[2013] The Heart Echoes

by Helena vonZweigbergk

  She has arranged a meeting next week with several health-and-wellness consultants who might be interested in offering their clients some of the dance courses that she and Per teach. She has to convince them to buy her proposed package, and soon, before the business folds. When she told Per about the idea, he said it sounded great, though he used that tone of voice that always makes her want to bang her head against the wall. Great, amazing, fucking fantastic.

  Sandra knows why he disapproves. He views himself as an artist, but he believes she wants him to play the buffoon. He doesn’t want to be forced to lower himself to such an embarrassing level, but she claims that’s exactly what he has to do.

  So there it is. Per is a retired former star of the dance world. Sandra has never been anything more than a promising dancer in her younger days, and after that a dance teacher and choreographer on a minor scale. For many years she has also been an aerobics instructor. Of the two of them, Per is the artist, which means he has a position to protect. And he does so with a distaste for anything that might debase or tarnish his reputation.

  He probably hoped that their dance pupils would display a greater reverence for his talent—that Sandra’s idea of starting a dance school would, in the best-case scenario, reignite some of his former glory. Instead, he’d been forced to partner with people who kept stepping on his toes and really couldn’t care less about learning to dance.

  Sandra tugs at the sleeves of her cardigan. I have to save myself, she thinks. And for the first time this insight truly resonates with her. I have to save myself from the tax authorities and from bankruptcy. From this whole depressing whirlwind that my life has become. And I can’t keep dragging Per along with me anymore.

  “I’m leaving now. I’m going with Lena,” Kerstin says.

  Sandra is standing on the terrace, lost in her own thoughts. She gives a start when Kerstin suddenly appears at her side, almost like a ghost. “My God, you scared me! What’s going on, Mamma? You look really upset. Is it Lena?”

  Kerstin nods, her expression somber. “Of course it’s Lena. She’s not feeling well. I told you that.”

  “Don’t you think she’s just stressed,” Sandra asks, adding, “because Michael is here?”

  Kerstin gives Sandra a scornful look and shakes her head. “No. Why should she care about him? I told you, she’s not well. Why doesn’t anybody ever listen to me? My child is sick. She’s not feeling well. We’re going home.”

  “Okay, okay. I hear you.”

  They walk downstairs together. Kerstin slowly takes one step at a time, like a child, always planting both feet on each step before moving on as she tightly grips the railing. Sandra walks behind her mother, ready to move forward and prevent Kerstin from falling.

  As they reach the front hall of the apartment, they see Lena talking to Michael. Sandra thinks she looks pale but composed. Michael, on the other hand, seems nervous. When he sees Kerstin and Sandra approaching, he grabs his jacket and stammers that Linda and Leonard have already left for the hotel and he’s on his way out, too. He gives each of them a quick and awkward hug, and then he’s gone.

  In silence, Kerstin puts on her coat, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. Sandra hugs Lena, who barely responds, her expression stony and aloof. Lena and Kerstin leave the apartment arm in arm.

  Sandra stands in the hall for a moment, listening to their footsteps and voices fade in the stairwell. She realizes that most of the guests left the party while she was up on the terrace. The only voice she still hears is Per’s. She can’t hear what he’s saying, but it’s clear that he’s all fired up, giddy with red wine and perceived injustices, which are his favorite type of fuel. And he’s just getting started.

  Sandra goes into the kitchen and sees Astrid clearing away the food. She has taken out plastic containers that she’s filling with the leftover chicken salad. She carefully puts on the lids and then wipes off each container before placing them in the fridge. Sandra pours herself a glass of wine and silently watches Astrid, who is so immersed in her task that she doesn’t notice her sister standing nearby.

  “Can I help?” Sandra asks after a while.

  “No, thanks. That’s not necessary,” Astrid replies, and Sandra realizes that all the food has been put away.

  “Sorry, I should have offered to help earlier . . . I was thinking about something else. There’s something going on with Lena. She seems sort of out of it. And Mamma keeps herding her around.”

  Astrid runs a dishrag over the kitchen counter, then puts it down and takes off her apron. She goes over to stand in front of her sister. She takes the glass out of Sandra’s hand, sips the wine, and then gives the glass back. “I thought it was Mamma who wasn’t feeling well.”

  “No, Mamma said it was Lena,” Sandra replies. “But who knows? Those two have such a symbiotic relationship.”

  Astrid laughs. “Lena? I thought it was you and Mamma who are always ganging up together.”

  “Me? Are you crazy? When it comes to me, all Mamma does is worry.”

  “Really? Well, apparently it’s Lena she’s worried about now.”

  Sandra sighs with exasperation. “I know. That’s what I said. But in a very loving way. When it’s me she’s worrying about, it’s because she’s scared I’ll make a fool of myself.”

  “Oh, come off it! That poor old woman. There must be better things she can do than run around playing nursemaid to her middle-aged daughters.”

  “No one ever asked her to,” Sandra sputters as she feels her cheeks burn.

  But that’s as far as she gets before Henrik and Per appear in the doorway and interrupt the two sisters. Per looks elated and slightly drunk, and he almost forgets to shut down the warmth in his eyes when he sees Sandra. Henrik also seems ecstatic, or at least in high spirits.

  “So, I guess we’re the only ones left now,” Henrik announces, revealing the source of his good mood. Order has been restored.

  Sandra looks at his boyish hairstyle and his light-blue shirt, and she thinks there’s always something so touching about Henrik. This attractive man, who nevertheless looks a bit boring, has never seemed to get over his luck at snagging the beautiful Astrid. And so much about him, down to the smallest detail, is marked by his constant attempts to try to live up to her. He does everything with such eagerness. He is devoted to Viktor and his work, to the girls and his home. Sandra shifts her gaze to Astrid and sees her looking at Henrik. There’s a certain watchfulness in her expression.

  She doesn’t deserve him, Sandra thinks. Lucky Astrid, who always gets the best, who’s . . . sated with love. Sandra laughs to herself. That’s it exactly. Astrid, showered with attention, swimming in love and appreciation.

  Sandra looks at Per. He gives her a quick, joyless glance. She doesn’t deserve his cold eyes.

  Henrik claps his hands. “So, listen here. What do you say we have one last drink on the terrace? Looks like there are some snacks left, and the weather has improved. We’ve got blankets and outdoor heaters and—”

  “Of course you do! I can’t even imagine what your life would be like without outdoor heaters!” Per says. “That’s fantastic.” He throws out his hand in a theatrical gesture, as if he were performing, and then laughs loudly at his own joke.

  All four of them troop upstairs. Sandra has the impression that Astrid doesn’t approve. She was probably hoping they would leave, and now she’s annoyed that Henrik has invited them to stay. Is that a nervous, inquiring look that she sees on Henrik’s face as he glances toward his wife?

  When the four of them are seated on the terrace, wrapped in blankets and under the warmth of the outdoor heaters, silence sets in for a moment. It’s still light outside, but the sky over Stockholm’s rooftops is darkening, growing a colder blue now that it’s close to eleven at night.

  A chattering magpie in the tree next to the terrace pulls them out of their respective thoughts.

  “So, Viktor is the first child to be launched,” Henrik announces. “Now all those school
years are over, and he has his high school diploma.”

  “I know,” Astrid confirms, giving Henrik a smile. “Seems so strange. It went by so fast, and it wasn’t really all that difficult.”

  “Michael looked like himself,” Sandra says.

  “But he’s not getting any younger,” Per adds.

  “No, and why should he?” Sandra snaps at him. “We’re all getting older. That’s just how it is. No use even talking about that.”

  “Uh-oh . . . Sounds like I struck a nerve.”

  “Not at all,” Sandra denies. “I just can’t stand it when people repeat things that are so obvious.”

  “Okay. Sorry. You started this thrilling discussion by saying that Michael was looking like himself,” Per apologizes sarcastically.

  Sandra takes in a breath, ready to offer a stinging retort, when she suddenly notices that Astrid and Henrik are staring at them. She sees the look of forbearance on their faces, the weariness in their eyes, their closed expressions—they know what ticks off Sandra and Per, how they usually get going. Sandra decides not to antagonize Per. All she wants is to discuss Michael’s presence, to put the topic on the table, right there on the terrace. It bothers her that Henrik and Astrid have managed to shut him out, just like they shut out the whole world if that’s what they’re in the mood to do. They go about living their own lives, thinking that they’re good people, even kind-hearted.

  They do let the world in occasionally. They do. Sandra doesn’t want to be unfair. But only in nice, appropriate portions, and it’s always on their own terms.

  “So maybe Michael will be able to see Viktor more often now that he’s going to spend a year in Copenhagen,” Sandra says. “He is the boy’s father, after all.”

  “Yes, he is,” Henrik replies, smiling at Sandra. “You’re right about that.”

  Why is he smiling? Does he feel sorry for me because I’m trying to be mean? Sandra swallows hard and stares at Henrik for a moment. Isn’t he going to say anything else?

  She takes a sip of wine and goes on. “I mean, even though they haven’t seen much of each other, there’s still . . . how should I say it? Some genetic connection there.”

  “Sure, if you want to think of it in strictly biological terms,” Astrid says, glaring at Sandra. “But Michael has never been a father to Viktor. In that sense, he gave up his right to be Viktor’s father long ago. Henrik stepped into that role, as you know very well.”

  “Uh-huh, but . . .” Sandra pours herself more wine, noticing how amused Per looks to see her being backed into a corner. “Well, of course, that’s true,” she agrees. “And you’ve done an excellent job, Henrik.”

  “I’m glad you think so. But I’ve never thought of Viktor as a ‘job.’ I thought you knew that,” Henrik tells her, his voice sharp. “I love him as my own son. He is my own son. So let’s not hear any more of that. He has given me far more than I ever gave him in return.”

  “Sorry.” Sandra has a sudden urge to cry.

  Can’t you see that I’ve landed at the bottom of an abyss? she wants to say. I’m standing down here, shouting up at your outdoor heaters, and I’m nasty and drunk and filled with malice. And I’m bereft and broke. Totally broke!

  “So if you had to guess, what are the kids thinking when they come out of the school building on graduation day?” Henrik asks, trying to change the topic. “Do any of you remember?”

  “That life will be grand and amazing,” Sandra replies with a trace of bitterness. “Extraordinary in some way.”

  “Yes. How fortunate that you met me.” Per gives Sandra a big grin.

  She sends him an icy look in return.

  Henrik clasps his hands behind his head and looks up at the sky. “Just imagine. All those years ahead, with the whole world at your feet.”

  Astrid pulls the blanket up over her shoulders. “But back then we had no idea about all that. I mostly remember the feeling of uncertainty. We took everything so seriously. And each experience was new, and so strong that . . .”

  She starts to choke up.

  Per heartily pats her on the shoulder. “Sure, but considering the current state of the economy in this part of the world, the kids are really in for a rude awakening. They just don’t know it yet, poor things.”

  Sandra gives her husband an even more hostile look. He’s always so pleased anytime he can rain on someone else’s parade, she thinks.

  “How can you say something like that? As if everything is bound to fail, and—”

  “But it will,” Per interrupts with a laugh. “This so-called civilization is heading straight to hell. We all know that. Everybody does. It’s all going to be over very soon for the Western world. We’re counting the days to the end.”

  Per lights a cigarette and laughs again when some funny but unexpressed thought occurs to him. Astrid recoils with disgust from the smoke. When Per sees her frowning, he blows the smoke in the opposite direction and glances from one person to the other, his expression lively, keen to ignite a reaction.

  “Pow,” he says, laughing some more. “Gone. And we’re left standing there, grinning along with Ronald McDonald. No more buffoonery. Clown time is over. And it’s going to happen soon. We all know that.”

  Henrik yawns, and Astrid starts gathering up the plates of leftover snacks. “What time is it?” she asks.

  Sandra understands. They’re supposed to take their embarrassing remarks and go home. But she can’t let Per off the hook. Not yet. She really wants to put him in his place.

  “We’re so sick and tired of your drivel. Everything is doomed? Oh, sure. Isn’t that what people have always said? Ever since the Middle Ages, or even before that? The Doomsday prophets, proclaiming the world is going to end. But it never does. Not really. The buildings are still standing, people go to work, children are born . . .”

  Per’s smile gets even bigger as he looks at Sandra with amusement. “Don’t you guys think my wife could be another Dalai Lama? I think she has a certain talent for that.”

  Sandra stands up so abruptly that she bangs into the table. Her wine glass teeters precariously, but she reaches down to rescue it just in time. When she straightens up again, she notices how drunk she is—and how sick she feels. She could kill Per right now. How does he always manage to make her lose control?

  “Well, you two, I think it’s getting late,” Astrid says.

  Sandra would have preferred it if Astrid told them to go to hell, instead of her cautious, polite nudging that feels much more humiliating.

  “That would be really great, Per,” Sandra says, unable to stop herself. “I’d like to be a guru. Someone who does more than just spout worn-out sarcastic remarks. Then maybe we could at least make a little money. Finally.”

  “Hey, you could always ask me to do a few pirouettes in the background. That’d be a real selling point. The Dalai Lama and the buffoon,” Per adds, never one to back down from an embarrassing airing of their private life.

  “Do you think that would bring in an audience at last, Per? Would that work? Could you be a buffoon that actually sells? I’m not so sure about that.”

  Sandra feels Astrid place a tactful hand on her arm. She pulls away and heads downstairs. On the bottom step, she twists her ankle, and it hurts so bad that tears sting her eyes. She looks up, her vision blurry, at Per who is coming down the stairs after her. Out in the front hall, she gathers up her things, says a brief good-bye to Astrid and Henrik, and leaves the apartment, letting the door stand open behind her.

  She hears Per saying good-bye.

  “Good night, and—as you said in your speech—love is everything. Couldn’t have said it better myself. That’s what Sandra and I think, too.”

  Per follows Sandra into the stairwell, and then they walk all the way home without saying another word.

  The next morning Sandra wakes up with a heavy head. She rubs her eyes, noticing that she hasn’t removed her makeup. The alarm clock says it’s 8:45. Per’s side of the bed is empty. Sandra sits up
, and her head pounds ominously.

  Per is sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper. He doesn’t glance up when she comes into the room. She takes in the messy kitchen. A poster with the slogan for the dance studio, “We Can Dance,” and their smiling faces is on the wall behind Per’s head. On the counter are coffee cups with brown rings in the bottom, a few sticky butter knives, and a cheese slicer. Ever since Emilia moved out last year, they’ve pretty much stopped eating meals together. When they get hungry, they find something to eat in the fridge or the freezer. Occasionally one of them will make a special effort to cook, usually just a simple dish that doesn’t require much work. Often they’ll eat while sitting in front of the TV.

  Astrid and Henrik will probably keep making those wonderful meals of theirs even after the kids leave home, Sandra thinks. They’ll go to museums, take weekend trips, and talk about their beautiful, newly-won freedom.

  And they’ll get a fucking dog. Of course they will. Sandra can just picture it. Is money the only thing that’s different about our lives? she wonders.

  Sandra opens the fridge, takes out a container of yogurt, and scoops some into a bowl. She leans against the kitchen counter to eat, watching Per leaf through the newspaper, a frown on his face. All their fury faded on the walk home last night. Sandra went straight to bed and fell asleep instantly. She guesses that Per had a few more drinks, wallowing in self-pity for a while, and then he went to sleep, too, in Emilia’s old bed as he so often does these days.

  Sandra knows that he misses their daughter, that he’s sad she’s gone—so much so that Sandra sometimes finds herself feeling jealous. What is it about her that is never good enough? Why does Emilia merit a big warm embrace, while she gets only an indifferent shrug?

  Sandra surveys the kitchen as she wolfs down one spoonful of yogurt after another. Why can’t they ever do anything right? She thinks about Astrid’s kitchen, which is like an ad in a magazine.

  “Astrid really went all out yesterday.”