Safe at a Distance

by Kurt Ulmer

  Safe at a Distance

  Kurt Ulmer

  Published: 2011

  Tag(s): "Teenage love" disappointment tragedy

  Safe at a Distance

  by

  Kurt Ulmer

  Kurt Ulmer Publishing

  Copyright © 2011 by Kurt Ulmer

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Disclaimer

  This short story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Edition License

  This eBook is licensed for your personal use. It is not licensed for resale, or for giving away to others. If you want others to enjoy it, please ask them to download a free copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Safe at a Distance

  In 1875, Edvard Grieg composed the Peer Gynt Suite, incidental music to Peer Gynt, a play by fellow Norwegian, the playwright Henrik Ibsen. Edvard and Henrik: I hate you and I love you. I’ll tell you why.

  I left Trondheim, Norway in 1962 on a migrant ship Australia bound. It should have been a rainy day. Tears are less obvious then. There was kiss blowing, streamer tossing and waving. The ship pulled away. I was 17 and would meet Solveig five years hence. I was innocent and naïve.

  At 15, I was smitten by this tall, gorgeous, blue eyed girl. I found out her name: Solveig. We were technical high school students. I saw her daily on the bus. I imagined us kissing. She wore smart clothes and had small breasts. I wanted to be near her all the time. She worked at a bookshop on Saturday mornings and we spoke for the first time near A-Z fiction. She knew my name.

  What took you so long. I thought about you lots. Will you come to the movies with me. I’ll ask. Great. Can I hold your hand. Yes, but not in public. How come. Mum says I’m too young for a boyfriend. Don’t tell her. She already knows. You have a sexy voice. I want to kiss you. Not here. Where then.

  We went to Sunday matinee movies but always as a foursome. It was the rule. I kissed Solveig. What joy to kiss a girl for the first time. We necked in the back row like everybody else. We kissed long and so hard my tongue was sore.

  Why is your mother so strict. She knows you. How. I tell her everything. Why. So that I’m safe. Safe from me. No. Safe from myself. She worries about you. Yes, because she doesn’t want me to get into trouble. What sort of trouble. The sort of trouble she got into because she didn't tell her mother things. What things, I need to know. About her boyfriend being fresh. They did it, didn’t they. Yes. How old was she. My age. And then. Trouble. Oh.

  Our love life got complicated and undignified. We stole moments together wherever we could. In a public park, for ten minutes, after Solveig’s handball training. It was cold, dark and unromantic.

  Can I touch your breasts. Yes. I can’t get my hand in. Undo your bra. Mum says no. What can I touch. Everything. Everything. Everything as long as we keep our clothes on. Can I touch you down there. Yes. Your skirt’s tight. I can’t get my hand in. Undo the zip. No. I’ve busted your zip. It’s alright. I’ll replace it. You’re all lovely and slippery. I like touching you. I like you touching me. Touch me. You’re hard. I like touching you. Touch me faster. It’s difficult. Unbuckle my belt. No. Aaaah. Will you tell her about us petting. Yes. Why. Because she asks and I don’t lie. Then it’s petting only with our clothes on. Yes. Would you rather hold hands.

  We went steady for two years. I was permitted in Solveig’s home for the first time the day I departed. That was a total surprise because it was a break with tradition. A boy would call on a girl at her home to announce an engagement. We weren’t doing that although we had promised to wait. I felt very awkward meeting her parents. Her father shook my hand and said nothing. Solveig’s mother had a lot to say. About how much I would enjoy the voyage and my coming adventure in this faraway Australia. It was such a big step and ‘you must write’ often she said.

  Solveig had addresses for all ports of call from Trondheim to Melbourne. I read my first ever love letter in Vigo, Spain. Solveig missed me. In Naples, I read news of a fight with her mother. I was worried.

  Solveig’s letters waited for me in Piraeus, Port Said and Aden and I answered them all. The Indian Ocean was incredible blue with long, gentle swells on the way to Fremantle in Western Australia. Fremantle? The ship never called at Colombo. No letter in Fremantle and no news for me in Melbourne. We left Station Pier, Port Melbourne for Bonegilla, a migrant camp in northern Victoria. I missed my Solveig so.

  I read her Naples letter again. Solveig’s mother had demanded she renege on our promise but Solveig stood her ground. I wrote again when I had a permanent address in Australia but heard nothing for a year. A letter arrived from Solveig’s sister with many questions. I suspected nothing and answered truthfully. I expressed doubts about us. There was silence thereafter. We were done and I knew not why.

  I returned in 1970. Solveig’s mother invited me in and unbeknownst to me, rang Solveig. In walked this stunningly beautiful woman. She took my breath away.

  We went to her flat. Solveig revealed that her sister’s letter was a sham. Solveig had written it herself, at her mother’s behest. For her own good, Solveig was not permitted to read my reply. All she needed to know was that I would not return. That was Solveig’s closure.

  We were numb. A lie had murdered our love. Solveig had doubted me because I had answered none of her letters but had waited a year. Solveig wept uncontrollably when she realized that her mother had kept her safe by withholding my letters and with lies, betrayal and vile deceit.

  Solveig had married in 1963 and soon filed for divorce from an adulterer. She wrote to me then but the letter came back. I must have moved house. She has the letter still but would not let me see it.

  We have a second chance. I have someone. Do you love him. Yes and you. I have never stopped loving you. Come with me then. I need time. Do I wait. Please. Will you tell your mother of this conversation. Yes. This is insane.

  I walked. I married a sweet girl from Adelaide in 1972.

  THAT Peer Gynt song: when I hear it, my life’s movie runs in reverse. The enchanting and haunting music stops. I get real again. Solveig’s Song. Mine alone. I love it. I hate it. Bittersweet memories, mine.

  In the play, Solveig declares:

  Perchance both winter and spring will pass,

  and next summer, and the entire year: —

  but at last you will come, that I know for sure

  and I'll still be waiting, for I once promised I would.

  God give you strength, wherever in the world you go!

  God give you joy, when you stand before his judgment seat!

  Here I'll wait until you come again

  and if you are waiting up above, there we'll meet my love!

  Henrik! Listen: It’s not going to happen. Solveig’s mother, alive or dead will forever come between us. So: if it’s all the same to you pal, when my time comes, I’ll head for Lorne, a surf and a beer after. They can’t touch me there. Mother doesn’t have a long range broom and Solveig? She won’t cut the apron strings. She’ll be safe from me and herself and that suits mother just fine. And I’ll be safe here. Have I let Solveig stay in my thoughts this long only because it’s safe at a distance?

  When I hear her song, I am helpless.

  The violins tease me. Come! Come dance! The enchantress waits. I hear the song and feel the touch of her hand. She invites me to dance. Unsure, I sway. Why me? I look into her eyes and know. We h
old hands and move and turn and turn and turn as the melancholy air dissolves and the tempo quickens. Turn, turn, turn, turn. She spins while I hold her hand. We twirl as the melody takes us skywards, higher and higher towards brightness. We dare. My head spins. My heart beats to the music. I am the music. My love is the music. We are the music. We are alive.

  The music mood turns somber. Something is wrong. It is nothing. Storm clouds threaten us but we care not and whirl in defiant abandon. Menacing notes take us down into dark clouds. I cannot see the sun or the ground. I am afraid. I die. The violins take charge and hold a high single note. Softer and softer until I can only hear the song in my heart.

  It must not end like this. I play the music. We regain the music. I know what to do. I dance boldly when the mood brightens, the tempo quickens. We dance on white clouds. Pain is memory. Bright notes lift us high again and higher still until we lovers dancing are but a point of light. We soar, we float as leaves, up and down and up and down and up. I feel good. I hear the song and feel the touch of her hand. Always.

  ###

  About the author

  I have one grandfather who was a builder. My other grandfather was

  a stonemason and my father was a traditional blacksmith. Both my

  grandmothers had cooked for a living, one in a hotel and the other for

  well-to-do people. A career in construction or perhaps engineering or catering

  would have been an obvious choices.

  Instead, I spent 20 years in business and in mid life retrained myself. I

  chose to work with my hands as my father and grandparents had. I become

  a renowned woodcraftsman and founded with my wife an art and

  craft gallery in a Tasmanian tourist town. After 20 years there, we followed

  our children to mainland Australia to retire on Victoria’s Bellarine

  Peninsula. I took up writing seriously in 2003.

  Working with their hands, creating and shaping materials has occupied

  my forebear. From stone, to iron, to wood. Now I spend my time

  putting pen to paper. The medium is getting softer.

  ###

  What’s new?

  There are more of my short stories on Smashwords.com. My novel

  “Wherefore Love’s Shadow” is out now on Smashwords.com and

  on Kindle.

  ###

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