Knots

by Gunnhild Øyehaug

  Tone looked at him, suitably impressed. “And when glass itself is in a flame?” she asked.

  “That would be creation itself, then, wouldn’t it?” Arild Eivind said.

  They looked straight at each other. Said nothing. The waiter appeared with more mineral water, and Bjarte, with too much wine in his blood, who had dropped out of the conversation a while back, sat with a fixed smile that hovered above the tablecloth. Fumbling and mumbling, he wanted to talk about encyclopedias and sex. “Fuck’s sake, Tone.” He said it too loud and she asked him to be quiet.

  “Why do you have so much to talk about, I don’t remember you even knowing each other,” he muttered. “Resonance,” Arild Eivind replied, and once his left hand had put down the licked-clean fork on his plate where the steel prongs could cool, it slipped under the table and stole up the long split in her dress and she was more conscious of her body than she had been for a long time. She looked over at Bjarte and gave him a brittle, reassuring smile, his breathing was labored, like hers, and it dawned on her she could not remember, she couldn’t even remember what his face had looked like.

  The Deer at the Edge of the Forest

  The deer stood at the edge of the forest and was miserable. He felt like there was no point in anything, like he might as well give up. I walk around here, day in and day out, the deer thought, and there’s no one who sees me. Am I invisible, or what? He didn’t think so. I walk around here and could change people’s lives if they could only see me, but no one sees me. Here I am, a hart, and no one cares. The whole point is that I am supposed to be difficult to see, I know that, I am supposed to roam around in the forest and not be seen. But it’s the very premise of my life that is now making me miserable. I want to be seen. So here I am at the edge of the forest. I am open to being seen, to being shot. If someone doesn’t see me soon, I’m going to do something drastic, I mean it. Right now it feels like I’m trapped in deerness. Oh, I would love to change everything, be someone else, something completely different. Oh, imagine if I could be a roe deer, an elk.

  It’s Snowing

  In the narrow cobbled streets, in the dark, in the light from the streetlamps, it looks as though the snow is standing still. The puddles on the asphalt sparkle. And around the corner, into Øvregata, comes Thomas with a tightly rolled newspaper in his hand. He says something about the snow. That it’s almost standing still. And that The Mirror by Andrei Tarkovsky is his favorite film. He remembers that the wind was blowing in the opening scene, that there was a lot of wind (he gesticulates with his arms and the hand holding the newspaper, imitating the wind blowing through tall cornfields), and that they were sitting on a fence that then collapsed. And the disappointment when the girl realizes that the person who came through the tall grass, or corn, was not the one she was sitting on the fence waiting for, but someone else. Thomas looks down. I ask if we should maybe find a café. There’s something about this snow, Thomas says. It’s snowing so damn quietly. It reminds me of something.

  * * *

  We sit in a café that is just below street level, the sidewalk starts at about our waist, we sit there like halved mannequins in a big window facing out onto a street that runs down a long slope, Thomas says the snow reminds him of Helene. He folds the newspaper, wedges it under one of the table legs, so the table is steady, and I think about Helene, it hurts when I do, I see the soft, strange light around her, her eyes that are so big, so black with eyeliner, that look as if they’re about to cry the whole time, even though she’s happy or gazing blankly out the window, her fair hair that always looks as if it’s about to blow away, I think about the whole of Helene, who I can now see standing in front of me like soft snow hanging in the air. Thomas lifts the cup of coffee to his mouth and says that’s the thing, that people come walking through windy fields, and they’re not the ones you’re sitting waiting for after all. And the times when you yourself come walking through windy fields (to stick with the same image, Thomas says), it’s not often, in fact he can’t remember it ever happening (with the exception of Helene, he says, looking down at the table), that you are the one that someone’s sitting on the fence waiting for. That’s the worst thing about windy fields. A third interpretation, Thomas says, and takes a sip of coffee, squeezing his eyes shut to ease the hotness, a third interpretation, he repeats, is that the one who comes walking is not even a person, but a memory, for example, an age. Oneself is a windy field. One has a fence that someone is sitting on, that is about to break. Windy fields, I say, shaking my head, should be banned. There should be a sign saying: “Wind—No Access.” Or just: “FORGET IT.” Thomas smiles. He recites a poem.

  The gates are open

  The gates blow in the wind

  What’s in there

  What are you offering me?

  Oh, always something!

  There’s a little dust, some specks of dirt

  A broken cog on the earthen floor

  And some old slag left from an abandoned smithy

  That maybe was never there

  * * *

  That maybe was never there, I repeat, squinting over my cup of coffee, I look at Anna, she has that shiny look in her eyes that she always gets when she listens to me recite poetry, I like her for that shininess, it makes her like Helene, that’s maybe why I always associate the two of them, because otherwise they’re not alike at all, but they have that shininess, a kind of transparency. I feel a pricking somewhere, I think about Helene, I think about the strange, soft light around her, her big black made-up eyes that always look as if they’re about to cry even though they’re not, even though she’s laughing, even though she’s just gazing blankly out the window, and I think of her tousled, feather-like hair that always looks like it’s about to blow away. Anna sits with her hands around her teacup, her knuckles are red, her hands are not particularly beautiful, they look like they were made to pull up potatoes, to be dried on an apron, to be numb when it’s cold, they’re red and white, and even though there’s something potato-like about them, there is something beautiful after all, I think and change my mind, they look fragile, there’s something shiny about them, I look up at her hair, it’s dark and curly, there are drops of water in it, it’s shiny, her cheeks are red, she looks out the window. I remember another scene from a Tarkovsky film, Anna says, and looks at me again, a scene where the first thing you see, I don’t remember it that well, but I think the first thing you see is the head of a man from behind, he’s standing on a beach and looking out to sea, and then we see his face in profile as he bends down, then we follow his gaze, we see what he sees, we see his big face, his forehead, nose, mouth, chin, we see everything from his perspective; the sky, the sea, and then we look down onto the beach, the sand, a miniature house stands there, and the camera lets go of the man and we go right down onto the sand, and the camera stops, and all we see is the miniature house and the sand and the sea in the background, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that we followed the man’s gaze to begin with, we might well have thought that it was a full-sized house, Anna says, I’ve heard everything she said, but I was listening to her voice most of all, I feel a prickling on my neck, want to kiss her, think about kissing her, all of a sudden, have tried to keep that sort of thing at bay, I look at the snow, picture Helene, the strange, soft light, the pricking, prickling on my neck, I take another drink of coffee, too fast, it burns.

  * * *

  Is that Helene? I ask, and Thomas chokes on his coffee. Where? he asks, and I nod toward a woman walking along the sidewalk in the confoundedly silent snow. Hmm, Thomas says, and looks around. He glances over at her again. Looks like it, he says. Jeez. Helene is walking slowly. She’s looking at the ground. She’s wearing a plum red coat with a belt knotted around her waist that makes her look even thinner, and her fair, tousled hair that always looks like it’s about to blow away looks like it’s about to blow away. Thomas’s cheeks and forehead are flushed, slightly panicked. Helene walks toward us, we can’t hide, she’ll see us, it’s
a long time since we saw her last, almost two years, we didn’t know where she went, she just left, took her things with her, moved, and so it’s a long time since she has seen us, the last time she saw us, she saw us in an awkward naked nearness on a sofa at half past five in the morning, on Helene’s red sofa, in an unusual position for us; Thomas and I have spent a lot of time since then finding our way back to a kind of friendship, Thomas has lived without a sofa for a long time. Now she’s walking toward us again, and we can’t get away, we’re prisoners at our table, Thomas bends down, pulls out the newspaper that is wedged under the table leg, while I sit paralyzed and stare at Helene, who hasn’t seen us yet, how can she not see us? I wonder as Thomas opens the newspaper to hide his face and follows the long columns in detail while the fingers holding the paper tremble, I don’t know what to do, I’ve got a teacup in my hands, I look down at my hands, which are red and white, red over the knuckles, they’re not beautiful, I think, I don’t dare look up, don’t want to look up until Helene has passed, maybe she won’t see us, the window where we’re sitting is on a side street to the sidewalk Helene is walking along, maybe nothing will happen. I look at the teacup, at my hands that are red and white, and register that two gray trouser legs are now standing by the window, I see a plum red coat, I look up, see a belt tied around a waist, see Helene standing there, with a strange and soft light around her, with big black made-up eyes that always look like they’re about to cry even though they’re not, she’s standing there with her hands in her pockets, her face blank, looking in at us. Thomas, I say. Thomas lowers the newspaper. Helene’s eyes turn to Thomas. Then she takes a gun out of her pocket, opens her mouth, puts the gun in her open mouth, tilts her head back, Thomas sits paralyzed on his chair, staring, Helene pulls the trigger, nothing happens, she takes the gun out of her mouth again, puts it back in her pocket, shrugs, smiles at us, turns and carries on walking down the sidewalk.

  * * *

  Neither of us gets up and goes after her. We just watch the plum red coat get smaller and smaller until it eventually disappears around a corner. What are you offering me? Thomas says after a long time. I pick up my scarf, wrap it around my throat, stand up. Take out my mittens. Thomas folds the newspaper, puts it in his pocket. Pays. Stays sitting. I run my hands through my hair, feel that it’s wet. Walk toward the door. Turn around, wait. Thomas is still sitting and looking out the window. Looking at the snow that’s snowing as though it was night.

  Fortune Smiles on Mona Lisa

  When Mona Lisa was little, she had a red currant bush. It was Mona’s dad who decided one day, he was standing in the living room, and looked from Mona Lisa to the garden to Mona Lisa, who was, small and pale, sitting in a corner with a book on her lap, and he said loudly, as he pointed out the window: That is Mona Lisa’s red currant bush. Mona Lisa looked up. What? she said. From that day on, she waited for the red currants to ripen. She could sit in the garden for hours waiting. But nothing happened. First the snow had to melt, then the bush had to produce small white flowers, and then the tiny green berries had to swell, which then had to grow and get big, and transparent. Will they never get ripe? she asked her father. And her father said yes. They will turn bright red and gleam in the sun, her father said. But will they still be transparent? she asked; she liked the white, transparent berries. To an extent, her father said. Mona Lisa was impatient. If they’re not going to get any bigger, just change color, and when they’re red only be transparent to an extent, why can’t we just pick them now? But her father was firm. Why do you absolutely want them to be transparent? Because it’s nice, Mona Lisa said. Whatever the case, they’re too sour now, Mona, he said. But as he turned to go back to the house, Mona Lisa reached out quick as lightning and picked a white red currant, popped it in her mouth, and chewed. And behind her father’s back, who was now walking up to the house at a leisurely pace, Mona Lisa made a face and opened her mouth and dribbled, more than spat, the berry out as quietly as she could.

  * * *

  But finally, one warm July day, it had happened. The family came home from their holiday in Sweden, and all the berries were sparkling red and to an extent transparent. Mona Lisa leaped out of the car in only her shorts, stopped in the middle of the garden when she saw the gleaming red bush, clutched her hands in front of her chest, and said: Oh! Then she spun around, ran into the house to get a bowl, and ran back. It was with a mixture of celebration and trepidation that she nipped off a red berry, put it in her mouth, and chewed. It was fresh and acidic, Mona Lisa was overwhelmed, she lifted her hands to the heavens and closed her eyes. Then she picked, in almost ecstatic concentration. The bush was a triumph.

  * * *

  Suddenly she felt something tickling her thigh. She looked down and saw a huge man sitting there. She was gripped by fear. She tried to brush him off. But the man would not budge. It looked quite ridiculous: a huge man sitting on little Mona Lisa’s thigh. Mona Lisa screamed and ran around the garden, in an attempt to get the man to fall off. But it was as if he was nailed there. It felt like it would never end, that she would run around the garden with a man nailed to her thigh forever, she started to run toward the house: Daddy, Daddy!

  * * *

  Her father removed the man with a pair of pliers, squashed him flat and threw him out to the cats, then comforted the howling Mona Lisa. After that, she wanted nothing to do with the red currant bush, and left the others in the family to do the picking.

  * * *

  That was all a long time ago. Right now, Mona Lisa is crossing the road at a zebra crossing in a dark and cold town, the streetlights are lit and it’s late October, or thereabouts. She is forty-one and she’s trying to get a man out of her head, but she can’t. In Mona Lisa’s head there remains, as though nailed there: a mouth that is the softest mouth, not big, but good, dark hair that is the softest, darkest hair, a pair of hands, a back, a pair of eyes that are the lightest, bluest eyes ever. And more: the ears, neck, chin, throat, shoulders, arms, chest muscles, nipples, stomach, cock, thighs, kneecaps, lower legs, buttocks, and foot soles of this man, who is actually more of a boy, not particularly tall, one of her pupils, in fact. A young, wise person she has slept with habitually, but now she wants him out of her head, and not to sleep with him anymore. It has to stop. She loves him, he doesn’t love her, I don’t just want sex! thinks Mona Lisa, that’s not what I’m like, she is not a modern, liberated woman, she just wants to be loved. She crosses the road and is miserable. The streetlights illuminate her face, and it’s a sad face.

  * * *

  A man comes cycling by on the other side of the road. Mona Lisa follows him with her eyes, she’s seen him before, he’s been in some ads that she’s seen at the cinema, for instant soup, and otherwise she’s seen him roller-skating around town, wearing a string vest, high on something. But now he’s on a low black bike, and she thinks he’s beautiful, he’s shaved off all his hair except for a ponytail that he’s constructed into a tiny tower on the back of his head with the help of some string, and he’s wearing the strangest clothes. And his eyes follow Mona Lisa as he cycles by. And at exactly the point where the two paths they’ve chosen through town intersect, a smile spreads over their faces, at the same time, it’s as if their faces open, and they are astounded. Perhaps it wasn’t much, but under the next streetlight, we see that the sadness in Mona Lisa’s face has softened. In fact, we could even say that for a moment, perhaps, she was happy.

  Deal

  She’s lying under a bush and cursing everything. Damned itchy hat, damned rain. Damned, fucking combination of wool and wet, damned bush, damned wet ground that makes her jeans wet that were already damp from before, damned down jacket that is wet and squeaks, damned darkness, damned fjord, damned sound of cars whooshing past down on the main road once every half hour or so, it’s not exactly rush hour here after eleven. The last ferry has gone, she didn’t make it, the ferry left the quay just as she came round the bend, she didn’t have lights on her bike, they probably didn’t s
ee her, she’d cycled ten kilometers, ten fucking kilometers, in the bike’s easiest gear, to get to the ferry, and she missed it. She’d grabbed her brother’s old bike that had been standing in the garage since he left, she wasn’t to know that the gears didn’t work, she only found out after she’d been cycling for about a quarter of an hour and the whole system collapsed just as she was about to change into fourth, it was impossible to fix it, she knew nothing about bikes, she was just going to ride it, so she cycled in low third for ten fucking kilometers, she refused to give up now that she’d started; to escape, her legs spun furiously yet she was barely moving. On she crept, helmet and all, she got encouraging hoots from passing cars, she cursed them, lowered her head so they wouldn’t see who it was. In the end she stopped, threw the helmet in a ditch, broke her nails when trying to pull the reflectors off the pedals, then carried on cycling, longing for a hill. She cycled ten kilometers like that, ten long kilometers along the fjord where nobody lived, and as she rounded the bend down to the quay, the ferry pulled out into the fog-darkened, drizzled fjord, into the night, without her, the quay was empty, the kiosk was closed, the shoreline along the ness silent and black, the lampposts each stood rooted in the tarmac that was empty, empty apart from her, and there was no fucking way she was going to cycle the ten kilometers back, no way, she had run away, escaped, SPLIT, she had left behind fish-cake hell when Aunt Alma had gone to bed for the night and rolled over onto her stomach so that her flannel nightie twisted around her body, she had thought I’m just going to do it, now, I’ve thought about it every night, and I’m just going to do it, I’ll take the bike and I’ll just cycle away from here. She was going to be so cool, never again would she smell fish cakes, and she would start swearing, she had all the swearwords saved up inside, but had never said them out loud. She was going to start now; but first she was going to catch the ferry out of here, then she was going to start swearing. A simple plan. Someone could fix the bike on the ferry. She would just carry on cycling on the other side, without knowing where she was going, she wasn’t quite sure exactly where in Norway the ferry came in, on the other side, but she thought it eventually linked up with the road to Ålesund, but it didn’t matter, what mattered was that she had escaped the damned house, the damned old sofa, the damned worn linoleum floor with scrunched-up rag rugs, run away from the stuffy, rancid smell of fish cakes, the cool feeling of the Respatex table against her arms every damn morning, she’d thought, as she stood and watched the last ferry in the world disappear out into the fjord, into the night, leaving her all alone at the edge of the universe, she thought, and almost started to cry. She looked over at the parking place, Alvin’s old van was standing there, but Alvin wasn’t inside, he must have gone up to Susanne’s, who lived in the last house before the ferry, all on its own, up on the slope, the light was on, which made her think that Susanne also lived on the edge of the universe, Susanne who caused a drama at every church sale, according to her aunt, because people always divided into two camps, one that supported Alvin’s wife and one that supported Susanne—and that was only Susanne herself, her aunt said and laughed, she sympathized with Susanne as she stood there, sympathized with the light in the house, she sympathized with the black, silent ness that stretched out into the fjord like a friendly finger pressed to the water’s lips saying, Shhh, and she almost started crying, she most definitely was not going to cycle home, she refused, she would find a bush up on the slope and lie under it and sleep until morning, when she could take the first ferry across.