[2013] The Heart Echoes

by Helena vonZweigbergk

  Lena begins to sob. She reaches for the pack of Marlboros, and Sandra helps her light another cigarette.

  “I don’t know why I’m so fixated on that. It’s all I can think about. That I don’t want a bunch of people pitying me. I don’t want to act like a host to my own tragedy and take care of a lot of other people. You know what I’m like. I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me, or using me as some fucking topic of conversation.”

  Sandra draws Lena close, listening to her breathe, noticing how tense and awkward her body feels. “But why don’t you just tell them all to go to hell?”

  After a moment Lena pulls away. She takes hold of Sandra’s wrist to get a quick look at her watch. “I have to go back. They’re coming soon to do some more tests.”

  “But that’s good, isn’t it? Maybe . . .”

  Lena turns to give Sandra a look that silences her at once.

  “I’ll go back with you, Lena.”

  They walk side by side toward the hospital building. At the front entrance Lena stops and says she’ll go in alone. Mikaela, her best friend, is supposed to come for a visit. And Kerstin will be coming over later in the evening.

  Sandra wonders whether she’ll be able to offer any support to Lena. Or to Kerstin. Suddenly she feels very small and afraid.

  “So you’re not going to get in touch with Astrid?”

  Lena shakes her head. “No. I can’t handle it at the moment. Tell her I said hello. But right now I need to be left in peace.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing! Why can’t everybody just let me do whatever the hell I want?”

  Sandra looks at her sister. There’s something childish yet defiant about her that echoes of long ago. As the youngest of the three sisters, Lena always had a stubborn and almost terrier-like way of refusing to do something. “No. I won’t!” she’d shout all of a sudden, always convinced that she would be contradicted or ignored.

  Sandra and Lena. The two of them are so horribly alone at this moment. They’re looking for some sort of support, something that is suddenly essential yet doesn’t exist. Right now they ought to know what to say and do—like in all those stories about flashes of extraordinary strength and wisdom occurring at critical moments. As if there’s some instinctive response for all those crucial times in life.

  Instead, there’s nothing but emptiness.

  “Lena.”

  That’s all Sandra can manage to say as she stands there looking at her furious and desperate little sister.

  Lena, dear Lena.

  “I don’t plan on being sensible or nice,” Lena says with tears running down her cheeks. “I hate being sensible, so why should I start now?”

  Take my hand, Sandra thinks, as if they’re climbing a steep slope. Please, Lena, take my hand. What else can I say?

  Sandra fumbles to find the right words, but can’t think of anything. There’s only emptiness. Instead, they both resort to clichés. Sandra says what she remembers hearing on TV shows, searching through all the worn-out and trite responses that people usually say.

  “You can ask me for anything. You know that. Call me anytime.”

  Lena nods. Then she turns to go back inside the hospital. Alone.

  “Are you sure you don’t want anything?” Sandra calls after her.

  “My life the way it used to be,” Lena pauses to reply. “That’s all I want.”

  Then she turns and continues on.

  Sandra stands there, watching, as her sister walks away.

  Sandra opens the door to her apartment and realizes that in some subconscious way she imagined things would have changed. Since she no longer feels like the same person, her home ought to be different, too. Everything that was petty and unimportant and superficial should have been erased in the aftermath of the dawning sense of clarity that Sandra now possesses. But here at home, all the trivialities of daily life are still present. Excessively so. All she has to do is look around to realize that. She is aware of the dullness that has taken over their lives, the dustiness hovering in the air. The mail is scattered across the hall rug, as if someone spewed all the envelopes through the mail slot. Two bags headed for the recycling center—one full of empty bottles—are both still sitting in the front hall where she set them a week ago. Neither Sandra nor Per has had the energy to deal with them. At least that’s what they tell each other.

  Not today, and again not today. Over and over. Sandra has thought of this as depressive lethargy. But when she looks at the bags of recycling, she thinks maybe it’s something else instead. Per’s winter jacket is still hanging on a hook in the hall, even though it’s summer. He wants her to notice. He wants her to understand. But what is she supposed to see? That he no longer wishes to be here?

  So why does she keep pretending that he does?

  There’s a letter from the tax authorities among the mail on the floor. Sandra’s hands shake as she tears open the envelope, managing to rip part of the page inside. What if it says something like on a Monopoly card: “Bank error in your favor”? But it doesn’t. The letter is a reminder that judgment day is approaching. Fourteen days to go, and the amount is still the same: 44,358 kronor, to be exact.

  “Per!”

  He doesn’t answer. He probably went out for a walk. That’s what he does these days, since he hasn’t been able to run. Why doesn’t he want to participate anymore? Isn’t the Dance Palace a dream they’ve shared, even though it was Sandra’s idea in the beginning?

  Per’s foot troubles go back many years. He often lands wrong and is prone to twisting his ankle. During his last year with the ballet company, he spent most of his time out injured. He could have stayed on and become a teacher, but he had a falling out with management. In his view, the artistic level was too low, and the dance repertoire resembled those CDs that were sold under the collective title of Absolute Dance.

  “So ingratiating, so fucking timid,” he said. “The worn-out hit parade of highbrow culture. All those apathetic cultural snobs who only want to see what they think is considered ‘refined.’”

  He would go on and on like that. According to him, nobody believed in the language of dance anymore. Nobody respected the craft or recognized the expertise required; no one was inspired by artistic ambition. The management finally got tired of listening to him—it was as simple as that. Per was too difficult, so they let him go.

  Sandra understands why he’s bitter, she really does. Per has both a talent and determination when it comes to his art that few people can match. She was eighteen and fresh out of the ballet academy the first time she saw him perform. She wept during his entire performance. It was as if his skin were vibrating with perfect pitch. Not just for the one performance, but for life as a whole. He became the epicenter of everything Sandra had ever dreamed or thought, for everything she already knew and everything she had yet to discover.

  At the party after the premiere, she gathered her courage and approached Per to tell him how much his dancing had meant to her. She wanted to say something about Ariel, the spirit of the air. She had seen a performance of Shakespeare’s The Tempest a few days earlier, and Per made her think of that figure, who becomes the world’s eyes and ears. She was convinced there was also something magical about him, something that might summon storms.

  But Sandra didn’t manage to say any of this. Because when Per looked at her and she was supposed to talk, she started crying instead. And she couldn’t stop.

  “When I saw you . . .” she kept repeating in between sobs. “When I saw you, storms moved in. The tempest came.”

  Later that same night, as she lay naked in Per’s arms, she knew that he would carry her with him and from now on they would be each other’s eyes and ears. And that’s what happened. Sometimes they were physically apart because of all the traveling and guest performances that Per did, but they were never emotionally separated. Eventually Emilia was born, and they became a family in which art was valued above all else in life.

  When did Per stop
putting away his winter jacket? she wonders now. When did he start leaving the empty bottles in the front hall? When did red wine become his solace? When did his ambition wither and turn into a joyless criticism of everyone and everything? When did his outlook and desire degenerate into tired, sarcastic jokes?

  Sandra’s idea for the Dance Palace was for them to do it together, so they could continue to share their passion, although on a somewhat different level. “We’re not snobs,” she told Per firmly. Did he even reply back then?

  She can’t remember, now that she thinks about it.

  Each night before she fell asleep beside him, she would picture the two of them happy and excited about their new project, eager to give people the opportunity to discover the magic that their bodies could express. Maybe the time ahead would even mark their best years together. Finally he would be all hers. They would be equals, sharing everything.

  But what did Per envision as he lay on the other side of the bed?

  He hadn’t exactly cheered when she’d presented the idea for the dance school. She had used all her powers of persuasion, telling him over and over what she knew he wanted to hear: how amazing he was on stage, what strength he was able to exude, how much she knew he still had to offer.

  Slowly he gave in. “We Can Dance.” That was their slogan. The two of us.

  But now, when Sandra thinks back, she realizes it was possible that Per simply couldn’t think of anything else to motivate his daily existence. Without the ballet company, without his position and the stage it provided, he was like a fish out of water. He was gasping for air, and he had no clue how to go on in any sensible manner.

  They’ve had the Dance Palace for two years now, and it’s not working out. Sandra has found it harder and harder to persuade Per to go over to the studio at all. They’re on board a sinking ship, both of them panic-stricken, tossing one thing after another over the side as they try to keep themselves afloat. Or rather, that’s what Sandra is doing—throwing out her integrity and pride, while Per merely sits at home like a leaden weight, allowing the ship to go down.

  And in the meantime, something has happened to them. They have slowly been transformed into two gray wolf-like creatures slinking around the apartment, hungry, shut down, and aggressive. When Emilia moved to London, they were left to their own devices, both of them restless and discontent.

  But they’re successful people—or at least, Per is. He’s amazing. And he’s still treated like a star—occasionally, at any rate. Sometimes Sandra wishes he wasn’t so celebrated. Because the life they now have, after his glory days ended, often seems so paltry. They’re living in exile, mourning those years of his fame as if they represented an actual place that no longer exists and to which they can never return. His former celebrity has meant that, for the rest of their lives, they will wander around in limbo, always thinking about what once was and unable to make something of themselves ever again.

  That thought brings tears of bitterness to Sandra’s eyes. And Per wonders why she has become so cold.

  What was she thinking? Dance classes as part of a health-and-wellness program? How stupid. They’re going to have to give up the Dance Palace. That’s all there is to it. Somehow she needs to find a way to pay the back taxes. Since Per does get a modest pension, she was the one who personally took on the financial risks. She has to figure out how to free herself from debt, once and for all. And from Per, too?

  She can’t do this anymore.

  That’s all there is to it.

  She’ll have to get another job. Maybe at the ballet school, though Per will never forgive her if she sets foot in that place again. He would consider it the equivalent of going over to the enemy, joining those who froze him out and ruined the whole art of ballet.

  But she has to think of herself now. Things can’t go on like this.

  For two days Sandra pushes all thoughts of the taxes out of her mind. She knows she’s neglecting her civic duties, and she has a shameless and almost giddy feeling of acting irresponsibly. She has simply checked out. Blocking out the demands of the tax authorities is a clear manifestation of this. She is taking refuge in her visits to Lena. It’s obviously more important for her to be there with her sister. In a situation when life is in the balance, a letter demanding payment is no more important than the paper it’s printed on.

  But she does have to deal with it. Financial ruin would threaten her independence in what she envisions as her new life.

  The whole situation is taking a toll on her. So far she hasn’t told anyone how bad things are. It’s all so horribly embarrassing. She’s going around worrying herself sick, and at the same time she feels so phony and dishonest. She hasn’t even been able to bring herself to tell Per about the new letter from the tax authorities.

  A week after the letter arrived, they’re sitting at the kitchen table. Sandra has her laptop open in front of her, while Per is working on a Sudoku puzzle with a glass of wine close at hand. She pays the bills—the ones they can afford to pay—and he retreats into his own thoughts. That’s us in a nutshell, Sandra thinks. That’s how we are.

  The roles of wolves in captivity.

  She did mention the tax payment two months ago, but Per merely replied, “Well, what did you expect? Everything’s going to hell.”

  Back then she refused to accept his appraisal. He was getting ready to dive into the black waters of the abyss, and she felt forced to do all she could to stop him. He might be the one with all the talent, but she was smart and good at business.

  At least she used to think so.

  Per offered no objections. He chose to let her take charge of all the practical matters in their life.

  Sandra sits there in the bluish glow from the computer screen, now and then looking across the table at Per. He’s good at numbers and accounting. That thought suddenly occurs to her as she watches him jot down another number in the Sudoku. What on earth are we doing? she thinks.

  “In eleven days I have to pay forty-four thousand kronor in back taxes,” Sandra says. “In case you’re wondering why I’ve been so stressed lately.”

  Per looks at her for a moment, then goes back to his Sudoku.

  “I don’t have the money,” she continues. “So I’m thinking of going to see the tax people. Maybe I’ll threaten to set myself on fire to make them give me more time.”

  Per takes off his glasses and pushes away the newspaper. “More time? Until when? I mean, what are you hoping will happen?”

  “I’ll tell them that we’re closing the Dance Palace and I’m going to get a different job and then ask for a payment plan. This just isn’t working. And then you won’t have to play the buffoon anymore.”

  Per looks unconvinced. “And you think we’ll have more money if I stop playing the buffoon?”

  Sandra turns off her laptop and rubs her eyes. When she looks at Per again, it’s as if the scales have fallen away. I don’t need you, she thinks. We’re living here as if we’re chained together. But in fact, I don’t need you.

  “You’ve never been a buffoon. And I don’t know what I was actually hoping for,” she says.

  “No, you’re wrong,” he counters. “That’s all I am these days. That’s what I’ve become. And I can understand if you were hoping for something else.”

  Sandra is surprised by his words, but exhaustion quells her reaction. “That’s not what you usually say. But unfortunately, Per, we’re past the stage when we can lose ourselves in your self-pity. You could have made so much more of your life if you had only tried.”

  “Like what?” Per sounds genuinely interested.

  “The two of us could have made something together.”

  “So now I need you to make something of myself?” Per asks, once again resorting to his usual sarcastic tone of voice.

  Sandra sighs but doesn’t answer. She needs to learn not to respond. When Per sends out those barbs that are meant to drag her down, when his words slam into her like a wrecking ball used to demolish buildings
, she shouldn’t give in.

  “I wanted us to run the dance school together, Per. But now we have to close it down. The only chance we have of saving the Dance Palace is to come up with the money, and then put all our efforts into making the business succeed. But I don’t really believe that’s possible anymore.”

  Per picks up his pencil and starts drawing on the newspaper, staring intently at what he’s sketching.

  What is he waiting for me to do? Sandra wonders. She realizes how hard she has always tried, in one way or another, to accept Per’s dark moods.

  But no longer.

  Forget it.

  Sandra looks at the poster on the wall behind Per with the proud slogan “We Can Dance.”

  And we can.

  But there’s one thing we can’t do. We can’t make things work. Not together.

  Per sighs heavily and looks up at Sandra, waiting for her to say something. When she doesn’t, when she just glares at him, he looks away. Sandra realizes that he’s nervous, and to her that suddenly feels like a breath of fresh air.

  “Have you talked to Kerstin?” he asks.

  “I’m not going to borrow any more money from my mother. You should know that. I did that once, and now I can’t discuss money with her ever again, because we’re both pretending to ignore that loan. Maybe she thinks I actually have the money to pay her back. I can’t ask her again.”

  “What about Astrid?”

  “I’d rather die,” Sandra snaps. “You want me to stand there like some stupid failure, holding out my hand? That would be too humiliating.”

  “I don’t know why you have such an exaggerated sense of respect for Astrid and Henrik, just because they’re the type of people who always win in this corrupt time we’re living in,” Per counters.

  “Well, Astrid is an architect.”

  “But what about Henrik?” Per asks. “What about him? That company he works for produces nothing but garbage! I don’t even know what the hell they’re into, and neither do you. Some sort of computer shit. Something totally useless that’s polluting the whole planet, and—”