The Cold Song (9 page)

“But I do,” said Siri. “And we all have different names.”

“You’re Siri,” Syver cried again. He pulled off his gray woolly hat and planted himself in front of her. “You’re Siri and I’m Syver.”

He tried to take her hand, but she shoved him away.

“It’s just us,” he insisted, reaching for her one more time, his voice very quiet, “and we’re the only ones.”

It had to do with her mother’s anger. It was absolutely necessary to divide herself. After a while it became a habit. She didn’t even feel dizzy. It came as a relief, all she had to do was breathe and let the invisible gas do its work.

Jenny’s wrath was so vast and black and impossible to check once it began to build up that it was sometimes best to divide herself and become a whole army. One who kept a lookout. One who fought. One who cried and begged for mercy. One who tried to reason. One who danced and fooled about. One who said sorry. One who brought fruit and comfort and hot tea. One who tried to make everything all right again. And one who ran away but did not get very far.

Her mother’s body was a beautiful and complicated structure, like an empress’s palace. But every week it was attacked—by demons and trolls and a good deal of liquor—and each time it crumbled, everything, all of Jenny, had to be rebuilt. Brick by brick, plank by plank, nail by nail. It could happen on Monday, or maybe Saturday, or maybe not at all that week, and that was scary, because then there was the waiting and the dreading—Siri knew that sooner or later it
would
happen. The palace
would
fall apart. Sometimes, though, Siri would allow herself to relax. She would get sloppy, speak a little too loud, hug her mother’s body a little too tight, barge through the door, muddy the floor.

Forget to tread carefully.

When Jenny was in one of her good moods, she would prepare sumptuous dinners in the huge kitchen. The dining
table, which could seat twelve, would be set for two with the best china and crystal, and both Jenny and Siri would put on their prettiest dresses and patent-leather shoes and lipstick and perfume; the freezer was full of ice cream (green pistachio)—as many helpings as you liked for dessert—and Jenny made her special casserole, which consisted of one tin of pork hash, one tin of cocktail sausages, one tin of spaghetti and meatballs in tomato sauce, and one tin of reindeer meatballs, a generous dollop of tomato puree, corn niblets, chives, a chunk of brown goat cheese to give it a nice gamey taste, and a sprig of parsley on the top.

The main thing was not to be sloppy. But Siri kept forgetting. Was not sufficiently alert. That was the problem.

She’d lose sight of the bigger picture.

She’d mess up.

And Syver lay in the water and Siri stood at the water’s edge and Jenny opened the door wide and gazed down wonderingly at the skinny girl standing outside, gasping for breath
.

“Oh, Siri, darling,” Jenny said, “what is it? What’s the matter with you?”

And then, more softly, but without the slightest trace of disquiet: “And what have you done with Syver?”

WHEN ALMA WAS
ten she changed schools. She wasn’t happy in the old one and she wasn’t happy in the new one either; she made no friends and didn’t play with the other children at recess, just sat on her own in a corner of the school yard or locked herself in a bathroom. It wasn’t a problem, she told Jon, she would rather be alone.

“And anyway, you’re my best friend,” she said solemnly, “you’re the one I want to spend time with.”

“But I’m your father,” Jon replied. “It’s good to have friends your own age too.”

“I just want you,” Alma said.

“How about we invite one of the girls in your class to come home with you one day after school?” He struggled on. “That girl Ingrid, maybe? Or Marie, or—”

“Papa,” Alma broke in, “do you believe in God?”

“No,” Jon said. “I don’t. But a lot of people do,” he added. “What about Gina or Hannah? Maybe one of them would like to come home with you after school?”

“Mama doesn’t believe in God either,” Alma said. “Why don’t either of you believe in God?”

“I think we believe in people,” Jon replied. “In all that we human beings are capable of doing—for good and ill. We
build up and we destroy and we build up again, and I think that every day involves a choice—”

“I believe in God,” Alma broke in again, wrapping her arms around her father. “I pray to God every day. I pray that you will live a long, long time, because you’re the one I love, and I pray that you won’t get sick and die, even though you’re getting old.”

“Excuse me!” Jon retorted with a strained little laugh. “I’m not old!”

These conversations with his daughter left him ill at ease. Why couldn’t she—just once!—talk about the things other ten-year-olds talked about?

Jon remembered the time he had brought Alma a bag of surprises—that’s what he had called it—different kinds of candy, a pink lip gloss, a DVD about a girl who in fact was a princess. “I have a surprise for you!” he’d cried as he walked in the door. “A bag of surprises.”

Alma had raced up to him, torn the bag out of his hand, and peeked inside. Her eyes had narrowed when she saw what it contained. Jon looked at her:
Oh, my God, she’s going to cry
. She pulled out the lip gloss and held it up to him between her thumb and index finger as if it were a dead mouse. By now her plump little face was streaming with tears. She put the lip gloss in the bag again, handed it back to him, and said, “You don’t know me at all, do you!” Then she turned on her heel and ran up the stairs.

Another day Alma said, “Sometimes God talks to me.”

“Oh, and what does he say?”

“He says I have to do things for him, and if I don’t do them you’ll die.”

“Oh, Alma, no!” Jon straightened up, put down his book, drew his daughter to him, and whispered, “What kinds of things does God tell you to do?”

“He tells me I have to stay awake all night and not sleep. He says I have to go out in the rain and run around the house a hundred times even though I don’t want to. He says I have to cross the street when the light is red, not green, even if there are cars coming. He says I have to give away my stuffed animals, he says I have to eat mackerel in tomato sauce even though it makes me sick.”

“Hey, wait a minute, Alma. Your mother and I thought you gave away all your stuffed animals because you didn’t play with them any longer. You said yourself that you were too big for stuffed animals.”

“I
am
too big for stuffed animals,” Alma said. “That’s not the point. But I would never have given Flop away if God hadn’t said I had to.”

“You gave away Flop?”

“I gave Flop to Knut in my class.”

“Knut, the boy who was so horrible to you a while back?”

“Yes, Knut! And he said he was going to pee on Flop and throw him in the garbage, he said he didn’t want anything that my scabby fingers had touched, but I went down on my knees and said he had to take Flop, he could do what he liked, but please, please would he take him.”

“But Alma, why do you do things like that? Why do you give away … Have you talked to Mama about this?”

“I don’t talk to Mama. I talk to you.”

Jon cupped his hands around Alma’s face and forced her to look at him.

“Why do you give away things you love to people who’re not nice? Did you just say that you
went down on your knees
?”

Alma nodded. “If I don’t do what God says,” she whispered, “you’ll die.”

Neither Siri nor Jon could understand where Alma, at the age of ten, had picked up her hectic faith in God. The school psychologist was called in. Her teachers were alerted. It could be that Alma would bring stuff to school again and try to give it away, or in some other way “put herself in situations that invited fellow students to behave in an offensive manner,” as the school’s principal put it. Various diagnoses and medications were considered for Alma’s sudden faith in God.

But then Alma stopped bringing her belongings to school to give away, she no longer kneeled down for fellow students who bullied her, and after that Alma was left in peace, and for a while it looked as though things were going to be all right.

ALMA WHISPERED
so that nobody would hear her: “So Milla, what do you do when you go out at night? Do you meet people you know? Other kids your age? Do boys come and see you here at Mailund after everyone’s asleep? Do you fuck them, one after the other?”

Milla, who stayed in the red-painted annex, had lots of nice clothes and a lot of nice makeup. One evening—this was several days before the party—she washed Alma’s short black hair in the washbasin and blew it dry so that the black cowlick sat nice and flat over her forehead along with the rest of her bangs.

Milla sprayed the freshly blow-dried hair with lots of hair spray. “To keep the cowlick down,” she said.

Alma and Milla were in the little bathroom, both of them giggling and huddling together in front of the tiny mirror on the wall, and Milla looked at Alma and said, “You’re fine, you know, Alma, you’re just fine.” Then Milla got out all her cool makeup and asked Alma if she would like to have a makeover.

Milla went into the bedroom and motioned to Alma to sit down on the bed.

“This will be your transformation,” she said. “That’s your dream, isn’t it? To go back to school when summer’s over as a totally new person.”

“Don’t know,” Alma said. “Maybe.”

When, after about half an hour, Milla was finished, she handed Alma a mirror. Alma squeezed her eyes tight shut and counted to ten.
One two three four five six seven eight nine ten
. She opened her eyes and looked at herself.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know.”

If she cried, the mascara would run like black rivers down her face.

Alma liked what Milla had done with her hair, but she didn’t like the makeup. She didn’t want to be a new person, or at least, not if that meant having red lips and orange cheeks. Just being Alma was more than enough for Alma. She didn’t want to be new. She wiped off the lipstick and rubbed her cheeks to get rid of the bronzing powder.

“Well, at least keep your eyes the way I’ve done them,” Milla said, looking at Alma in the mirror.

There was a thick layer of gray eye shadow on the lids. Alma thought she looked a litle bit like a raccoon.

“Don’t rub it all off,” Milla said. “Smoky eyes, that’s what it’s called, that look. It’s nice. It makes you look kind of mysterious.”

“I don’t know,” Alma said, looking doubtful. “I think there’s too much eye shadow.”

“No, it looks good,” Milla said. “Makes you look a lot older.”

Milla lit candles and put on a CD; she used her computer as a CD player. Alma recognized the song.

“My father has that CD too,” Alma said. “It’s Bob Dylan, right? Papa listens to Bob Dylan all the time. I didn’t think kids your age listened to that sort of music.”

“Oh, yes,” Milla said vaguely, and smiled. “Or, I don’t know. But I listen to Dylan a lot anyway.”

And then Milla asked Alma if she would like to dance and Alma did and so they danced. It was a slow song, so they danced slowly and quite close together. Alma laid her head on Milla’s shoulder and Milla held her close.

“You’re fine, Alma,” Milla said again.

“You too,” Alma whispered. “I like you so much, Milla.”

THERE WERE STILL
a few hours to go until the party would begin. Alma knocked on Milla’s door. It was afternoon and the mist was threatening to envelop the whole of Mailund, the house itself and the annex and all the tables and tablecloths and flowers in the garden. Milla opened the door and Alma squinted at her.

“What are you doing?” Alma asked.

“I’m praying,” Milla said.

“What?” Alma said, and she blushed. “Like to God?”

Milla looked serious. She didn’t giggle as she normally did. She was wearing a red dress. One black bra strap was just visible. Sun-kissed shoulders. Long hair hanging down. And something dark and shimmering and freshly tuned that said: Look at this, play on it, savor it.

A few days earlier Milla, Alma, and Liv had been lying on the grass in the garden, sunbathing. It was one of the few warm, sunny days of that summer. Liv had not exactly lain still, but had quieted down when she was allowed to play with Milla’s phone.

“Remember to put sunscreen on Liv so she doesn’t get burned,” Siri said as she was leaving for work.

As she was on her way out, she said, “There’s a salad in the fridge for you.”

Then: “Please don’t give the children candy. Sugar is poison, okay!”

Then: “And keep an eye on Liv at all times, Milla. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

Then: “Don’t go near the lake, under no circumstances are you to go near the lake.”

“Okay,” Milla said, stretching lazily on the grass.

The day was hot and Milla had opted for the black polkadot bikini that Liv liked so much. Milla had three bikinis, a red one, a blue one, and the one with black polka dots, and Liv liked the black polka-dot one best. “I want a bikini like that too. Can I have a bikini like Milla’s?”

“Answer me properly, Milla,” Siri snapped. “Did you hear what I said?”

Milla was just about to answer when Alma got to her feet.

“Mama!” she cried. Her voice cut through the heat. It was the kind of day, she might have said, were she to describe it, when everything was white and gummy and warm and still, when everything moved a little more slowly than usual.

Siri looked at her daughter inquiringly. “What, Alma?”

Her mother seemed to be a long way off. But she wasn’t. She was standing by the garden gate. They couldn’t have been more than ten paces away from each other. But something had happened to the distance between them. Like in a dream. Siri’s admonitions. Milla stretching lazily on the grass. The black polka-dot bikini. Liv, long-limbed and fair-haired, sitting on the towel on the grass, playing a game on Milla’s phone.

Alma cried, “Why can’t you just be nice!”

“You don’t have to yell at me, Alma,” Siri said.

“But you go on and on at Milla,” Alma persisted. “You really should learn to trust people.”