Memory of Love (9781101603024)

by Olsson, Linda

  He has warned her it will be a rough journey, particularly beyond the Taharoa settlement. From there on, there are no proper roads.

  I don’t know what’s involved. I’m so ignorant I can’t even worry. I just have to trust him, she thinks and looks at his hands on the steering wheel. He seems very comfortable, whistling softly.

  It’s early afternoon by the time they reach Taharoa. For most of the way they have had the road to themselves. Here, too, it’s very quiet. They drive past vast areas of black sand. The whole landscape looks like a gigantic moon crater.

  ‘Don’t look,’ he says as he skilfully navigates the car off the road to make way for an enormous transport truck, loaded with a bulldozer. She realises the truck would not have been able to stop, or give way. Black dust lingers in the air as it passes.

  ‘It’s an open mine where they extract iron from ironsand. Controversial, like most mining in this country.’

  From Taharoa there is no road really. They drive along little more than a dirt track. She is sitting upright, trying to follow the snaking track with her eyes and anticipate each bump and turn, conscious of a tightness in her stomach. She is not anxious about his driving, she is just worried she will not be able to control her mounting nausea.

  But soon they have left the settlement and the mining behind, and are out onto open land. The track straightens. It is windswept and wild and it looks deserted. He lowers the windows and the wind flows through. She feels better and relaxes in her seat.

  They stop for lunch on a hill and they can see the sea in the distance.

  Afterwards, she lies back on the grass. She has lost track of where she is, how she arrived here, even who she is. She no longer has any connection with anything else. Her previous life seems vague and distant. She is just here, and it feels as if it could last forever.

  In the late afternoon they arrive at the coast. When they get out of the car they see a cluster of simple wooden houses with rusted iron roofs. They are small and seem vulnerable where they sit, set off against the endless sea behind. At the same time they exude an air of courage and resilience, as if they have managed to withstand the elements for a very long time. She can see no signs of civilisation, apart from the houses themselves – no poles indicating electricity supply or phone connection. She wonders if people actually live there. Then she spots someone walking between two of the houses, a silhouette against the sky.

  The wind has picked up and sweeps across the grassy slopes ahead of them.

  ‘Almost there,’ he says. ‘Just one more short leg, and then we’ll stop and put up the tent.’

  ‘How can you be so sure where we’re going?’ she asks. ‘You’ve never been here before, have you?’

  He grins.

  ‘Intuition. Male intuition,’ he says. ‘Trust me.’

  And she does, absolutely.

  21.

  It had turned rather cold, but strangely I still felt warm as I wandered back to the house from the beach. A few candles were still flickering and I left them to burn out. It had been a long day, and I was tired. But not sleepy. I lingered for a moment leaning on the kitchen bench and looking out. The sea had reverted to being just a sound in complete darkness, and as the candles went out, one after the other, there were no lights at all.

  After a while I walked into the bedroom. Instead of lying down I opened one of the wardrobes. I pulled up a chair and climbed onto it. Even from the chair, I could only just reach the box.

  It was smaller than Ika’s box and I realised that he had more mementoes than I did. My box was the size of a large envelope. Inside was just one object.

  A copy of Time magazine.

  There is time for a walk before darkness falls. They stroll slowly; this is not a hike with a specific goal in mind. The landscape is barren, with softly rounded treeless hills. From a distance the grassy hills look like emerald velvet scrunched by a giant hand. Up close, the vegetation is much rougher though, the grass interspersed with thorny gorse and sharp flax. It feels as if she can see forever, and land and sea are equally endless.

  Suddenly he points to the sky. They stop in their tracks and look up. High above, pencilled against the afternoon sky, a fragile veil undulates, constantly shifting its shape.

  ‘There they are, our godwits. Kuaka.’

  The tiny black specks are birds. But from this distance they make up a wondrous drifting whole of strange beauty.

  ‘I wonder why they are called godwits,’ he says. ‘Is it God and then wits like the Old English word for know? God knows? Is that what it means? If so, why?’

  ‘God knows,’ she says and her new, easy laughter lifts towards the sky.

  They sit on the grass and watch as the veil of birds gracefully sweeps and sways over them.

  Then she feels his hand on her neck, lifting her hair. It runs over her shoulder and clasps it, pulling her close.

  Has she expected this? Willed it, even?

  She doesn’t know.

  Her body seems to know what her mind doesn’t.

  When he kisses her, it is the most natural thing in the world. In this magical world that she has entered this can happen. Perhaps this is the very purpose. There is no point trying to resist.

  Nor does she.

  She lifts her hands and holds his face, looking into his eyes. They are grey, and she thinks she can see herself reflected in them. Then she kisses him again.

  He takes one of her hands and holds it. Opens it and kisses her palm.

  ‘God knows,’ he says, smiling. ‘Magical things are put in our way. All we have to do is watch out for them. Take what is offered.’ He kisses her hand again.

  She laughs, lifts her face to the sky, exposing her throat. He kisses it.

  Later, they walk back and begin to cook dinner. He gets his little barbecue going.

  ‘No open fires here – too dangerous,’ he says.

  Unpacking the farmer’s box they had found meat, too. Two small lamb racks and a large chunk of bacon.

  While the lamb racks cook he makes a salad and she opens them a beer each.

  ‘These are the last cold ones, so savour it,’ he says. ‘From here on it’s lukewarm beer or red wine.’

  She sits on the grass sipping the beer, watching his hands chopping and mixing the salad, turning the meat. She remembers the initial moment, when she first found him. How she had seen him as an object. As perfect as a smooth pebble or a polished piece of driftwood. Something she instinctively felt an urge to run her hand over.

  So this is what she does. She bends forwards and runs her hand over his back. His hands are busy tossing the salad and there is nothing he can do but let her have her way. The skin on his back is warm, and along the spine there are tiny beads of sweat. She kisses him between the shoulderblades.

  Then he drops what he is doing, turns and kisses her.

  I sat on the bed with the magazine on my lap. I had turned off the ceiling light and I had not bothered turning on the one on the bedside table. I didn’t really need any light. This, I could read with my hands. I had not opened the magazine, and I sat with my palm resting on the cover. I knew what the picture looked like. I could sense every detail through my hand.

  It was a picture of me. Yet it wasn’t me, not me at all. It was a picture of a woman who trusted her feelings and her instincts. Someone who believed that miraculously, life could take a sharp turn and open a new world. A world where godwits drifted above and laughter lifted effortlessly from her lips.

  An absolutely unsustainable world.

  She gets used to the camera. It becomes an extension of him and she is relaxed. She feels that she is beginning to see what he sees. His lens and her eyes seem to focus on the same spots. Except when the lens is pointed at her of course. But she gets used to that too. She begins to think she can see herself through his eyes. The camera becomes a vital part of their communication. He lets her use it too, but more and more it is enough for her just to let her eyes follow the camera. She can see what it
sees. Not once is she tempted to take out her own camera.

  After dinner they sit outside the tent as a full moon slowly rises beyond hills that are a black horizon. It emerges in the east, initially very large and a deep orange yellow. He pulls her close and she sits between his legs, resting her head against his chest. He puts his arms around her. Asks her if she is cold. How could she be? She thinks she will never be cold again.

  Later, when the moon is high in the sky, shining with a clear white light, they climb into the tent.

  Next morning he is gone when she wakes up, but she can hear him moving around outside the tent. Lighting the barbecue. She listens; there is no part of her body that is not involved. She has never been this alert. This alive. Eventually, when she smells coffee, she disentangles herself from the sleeping bag and joins him outside. He is sitting by the barbecue, hands around his knees and eyes on the sea. It must have rained overnight, though she had not noticed. The grass is wet and there are small pools of water trapped in the pockets of tent canvas along the ground. It is clear now, though, not a cloud in the newly washed sky where the veil of godwits again floats gracefully. As she sits down beside him, he points to it.

  ‘I wonder if they are practising. Preparing for the long journey,’ he says.

  They drink coffee, then set off for a walk down to the sea. The hike is longer than she has anticipated but she doesn’t mind. She walks behind him, watching his body as he moves at an easy, comfortable pace. She falls into the same rhythm, effortlessly following in his footsteps.

  They stop when they reach the sea. They stand looking down on it, and the swell is majestic, overwhelming.

  ‘We’ll find a good spot to get into the water,’ he says, scanning the shore below. ‘Over there.’ He points to a cluster of black rocks covered in sharp mussel shells. The rocks shelter a small lagoon of clear water. The waves break violently against the outside of the rocks, and fill the air with a spray of salt water, but the pool is calm and protected.

  ‘You go,’ he says, nodding to the water. ‘I’ll guard you from up here.’

  And she does. This new woman undresses, climbs down and slides into the water. It is cool but she lets herself sink down, emerging out of breath. She holds on to a rock and shakes the water out of her hair. The air is filled with drops of water glistening in the sun.

  When she looks up he has the camera pointed at her. She lets go of the rock and floats. Smiling.

  In my dark bedroom I was there again. I licked my lips, and I was surprised when they didn’t taste of salt. Suddenly I knew that it was possible to remember this isolated moment and cherish it. This one, shimmering moment belonged to me.

  I had accepted that all the dark memories were mine. But I had never realised that the beautiful ones were mine too. I had a right to them. And the right to embrace them, regardless of what happened before and after. I had a right to my happiness, as well as my grief.

  I stretched out my hand and turned on the bedside lamp.

  22.

  I slept restlessly and woke early. During that darkest hour of the late night, the hour the Chinese call the liver hour, when death seems close and life precarious, I had lain awake.

  I had thought about Ika. I tried to look at myself objectively. Had I used him? Was he simply a tool for me to give my soul peace? Redeem myself? Could I ever isolate my feelings for Ika from my past? See him as he was, see his true needs, not my own?

  I cared for him. I loved him. But the ‘I’ was the person shaped by the life that had been mine.

  Perhaps I should abandon my attempt at being allowed to care for him?

  But the grim, grey hour passed, and I fell asleep again.

  When I woke, it was raining. Strangely, it felt comforting. Energising. I got out of bed and went into the kitchen.

  To my surprise Ika was sitting at the table. I had not heard him arrive, but he was a master at moving soundlessly.

  He had set the table for two, with mugs and plates, butter and jam. As I sat down he leapt over to the bench and popped two slices of bread into the toaster.

  Then he sat down again.

  If I had thought it possible, I would have thought that he looked expectant.

  ‘What a great beginning to the day,’ I said. ‘But where is George? Does he know you’re here?’

  Ika nodded.

  I looked at the clock. It was half past six.

  The toast jumped out of the toaster and Ika dashed over to collect it. Then he picked up the kettle. I watched anxiously as he held it with both his hands and balanced it back to the table and put it down.

  ‘Can I start?’

  He nodded.

  He watched while I buttered a piece of toast. He had the look of a concerned cook, waiting to hear the verdict of a guest.

  ‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘To have someone cook you breakfast is the best.’

  Then he finally served himself and we ate in silence for a moment.

  ‘What do you think about this house?’ I asked after a little while.

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  ‘It needs cleaning, don’t you think?’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘The only tidy place is your room.’

  No comment.

  ‘I’m going to have a go at it today. Try and get some order in our house.’

  Our house.

  Some days start out well, and only get better. Just as we had finished clearing the table, George arrived. When I told him I planned to start cleaning up my house he offered to help. I watched them, Ika and George, where they stood close to each other, looking back at me with an expression of anticipation. So I accepted the offer and put them to work.

  It rained until midday, then the sun broke through the clouds. We took a break and sat down to have lunch on the deck. The sun glistened on the water where it had collected in drops and pools. Everything felt hopeful.

  There was even less in my barren pantry now, but I managed to cook an omelette with tomatoes and potatoes. We were hungry, all three, I think, and we savoured the simple food.

  We lugged out heaps of rubbish. Even though I had cleared some things in order to make a room for Ika, I had not made an effort to discard much. I had just shifted my rubbish around. But now it went. The heap behind the house grew, and George promised to get his van later and take it all to the dump.

  Then we began the cleaning. George vacuumed, I mopped and Ika dusted. We worked swiftly, and it felt surprisingly satisfying. Shortly after four, we seemed to be finished.

  Everything looked different. My home had gained a different persona. Or perhaps it was my perspective that had changed. It felt like removing a garment that you have worn for ages just to keep warm, and discovering that it is beautiful. I walked through the rooms and it felt as if I were seeing them for the first time. In my bedroom I spotted the magazine, still sitting on my bedside table. I walked over and put it in a drawer. I wondered if Ika or George had seen it.

  ‘I liked it as it was,’ George said. ‘But even things that are naturally beautiful are even more so when clean and tidy. What do you say, Ika?’ He put his hand on Ika’s head, as if it were the most natural thing to do. To my surprise, Ika made no attempt to withdraw. He allowed George’s hand to pat him and tousle his hair.

  I looked at George but I saw no sign of his having realised how extraordinary this was.

  ‘I think we should go for a swim,’ he said.

  Good idea, we all thought, and I went to collect some towels.

  George went to his car and returned with two body-boards. They looked brand new.

  It had been a long time since I had swum in the ocean. Although the sea was present in practically all my activities, at least as a background, I almost never swam in it. Here, it wasn’t recommended to swim alone. Rips and unpredictable waves made it too risky – you were supposed to have company.

  I had never felt lonely before, but as I stood there on the beach watching George and Ika throw themselves into t
he waves on their boards, I realised for the first time how lonely I had been. So lonely I had stopped swimming. My aloneness had never bothered me; I hadn’t even been aware of it. But now it overwhelmed me. The awareness washed over me with painful sharpness and deep grief. Now that I had company.

  And that was how it had been with the love of my life. Not until I experienced love did I realise what I had been living without. I had lived without love for so very long, never aware of its absence. Never once missing it. Unless the restlessness that pushed me to divorce my husband could be regarded as an unconscious stirring. A blind step away from something unsatisfactory, but with no clear direction.

  When it was all over, I could have answered Michael’s impossible question.

  It is at the point of transition that awareness is created. The step into another state changes everything. As long as I was living in a state of ignorance, I had functioned. But I had not lived.

  As I stood clutching the towels I knew I could not give up this. I could never accept being alone again.

  Then I let go of the towels and ran towards the sea.

  We had dinner at George’s house that evening.

  ‘I’m not a great cook, not like you, but I have a full pantry,’ he said when we parted. He took Ika with him and they drove off.

  I went inside for a shower. Wrapped in my towel, I poured myself a glass of wine and sat down on the deck.

  I stroked my arms. I realised it was no longer a young woman’s skin. Strange, I thought, how you live inside your body and take for granted that it will forever be the same. And it is, yet it is not. All that I was, was carried inside my body, yet it had little resemblance to the body of the girl or the woman who featured in my memories. The little girl walking with her hand in her grandfather’s. That was me. The distraught girl on the ferry to Stockholm. The girl shivering in her wet and bloodied nightgown – that was me too.