Travelling Light

by Tove Jansson

  “Trouble sleeping? That’s not good. Not good at all. Listen, Stella, you’re not yourself. Have you seen a doctor? I mean, this business of forgetting things… But that’s probably not so serious, nothing to worry about.”

  “The lift!” Stella yelled. “There it goes again. Wait till it stops!”

  “That was the fourth floor.”

  Wanda closed the window and filled their glasses. She was still talking. “He bought me a record even though they cost a fortune. And the other artists would also bring me a record now and then. Little me… We used to dance. Till dawn. And you know what I’d do then? I’d get up on the table and drink a toast with all of you and shout, ‘Skoal to the sun!’ And when the party was over and everyone had gone home and there was only the two of us, Sebastian and me… Stella? How about a bit of music? An old 78 he gave me. ‘Evening Blues’.”

  “No, not right now.” Stella had a headache, a nasty pain behind her eyes. The lift started up again, almost right to the top. In this altered room she recognised only one thing: the bookcase. She reached out and touched it.

  “I knocked that up in a single evening,” Wanda said. “Pretty good, don’t you think?”

  Stella burst out, “That’s not true! That’s my old bookcase that I made with my own two hands!”

  Wanda leaned back in her chair and smiled. “What a fuss about nothing! That old bookcase? Take it, it’s yours, a present. But Stella, dear, I’m worried about you. Where did you lose your starry eyes? What’s wrong, dear? Can’t you tell me about it? And now another cigarette. You smoke too much. You don’t look at all well. Take it easy, I beg you. Stop trying to remember the way things used to be; you just get sad and confused. That’s it, isn’t it? Tell me the truth. It makes you unhappy and confused. It was all so long ago now and, you know, the years haven’t been kind to you. Anyway, what’s so special about this old bookcase? Nothing. Think about something pleasant. Remember Tommi? He was nice, and he fancied you. He’d say, ‘We have to look after our little Starry-Eyes. She’s so docile, she swallows everything. She’s our little rubbish bin: we fill her up and there’s always room for more…’”

  Stella broke in. “I don’t think we should talk any more about those days. We could talk about what’s happening now. Out there.”

  “What do you mean – out there?”

  “Out in the world. The great upheavals, all the violent and important things going on everywhere all the time. We could talk about that.” She could see that Wanda didn’t understand, so she added, “The stuff we read about in the papers.”

  “I don’t get a paper,” said Wanda. “Anyway, Tommi liked you. All my friends liked you. Believe me, it’s true. And it absolutely wasn’t pity…”

  “That lift!” Stella burst out. “There it goes again!”

  “So?”

  “Are you expecting someone, or are you afraid?”

  “Of what?”

  “Burglars, Wanda, all the burglars who are going to come in and take your things!”

  Wanda looked straight at her guest. “Don’t be childish. No one can get in here.” There was a moment’s silence, then Wanda went on. “You remind me of someone, one of the ones we felt sorry for, who only came here to eat. She used to eat and eat and never say a word. Funny – she was like you. Poor thing. She used to follow me about everywhere. And you know what she said to me once: ‘You’re so strong,’ she said. ‘You’re like a strong electric current. You make me move faster, you make me feel alive!’ Then she disappeared. No one knew what happened to her and no one cared… Stella? What’s the matter – don’t you feel well?”

  “No,’ said Stella, “I don’t feel well. Do you have an aspirin?”

  “Of course, right away… But darling, lie down on the sofa for a bit. No, I insist. You look terrible, you need to lie down. Don’t talk. Just promise me you’ll go for a proper check-up soon; it’s so easy to do.”

  Stella felt a great urge to sleep; the room disappeared. The inescapable voice whispered on, “Are you comfortable? Here in this room you’re with me and you can forget and let go… All of them, they all come to my room, they stand waiting at the door and I hear them and let them in and they talk and talk… Worries, worries, worries… Then I talk, frankly and honestly. One has to be completely honest, doesn’t one? Don’t you agree? One needn’t say so very much, but one has to weigh one’s words, one must find just the right words; it’s so important. But you’re freezing! Hang on, let me tuck you up nice and cosy… No, no, let me look after you – I’m right, aren’t I, about daring to be honest?”

  Stella screamed, “Let me go!” But the blanket crept up over her face and the voice droned on: “I told him what I thought, what I honestly thought. I said, ‘She’s suffocating you, you have to get rid of her…’”

  “The lift!” Stella screamed, and for a moment the grip loosened. She jumped to her feet and ran to the middle of the room. Wanda was left sitting on the sofa. “Stella? What are you looking for?”

  “My bag, my bag!”

  Wanda laughed. “Well, I didn’t steal it! It has to be here somewhere. I locked the door from the inside. Sit down and relax. I’ll tell you how things are. Have a little more wine. No? Listen, being at home in your own room, where everything belongs to you and it’s all there, everything that’s happened and everything that’s been said, it’s all there, the walls are steeped in it, it’s all around you like a warm cloak and it holds you tighter and tighter… Don’t you believe me? I can prove it! I’ve got a recording. Please just listen and you’ll understand.”

  There came an incomprehensible chaos of voices and shrill music. Wanda cried out, “You hear that? That proves it, doesn’t it? There’s a glass breaking – you hear that?”

  Stella stood at the locked door holding her bag and coat. “Wanda, let me out! Let me go.”

  “No, don’t go, please, don’t go yet, stay a little longer, just a little while, it was all so long ago and there’s still so much to talk about… What are you afraid of? It’s not late, not at all, the streets aren’t dangerous yet, not till later, but then you can take a taxi and I’ll come down and make sure you get away all right… Stella? There’s no need to worry, I mean if you’ve got a lot of money in your bag and you’re scared of being robbed…”

  “I’ve already been robbed,” said Stella. “Just let me out.”

  Wanda came to the door and took her by the arm. “Stella? Is it the bookcase? Take it, please. I’d like you to have it! It’s so small, you can take it in a taxi. Don’t look at me like that, don’t be mean to me…” Her hand was still on Stella’s arm. Stella took it in her own and held it silently it until it was calm. Then Wanda unlocked the door and stood aside. Stella went down the stairs feeling wildly and inconsolably relieved. At the corner she turned to say goodbye but the door was already closed. “Evening Blues” began to play and then stopped again almost immediately.

  A thick fog had descended over the city, the first spring fog. A good sign. It meant that soon, little by little, the ice would go.

  Travelling Light

  I WISH I COULD DESCRIBE the enormous relief I felt when they finally pulled up the gangway! Only then did I feel safe. Or, more exactly, when the ship had moved far enough from the quay for it to be impossible for anyone to call out… ask for my address, scream that something awful had happened… Believe me, you can’t imagine my giddy sense of freedom. I unbuttoned my overcoat and took out my pipe but my hands were shaking and I couldn’t light it; but I stuck it between my teeth anyway, because that somehow establishes a certain detachment from one’s surroundings. I went as far forward as possible in the bows, from where it was impossible to see the city, and hung over the railing like the most carefree traveller you can imagine. The sky was light blue, the little clouds seemed whimsical, pleasantly capricious…

  Everything was in the past now, gone, of no significance; nothing mattered any more, no one was important. No telephone, no letters, no doorbell. Of course you have n
o idea what I’m referring to, but it doesn’t matter anyway; in fact I shall merely assert that everything had been sorted out to the best of my ability, thoroughly taken care of down to the smallest detail. I wrote the letters I had to write – in fact, I’d done that as long ago as the day before, announcing my sudden departure without explanation and without in any way accounting for my behaviour. It was very difficult; it took a whole day. Of course, I left no information about where I was going and indicated no time for my return, since I have no intention of ever coming back. The caretaker’s wife will look after my houseplants; those tired living things – which never look well no matter how much trouble one takes over them – have made me feel very uneasy. Never mind: I shan’t ever have to see them again.

  Perhaps it might interest you to know what I packed? As little as possible! I’ve always dreamed of travelling light, a small weekend bag of the sort one can casually whisk along with oneself as one walks with rapid but unhurried steps through, shall we say, the departure lounge of an airport, passing a mass of nervous people dragging along large heavy cases. This was the first time I’d succeeded in taking the absolute minimum with me, ruthless in the face of family treasures and those little objects one can become so attached to that remind one of… well, of emotional bits of one’s life – no, that least of all! My bag was as light as my happy-go-lucky heart and contained nothing more than one would need for a routine night at a hotel. I left the flat without leaving instructions of any kind, but I did clean it, very thoroughly. I’m very good at cleaning. Then I turned off the electricity, opened the fridge and unplugged the phone. That was the very last thing, the definitive step; now I’d done with them.

  And during all this time the phone never rang once – a good omen. Not one, not a single one of all these, these – but I don’t want to talk about them now, I’m not going to worry about them any more, no, they no longer occupy even a single second of my thoughts. Well, when I’d pulled out the phone plug and checked one last time that I had all the papers I needed in my pocketbook – passport, tickets, travellers’ cheques, pension card – I looked out of the window to make sure that there were some taxis waiting at the stand on the corner, shut the front door and let the keys fall through the letterbox.

  Out of old habit I avoided the lift; I don’t like lifts. On the second floor I tripped and grabbed hold of the banisters, and stood still a moment, suddenly hot all over. Think, just think – what if I’d really fallen, maybe sprained my ankle or worse? Everything would have been in vain, fatal, irreparable. It would have been unthinkable to get ready and gather myself together to leave a second time. In the taxi I felt so exhilarated I carried on a lively conversation with the driver, commenting on the early spring weather and taking an interest in this and that relating to his profession, but he hardly responded at all. I pulled myself together, because this was exactly what I’d decided to avoid; from now on I was going to be a person who never took any interest in anyone. The problems that might face a taxi driver were nothing to do with me. We reached the boat much too early, he lifted out my bag, I thanked him and gave him too big a tip. He didn’t smile, which upset me a bit, but the man who took my ticket was very friendly.

  My journey had started. It gradually got cold on deck; there was hardly anyone else there and I presumed the other passengers must have made their way to the restaurant. Taking my time, I went to find my cabin. I saw at once that I wasn’t going to be alone; someone had left a coat, pocketbook and umbrella on one of the bunks, and two elegant suitcases were standing in the middle of the floor. Discreetly, I moved them out of the way. Of course I had demanded, or more accurately expressed a desire to have, a cabin to myself; sleeping on my own has become very important to me and on this journey in particular it was absolutely essential for me to, so to speak, savour my new independence entirely undisturbed. I couldn’t possibly go and complain to the purser, who would have merely pointed out that the boat was full, that it was a regrettable misunderstanding, and that if the misunderstanding were to be rectified I would be aware all night as I lay on my solitary bunk that the man who was to have shared my cabin was having to spend the night sleepless on a deckchair.

  I noticed that his toilet articles were of exclusive quality, and I was particularly impressed by his light-blue electric toothbrush and a miniature case with the monogram A.C. on it. I unpacked my own toothbrush and the other things I had considered necessary from my ascetic point of view, laid out my pyjamas on the other bunk and asked myself if I was hungry. The thought of the likely crush in the restaurant put me off, so I decided to skip dinner and have a drink in the bar instead. The bar was pretty empty this early in the evening. I sat down on one of the high stools, propped my feet on the traditional metal railing which runs round every bar on the continent, and lit my pipe.

  “A Black and White, please,” I said to the bartender, accepting the glass with a brief nod and making clear with my attitude that I had no inclination for conversation. I sat and pondered the Idea of Travel; that is to say, the act of travelling unfettered and with no responsibility for what one has left behind and without any opportunity to foresee what may lie ahead and prepare for it. Nothing but an enormous sense of peace.

  It occurred to me to think back over my earlier journeys, every one of them, and I realised to my astonishment that this must be the first time I had ever travelled alone. First came my trips with my mother – Majorca and the Canaries. Majorca again. After mother went away I travelled with Cousin Herman, to Lübeck and Hamburg. He was only interested in museums, though they depressed him; he’d never been able to study painting and he couldn’t get over it. Not a happy trip. Then the Wahlströms, who didn’t know whether to divorce or not and thought it would be easier to travel as a threesome.

  Where did we go…? Oh, yes, of course, Venice. And during the mornings they quarrelled. No, that wasn’t much of a journey. What next? A trip with a party to Leningrad. It was damn cold… And then Aunt Hilda, who needed a break but didn’t dare go by herself… but that was only as far as Mariehamn; we went to the Maritime Museum there, I remember. You see, when I went through all my life’s journeys in my thoughts, any fear I possibly could have had that the way I’d decided to do things might not be right disappeared. I turned to the bartender, said, “Another, please,” and looked round the bar, very much at ease. People had started coming in; happy well-fed people who ordered coffee and drinks to their tables and crowded round me at the bar.

  Normally I very much dislike crowds and do everything I can to avoid being involved with them, even in buses and trams, but that evening it felt pleasant and sociable to be one among many, almost secure. An elderly gentleman with a cigar intimated with a discreet gesture that he needed my ashtray. “Of course, don’t mention it,” I responded and was on the point of begging his pardon but remembered in time: I’d finished with all that kind of thing. In an entirely matter-of-fact way, if with a certain nonchalance, I moved the ashtray to his side and calmly studied myself in the mirror behind the bottles in the bar.

  There’s something special about a bar, don’t you think? A place for chance happenings, for possibilities to become reality, a refuge on the awkward route from should to must. But, I must confess, not the sort of place I’ve much frequented. Now, as I sat and looked in the mirror, my face suddenly seemed rather agreeable.

  I suppose I had never allowed myself time to look closely at the appearance time has given me. A thin face with somewhat surprised but frankly beautiful eyes, hair admittedly grey but luxuriant in an almost artistic manner, with a lock hanging down over my brow giving me an expression of – what shall we say – anxious watchfulness? Watchful concern? No. Just watchfulness. I emptied my glass and suddenly felt an urgent need to communicate, but held it in check. At all events, despite everything, wasn’t this precisely an occasion when, at last, I would not be forced to listen but could be allowed to talk myself, freely and recklessly? Among men, in a bar? For example, entirely in passing of course,
I might let slip information about my decisive contribution at the Post Office. But no. Absolutely not. Be secretive – don’t make confidences; at most, drop hints…

  Sitting on my left was a young man who seemed extremely restless. He kept moving his position, turning this way and that on his stool and seemingly trying to keep an eye on everything that was happening in the room. I turned to the neighbour on my other side and said, “Very crowded this evening. Looks like we’re in for a calm crossing.” He stubbed his cigar in the ashtray and remarked that the boat was full and that our wind speed was eight metres per second, though they’d forecast it would get stronger during the night. I liked his calm matter-of-fact manner and asked myself whether he was retired and why he should be on his way to London. Let me tell you, my interest surprised myself; nothing has become so completely foreign, almost hateful to me, to be avoided at all costs, as curiosity and sympathy, any disposition to encourage in the slightest degree the surrounding world’s irresistible need to start talking about its troubles. This is something I really do know about; during a long life I’ve heard most things and I’ve brought this entirely on myself. But, as I’ve said, I was sitting in a bar on the way to my new freedom – and I was being a bit careless.

  He said: “You’re going to London? On business?”

  “No. Sea travel amuses me.”

  He nodded in appreciation. I could see his face in the mirror, a rather heavy face somewhat the worse for wear with a drooping moustache and tired eyes. He seemed elegant, expensively dressed, continental, if you know what I mean.

  “When I was young,” he said, “I worked out that it should be possible to travel by sea all the time, without stopping, meals included, for very much less than it costs to live in a city.”