The Cold Song (10 page)

Siri opened her mouth to say something, her cheeks were scarlet. She shook her head and closed the gate behind her.

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow, Alma. Text me if you need anything and remember to put sunscreen on.”

Her voice and her shadow hung in the heat for a few moments before they evaporated. Alma munched a cookie slowly, Liv stared, mesmerized, at something deep inside Milla’s phone, five minutes could have passed, or five hours, then suddenly Jon was standing there in front of them in the garden, waking them from their dream. He had Leopold with him.

Liv threw down the phone, ran as fast as she could, and leaped into her father’s arms. Alma and Milla lay where they were on the grass. Jon took a few steps toward them, then stopped and looked down at them.

“So here are all my girls, soaking up the sun,” he said, smiling.

Alma looked up at her father. Something about his voice. The slightly false note. The jolliness that wasn’t genuine jolliness, just forced jolliness.

“A little touch of Saint-Tropez, eh?” he went on.

Alma tried to catch his eye, so he would see that she was rolling hers.
A little touch of Saint-Tropez
—please! What was the matter with him? But her father didn’t notice her. He was looking at Milla. Alma followed his gaze and saw how it flicked swiftly over Milla’s body—her feet, her legs, her knees, the polka-dot bikini, her arms, her hair, her eyes—as if Milla’s
body were the goddamned solar system. And Alma realized that Milla was letting him do it. That she was lying there perfectly still, letting him do it. This was not a dream. Alma saw it all very clearly. Jon looked at Milla, and Milla let herself be looked at by Jon. It didn’t last very long. Alma noticed how Milla stretched out a little, there, beside her on the grass. Writhed over the heavens like the aurora borealis. And then it was over.

“Don’t you all look nice,” Jon said. And now he looked at Alma.

“What are you doing here?” Alma asked. “Don’t you have a book to finish?”

Jon gave a quick laugh.

“Thank you, Alma. Yes, I do. But right now Leopold and I are going for a little walk. As long as nobody else can be bothered to walk him, I have to do it, right?”

He set Liv gently down on the grass between Milla and Alma.

“Take good care of this little one,” he added, and then looked at Milla in a very different way from before. “Take care, all of you.” He bent down to attach Leopold’s leash and walked off through the gate.

“Have fun in Saint-Tropez,” Alma shouted after him. She rolled over onto her stomach, so she wouldn’t have to look at him.

“Your father’s really nice,” Milla said after a few moments.

“My father’s an idiot,” Alma mumbled.

And now here was Alma, a few days later, knocking on Milla’s door; there were only a few hours to go until Jenny’s big celebration and Milla had told her she was praying to God.

“Okay, you can come in,” Milla said. “I have to go over and help your mother later on. But you can stay till I go.”

Alma pushed the door open.

Milla sat down on the bed and beckoned to Alma to come and sit beside her. Alma sat down beside her.

“What do you pray for?” Alma asked.

“This and that,” said Milla. “But I’m finished now. Do you want me to put on music?”

Alma shook her head and said, “Do you believe in God?”

“Yes, I always have.” Milla turned and looked at Alma. “Do you?”

“I did when I was younger,” Alma said. “But I don’t anymore.” “Why not?”

“Don’t know,” Alma replied. “I just don’t.”

“I do,” said Milla. “I think he sees me and watches over me.”

Alma shrugged.

“God sees everything,” Milla added. “When I was little my father used to sing to me every night.”

She opened her mouth and sang in a clear, high voice:

“What’s your father’s name?” Alma asked.

“Mikkel,” said Milla.

“And your mother?”

“Amanda.”

“Can I have a glass of water?” Alma asked.

Milla frowned. “Get it yourself,” she said. “There’s a glass in the bathroom.”

“Can’t you get it for me?” Alma said. “Please.” She swung her legs up onto the bed and settled herself more comfortably. “I’m so nice and comfortable here on your bed. I’ll get water for you some other time, when you’re thirsty.” Alma laughed. “Swear to God, I will,” she said.

Milla didn’t laugh, didn’t so much as smile, she merely got up and went into the bathroom. Alma heard the tap being turned on.

Hidden in her hand Alma had a long, fat Iberian slug. It stuck to her palm.

Alma detached it from her skin and laid it under Milla’s duvet. A thread of slug slime clung to her fingers and she wiped her hand on the sheet. There! The slug drew in on itself and lay very still. Alma straightened the duvet and perched herself on the edge of the bed. When Milla got back tonight she would lay her bare thighs on top of the slug.

Alma smiled.

Milla emerged from the bathroom carrying a glass of water. “Here,” she said. Her voice was cold. “Drink this and then you have to go.”

Alma took the glass and eyed Milla. She had put on makeup and brushed her hair to a long, shining fall.

Milla said, “Okay, now I have to go help your mother, and then I’ve got other things to do. I don’t have time for you.”

She gave an impatient flick of her hand and her bracelets jingled.

“That’s okay,” Alma said. She drank the water. “I’m going now.”

SIRI WANTED TO
throw a big party for her mother. Jenny had said no, but Siri insisted. Of course she would throw her mother a party. Fifty guests, suckling pigs imported from Spain, long trestle tables in the garden, lanterns in the trees, she would not take no for an answer, she could roast the pigs in the big bread oven in her restaurant kitchen.

“We’ll need five pigs,” Siri said, and picked up her cell phone and called the supplier in Oslo. “And I’ll roast some apples and root vegetables and potatoes. And that’ll be it. We’ll keep it nice and simple. The porch will have to be painted. Everybody will have to pitch in and help. The curtains will need to be taken down and washed. We’ll have to scrub the floors. Where’s the soap? I want the carbolic! This house,” she said, spreading her arms as if to embrace all of Mailund. “We’ll have to fix up the house. And the garden too. A garden party!”

She turned to Jon.

“It’ll be a party to remember,” she said. “And Jenny will be very happy. She can’t see that herself right now, but she’ll be so happy. She loves being the center of attention.”

“Yes, but what Jenny wants most of all is to be left alone,” Jon said.

And now the big day had arrived. That miserable seventy-fifth birthday. Jenny was drunk after having been sober for nearly twenty years.
A lifetime
. It had certainly
felt
like a lifetime. Jenny’s speech was slurred when Jon ran into her on the stairs.

“Good afternoon, Jon,” she said.

Jon stopped and looked at her. “Jenny, are you drunk?” Jon peered at her.

“I’ve been sober for more than twenty years. Which is more than can be said for you, is it not?”

“Well, you do pick your days,” Jon mumbled.

“Yes,” Jenny said, “that’s right. I
do
pick my days!”

He glanced around and lowered his voice. “Does Siri know you’ve been drinking?”

“I’m seventy-five years old and I do what I like.”

Jenny ran a hand through her hair and signaled to Jon that she wanted to get past—they were still on the stairs—but Jon stayed her with his hand and stepped right up close to her.

“I’m going to say this just once, Jenny, so listen,” he whispered.

She nodded while at the same time trying to push him away. Jon carried on whispering: “Siri has worked very hard to arrange this nice party for you. How about showing a little …”

He searched his mind for the right word. Consideration? No, that was too much to ask for. Gratitude? No, he refused to resort to emotional blackmail. And, to be fair, it wasn’t as
if the old witch had asked to be celebrated. Decency? Maturity? Maternal feeling? He began again, released her arm, and spoke in his normal voice.

“Jenny, how about
pretending
that you appreciate what Siri has done? I mean the party and all. It would mean a lot to her.”

She shook her head and began to walk away.

“Did you hear what I said, Jenny?”

Jenny made no reply, but simply continued her descent of the stairs, slowly and with exaggerated dignity.

The suckling pigs were vacuum-packed and crated. Jon pictured them lying in the supplier’s freezer room in Oslo: pink, bordering on white, their snouts creased in a gentle grin. The skin of their necks and front legs lying in folds like that of a well-fed infant. They were deep-frozen, imported from Spain. Five pigs, 170 kroner per kilo plus VAT, six kilos per pig. Siri got them wholesale.

“Okay, we’ll have them some other time,” Siri said, having either changed her mind at the last minute or succumbed to pressure.

Because nobody wanted those suckling pigs. Alma had googled “suckling pigs” and found pictures of whole pigs burning on barbecues; she had begun wailing, and did not stop until Jenny took her to the beach for a swim. Irma had muttered something about the slaughter of animals and cannibalism and disappeared into the basement. So now, instead of the pigs, Siri was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches to a menu that she
had no heart for
: scampi, chicken skewers, meatballs, salads, and
other stupid fiddly finger food. Happy now, everybody?

Days, no, weeks before the birthday, Jon had done everything he could to talk Siri out of the suckling pigs idea. He had done all he could to talk her out of the party. Jenny didn’t want it! No one wanted it! He had sat his wife down on their bed, kneeled in front of her, and taken her hands in his.

“Why are you arranging this party, really?”

“Well, who else is going to do it?” Siri said. “Her birthday has to be celebrated.”

“Yeah, but does it really?”

“Of course it does!” Siri looked at him. “Why are you bringing this up now?”

“She won’t thank you for it, you know.”

Siri stood up, her voice shrill: “Come on, Jon. I’m organizing a party for my mother, both you and I know that deep down she’ll be happy about it, she loves the attention, she’s already decided what dress she’s going to wear, this is my present to her, it’s as simple as that. And now here you are, doubting my motives, insinuating that I’m, I don’t know, crazy or something, stupid little Siri, throwing this big party for her mother. Well, to hell with you!”

“Would you listen to yourself?” he said. “You’re getting so wrapped up in this, it’s like I’m losing you.”

“
You’re
losing
me
 …” Siri gasped. “
You’re
losing me? You’re the one who’s lost, Jon, you’re the one who’s never around, out with the dog, out buying bread and milk, out, out, out, and concocting some crappy theory about me and my mother and this whole fucking party …?”

Jon took a deep breath. “It’s getting totally out of hand, Siri.” He waved his arm. “This … all this … this whole celebration, it’s tearing you apart. She doesn’t want it, I’m telling you, she doesn’t want it!”

He put his arms around her. She tried to wriggle free, but he would not let her go.

“Let me go, Jon,” she said.

He held on to her, tried to rock her back and forth, whispered, “Why don’t you sit here with me? Just for five minutes. Don’t say anything. Just let me hold you.” He laid his head on her breast, whispered, “Stay with me.”

Sometimes he could get through to her like this.

“Come back, Siri.”

But not this time apparently. She wrenched herself free, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and pulled, screaming, “Let me go!”

He just had time to remember the pain of hair being yanked before he slapped her face. She hit him back.

And at that moment he could have killed her. “I hate you,” she screamed, and he yelled “No” and hit her and held on to her and pushed her away and he would never, never, never be able to beat his way out of her, into her, and she shouted “I hate you” and all he could say was “No, no, no.” So he shouted it out loud, howled “No, no, no,” held on to her until suddenly, without any effort, she wrenched herself free of his grasp, his arms seemed to wither, she simply broke free, as if everything had grown withered and weak, he didn’t know what to do with his arms, or his hands, and she got up off the bed and shook herself (the way Leopold did after he’d been swimming) and took a deep breath.

Her cheeks went scarlet when they fought like this. It wasn’t the blows that turned them red. He hadn’t hit her hard. She had hit harder. But he was afraid that one day he would hit too hard. He was not a man who hit women. But he was afraid that one day he would strike Siri and the blow would be irrevocable. But the red flush was not brought on by the blows. Her cheeks always turned scarlet when she got angry like this, looking as though she had clawed her face.

“You haven’t lifted a finger, Jon, to help me with this party.” She was shaking. “This party that I’m arranging while at the same time working at the restaurant. Would you like to know how it’s going? Are you interested? Have you actually worked lately? Or do you just sit there staring at your phone? Taking walks with the dog. And guess who was up most of last night, after coming home late from work, paying the bills? Are you at all aware that we receive bills, and that they get paid?” And then, in a perfectly normal voice, she added: “A life without you, Jon. I dream about it, you know. A life without you and those cold hands of yours.”

He had done everything he could to talk her out of it, but it did no good, and now the dreaded day had arrived. Jon looked out the window.

He peered down at Alma, Liv, and Milla out there picking flowers for the trestle tables. More than once Milla turned around and seemed to look straight at him; he closed his eyes, did not want to meet her gaze, even though he knew, of course, that there was no way that she, so far below and so far away, could see him standing there. And yet maybe she
did know after all. He had mentioned to her that sometimes, when he could not bring himself to sit still in front of his computer, he would stand at the attic window and look out across the meadow and the woods.