by Linn Ullmann
“Oh, Stella, there you go again, always probing and prying!”
“Yeah, well, I’m curious.”
“Is it the shame of it that hurts you?” Gerd asked, when I begged her to stay. She was sick and tired of the whole business. She had had enough. She wanted to get away. She was going to take little Alice and go north with this other man. Of course, I should have let her go. Instead I asked her to stay. Don’t ask me why.
Victor was his name: her lover. A fellow teacher. Blond and handsome and very popular with the pupils. Gerd was besotted with him long before we were married, and he with her. Oh, dear me, yes. They were meant for each other right from the start. I was the big mistake, her life’s tragedy, the tumor in her stomach. But it was Gerd’s choice, and Gerd chose me. Because I could do magic. And he could not.
Once upon a time, a long time ago, Victor and I were good friends. It all started in the thirties, when we were students. I used to meet him at the Trocadero. I remember him well. On one occasion he kept an entire table entertained with love poems he had written himself, apparently inspired by Gerd Egede-Nissen the actress, whom, not surprisingly, he had never met. But there was another Gerd in Victor’s life—and the poems were, of course, addressed to her. And she, Gerd number two, was sitting at our table that evening, looking every bit as lovely as Gerd number one.
She liked us both. Victor recited poems; I did conjuring tricks. In the beginning she could not choose between us. Then one evening I magicked away her wristwatch, the gold barrette from her hair, her hat, her scarf, and the crucifix she wore around her neck. I threatened to magic away her blouse, her stockings, and her skirt, too, if she would not marry me, so she said yes. I felt I had won fair and square, but Victor refused to admit defeat.
“It’s me she wants,” he said. “This way you’re only going to ruin both your lives.”
“But I’m a better magician than you are a poet,” I said.
He looked at me long and hard. “And what about the wedding night?” he said. “And the night after the wedding night, and the night after that? Are you going to pull a rabbit out of a hat then too?”
That was when I told him to shut up.
Gerd and I were married in 1936. She endured it for a few months; then she went running back to him. He was waiting for her, welcomed her back with open arms, and I let them get on with it. I don’t know what was worse, their infidelity or their contempt. Their contempt, I think. The fact that they were laughing at me, in a mildly pitying, resigned sort of way. That was the worst. I was not a bad man; I wasn’t. I was a small man. I was a pathetic man. I was the kind of man other men would have spat on had they known. But I was not a bad man.
We had a deal, Gerd, Victor, and I; we made a pact: No one was to know. No one. This was to be our secret, our dirty little secret. This was between us three. Then came the war. Victor was one of the key figures on the coordinating committee of the teacher’s union—later banned—to which we both belonged. He was also quick to call for organized opposition to the new organization set up by the Nazis, which all teachers were compelled to join. And it was Victor who knocked on my door one evening to present me with a statement he felt I ought to sign. It was my duty, he said. He placed a matchbox in my hand, and in this box I found a slip of paper. I bent my head over the paper and scanned it quickly.
I hereby declare that I cannot take any part in the teaching of the young people of Norway according to the lines laid down by the German occupying force… . This would run counter to my own personal beliefs … forcing me to commit other acts that would conflict with my professional code of honor… . In all good conscience I must therefore state that I do not consider myself a member of the new teachers’ union.
It was my duty, he said, running a hand through his thick fair hair—the very hand, it occurred to me, that my wife could not live without. And if I had an ounce of moral gumption, he went on, if I had ever wanted to show the world the kind of man—
I interrupted this tirade to point out that he was hardly in a position to be lecturing me on morality. To which he replied that I would have to set aside my personal—he hesitated for a moment—my personal failings; what was at issue here was something much bigger. I told him he hadn’t changed a bit since the days when he was reciting bad poetry at the Trocadero. This was just more bad poetry. He nodded slowly.
“Am I to understand, Axel, that you won’t sign it?”
“No, why on earth should I sign it?” I said. “One organization is as good as another. I’m a teacher, not a politician.”
“And a magician,” Victor added wryly, “with Quisling’s blessing. You choose your friends with care.”
“Yes, I am a magician. And, like I say, not a politician. I don’t give a damn about any of this. I don’t give a damn about anything you say, Victor, or anything you do.”
I remember wondering where Gerd was. Sometimes she spent the night at his place. Was she there now? Was she waiting for him? Would they sit in his living room long into the night, laughing at me? I pulled myself together.
“It’s time you were leaving,” I said.
I led the way into the hall and opened the door. He followed but stopped in the doorway. He laid a hand on my arm. I pulled away.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he said.
“Ha!” I retorted.
“Is it that you’re afraid?” he asked.
“Afraid? Afraid of what?”
“Afraid to sign the statement, afraid of what might happen if you did sign, afraid for yourself, for Gerd, and not least for little Alice?”
“Get out, Victor!”
“Because if that’s so, if you are in fact afraid of signing, I’m here to tell you that you should be far more afraid of not doing so—”
“I’ve never felt less afraid,” I snapped, cutting him off. “Goodbye!”
I pushed him out the door. He was heavier than I had expected, and a lot bigger. It took all my strength, but I eventually managed it. And then, with the door finally shut behind me, I dissolved, quite unexpectedly, into floods of tears.
When peace broke out, I knew it was only a matter of time before Gerd would want to leave me. Even so, when the word came I was quite unprepared. Now listen to me, Axel, because this is going to hurt. I was panic-stricken.
“Axel Grutt, panic-stricken?”
“Yes, panic-stricken.”
I did not want her to leave. I wanted her to stay with me. That was the only time I have ever really fought for something. And it turned me rotten inside. That fight left me rotten to the core. I heard myself threatening Gerd, saying I would take Alice away from her. I would have the law on my side, I reminded her. After all, hadn’t she been neglecting house and home even before Alice was born, running off to Victor the way she did?
She was ready with her defense. “They won’t take Alice away from me because of Victor,” she said. “He’s a war hero, Axel. And what are you?” She all but spat on the floor.
“I’ll have the law on my side, Gerd. They’ll take Alice away from you,” I repeated. “They won’t hesitate.”
She came right up close to me, pressed her face against mine. “You don’t even know for sure that she’s yours,” she hissed.
I stared at her, stunned. I raised my hand to hit her. “She’s mine!” I roared. “Alice is my child. Don’t do this, Gerd! Not this!”
And I sank down onto the sofa and howled. Gerd walked through to the bedroom and lay down on the bed. After a while I went in and lay down beside her. I stroked her face, her throat.
“Forgive me,” I whispered. “Forgive me.”
She wept, hugged me, pressed herself close against me. I went on stroking her face. She grew soft in my arms. Her hands were all over me. “Not so fast, Gerd, not so fast.” But she wasn’t listening.
She was full of kisses.
I WAS PLANNING to watch the evening news at seven o’clock, but by the time I switch on the television the news is long since over. Everyth
ing has gone wrong today. It has all been too much. I take off my suit, unbutton my shirt, and hang everything in the closet. I set my shoes out in the hall, both my dress shoes and my sneakers. I take out a clean pair of pajamas, the ones with the blue stripes, and put them on. It is almost eleven o’clock. I shall sleep soon.
Often, before I go to bed, I listen to some of Schubert’s piano music, but this evening I am more in the mood for song. I put on Die Winterreise. Luckily my half-deaf neighbor, the so-called music lover, is not at home. I haven’t heard a sound from his apartment for days, maybe even weeks. It has been as quiet as can be in there. Maybe he’s dead. Sometimes people just don’t wake up from a good long night’s sleep. I mean, where would he go? He had no friends. He never had any visitors, never went out. Well, I never! Maybe he really is dead. Bless him.
It is Fischer-Dieskau who is singing. I glance around the dark rooms. When I moved in here after Gerd’s death, I brought nothing with me from the house we owned except the gilt mirror that hangs in the hall. I have never felt at home here. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I detest my surroundings, and my surroundings detest me. That is just how it is.
I sit down on the sofa. But then it is as if I got up again, crossed the room, and stood by the window.
So I stand there, looking at myself on the sofa, a little man sitting there all hunched up, so terribly alone. A bit of a poor soul, that one, I say to myself, and turn to look out the window. Suddenly it is snowing. Time has passed. It has been snowing for some days now. I lay my hand against the cold windowpane. A tram rolls past, almost empty, in the wintry gloom. Not the greatest of weather, if you ask me. I turn back to the poor soul on the sofa. Shall we have a cup of coffee, you and I?
I have lighted three candles: one for Gerd, one for Stella, and one for Amanda. I don’t think Amanda will come here anymore. But if she should surprise me and ring the doorbell—I mean, if she should come over anyway, tomorrow, for example, or the next day—I could show her my barrel organ. She has never seen it. Fancy that. All the times she has visited me, and yet it has never occurred to me to show her the barrel organ. Granted, it’s down in the cellar, so it would be quite a strain to lug it upstairs. But I could always ask someone to give me a hand. In my experience, people can be most obliging if you ask them for help. Take the young couple who’ve moved in next door, for instance. He’s a conceited ass, anyone can see that, but she is graceful and charming, not unlike my daughter Alice when she was young. Alice, who could positively take my breath away simply by running down the street to meet me, with her arms outstretched. I am quite sure that if I were to ask that young couple to help Amanda and me carry the barrel organ up the stairs from the cellar, they would. I would offer them a cup of coffee afterward, naturally, and maybe some layer cake from the patisserie on the corner—as a way of saying thank-you for their trouble. It would be a nice gesture on my part. And after they’d gone, Amanda and I would settle ourselves on the sofa and I would play for her.
“Funny old man,” she’ll say then, and I will see that she has her mother’s eyes. “Can’t I stay here with you a while?”
Amanda
The night is not far off. I’ve put Bee to bed and tucked her in. I got undressed, too, but I didn’t get into bed. It’s hot and I’ve pushed the window open as far as it can go. Before Bee fell asleep I said something I heard Mamma say to her once. I said, “It helps to cry.”
But Bee shook her head.
So I said, “Well, it would help me if you cried.”
She shook her head again.
You stupid kid! Our mother’s dead and you just lie there. I felt like scratching her eyes out. Instead I patted her.
I said, “Have it your way, Bee, but there’s always a chance that you’ll wake up in the middle of the night and find me crying.”
She nodded.
“Or maybe you’ll wake up in the middle of the night and find I’ve gone for a walk. In which case, you just lie down and go back to sleep.”
Several times, Martin opens the bedroom door and stands in the doorway looking at us, Bee under the covers and me still up.
“Put on your nightgown, Amanda,” he whispers, “and shut that window. It’s blowing a gale.”
“Go away,” I say.
The next time he looks in, he says exactly the same thing. “Put on your nightgown, Amanda, and shut that window. It’s blowing a gale.”
There are lots of things I don’t tell Bee. For example: I might run away tonight. He might be waiting for me in town. We might climb some scaffolding, or a bell tower, or up onto a roof, just like Mamma and Martin, and we’ll see the whole town spread out at our feet, and then we’ll say Snip, snap, snout and he’ll take me from behind, and at that moment I might actually catch fire.
But before that, before any of this, I’ll sing five songs to Bee. I’ll sing one for the old, one for the young, one for the living, and one for the dead. And then I’ll sing one song just for you. D’you hear that, Bee? One song just for you. I want to be absolutely sure that you’re asleep before I go.
The last time Martin looked in, he said, “Do you want to talk?”
I looked at him. “We’re not friends, you and me. And don’t you forget it!”
“Yeah, right,” he said. “But put on your nightgown.”
Corinne
It is a freezing winter’s night, flurries of snow chased by rain in the deserted pitch-dark streets. The tram is almost empty. I am sitting right at the very back. A few seats in front of me sits a man, a stranger. There is something familiar about this stranger, my fellow passenger: his back maybe, or his hair, Bible-black. The tram stops and the man stands up to get off. I take the chance and call out to him. “Martin Vold, is that you?” The man turns, shakes his head, and smiles. It is not him. It is not Martin. This man has beady green eyes and a scar on his chin. I apologize for my mistake and we wish each other good night.
I have thought about Martin a lot lately. He dropped out of sight after Stella’s funeral. I had completed my investigation, and he was not suspected of anything—or at least not anything that could be proved. He was free to do as he pleased, and he chose to disappear. My fellow officers and I were finished with him. Although it turns out that I was not, in fact, finished with him after all. I roam the city’s streets like a woman in love, imagining that I see him on every corner. Not that I’ve ever been in love myself, heaven forbid! But in the course of my work I have come across enough women in love to know that this is pretty much how it affects them: Wherever they go they seem to see the face of their beloved—they see him getting into a car, leaning against a wall, at a café window, on the other side of the street.
Every now and then a face would present itself on the black shawl covering the window in Stella and Martin’s bedroom. Martin said it was a woman’s face. Stella said it was a man’s. But they agreed that it was a face, and that the face spoke to them. They gave the face a name: Herr Poppel.
“Even though I was positive it was a woman’s face, I went along with calling it Herr Poppel,” Martin told me.
The date was September 2, 2000. Stella’s funeral was only hours away. Martin and I were seated on either side of the big dining table. It would soon be morning.
“And what was Herr Poppel?” I asked. “What was his or her purpose?”
“She opened her big mouth and sang,” said Martin.
“Sang?”
“Yes, sang,” Martin repeated. “About us, Stella and me.”
“And what did she sing on the last day of Stella’s life?”
“Herr Poppel seldom sang during the day.”
“I see. Okay, so what did Herr Poppel sing on the last night of Stella’s life?”
“She sang a lullaby,” said Martin. “The same lullaby that Stella used to sing to Bee when she was a baby. It was Stella who did the singing that night, too, in her deep Herr Poppel voice. She would lie beside me in bed, singing, until it got to the point where I had to ask her to sh
ut up. I’d ask her to shut up, and she’d tell me it didn’t pay to talk to Herr Poppel like that. I had to ask nicely, she’d say. So I’d ask nicely. ‘Please, Herr Poppel, don’t sing anymore tonight. And certainly not the song you’re singing now, because it reminds me of weird little babies who never cry but keep us up all night just the same.’ Stella would turn her back on me. ‘Fuck you,’ she would say. ‘Fuck you, Martin.’ Then we’d sleep back to back for a couple of hours.”
“What time would you say you fell asleep the night before she died?”
“Past five, I guess,” Martin said. “It took us all night to make the video for—”
“Ah, yes, the video,” I said, interrupting him. “There was something I wanted to ask you. Several times on the video Stella says that there’s something she wants to tell you.”
“Does she? I don’t remember.”
“Did she tell you something that night?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know whether she told you anything?”
“No, I don’t know. I can’t think of anything in particular, if that’s what you mean. But, no, I don’t think so. Stella always had a hundred and one things buzzing around in her head, all of which she wanted to tell you. But there was nothing in particular. I would remember if there was.”
“Might it have been that she was pregnant?”
“No.”
“No, she didn’t tell you she was pregnant, or no, she didn’t tell you anything at all, or no, she wasn’t pregnant?”
“No, no, no!”
I look at Martin. I say, “A yellowish mass, a bulge in the mucous membrane, a spongy little blob, an embryo less than a centimeter long.”
This brings us to the last day.
Martin and Stella sleep back to back, and when they wake up a few hours later, the last day has already begun. Martin has given an account of this day many times already. He has spoken to my fellow officers, and he has spoken to me. So what do we have?
We have a man and a woman on the roof of an apartment building in Frogner, walking back and forth along the edge, like tightrope walkers, circus artistes, equilibrists. We have an embrace and a fall. The woman pulls herself out of the man’s arms and falls. Or he pushes her and she falls. They are both tired, dead tired.
