A House in Norway

by Vigdis Hjorth

  She drove to the ski track, but found it impossible to go on it, she didn’t know what to do with herself. She drove around aimlessly until darkness fell. She didn’t want to drive home and park, so they would see her car and know that she was in. She wanted to wait until they turned off their lights, usually just after ten o’clock, so she drove around aimlessly listening to some idiotic radio station, then at ten thirty she drove home as quietly as she could, let herself in, it was late, but she was unable to sleep. She closed the curtains in her studio, lit a fire and drank red wine to cool her rage, relieve the frustration, dampen down her fire. She had to do something, but what? She tried reading, but was unable to concentrate. She wanted to ring her boyfriend, but she didn’t dare, she was that agitated, so on edge, so emotionally fraught that she knew he would be upset because he never, ever, no matter what kind of drama he created, roused her to such extremes, what was it about the Pole? She searched all the papers she could lay her hands on to find the relevant agreement, which didn’t mention the deposit, but couldn’t find it, couldn’t find it, all she had was the stupid agreement with Alan, which was worthless. She searched through piles of completely different papers, personal notes, letters and bank statements, and still couldn’t find it. She decided that when the Pole had left with her child in the morning, when there were no cars in the drive, she would let herself into the apartment and find the folder the Pole had waved under her nose, find the agreement, take it back to her own place and take a copy before returning it. It was evidence, it was the solution. Let herself in when they had gone out, find the folder and the contract, take a copy and put it back where she had found it, it would take less than five minutes, and she had to do it quickly before the Pole got it into her head to rip it up or burn it, so only the useless Alan agreement remained. She had to do it as soon as the Poles had left, and as quickly as possible so that she wouldn’t bump into Alan, if he came back unexpectedly, it was impossible to know when he would be around. The Poles weren’t the only ones with a plan. Now she had a plan too. She got worked up over her plan. She couldn’t sleep because of her plan. She was excited about carrying out her plan. She dreaded carrying out her plan. But without that document she had nothing, she realised that night as she stared into the flames in her studio. Tomorrow, she would go there early tomorrow morning when they had left, she mustn’t oversleep. It was almost four o’clock now, so it was better not to go to bed and risk not waking up in time, but sit here keeping watch since she couldn’t sleep anyway. She went over to the window and twitched the curtain, both cars were there, Alan’s where she had asked them not to park, of course it was, they had no shame, and again she felt the rage swell in her breast, again she opened the incendiary text message and read it over and over, and she hated them. Threatening to set the police on Alma, referring to the apartment as ‘my house’ one month after she had given notice, after not paying rent. And that idiot Alan with his inflated Polish self-esteem, he was probably a notorious criminal with that disdain for law-abiding citizens that characterises all criminals and with it the contempt for independent women that macho Poles have because they don’t really believe them, don’t take them seriously, don’t think they can offer any resistance, they think they can bully them into submission; suddenly she thought she understood how ridiculous Alan must find her, how little he imagined that she could stand up for herself, how he thought that Alma’s equality was superficial, not real, but just you wait, she thought, feeling that the rage surging in her now was just as strong as what she had experienced when she first read the text message, but warmer, deeper, not so highly pitched, not so shrill, a calmer, more smouldering rage mixed with a strong portion of contempt and revenge for the stupid, conceited pseudo-dangerous Alan with the ugly, chipped canine tooth which might intimidate someone who didn’t know better, and the stupid Polish woman with her too heavy make-up and those ridiculous, old-fashioned curlers, trying to make herself look pretty for her criminal boyfriend. Their pathetic, hideous, old bangers that blighted her drive and the cheap toys for their little pink kid, their sense of entitlement, the whole of their stupid Norway project when they understood sod all, and respected sod all, and yet thought they could browbeat Alma, threaten Alma, but I’m not scared of you, Alan, you bastard, she said into the flames over and over, and it felt good and true, she really wasn’t scared of him any more, just mad at him for thinking that she could be played, that she was fragile and couldn’t stand up for herself, I’m not scared of you, you bastard, she said into the flames in a louder voice, wanting to go up there and shout it at him through the wall, I’m not scared of you, you bastard. Who do you think you are, and who do you think you’re dealing with here, she asked into the air and decided to show him what she was made of, it was almost five o’clock and she was determined not to go to bed because she was going to let herself in when they left in the morning and she would have the contract in just a few hours. She went up to the room that backed onto the apartment where her daughter would normally sleep, it was empty now, of course it was; she entered the darkness and whispered into the connecting wall, I’m not scared of you, you bastard, and the temptation to shout it out loud was great because she knew they were sleeping only half a metre away, less even when she walked right up to the wall and pressed her ear against it, and she knew that the headboard of her tenant’s double bed was in her direction, so only thirty centimetres separated their heads now, their ears from her mouth, and she felt a strong urge to shout: I’m not scared of you, you bastard, and you don’t know who you’re dealing with, Alan, but knew that if she did, then she would seem crazy and thus lose her advantage, but the urge to scream that he had no idea who he was dealing with was overwhelming, and she felt so powerful right now, utterly invincible because the bastard didn’t know who he was dealing with, who he had picked on, but she was going to show him, he would soon feel it, she felt a great urge to teach him a lesson, appear to him in all her might, she wanted to fight and she wanted to win; she listened and she kept listening out for sounds, but they were fast asleep in there, for now, yes, for now, but they didn’t know that the enemy was close by, they were sleeping for now, sleeping for now, but just you wait, Alma thought, then she ran down to fetch the radio from her bedroom, the radio from the basement, which she listened to when she tidied up, the radio from her bathroom, and the radio from the kitchen, and she lined them up as close as she could to the shared wall and tuned them to between stations where there was the most noise and turned the volume to maximum. They generated a truly dreadful racket; she backed out of the room and closed the door, quite startled, but they deserved that, she told herself, the traitors deserved that, now they would finally see what they had taken on, what Alma was capable of. She ran down to the hall to check that her front door was locked, then down to the laundry basement to check that the new lock on the door was also locked, what were they going to do, they must surely be awake by now. She was unable to stay upstairs on the first floor near the radios, or in her studio where the noise was also unbearable, so she armed herself with two heavy knives and barricaded herself in the corner of her cloakroom, she lay down in the chest where she kept old woollies and waited vigilantly, her body tense and her eyes wide open in the darkness, ready for Alan to hack his way in with an axe, break in with a crowbar, smash a window with a rock, force his way into the house, vandalising and destroying it before finding her and killing her, she was prepared for a great battle, almost longing for its violence, for release.

  It didn’t come. They didn’t come. Nothing happened. They must have found a way of putting up with it. They must really have had a plan and stuck to it, ultimately that was admirable. She woke up about nine, she had fallen asleep from exhaustion though she hadn’t wanted to; she staggered upstairs, turned off the radios and a sudden, overwhelming silence ensued. Both their cars were gone, then she remembered her plan from yesterday and realised that if she were to do it, execute it, then she had to act now, without thinking, whil
e she was still woozy from lack of sleep, from the noise and the wine. She went outside, walked up to the apartment and with a pounding heart let herself in, entered the hall, went upstairs to the living room; the place was empty. The folders and the papers were gone, the laptop and the television were gone, the pictures were gone, a few bits of furniture remained, pretty much the same quantity as when she originally rented out the apartment as furnished. The bedroom had been cleared out, as had the kitchen. Only a few boxes of toys had been left behind. They must have moved out little by little, by stealth, in order to keep her on the rack, so that she would ultimately get so desperate that she paid up. It explained why Alan had come and gone several times a day, but without her ever seeing him with a box, he had been cunning, he had done a thorough job, she would have to grant him that, but Alma only cared about the end result: they had moved out.

  She staggered back to her own place. They were gone at last. They wouldn’t be coming back; they couldn’t sleep there a single night, given how empty it was. Her night time act of terror seemed excessive now, but they had forced her to do it, she told herself by way of consolation as she trembled. Then she got a text message from the chairman of the Constitution committee asking how her work would be submitted. Would she be bringing it herself? Would it need picking up? She didn’t reply, had no idea, she could barely cope with being at home, she didn’t want to be there in case they came back to pick up what little remained, in case they knocked on her door and blamed her for the night, called the police and charged her with breaking all tenancy rules, but she was too drunk to drive anywhere. She switched off all the lights, turned off her mobile, went to bed and pulled the duvet over her head. When she felt almost sober, much later that afternoon, she called her boyfriend and asked if she could come over to his place, spend the night with him, something she otherwise never did so he was surprised, but said that was fine, he understood that something had happened, but she didn’t have the energy to tell him about her night. I don’t have anything to drink, he said, but that was fine, she said, because she mustn’t drink, she didn’t want to wake up tomorrow as shaky as she was today.

  When she got there, they drank tea and she told him about her night and of course he was shocked, any normal person would be, Alma too. But at least they’ve gone, he said. Yes, now they’ve gone, Alma said, and snuggled up to him in order to survive.

  The next morning she woke up in bright March light and felt relatively calm. Her boyfriend had gone to work, his children to university and school, she was alone and yesterday – not to mention the previous night – already seemed unreal. What a difference bright daylight can make. She made coffee, went out on the terrace in the sunshine, it felt like spring. She drank coffee and read the paper; they wrote about many strange things, the world really was a very big place. She drove home to herself without her heart beating particularly fast. However, as she came closer, and especially when she rounded the corner, it not surprisingly skipped a few beats, but if they had burned down her house in her absence, surely someone would have called her. Besides she didn’t think that about the Pole. Truth be told, she thought that the Pole tried to be a decent human being, to live an ordinary, decent life, and quite right, the house lay nice and quiet in the forest, almost boring without cars on the drive. She parked and walked up to the apartment, she listened. No people, no cat, though the smart letter box was still on the ground next to her own. Perhaps they had moved to a flat in an apartment block with communal letter boxes on the ground floor, she thought, and got images in her mind she didn’t want to entertain. She let herself in and there was a strong smell of the Pole, a mix of air freshener and perfume, which might be intended to drown out the smell of cigarettes. It was very hot in there as usual, the radiators were turned on full. She turned them off and unplugged them. Looked at the remaining furniture, threadbare and scratched. She had no inventory of what had originally been there when she first rented it out to the Poles more than six years ago. Writing an inventory, like the deposit, was something which had been put off and then forgotten. Now when she thought about how much stuff they had crammed into the small space, it was incredible that they had managed to move everything out so quickly and without her noticing. Then again when she stood in the hall shouting at the Pole, she had been so upset that she hadn’t noticed if things were different from normal. And though the apartment might not have been cleaned thoroughly, it was neat and tidy; the tiny floral coffee cups she remembered from her first visit were set out as decoration on the shelf between the cupboards in the ancient kitchen. She opened the drawers and saw a couple of forks, a tea strainer. The small cabinet in the bathroom had been emptied, the loo seat was broken, the shower curtain stained, but they were gone, and that was all that mattered. In the small living room there was an enormous, hideous battered corner sofa. She had never noticed it until now due to all the other things crammed in there; it had to go as did the chandelier which hung heavy, almost dragging down the ceiling, making the living room seem even smaller. The whole apartment was gloomy, tiny, tired-looking, she couldn’t possibly rent it out again without a thorough renovation. Ah well, she thought, at least they’ve gone.

  She walked around the house; the car tyres, the trampoline, all the toys were gone, the door to the shed was open, and inside was a box of their Christmas decorations, a strange lamp, a moth-eaten rug, a damaged child’s chair, all the things she had hoped they would take with them, a baby’s plastic bath tub, Izabela had once been so small that she could bathe in it, the kind of plastic seat you put on the lavatory when you potty train a child, Slawomira had struggled with that all on her own, Alma remembered the little girl in the snow by the car with small puffs of air coming out of her mouth like smoke. Ah well, at least they were gone.

  She went back to her own house, to her studio. The chairman of the Constitution committee had sent her an email with the same questions he had asked in his text message, if she would be bringing the picture herself and how. Strictly speaking, it should have been submitted today. She needed the weekend, she wrote, and she hoped that it was OK if she brought it in on Monday. She didn’t have the energy to take it out or to work on it. She could always tell from the way she felt, if it was that kind of day. It was about the fine motor skills in her fingers. She decided that she might as well clean the windows, something which had been on her to do list for spring, so she cleaned one window. And tomorrow she would add the few little black bombs of unknown knowledge she still had to incorporate. It was manageable, probably just a few hours’ work. However, she had no sense of the gratitude she normally experienced just before she finished a picture. Or the emptiness either. Fortunately her boyfriend was coming over because today was a Friday and she needed to go to the shops and get some food and cook and change the bed linen and do other ordinary Friday things. Her children rang to ask how the Poles were doing; she had involved them greatly in the saga. They’ve moved out, she said, and felt stupid that she couldn’t offer them a more spectacular finish, and her children did indeed sound disappointed. Her boyfriend came and they had dinner and drank to the departure of the Poles, they were sitting in front of the fireplace as usual when Alma went to fetch more wine from the kitchen and happened to glance out of the window and saw Alan park his car. What was he doing here now, at ten thirty on a Friday night? She called out to her boyfriend: look! Alan is back! Alan marched up to the apartment on some sort of mission. Had he come to kill Alma, then changed his mind when he saw her boyfriend’s car and instead pretended to have left something behind in the apartment? But Alma had been through everything, there was nothing of value in there, so why didn’t he just come straight back down again? She rang her son and told him he had to change the locks first thing tomorrow, she whispered: he’s here now! Was he about to set fire to the house, would they have to go outside and confront him, but what if he were armed? She ran downstairs and locked the front door, he’s coming, her boyfriend whispered, and she ran back upstairs and t
ogether they stood in the window, watching him come closer; if he had looked up, he would have seen their fearful faces. He got into the car and drove off, possibly thinking his visit had gone unnoticed.

  She waited ten minutes in case a bomb went off. Then she ran outside and up to the apartment, while her boyfriend kept a lookout from the window; she carefully unlocked the door, turned on the light, looked around, then stepped across the threshold. Nothing had changed as far as she could see, she walked through the rooms, everything the same as when she had been there earlier, then she suddenly saw it: the radiators were on, all the radiators were on full blast, they had been plugged back in and the temperature turned up to maximum. So that was it. He must have been with some of the other Poles and told them about Alma’s radio night, and they had wondered how they could get their own back. The electricity and the radiators.