The Looking-Glass Sisters (11 page)

The sound of the scooter dies away. I am left behind in a green dress.

The crows settle on the window ledge and stare into the room. The dwarf birch presses its branches against the outer wall, listening.

I collapse into a chair. Sigh wearily. Life has received me with hands that were far too polished. I glided away, slid, slipped from the good things in life as soon as I had been born. That is why I find myself in this remote corner of limited possibilities. I get up, shake my fist at this life on crutches.

Home
University
, Vol. VI, ‘Man and Society’, in the margin, at the back of the book: ‘The crutches woman howls in the wilderness, screams to the sky, “This is bloody well more than enough!” The wild animals stop, prick up their ears, was that the sound of a human? But they slink on once more, it was nothing, only a murmuring of silence.’

From force of habit I totter into Ragna’s room, sit on her chair, on her bed, open boxes and cartons, look at clothes and jewellery, all the things she collects. The red underwear is still there – a nauseating smell comes up from the box, I don’t dare touch anything and quickly replace the lid. In a heap of magazines I spend a bit too long on a brochure with ladies’ clothes bargains, for when I go to put it back I notice Johan’s bag behind the door, the one he uses every Monday when he goes off to the village to do the shopping, to fetch and leave the post. I let out a small gasp of anxiety and enthusiasm – I must get a move on, the bag’s the only thing worth spending time on. I pull it towards me: its weight doesn’t surprise me, he’s going to spend the next few days here – the morning after the wedding too. The bag contains both his toothbrush and a change of clothing. I open all the fasteners and pockets, examine and scrutinize everything. There’s a knife and shaving things, a pack of cards and a calendar. And in a brown, worn envelope, along with some unpaid bills, there lies a letter addressed to the head nurse at the nursing home. The letter has been sealed and a stamp stuck
on. Ready to be sent on Monday, the second day of Ragna and Johan’s honeymoon.

There’s not much to be said about what I do now, except that it takes every ounce of my strength to fetch the implements I need to open the letter and carry out my criminal act without leaving the slightest trace: a damp cloth to moisten the glue, a sharp knife to unseal the letter, a sheet of blank paper to replace Ragna’s elegantly handwritten and painstakingly formulated application, an iron to flatten out all the creases and finally a little glue to seal the envelope again.

My whole body is shaking when I replace the letter in the bag. The physical overload is one thing. But the anxiety is worse. Can a blank sheet of paper, a thwarted application, prevent me from finally being sent away?

Left on the kitchen table lies Ragna’s treacherous composition, the sheet with her personal request to the head of the nursing home. I quickly read a few lines, I don’t need to read more, that’s enough. I tear the letter to pieces and toss them on the stove; a sudden flare and the pieces turn to ash in the embers that have been smouldering there since the morning.

‘…I simply can’t cope any longer… Now you will have to take my sister. I’m completely worn out. She has many aches and pains and there are more of them all the time… She’s not good-natured or grateful either… She belongs in a nursing home, I’m sure of that. Please fetch her, and as soon as possible. If not, you will end up having to take us both…’

Right, then, here’s the final confirmation of her treachery. In a way I feel relieved. The doubt and nagging suspicion and the never-ending search for evidence have now given way to certainty. The plan has been identified, and with a clear conscience I can direct my hidden artillery against the newly married couple.

I hear the procession at a great distance, the hot-tempered snow scooters plough a path through the wood – there must be three or four vehicles. I would guess at a party of five. From my seat at the window I see that I’m right. In addition to Ragna and Johan three men are standing outside the house. They seem to be calm and self-assured, so it’s probably not the Finns.

The guests move towards the entrance; the newlyweds stay standing by the scooters. They have their arms round each other. Ragna is leaning against Johan, who is clearly waiting for something to happen. I turn my gaze to the front steps, where I observe the three man take down the hoods of their scooter outfits and fish out hats from their inner pockets. They hold them between their hands while raising their chests towards the sky, inhale deeply and let out a roar of sound. It takes a few seconds before I realize they have started singing.

‘May God bless our precious fatherland…’ streams out from the steps, and Johan joins in with a loud voice.

‘…Let folk as brothers live as one, as does befit true Christians!’

Johan’s voice is surprisingly strong. I can’t help but be impressed by it – it is so melodious, resonating deep
within. I have to turn away. The voice tells of a power that appeals to me, one that is greater than the power that I know Johan possesses.

The front door opens: Johan and Ragna enter the house arm in arm, followed by the three men.

‘Dear sister, come and congratulate us! Now we are husband and wife!’

‘Like hell I will,’ I say from my post at the kitchen window.

I ought to have said something ingenious, barbed and double-barrelled, but I feel confused and insulted by the letter, the wedding and all the fuss with the singing, and that voice of Johan’s – why hasn’t she mentioned it before?

The scooter outfits have been hung up, we’ve given each other a cursory greeting – hands across the kitchen table, a nod from me to each of them. Old choir buddies of Johan’s, they relate, from the time when he lived out on the coast.

Ragna, the crooked catkin, stands there in the middle of the floor with her veil in folds. The men gather over by the oven, their hats are on, their chests swell, their mouths open up to the abyss within – a tide of sound streams up towards the ceiling.

It’s intensely powerful. The voices take up three different levels, merging into an amazing harmony, high and low notes coil around each other and intertwine, climbing to the heights, flinging themselves down surprising slopes.

I quiver and shake, it’s magic, pure seduction. I am borne aloft on the crests of waves that break, become soft and pliable. Tears fill my eyes. Where have they come from?

What an intoxicating conspiracy. I am abducted, already swept away from my rage. Stop! I cry out to myself, seize my crutches so as to stand up, go, protect myself against the lightness in the music.

The men look at me in surprise, their voices fall silent. I, too, stare at myself, down my dress, stockings, shoes. What have I done?

Ragna blushes, her nostrils flare and vibrate.

‘And now it’s time for some food!’ she urges, turning on her heel.

The candles are burning, Johan’s and Ragna’s rings take turns at catching the light. I’m sitting at the table eating like the others, while a lively conversation is taking place around me. The wine is beginning to have a noticeable effect. I feel a tickling in my chest, laughter and rage bubbling and heaving away, bursting and pressing. Soon the whole works will come trickling out. Best keep my trap shut, stay away from the wine and conversation.

The nature of the men becomes increasingly clear during their visit. All of them have been made from the same mould, fired according to the same recipe: hair in a thin wisp over the forehead, belly like a sack over the trousers. They carry themselves with the same assurance, have more self-confidence than Ragna, but I note that Ragna is more authoritative. Between their legs their penises dangle – their pride and joy, no doubt about that. Like Johan, the guests seem to think they are unseen and constantly clutch their crotch, grasp the bulge with their fists, heave it outwards.

Beneath my dress hang my unfondled breasts, in my crotch lies my jewel. Have they possibly considered laying siege to me, forcing a path into my virgin territory? I’m washed and clean, my hair’s been gathered into a knot, can I possibly arouse desire, do their eyes see a woman? I who have not shared saliva or juices with a living soul – what do I know about the playing of the sexes? But I have observed animals, how the ram lifts himself up, over and into the ewe, and have thought that it is impossible, impossible for me to behave with a man like that.

I can’t deny it: I have pushed my chair close to the table, a bit closer to the others, and am listening attentively to the hum of conversation about the old days, about life out on the coast and their time in the choir, about the trips to Sweden and Finland and their stay in the new Russia. Here one of them was apparently tricked by a beggar into parting with his shoes, while another got lost and was arrested by the police, and Johan, the seducer, dispatched women every single evening. The men toast again and nudge each other, wink at Ragna – that’s quite a guy she’s got herself.

Ragna nods and shakes her head. At one moment she’s by the stove, at the next by the table, knocking back wine in large gulps while piling meat and potatoes on to the guests’ plates. Her neck muscles strain like two taut strings, she is impassive and silent, hardly a word passes her lips, only the occasional cough or guffaw escapes her throat: small wisps of smoke from the fire that is always smouldering within.

I don’t like the food. The meat is tough with treachery, the gravy sour and thin with conspiracies. It is presumably the last meal we will share at this table, Judas wine,
Judas meal with Judas tastes – Ragna’s high treason at the polished pots and pans.

After a while my back starts to hurt – I can’t sit still for any length of time. A restlessness crawls up my neck, to my throat, tongue and palate. I feel an urge to rave, yes, let my hair down, throw my head back in a howl. Obviously everyone else notices my restlessness. The men don’t try very hard to engage me in conversation – they’ve got the message. The questions go via Ragna and only have to do with the meal. Would your sister like some more potato? More to drink? Wouldn’t she like some more gravy? Ragna grunts and mutters in reply. Johan sends me his watchful, menacing look, but I sit there still, behaving properly. I eat and drink, sit straight.

After the meal, the choir move over to the stove again, snap their fingers as an accompaniment to rhythmic, guttural sounds. Johan seizes Ragna, heaves her out on to the floor. Her lace crown has come away at the edges, her veil has gathered itself into a knot and bounces back and forth against her back. At last I can get up and find a place in a corner. From the periphery I watch the married couple’s unstable mating dance, their ritual celebration of the conspiracy in the home. I grin inwardly – there’s precious little in the way of control left. Ragna keeps on barging into Johan, who answers with jerks and shaky legs.

From the corner I also secretly watch the choir. Their bodies, the rhythm of their hands and feet, how they pull themselves up and flaunt themselves, with glazed looks and a smile around their lips. You would almost think there
were more of them in our tiny kitchen, and in response to that thought my gaze wanders round the room.

Can it really be me all of them are secretly addressing? My hands search for my crutches, I tremble, keep swallowing. I’m completely unused to attention, so what am I to do? It must be all the wine, for now I start banging the crutches against the floor, keeping time, rhythmically, I don’t have any choice in the matter, this is the only way I can respond to their concealed attention. I let my lips part cautiously in an attempt to smile, and immediately everything in me is flung wide open: windows, doors, shutter and vents let in roaring winds in great gusts. I am lifted, float in the air, forget my lamentable trembling body. What release. I am opened and open to everything that might take place this evening – for don’t I like all of them? Every single one? Just look at them, the men, snapping, smiling – I’m the one they’re singing to! I swing my body as best I can, supported by my crutches and the wall. I’m transported by their looks and my own thoughts; my hips, is it possible, I’m cautiously wriggling them – oh, God, how free I suddenly feel, here am I for real, flaunting myself! I suddenly see myself from the outside, cannot hold back the laughter building up in my chest, it’s bursting out, all the resentment and restlessness I have been storing the whole evening, now it’s welling up and pouring out of me.

Ragna and Johan stop suddenly. Their looks are hard and dark.

‘What the hell are you playing at? Can’t you behave like a civilized human being!’

Ragna is red-faced and het up, she stands in the middle of the floor with clenched fists, ready to defend morality as a newly married woman in her own home. I first think of pretending not to notice her, I’m still floating on a wave of happiness, but then I notice that the singing has died down; the men have formed a small cluster and are whispering, their backs are shaking, they are clearly trying to conceal the fact they are grinning and laughing.

The doors slam shut once more, the windows close. Something falls, heavily – well, it’s my own sudden freedom lying mangled at the top of my stomach. My eyes whirl, but I straighten up. What was I thinking of, no, I’ll never let myself be carried away like that again.

The men sit down at the table once more. Johan fetches a new bottle and fills the glasses. The conversation about this and that lags a bit. The mood is clearly somewhat strained. The choir give Ragna insecure looks and pretend not to see me.

I’m still standing in the corner, fiddling with my crutches, my back straight, head raised, but can’t help longing for my duvet and bed. The letter, Ragna’s treachery, and now the outrage in front of the choir – how much am I actually expected to be able to put up with?

Ragna shows signs of wanting to take control of the situation. The muscles in her neck tense and she tries to catch everyone’s eye. But when she finally opens her mouth she doesn’t start to talk about me, doesn’t say a thing about her resignation, all the hard work, how difficult I am. No, she explains away again. Once more we
get our story, disguised as a struggle between her and the new master race.