“Of course not.”
We sit in silence.
“You were right about married men,” I say.
“There you go, at least I’m right about some things,” she says, and now she is smiling.
The darkness as I am walking home is a spring darkness: light, kind of transparent, unlike the darkness of late summer and fall, which feels dense, impenetrable. It can’t really be that way, surely darkness is just darkness, but that’s the way it feels, and I don’t think it’s because I know it’s the end of April. I think that if I had been locked away somewhere with no knowledge of time or the passage of the seasons, and I was suddenly let out into this night and could see only the sky, I would still know that this was a spring sky.
When I am standing outside my door rummaging for my keys in my purse, it occurs to me that I forgot to check the mail today, and in the mailbox in the hallway there is a white envelope, it is from the University of Stockholm. At first I think it must be a mistake, because why would they contact me, but as I rip open the envelope with the jagged edge of my key, I remember that I applied for a place in a summer course. It was back in the winter, when Alex kept telling me over and over again that I am not doomed to spend the rest of my life washing dishes, when with a rare burst of self-confidence I applied for several summer courses, just to test the water, to give it a go, to claim my place in the world in some symbolic way.
The lighting is poor, but I can still read the words with perfect clarity: “You have been accepted to Landscape as Memory, Narrative, and Construct, Department of Literary Studies, 15 credits, full time.”
I have to read it again and again, and it really does say that I have been accepted. No “Unfortunately …” No congratulations either, universities don’t congratulate people on getting into their classes, they merely inform me that I need to attend registration in June. Which isn’t far away.
I have no doubt that Landscape as Memory, Narrative, and Construct is a crap course, perhaps hardly anyone applied, it’s probably based on those French philosophers that Niklas likes, the very sight of the word “construct” annoys me slightly. I hate the fact that everything is a construct and I can’t think of anything in the world that is more real than landscape, but still I am smiling: this time I will have the courage to open my mouth when they say something I don’t agree with, I will raise objections if I have objections. And after all, landscape and literature are two of the things I love best.
The sky is even more transparent now. In my apartment I lie on my back on the bed and gaze at it above the baking parchment, it suddenly seems to me that it has regained its optimism, that it is glimmering, full of promise. I am going to move away from here. To an apartment that will be much, much bigger than this one, with blinds that work and a bathroom that doesn’t smell of damp. I reach for my phone and write a message: “Have got a place in a summer class in literature. It starts in June, so I will be moving to Stockholm then.” I don’t know what else to say, I add a smiley face but it looks a bit silly so I delete it, but then the message looks so abrupt, you can’t tell if the tone is angry or happy, so I put the smiley back in even if it is stupid. Then I scroll down my contacts list until I find Carl, and press Send.
My phone buzzes after only a minute or so. He doesn’t usually respond to texts right away. Perhaps he’s having trouble sleeping, perhaps he’s been called into work because of some emergency.
“I’m so proud of you,” his reply says.
Outside my window the sky has begun to grow light.
The Other Woman Page 16
