The Invention of Ana

by Mikkel Rosengaard

  That night the nightmares returned. I don’t remember how long they lasted. Three or four nights, maybe a week, and then one morning Lærke came back from her run later than usual. It was hot out, and her face was covered in sweat, her hair wet and her cheeks red. I was sitting at my desk, rewriting one of the short stories, when she came right over and stood so close that the sweat dripped onto the keyboard, and when I looked up her jaw was tense and her eyes narrow and dark. She said: What is it with those stories?

  What, Ana’s stories?

  Yes, those. We haven’t seen each other for months, and you’re still spending ten times as long on them as you do with me.

  She wiped the sweat from her brow, her gaze sweeping over the sheets of paper.

  And when I read what you’re writing—how Ana feels about her dad, what Ana’s thinking about this or that—I feel like I’m all alone. When was the last time you asked me how I was? You don’t care. You don’t think about how I’m feeling, or if I like coming home to a boyfriend who’s never here.

  Lærke, I said, of course I think about you.

  No, you don’t. You’re gone. I don’t know you anymore. When I wake up in the morning, you’re sitting at the screen. When I get home from work, you’re still sitting here. I’ve got to creep into my own home, it’s like living with a stranger. How do you think that feels? How do you think it feels to be forgotten by your own boyfriend?

  She kept on like that for a while, and I listened silently as she told me she couldn’t reach me anymore, that I was living in a fantasy, that I didn’t react even when she spent whole nights dancing with a stranger, that I’d left her for another woman, in mind or body, same difference. She’d traveled thousands of miles to build a new life with me in New York. She’d left her family and her friends and everyone she loved in Copenhagen, and I’d just casually turned my back, pushed her away to focus on a story, to hear another anecdote or polish a piece of writing, and even when I promised to improve, even when I swore I’d get my act together and be a better boyfriend, even when I reminded her of the good times we’d had, our first room in Copenhagen, the time we hitchhiked to Hamburg, Lærke already knew it was over. I could see it in her face. It was like she’d known the whole time, like she was suddenly struck by a thought long forgotten, and despite three years of living and dreaming, of fighting and sleeping together, it only took two nights to tear the whole thing up. For two nights we talked until the sun rose, and as we sat on benches and fumbled with the shreds of our relationship, I could see the scene from the outside. Two sad people on a bench, a woman leaving a man. When the sun rose on the third day, I could see the outline of the man left behind. A man so self-absorbed he lavished care and attention on the characters in a story but forgot the living, breathing woman in the bed next to him. A man kidding himself that he could render the nuances of a human life when he didn’t even notice the person who needed him the most. A man so false and empty he milked the sorrows of a whole family and used them to fertilize his writing. A mosquito man who lived off the suffering of others, a human tick who sucked the tragedy out of the people around him, a boy with so infinitely little to offer that even his self-critical metaphors were clichés; that was the little boy I saw on the bench.

  Two nights and three days, that was all it took, and on the third morning Lærke packed her things and carried her suitcase down the stairs. A quick hug on the sidewalk, then the driver put her suitcase in the trunk, and I caught a last glimpse of Lærke’s freckles through the window before she drove off. For several minutes I stood gazing after the car, until it vanished around the corner. Then I went up to the apartment and sat on the floor and looked around me. The pictures and posters had been taken down, bits of tape left dangling from the brickwork, nothing but magnets remained on the fridge, the last rays of light were cast against the bare wall, and suddenly I was exhausted, far too weary to switch on a lamp.

  I lay on my back and thought about the first time I saw Lærke, one dark-blue night in a backyard in Copenhagen, and how I’d never wake up next to her again. Five months earlier we’d left our apartment and taken the metro to the airport, chatting about all the new things that awaited us in New York, and now I was lying on the floor without her. How had it happened? I wondered, but I was too tired to answer. I shut my eyes, and I don’t know if I fell asleep, but when I opened them again the last light of day had disappeared, and for a few seconds I didn’t know where I was. My gaze flitted across the empty walls, and through the gloom I saw a photo on the shelf, a girl in a school uniform, with a stiff stare and tight lips. It was Ana, and she was smiling like a hairworm.

  It’s easy to imagine what happened next. I could tell you about the endless nights, about the begging texts and desperate calls, but why wallow in it? For several days I saw no one; I didn’t even speak to the clerk at the bodega. I never heard from the editor at the literary magazine. One by one my job applications were rejected, and when I lay in bed at night and tried to picture the next months of my life, no images would come, as if my thoughts were Polaroids that stayed dark and shiny no matter how long I waved them in the air. The only thing that helped in those days, strangely, was the heat wave that settled over the city. The tortured looks of the passengers on the subway platforms, the sweat stains on the waitresses’ shirts, the cab drivers fanning themselves with newspapers, the whir of air conditioners, like a membrane around my mind, ten million flapping, rotating blades, humming all through the city. When the cloudburst finally came and the heat lifted, I took a long bike ride. The city was mirrored in the puddles and overflowing drains; it was like the streets had gained an extra dimension, like the buildings and lampposts stretched both up and down, and I biked aimlessly through neighborhoods I had never been to before and have never visited since, and by evening I was standing in the light drizzle of a cement works’ sprinklers, staring at Ana’s gallery. I hadn’t given it a thought since Lærke left, but now it suddenly occurred to me that Ana was still in there. The idea seemed ridiculous. It felt like ages since Ana had begun her performance, like another era, another season, at least, and all that time she’d been in the dark. I leaned the bike against a wall and checked my watch. It was a little after ten on Sunday evening, and the gallery must have closed hours earlier, but I went up to the door anyway. The place looked abandoned. The shutters were rolled down and there were scraps of a poster hanging from the wall, but as I leaned forward to read the opening times I saw a note glued to the mailbox. Ana Ivan’s performance of Timemachine is open 24 hours, it said. Entry is at your own risk. The gallery cannot be held responsible for any injuries that may occur. I turned the handle and stepped into the dark.

  Although the sun had long since set, it still felt like sinking into a cave. I shut the door behind me and drew the first black cloth gingerly aside, then the second, then the third, and the room grew chillier and very still, smelling earthy or damp, like wet towels left too long in a heap, and I had to stop for a moment and get used to the dark.

  Ana, I shouted. Are you there?

  For a second or two I heard nothing, then there was a crackle or a rustle, and I paused and tried to place the sound. I thought I could hear a voice, very faint, barely more than a hushed whisper, and it took a few seconds before I could tell one word from the next. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Ana was rambling to herself. One moment in English, the next in Romanian, as if she were amputating sentences and reconfiguring them into new and mutilated shapes.

  Ana, I called again. Where are you?

  There was no answer, only a dusty whir, a muted mutter or two. Her voice seemed to come from somewhere distant, as though she’d just woken up or was still asleep, but as I listened I could hear she was saying something about the inhabitants of Samoa. Something about how they’d lost a whole day of their lives—Friday, December 30, I caught among the words—when the country’s time zone shifted west of the International Date Line. I couldn’t tell if she was speaking to somebody or preaching into the da
rkness, and I found the rope on the wall and took my first blind steps. There was something weirdly tantalizing about having your eyes open without being able to see, and I held my arm out in front of me.

  Are you okay, Ana? Where are you?

  Over here, I heard from the other end of the room. Come on, I’m lying over here.

  I switched direction toward the voice and took another couple of steps, my shoes dragging along the floor. The walk felt like an eternity, the gallery incomprehensibly huge without my sight, but at last I stubbed my toe against the mattress, and Ana said: Hi. What are you doing here?

  I was just passing by the gallery. So I thought I’d drop in. You know, see if you were okay.

  Right.

  And are you?

  Yeah, fine. Given the circumstances.

  Given the circumstances?

  Yeah, given the circumstances.

  We were silent a moment. I got the sense we weren’t alone, and peered over my shoulder, out into the endless dark.

  Is it just the two of us? I asked. Or do you have visitors?

  I don’t think so. Nobody but you.

  So who were you talking to?

  Myself. It’s nice to hear my voice.

  Yeah?

  Yeah, it is. When I hear my voice ringing against the walls, it’s like I know I’m here. I know it’s not all in my head.

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I settled down on the mattress. For a while we sat together in silence. The air in the gallery was strangely heavy, as though it had been pooling for years, and I could hear Ana biting her nails. I wanted to say something, maybe lighten the mood a little, but I couldn’t think of anything. Now and again Ana murmured something incomprehensible, and I could sense her scratching or scraping her arm. This wasn’t good, I thought, and tried not to think of Michel Siffre, who got so lonely in his Texas cave that he spent a whole week catching a mouse to keep him company. When he squashed the mouse by accident with a saucepan, he was seized by a grief so deep it took him several years to recover. His wife left him, he suffered from suicidal thoughts. I felt my stomach pucker. Ana risked losing her wits—perhaps already had—and I wanted to fill the dark with words, with something warm and kind and everyday, so I said: By the way, I’m writing a new short story for you.

  That’s sweet of you. Any good?

  I hope so, I said, and I told her about the story and my experiment with the timeless narrator. Ana listened, in concern or with interest; it was nice talking with somebody again. It must have been at least a week since my last real conversation, and before I knew it I was telling her about the festival in Finland, about the job applications that were turned down. One word led to the next, and soon I was talking about Lærke, who’d left me, and the apartment I couldn’t afford by myself, and when I finally finished my monologue I heard Ana slide herself up against the wall.

  You know what? she said. I think it’s best you go home.

  She didn’t say it in an accusatory way; it was neutral, like she was asking me to open the window or put the kettle on.

  Why? I said. What have I done?

  You haven’t done anything. I just think you should leave.

  But why?

  Because I ruin the people around me, okay? And now I’m ruining you.

  Ruin? What are you talking about?

  Look at me. It’s like I’m a sickness, some virus or bacteria. People get sick with me, don’t you get it? Don’t you get what I’m saying? Just go away.

  Maybe she was right. I should’ve gone, but at that moment it was impossible. I could hear the tears prowling in her voice, the sound of nails on skin, and I couldn’t leave her in the dark like that.

  Hey Ana, I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. Nobody’s sick.

  Yes, they are, she said, as the first sob went through her. Somebody’s always sick, and it’s always me that infects them.

  It’s alright, calm down. Everything’s fine.

  No, it’s not fine, she sobbed. I ruined my fiancé, I ruined my dad, and now I’ve ruined you.

  Hey, easy now, I said, pulling her nearer, and she crumpled onto my chest. I felt the tears dripping onto my shirt, heard her stuttering crying, wiped the tears and snot from her face with my sleeve, and Ana said nobody ever listened to her warnings. It’s just a story, they’d say, how dangerous can it be, and before I could fish a napkin out of my pocket Ana had begun to tell me about her fiancé. I could hear it in her voice, long before she mentioned his name. It wasn’t the voice she used when she spoke about chess or art; or it was, but with something gone from it. This was a softer Ana, a tentative, more faltering Ana, and her speech was flat and simple, utterly without sarcasm or irony, like a child with something thrilling to tell. She explained about Isak’s drawings and doodles, the concrete sculptures that snaked through the workshop, their engagement, their time travels, about the whole strange tragedy or farce, which started with an anecdote at a Bucharest café.

  It was on Strada Covaci, said Ana, in 2005, and the rain beat against the panes, but inside she was sitting on the sofa, listening to Claudia’s story. It was a dark day, she remembered, late October or early November, and the rainwater dripped from Claudia’s hair. They were both wet and cold, but Claudia beamed as she talked about her application to Pierre and Marie Curie University, how it was a miracle they’d let her in and given her a full scholarship for two semesters.

  Paris, squealed Claudia, her cheeks pink with enthusiasm. Ana, I’m going to Paris to study.

  God, said Ana, when they’d finished celebrating. I didn’t know you got such good grades.

  Claudia laughed. It had nothing to do with being talented, that wasn’t how it happened at all. It was just about seizing your opportunity. This was the Era of Eastern Enlargement, and if you were a poor, starving Romanian, you practically had to duck to avoid getting smacked in the head with bags of EU money.

  Anybody can do it, said Claudia. Just write something about Ceaușescu in your application. Just say you’re an orphan.

  That afternoon Ana went home like a sleepwalker. Crammed between passengers on the bus, feeling someone’s hand grope her ass, she thought: Would I miss the communal strays and the male chauvinists? The eternal traffic jams, the mildewed teachers at the Academy, and their ceaseless Iron Curtainry? From the bus stop she took a detour to avoid the glue sniffers’ alley, and as she walked across the sludgy lawns behind Block A41, she kicked at the trash and listened to What Have You Done for Me Lately. But the question was really: What has Bucharest ever done for anybody?

  Back at the apartment her mother was rinsing peppers while her grandma snored moistly in the living room, and in a joyless flash-forward Ana saw spinsterhood before her. Taking her father’s old atlas, she barricaded herself in her room. She couldn’t remember living anywhere other than Drumul Taberei, and since her infant years in Morocco she’d never been farther afield than Budapest, so moving was a scary thought. But if she could travel through time, she told herself, then she could certainly travel through Europe. Choosing Norway was more or less an accident. She came up with a list of all the art schools in Europe from A to Z, and simply started applying. One rejection from Amsterdam, and then: jackpot.

  Bergen? exclaimed her mother, holding the acceptance letter. Ana just smiled. She knew nothing about the place.

  The letter said she’d been accepted for the semester beginning in August, but Ana had never gotten anything for nothing, and she’d anticipated a bigger bureaucratic hassle like the one from the Romanian Cultural Institute. But no. One wave of her hand, and she was allowed to have her cake and eat it. More cake than she could shake a stick at, in fact, plus a dorm room, a full stipend, and a cleaning job at the university. She got whatever she pointed at, and I don’t think Ana’s astonishment could be underestimated when she found herself on Nygårdsgatan one bright summer’s night, health insurance card in her hand, watching trashed Norwegian teenagers reel by.

  That first month in Bergen, Ana lived by herself.
During the day she was at class or in the cutting room, in late afternoon she washed the floors, and in the evening she called Claudia or sat in her dorm room and studied video art. Ever since hearing the story about her dead sister, Ana had become obsessed with her camera, studying Final Cut and making an entry in her video diary each evening. She felt a strange urge to document herself. She hung stills from Chantal Akerman’s 16mm films on her dorm-room walls, learned Rosler’s and Grigorescu’s work back to front, browsed the art school’s entire video catalog, and Ana and Isak could have slid past each other easily if she hadn’t been invited to a lecture by her dormmate.

  At first she politely declined, because the dormmate in question was suffering through a chronic dry spell, and his gaze flitted so rapidly among his peers’ breasts that Ana had never seen the color of his eyes. Two days after the first rebuff, he asked again, and Ana still said no, but the third time she said no he must have misunderstood her, because the next day he’d bought them tickets. Ana could have stayed home, of course, pretending she was sick, but the lecture sounded appealing enough. Having figured out that Ana was interested in science, the dormmate had bought tickets to a talk on quantum cryptography, and thus one Tuesday evening they entered the auditorium together.

  It was an American physicist giving the lecture, and Ana took notes while her dormmate yawned his way through it. Afterward there was a Q&A. The moderator had barely opened discussion to the floor before a man requested the microphone, launching into the type of question that’s really an accusation, his hands busy knitting a half-finished sweater bunched up in his lap. The guy knew his terminology, and during the American’s response he obstinately shook his head, grinning the occasional mocking grin, the faint clatter of the knitting pins resounding through the auditorium. Ana couldn’t help smiling. She didn’t know what the guy reminded her of, but it was something different from the polished college kids. It was refreshing to find a little disorder in this pedantically clean town, and before they went back to the dormitory she watched him vanish into the streets, knitting still in hand.