Encircling (26 page)
Authors: Carl Frode Tiller
But then something happened which we both found rather sad. Because even though the Weed’s chums were three or
four years younger than him, they no longer saw anything particularly embarrassing about girls and dating and all that stuff and after a quick glance at us they eyed the Weed blankly, shrugged and said, “So what?” And then they all stood there, the Weed included, thinking the same thing (so it seemed): that yet another batch of kids was about to overtake the Weed in the maturity stakes.
And this was exactly what we were talking about a little later when we walked into your kitchen and found Arvid sitting with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, his fingers sticking out of his unusually tousled hair like the antlers of a young reindeer. He didn’t say anything, but when he got up and came over to you, more gliding than walking with his face red and swollen from weeping and his arms stretched straight out in front of him like a sleepwalker in a cartoon or a zombie in a B-movie, we knew right away that something terrible had happened to your mother; that Berit was dead. Unlike me you didn’t start to cry, your face was tight and expressionless and for a little while you appeared to be more concerned with how to avoid putting your arms round Arvid, but that you couldn’t do, because he flung his arms around you, buried his face in the hollow of your shoulder, hugged you tight and rocked you from side to side, as if you were two exhausted wrestlers in the ring. Not until you asked what had happened did he release you. You gave a little wriggle, shaking off the hand that still rested on your shoulder. It dropped limply to his side and a disappointed, almost hurt look came over his face as he told you that she had collapsed and died in Ole Bruun Olsen’s shoe shop and that it had probably been a heart attack.
I didn’t realize it then, but now I see that it was Berit’s death and the freedom from obligations and expectations
that the death of a father or mother always entails that lay behind the change that took place in you over the weeks that followed, or rather – perhaps it’s wrong to say that you changed, perhaps it would be truer to say that you were now able to make choices that you had long wanted to make, but which, out of regard for what Berit might think or believe or feel, you could not bring yourself to make – like moving in with me, for example.
We didn’t live together in the attic at our house for that many weeks before you left for Trondheim and I went to Bergen, but I remember how grown-up I felt when we brushed our teeth and went to bed together without shagging, or when we sat, bored out of our skulls, at either end of Mum’s russet Chesterfield sofa (a foretaste of settled coupledom), the very sofa that I’m sitting on now, as it happens, with my laptop on my knees and one of Mum’s rosé wines on the table next to me – which, by the way, leads me to think that the death of a father or a mother does not make us as free as I just suggested, after all. At any rate, being here in the flat Mum lived in till she died, and being in much the same situation as she was in when she was not much older than I am now, I can’t help feeling that I’m taking over her life. I’ve always described the phase I’m going through at the moment as time to think, a breathing space, but – and without dwelling too much on this when it holds so little relevance for you anyway – I would go so far as to say that I feel as though I’m being sucked into the way of life she began to adopt after Dad died, the life that from the age of ten or eleven I was used to seeing her lead. So maybe Jon was right, after all. Maybe it is harder to break free than I always thought (oh, God).
I’m lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling, and I hear Egil arriving home, so now I’ll have to get up, now I’ll have to make it look as though I’ve been doing something and when he asks why I haven’t been at work I’ll have to say that I had a headache or something. I get up off the sofa, walk across the living room and into the kitchen. I go over to the fridge, open the fridge, crouch down and take a look inside. There are leftovers from yesterday, maybe we should just heat up the leftovers for dinner.
“Hi,” I hear Egil say. “Hi,” I say and I hear my own voice, and my voice sounds tired. “Where are you?” I hear Egil ask and I peep over the fridge door and there he is, looking down at me. “Ah, there you are,” he says, and he smiles. “Yes,” I say. “I thought I’d start making dinner,” I say. “But …” Egil says, and he looks at me in astonishment and raises his eyebrows slightly as he puts down his briefcase. His shoulders are covered in stray blond hairs. “But weren’t we going out to eat?” he says, and I remember that we were supposed to be going out to eat, and I look at him and smile. “Oh yes, that’s right, so we were,” is all I say and I stand up, give the fridge door a little nudge and it closes with a soft thud, then I stand
there looking at Egil and Egil stands there looking at me, then he gives a little shake of his head.
“You’ve been saying for ages that you’d like to go out and eat,” Egil says. “Yes, I know,” I say. “Christ,” he says, and he looks at me and raises his eyebrows, and a moment passes and I look at him and sigh. “There’s no need to make a big deal of it?” I say. “I’m not making a big deal of it,” he says. “I just wonder what’s got into you lately,” he says, and he looks at me and raises both eyebrows again and gives his head a little shake. “You’re not yourself,” he says. “Is it because of your mother?” he asks. “If there’s anything the matter with me it’s certainly not because of her,” I say. “Well, if it’s got anything to do with us having to cancel the trip to Brazil, you don’t have to worry,” he says. “I can take the last week in September off instead,” he says and he looks at me and I look at him, and a moment passes and then something seems to break loose inside me, something heavy, and it feels like a landslide sweeping through me.
“Well,” I cry, “you’ve got a bloody nerve!” I say and I can hear the fury in my voice and I’ve no idea where it comes from, this furious voice, and I jerk my head at him and he draws his head back slightly and gazes at me in astonishment. “Huh?” he says. “You’re so unbelievably condescending to me,” I say and I hear what I’m saying and I don’t know where it comes from, what I’m saying, it’s as if someone else is talking through me, and the person who’s talking through me is absolutely furious and I realize that I’m becoming absolutely furious as well, and Egil stands there looking baffled. “What on earth do you mean by that?” he says.
“I’m really pissed off with you, Egil,” I say. “You! The trip to Brazil has nothing to do with it, and the fact that you
dare to bring that up is so condescending,” I say. “Do you really think that I’m so … so easily pleased?” I say. “Just treat her to a little trip or something every now and again and she’ll be happy. Is that really how you see me?” I ask. “I’m really pissed off with you, Egil,” I say. “With you,” and I hear what I’m saying and I’ve no idea where the things I’m saying are coming from, I’ve no idea who it is that’s talking through me, but I’m seized by, I’m caught up in this fury and I glare at Egil and he looks bewildered and alarmed. “What is it, Silje,” he asks, “has something happened?”
“Oh, would you just listen to me,” I shout and I hear myself shouting. “I am listening,” he says. “No, you’re not fucking listening,” I cry. “’Has something happened?’ you ask! I told you, you’re pissing me off,” and a moment passes and Egil just stands there eyeing me gravely, then he walks up to me and he puts out his hands and now he’s going to put his arms round me and I feel the fury erupt inside me and I brush his hands away. “Stop it!” I yell at him. “Don’t go playing the psychologist!” I yell and I feel my eyes widening, the fury making my eyes widen, and I stare at Egil with big, wild eyes, and Egil looks at me in alarm. “I’m not playing the psychologist, I only want …” he says, then he stops and just stands there looking at me.
“You just want what?” I cry, “you want me to see myself as a hysterical female who needs to be soothed and comforted.” I say. “You want to shift the focus away from yourself and the fact that you would try the patience of a saint,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying, hear how credible, how genuine it sounds and I’ve no idea where it comes from, what I’m saying, it just comes out.
“Silje … you don’t even believe this yourself,” he says. “Stop telling me what I believe and what I think, dammit!”
I shout. “I’m sorry … but, er,” he says, and he glances to one side, flings out a hand, then turns and eyes me helplessly. “Do you really think I’m that calculating?” he asks. “Do you really think that’s why I wanted to comfort you?” he asks. “You’re always making me feel guilty about something,” I say. “Even when I know I’m not really to blame I always end up believing that I am,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying, and I hear how true what I’m saying is and I feel my confidence growing. “Oh, honestly, Silje,” he says. “You can accuse me of a lot of things, but saying that I’m to blame for you feeling guilty for everything under the sun, that’s going too far,” he says. “Aren’t you the one who’s always saying how you women learn from when you’re little girls to turn grief and anger and shame inward? Right, so don’t go blaming me,” he says. “Well, you being the way you are doesn’t help, that’s for sure,” I say. “Me being the way I am?” he says. “Yes,” I say. “Okay, now that you’ll need to explain,” he says. “All your nit-picking, it’s all just petty stuff, but when you put it all together it’s … it’s unbearable,” I say. “Like the way you came in and switched off the lamps in here in the middle of the day, or the other day when I was cooking pasta,” I say, staring at him, “and you suddenly walked in and moved the pot to another ring that was closer to it in size,” I say and I hear what I’m saying and it suddenly occurs to me that what I’m saying is true. Egil really did come in and switch off the lamps in here in the middle of the day and he really did walk in and move the pot while I was cooking pasta the other day, and I look at Egil and Egil looks at the floor and Egil runs his hand through his hair and sighs.
“Yes, well,” he says. “If it was just the once I wouldn’t have bothered,” he says. “But you do it every time you
make dinner,” he says. “I mean, as far as I’m concerned that’s exactly …” he says and then he stops. “It’s like going into the bank and paying money into the electricity board account and not getting anything for it,” I say, putting on a whiny voice and screwing up my face as I say it. “I’ve heard it all a hundred times before, so spare me.” “Well, why don’t you just stop doing it?” Egil says. “Then you wouldn’t have me nagging at you,” he says. “Why do you think?” I cry, then I pause with my mouth half open, and my eyes wide open. “I do it to provoke you, obviously,” I say. “I’m sick and tired of your nit-picking and I have to make some sort of protest,” I say, and a moment passes and he just stands there looking at me and gently shaking his head. “How about talking things through instead?” he asks. “I can’t be bothered discussing things with you, Egil, because I know you’re right,” I say and I almost give a little start when I hear myself say this, because what do I mean by it, what am I saying now, where’s this voice taking us now, and another moment passes and again he just stands there staring at me. “I’m sorry, Silje, but now … now I’m confused,” Egil says, giving me a puzzled look, and a moment passes and then my mouth opens. “I’m not stupid, Egil,” I say. “I know very well it’s a waste of energy to put a little pot on a large ring, but the fact is that you can waste a lot of other, much more precious, energy by constantly fussing about piddling little things like that,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying and I hear how true it is, what I’m saying, I hear how well put it is, and my confidence simply grows. “I may overdo it sometimes,” Egil says. “But it just so happens that most of the days in life are ordinary days, and if we don’t give some thought to the habits we acquire in our ordinary everyday lives we’re not going to have very
good lives,” he says. “Oh, spare me the platitudes,” I say and again I make a face. “The problem is that … well, you’re … you’re such a tight-ass,” I say. “I think we’d both be much better off if you were a little more easy-going,” I say. “Because I can’t be bothered … I can’t live up to all of the ridiculous demands you make,” I say, “and I can’t be bothered feeling bad about all my silly little mistakes,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying and I hear how genuine the things I’m saying sound and I’ve no idea where all this is coming from.
“Ah, now I’m starting to get the picture,” Egil says. “Well, it’s high fucking time,” I say and I hear how triumphant my voice sounds, it rises almost to a falsetto at the end of the sentence, and I look Egil in the eye, seething with anger, and Egil looks straight back at me. “It’s your mother you’re talking to, right?” Egil says, and he looks at me, and I just gape at him, what does he mean by that, what’s he blabbering on about now? “Huh,” I say, frowning. “That’s who these complaints are actually aimed at, isn’t it?” he says. “Your mother.” “What are you blabbering on about?” I ask. “You may not see it yourself,” he says, “but I see it, because I lost my father and I can clearly remember how it felt, to know that it was too late to say all the things I’d meant to say,” he says. “I’m sorry,” I say, narrowing my eyes and shaking my head. “Now you’ve lost me,” I say.
“There are times when I hate my father for treating my brother and I so differently,” he says. “And I knew I would have to talk to him about that if I was ever to come to terms with what that did to me – the poor self-image, the jealousy and … yeah, well,” he says. “I never dared to, though,” he says. “And when he died I was left with all these accusations and grievances and no idea of what to do
with them except to offload them on to Trond,” he says. “All the anger, all the sludge, all the stuff that had been building up inside me and that I really ought to have taken out on my father, I took out on him,” he says. “And now you’re doing the same thing to me,” he says. “Don’t you see that?” he says, and then he pauses and there’s silence, and I wait, I wait for the voice inside me to reply, because now I have to reply and I pop my lips. “You know what?” I say, and then I stop. I look at the floor, shake my head and a moment passes, then I look up at Egil again and I open my mouth and I wonder what I’ll reply, but I have no chance to reply because Egil jumps in again. “It’s a perfectly natural reaction,” Egil says. “It’s all part of the grieving process and once you’re able to distance yourself a little from Oddrun’s death you’ll see that I’m right,” he says and there’s silence again and I look at Egil and I raise my eyebrows and shake my head. “Do you think so, Egil?” is all I say. “Well, you paint a pretty harsh picture of Oddrun,” he says. “Or, at any rate, of the way she was before your father died and she began to let her hair down,” he says. “I’ve heard more than a few stories about the lengths she would go to in order to make you understand what nice girls did and didn’t do,” he says. “And as far as I know you never plucked up the courage to confront her about that,” he says and then he pauses for a moment and I just stand here looking at him and I shake my head and grin ruefully. “For fuck’s sake, Egil,” I say. “So if you look at it that way it’s good that you lash out at me like this, that you don’t give a toss about being a nice girl,” he continues. “Because it means you’re finally rejecting the rules and regulations she imposed on you and that you’ve always felt bad for not following,” he says. “I felt exactly the same when my father died. I was
grief-stricken, heartbroken, but I also felt freer than I had felt in a long time,” he says.