had to be shared with Bård and me, they could tear up the envelope and say that they had found the letter in the safe without mentioning that it had been sealed inside an envelope on which it was written that it must be opened with everyone present. But if something in the letter itself referred to the envelope with its instruction that it must be opened with all his children present, then they would have been found out. It was best to follow Dad’s instruction, they must have concluded, they still had great respect for Dad’s wishes and so would put off opening the envelope until all his children were present. Mum could hardly wait. Bård said that Astrid had said that Mum had gone crazy on discovering the envelope, completely hysterical, she desperately wanted it opened as soon as possible, tomorrow evening at eight o’clock, and luckily I was in Norway so it was possible. What did Mum fear? What did Mum hope for? That the solution to our problems lay inside the envelope? That Dad admitted and apologised for beating Bård and sexually abusing me, but exonerated Mum and said that she had known nothing about it? Tomorrow evening at eight o’clock in Bråteveien. I wasn’t doing anything the following day other than pack for San Sebastian, I said that I would be there.
Perhaps it’s an explanation, Bård said, as to why Dad was the way he was.
The very thing that Mum might be hoping for was Astrid’s and Åsa’s worst nightmare. They didn’t believe Bård and me, they had had enough of Bård and especially me, their big sister who had always got so much attention, and now on top of everything else they might also be expected to feel sorry for me.
Throughout their childhoods Astrid but even more Åsa had suffered from their love for Mum, who initially rejected them because she was unhealthily obsessed with me, before she fell in love with Rolf Sandberg. Åsa had once said she believed that her life would have been completely different if Mum had sat on her bed, chatting to her every night like she did with me. That was because Åsa didn’t know what Mum said to me when she perched on my bed and because she didn’t know why Mum apparently favoured me.
Åsa had been jealous of me and no wonder; for years Mum saw only me, cared only about me. Where is Bergljot? Why isn’t Bergljot back yet?
Astrid suffered less from Mum’s neglect, Åsa suffered more. On the day she finished secondary school, Åsa proudly came home with her school report. She had done extremely well in all subjects, especially in Norwegian, and she was looking forward to showing the report to Mum, who merely glanced at it, before resuming telling me off for being fifteen minutes late coming back from something or other, did I have any idea how awful those endless fifteen minutes had been for Mum? I didn’t, nor did I know how hurt Åsa must have been when Mum merely glanced at her school report before turning her attention back to me. I remember that moment, Åsa’s sad eyes, young Åsa’s crushing disappointment, Åsa on the verge of tears, no wonder Åsa hated me, the domineering big sister who took up so much room in the house, monopolising Mum. But now Åsa had Mum to herself at last. Åsa had yearned for Mum for all these years, and now she had finally got her. Åsa and Astrid had got Mum now and had had Mum to themselves for years. Astrid was exasperated that Bård at nearly sixty was still angry about how Dad had treated him as a child, was still obsessing about his childhood, but she didn’t realise that she and Åsa were also stuck in their childhoods, the overlooked younger siblings who at long last had got Mum and Dad’s full attention.
What I had hoped for was that they would come to see that the fault lay with Mum. That Mum’s obsession with me was her own responsibility, that Mum was a grown-up and I was just a child back then. Even though Mum was childish, infantilised by Dad, at that stage she was our mother and we were her children. I had hoped that they would realise that it wasn’t me who had caused them this very real pain, but Mum who had been thoughtless and in thrall to her own fears. But they wouldn’t appear to realise or accept that. Astrid and Åsa acted and spoke as if Mum and Dad had been great parents, while Bård and I had been and continued to be wicked and ungrateful children.
Bård was hoping for an explanation as to why Dad was the way he was. It would be easier to accept that Dad had been the man he was if only we knew the reason.
Oh God, Klara said, he probably has other children.
Søren was hoping for a Swiss bank account, Tale for a confession, Ebba wasn’t bothered, but thought I should prepare myself for the worst. Lars warned me not to get my hopes up, that I was likely to be disappointed. After all, that’s all you’ve ever had from that front.
I cleaned the house and prepared for the worst. I turned on the dishwasher and imagined how I would enter Bråteveien where I hadn’t set foot in fifteen years. Would we sit in Dad’s study? Who would sit in the boss’s chair, Dad’s chair, would Mum? Who would open the envelope, would Mum? I imagined the envelope on Dad’s, now Mum’s, giant desk with Dad’s distinctive, slanted, masculine handwriting: To be opened with all my children present. In the green leather Chesterfield which used to be in the living room in Skaus vei and which had been put in Dad’s study when the family moved to the more impressive house in Bråteveien. Unless it had been replaced in the last fifteen years, it might well have been. Mum in the boss’s chair behind the mahogany desk, us siblings on the green leather Chesterfield in front of the fireplace in Dad’s study. I emptied the dishwasher and hung up the laundry. If it turned out to be about me, if he had wanted to say something to me, he could simply have written me a letter, a letter just for me. To be handed to Bergljot after my death. But it would be unlike him to leave a confession in his safe in case he died unexpectedly, falling down the stairs, say. No, that would be unlike him, I had known him quite well once in my own way. And, besides, what good would a confession do after years of denial, it wouldn’t be worth much to me except that I could say: There you are, didn’t I tell you so! He was no fool and would have realised that a posthumous confession couldn’t compensate for years of denial. Given that he had denied it for all those years, he might as well maintain his denial in death, he didn’t believe in God. Or perhaps he wants everyone to know, Tale suggested, that you’re not a liar, a mad woman. Perhaps that’s what it is. Offer me rehabilitation after his death? It seemed improbable, it was more likely to be paperwork relating to the sale of their house in Italy.
I hoped to dream about the answer but slept without dreaming. I felt calmer when I woke up. I had braced myse
lf for a broken night and expected to feel anxious when I woke up, but I was calm, was that in itself an answer? Did it mean that I didn’t have to fear the contents of the envelope? I prepared for the worst, imagined how I would arrive at Bråteveien where I hadn’t set foot in fifteen years and be shown into Dad’s, now Mum’s, study, and sit down on the green leather Chesterfield next to people who a few days ago had berated me most harshly, my enemies who outnumbered me and were on their home turf. We would open the letter. What would be most in keeping with Dad, I asked myself, as I beat the rugs. What meant the most to him, I asked myself, as I scoured the bathroom. Honour and legacy, I replied, and prepared myself for the worst. Some charge levied at me, the liar, the psychopath who had fabricated stories and accused him of the worst crime a human being can be accused of, to get attention, to use Mum’s expression or the expression they might have used about me when they were together. Because I clearly wasn’t all that interesting to begin with. I had ruined the last twenty-three years of Dad’s life with my lies. An aggressive letter directed at me, a closing argument for the defence, I prepared myself for the worst. I noted down a few things to say in the worst-case scenario: He doesn’t give up. I’ll say that for him. He’s consistent to the end, he wants control, even in death, he wants to be right, he fights on even in death. But I’m a fighter, too, and just as stubborn as he is, I guess it’s in my genes. Besides, I have the advantage of being alive.
Will and Testament Page 19
