by Linda Olsson
8
Come, sit by me, and I shall tell you all my sorrows; we shall talk to each other about secrets.
Veronika carefully returned her cup to the table, suddenly concerned about the safety of the fine china in her hands. Astrid’s cup sat on the table in front of her and she held both her hands around it, as if protecting it. She looked up.
‘Let me show you my house,’ she said. She stood and beckoned Veronika to follow. She crossed the spacious kitchen and continued out into the hallway, with Veronika following. ‘I live in there,’ Astrid said with a nod over her shoulder. ‘In the kitchen, and the small room beyond. I don’t even bother to heat the living room and I rarely go upstairs.’ She pointed towards the closed door at the end of the hallway. ‘That’s the living room over there.’ A wide staircase that turned halfway led to the second storey. Astrid paused on the first step and pointed to the closed door to the left. ‘My father used to have his study in that room. Now I just use it for storage.’ She continued up the stairs. At the top there was a large square landing with generous windows in two directions, four doors facing them opposite the top of the stairs, and one door immediately to the right. Veronika could see her own house through the window to the left and the road leading to the slope down the hill on the other side. A large weaving loom took up a good part of the space; a couple of wicker chairs and a small table stood by the window to the right. The most striking feature of the space was a number of rag rugs that crisscrossed the floor. Still more lay rolled up beside the loom.
‘When my father died, I cut up all his clothes and started to weave. When my husband was taken to the rest-home, I began on his.’ Astrid stepped onto one of the rugs and let the sole of her foot rub against it. ‘It gives me pleasure to walk on them,’ she said. She took Veronika’s hand and led her to one of the doors in front of them. ‘This used to be my room,’ she said, and opened the door. The air inside was still and dark; a blind was pulled over the window. ‘Later, when I was married, my father used it as his bedroom. He died in here.’ Astrid’s eyes swept over the narrow bed, covered with a white crocheted bedspread. ‘When I found him he was already dead. Curled up, with his eyes wide open. I closed them and covered his face.’
She turned and closed the door behind her. ‘This here is another bedroom,’ she said, but didn’t stop to open the door. ‘A guest room, I suppose you could call it, although there have been no guests for such a long time.’ She nodded towards the next door, told Veronika it was the bathroom, then walked across the landing. With her hand on the doorhandle of the fourth room she paused. ‘The room over there is just a small bedroom. I . . .’ She didn’t finish the sentence, just nodded in the direction of the room to the far right, her eyes on her hand. Then she opened the door in front of her.
‘This is the master bedroom,’ she said, and stood aside for Veronika to enter. A large double bed took up most of the space, and a small writing desk with a chair stood against the opposite wall, beside a large free-standing wardrobe. All the furniture was old, the wood dark. The air was cool and Veronika couldn’t pick up any smell. The impression was a little like a museum, a display of a distant past.
‘I air the rooms once a week, but otherwise I never come upstairs.’ Astrid walked through the room and opened the double doors to a balcony that ran the length of the house. Both women stepped outside and stood leaning on the bannister, looking out over the apple trees, still bare, across the fields, where the grass was still last year’s, dry and flat, and down over the village and the distant hills beyond. The air was chilly and a light fog was rising from the valley below, like softly rippling grey gauze. ‘Such a beautiful view. But, you know, it has never given me the slightest pleasure.’ Astrid turned and walked inside. She waited for Veronika to follow, then closed the doors.
Later, as Veronika walked back to her own house, she took a deep breath. Although the new grass had only just begun to penetrate last year’s dead groundcover, and the birch leaves still had a week or two to open, she could smell the budding growth. The days extended long into the evening now.
It was the week before Pentecost. Veronika wrote the note while she had morning coffee and put the envelope in Astrid’s mailbox when she walked past. Afterwards, it struck her that perhaps the old woman wouldn’t often check her box. She decided to give it a day or two. During the last few weeks she had seen Astrid outside, hard at work most days, weeding and clearing a small patch on the southern side of the house. Veronika hadn’t tried to approach her neighbour, but had gone about her own life, taking her daily walks and writing most afternoons and long into the light evenings.
She checked Astrid’s mailbox the following morning. The note was gone. Yet she didn’t hear from her that day. Nor did she see her at work in her garden. But the window was open when she walked past and she thought the old woman was inside, watching. Suddenly, Veronika was able to see how beautiful the house and the garden must once have been: large birch trees in the front, their buds now pale purple and ready to burst, and the wide slope down towards the village at the back. Several large bird cherry trees stood on the western side, and beneath them an unkempt old lilac hedge. Veronika could imagine how beautiful it would look in a couple of weeks’ time when the blossoms had opened. Along the back there was a small overgrown orchard with old apple trees, their trunks covered in grey lichen and with sporadic buds sprouting on bare branches. There must have been flowerbeds along the fence once — she noticed a few struggling daffodils among the weeds. It struck her that her own garden needed work. Her own garden? It wasn’t her house, or her garden. She still had moments when she was overcome by a sense of surprise at being there at all. In the village. In the house.
She spent time going through her journal, rereading notes and adding new ones. Each time she would be instantly transported to another world, curiously more present and alive with each passing day, as if time and distance functioned as a magnifier.
She dreamt of the beach and the sea every night, but most mornings only a fragment would remain when she was fully awake. Still, the memory of the feeling lingered all day.
It struck her that her memories seemed clear, alive, here in this unrelated environment. She watched her neighbour’s neglected garden slowly regaining life and preparing for summer, and the flax and budding pohutukawa of New Zealand intruded. Perhaps she had needed to get this far away in order to see clearly. To enable the memories to surface. But, although she was now beginning to touch the past, she wasn’t able to turn it into words. She would spend hours on the computer with nothing to show. The book she had set out to write seemed increasingly elusive. On the one hand, there were the invasive memories. On the other hand, everyday life in the village. And then the book. Somehow she lived with all three, but there seemed to be no connections between them.
The following day she received the note. It was in her mailbox in the morning, although she hadn’t seen Astrid deliver it. The envelope was yellowed and the glue dried out. The handwriting was elegant, but somehow gave the impression that the process of writing had been painful, a struggle with pen and words. But it was an acceptance.
‘Thank you, dear Veronika. I was intrigued to get your note. There is rarely anything in my mailbox and I often don’t bother to check. Imagine my delight at a personal letter. An invitation. Of course I accept. With all my heart.’
Astrid was coming to dinner.
9
Tonight, nothing, nothing has occurred, but something yet takes place.
Veronika had decided against meat in the end. It had been such a summery week, more suited to something light. She drove to the neighbouring village and bought three hot-smoked trout from the small smokehouse by the river. The first bags of new potatoes had arrived in the shop the day before, imported and overpriced, but she bought some.
It was all set. She had decided they would eat in the kitchen, by the window that was open to the light, early summer evening. Air wafted in filled with the smells and sounds of
the approaching night: flowers folding, dew settling on the grass, insects of the day falling silent and those of the night stirring. The warmth of the kitchen added smells of wilting dill on steaming potatoes, sliced lemon, pungent cheese. She had opened a bottle of New Zealand chardonnay and poured herself a glass. She stood by the window, waiting, and she raised the glass to her lips and took a first sip, letting the familiar flavours linger on her tongue. Apple, grapefruit, pineapple, feijoa, butter, grass — even experts struggled to find words to describe it. She looked out over the landscape, still wrapped in sunshine but distinctly evening quiet, and took in the immense stillness. She pulled the window to, leaving only a small chink. A fine film of steam covered the glass, the condensation running like tears. She was playing a recording of Lars Erik Larsson’s Förklädd Gud, God in disguise. It was as if all her senses had come together to form a complete whole. The stillness of the evening, the smells from the stove, the taste of the wine, the sound of the music. She was surprised to realise that she was filled with a quiet, measured feeling of anticipation.
She put the glass on the table and went to the bench to prepare the mayonnaise. She started whisking oil into mustard and egg yolks in a bowl, her hip against the edge of the bench and one foot lightly resting on top of the other. Her hands moved, the music played. There was no forewarning of the sudden flash of a memory, which hit her with an almost physical force. The two of them in his mother’s kitchen, laughing. James making mayonnaise. For her, in another life. His tanned hands moving with grace, effortlessly, doing their job while he talked to her of wonderful things to come. Her own hands stopped moving, resting on the bench, whisk in hand.
Just then, she heard footsteps on the porch. She put down the whisk and went to open the door. Her guest was lit by the lamp in the hallway behind, and Veronika saw Astrid’s pale face set off by a man’s white shirt. Her guest held out both hands, one offering a bottle filled with a dark red liquid, the other two small glasses, upside down and held by their slim stems. Veronika took the gifts, then gently touched the old woman’s elbow with hers and guided her inside, kicking the door closed with her foot.
In the kitchen, Astrid refused the chair and instead walked up to the window, where she stood with her hands on her back, her eyes set on her own house. Veronika couldn’t make out the shape of her body underneath the shirt, which was too big and hung loosely over her buttocks. Like the checked shirt she had been wearing on their walk, this one reached to midthigh, and the sleeves were rolled up to expose surprisingly slender wrists. Veronika could see the scalp through strands of grey hair at the top of the old woman’s head. Astrid had removed her shoes by the front door and her dark socks were a little too big as well, leaving an empty tip at the toes. The bottoms of the dark trousers looked wet from her walk across the dewy grass. Veronika offered her a glass of wine, which she accepted with a small start. She held the glass with both hands and drank slowly, her eyes closed. Neither of them spoke and in the stillness the music filled the room.
They sat down opposite each other at the table. The hot steam from the bowl of potatoes stirred in the light breeze from the window. The trout rested bright pink on a plate, surrounded by wedges of lemon, with the mayonnaise in a separate bowl alongside. There was knäckebröd, wedges of the large round crisp local rye bread in a small basket, butter, and cheese so mature it was crumbling. They began to eat. Veronika talked a little about New Zealand, about the book.
‘I thought I was writing a love story this time. Now I am not so sure,’ she said. ‘It is as if it has slipped out of my hands. Or off the screen of my laptop. I am beginning to think that perhaps there is another story intruding.’
The old woman listened, saying nothing and keeping her eyes on her plate. Whenever there was a moment of comfortable silence, the music expanded to fill the space. Suddenly, Astrid looked up.
‘They talk about me, I know. In the village.’ She smiled, a strange little grimace with firmly closed lips. ‘I don’t understand how they still find things to say. But they always have. Yet they don’t know anything worth knowing.’ She turned the glass in her hand. ‘I am sure you have heard that they call me “the witch”. I don’t mind. Perhaps there is something to that,’ she said, again with an odd smile, her eyes on the glass. ‘Lately, I have felt that it would be a relief to tell the truth. Or my version of some truth.’ Astrid looked up and her eyes met Veronika’s. ‘But then who should I tell?’
Veronika said nothing, turning her wine glass in her hand. They continued the meal in silence, pausing now and then with the cutlery on their plates and elbows resting on the table. Veronika opened a second bottle of wine. She went up to change the music, putting on a recording with songs with lyrics by Erik Axel Karlfeldt. She paused for a moment to listen to the words:
She comes across the meadows at Sjugareby.
She is a little maiden her skin the fairest hue,
yes, like meadow saxifrage, like wild rose blossom . . .
She returned to the table and sat down. Across from her, Astrid’s face glowed with new warmth. Suddenly Veronika thought she could see the young woman who had looked out the windows with such longing, curious about the worlds beyond the forests and the mountains. She searched the old face for traces of the long-lost beauty, for hope. She thought about how modern science could develop the adult face from a child’s. How it was sometimes done in cases when children went missing. She tried to do the reverse, constructing the young face from the old one across the table.
She remembered how one day, just after she had arrived, she had been to the shop, and the woman at the checkout had talked about ‘the witch’, insisting on showing Veronika an old black-and-white postcard. The tattered picture had showed a pretty, young blonde girl dressed in the traditional costume, posing on a wooden fence, a shy smile on her face.
‘It’s her. Truly. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’ the woman had said gleefully.
But now Veronika didn’t think it was hard to believe: it just required a certain perspective. The eyes were still beautiful, bright blue, but they looked at the world with an expression of caution and suspicion. Poor eyesight, or perhaps life itself, had set them in a permanent squint. The skin stretched tightly over her forehead, and with her thin grey hair pushed back, the shape of the cranium was disturbingly exposed, evoking simultaneously a baby’s vulnerable softness and a death’s skull. Veronika thought about the young girl’s thick braids falling from the edge of the hat down over her chest. The straight nose, the white teeth. The smile. Here, in the flickering candlelight, the nose was long and narrow, and the shadows down either side of the mouth were deep recesses. The mouth was a thin line, hiding gums that seemed largely toothless. It was impossible to associate it with the young girl’s hopeful smile. And perhaps there had never been much hope.
When the music ended, Astrid sat with both hands on the table, her half-filled glass between them. She was looking out the window. Very softly she began to sing. Hon kommer utför ängarna vid Sjugareby . . . She closed her eyes and her voice picked up, became more confident. Veronika looked at the old woman, then closed her own eyes and listened. While Astrid’s spoken words were slow and hesitant, the lyrics of the song flowed with clarity and beauty. She finished the last verse and they were both silent for a moment.
‘I used to love singing,’ said Astrid. ‘My mother used to sing to me — songs with words I didn’t understand. I just absorbed them, the way children do. Listened to her voice and memorised the sounds. Later, at school, I learnt the local songs. Like this one.’ And she began to sing again.
Limu, limu lima,
Dear God let the sun shine
over mountains so blue
over maidens so small
who wander the woods
in summertime.
Later, Veronika made coffee and as she put cups on the table, Astrid got up and collected the bottle and the two small glasses she had brought. ‘I haven’t bothered to look for them for several years,’
she suddenly said, indicating the bottle with a slight nod. ‘The wild strawberries.’ She sat down at the table again and picked up the corkscrew. ‘I planted them behind my house over sixty years ago. I got them from the forest and people said it couldn’t be done. That wild strawberries couldn’t be transferred. But I cared for my patch and the plants thrived. Each year I would run out to clear it as soon as the soil thawed in the spring. And later, I collected the new offshoots and planted them in pots until they were strong enough to go back into the patch. I kept looking after it all summer. Picked the berries as they ripened. They were the sweetest — small and bright red with a perfume that stayed on your hands long after you had finished picking. I used to make jam and conserve. Cordial. And sometimes this liqueur.’
She peeled off the wax covering the cork, inserted the corkscrew and opened the bottle. She put her nose to the opening and smelled the contents before filling the two glasses with the deep red liquid.
‘I didn’t know I still had a bottle left. It’s been so long. I didn’t think there would be anything left behind the house, either. But when I checked the other day, I found it — my strawberry patch — overgrown and hidden under weeds, but still there.’
She lifted her glass and looked straight at Veronika. ‘Like secrets,’ she said. ‘Like memories. You can make yourself believe that they have been erased. But they are there, if you look closely. If you have a wish to uncover them.’
Veronika took her glass and held it up to the light. The content was burgundy red, mysterious and evocative, like a witch’s brew. She could smell the fragrance of the ripe berries as she held the glass to her nose. She closed her eyes, took a sip and let the sweetness fill her mouth.
They sat at the table with their glasses before them, drinking slowly while the music played. Astrid kept her eyes on her house across the field, where pale sheets of mist were moving over the grass.
