Stella Descending (7 page)

“Well, and what exactly is going to hurt, Gerd?” I asked.

I knew, of course, what it would be. Yet again, it would be something to do with Victor, everybody’s golden-haired hero of the Resistance and
my
fellow teacher. She would not give him up. Everyone knew about it. Everyone in the staff room. Every one of those people with whom I normally took my coffee. I don’t know whom they pitied more, Axel Grutt the coward, who was being openly cuckolded, or his lovely wife, who was unfortunate enough to be married to him.

Gerd wanted to take Alice, who was nine at the time, away with her and move up north with this other man. There seemed to be no end to Victor’s heroic exploits, and now he wanted to take my wife and my child—I take it she
is
my child, I yelled at Gerd—to Tromsø, there to continue the victory celebrations. Nothing came of it, of course.

Today, fifty years later, I can’t think why I didn’t just let her leave. I didn’t love her enough to beg her to stay. As she herself said, “You don’t understand, Axel—how could you understand, you of all people?—but there are parts of my body you have never touched, you don’t know the sounds I make and would not recognize them if I were with him and you were in the next room, and you have never ever come close to . . .”

She did not finish the sentence, but I knew exactly what she was talking about. It disgusted me, this . . . what she expected of me, what she had every right to expect of me, what she had found with someone else.

I dreaded the nights. Came up with degrading excuses, degrading both for her and for me, to get out of it. Of course sometimes I had to, and sometimes I forced myself to, but always with her on top, astride me, since that way I did not have to touch her, and I knew full well that
that
way it would all be over much quicker, that her tense little shudders would not be long in coming. And when that happened, the shuddering, it was all over. Even though she would have liked it to last longer, it was over. That was all I waited for, shut my eyes, waited, barely aware of her going through her solitary dance, far away, above me, waited for what I could, with good conscience, call the end.

“You got what you wanted,” I told her on one occasion when she tried to lull me into carrying on. “Don’t you think I can feel you shuddering?”

She repeated the word, seeming almost surprised. “Did you say shuddering?”

She looked me straight in the eye.

“Shuddering!”

Then she laughed softly and turned her back on me.

“That’s only my body betraying me,” she whispered. “Don’t fool yourself, Axel, it certainly isn’t pleasure.”

I MEET NO ONE I know on the way to the crematorium, although the young news vendor with the blank eyes is at her post. I’ve lived in this city all my life, and still it seems foreign to me. I walk past the station building at Majorstuen. There were plans, at one time, for this building to be an imposing landmark, a taller and grander edifice than the one that stands on this spot today; a good-sized skyscraper was more what town planner Harald Hals had had in mind. But then came the war, and all the plans for a fine city bit the dust. Oslo seems to have this in common with my own life: Nothing turns out as planned.

For instance, it had never occurred to me that Gerd might die before me. In good moments, I used to envisage a peaceful old age with her, thinking that in time we could become good friends, she and I, once her appetite had abated. Or that God, if he exists, would grant me an early release, and in her old age she could have a nice life with her women friends and her visits to the theater.

And Stella! I cannot explain this thing with Stella! To fall like that, to stumble over the edge, with her own husband, that conceited ass, as witness? I cannot understand it. So careless. So pointless. What were they doing up there on the roof? Such a damned clumsy thing for a damned clumsy woman to do, fooling around high up in the air. Clumsy people have certain obligations, to themselves and to their bodies and to other people. Clumsy people are always apt to bring accidents in their wake if they’re not careful. I should know. I myself am a clumsy man.

Amanda

Let’s imagine, Bee, that we’re climbing up some scaffolding, a steeple, or up onto a roof just like Mamma and Martin. We can see the whole city spread out before us; then we count one, two, three, and we jump. (But first I’ve got to make love with Snip, Snap, and Snout; I’ve got to hear them whisper sweet things in my ear about my breasts and my belly and my face while they take me from the front and from behind, because one thing’s for sure: I don’t intend to be a virgin when I jump.) We’ll jump, and our dresses will fill with air so they look like two balloons, two red balloons, and after a while we too will meet the birds and the squirrel and the cod and the old woman. Who knows, we might even see old Granny drifting down through the air with her wispy hair standing on end, and if we fall even faster we’re bound to meet Mamma, too, somewhere between heaven and earth; just you wait and see.

(II)

FALL

Frederikke Moll
Witness

There are a man and a woman on the roof. She’s wearing a red-and-yellow summer dress—the sort of dress I make myself— and she has strawberry-blond hair. Red sandals on her feet.

There’s not a lot I can tell you. I can’t even answer the simplest question of all: Does he try to save her or does he push her over the edge? You’d think I could say for sure one way or the other. They embrace, they’re standing with their arms wrapped around each other way up there, and just as I’m thinking to myself, Now
there’s
a couple in love, she falls. Nine stories, straight down. I shut my eyes, step back, scream—they embrace and then she falls, that’s all I know. But as to the question—Did he try to save her or did he push her over the edge?—I couldn’t say. It couldn’t be both. He couldn’t both stop her and push her. To do that he’d have to grab hold of her with his right hand and push with the left, or grab hold of her with his left hand and push with the right. A sort of a contest between hands, maybe, the good hand and the bad. If the investigating officer, an odd, darkly brooding sort of woman, were to ask me to describe him—she hasn’t done this, she has only asked me to describe what I saw—but if she were to ask me to describe or identify him, I couldn’t. All I remember is her. A yellow-and-red summer dress, yellow-and-red fabric unfurling in the breeze, unfurling into more and more fabric. Over and over again it happens— they embrace and she falls—for this is a moment that is bound to be relived time and time again, and there is nothing I can do to prevent it.

Night after night I am woken by an embrace, a scream that is both hers and mine, by yellow-and-red fabric unfurling. I sit up, half asleep, drenched in sweat and so very, very tired.

Corinne

It was the middle of the night, and Martin Vold had talked and talked. We sat on either side of the big dark-brown dining table. I am a good listener. My sense organs are in excellent working order: my ears, my mouth, my hands, my eyes, and my well-endowed nose. Thanks to my nose, I can tell by the smell of a man whether he has committed a crime. That comes in handy in my line of work. My fellow police officers tell me it’s a good thing I’m not married, because any husband of mine would have a hard life.

I would smell it on him every time he was unfaithful to me. I would smell it on him every time he lied. I would smell it on him every time he toyed with the idea of doing away with me.

But then again, I’m at least five hundred years old and weigh about as many kilos, so marriage has never really been in the cards for me.

“ ‘The difference between you and me, Martin, is that you were loved as a child.’ Let’s dwell on that sentence, Martin.”

Martin nodded. I continued.

“You were sitting on the sofa over there.” I pointed to the green sofa. “And Stella was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Suddenly she lost her temper, jumped to her feet, and announced that the difference between you and her was that you were loved as a child. Can you picture the scene?”

“But why did she lose her temper?” Martin asked.

“You’d been discussing the children.”

Martin was silent. Then he whispered, almost to himself, “Well, no wonder she lost her temper.”

“Is that true, then? Were you loved as a child?”

“The world’s full of children who are loved. What the hell does that mean, for a child to be loved? Is my daughter, Bee, loved? Let me tell you my story. I grew up in Høylandet. My father’s name was Jesper, my mother’s name was Nora. But that doesn’t answer your question. My family have been farmers for generations. My great-grandfather on my father’s side was Swedish, and he and his wife had the northernmost ostrich farm in the world. We still raise ostriches. The person I take after most is my grandfather Elias. He didn’t want to be like the rest of the family. He wasn’t interested in ostriches. He wanted to be a movie star. He certainly had the looks for it; there wasn’t a finer-looking man in the whole of Scandinavia. But he was killed by a train; so much for
that
movie career.

“Back home in Høylandet his intended, Harriet, was pregnant with my father. Elias had treated her shamefully, running off like that with no intention of ever coming back . . . but back he came anyway, in a coffin, sliced in two. Not quite what Harriet had hoped, maybe, but she wasn’t the type to wallow in grief and soon got over it. They do say she really let him have it, once he was six feet under and no longer in a position to defend himself. Some people think she put a curse on him. It’s mainly because of her . . . it’s mainly because of Harriet that Stella said I was loved as a child. My parents are good honest human beings, but that’s about as much as I can say for them.”

“But your grandmother, Harriet, loved you?”

“I guess it would be truer to say that I loved
her.
Loved her with all my heart.”

“You loved your grandmother with all your heart?”

“Yes.”

“Because?”

“Because my grandmother . . .”

“Yes?”

“When I was six, I used to spend the night at her house. I often spent the night there. I loved everything about my grandma. She was a great cook, she wore her hair in a long gray braid that swung back and forth over her behind when she was pottering about in the garden, and she had a gentleman friend called Thorleif, a retired accountant with Portuguese blood in him. To be honest, she didn’t really have much time for me. She loved me as much as she should, no more, no less. As much as she should. Do you know what I’m saying?”

“I think so.”

“One evening Grandma sent me to bed early. I had had my bath and eaten my supper in the kitchen: fresh-baked rolls and hot chocolate with cream. It was always the same at Grandma’s, always some tasty treat in the kitchen. When I was tucked in for the night, she sat on the edge of my bed and let me stroke her face. There was nothing I liked better than stroking Grandma’s face, and that night she even brought her face down to mine and whispered, ‘You’re going to be every bit as handsome as your grandpa, maybe more, but let’s hope you won’t be as stupid. Your grandpa ran off with his head full of dreams: the theater, steam trains, and women. Theater, trains, and women, that’s all I ever heard about. But he paid the price.’ Grandma kissed my cheek. ‘You won’t leave me, Martin, will you?’ I shook my head. She smiled at me, ruffled my hair. Then she got up and left. I lay there in the dark, longing for her. I wondered whether I dared call her back and ask for one more kiss, but I knew that would make her angry. That much I knew. In the end, I crept out of bed and padded to the kitchen, where I had eaten supper earlier. I knew that Grandma was preparing a joint for roasting. I could easily hide behind the coats that hung on a hook in the hall, right next to the kitchen, and watch her, the braid swinging back and forth, back and forth over her behind. So there I stood, behind the coats, longing for her, worshiping her, wanting her with all my six-year-old heart. All of a sudden I heard footsteps behind me and I shrank back, making myself as small as I could. If I was found there she would ignore me for the whole of the next day, and there was no punishment worse than that. She might even decide to send me home earlier than planned. I heard footsteps. It was Thorleif, and Thorleif also stood there, looking at her. Now there were two of us. She bent down to put the joint in the oven. And that glorious sight—Grandma bent down over the oven, the braid hanging down her back, rump in the air—was too much for Thorleif. He unbuttoned his fly and made a run at her, flung up her skirt, and fell on her. Bad idea! The joint landed on the floor, Grandma hit her head on the edge of the oven and burned her left cheek, and Thorleif fell and broke his arm.

“They were both yelling and cursing, and Grandma hit Thorleif in the face with a saucepan. As for me, I tiptoed back to bed and snuggled up under the eiderdown. I was so grateful, I really was. I had seen true love. Harriet, the loveliest lass in all Høylandet, wasn’t just my grandma, she was a goddess.”

Video Recording: Stella & Martin
The House by the Lady Falls
8/27/00, 3:50 A.M.

MARTIN: Stella’s not saying anything. She thinks we should do this some other way, don’t you, Stella? You think we should do this some other way. She’s shaking her head. Now she’s sticking her tongue out. Want to see? She’s sitting on the floor with her legs curled under her, playing with the silver locket that belonged to her mother. Would you like to see my wife’s tongue? I’m going to immortalize that tongue, I’m going to immortalize that tongue right now, that little pink tongue that reminds me of . . . shall I tell you what your tongue reminds me of, Stella?

STELLA: Do I have any choice?

MARTIN: Oh, we always have a choice.

STELLA: Axel doesn’t think we can choose. He thinks—

MARTIN: Axel’s a senile old fool.

STELLA: He is not senile! Look, are you going to tell me what my tongue reminds you of, or are you going to do this properly, because if you are then I think we should start with the silverware or something like that.

MARTIN: Your tongue, Stella. Stick it out. That’s it. Way out. Like a kid at the doctor saying
aaahhh.
Your tongue reminds me of a fine fillet of fish, redfish or catfish, marinated in olive oil, garlic, and white wine, grilled and served with no accompaniment other than a bottle of dry white wine, suitably chilled.

STELLA: You’re making me hungry.

MARTIN: For your own tongue? Isn’t there a saying about that: Bite your tongue?

STELLA: One of my patients almost bit off her tongue because it hurt so much.

MARTIN: What hurt so much?

STELLA: Dying. She was screaming and begging and threatening to bite big chunks off of herself if we didn’t help her.

MARTIN: Did you help her?

STELLA: Yes.

MARTIN: But it didn’t help?

STELLA: No.

MARTIN: Still hungry?

STELLA: No.

MARTIN: Okay, then I can tell you where I ate a fillet of fish like that, the sort your tongue reminds me of. It was in Italy. Before—long before—I met you. It was in the evening. I was at this ramshackle little restaurant somewhere on the Amalfi coast, sitting outside, under the lemon trees. The owner said the wine was on him, and he came to the table personally, to show us the fish he was thinking of having the chef prepare.

STELLA: Us?

MARTIN: Us?

STELLA: You said: He came over to the table personally to show us. Who’s us?

MARTIN: This was before your time, before you and me.

STELLA: You and me. You and her. Who exactly were you eating fish with under the lemon trees?

MARTIN: The lovely Penelope.

STELLA: Penelope?

MARTIN: Penelope.

STELLA: And who is Penelope?

MARTIN: Penelope happened long before you.

STELLA: So what you’re saying is that every time I make a face at you . . .

MARTIN: And every time you kiss me . . .

STELLA: And every time I pop a little dumpling in your mouth . . .

MARTIN: And every time I lick you until you’re wet . . .

STELLA: And every time I sleep with my mouth open . . .

MARTIN: And every time you stick the tip of your tongue between the cheeks of my ass . . .

STELLA: You think of a whore named Penelope.

MARTIN: No, I think of the fillet of fish I once had in a restaurant in Italy, which I just happened to eat with Penelope sitting next to me.

STELLA: But indirectly, my tongue reminds you of another woman.

MARTIN: Indirectly, your tongue reminds me that you talk too much. . . . My wife talks too much. You’ll have to excuse her. Allow me to tell you a little bit about the sofa on which she is sitting. The avocado-green sofa: This is where it all began. It might be stained and worn now, but it cost a fortune once upon a time, and we wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves if we ever lost it. The thing is, you see, that this sofa, this avocado-green sofa in our living room, here in Martin and Stella’s living room, is a magic sofa. Magic, my dear Mr. Insurance Broker, Mr.—what was his name again?

STELLA: His name was . . . now I remember! His name was Owesen, Gunnar R. Owesen. That was his name.

MARTIN: Right. Mr. Gunnar R. Owesen, insurance broker. He’s our man if our house goes up in flames or if we’re burglarized or hit by some other appalling catastrophe. Take a look at this video and you’ll see that we’ve got all of our stuff on film now—just like you said—everything of value, right? We’ve described it all and put a price on it all. And I’m here to tell you: This sofa is magic. Have you ever sat on a magic sofa? I think not. I don’t mean to underestimate you or your experience, but I don’t think you’ve ever sat on a magic sofa, I don’t think magic sofas exist in your insurance man’s . . . in your well-insured world. Stella and I were just talking about you. We talked about you the day you came to look at our house. We were trying to imagine what sort of life you must lead, what you dream about at night. We think you’re on the lookout for something else: another wife, for example, another job. You see, the thing is, Gunnar R. Owesen, the very first time you sit down on that sofa you are granted one wish—you can wish for almost anything in the world—and
presto!
your wish will be granted. But this offer is only valid the very first time you sit on it. Never again. You can sit down on that sofa a hundred times, two hundred times, three hundred times, and you can wish all you want, but it won’t do any good. It’s only the first time that counts. When Stella and I have guests—which, to be honest, is not very often; the house is full enough as it is, what with plumbers and kids—but when we have guests or other callers, like yourself for example, Mr. Gunnar R. Owesen, we might well invite you to sit on the sofa, we might well bring the conversation round to the question of what one wants out of life, and then we would ask you what you would like most of all. And after you’ve given it some thought, just as you are about to answer, Stella chimes in—

STELLA: Ssh. Don’t say it out loud. If you want your wish to come true, it has to be kept secret.

MARTIN: We don’t tell you that you’re sitting on a magic sofa. That’s
our
secret. It’s just a game, right? You laugh and take another sip of coffee or wine, depending on whether it’s daytime or evening, and Stella and I try to read your expression, to find out what you wished for. Was it a nice wish or a nasty one? Because the sofa grants all wishes, not just the nice ones.

STELLA: The first time I sat on the sofa . . .

MARTIN: The first time you sat on the sofa, I thought . . .

STELLA: The first time I sat on the sofa, I thought: I want this sofa!

MARTIN: The first time you sat on the sofa, I thought: I want you. You see, Mr. Insurance Broker Gunnar R. Owesen, it was this sofa, this avocado-green sofa, that brought us together. Stella walked into the Galileo furniture store, sat down on this sofa, turned to me, and said,
I want this one
. Six weeks later I delivered it to her home.

STELLA: He put it down in the middle of the living room. And then he refused to leave.

MARTIN: You didn’t want me to leave, Stella.

STELLA: Everybody just stays.

MARTIN: Poor Stella.

STELLA: Everybody just stays: Martin; Herr Poppel, the plumber.

MARTIN: Don’t tell me you’re going to start complaining about Herr Poppel now, too?

STELLA: I don’t know whether his face is nice or nasty.

MARTIN: Whenever I see Herr Poppel’s face it makes me think of my grandma Harriet.

STELLA: A nasty face, then.

MARTIN: No, Stella, a nice face.

STELLA: She hits children, you know.

MARTIN: Stella, not that story again.