by Tove Jansson
Suddenly Josephine stopped talking and stared at Viktoria. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t you want to help me any more?”
“Of course I do. But try to understand. Miss Smith has serious problems.”
“I see,” Josephine interrupted. “You’re defending her! You have to get it into your head – she’s dangerous! Don’t believe her. She’s a witch; she twists everything, turns black into white. I know her! I forbid you to see her.”
Viktoria felt herself turning red in the face. She opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted again. “Yes, yes, I know what you’re going to say, but there’s no point in talking to her. Go and see the police if you want to help, or go to the mental hospital in town! She’s mad, she needs taking in hand!”
One of the dogs started barking.
“Miss O’Sullivan,” said Viktoria very deliberately, “perhaps we should return to the subject another time. You must excuse me. I have an important letter to write.”
That was unfriendly, she thought. I let myself take offence, which wasn’t necessary. But who is this Josephine, hardly even middle-aged, to jump all over me like this, forbidding me to do what I think is right! Nonsense. I have every right to be angry. I need to remember – there’s not as much difference as people think between the young and the old. One of them’s excluded, one of them’s trying to remain included, none of it’s going well. Mad, she says. Mad – needs taking in hand. There is more than one way of taking someone in hand.
Dear Hilda,
Here in your beautiful home, so many memories come back to me from our travels in Scotland and Ireland so long ago. Do you remember the time we picked spring flowers somewhere near Galway and put them in a jam jar on the window ledge? The other day I found the first spring flowers by the roadside but they didn’t like…
No. No good. Too sentimental. How ill is she really?
Dear Hilda,
It’s so peaceful and pleasant here…
But now Hilda was going hazy again.
We could have talked to each other more. Those trips weren’t any fun at all, but we could have discussed it and tried to figure out why things went wrong – was she inhibiting my freedom, my happy curiosity, or was it me who frightened her into helpless whining? Very interesting, actually.
Maybe I’ll write to her a little later.
Viktoria went and knocked on X’s door with no idea what she wanted to say. X let her in, silently, her face totally closed.
“Good afternoon,” said Viktoria. “I had no real reason for coming. I just wanted to come.”
“Ah, paying a call,” said X. “A social call, if I understand you correctly. Have you joined their colony?”
“No. I think it suits me better to stay on the outside.”
“Sit down. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you, not today. Nothing.”
After a long silence, X said, “And no conversation? Not a word? No crumb of comfort for the recluse?”
“That word doesn’t suit you,” Viktoria said. “But you have every right to your solitude. Anyway, solitary people interest me. There are so many different ways of being solitary.”
“I know just what you mean,” said X. “I know exactly what you’re going to say. Different kinds of solitude. Enforced solitude and voluntary solitude.”
“Quite,” said Viktoria. “There’s no need to go into it further. But when people understand one another without speaking, it can often leave them with very little to talk about, don’t you think? I’ve had that experience, not often but once or twice. It felt good, a pleasant sort of silence.”
Her hostess lit a table lamp. What am I doing, thought Viktoria. Am I being disloyal to Josephine? But all I want is to take this thing further, to explore, to understand in order to help.
“Tell me something,” said X. “Are you a curious person?”
“Yes, you might say that. Or, rather, I’m interested.”
“In me?”
“Certainly. In everything.”
“Do you get the impression that I’m dangerous?”
“No, not really.” Viktoria paused for a moment, then said, perhaps rashly, “Someone once gave me a pressure cooker. For making porridge, that sort of thing. It was dangerous and exploded. The inside pressure was apparently too great.”
“Very likely,” said X. “All that proves is that you shouldn’t mess with appliances unless you know how they’re made. What did you do with it?”
“What could I do? It was broken. Such a pity, such a fine appliance.”
“There she goes again,” said X. “Opera. That’s all she has. I detest opera.”
The music from next door was amazingly clear.
“Do you like opera?”
“Not particularly,” said Viktoria. “What I like best is New Orleans, and classic jazz. When I retired, my students gave me a stereo. I take good care of it.” Viktoria took out her cigarettes and looked enquiringly at X.
“Feel free,” said her hostess, a little impatiently. Then there was silence.
At last X spoke again. “Do you even know why you came to see me?”
Viktoria didn’t answer.
“You seem to be an honest sort of person. You’re naturally open. But you’ve come to the wrong place; you need to be careful. This is a dangerous place for people like you.”
“What you mean is”, said Viktoria carefully, “that perhaps I’m too suggestible?”
“More or less.”
“And that I might find it hard to take a stand and be decisive?”
“You’re very wise,” said X.
Viktoria sighed, stubbed out her cigarette and got to her feet.
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “It’s a terrible climb up the hill to your house. But it’s always easy to get down again.”
By now it was dusk. Viktoria walked over to the low wall at the edge of the village’s final ridge. There they were again, those lovely columns of blue smoke rising in the shadow of the mountain straight up into the windless evening air. They must be burning leaves and dry branches, the way they did at home in spring.
Yes, I have to be careful, I have to know what I want and who I’m trying to protect. She was quite right. I’ll go home now and teach myself some Spanish. How do you say: “Excuse me, is there anyone who can help me with my laundry?”
One evening Viktoria set off in a new direction, following her nose. The lane turned into a path that gradually disappeared into a stony landscape full of olive trees that seemed tremendously old. Dead branches still hung on the trees. Under the olives a flock of sheep were grazing – parallel dirty-yellow backs, bowed heads, the submissive posture of victims. She caught her foot in a plastic bag and saw she was in a kind of rubbish dump, the unavoidable outskirts of any human paradise. She felt irrationally depressed.
At that exact moment the setting sun broke through a gap in the mountain chain and the twilit landscape was instantly transformed and revealed; the trees and the grazing sheep enveloped in a crimson haze, a sudden, beautiful vision of biblical mystery and power. Viktoria thought she had never seen anything so lovely. She remembered once a set designer saying, “My job is to paint with light, that’s all it is. The right light at the right time.” The sun moved quickly on, but before the colours could fade, Viktoria turned and walked slowly back to her house.
Dear Hilda,
I just want to say hello because I feel so happy this evening. Your Spanish landscape is so much more than I ever expected or dreamed of, and I dream more often and more powerfully than anyone knows. Couldn’t we spend a little time here together when you’re well again?
I’m not sure we handled our trips together the way we might have, and I think it was mostly my fault. Trying to do and see everything, rushing here and there the way I did. I know better now.
You know it’s possible just to be in a place, to look around until you actually see, differently, and then to ta
lk about it, talk about anything at all and feel our way forward together. The young are always in too much of a hurry, don’t you think?
Promise me we’ll try again. Please?
A big hug from Viktoria.
On Sunday morning Viktoria woke up to bells – the distant admonishment of church bells. Maybe that’s a good idea, she thought. For once. But just as she was putting on her shoes, she caught sight of her hiking boots standing in a corner, and she thought some more. Such a beautiful morning. And it had really been unenterprising of her not to have discovered where the main road led, the big main road below the village. Church could wait for a cloudy day. So she pulled on her boots and packed a bag with a bottle of fruit juice, cigarettes, and her Guide for Tourists: Useful Phrases. If the expedition proved tiring it might be nice to lie on the grass in the shade of an orange tree and read.
The morning was still cool and beautiful. On either side of the road were big orchards, their branches bowed to the ground with oranges and lemons, perfect Gardens of Eden – except that they were surrounded by fences. Inside, no one moved among the trees, where the grass grew tall and utterly untouched. When she came to a gate, it was locked. Viktoria thought that with a little effort she could probably slip quickly through the fence and creep under the branches as if into a green grotto and lie there hidden from the world, picking an orange now and then – and, of course, putting the peel in her pocket…
A woman was walking toward her from the village, a woman in black. It was X.
“Good morning!” called Viktoria. “Are you on your way into town? May I walk with you?”
X stopped for a moment. “No,” she answered. “Not today.”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” Viktoria began, but X turned away and walked on down the valley. It was as if a black raven had sailed by in the sunshine. Viktoria was hurt; after all, they had had a very personal conversation in which X had definitely come out on top. She could have been a little more pleasant.
Women, thought Viktoria, difficult at school from the very first class. Boys were easier; you knew where you stood with them. She sat down by the roadside, took out her bottle of juice and her Guide for Tourists and started thinking about the road home, all uphill. It was getting too hot again now. It was always either icy cold or too hot.
A car came driving down from the village and stopped and hooted; a door slammed open and out came Josephine with her dogs. She staggered and sat down laughing in the road. “Mrs Viktoria!” shouted someone from inside the car. “Come with us to the fiesta! Carnival! Hurry up, they may have started already!” Josephine’s face looked even smaller framed between two plaits of her astonishingly red hair. She had a ribbon over her head and glass beads round her neck and, as far as Viktoria could judge, was meant to look like a Red Indian. There was a knife in her belt. She shouted, “You’re my prisoner, Professor!”
Viktoria stood up and asked if it was a real carnival.
“The biggest one all year,” Josephine assured her. “Everyone does just what they want, and to hell with everybody else, just footloose and fancy-free! Hurry up; we haven’t got all day! We stopped at your place but you weren’t there. This is Mabel and Ellen and Jackie. Here, have a tipple of this! We’re going to a party!”
It was whisky again. They drove down the hill at a dizzying speed. One of Josephine’s friends had started singing. Viktoria looked out anxiously for X; it wouldn’t do at all for X to see her with Josephine, in the bosom of the colony, deserting to the enemy camp. She crouched down and tried to make herself invisible, thinking bitterly, What do I mean, deserting? Which way? If Josephine had seen me walking down the road with X, what would she have thought? And anyway, does it really matter what they think?
Down in the town they were met by music.
“Another small drop, Viktoria,” said one of the colonists.
“No, thanks. Maybe not right now.”
They left the car and made their way slowly through the crowds in the narrow streets. Josephine clung to Viktoria’s arm, shouting cheerfully, “Make way! Make way! I’ve captured a real professor!”
It was extremely embarrassing.
Balloons everywhere, shouts and laughter. Small children riding through the crowds on their fathers’ shoulders, a howling cherub in a bright yellow wig, a miniature devil with horns, a Zorro, clouds of confetti rising from the square ahead.
“Please, Miss O’Sullivan,” Viktoria pleaded, “let go. I really don’t need to go any closer.” But she was pushed on relentlessly, tightly hemmed in by a strange procession of colour and movement under a rain of flowers and sprigs of olive. Many of the dancers were wearing masks, violent faces of mockery, ecstasy, unbearable pain. To Viktoria their gestures seemed out of control, their colours chosen to hurt the eye – and now they were approached by tight, silent rows of children in costume. Viktoria’s eyes fastened on a solemn little girl and with a thrill of recognition she told herself, Yes, that’s the Infanta of Velázquez. So beautiful. The Inquisition marched by, followed by the Most Beautiful Of All under an arch of mimosa and almond blossom. Viktoria thought she looked frightened. Then came the cobwebbed figures of the Dead Forest, followed by several marching whisky bottles. Viktoria turned to smile at Josephine, but Josephine had vanished.
I must try and describe all this to Hilda. I’ll write this very evening; it’ll cheer her up. Just look, all these people getting to live out their dreams, play a part, finally become someone else. It’s wonderful. Why don’t we have carnivals at home – my goodness, we certainly need them. Here’s a woman whose dream was to be a brave and gallant Robin Hood: look at the long feather in her hat! And those excited men dancing their dream of being women, with their glorious bosoms!
The music grew wilder. She saw a toreador and his bull playing a passionate game with each other. People shouted and pressed forward. It was a splendid fiesta!
A black sedan full of bandits rolled into the square. And in front of it, on an empty patch of naked street, there was X – dancing, as dark as the car, slashing the air round her with a long, gleaming knife. A kitchen knife, in fact. The music had changed to España Cañi. Then Viktoria saw Josephine rush out into the street – Josephine, also with a knife in her hand. “Josephine!” she cried. “Stop! Come back!”
The two women circled each other in front of the bandits’ car. They lunged, retreated, and the crowd cried bravo and clapped hands in time with the music. Viktoria shouted again, “Stop! Pericoloso! Dangerous!” But no one paid her any attention. The two women had begun to stamp on the ground, approaching each other, circling close and dancing away again. Their dance had now captured the crowd’s complete attention. Josephine was having difficulty staying on her feet. Someone behind Viktoria said they weren’t doing the right steps and weren’t really Spanish at all. Viktoria turned round and hissed, “Shut up, you idiot! You don’t understand what’s going on! This is a matter of life and death.”
The procession moved slowly on and Viktoria followed, pushing forward, unapologetically. She saw Josephine stagger and drop her knife. X picked it up and gave it back to her, and they continued circling each other like cats in a back yard. Josephine’s dogs ran back and forth as close to X as they dared and yapping as if possessed. And the music played on. But now the procession had slowed and stopped. Josephine staggered against the radiator of the bandits’ car and clung to it with both hands. X advanced on her slowly and Viktoria shrieked, “No!” X raised her knife and quickly, with a couple of slashes, she sliced off Josephine’s red braids, threw them contemptuously on the street and walked away.
The crowd drew back to let her pass; it had all happened very quickly. The music switched to “Never on Sunday” and Viktoria was suddenly trapped in the tightly packed crowd and wanted only to go home. Eventually she managed to escape from the square to some deserted streets and sat down outside a café to rest her legs. A man came up and said, “Sorry to bother you. I’m American. You called me an idiot.”
&n
bsp; “And so you were,” said Viktoria wearily. “When someone is stamping her feet, it doesn’t make any difference whether or it’s ‘Spanish’ or not. People stamp their feet because they’re angry. Where do you think I could find a taxi?”
“My car’s just around the corner,” the man said. “I’m from Houston, Texas.”
All the way up to the village he told her about his family and his job. They exchanged addresses and promised to send postcards.
Stretched on her bed in the cool darkness Viktoria tried to make sense of what had happened. The vendetta had clearly reached a dramatic climax. And now, thought Viktoria, Josephine will just have to find a new way to do her hair – and X will be even more unpopular and isolated. She’s the loser, she behaved badly. I must try to be fair. It’s natural to root for the underdog, but what does sympathy have to do with justice? Josephine was the one I promised to help. But X interests me more – I’m not objective.
It was the same way with my students – it mattered so much to them which side I was on. They would drive me to despair by seeing everything in black and white. Is there such a thing as a real absolute, a true either/or? Or is everyone somehow right in their own way, and because I understand that, it makes me indecisive and wishy-washy, trying to tolerate each point of view? But those parties I used to give for my students were an attempt, perhaps an awkward one, or too timid, but an attempt nonetheless, to get them out of their tight little cliques and be friendly and civilised and listen and understand each other a little better. My parties were a good idea. I think I should try it again. A party for the whole colony? No. Just for Josephine and X.
The telegram came later that evening. ‘Mum died this morning just fell asleep but it seems strange don’t worry tell Jose if roof leaks dont worry Elisabeth.’
At first Viktoria felt she ought to go home and help. But maybe not. She sat at the table and read the telegram over and over. What was that about the roof? Why should it start to leak? How peculiar. After a while, she went up onto the terrace and emptied a couple of pailfuls of water on the roof. None of the water came through.
