by Sjón
“How do you want to be tattooed?” he asks with a smile.
“A heart with SF inside it. I don’t want it to be big.”
While the tattooist gets ready to tattoo my wrist, I look at the people around me. A large man weighing around two hundred kilos sits on my left. He is having a naked woman tattooed on his arm and I’m pretty sure that tattoo is the only woman he will ever have. I turn to my right and see an attractive woman with short whitish-yellow hair. Now who does she remind me of? I jump when I feel a prick on my wrist and the tattooist gets to work. He doesn’t take long and in a strange way the pain calms my body down. While he fetches me a Band-Aid, I look to the right again. When the woman turns to me, I can barely believe my own eyes and I stare at her unashamedly. Pink! Pink! Pink! I snap out of my dreamlike state and turn my gaze to her again. She is so beautiful that I can hardly believe it. She talks to her tattooist. She is clearly aware that she has been recognized and glances at me. She has noticed me! She is looking at me! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. I can hear a voice screaming inside me. Several of Pink’s songs come back to me and I rediscover all the love which has been absent in me for so long and the feeling is so indescribably huge that it cannot be resisted. When she turns to me, I bow my head to her in gratitude. There is no doubt that Pink’s music is the best guide I have in my life. When she sees me bow, she sends me a smile which I will treasure deep inside my heart forever. Pink. Who would have thought that I would see such a beautiful person? I pay the tattooist and take a last look at the woman with the wonderful voice when she suddenly waves to me by wriggling her fingers and my heart explodes. I can sense that Pink is looking at me with compassion and as I can’t understand why, I just leave.
SF. Heart.
My tattoo has penetrated the skin properly and my body is less tense. I sit down on a small mound of green grass and light a cigarette. I pick up my iPod and play Pink’s latest album, The Truth About Love. I gaze at the blue sea and try to put my chaotic feelings and thoughts in order. I have to knock some common sense into myself. What am I doing here?
“Right from the start, you were a thief, you stole my heart, and I, your willing victim.” The song “Just Give Me a Reason” starts to play and some degree of lucidity seeps into my thoughts in such a terribly short space of time that I almost become fearful. I have come to my senses.
“Just Give Me a Reason” is playing in the background. The television is on, but silent. Our small kitchen has been left untouched and filthy. I have woken up feeling fraught and because of that I have a headache and I am crotchety. I heave a deep sigh and go to the kitchen to start washing up. She dries the dishes and smiles a little while I try not to get annoyed with her. I want to look at her lovely face without looking angry myself. When we have finished, I sit down on the sofa and spend a long time on Facebook to avoid talking to her. She sits on one of the chairs by the table and looks at me with devotion. I pull a face to offer her a kind of smile by way of acknowledgement. Today we have been together for three years and I’m still in love with her. I get butterflies in my stomach when she puts her arms around me. I always long for her to come home from college. I always look forward to lying next to her, holding her, kissing her neck. When I tell her that I love her, I always mean it. I don’t want to lose her, but I’m not OK. Even though our relationship is exciting and happy, something is wrong. I’m fine as long as I’m at home, but when I go out, it feels as if the whole town despises me and talks about me behind my back. I log off and go to my room to lie down for a little while. My lovely girlfriend enters and lies down next to me. Without making eye contact, I slip my arms around her and kiss her a few times “Fia, just look at me,” she says. I make myself comfortable and she smiles and starts to caress my face. She gazes at me with her pretty eyes.
“Are you OK?”
I nod in order not to show my frustration. We lie in silence holding each other. “Fia …” She clears her throat to firm up her voice.
“Three years.” I smile and she starts again.
“I love you, and you know it. You love me, I can feel it. When I think about my future, I always imagine spending it with you. You’re so precious to me and I don’t want to lose you. I can’t imagine life without you.” She smiles and continues. “If you feel the same way about me, I would like to marry you, make a home with you and have children.” She kisses my cheek.
“Of course I feel the same way about you. If all goes well, I obviously want to live the rest of my life with you and have children. You’re a part of my future because I have no chance of ever being happy unless you’re with me.” This is what I want to tell her, but I’m worried what other people might think. “Get married? Have children? You have to understand that our relationship will never be straightforward. Can you imagine what people would say if we were to marry? If we have a child, people will look down on her or him because she or he doesn’t have a father. I’m telling you, our child will be bullied at school. He or she will have two bloody dykes for mothers, and that will be a shame.” I don’t pause to think before I launch into my rant. She looks shocked.
“If our child doesn’t have a father, but gets plenty of love, feels safe and can talk openly to us, having only two mothers won’t be a problem. I know that we would make good parents. I’m sure that we can offer a child everything it needs. Are you against marriage? Are you against making promises to each other, loving and respecting each other for the rest of our lives? You have to ignore what other people say and live your own life. Many people think that we’re completely ordinary. Our relationship is no different from their relationships.”
The truth of her words hits me hard and I snap. I get up and reply: “But I know that lots of people think of me as a freak!” She gets up, comes over to me and puts her arms around me, even though I shrug them off. “Fia. And so what? I don’t want them getting in the way of our love. Don’t let them stop you from being yourself.” Her embrace reassures me, but I remove her arms and get ready to leave. “Where are you going?” she asks softly. “Out to buy fags,” I reply angrily and leave. The rest of the evening I’m unapproachable. I walk away whenever she comes near me. I go outside to smoke when she tries to talk. My body grows tenser and I can no longer control my rage.
Everything comes back as images. A sofa. A 42-inch television. A big lamp. A double bed. A freezer. A MacBook Air. A PlayStation 3 and two games. I remember now that I sold it all except my iPod. Her mother’s pale and red-eyed face appears when I close my eyes. Her grave. Sara being buried deep in the ground. Sara. Sara. Sara. I can’t remember attending her funeral, but terrifying images flash up in my mind. Everything is dark, but her bright white coffin shows up horrifically and I can’t make the disturbing sight go away. I remember the phone call. The words seem so fresh that it feels as if they were spoken only a few seconds ago. “Knocked down. Dead.” Sara’s last word, “Sorry”, and her pretty face filled with grief repeat on a loop, tormenting my ears and eyes.
San Francisco’s warm atmosphere is choking me. I can no longer bear to watch the otherwise fascinating people. The enchanted city turns into something ugly. I start to wish that someone would blow up the Golden Gate Bridge. I have to go. I need Sara because I’m going crazy. Sara. Sara. Sara. How do I find her? I want to search the entire city, but instead I go to a hotel because deep down I know that I won’t find her anywhere. I throw my heavy body on the bed and I suffer. I don’t care that children are starving to death in Africa; all I want is for Sara to come back. I don’t care if World War Three breaks out; I would be content as long as Sara is by my side. I don’t care if I die as long as I can touch Sara again. I’m dying because I can’t go on living. I hear my heart beat, but I can’t feel Sara’s heart. Sara isn’t here. She is gone. She is dead.
I have to fall asleep. I have to forget her. For the first time since her death, I remember going to bed. I’m cold. I’m in pain. I’m shaking. I’m insane. I’m alone in the world. I prefer not to wake up again. “Sa
ra, come here. Sara, I’m sorry I threw you out. I’m sorry. Lie down next to me and warm me up. Lie down next to me and love me. Come back to me. I will always love you.” I don’t usually believe in God, but I pray to him with all my heart for help. I close my eyes. I try to recall the feeling of Sara’s warm skin against my body. She is by my side. I can feel her breathing against my neck and my body feels safe. She is by my side. Her love embraces my heart. She is breathing. Her heart is beating. She is alive. I can see it. I believe it. I will fight unto death to preserve this magnificent love that I feel. I am no longer cold and I fall asleep.
I wake up. I can feel Sara in my heart. I want to be by her side for the rest of my life. I will love and take care of her for the rest of my life. I want to be with her for the rest of my life. Is there anything left of my life? Is there a rest of my life?
“Don’t leave me,” I beg Sara.
“I’m right here,” Sara says.
I have probably lost my mind, but I don’t care. Her voice calms me down. I’m no longer afraid, I open my eyes and all I can see is SF …
The small picture frame is sitting on the small table in our room. SF, heart. We carved it into a small log cabin in the mountains so that our love would last forever.
Sara. Fia. Heart. It is so reassuring that it brings me to my senses. I feel her hand near my heart and I grab it and I will never ever let it go. My heart is pounding. I turn around—I turn towards Sara. Her eyes sparkle, her cheeks are flushed, her beautiful face is alive. Her heart is beating. She is alive. She is alive, and I’m restored to life. I awake to life. I am alive. I feel her warmth, I embrace her wonderful body, I kiss her soft lips. I feel love and reassurance in my heart. My eyes fill with tears of joy and I say:
“Why don’t we go to San Francisco?”
TRANSLATED BY CHARLOTTE BARSLUND
NOTES FROM A BACKWOODS SAAMI CORE
SIGBJØRN SKÅDEN
NOTE 1
A creek.
The fireweed blossoms.
Nothing here is coincidental.
The fireweed is an intelligent plant that knows where the dirt is
rich on nitrogen.
Long roots fetch nourishment from the deep.
He who understands the fireweed can read off its stem
what is north and what is south.
Rarely do people know that the fireweed’s blossoms also can be white, like water lapping the stem of a moving boat.
NOTE 3
He’s got a washing machine that’s gone to hell. He takes out the drum, cuts off the top and puts it on a rack. Now he’s got a grill. When he tears down the old shed, he builds a wind-stopping wall out of the rubble.
NOTE 4
She looks at him smoking a fag. After a while she goes inside. She knits. A scarf with a message in Saami for mum. “Eadni, don leat máilmmi buorremus!” says the pattern. “Mum, you’re the best in the world!” Only one word is misspelt.
NOTE 5
It’s a few generations back. King-Jo stands on a hill overlooking the village. A mastodon of a man. He’s heard that the Swedish king himself will pass here with his cortège on his way to the coast. Jo’s brought two planks of wood onto this hill which has a good view in several directions. Now he just waits. Nobody in the village understands what he’s doing. Until now they’ve called him only Jo.
Then Jo sees a long cortège approaching in the distant. It can only be the king. Jo has never laid hands on an instrument, but he’s heard “God Save the King”. He picks up the two planks and starts banging them to the beat of the song so hard that the sound echoes throughout the parish. He keeps on doing this until the king’s cortège has passed and is out of sight. Then Jo walks down from the hill. Whether the Swedish king ever understood the tribute, nobody really knows.
NOTE 6
There’s an inherited pride in not buying new stuff, but rather making what you need out of what you already have. Here we call it making one’s own patent.
NOTE 7
Any car has potential value. Enough organ donors could in the end become a product. The organ-donor hoods remain lying around in the field encircling the house. No need to remove them, he says, they shimmer so nicely in the sun.
NOTE 10
His parents buy him new trainers while on holiday in Sweden. The shoes are blue and yellow. Among the kids in the village they are quickly nicknamed “the Swedish shoes”. The Swedish shoes are made from a stiff, synthetic material that proves unsuitable for soccer. To shoot the ball is impossible, it’s too painful. He can only lob it. In the course of that autumn and the following summer, until he finally grows out of the Swedish shoes, he develops a sophisticated lobbing technique. There is no situation he cannot lob his way out of. For all time he is the one who’s lobbed the highest penalty on the calves’ grazing field.
NOTE 12
Recipe for a boat trailer:
Buy a 30–40-year-old caravan.
Slash it all to smithereens with a chainsaw.
Dump everything apart from the undercarriage behind the barn.
NOTE 13
Greetings from the neighbour: Nothing colours the September sky like the sound of a chainsaw eating away at fibreglass and aluminium.
NOTE 14
The dead are here. With no drama, no conundrum, without being anything out of the ordinary, they are here.
NOTE 17
The floor of the community hall is about to cave in during the New Year’s party. He’s on the committee. Like all the others he’s drunk out of his mind. He sees only two possible solutions to the problem.
Option 1: Tell the villagers to stop jumping to the beat.
Option 2: Phone his grandfather in the middle of the night and tell him to get over there with some building materials quick as hell so they can emergency-reinforce the floor foundation.
He chooses option 2.
NOTE 19
Down by a place where two rivers meet there is a meadow. If the time is right, he who passes here will hear infants crying. These are the unwanted newborns, left here to die by a desperate father or mother. Every seventh year these children return to the place where they were abandoned.
We call them eahpádusak, human apocrypha trapped between existing and never having existed. That is why they return. That is why they cry. Only by performing an ancient baptizing ritual may all be alleviated. Only then will it all be over.
NOTE 21
“I wash the dishes the Saami way,” he says.
“How so?” says the anthropologist.
“It’s in the wrist,” he says. “But for people who are not so familiar with Saami culture it might seem like I do it exactly the same way as everyone else.”
NOTE 23
My coffin is slender, skinned trunks of willow, tightly bound.
My coffin is old postal bags, split and sewn to a snug cocoon.
My coffin is nightfall and the following day.
My coffin is the particularly roomy ski-box I got so cheaply in Sweden.
My coffin is a boat, with no sail, no oars, and the sky open above me.
My coffin is the wind, and entrusted men carry me onto the mount.
NOTE 24
Much later they arrived at a place. They viewed the land.
“This looks rather OK,” he says.
“Yeah,” she says.
“We’ll settle here,” he says.
“Yeah,” she says.
TRANSLATED BY THE AUTHOR
Author Biographies
Originally from Greenland, NAJA MARIE AIDT is a Danish poet and author with twenty-seven works in various genres to her name. She has received numerous honours, including the Danish Critics’ Prize and the Nordic nations’ most prestigious literary prize, the Nordic Council’s Literature Prize, in 2008 for Baboon, and her work has been translated into ten languages. Her work has also been anthologized in the Best European Fiction series and has appeared in leading American journals. Baboon was published in the USA by Two Lines Pres
s in 2014. Denise Newman won the PEN Translation Prize for her translation of Baboon in 2015. Naja Marie Aidt’s first novel, Rock, Paper, Scissors, was published in August 2015 by Open Letter Books. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.
KJELL ASKILDSEN (born 1929 in Mandal, Norway) is one of the great Norwegian writers of the post-war era and a major figure in contemporary Scandinavian literature. Since his debut in 1953 he has published seven acclaimed short-story collections, as well as five novels. His latest book, the short-story collection The Cost of Friendship, was published in 2015. Askildsen has won the Swedish Academy’s Nordic Prize, the national Brage Prize and the Norwegian Critics’ Prize twice. His short stories have been translated into twenty-nine languages.
JOHAN BARGUM (born in 1943 in Helsinki, Finland) is a writer and director. He writes Swedish, Finland’s second official language and had his first book, a collection of short stories (Swartvitt, “Black and white”) published in 1965. He has mostly written short stories, but has also published novels and plays, some thirty works altogether. Films and television plays based on his work have been produced in Finland and Sweden, and his prose has been translated into several West and East European languages. His play Are There Tigers in the Congo? has been translated into more than twenty languages. Bargum has received many awards, among them the Pro Finlandia medal in 1996 and has been active in the cultural field as chairman of several organizations including the Finland-Swedish Authors Union. He is married, with two daughters and four grandchildren.
