The Story of a Marriage

by Geir Gulliksen

  Yes, that’s exactly what it was.

  And as a result—and she realizes this now—to fail at everything we wanted.

  I was the man she’d fallen in love with many years ago. The man with the creased shirts, the pointy nose and an offended look in his eyes. I was the man she’d had children with, who cried when the kids hurt themselves, who was precise about mealtimes, about what we ate, when we ate and where. The man who followed her with his gaze whenever she walked through a room, who was filled with awe just because she existed. She remembers me saying you can do whatever you want, I’ll love you anyway. And she recalls how the day came when I could no longer say it. That moment came as an amazing relief. Everything blew apart for her, just as she had never imagined it would.

  * * *

  —

  It was a Saturday morning in early June. I was sitting outside on the steps reading, the kids were coming and going, doing their own thing. They generally did, it seems to her, when she looks back on that year, and the next. She came out, saw me sitting there, head bowed over a book. She wanted to touch the nape of my neck. But didn’t. She wasn’t sure why. My neck was slender, white, like a child’s, I often sat with my head over a book. I held the book over my knees, leaning forward, my arms rested on my thighs. I read with my mouth open, stared into the air, moved my lips, noted something down on a slip of paper. She wanted to sit next to me and put her arm over my shoulder, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She passed me, running down the four steps, she stopped on the gravel and turned to me, not knowing what to say.

  —Are you going for a run?

  She nodded, she’d agreed to meet him, she felt she should tell me, but was unsure how her voice would sound if she said it. Then she found a way. She posed sweetly, thinking to please me. She cocked her head to one side, as lovers do without giving it a thought, and said:

  —I’ve been invited.

  —To do what?

  —To go for a run.

  —Who by? Him?

  —Yes.

  —Didn’t you go running with him yesterday too?

  —Yes, but I bumped into him by chance.

  —And he’s sent you a text?

  —Yes.

  She laughed, and then I laughed too. It was a bit of fun. It wasn’t so dangerous after all. She wanted to give me a hug, but couldn’t, not now. She stepped forward and stroked my cheek, and I said

  —But isn’t he married?

  —Yes. But we’re only going for a run, you know.

  —But you think he’s good-looking?

  —He’s athletic.

  We looked at each other. It was a joke, a kind of game, she knew I’d bring it up again in the evening when we went to bed. She looked at me and said

  —It’s nothing to worry about.

  —No, I think it’s a good thing.

  —What is?

  —Your running with him. You can’t not run with him just because he’s a man, can you? We’re not like that.

  —No, we’re not like that.

  —Besides, I like thinking that you find him handsome.

  —I didn’t mean it that way.

  —Didn’t you?

  —I don’t know.

  She had to tread carefully. And I said

  —You seem to be blushing.

  —Don’t be daft.

  I sat there smiling up at her, and she was unsure where she had me. Was it just a game, just something I came up with so we could fantasize about it when she got home? The sunlight was strong, she felt a rush of heat on her back and neck, and in her face too.

  —I’m only blushing because of what you said.

  —It suits you when you’re embarrassed.

  —Embarrassed?

  —That’s what it’s called.

  —I really must go.

  —Yes, you must.

  —I don’t know how long I’ll be.

  —I’ll be here.

  —It’s just that he wanted to show me a route that’s possibly quite long.

  —Be careful then.

  —With what?

  —When you run.

  —I haven’t got my phone. It’s a hassle when you’re running.

  She felt free. That was something we gave each other, saying yes to whatever the other person wanted. It was in line with everything I said to her when we were naked together. That she could do whatever she wanted. She was a free spirit and must be true to that. Some day she might desire another man, and then she should do whatever she wanted with him, and come home to me afterward and tell me about it. But she did not, she thought, want to do what she wanted, not everything. She didn’t want to be unfaithful, for example. She wanted her life to remain exactly as it was. She must watch herself, she thought, and watch out for me too, so I wouldn’t get upset, so that things wouldn’t be spoiled between us.

  No, she didn’t think that. Not anymore.

  * * *

  —

  She had received the text early that morning. She’d guessed it might come, then she heard a muffled ping from her phone, it was an unknown number, and the moment she saw his name at the bottom of the text, she became suddenly aware of her body in the room, felt her own contours, her weight, her very existence, felt how the air touched her skin and the space it formed inside her as she took a breath in and slowly let it out again. It was a brief text, Coming for a run? he asked, adding that he wanted to go for a slightly longer run this time.

  And she texted back: Sure. Now? And he replied, almost immediately: Perfect. She’d gone upstairs and changed, and then come out and talked with me, and now she was already on her way to meet him. She closed the gate behind her and started to run.

  * * *

  —

  She was away for the whole day. When she came back she was filled with the experience, but she refused to let herself think about it. It had been pleasant, there was nothing dangerous about it, and now she’d come home to her normal life again. It was late in the afternoon, a family Saturday. I’d made pizza with the kids. We’d just finished eating when she came in. She told me all about where she’d been, and it came easily, she felt. She could give me a vivid description of the landscape and the distance she’d run. She went and took a shower, stood alone under the warm water. When she came out again, the kitchen was tidy, the kids had disappeared into their rooms, and I was out in the garden. She saw me through the window, walking back and forth, head bowed, she could hear I was cutting the grass.

  She thought what happens now? then stopped thinking, she couldn’t think, not about that. She went out into the garden, where I’d just finished the mowing. I stood there in an old T-shirt and cut-off jeans, my shoes stained with grass. I was still the man she knew so well, I walked toward her across the lawn with my shoulders hunched, and suddenly I seemed very small, frightened. But I didn’t want her to see it, she realized. She saw it and was somehow touched. Touched as from a distance, as when watching a character who arouses pity in a series or movie. And even more powerful was the next thought that rose in her, the one she had avoided. He wanted something from her. It rose slowly in her body, like water, like black water in a house where everyone is asleep, she thought, brimming.

  She put her hands on my shoulders. I looked at her, my face was blotchy, vulnerable and desperate. My bone structure was visible beneath my skin, the thin bridge of my nose stuck out like a beak between my cheekbones. I had hollows in my skull at the temples, which she had never noticed before. My eye sockets were deeper than she remembered. My blue, staring eyes seemed wider, they were bigger with each passing year. She took a deep breath and said

  —Hello, my sweet, are you okay?

  And that was all that was needed for it to pass, my color returned and my fear seemed to melt away. I straightened up and acted casual. She leaned toward me, r
ested her head on my shoulder and felt my arms around her back. She kissed the bare skin on my upper arm and thought of him, of his skin, how it would feel against hers, under her hand, against her mouth.

  * * *

  —

  A little later we sat at the table out in the garden, and she told me she’d been to a part of the forest she’d not known about. Ancient forestland, completely untouched. They’d run on soft springy moss, under pine trees that were hundreds of years old. She told me what they’d talked about, that he wanted her on a research project that his division was planning. She was flattered. But she didn’t have the time, and wasn’t even sure if her contract would permit it. Besides, she was concerned about taking on a project initiated by his division, there were regulations that made such cooperation difficult.

  But he refused to give up, he’d talked very positively about her and wanted to help her progress. He was after something else too, she thought. Though she might be wrong, she wasn’t sure, she wasn’t accustomed to other men holding her gaze, not in the way he did. She liked it. She had held his gaze, she too, as though they were challenging each other. They’d looked into each other’s eyes, a little too long. She told me all this, heard herself talking, heard her own voice as if she were speaking under running water. The rush of blood in her ears was like the roar of water, of the wind, or of a crowd in a distant room.

  * * *

  —

  We sat in the garden until late. The crests of the trees grew dark around us, sucking in the darkness like cloth absorbing moisture. The sky was still light, turquoise, white, emerald and deep blue, ravaged by the setting sun. We sat in a clearing where everything above us was luminous, while the ragged summer shadows crept tight about our feet, beneath the table and in the grass. I lit some candles. My face flared up as I leaned across the table with the match in my hand.

  She fetched her laptop and showed me a picture of him online. She could see I was a bit disappointed. Or at the very least, rather surprised. I said he looked like any other ordinary guy. He looked old, despite being younger than her. Like a middle-aged man from the 1960s, self-important, uptight and with neatly pressed trousers. And a terrible shirt. She listened as I went on, I was excited and happy, and failed to notice that she was feeling offended. But she was. She felt hurt on his behalf. We usually shared the same opinion about the people we met, but this was altogether different. She wanted to shut me up. She wanted to talk about him, to hear herself talk, to hear what she might say. She didn’t know who he was until she talked about him to me, and she didn’t want me to talk back.

  But he wasn’t the sort of man I’d pictured. I’d presumed that if she were to flirt with another man, he’d be fine-featured, less rugged and more androgynous. The kind of man I’d like too, a man I could have fallen for.

  —He’s a ski instructor.

  —Yes, you told me.

  —He’s a dance teacher too, and a climbing instructor. He’s a member of a gun club and wants to teach me how to shoot. In fact, he was a riding instructor too.

  —And he wants to teach you to ride?

  —Yes, and he goes running, as you know. He has the same interests as I do.

  —Is he really a riding instructor?

  —That was some years ago. But he still owns a horse.

  She was proud of him, just like parents are proud of their children. No, like anyone who is in love and wants to tell everyone about the amazing qualities of this person who has stepped into their lives. She wanted to tell me about him. I was, after all, the person in whom she was used to confiding. And now she felt I was pursuing her. I wanted to see him as she saw him. I wanted to be her. I wanted to feel what she felt for him. And I said

  —I don’t really understand what you see in him.

  —It’s his body. I want to touch him.

  —Where?

  —In a dark room, perhaps?

  I leaned forward; she felt my hand on her knee.

  —Where on his body?

  —His arms, his neck, I don’t know, perhaps lower down on his stomach. He’s quite athletic, you know. I feel like shoving my hand down his trousers, and touching the skin just above his groin. I have the urge to kiss him while I do it.

  She spoke as though in her sleep, she went numb from hearing herself say these things.

  —Do you find it difficult when I talk like this?

  —Not at all. It’s exciting.

  —You really think so?

  —Yes, it’s exciting for me to listen to it. It turns me on.

  —Of course, I don’t want to do it, not for real. You do know that?

  —But perhaps you’ll do it anyway.

  —I couldn’t. I don’t want to.

  —Are you sure? Shouldn’t we be able to make room for that, seeing as everything is so good between us?

  There I sat. I was her husband. Several times a day I said that I loved her, but again and again I also said she had to be free, that her life was unfolding here and now, and she must live it freely. It was a summer’s evening, soon night. Our life, all we shared, resembled no one else’s, of that we were certain. And this was the only life for me. Big words, she thought, while at the same time basking in their warmth. She trusted the fact that I was always there, that my face always turned to her, glowing, like a deformed white flower. Our voices were audible to any passerby, but no one could hear what we said. We looked just like any couple enjoying each other’s company, talking intimately about things they can’t discuss with anyone else. She straightened in her chair, and as if dragging it out of herself, she voiced the one thing that had troubled her all afternoon,

  —I don’t know if he likes me.

  —I’m sure he does.

  —I can’t quite believe it.

  —But it’s obvious.

  —How can you be so sure?

  —You like him, and this sort of thing is almost always mutual. You’ve talked and exchanged emails. He invited you on a trip, you’ve gone running together twice. You say he looks into your eyes, and that you look into his. These are clear signs, you know that.

  I felt safe again now, as I always did when she was at home, when we shared the same space. I leaned over to her, reassured her that it wasn’t dangerous, that if she ever fancied someone else, for example this man, she should go with it, do something about it. It would, I said, suit us very well. I waved my arm out toward the garden, or beyond the garden, toward the neighboring houses. I wanted so much to live another kind of life. I’d have done almost anything to escape being an ordinary man in a world that endlessly replicated itself, where everyone was identical to everyone else, and life seemed preordained. A kind of flat and narrow existence, I called it. I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing myself or her like that. And she said she knew that. She liked it, even if she didn’t quite understand it, or what it really implied.

  I said—what did I say?—something about her having to follow everything that was most alive in her. Any ordinary man would have been jealous, would have made a scene, and been furious with this man who had quite shamelessly hit on another man’s wife. But I was in a very good mood, it seemed, excited and eager to know what effect it had on her. Now that she was back at home, now that we were together, there were no limits to what could be. I said that the culture we lived in had always made such things possible for men. Wasn’t it common for men to take mistresses, to have long-term extra-marital relationships? That was why Simone de Beauvoir hadn’t wanted to get married, she was frightened of ending up with a man who lived as her father had lived, a wife and children in one house, a mistress in the other, going to and fro, between one life and the other. Male sexuality had been accommodated thus for centuries. But there was no reason to think sexuality was any less potent or different in a woman, so why shouldn’t the situation be reversed? Think of Vanessa Bell, I said, think of Iris M
urdoch, they both had relationships with other people, openly, to avoid hypocrisy and lies, and countless others had managed it too. But in our time, and here in Norway, any attempt at living in accordance to one’s own vision had been swept away, all our acquaintances lived as though they were still in the 1950s, it was intolerable. Why shouldn’t she do what so many men had done throughout history? I meant every word, she was certain. She remembered how frightened I’d looked when she came home, and then she forgot it. She thought that I was opening possibilities for her that she’d not seen before.

  She said I was remarkable, and I said that I loved her. My face was radiant, almost manic, in the twilight. We got up to go in, we put our arms about each other and kissed, we giggled and felt each other under our clothes. Darkness grew out of the trees and air and grass and chairs. We stood for a long time holding each other, and then she freed herself, and we headed inside for bed.

  * * *

  —

  She stood alone in the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror. She met her own gaze, held it, then could hold it no longer. She went to bed. She could hear me moving about, tidying and putting glasses in the dishwasher, opening and closing drawers. And then it went quiet. I was writing perhaps. She thought of the man who had placed his hand on the nape of her neck, and how she had stood quite still and let him do it.

  She was almost asleep when I came to bed. She woke up again. She lay there and watched me pull my shirt over my head. I tossed it carelessly aside. My belt was undone already, I stepped straight out of my trousers, leaving them on the floor. I took off my underpants, stooping for a second and then straightening up. I was her husband, I stood naked before her, she wanted me to come and lie down.