by Linda Olsson
He wasn’t very tall and he was rather lightly built. His hands were very white, with long fingers. An academic’s hands, not a farmer’s. He was sent to Uppsala to university, but I don’t think he ever completed a degree. In those days it was unheard of here for anybody to go to university. It set him apart, absolutely. But when my grandfather became ill, my father was called back to manage the farm.
He had met my mother at university, I think. I have tried to imagine what brought them together: this weak, slight man and my tall, striking, laughing mother. It is impossible for me to understand. But just as we are unable to see objectively how our parents look, I think we are incapable of imagining their life together. I only know that all that was good in my mother died here. I have no way of imagining my father’s reaction. I remember only my own loneliness, my own grief. In my memory I am alone by the window as she leaves. Where was my father?
All his life, he wore his wedding band on his ring finger. On the other hand a gold signet ring on the little finger. In the evenings he used to sit in his armchair in the study, a glass of brandy in his hand, and the signet ring would make tinkling sounds as his finger tapped the glass.
I think it might have been easier if it had happened regularly. As it was, after that first time I lived in permanent dread, my ears alert to the slightest sound or movement in the house. Only when I knew he was away could I breathe properly.
It was just after school had finished for the year. Early summer, the year I was thirteen. I was upstairs in my room. I had picked lily of the valley and I was arranging it in two small vases: one for my desk, one for the bedside table. It was as if I felt the sound before I heard it. As if a preceding cold breeze alerted me. Then, the sound. He called me. The single word shot through the quiet house like a flash of ball lightning. My father rarely spoke to me, and never used my name. But here it was: ‘Astrid!’ His voice was not loud, yet it was a deafening sound, tearing up the stairs and into my room. The flowers dropped from my fingers and scattered over the desk. In an instant, the world where little girls like me picked lily of the valley vanished. I was in new territory, where there were only the two of us.
My father was in his study when I came down the stairs. He had pulled the curtains. He sat in his chair, glass in hand. I stood on the doorstep, rigid, my arms tight against my sides, my hands hard fists. With a nod of his head he beckoned me into the room. I stood in front of him and he stared at me. His pale eyes shone; in the dim light they glowed as if alight. They stayed fixed and expressionless on my body as he opened his mouth and told me to undress.
My stiff fingers struggled with buttons and clasps, while his eyes remained set on me, unblinking. When I stood before him naked his eyes moved slowly over my body. There was no sound: all was silent in this new world. After an eternity he gestured for me to turn around. I stood with my back to him, my eyes on a partly burnt log in the fireplace in front of me. The only sound was the rhythmic rustling of wool against wool, his arm against his trousers. Time passed. My entire youth passed.
Only when I heard his steps across the floor and the sound of the door closing did I turn around. When I bent down to gather my clothes it felt as if my body would never again be able to move properly. My feet were numb, my legs stiff and I trod the stairs with difficulty. I walked slowly across the upstairs landing, carrying the bundle of clothes in my arms like a dead body. I locked myself in the bathroom and filled the hand-basin with cold water. I rubbed my entire body with a washcloth until the skin burnt. Then finally I cried. I sat on the floor, with the washcloth over my face, and cried until I had no more tears.
Later, when I lay in my bed, the room still smelled of lily of the valley. I lay absolutely still, on my back, arms crossed over my chest. For a moment I saw myself from a great distance, as if observed from above. I saw every small detail: how my hair was still neatly plaited, the pattern of the bedspread, the white desk where the flowers lay scattered. And I wanted to make it right again. I wanted to bring the girl in the bed back to the world before. But I couldn’t. All I could do was to leave her where she was.
17
There is only absence here, sitting,
of a person departed long ago,
leaning lightly onto the armrests
surrounded by night.
Veronika was poised with her hand in the air ready to knock when Astrid opened the door. She must have been standing waiting. The old woman had made no effort to make herself presentable: her trousers were the usual baggy corduroys, the shirt the checked flannel, sleeves rolled up.
When their eyes finally met over the roof of the car, Astrid’s were naked and wide open, gazing into Veronika’s with an expression of terror. Like a child’s, hiding nothing. It was just after nine when they left, and as they drove down the unsealed road a cloud of dust rose behind them. Astrid sat with her hands pressed between her knees, hunched, and staring straight ahead.
They drove in silence. There was more traffic than usual, because of the forthcoming long midsummer holiday. Veronika turned on the radio and tuned into the local station, which played light summer music. She kept the driver’s window slightly rolled down and the sound of the air competed with the music. Neither of them spoke for the entire drive and Veronica wondered if Astrid might be asleep.
They turned off the main road and arrived at the rest-home just before ten, in time for the arranged meeting with the head nurse. The building was a drab 1970s construction: three low structures, painted dark green and joined together by glassed passageways. No water spurted from the funnels of the small concrete fountain that sat in the centre of a circular flowerbed where wispy rose bushes struggled in the parched soil.
They walked up the metal steps to the front door and went inside. The reception area was empty and the still air smelled of detergent and dying bodies, bland food and forced cheerfulness. The small counter to the right had a vase of drooping cornflowers, but the seat behind it was empty. When Veronika pressed the bell a woman emerged through the door behind. The rubber soles of her shoes squeaked as she crossed the shiny linoleum floor. She was middle-aged, with a plain face and a solid body that seemed to have been poured into her uniform, which stretched over her breasts and stomach. Her smile was professionally comforting as she extended her hand to greet them.
‘I am Sister Britta,’ she said.
Veronika looked at Astrid, who stood passively, her hands hanging straight down. For a brief moment the nurse’s hand remained unacknowledged in the space separating the three women, before Veronika grasped it.
‘And you must be the daughter,’ Sister Britta continued.
Veronika gave Astrid a quick look, but the old woman remained immobile, her eyes vacant.
‘No, no,’ Veronika said. ‘Just a friend.’ She realised that the nurse had made a very plausible assumption. She was surprised to realise that she didn’t mind.
They were led into a small office with a desk and two plastic chairs facing it. The nurse took her seat behind the desk and indicated to Veronika and Astrid to sit down. Sun streamed in between the slats in the blind covering the window behind the nurse, leaving her face dark and outlined by frizzy hair, as if tangled in cobwebs.
‘Mr Mattson is dying,’ she said. ‘As I explained to Mrs Mattson on the phone, there is nothing more we can do for him. It’s been a very long process, but now it is a matter of days, perhaps hours.’ She clasped her hands on the desk in front of her. ‘Now, Mrs Mattson hasn’t been a frequent visitor . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘But as we are now talking about a very short time, a very short time, I thought she would appreciate the opportunity to say goodbye properly.’
Silence followed, and they could hear the sound of a toilet flushing and of metal clanking against metal.
The nurse nodded to herself, approvingly. Her clasped hands on the shiny surface lay still. Birds chirped, and a smell of freshly cut grass wafted in through the window. Outside, life went on; inside the small room, the presence of death was s
ucking up the air.
‘Let me see him.’
The words were spoken quietly, yet they seemed to still all other sounds. Even the birdsong seemed to pause momentarily. Astrid stood, supporting herself heavily on the back of the chair. ‘I want to see him now.’
He was in a double room but the other bed was unoccupied. The room faced north, and despite the warm weather it seemed cold, the air still and stale. Nothing in the room looked private. The body in the bed was as lifeless as the plastic-covered chair in the corner by the window and the grey-striped curtains that hung listlessly either side of the window. They stood at the foot of the bed and looked down on the immobile shape that occupied it. Veronika could see no signs of life. The face was a white paper mask, stripped of personality. The eyes were closed. The body seemed so light it hardly dented the mattress or the pillow, and there were no creases in the white cotton blanket that was stretched firmly over the bed and tucked under the mattress. It was a human being reduced to a neutral physical form: limbs and organs, but no identity. It was impossible to envisage the man who had once inhabited the body.
‘I have come to watch you die, Anders,’ Astrid said to the still body. ‘And I will be here until it is finished.’ Were they words of comfort? Or a threat? Veronika looked at the old woman, but she found no clue in her pale face. Astrid’s eyes rested impassively on the patient. She stood by the foot of the bed, not touching it, her hands clasped at her back.
Veronika left the room and walked back to the reception. The nurse was back behind the counter. She looked up and presented Veronika with one of her measured, professional smiles. ‘It is always difficult, but we manage it well here,’ she said. Veronika sat down on one of the chairs in the waiting area. Manage what? she thought. Did either of them have any idea of what was going on inside the room? What was going on between these two people? A dying man and his wife — or a woman with a life to end?
In the end Veronika walked outside and sat on the grass under some birches. It was well over an hour before Astrid came out onto the front steps. She stood there, squinting in the bright light, her hand on the railing, and Veronika walked up to her. She lifted her arms as if to embrace the older woman, but let them fall, allowing one hand only to rest lightly on Astrid’s arm as they walked down the stairs. They continued up to one of the benches fronting the dry fountain and the flowerbed and sat down.
‘It may take weeks. Or be over today. Nobody knows,’ Astrid said. ‘The doctor will be here at three.’
They drove to the nearest village for something to eat. There was a choice between a small café and a hotdog outlet. The café was empty and smelled of coffee that had been sitting on the hot-plate for hours. They sat down at one of the small tables with blue and white checked plastic tablecloths. There was no sign of human life. Veronika served them each a mug of scalding bitter coffee from the pot on the counter. As she sat down, a young girl emerged from the interior and they ordered a ham sandwich each. The food arrived quickly and was generous and fresh. Yet Astrid’s stayed untouched on the plate while she kept sipping the coffee.
Holding the cup with both hands she looked at Veronika. ‘You don’t need to stay. I can manage,’ she said.
Veronika looked into the old woman’s eyes. ‘Of course I’ll wait. Let’s see what the doctor says.’
They drove back to the rest-home and sat in the shade on the bench. Veronika had bought the daily paper, and read it while Astrid sat quietly, her eyes closed. The doctor arrived in a dusty old Volvo station-wagon at a quarter past three. Obviously expecting them, she waved and asked them to follow her inside.
Astrid and Veronika were again taken into the small office. The doctor was young and tanned, dressed in faded jeans and a sleeveless top, as if this was just a short professional interlude in a summer vacation. But she had a kind face and managed to keep any impatience hidden.
‘I can’t give you the exact time left.’ Her accent was not local and Veronika thought that she might be a summer locum. The doctor tried unsuccessfully to make eye contact with Astrid, then turned her eyes to Veronika. ‘Your father’s heart is weak.’ She glanced at the records on the desk in front of her.
She doesn’t know the patient, Veronika thought. Perhaps this is the first time she has looked at those records. And this time, she didn’t correct the mistaken assumption.
‘As I am sure the sister has already told you, it could be a matter of hours. Or days. But not long.’ She turned her eyes to Astrid. ‘We can arrange for someone from the church to come and sit with you, if you like,’ she said. The old woman shook her head but said nothing. ‘You may come and go as you like, but during the night we have only one staff member on and it would be best if you either stay for the entire night, or leave at ten o’clock and come back first thing in the morning.’
‘I’ll stay for the night. I will stay as long as it takes,’ Astrid said, with her eyes on the window behind the doctor.
A nurse took them back to the room, then left to get a second chair. They placed both chairs by the window and sat down. Through the closed door they could hear the sounds of soft steps, doors opening and closing, the occasional muted voice. Outside, there were the birds, the odd car passing in the distance. But inside the room it was absolutely silent. Veronika wasn’t sure whether Astrid was awake: she was leaning back in her chair with her eyes closed. But at the faintest sound from the bed she would sit up, wide awake and alert. They waited. The light outside dimmed, but the white midsummer night still gave them all the light they required.
The nurse knocked softly on the door before she left at ten. She walked up to the bed and checked the patient, smoothed the immaculate blanket, nodded to the two women and left. A little later the night nurse did the same. She introduced herself, checked the patient and told them to ring if they needed her.
In the silence afterwards, Veronika dozed.
She woke with a start, unable to tell how long she might have slept. Astrid was standing at the foot of the bed, talking quietly. Veronika couldn’t hear the words, and remained where she was, still. When she woke the next time, Astrid was by the window. She was a black silhouette against the white dawn outside and she was embracing herself, as if cold. The plastic rustled as Veronika shifted on her seat.
Without turning, Astrid spoke. ‘We can leave. It is over.’
Later they drove slowly home along deserted roads. The air was as light as an overcast day, but the absolute stillness could only belong to the night. It was just after one in the morning. They travelled in a world that seemed to have no other inhabitants. It was only when Veronika turned her head to check whether the other woman was awake that she noticed Astrid was crying. Soundlessly, tears ran down her face and fell onto her hands, which sat on her lap, palms up. Veronika averted her eyes and kept them on the road for the rest of the journey.
When she finally stopped outside Astrid’s house, the sun was just over the horizon. It was Midsummer’s Eve, the longest day of the year. Veronika walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. Astrid sat as before, tears still falling, and Veronika had to take her arm gently and support her as she got out of the car. She held on to the old woman as they walked to the front door.
‘Shall I come in for a little while?’ she asked as Astrid struggled to find the keys in the pockets of her trousers. There was no reply, but as Astrid walked inside she left the door open. Veronika followed, closing the door behind her.
Astrid stood by the window in the kitchen. The first rays of sunlight darted through the glass, threads of gold weaving through the air and landing on the floorboards.
‘They are not for him,’ she said. ‘My tears. They are not for him. They are for me.’
Veronika walked up to Astrid and took her in her arms. She held her and they stood quietly for a moment.
‘Let me help you to bed,’ Veronika said.
‘Upstairs. I think I will sleep upstairs tonight,’ Astrid said. Slowly they navigated the stairs up to the
second floor. They crossed the spacious landing, where the morning light played with the dust that their steps stirred, and walked up to the master bedroom. Astrid opened the door and they entered. Still leaning on Veronika’s arm, the old woman walked up to the double bed, where the bedspread was folded back from the pillows. She sat down, took off her shoes, then paused for a moment. The white blind covered the window, but the rising light of the new day filtered through, together with the sounds of awakening birds. Astrid pulled up her feet and lay down. She turned towards the wall and curled up foetus-like.
Veronika looked at the old woman’s back, the oversized socks, threadbare over her heels. Her narrow back underneath the crumpled shirt. She bent down and pulled off her own shoes then lay down. She adjusted her body to fit behind Astrid’s and as the night became day, they lay spooned against each other, wide awake.
‘There is a man in Stockholm,’ Veronika said quietly. ‘His name is Johan. I would like to tell you about him.’
18
Who plays in the night about you and me
On a flute, a little silver flute?
Our love is dead. When did I speak to you.
— A flute, a little silver flute.
Veronika
I have known Johan for such a long time I sometimes forget that there was a time when I didn’t.
He rang me in London to ask me to come home for Christmas. His voice sounded so close, he could have been ringing from the next room. I looked at the windows, where the rain ran like black tears. James’s gift to me had been a new mobile phone, one with a camera. His note had said he wanted me to see him when he rang. And when he called from Auckland I had listened to his voice talking about the sea, about surfing and about blossoms on the lemon tree in his mother’s garden, while his smiling face looked back at me from the small screen. Christmas on the beach, barbecues, surfing, sunshine and strawberries. But the words had reached me across a gulf, vague and distant. I had pressed the phone close to my ear, but it was as if the rain falling between us blurred the sound and the images.
