by Linn Ullmann
The girl only listened with half an ear, but I imagine the whole thing went something like this: The mother was there, Nanna was there, rosy-cheeked and sassy in high heels. The minister was there—the one who said yes when all the others said no, and who was so kind. The girl walks up the aisle by herself. She is wearing the traditional Norwegian bunad.
The name they gave her was Karin Beate. Two girls’ names. The father chose one, the mother chose the other. But the names were not for everyday use, no one called her Karin, no one called her Beate, and no one called her Karin Beate. Once she’s an adult, the double name is used only on special occasions such as marriage or divorce, as if it were elegant tableware. All other days she is called something else entirely.
HEIs the tape recorder working?
SHEIt’s working.
HE(skeptical) Are you sure?
SHEI’m sure.
HEOkay, If you say so . . .
SHEWell, It’s supposed to be the best on the market, according to the guy who sold it to me, and perfect for our purposes.
HEPerfect . . . really?
SHEYes, and the sound quality is very good.
HEAh.
SHEA highly sophisticated piece of equipment.
HEIndeed.
SHEBut everything we’ve done so far is on tape, I’ve checked (this is a lie), and soon I’m going to transcribe everything. And then we should probably discuss how to proceed.
HEWhat was that?
SHEHow to proceed.
HEExactly.
SHEHow are you today?
HEI’ve just woken up from a delightful sleep . . . I was in my study, listening to music, and when I began to feel tired, I asked the girls . . . the ones who work here . . . they come and go, you see . . . I asked them if they knew of a place where I could lie down, and they said I could lie down in my bed. They took off my shoes and put a blanket over me and drew the curtains. I fell asleep at once. And now I’m here.
SHEYou look rested.
HEPardon?
SHEYou look rested.
HEYes, I feel rested . . .
SHEReady to party?
They both laugh.
HENo, but so far I think these conversations have been delightful . . . would you like a cough drop?
He rattles a pack of lozenges.
HE(hesitantly) Is it appropriate for us to sit here and, you know . . . ?
SHESit here and what?
HESit here sucking on a cough drop?
SHEWe can do whatever we like, can’t we?
HENo, we can’t.
SHEYou don’t think we can do whatever we like?
HEWell . . . you can do whatever you like, but I can’t.
SHEYou can’t do whatever you like?
HENo, I’m supposed to . . . I have to behave myself. I’m the subject . . . the target of these interviews.
SHEYes, that’s true. You’d better behave yourself, then.
HE(taking her hand) Your hand is cold.
SHEYes, my hand is cold.
HEYou’re not coming down with something, are you?
SHEAbsolutely not! I just washed my hands and the water from the tap was cold.
Silence.
SHEAnd besides, when you’re coming down with something, your hands are warm—I mean, if you’re sick.
HEBut your hands can be cold too—if you’re sick.
SHEWell, yes, I suppose.
HEHmm.
SHEBut I’m not sick!
He leans forward and rests his forehead against hers.
HEYour nose is warm.
SHEYesterday your nose was cold.
HEWhat were we talking about?
SHEAbout growing old. I wanted to ask you if there were any advantages to growing . . .
HE. . . old?
SHEYes, old.
He laughs.
SHEAnything to look forward to?
HENo, I can’t say there is. I don’t know what that would be.
SHEAre you cold . . . do you want your cardigan?
HENot at all, the temperature in here is perfect. No, I think that certain parts of life have been unbearable, and when you get old, some of all this unbearableness—or what one previously would have defined as unbearable—loosens its grip and sinks like sodden rags, down, down, and dissolves, and in some way you’re free of those bits of life that tormented you before, but then, of course, there’s so much you miss out on, there’s no doubt about that. I thought I might lament those things more than I do. But no, I don’t lament the things I now miss out on and that I used to think were important. Sex . . . sexu . . . (he makes a trumpeting sound) sexuality, for example. It disappears. Completely, I mean. And this . . . it . . . doesn’t even hurt. It just dissolves. Sometimes girls, certain girls, beautiful girls, attractive girls, will show an interest in one, and one can’t help thinking, Oh, now wouldn’t that be snazzy-pazzy . . . but then one thinks, I mean, when you get right down to it, well, then one thinks, Oh, for goodness’ sake, what am I doing . . . no, no, no, no . . . although it’s a lovely thought . . . so, yes, sex is a whole separate department, actually. Different colors, different forms. And the girls, the women have been attractive. How can I put it? There is this whole part that vanishes when you get old, it just quietly fades away and you don’t even lament its passing. You don’t, or at least I don’t . . . and I’ve been tremendously fond of women. I don’t mean to boast, but . . . oh, I’m not wearing a cardigan. Where is my cardigan?
SHEWould you like to wear it?
HENo, I want it here, over my shoulders.
SHELike this?
HELike that, yes. Please, continue. What were we talking about?
SHEWe were talking about girls.
HEPardon?
SHEWe were talking about girls, about your tremendous fondness for women.
HEI believe that much of my professional life has revolved around my tremendous fondness for women.
SHEIn what way have women influenced your . . .
He interrupts her, leans forward.
HEIn every conceivable way, my heart.
MY GRANDMOTHER KARIN had been worried for quite some time that her son’s marriage to Käbi, his fourth, was in trouble. The stories of his extramarital affairs were never-ending, and one evening her darkest suspicions were confirmed. There was another woman, and yet another child on the way, his ninth.
In reading my grandmother’s diary, I come upon the first sign of my existence:
March 8th 1966
Then Ingmar called in the evening, he was working late at the theater and asked me to come over, and now we’ve spent a good two hours talking and all, all I had sensed is true. May they get through these difficult times! God willing!
The new woman is almost four months pregnant. This is not good news. Karin has a weak heart, often she’s in pain, sharp stabs. She dies five days later of a heart attack. Erik, her husband, is lying in hospital, and even though his tumor proves to be benign, everyone assumes he will be the first to go. So she has a lot on her mind during those last days of her life. She knows her heart is weak, but reckons she will live for a while longer. She’s worn out, but too many things remain unresolved. And then, on top of everything else, her youngest son comes and tells her that he’s got yet another woman pregnant.
Reading the entry in Karin’s diary on March 8, 1966, it seems reasonable to assume that she learns about my existence that evening Pappa asks her to come to the theater. That I’m on the way. A four-month-old fetus. The heartbeat is clearly audible by then. Pappa and Karin talked for a few hours, and all, all I had sensed is true she writes in her diary.
I find a certain solace in this. All, all. Sensed. True. I am someone or something in the process of becoming, that is real. True.
But the news that I am on my way does not appease her heart. For Karin there is no solace in what her son tells her that evening. Consider the eight children and four wives he already has. Not to mention alimony and child support.
The financial aspect of all
this is a story in itself, and not an insignificant one.
I would like to believe that my mother and I are included in the pronoun they when Karin writes: May they get through these difficult times!
The following day, March 9, four days before she dies, she writes:
This evening I received a wonderful big azalea from Ingmar, Lenn brought it up to me. And then Ingmar called himself to thank me for yesterday. Was I right to sit there quietly, listening to all he had to say? But I knew, of course, that at the first hint of preaching on my part I would put up a barrier between us. And he knows that my prayers and my heart are with him in his struggle, willing him to do the right thing.
The azalea (Rhododendron simsii) is a perennial, evergreen shrub that can grow up to 1.5 meters in height. Its leaves are dark green. The blossoms can be large or small, simple or layered. The color is red, pink, salmon, purple, white, some have two colors. It thrives best in the shade. It is poisonous. Like the pine tree, the azalea has been immortalized in the writings of Chinese poet Du Fu.
Karin writes: He knows that my prayers and my heart are with him in his struggle, willing him to do the right thing. Her heart would beat for four more days after writing this. My grandmother believed in God, so I choose to believe that her prayers lasted longer than her heart.
The art of doing the right thing: What did she mean? What does it mean to do the right thing? Did she mean that my father should stay with Käbi and Daniel? Probably. But at the same time she must have believed that doing the right thing also meant taking responsibility for the new woman and the unborn child. Her son found himself (or so his mother thought) in an impossible predicament. Käbi and Daniel on the one side, Mamma and the unborn child on the other. Not to mention all the other wives, children, financial obligations. Could she bear to consider all the variables? Daniel was only three when the father met the mother and the girl was conceived. When Karin visited her son and daughter-in-law, Käbi played the piano and spoke passionately about the pieces she played. Karin admired her son’s and Käbi’s beautiful home, the big garden, the bright rooms.
On December 16, 1962, a few years before the girl was conceived, my grandmother writes:
Today we have been to Ingmar’s to christen his little Daniel Sebastian. The music room was so beautifully arranged with a tall, candlelit Christmas tree and the christening table right next to it. As we raised our Champagne glasses, Erik said a few words to little Daniel, who lay there gazing at him intently with his big eyes. It was all so beautifully arranged, and we so much liked Käbi’s parents, her sister and her brother-in-law, so everything was just perfect. Käbi looks much more robust now, and they are both so happy with their lovely home. Everything was white with snow.
SHEAre there other things that go missing when you grow old?
HEWhen you grow old?
SHEYes, you once said that words and memories go missing when you grow old. I was wondering if there are other things that disappear, things that you regret or don’t regret having lost?
HEThat I regret or don’t regret? I don’t know. There are ordinary, everyday things that used to matter but that don’t matter any longer.
Long silence. The tape hisses.
HE(agitated) But now I feel that I’m sitting here improvising. That I have to perform an improvisation over your question. It has a false ring to it.
SHEDo you want to skip the question?
HEYes.
SHEThen we’ll move on. You once said that growing old is work. Do you remember saying that?
HENo.
SHEWell, anyway, that’s what you said, you said: growing old is work.
HEIt’s what?
SHEWork.
HEDid I say that?
SHEYes, you did. And now that you’re even older, do you still think that growing old is work?
HEI think that growing old is hard, grueling, unglamorous work with very long hours.
SHEYes.
HEBut what’s essential . . . what’s essential! . . . Some things are important, others are unimportant. Music, for instance, has become essential for me. There was a time when I didn’t give a damn about music, but now it’s become essential . . . I want this cardigan off! I’m getting myself all worked up!
SHEAre you hot?
HEYes, I’m hot.
SHEAre you angry?
HENo, not angry, but I’m sitting here with the feeling that my answers are lousy.
SHEI don’t think . . . I think it’s going well.
HEWell, that’s wonderful. I’m glad you think so. I am making a considerable effort not to show off or pretend I’m something I’m not.
BELIEVING IN GOD WAS easier for the mother than for the father. The mother had her childhood faith. Evening prayer. Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. God was quiet, but things were rarely quiet around the mother, and this quietness was possibly an indication that God was listening, not only with half an ear, but with an ear as big as the universe, and in this quiet the mother could become whoever she wanted to be, and love without being ashamed.
The mother grew up in Trondheim and lived in a small apartment together with Nanna and Aunt Billy. On the wall above the blue Biedermeier sofa hung a blue portrait of a dashing figure in an officer’s cap who gazed down at the girl’s mother with a somewhat indeterminable smile.
The girl should have listened more carefully when the mother spoke, for example when she spoke about her own father. Was he really struck in the head by a propeller?
But already at a very young age, the girl balked at the mother’s stories.
The girl wasn’t beautiful like the mother, her face never settled. She doesn’t look like a single picture of herself, and every picture of her is different from every other. In this way, the story of her name fits with the story of her face. In photographs she does an odd thing with her mouth, she did it as a little girl and she still does it—she purses her lips and squinches her eyes.
The other day I came across a light-brown imitation-leather album filled with photographs from when I was little. I’ve taken many of the pictures myself. Like the two almost identical photographs of a pair of rag dolls sitting next to each other on a blue folding chair. These photos were taken at Hammars. It might have been Pappa who gave me the camera. I don’t know. Another photograph is from the flat in Erling Skjalgsson Street. Mamma and I are sitting in the big bed with the golden bedposts, she’s wearing a red nightgown and her hair spills over both of us. I think she must have given her hair a quick brush before we took the picture—we used a self-timer. I’m wearing a retainer over my braces. I sleep with the retainer at night. There’s lots of fiddling inside my mouth every evening to get the retainer in place. Mini rubber bands and hooks and fingers all the way in the back. We’re sitting in the golden bedpost bed and Mamma has put her arm around me.
I’m wearing a white top and a red corduroy skirt. Mamma has just woken up, you can tell because even though her hair has just been brushed, she still has traces of sleep in her eyes.
WHEN PAPPA WAS A boy, he rode his bicycle through the rolling countryside of his childhood summers in Dalarna. The family had a house there, in Duvnäs, called Våroms. My father’s father was a minister, and his name was Erik. Pappa was known as Pu. They ride their bicycles up and down the hills, Erik in front, Pu a little way behind. They are on their way to church, where Erik will deliver his sermon.
“This is how we’ll roam the world, Father and I,” says Pu.
I have five blue notebooks belonging to Pappa. The books are filled with notes and old family photographs. Pappa was forever sitting hunched over photographs, studying them through a magnifying glass. He cut photos out of albums, stuck them into his notebooks (he had hundreds of notebooks, he called them his workbooks), and wrote alongside them wherever there was room left on the page. Sometimes he would even scribble something directly on the photo.
One of the notebooks contains a photograph of Pappa’s paternal grandmother, her broad fac
e jutting out of a sensible, buttoned-up blouse. She has a large bosom, a white cardigan over her shoulders, and on her head a broad-brimmed spring hat trimmed with an elegant and very elaborate arrangement of fruit and flowers. I try to picture her in the hours before the photograph was taken, one early morning almost a century ago. She’s on her way out. Clothes freshly pressed, buttoned up, smart, neat, proper. I imagine how, almost by chance, her eye falls on the extravagant hat wreathed with fruit and flowers. It sits on the hat shelf, presiding over all the other hats. It is a little too big, a little too girly, a little too fruity, in short, a little too much of everything, the other hats pale in comparison. In the twinkling of an eye she decides to change her plan. The hat plan. Presumably, when you wear a hat, you are bound to have a hat plan. What happens is that she changes her mind. She stands on tiptoe like a little girl (the hat shelf hovers high above the other shelves) and seizes the one she wants. With a little ahhh she places the fruit-and-flower hat on her head and with a flick of the wrist relegates the neat little hat number she had originally chosen back to the shelf.
In the picture, Grandmother is flanked by little Pu on one side and Pu’s older brother, Dag, on the other. Both boys lean devotedly against her, Pu is staring straight at the camera with a suspicious look in his eyes.
He is probably around four years old.
Under the photo, Pappa has written: GRANDMA’S HAT.
Here are two photographs of a twilit city, rooftops, shadowy streets, a church spire, a few frail, naked trees—ghostlike. Looking at the cityscapes in his notebook is like reading a novel by Sebald. I think of my father as someone who belonged. He had Hammars. He had the theater. He had the film studio. I was the fidgety one who could never settle. But the cityscapes in his notebook convey so much loneliness. In the margin he has written in large capital letters: TO DWELL IN THE INNERMOST REACHES OF SAFETY. I wonder what he meant by that. It doesn’t sound like a very safe place—the innermost reaches of safety. It sounds like a place one would be forbidden to enter. And if one ever did get in, one would probably be kicked straight back out. There are border patrols everywhere, and tall fences, and the familiar sense that I don’t belong here with the others.
