‘Perfecto,’ Linus said, pouring some cooking oil into a saucepan. Next he covered the base of the pan with corn, before putting it on the hot plate with the lid securely on. After a moment he beckoned Ivar closer and lifted him up. ‘Can you hear it popping?’
Ivar listened, his small mouth set in concentration. Then he turned to Linus, wide-eyed. ‘Can I look?’ He put his hand out towards the lid but was stopped by Linus.
‘You mustn’t take the lid off.’
‘Why?’
‘They’ll all pop right out of the pan,’ Linus said. ‘It’s hot and they want to get out.’
Ivar stared at him, open-mouthed, then he started to sob. ‘You have to let them,’ he wailed. ‘Daddy you have to let them out.’
Linus put him down on the floor and took the pan off the heat. Kneeling down in front of Ivar he explained as best he could that he had only been joking; popcorn did not have feelings.
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re not alive.’
Ivar’s sobs started anew. ‘You mean we’ve killed them,’ he wailed.
‘Have you never watched when Mummy makes you popcorn?’
‘No.’
‘But I know you’ve had them before.’
‘But Mummy never killed them.’
It took Linus ten minutes, at least, to explain about corn growing in fields and as much about the nervous system and theory of life and pain as he could reasonably explain to a four-year-old. Finally Ivar was reassured and Linus put the saucepan back on the hob. ‘Pass me the bowl,’ he instructed Ivar. ‘Syrup.’ He nodded towards the larder cupboard. Ivar had to pull up the kitchen steps to reach. Huffing and puffing with the effort, his face bright pink, he handed the bottle of syrup to Linus who squeezed large toffee-coloured globules of it over the popcorn before mixing it all with a wooden spoon. He bent down with the bowl, holding it out to Ivar. ‘Now you stir.’ Ivar grabbed the handle of the spoon with both hands and stirred, every muscle in his body tensing with the effort. Linus brought the chocolate powder across and sprinkled a good handful into the bowl. Ivar mixed some more.
‘Breakfast time.’ Linus grabbed two plates from the washstand and brought them over to the table. He patted the chair. ‘You come and sit down.’ He dished up a goodish spoonful of the mixture for Ivar, and a smaller one for himself. ‘Yum, yum.’
Linus felt Lotten’s eyes like drops of icy water on his back. He turned round slowly to find his wife standing like a vengeful angel in the doorway, if an angel would ever be seen dead, which come to think of it is the only way an angel could be seen, in a washed-out grey-white towelling dressing-gown and white clogs. Ivar, stuffing another fistful of popcorn into his sticky chocolate-smudged mouth, grinned at them both. ‘Look, Mummy, we’ve made breakfast.’
Lotten ignored him. ‘For God’s sake, Linus, what do you think you’re doing?’
‘We’ve made breakfast, that’s what I told you, we’ve…’
‘Do be quiet, Ivar,’ she snapped. ‘Look at the state of this kitchen.’ She grabbed the bowl from the table and tipped the sticky contents into the bin, scraping off the last, tenacious few bits with the wooden spoon. Ivar, squealing in protest, slid off his chair, revealing his chocolate-smeared self in full figure. ‘I don’t believe this,’ Lotten hissed, turning to Linus. ‘You did this deliberately, didn’t you?’
Linus stared at her. ‘Did what?’
‘The suit. You couldn’t stand the fact that Mummy had made him something nice instead of that stuff you’d bought, so you wrecked it.’
Ivar sidled out of the kitchen. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’ Linus asked. Lotten just gave him one more long stare before turning her back on him. ‘I’ve had enough. I’m going back to bed.’ As she left she stepped on some toffee-covered popcorn. Cursing, she picked up the clog and prised off the sticky mess. She turned back and stared at Linus, and for a moment it looked as if she was going to throw the clog at him. But she just sighed and shook her head before disappearing back to the bedroom. Linus sank back in the chair with a sigh of relief; Lotten had been a mean shot-putter in her schooldays and her aim, still, was as accurate as her arm was strong.
Linus made himself a cup of coffee and went in search of Ivar. He found him in the bathroom where he was busy soaking the front of his denim shirt, desperately trying to get the stains out. ‘I’ll do that, little man.’ Linus smiled at him. ‘You take it off for now and I’ll get it clean for you in no time.’
Lotten was still angry as they arrived at Bertil and Olivia’s apartment. Her back, as she stood waiting by the heavy oak front door, turned rigidly the way only angry backs do, her neck stiff. ‘Ho, ho, ho,’ Linus said, trying to lighten the mood. The neck and back remained rigidly turned away. ‘Well, Ivar,’ he said. ‘I don’t expect you remember much about Aunt Ulla, well she’s not really your aunt, or mine for that matter, and Cousin Kerstin and Uncle Gerald, now he’s really my father’s uncle which makes him my great-uncle and your great…’
‘Do we really have to listen to all the ins and outs of your family relationships?’ Lotten snapped. The door was opened by Olivia who knelt down instantly to kiss Ivar, chatting away with him in English. They followed her inside, Ivar chatting back in a mix of both languages.
‘My goddess of the dawn sulks,’ Linus whispered in Lotten’s ear. ‘I love you.’
‘Don’t be cheesy,’ Lotten hissed.
Once inside the apartment, they went into the drawing-room. Ivar headed straight for the piano, climbing up on the stool and wriggling round, his little legs swinging, proceeding to bang out a tuneless melody. Olivia carried on with her conversation, raising her voice only slightly.
Ulla appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray of canapés. ‘So this is Ivar.’ She glared at the child, who ceased his playing to meet her gaze.
Then he smiled. ‘I’m playing the piano.’
‘I heard.’ Ulla turned to Linus. ‘Children seem to be allowed to wear denim on any occasion these days.’ She placed the tray on the rosewood pedestal table by the sofa.
‘One more word from that poisonous old hag and I’m leaving,’ Lotten muttered. ‘I mean it.’
‘They’re cowboy clothes,’ Ivar said.
‘And very smart they are too,’ Linus said.
‘Of course children still fall for the myth about the clean-cut denim-clad cowboy, but the reality was very different. Very different indeed,’ Ulla said.
‘Now that’s very interesting.’ Olivia smiled politely. Linus, too, smiled. Ever since he’d known Ulla she had displayed a near religious fervour when it came to imparting information. She was at her most enthusiastic with children. Like a bird she would pull out worms of knowledge from even the most infertile soil and hurry to pass them on to the young. The problem was that her worms were mostly dry, unappetising things, giving neither pleasure nor much nourishment. Linus had always listened, though, like the time that Christmas, when he was fourteen, she told him that nothing was as attractive in a man as knowledge. Linus, feeling distinctly unattractive, had taken her words to heart. As a result he had embarked on a schedule of self-education, which had lasted for the best part of six months. He had listened to music, gone to galleries, stared at nature programmes, mugged up on dates, listened to political debates and read Shakespeare’s plays, every single one of them. Because of all this learning he was beaten black and blue by a gang of boys in his class who thought him a show-off, and scorned by the girls for being a pasty-faced swot. The experience had left him with a small scar just above his right eyebrow and a lasting love of Shakespeare. For the latter, he was eternally grateful to Ulla.
‘So where’s the birthday boy?’ He turned to Olivia.
‘Your father had to go and fetch Gerald and Kerstin; Kerstin’s little car wouldn’t start again. They should be here any minute.’
And indeed it was not long before the doorbell rang. ‘Happy birthday, Dad.’ Linus put his arms round his father, who shied away just slight
ly before returning his son’s embrace. It always happened and Linus barely noticed any more.
‘And Uncle Gerald. Ivar, come and say hello to everyone.’ He shook hands with Gerald and kissed Kerstin, his cousin, on both cheeks. Kerstin, at thirty-five, favoured the kind of whimsical clothes that said the wearer was still just a kid at heart. This evening she wore a short pleated navy skirt and a sweatshirt with tobogganing hedgehogs on it. Her short, straight-cut hair was held in place on one side by a Minnie Mouse slide. As Ivar skipped into view, Uncle Gerald knelt down painfully, emitting a loud fart, like a gunshot, on the way down. Olivia had appeared from the kitchen and, exchanging glances, she and Linus both broke into a hearty rendering of ‘Happy Birthday’, followed, as Gerald let out a little trio of farts on his way to stand up, by the Swedish version, ‘Ja Må Han Leva’. Linus was glad that Lotten was safely at a distance, stirring some sauce in the kitchen; she did not really understand about Gerald.
The final guest, Gerda Holmberg, arrived shortly afterwards. Gerda had managed the accounts and other office matters for Stendal & Berglund for thirty-five years until her retirement five years earlier. ‘I thought this was a Family Occasion,’ Ulla hissed in Olivia’s direction.
Olivia pretended not to hear. ‘You know Gerda, everyone,’ she said instead, ushering them all back into the drawing-room. Ulla proceeded to be condescending to Gerda, showing her around the room as if Gerda had never set foot in the apartment before. Linus was about to come to Gerda’s rescue when Ulla remembered about her food. She had insisted on preparing the main course: Caribbean sole. It was a speciality of hers. She had cooked it for the family once before, out on the island the previous summer, and no one had much liked it then, so she was trying it again; she felt that they ought to enjoy it. Ivar was allowed to have his fish scraped bare of any sauce; he was only four, after all. He was seated next to his mother. In Linus’s family any child unfortunate enough not to be attended by a nanny was placed next to his mother.
‘He did it again.’ Ivar pointed an accusing finger at Uncle Gerald across the table. ‘It’s rude, you know,’ he added conversationally. ‘Hasn’t your mummy told you?’ The last part of the sentence was drowned out by a rousing rendering of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow!’
Lotten picked up Ivar’s napkin, which had slid to the floor, and as she popped up again, above the level of the table top, she rolled her eyes at Linus who annoyed her further by smiling back inanely.
‘I meant to ask you.’ Gerda turned to Olivia. ‘How is your poor English friend? Didn’t you say her husband had left her? I remember her very well from the wedding. Nice woman. A little vague perhaps, but really very charming.’
‘Actually, she’s doing much better than I’d have expected,’ Olivia said. ‘When I first heard Madox had departed I expected her to collapse completely; she seemed utterly to depend on him, but she’s fine. Spends most of the time in bed, watching television, reading, that kind of thing. But she’s quite happy. She has a rather enviable way of turning her back on anything that displeases her.’
‘You mean she refuses to face the truth?’ Ulla said.
‘I suppose you could say that, yes.’
‘Abandon hope all ye who face the truth,’ Linus said. ‘If we did all face the truth, we’d give up before we even got started on life.’
‘So you’re advocating a life built on illusion?’ Bertil asked.
Linus opened his mouth to answer, when there was a scream from Lotten, followed by violent coughing. He leapt from his chair and rushed across to his wife, kneeling by her side, patting her back. Ivar started to cry.
‘Good God, girl, what is the matter?’ Olivia too had jumped to her feet.
A strangled ‘that’ could be distinguished between coughs. And Lotten pointed an accusing finger at her plate. She was handed a glass of water and drank it down. Linus was still kneeling by her side, patting her back. She shrugged him off. ‘Chilli,’ she snapped now she had stopped coughing. ‘A huge piece of chilli. That really could be very dangerous you know.’ She turned to Ulla. ‘If I had been allergic to spices I could have choked to death.’ Ulla looked as if in Lotten’s case an allergy or two would not have gone amiss.
Giving his wife a worried glance, Linus said soothingly, ‘But as you’re not, there’s no real harm done. Thank God,’ he added quickly. Ivar had stopped sobbing and was listening instead to Uncle Gerald telling him that regular bowel movements were the key to a contented life. Ivar wanted to know what a bowel was.
‘Well, I’m sorry, but I believe in speaking my mind,’ Lotten said. ‘And…’
‘Why?’ Linus had not meant to annoy her further, but he was genuinely interested in her answer. She frequently said how she believed in being direct and speaking her mind at all times and he’d often meant to ask her about it.
‘What do you mean, why?’ Lotten asked between gulps of water.
‘I mean that people often say that, about speaking their minds, but I’m not sure that it always is such a good idea. People tend to get hurt and anyway, someone else’s mind is so often both kinder and more interesting.’ Lotten shot him a furious glance. Linus didn’t seem to have noticed, but carried on in his quiet voice, ‘Of course I’m not saying that that’s true exclusively of you. It goes for most of us.’
Opposite him, Bertil and Kerstin were discussing the merits of the recent Sibelius evening at the Concert Hall but the sharpness of Lotten’s voice made them stop and turn to listen. ‘Don’t be silly, Linus. One speaks one’s own mind because how can one know anyone else’s?’
‘One can’t know for sure, of course, but one can try to imagine, try to put yourself in someone else’s shoes and think about what they might have to say in the matter. I wonder what Strindberg or Meryl Streep would say in this situation, or Churchill or Mick Jagger or Mother Teresa…’
‘But you’d just be guessing so what would be the point?’ Kerstin asked.
‘You could make an educated guess and it would be a very useful exercise because you would be forced to try to see a situation from someone else’s point of view. At the very least it would make you have to stop and think.’
‘I’m sorry I’m so boring,’ Lotten said.
‘Why do you always have to bring everything back to yourself?’ Linus sighed. ‘I’m speaking generally. It just happens that you triggered off the thought. Do you have to take everything so personally?’
‘I think it’s a very good idea, Linus,’ Gerda said. ‘It makes for an excellent game. Bertil, Olivia, isn’t that a good idea of Linus’s? We all take on the part of someone else, then we pick a topic and argue it according to whoever we are supposed to be.’ She beamed at them all from her place at the head of the table.
‘Bowels bowels bowels,’ Ivar chanted, bobbing up and down in his chair.
‘And no, Ulla, you can’t be Jesus Christ.’ Bertil raised his glass to her.
‘I’ve always rather fancied myself as Charles the Twelfth,’ Gerald said.
‘So what’s the topic?’ Olivia asked. ‘And I want to be Picasso.’
‘You always did, dear.’ Bertil gave her a small smile.
‘Bowels, bowels, bowels,’ Ivar singsonged.
‘Maybe not, dear,’ Gerda said. ‘As for a topic, what about the Common Market, or that wonderful film, what was it called again, that they tried to censor.’
Lotten stood up. ‘Time for little people to go to bed.’ She grabbed Ivar by the hand.
‘But we haven’t even finished dinner yet,’ Linus protested. ‘Surely it won’t hurt for him to stay a little longer, just for once.’ But he knew it was no use. Lotten was an expert in exerting her revenge under the cloak of concerned motherhood.
‘Yes, come on, Lotten.’ Bertil smiled at Ivar. ‘It’s not often I get to see my little grandson.’
‘There’re meringues to go,’ Olivia said. ‘With chocolate sauce.’
‘I’m afraid I believe in regular bedtimes,’ Lotten said. ‘But you stay here with
your family, Linus. I’ll see you later.’
‘I don’t want to go.’ Ivar pulled free and clung on to the side of his chair with both hands. But his protest was pitiful in its futility as children’s protests often are. Lotten’s mind was made up and he was led sobbing from the room. Silence followed in their wake, then Lotten returned briefly to the dining-room to say goodnight. The few moments away from them all seemed to have restored her good humour, Linus thought. Either that, or it was the pleasure of having scored a point that made her smile.
‘Don’t be too late, darling,’ she said, honey-voiced, to Linus. She leant over his chair and gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘You won’t mind walking back, will you?’
‘Strange girl,’ Uncle Gerald said, helping himself to some meringue and bitter chocolate sauce from the pyramid in front of him.
Eight
Holden signed me up to his gym the morning after the night we first made love; I had pulled a muscle in my thigh.
‘You’re not awfully athletic, are you, my dear?’ He had twinkled at me over breakfast in my kitchen. ‘But don’t you worry. A few workouts and you’ll be a new woman.’
‘Promise?’ I asked sourly.
Holden just nodded in an earnest way. ‘Promise, baby. In fact, once you get into it you’ll wonder how you ever managed before,’ he said, the light of evangelism glinting in his eyes. He also mentioned that it was all about self-discipline. Well, that did it. Self-discipline was my thing (although sometimes I suspected that it wasn’t at all and that was why I set such store by it). Anyway, I now rose at a quarter to six, four mornings a week. I had always lamented the fact that I wasn’t a morning person and now, thanks to Holden I was, reluctantly. I walked through the quiet streets, admiring the blossoming cherry trees, the sound of birdsong from the garden square, and the superiority that came from being up and about when most other people were still tucked up in bed. At the bus stop stood a bench, how thoughtful, and on it was a huge turd. I suppose it could have been produced by a large and unusually athletic dog, but it wasn’t that likely. I resolved never to sit on a public bench again. Cherry blossom, birdsong, large turds; had I been an artist I might well have chosen to paint the scene. The picture would be entitled Life. Whoever had constructed the universe must have had a sign above his desk saying Remember the other side of the coin. Sex – Shame. Baby – Pain. Love – Hurt. Cherry blossom – Turd. Life – Death. That theory of the earth being flat made a lot of sense to me; you have the nice side, the one you sell to embryos thinking of becoming babies, with the sunshine and the pretty fluffy bunnies and the yummy food and love. The flip side you keep to yourself until they’re past the point of no return. No wonder babies arrive screaming.
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