The Best Intentions (20 page)

Karin:
Sometimes you behave like an unruly child.

Anna:
I
am
an unruly child.

Karin:
Anyhow, we can't forsake the Egermans in Amalfi. They'd be sad and offended.

Anna:
You go to Amalfi, Mama, and I'll go home.

Karin:
This is silly, Anna. We'll do what we agreed to do. And that's that.

Anna:
What
you've
agreed. Not me.

Karin:
It's cold and wet at home. The doctor also thought we ought to stay where it's warm for a little transitional period. We'll be home by midsummer.

Mrs. Karin has an inimitable way of ending a conversation. She smiles encouragingly and lightly strikes her little beringed hand on the tablecloth, as if she were wielding a chairman's hammer, rising to her feet at the same time. Two servants are there at once, pulling back their chairs. Anna has no real chance of remonstrating, of staying there, raising her voice, or buying her own train ticket.

Siesta: drawn Venetian blinds, semidarkness in both rooms, the door barely ajar. From the town they can hear bells ringing, newspaper vendors in the street below, trams clanging. The two women are resting on their beds in dressing gowns and bedsocks, their hair down. The pleasant sleep that would surely come after the night's disturbing thunder simply does not materialize. Silence, Distance. Perhaps sorrow. Almost certainly sorrow.

Then, surprisingly, there is a knock on the door of Mrs. Karin's room. Then another. Then a third, this time resolute. Karin asks her daughter to find out what it's about, and Anna wraps her dressing
gown tightly around her, tucks her hair behind her ears, and patters out to the little hallway. Astonishingly, one of the hotel's managers is standing outside the door in his impeccable tails and waxed mustache. He hands over a telegram in a blue envelope. When Anna indicates with a helpless gesture that she has no change for a tip handy, the man raises his hand in a dismissive gesture, bows gravely, and hurries away toward the corridor. Anna closes the door and stands there with the envelope in her hand, hesitant and ill at ease. Karin asks what it is, and Anna says it's a telegram. “Bring it here, then,” says Karin impatiently.

Anna closes the door to the hall and goes in to Karin, who has now sat up in bed, switched on the bedside light, and stretched out for her glasses. Anna hands her the sealed envelope. She slits it open and unfolds the handwritten message. She reads it and draws a deep breath, then hands the paper to Anna. There are only a few words on it.

PAPA DIED LAST NIGHT.
OSCAR.

It is night in this strange hotel and in this strange city. Mrs. Karin and Anna have been very busy all afternoon, packing, canceling bookings, talking to Mrs. Egerman in Amalfi. An almost inaudible conversation with Gustav and Oscar in Upsala, new reservations on the Northern Express from Milan. (In those days, the journey took almost two days.) No time for thoughts, afterthoughts, pain, tears.

When evening comes with its harsh, bright yellow light between the slats of the blinds, the clang of bells from the nearby Maria Church, and distant music — when evening comes, Mrs. Karin suddenly turns very pale. She is standing by the dinner table that has been ordered in their rooms. They haven't eaten much. She pours herself a glass of wine, her hand trembling. She is pale, with dark shadows under her eyes. Anna is leaning over her suitcase.

Anna:
We must make sure we've not forgotten anything. Everything's packed except our toiletries and traveling clothes. We've canceled our rooms in Venice and Rome, and settled things with Mrs. Egerman, thank goodness. The porter assures me we have first-class seats on the Northern Express tomorrow afternoon from Milan — then we'll be home by the evening the day after tomorrow. We've also spoken to Oscar and Gustav. Mama, I don't think we've forgotten anything, do you?

Mrs. Karin has raised the glass of wine to her lips, but doesn't drink it. The pain is so unexpected and so violent that she has to stay still, quite still, to survive the next second and the next and the next.

Anna
(
gently
): What is it, Mama?

Her mother turns her head toward her daughter and looks questioningly at her, like a child.

Karin:
I don't understand. (
Shakes her head
.) Don't understand.

Anna:
Mama dear, come over here, and we'll sit down. I'll draw the curtains, shall I? Does the sunlight bother you? It'll soon be gone, anyway. Would you like some more wine? It'll do you good, Mama. Let's sit quite still here, you and I together.

Anna takes her mother's hand and holds it tightly. The sharp pattern of sunlight on the wall's gold-framed pictures and the red wallpaper slowly fades. The clang of bells ceases; the day becomes quiet. All they can hear now is the waltz from the
Merry Widow
played by the hotel orchestra far down inside the great house.
Lippen schweigen, ‘s flüstern Geigen, hab mich lieb! All die Schritte sagen, Bitte, hab mich lieb!
Mrs. Karin takes a drink of her wine, leans back against the sofa cushions, and closes her eyes.

Karin:
The worst of it is that I left him alone. He was alone, Anna. And it was at night.

Anna
(
pleading
): Mama!

Karin:
He was alone, and I wasn't there. He was in pain and got out of bed. Then he sat down at his desk and switched on the desk lamp. He'd taken out paper and pen; then he fell to one side and down to the floor.

Anna:
Mama, don't think about it.

Karin:
I'll tell you something strange, Anna. When I decided I was going, when everything had been arranged, when I had said goodbye to Papa and was going out through the front door, I suddenly thought, quite inexplicably:
Don't do it!

Anna:
Don't do what?

Karin:
Don't do it. Don't go. Stay at home. Cancel it all. For a brief moment, I was overcome with anguish. How strange, Anna.

Anna:
Yes, that was strange.

Karin:
I had to sit down. I broke out in a cold sweat. Then I got cross with myself. I've never given in to whims and fancies of that kind. Why should I give in this time? There was no reason to at all.

Anna:
Poor Mama.

Karin:
Exactly. Poor Mama. I make decisions and carry them out. It's been like that all my life. I never change my mind.

Anna:
I know.

Karin:
Most people don't like making decisions. So I have to.

Anna:
You shouldn't blame yourself, Mama.

Karin:
No, that's pointless. (
Pause
.) I've made a lot of wrong and stupid decisions, but I wouldn't say I've ever had any regrets. But this time . . . (
Draws breath
.) Oh, God!

For a short while she holds her hand over her eyes, but then at once takes it down, as if she thought the gesture was exaggerated or perhaps melodramatic, and takes another sip of wine.

Anna
(
holds Karin's hand
): Mama.

Karin:
When your father asked me if I wanted to marry him, although he was more than twice my age and had three sons, I decided without even thinking about it. Mother warned me, and Father was very upset. I didn't love him. I wasn't even in love with him, I knew that. But I liked him. I was sorry for him. He was so terribly lonely with his wretched, lazy housekeeper who cheated him out of money and didn't look after the home properly, and then those three badly-brought-up, lost boys. I was also a little lonely, and so I thought we'd be sure to alleviate each other's loneliness.

Anna:
Surely, that wasn't a wrong thought.

Karin:
Yes, Anna. It was wrong.
One
loneliness is all right. Two are unendurable. But in the end you must never probe it too deeply. Then you and Ernst came along. That saved me — was my salvation.

Mrs. Karin smiles apologetically. She hears herself using words she has never used before. She sees herself making gestures she has never made before. She struggles with a weighty, swelling grief, a grief she has never before experienced. She empties her glass.

Karin:
Would you give me a little more wine, please? Aren't you going to have any yourself?

Anna:
I have some, thank you.

Karin:
That's how we came out of our loneliness, Johan and I. I don't know, for that matter. Perhaps those are just things you say. But you
and Ernst became a great joy, something we had in common. We had to busy ourselves with the two of you, and every little thing became important.

Anna:
And so Ernst became mother's boy, and Anna became daddy's girl.

Karin:
I don't know. Is that what happened?

Anna:
But Mama!

Karin:
Yes, yes, perhaps you're right.

She is sitting turned away, the wound bleeding quietly, scarcely hurting anymore. It grows darker. The streetlamps are turned on. Through the stillness and the faint rumble from the city they can hear the murmur of the river.

Anna
(
gently
): Shall we go to bed now, Mama? We've got to get up early.

Karin
(
absently
): Yes, perhaps we should.

She leans her forehead against Anna's shoulder, then bends right down and rests her head on Anna's lap, a puzzling movement, almost prohibited. Anna draws her mother's hands to her and holds them against her breast. She doesn't know what to do next. Then she is seized with a sudden impulse and takes her mother in her arms and holds her tight. A few long, ragged sobs come from Karin, very unfamiliar and frightening.

Suddenly she frees herself from Anna's embrace, almost brutally. She sits straight up, runs both hands over her face, and touches her hair, twice, running the palm of her hand over her forehead, then leaning to one side and switching on the electric lamp by the sofa. She looks at her daughter, coolly, searchingly.

Anna
(
terrified
): What is it, Mama?

Karin:
There's something you should know.

Anna:
To do with me?

Karin:
Most certainly to do with you.

Anna:
It can wait, can't it?

Karin:
I don't think so.

Anna:
Then you'd better tell me what it is that's so important.

Karin:
It's about Henrik Bergman.

Anna
(
suddenly on her guard
): Yes. And?

Karin:
You write to him?

Anna:
That's true. I have written to him. I sent the letter to Ernst because I didn't know Henrik's address. I've never had an answer, for that matter. The letter probably went astray.

Karin:
It didn't go astray.

Anna:
I don't understand.

Karin:
I must tell you this. I took the letter, read it, and later burned it.

Anna:
No.

Karin:
I must tell you, because your father warned me. He said it was not right. He said we had no right to interfere. That it would do harm. He warned me.

Anna:
Mama!

Karin:
I've no excuse. I thought I was doing this for your own good. Johan warned me.

Anna:
I don't want to hear any more.

Karin
(
not hearing
): Now that Johan's gone, I realize I must tell you what happened. I can't even ask your forgiveness, because I know you'll never forgive me.

Anna:
I don't think I will.

Karin:
Well, now you know, anyhow.

Anna:
As soon as we get home, I'll go and find Henrik and tell him everything.

Karin:
There's only one thing I beg of you. Don't tell him I burned the letter.

Anna:
Why not?

Karin:
If you marry Henrik. Don't you understand? If you tell him, his hatred will be unbearable. We have to live with each other.

Anna:
Why?

Anna looks thoughtfully at her mother. An anger she has never felt before is rising inside her, producing a pleasant sensation.

Karin:
Now you know.

Anna:
Yes. Now I know. (
Pause, change of tone
.) Shall we go to bed? We may need some sleep, and it'll be a long day tomorrow.

She quickly gets up from the sofa and goes toward the door, turns, and politely says good night.

At this time of year (in this case, a July day in 1912), the university town of Upsala can appear so still that it seems to be unreal or perhaps a dream. If it weren't for the chatter of small birds in the dark, leafy trees, the silence would certainly be frightening. The reminder from the cathedral clock of time racing toward annihilation makes the stillness even more immense. The Flustret is closed, and the orchestras have removed themselves and their medleys from the Pearl Fishers and La Belle Hélène to some health resort or spa. In the homes of the wealthy, sheets hang over the windows as if there were corpses indoors, and the smell of mothballs trickles sorrowfully along the hot pavements. The ghost of Gustavianum's anatomical theater has withdrawn into the wall behind the picture by Olof Rudbeckius. The brothel by the Svartbäcken has closed, its industrious occupants gone off to Gothenburg, where the fleet of the British Royal Navy is in port. In the town's ancient theater, dust swirls in the patches of sun that have penetrated the badly fitting stage window-hatches and drawn magical patterns on the sloping floor of the unscrubbed boards of the stage.

Yes, empty, silent, unreal, dreamlike, slightly scary if you happen to be so inclined. The sun is high in a colorless sky; there is no wind, but only a whiff of dried tears, soured grief, suppressed pain, a faint though perfectly perceptible smell, harsh and musty.

There are people who say the world will come to an end with a bang, a crash, a crack. Personally I am convinced that the world will stop, fall silent, be still, fade, languish away in an endless cosmic mist. This July day in this little university town may well be the beginning of such an extremely undramatic end.