The Boat in the Evening
Page 14
But at this moment she was the beautiful girl from the album, who had grown and changed, but was still the same. It was the first time he had seen it clearly.
She laid the instrument aside, and came over to him. Right up to him.
At once he was flustered. Had he been mistaken? Did she want something since they were so completely alone? As long as it wasn’t about these awkward matters.
He squirmed. Was she going to spoil this happy time? It must be something unusual.
She said, ‘You’re so big now, that there’s something I want to tell you.’
‘There’s no need to be nervous,’ she added, when he started noticeably.
Out with it then, he wished. Don’t torture me.
‘There are one or two things I want to tell you about us girls,’ she said calmly. ‘So that you needn’t go worrying yourself about all the nonsense you may hear.’
This made him even more flustered, but for different reasons now. She had a teasing expression in her eyes. She said, ‘You’re beginning to take notice of them.’
‘Am I?’
‘You know you are.’
Yes, he thought. I know I am.
And then she told him about girls, and about their periods, and about boys. Some of it he knew already and a good deal of it he did not know.
Finally she said, T sent the others out, so that we would be on our own.’
He had never experienced so strange a Sunday in all his life.
*
After that day there was a new bond between them. But it could not be an entirely uninhibited one. Indeed, it never became so. There was a hidden obstacle in him that he could not surmount. On her side there would certainly have been nothing in the way.
A black autumn evening.
Late. One after the other they went to bed. The master of the house was not at home. Finally only two of them were left. They sat waiting for the traveller’s return.
Everything was silent. There was a smell of rotting leaves and grass around the house. And then the waiting for someone who ought to have come home, but had not. He had gone to the neighbouring district that morning, to meet someone. He had many acquaintances round about, especially among people who were fond of horses.
Now the two of them were sitting waiting. She must have noticed that he had no intention of going to bed, but was simply finding something to do in order to stay with her.
Without looking up from her book she said, ‘Go to bed now.’
‘I can stay up a bit longer, can’t I?’
‘You’d best go to bed, do you hear?’
He understood very well why. She wanted him out of the way. He was not to be an observer, in case all was not as it should be when his father came home. This might happen at long, long intervals, not as often as twice a year, even. But that was what she was so absurdly afraid of, beyond everything else. She was crushed by it.
‘Why?’ he asked, knowing the reason perfectly well.
‘Oh—’
‘I want to see too,’ he said, in unexpected defiance.
She reddened, and put down her book. He had gone too far, but was not going to turn back now.
‘I know what it is, you see,’ he said again, ‘so why shouldn’t I stay?’
She rose and came across to him.
‘You’re to go. This is my affair. You haven’t the slightest idea what we’re talking about. It’s between him and me. You have no part in it.’
Unsettling words. He went to his room at once. His younger brother was lying asleep, his mouth wide open.
*
Before the man set out that morning he had been in great good humour. It was a holiday for everyone and he had been lying on the bench where he rested, chatting and telling them about the Khirgiz steppes and the herds of horses there. Not a new topic for him. The Khirgiz steppes was his pipe dream. Through purposeful reading he had collected a good deal of knowledge about that part of the world. To him it must have been the land of heart’s desire.
We always enjoyed listening when he described it. It was a tale told with love, and therefore remembered long.
Then he had harnessed his horse this morning and driven to see his friends.
What sort of company was he keeping now, instead of coming home? It obviously had something to do with horses and old friends. No more dangerous than that. But this touched a fiercely sensitive spot in the girl from the album. There she sat waiting. Her mood immediately transferred itself to him, turning into deep anxiety. It linked up with other matters that were not going to be explained. They never would be. A matter so private that it could not even be passed on to the children.
Sleep now.
No. Lying awake, listening for sounds from the living-room. We’re sure to hear the sound of cartwheels soon.
After all, there’s nothing extraordinary about coming home from a party. From the companionship of good friends who understand about the Khirgiz steppes and that sort of thing. Who like hearing about the enormous steppes and the beautiful horses. He’s probably telling them all about it.
May he not come home in party mood after such an evening? A little to drink and the Khirgiz steppes.
She’s fond of parties herself. That’s where there’s music. She can go to parties and dances herself, and take part in the dancing—as long as the melody is there. And she comes home afterwards, walking on air. May he not come home from his dreams occasionally, a little happier than usual?
No, there’s something I’ve not been told. Something the two of them keep strictly to themselves. It must be more serious than it looks. I’ll never dare ask about it. I’d rather not know.
*
Still no wagon in the yard. Silence in the house.
She’s sitting with her book. Or perhaps with a different one.
Both of them sit reading whenever they have time to spare. They have a good point of contact there. They talk about books they have read. One listens to them thirstily. If there had been no books, what then? In this household the books seem heaven-sent.
Could there have been an accident? A serious accident? And we have no telephone. The thought of an accident gives him the excuse to creep in to her.
She starts up, book in hand.
‘Oh, it’s you! What do you want?’
‘Could something have happened?’ he stammers.
‘No, of course not. They’re enjoying themselves, I expect, and time passes as usual.’
‘Why don’t you go to bed too, Mother?’
‘Yes, I think I will after all. I can’t sit up any longer.’
She looks drained and thoroughly exhausted. His old thoughts return.
‘Shall I go out and look?’ he asks.
‘What good will that do? Nothing will have happened near here.’
She must have noticed that it sounded a little odd, and smooths it over with a yes, yes, of course something could happen right outside.
At that moment the sound of cartwheels is heard. They both start in surprise. She says hastily, ‘Go back to your room. Can’t you do as I ask? He’s not to see that you’re sitting up too, waiting for him like this. He wouldn’t put up with it. That’s why, don’t you see?’
Of course. He seems to understand. He must remember that she has brought him into the world. Borne him and reared him. He is back in bed in a couple of strides. He is not going to witness any sort of humiliation of either of them. He can see that she is extremely frightened.
He does not snuggle down in bed and draw the blanket up round his ears. Far from it. He has to listen in case he hears anything that might throw light into the darkness, although he is afraid of what it might be.
Now he can hear the wheels crunching in the gravel out in the yard. They stop.
Oh, how he feels for her! He buries himself at the bottom of the bed.
No, he must listen.
He hears her go out of the living-room to meet her husband. The yard is black as pitch, no use peeping through the window. But
he dare not get dressed and go out into the darkness. They might catch sight of him, and she did ask him to go away.
He hears their voices out there, alternating in ordinary conversation. Is the newcomer raising his voice too much? Don’t know.
He is secretly listening for the sound of weeping. That did happen once. Only once, but that was enough; it sticks in the memory as if nailed there.
He can hear nothing of the sort now. She must have been worrying needlessly?
The horse has to be looked after. They are gone from the yard for a long while. What are they doing all this time? No, it isn’t a long time really.
But then he hears them. They are coming from the stable towards the house. They are talking eagerly. Both of them raising their voices. Both of them happy and lighthearted.
Light-hearted?
Yes. No reluctant words can be distinguished. No, no. Enthusiastic talk, nothing more. Strong and clear, that draws you into it. He is telling her something, and the words pour out, and she is drawn into it. You can hear her laughter, as if she herself were on the Khirgiz steppes tonight, on a flying horse.
16
The Rivers beneath the Earth
Night as well as day.
One is in one’s secret chamber, feeling this: Is not the ground quivering beneath my feet, because of the hidden waters?
And what should one do then? I wonder.
One must be present.
One must come forward and stand in the current flowing from them. One must let the faint quivering jolt one. As decaying bridges and old duckboards quiver slightly in the time of the thaw.
*
Or in the distant time of youth, when the quivering was within oneself in the form of endless questioning. When one was so terrified oneself of being questioned.
Do I understand more now?
No. But I quiver less.
One is just as wordless in the face of the great riddles, and one still hopes one will not be asked.
But at least to have a place where there is no need to hide, where one simply says: I can hear. I exist, and I can hear the current flowing.
One can be deluded into saying: I exist for the sake of the rivers beneath the earth.
To listen and understand.
Not to understand, but to be close to where it is happening.
Not to try to understand the enormous network beneath the earth. Where lakes multiply into countless sources, which again multiply into countless sources and finally into unimaginably small sources. Source upon source—while the thirsty stand thirsty behind the thirsty.
When one has understood this, and yet not understood, what is one to do?
The current never stops. As a great pulse never stops.
*
It will always be night. It does not make so much difference any more. One hears, all through the night. The alien pulse is labouring close by.
Afraid? No. A little numbed, yet uplifted.
Since it is close by, one understands that the walls have no significance. Numbed and uplifted one cannot help but notice how the pulse beats closer when it is night and the walls are gone.
The swift current is about to return. One meets it flowing back.
How is that?
The pulse in the night may chase sleep away, but the memories are not lost or destroyed. One listens for what one does not understand, as always.
*
That’s what the night is for. Different, but not hostile. The currents go cascading back.
What of it?
All’s well.
The night opens its clear vault, and one’s eyes open theirs. In the night all eyes are large and wide open, dark to the very edge.
PETER OWEN LTD
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Translated from the Norwegian Baaten om kvelden
First British Commonwealth edition 1971
© Gyldendal Norsk Forlag NS 1968
English translation © Peter Owen and
Elizabeth Rokkan 1971
This ebook edition 2014
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