Astrid and Veronika (14 page)

‘We could live here all our lives,’ James said. ‘With our kids, cats and dogs.’

‘Kids?’ I said, and it surprised me how absolutely comfortable I felt with the thought of children. Our children.

‘Our children,’ he said, bending over to kiss my stomach before pressing his ear against the skin. ‘Here — this is where we will plant them,’ he said. ‘Our children.’

I closed my eyes and rested my head against the wall, running my fingers through his hair.

‘I want everything to be just like this, always,’ he said moving his hands to my legs, running his palm along my thighs, shins. ‘I love you,’ he said and my body listened with every cell.

And as the sun sank below the hill behind us the city lost its colours to the falling night. The sound of innumerable invisible cicadas closed in and the air was streaked with the fragrance of equally invisible flowers, and we became one, with each other and with the surrounding night. Afterwards, as we lay on the floor, my eyes looked up into the soft darkness above, where unfamiliar stars flickered. My head rested on his shoulder with my nose tucked into the space just below his ear. I breathed the smell of his body and I stroked the skin of my stomach with my hand. And I thought of the children I knew we would have.

The sky had cleared completely and the grassy area where the midsummer celebration was now at its peak lay washed in the bronze of the evening sun. Clouds of mosquitoes followed the dancers around the maypole, conducting their own intricate airborne dance over the heads of the people. The music from the violins and the accordion blended with the sound of invisible crickets, the occasional cry of a small child. There was laughter from shadowy groups of young people which seemed to mushroom at the fringes of the open area, near the obscurity of the dark trees beyond.

‘Shall we walk back?’ Veronika said. Astrid nodded and accepted both Veronika’s hands to help her stand. They walked arm in arm along the river for a while, then left the bank and continued on the unsealed road towards the church. The odd car and moped passed by.

‘I have some herring and gravlax,’ Astrid said. ‘Would you like to share a light supper with me when we get back?’ Veronika tightened her hold on Astrid’s arm a little as she answered.

‘I would love to.’

They carried on, a solitary couple walking against the flow, away from the festivities. The potato fields lay lush and green on either side of the road, the plants earthed up and the white flowers opening. As they approached the church, Astrid slowed her steps. ‘There is something I need to do here,’ she said, indicating the church. They walked up the gravel path and Astrid led the way along the side of the building into the churchyard behind. She walked up to the largest headstone. It lay in semi-darkness, now that the low setting sun was obscured by the church building.

The tall, dark headstone sat in the centre of a grassy square, fenced with a heavy iron chain attached to poles at the four corners. A miniature willow with dark purple foliage leaned towards the headstone on one side. There were no flowers. The headstone itself was polished black granite and the inscription stated that it was the Mattson Family Grave.

‘Karl and Britta were my grandparents,’ Astrid said, her eyes on the first set of names on the stone. ‘As you can see, they died within a year of each other. My grandfather bought the grave for perpetuity — the same as his intention when he built the house. A house for life, a house for death. Both the grandest in the village. My father, Karl-Johan, is the only other person buried here.’ Astrid shifted her stance and leaned a little more heavily on Veronika’s arm.

‘My mother was buried in Stockholm. I have never seen her grave.’ She was silent and the noise from the distant midsummer festivities floated on the air. ‘Now I will bury the last person in this grave. My husband. And then it will be sealed for ever.’

Astrid turned and pulled Veronika with her. They walked slowly over to the other side of the churchyard, near the stone wall. There were no headstones here, just small plaques embedded in the grass. Astrid stopped and knelt awkwardly, holding on to Veronika’s hand. She wiped the plaque in front of her with the palm of her hand.

‘This is where I buried my daughter Sara,’ she said. ‘And this is where I will rest.’ She indicated the empty space to the left. ‘This is our house.’

The two women sat in silence. Veronika brushed away the odd mosquito from her face. Finally, Astrid moved to stand. ‘I thought you should know,’ she said. ‘I wanted you to see where my daughter is.’ She took Veronika’s arm again. ‘And I wanted you to know where I will be.’

They walked back out onto the road. The light was warm, like the air. They could still hear the music in the distance. ‘The flowers. You must pick your midsummer flowers,’ Astrid said as they turned onto the road up the hill. ‘Let’s see if we can find them all.’

They took their time, leaving the road and walking in knee-high grass where the dew was beginning to set. They found bluebells, violets, red clover, timothy grass, lily of the valley, meadow saxifrage.

‘I have six — only one more,’ Veronika said. ‘And I really should have a yarrow.’ She bent down over a patch of the insignificant white flowers, with their light medicinal smell, and picked one. ‘That’s it. I have seven now,’ she said. As they again stepped onto the unsealed road they each had a small posy of seven flowers. They wandered slowly home, Astrid panting a little.

As they stopped by Astrid’s gate, Veronika put her arm on the old woman’s. ‘Let me get some wine,’ she said. ‘I’ll put these under my pillow, too. Just so I don’t forget later tonight.’ Astrid nodded and opened the gate.

When Veronika returned a little later, she had two bottles of wine, one under her arm and one in her hand, and a small portable CD player in the other. Astrid was washing new potatoes in the kitchen sink. On the table, her small posy sat in a glass. ‘Mine doesn’t belong under my pillow,’ Astrid said. ‘No more dreams for me.’

Veronika put the bottles on the table and then connected the CD player. ‘I thought you could keep this,’ she said. ‘I usually play my music on my laptop.’ Astrid turned and looked at her, a potato in one hand and the small brush in the other. ‘I wasn’t sure what music you like, so I brought a few. This here is Brahms.’

As the music from the small box filled the room, Astrid stepped away from the sink and slowly sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, potato and brush still in her hands and water dripping onto her lap. ‘What is it?’ she asked quietly. ‘This music, what is it?’

Veronika looked at the old woman, taken aback by her reaction. ‘It’s the sonata for violin and piano, No. 3 in D minor,’ she said. As the first notes of the second movement sounded, Astrid put the potato and brush on the table in front of her and folded her hands in her lap.

‘My mother used to play it so often I knew every bar. But it’s been so long. Such a long time of silence.’ She closed her eyes and seemed to listen intently.

When the last movement finished, Astrid looked up. ‘And there is the hoya,’ she said, her eyes on the potted plant on the windowsill. The long stems framed all of one side of the window, carrying clusters of pink flowers. ‘The first flowers just opened the other day. Have you seen the buds? So hard, polished like pearls. You would never think they could contain such velvety softness. Such sweet perfume.’ She looked at Veronika. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s the music. It’s been over seventy years since I heard it. Yet it comes back to me now and I realise it was always there. In my heart. All these years I have had it, here, inside, without knowing.’ She put her palm on her chest, leaving a wet spot on her shirt. ‘My mother used to play it on her gramophone. And the second movement was her favourite. She would play it again and again, telling me to listen carefully, because she said the music contained all the beauty in the whole world. She would sit me on her lap and I would put my ear to her chest and it was as if the music came from inside Mother’s body.’ Astrid stretched out her hand for the potato. ‘Can you please play it again?’ she said as she stood and returned to the sink.

And with the Brahms sonata filling the kitchen, they went about preparing their midsummer dinner.

 

Later, they sat by the table with the window open to the summer night. Astrid had lit a mosquito coil on the windowsill and a thin trail of smoke drifted towards the ceiling. The smoky smell blended with the sweet honey perfume of the hoya.

‘Can you please play the second movement again, Veronika,’ Astrid said. ‘Just once more.’ She stretched out her hand and let her fingers touch the midsummer posy in the small vase on the table. She kept her eyes on the flowers as the music swelled again.

Veronika sat leaning against the back of her chair, eyes closed, turning her wine glass in her hand. Both women remained still after the music finished. Then Astrid withdrew her hand from the flowers and looked up.

‘I killed the music,’ she said. ‘And I killed my child.’

I died that summer night.

I sat in the grass at the back of the house with my baby in my arms. The white clover smelled of honey: it was the time in the afternoon when it is easy to drowse and slip into light summery dreams. I fed my baby until she fell asleep on my breast. Her lips let go of the nipple and her head tipped backwards a little on my arm. Her mouth was slightly open with a thin trail of milk at the corner. I wiped it away with my finger. I ran my little finger over her soft gums and felt the tips of the two new teeth, like embedded grains of rice. Her eyelids were closed, the finest film over her black eyes. They fluttered now and then and her lips quivered in fleeting secret smiles.

When I heard his steps on the front porch I stood and walked away downhill over the meadow. I held her in my arms and talked to her. I pointed out the flowers, the bees, the swallows high above. I held her close to my chest and I could feel her lips against my skin.

I headed towards the river, but then changed my mind and walked uphill again. The high grass rustled against my legs. I whispered to her that the bluebells were just opening. I walked with her in my arms over the meadows and into the forest. The light was gentle and the air still underneath the branches, and it smelled of resin. The soft moss silenced my steps. We passed the large granite block but I didn’t stop. I had nothing to pray for this time. When I reached the clearing I sat down on the silken grass where the wild strawberries had just opened their white flowers. I rocked her gently while I sang her all my lullabies. I made her comfortable on my lap, with her head resting on my thighs and her feet against my stomach. Her hands held my fingers in a tight grip and I looked into her black eyes. I bent forward, put my lips to her forehead and blew softly, then let them brush over the crown of her head, touching her heartbeats through the downy membrane.

When the sun dipped behind the wall of trees we lay down on the grass. The air was beginning to cool and I could hear the sounds of the approaching night. The hushed rustling of leaves as invisible animals began to stir. My baby slept in my arms, her breath so soft I had to put my ear to her mouth to feel it.

Then I put my hand over her face and the white night swallowed us.

Afterwards, I sat with her body in my arms, rocking. I screamed into the night until my voice broke. Then all was still.

With the first morning sun I walked back to the house with her body in my arms. I went upstairs into the bathroom and undressed her. Her body was light on my arm and her skin so white. I washed her with water from my cupped hand. Droplets fell into the pool of water in the hand-basin, like tears. When I had finished I wrapped her in a soft bath towel, walked into the bedroom and took out her baptism gown. I dressed her and brushed her wet hair. I held her close and touched her hair with my hand. When I put my lips on her head all I could smell was the faint perfume of the soap.

I put her in her bed and smoothed the blanket. Then I went downstairs and into the kitchen where my husband sat at the table.

‘Your child is dead,’ I said.

And afterwards there was only silence.

Astrid’s face was ashen. Though her eyes were dry, they reflected such grief that Veronika had to avert her own eyes. She rose, walked around the table and gently pulled Astrid to her feet. She embraced the old woman, held her tightly in her arms while she whispered softly in her ear.

‘Oh, Astrid,’ she breathed. ‘My dearest, dearest Astrid.’ She let her hand stroke the old woman’s hair, then pulled back a little and looked into her eyes. With a sudden inhalation, Astrid turned around to face the window, and with her hands over her mouth she tried to stifle the sound that came from her lips. A cry of such enormous pain it seemed unbearable. Unbearable to release, and unbearable to hear. Unconsciously, Veronika’s hands rose and covered her ears for a moment, before they moved to her mouth in an attempt to silence the sounds of her own crying. Then she moved forward until her body was just behind Astrid’s and she embraced the old woman from behind. They stood by the window, closely together, while the sun rose and threw its first rays across the table, where the midsummer flowers sat in the small vase.

Astrid’s uncontrollable sobs slowly turned into a gentle rocking of both their bodies. Eventually, Astrid stretched out a hand, groping for the back of her chair. Veronika let go of her shoulders and they both sat down.

‘Since that night, I have never once allowed myself to cry for my daughter,’ Astrid whispered. ‘Not when she was buried. Not on her first birthday. Never.’ She put her hands over her mouth, as if trying to stop the flow of words. When she let them sink back onto the table she opened her mouth again. ‘And I never cried for myself, either. For the little girl who was me. Or for the young woman I grew up to become.’ Astrid paused. ‘If there is no comfort to be had, tears have no purpose.’