In the fall of 1959 the book was printed and the launch approached. The Jensens headed north and moved into Cappelen’s apartment on Majorstua Road. One evening, Axel, who was known for always making new acquaintances, invited a two-metre-tall man home for wine and talk. In the middle of the chat the guest rose and said, “I’m leaving.” Before Marianne and Axel knew what was happening the man had walked right out the open window on the second floor. Axel leaped out of his chair and looked out the window but there was no one there. He ran out the door to try to find the man and see if he was injured, while Marianne went to bed.
A while later the doorbell rang. Marianne reckoned it was Axel, who had forgotten his keys, but outside stood the tall man. He wanted to let them know that he was fine. Glad to see that the man was alright, Marianne went back to bed while the guest sat waiting for Axel. From the bedroom she could hear the water running in the bathtub. When she awoke the next morning, the bath was full of water and wild roses. The stranger had vanished without a trace.
Marianne’s father was very ill. She visited him every forenoon and the two of them took slow walks together through the beautiful grounds of Frogner Park. One was obviously pregnant and the other was short-winded and weak-lunged. Marianne experienced a tenderness toward her father that she hadn’t felt before. He was going to be a grandfather and Marianne had, after all, not made such a bad job of her life — she was married and they made ends meet. Her mother was worn out by the demands of her job and caring for her sick husband. But, notwithstanding the scant leave-taking she’d granted Marianne when she went off to Greece, she was glad to be expecting her first grandchild.
During their stay in Oslo, Axel invited his mother down from Trondheim. He hadn’t seen her since he’d been a little boy, and they’d had nothing to do with each other. When she came, he bought her a fur coat and rented a room for her at the posh Grand Hotel, down the street from the royal palace. Marianne was moved by his efforts. But the reunion ended with Axel being rebuked by his mother, leaving him wounded.
* * *
With the publication of Line Axel finally had money in his pockets so in October, when Marianne was six months along, they went to Stockholm together with Per and Else Berit to buy a car. Axel had lost his licence on account of driving drunk; the plan was for Marianne to drive their new car back to Oslo. Through friends they purchased a beige Karmann Ghia with light-brown leather upholstery — something altogether different than the blue Beetle that had taken them to Athens two years previously. All four of them stopped in at the home of Per’s half-brother to spend the night there before driving the rest of the way to Oslo.
Marianne and Else Berit — both pregnant — shared a bed while the men sat up. Tired after a long day, Marianne pulled her brown velvet dress over her head, got under the comforter and fell right to sleep.
In the middle of the night Axel tumbled into the room, instructing Marianne to get dressed fast because they were driving home. He and their host had argued and Axel had been asked to take his wife and leave. Axel was furious and wanted to depart immediately. Marianne and Axel stood on the slate steps outside the house, arguing loudly. She held onto the iron railing and begged not to have to drive in the middle of the night, pleaded with him to calm down. Still enraged, Axel grudgingly agreed to postpone their departure until the next day.
Marianne felt powerless and unsafe when Axel lost his temper. Alcohol was nearly always a contributing factor when things spun out of control. He was easily offended and hard to handle when he had too much to drink. She breathed deeply until the tense situation exploded or fizzled out.
AXEL JOACHIM
As Line was about to be released, Marianne’s father took a turn for the worse and was admitted to the National Hospital. His kidneys were failing after many years of coping with tuberculosis medications.
Marianne sat by his bed every day, with her round belly. The day her father told her to buy just one newspaper, rather than the three he regularly read, she understood that he didn’t have long to live. He became weaker and weaker and at last lost his voice, squeezing Marianne’s hand hard when he wanted to signal “yes” and more softly when he meant “no.” Marianne’s mother remained rigidly self-contained, her feelings tightly under wraps, but she bought a Valium for Marianne so she wouldn’t weep.
One afternoon in November, Marianne’s mother came out into the white hospital corridor and said that Father was dead. Marianne hugged her stomach and felt the little one turn and plant a tiny foot under one of her ribs.
* * *
While Marianne and Axel were in Oslo, Sam Barclay had been taking care of their house on Hydra. They needed new wind-tight windows now that the family was about to become larger. Mouldings were also missing along the ceilings and around the doors. Sam had engaged local workers and had promised that everything would be done by the time they came back with the baby.
With communication taking place by mail, it could take weeks before they heard from each another. Sam addressed his letters to Marianne; she was delighted every time she found an envelope with his writing in the postbox. She missed Hydra, feeling more at home there than in Oslo.
4.12.59
Hydra, Greece
Dear Marianne,
I am writing this from your little house on the hill. It is a lovely day, warm & sunny. It rained last night.
Fransisco has just been up to give an estimate for the work to be done …
I am sorry Oslo is so sad with cold and fog. Hydra has been lovely. I have not worn a jersey for some days now.… Anyway, I am glad you are in Oslo really because it will be better to have the baby there.
I am sorry about your father being back in hospital again. I hope so much that he will get better this time too.
George Johnstone is back in Hydra for a month over Christmas … He has just finished another book. Charmian’s “Walk to Paradise Gardens” has been accepted in America and her “Peel Me a Lotus” (about Hydra) has just come out in England where it has had very good reviews. So they are fairly pleased with themselves …
What is Axel’s new book that he has started? Is it Miracle Man or another one on the lines of the last one? …
I miss you both so much.
Love, Sam!
P.S. James is most excited about the sweater and so am I about mine!22
The fall of 1959 was difficult. Marianne’s father had died and now she saw Axel’s head swelling with the success of Line. She stood by her husband’s side when the book came out and made Axel famous. Young Jensen was the shooting star in the Norwegian literary firmament and everyone had an opinion about the new novel. The newspaper Arbeiderbladet wrote: “A profound, bleeding earnestness and an extravagant desperation and joie de vivre shines through Axel Jensen’s great new novel.” According to the reviewer, the talent Axel had shown in Ikaros was now in full bloom. The paper Morgenbladet opined, in contrast, that the book was banal, full of hectic swaggering and utterly devoid of even a glimmer of a mature thought or artistic value.
The book contained taboo words and descriptions of sexual intercourse and was judged immoral by a range of critics across the country. The large, influential newspaper Aftenposten refused to review the book because it was too racy, and the main public library in at least one county in Norway declined to add the book to its collection. Nonetheless, Line was one of the few Nordic novels to make the crossing to an English-speaking market, under the title A Girl I Knew.
While Marianne and Sam exchanged letters between Oslo and Greece, Axel and John corresponded frequently. John lived in El Buen Retiro in Cuernavaca, Mexico, but it was just temporary: he didn’t like the sound of the address.
I’ve seen your idol Henry Miller several times of late. He is a much sweeter gent than one would guess from his stinking writing.
I will be in Mexico for three months. After a brief period in Peru to unearth certain “things,” I wil
l try to stop in Norway en route to Egypt to see your magnificent child and beat the shit out of you. Your baby will undoubtedly be a genious. I will not beat him up. Nor Marianna. Only YOU.
That I love you goes without saying.
Marianna, too.
Baby in woom, also.23
* * *
Axel Joachim was born on the 21st of January, 1960. Attending the birth, Axel senior saw his son enter the world. The baby boy had jaundice and looked like his father.
The next day Axel came to the maternity ward together with a close friend of Marianne. Marianne watched them, thinking that they were lovers. She didn’t know, but she guessed that’s what was going on. The visit made her so uneasy that she lost her milk and couldn’t breastfeed the child, who was somewhat weak on account of his jaundice. The next day the midwife put a feeding tube down into the baby’s stomach so he could be nourished. Five days later Marianne stood on the steps outside the clinic with the boy in her arms, waiting for her mother to fetch them. She couldn’t help wondering about her and her child’s future. Would they be alone in the world? Would Axel be there for them?
Marianne and the baby boy moved in temporarily with her mother, whose home provided a base for them while Marianne got back on her feet. Axel didn’t stay in Oslo long. To avoid paying taxes to the Norwegian government he travelled back to Hydra a week after his son’s birth. Marianne and Axel Joachim followed four months later.
* * *
When Axel collected them in Athens Marianne was unaware that he’d already found himself a new woman with whom he wanted to share his life. He had met Patricia Amlin, an American painter. Axel said nothing in Athens, but Marianne thought there was something peculiar about him — it was as if he’d become a stranger to her and the child. Marianne thought about how the overwhelming reception of Line had gone to his head and how she had seen little of him at the hospital. He hadn’t been there for her and their baby, and now she had no idea what she was walking into.
Before taking the ferry to Hydra, they spent one night at a hotel and one night in a huge house along with some friends of Axel who were stationed at the American military base in Athens. Marianne was tired after the journey so Axel took care of Axel Joachim, carrying him in his arms and telling him how the stars were positioned in the sky the day he was born. He didn’t prattle away in the high voice usually reserved for babies, but spoke seriously to his son as if he were a little professor. The child listened with big eyes and cried a bit. His father comforted him and carried him and talked until the little one fell asleep.
On their way through the port of Hydra the next day, laden with suitcases, diapers and baby, an old Greek woman they knew headed for them. She crossed herself, peeked into the baby carrier and dry-spat at Axel Joachim. Marianne’s heart beat faster in her chest as she looked with astonishment at the hunchbacked woman. She didn’t know that this symbolic gesture was the customary way of protecting a child from the evil eye.
At twenty-five years of age, Marianne came back to the little whitewashed house in Kala Pigadia with a baby in her arms. The house had neither electricity nor running water; it was a marked transition from Oslo. Marianne dragged the baby’s carriage, an old one handed down to her by an American woman, between the house and the port. The Norwegian family attracted attention and the little blond Buddha was passed from lap to lap.
Axel said nothing about his new lover. Marianne didn’t ask any questions. Foreseeing what was about to happen, she shut her eyes and hoped it would fade away, hoped that Axel would find contentment with her and their child. But the American painter with the long dark hair had rented a room on the island and spent more and more time with Axel. Marianne picked one of the yellow flowers on the un-cemented terrace and plucked off the petals one by one. In her mind she pictured the blue-painted wooden bench where they changed Axel Joachim’s diapers, the white rooms, the books and typewriter. She was afraid of losing everything they had created together in this place. The fairy tale suddenly lay beyond her reach. It was as if there were a glass wall between her and everything else. In a dreamlike state, she saw herself climbing up on the wall around the house while she stared down the steep hillside, wanting out.
THE MAN IN THE SIXPENCE
One warm late morning in May, Marianne enlists a neighbour woman to watch Axel Joachim while she goes shopping. Bougainvillea vines are blossoming in pinks and reds; the whole of Hydra is about to burst into bloom. She descends the steep steps from the house and follows the old river course toward the harbour, greeting acquaintances along the way.
“Yassou, pedi mou.” Hello, my child.
“Yassou.”
Down at the port she goes into Katsikas’ with her basket to buy bottled water and milk for the baby. She is wearing a pair of wooden-soled sandals and a home-sewn skirt with big pleats and colourful stripes against a pale blue background. A man she hasn’t noticed before stands in the doorway, the sun behind him, in chinos and a shirt with rolled up sleeves. Tennis shoes and a sixpence cap. Marianne can’t see his face, just his silhouette, and she hears him say, “Would you like to join us? We’re sitting outside.”
Marianne accepts demurely and finishes her shopping. She takes her basket and goes out and sits at his table, where three or four other foreigners are gathered. They sit on the small straight-backed chairs with woven seats. Some are drinking retsina. Marianne drinks juice, shying away from alcohol so early in the day. She is alert, aware that she must soon go home to relieve the babysitter. Bashful and not knowing quite what to say, she looks away. It’s quiet and relaxed around the table. The man doesn’t say anything remarkable, but he looks at Marianne. And when their eyes meet, her entire body trembles.
Marianne rises from the table and takes her leave. Walks with light steps up Kala Pigadia to the little house. The basket is heavy, but she is not aware of the weight. She feels almost tipsy when she comes home. She hustles the sitter out the door and puts on some music. Dances around the room, thinking that it’s wonderful to be there together with Axel Joachim. Doesn’t care that he doesn’t want to go to sleep right away. Feeling light, easy.
Marianne rests during the afternoon with her child while the sun is at its highest. When she awakens she is full of anticipation. She wants to go down to the port again, where everyone she knows is gathered and where she may again encounter the Canadian whom she met earlier in the day. Leonard. The dark-haired poet with the sixpence and the intense gaze.
She pulls a sunhat on her baby boy’s head and rolls the carriage down Kala Pigadia, Axel forgotten for a little while.
* * *
Leonard Cohen remembers that he’d seen Marianne many times together with Axel and the baby before she took any notice of him. He had watched them sailing down the port — blonde, beautiful and tanned — and he thought, What a beautiful Holy Trinity they are.24
It was more or less accidental that Leonard came to Hydra. He was staying in London to work on his first novel, but felt that it never stopped raining there. He was from Montreal, where it was snowy and cold, but people knew how to keep their houses warm. In London it seemed to rain ceaselessly and there was little warmth indoors. A hot water bottle took the chill out of the bed, but didn’t banish the dampness that pervaded the sheets and his clothing.25
One day Leonard walked into the Bank of Greece, to cash a traveller’s cheque or on some other errand. One of the tellers was a young, tanned man who was smiling. Leonard asked, “How did you get that expression? Everybody else is white and sad.” The man answered that he’d just come back from Greece, where spring was in full swing. Leonard got on a plane to Athens the next day, the 13th of April, 1960. He visited the Acropolis, spent the night in Piraeus and took the boat to Hydra. He wrote his mother a postcard saying that he wasn’t suffering from culture shock; on the contrary, he felt that Hydra was home.26
Leonard, whose mother was of Russian origin and whose father had been a
military officer, had an old-fashioned background, like Marianne. They shared some of the same courtesies — values that belonged to an older era. Leonard’s calling had been known to him from a young age. He knew that he wanted to be a writer, not for a popular audience, but for dead poets like William Butler Yeats. He wanted to be one of them. And if he could become a writer with that kind of integrity — if the the gift had been bestowed upon him — there would be money, and women. Not in great quantities, but enough. He would have a roof over his head and a beautiful view.27
The attractive and likeable Canadian was quickly included in the island’s coterie of expatriates. He stayed with the Johnstons at first, until he found himself a small house that he rented for fourteen dollars a month. He lived on the stipend he had been awarded in Canada following the publication of his first book of poetry.
* * *
The island’s foreigners often gathered at the port in the evening, the day’s work behind them. One of these starry spring nights, the smell of flowers in the air, the usual gang is assembled at the back room of Katsikas’. Leonard Cohen is there. Marianne, Axel and his lover Patricia. In the light of oil lamps, they drink retsina from an oak cask. In the middle of the floor is an oval pan full of charcoal. Sophia hooks down a dried octopus from the ceiling and readies it for the hot grill. Marianne doesn’t like to have Axel Joachim out with her in the evenings: the neighbour girl with the long dark braids is keeping an eye on the little boy, who is in his pyjamas, in bed.
Marianne is having trouble concentrating. Leonard, in his cap and tennis shoes, is sitting on one of the straight-backed chairs. At the same table, Axel and Patricia are drinking wine. The mood rises as long discussions unfold about art and life. Patricia is beautiful, as slight as a tiny bird. Marianne feels a stab in her chest but doesn’t make a scene. She has almost become her own mother, who maintained that if a glass had to be smashed in anger, choose a mustard glass.
So Long, Marianne Page 8
