Astrid and Veronika (17 page)

The sky was white and there was no wind; the air was heavy and hot. Fitting weather for a funeral, Veronika thought. She had woken early, sweaty, and after a quick shower she had taken her coffee and sat down on the front steps. Her mobile phone lay beside her on the stone slab. She had rung nobody since she arrived in the village. Four months. But she had kept it charged, and every now and then she had erased the messages that had accumulated in the inbox. Holding it now in her hand she flicked to the saved messages. There were just three, the last one dated 1 November the previous year. The first was dated 6 July. Her birthday. She looked at the date, weighed the phone in her hand, but didn’t listen to the recorded message. Instead, she turned off the phone, stuck it in the pocket of her bathrobe and went inside to get ready for the day.

Astrid was sitting on the bench on her porch when Veronika walked up to the house. She wore a white shirt and navy trousers and she had a plastic carry-bag on her lap. They had decided they would walk down to the church unless it rained. Astrid rose as Veronika approached and arm in arm they strolled slowly down the hill. The sky hung heavy over their heads and the swallows flew low. They passed the shop, open but deserted. Punnets of strawberries on special were displayed on a table just outside, the sweet smell attracting insects. Crossing the river, they stopped briefly. Astrid looked down on the water below. The surface was dull and flat, like an oily skin over the dark, slow-moving mass. ‘It’s almost over,’ she said, looking across to the church.

The undertaker met them on the church steps, together with a short blonde woman. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and discreet grey tie, his colleague in a dark twopiece. He introduced the woman, then turned towards the open church door. ‘Follow me into the sacristy,’ he said, and held out his arm to Astrid. Veronika and the blonde woman followed. It was cool inside, but the air was stale, as if the room had been closed for a long time. The priest was young, not much older than herself, Veronika thought. He held his hands clasped as if in constant prayer, but it seemed to be a sign of nervousness rather than piety. He released one hand momentarily to greet Astrid. His eyes avoided Veronika’s.

As they walked into the church, Veronika noticed three elderly women in one of the pews towards the back, otherwise the church was empty. They walked up the aisle, the priest leading, Astrid following, leaning on Veronika’s arm, then the undertaker and his colleague. The coffin was a plain wooden one, and the only adornment was a small wreath of silver fir. On either side a waist-high wrought-iron candlestick held a lit candle.

Astrid sat in the front pew with Veronika by her side and the undertakers sat down behind them. The priest read the prescribed texts but made no attempt at a personal speech. To Veronika, the words seemed to disperse as soon as they left his lips, the syllables drifting apart and the meaning lost unto the dark silent spaces of the vast room. As he finished, the organ began to play, but Astrid remained seated. Her eyes were fixed on the coffin and her lips moved soundlessly. Then she put her arm on Veronika’s, prompting her to rise to let the old woman pass. On her own, Astrid walked up to the coffin and stood at the foot, her back to the pews. She looked frail and small, but her posture was confident, her back straight and her shoulders broad. Her head was not bowed in prayer, but tilted slightly upwards. Her lips moved, but Veronika couldn’t hear any sounds. Astrid remained motionless, apart from the continuous silent movement of her lips. Then she felt in the pocket of her trousers and seemed to remove something. Veronika saw the clasped hand and watched the old woman stretch out and place the object on the lid of the coffin. She kept her palm there for a moment, before turning and walking over to the pew where Veronika stood waiting. The two of them walked back down the aisle. As they passed the three women, Veronika could sense their eyes on their backs.

On the church steps they were joined by the priest and the two undertakers. Astrid stood a little to the side and it looked as if she was taking deep breaths of the humid air. Asked if she would attend the interment, she shook her head. The undertaker’s eyes rested briefly on the old woman’s face. He held his head cocked to the side, but said nothing. Instead, he stretched out his hand and said goodbye. He and his colleague returned inside together with the priest, while Astrid and Veronika walked down the church steps. They had stepped onto the gravel and were walking towards the gate when Astrid put her hand on Veronika’s arm.

‘Just a moment,’ she said, and turned and walked down the side of the church towards the cemetery. Veronika followed, unsure whether she should, her eyes on the old woman’s back. She watched Astrid reach the far end, near the stone wall, where she awkwardly kneeled, opened the plastic bag and took out a small posy of wild flowers. She laid them on the plaque in front of her. Then she leaned forward, stroking the flat plaque with her hand, and sat immobile with her hands on her thighs. Veronika slowly walked up and offered her hand. Astrid looked up, nodded and accepted the support. She stood, brushed off her trousers and twisted the plastic bag in her hands.

‘I gave back the ring,’ she said. ‘I should never have accepted it. And I shouldn’t have left it a lifetime to say the words. But now, it is finally over.’

Thirty-one. I am thirty-one years old, Veronika thought. She was in bed; it was Saturday. It was her birthday, the sixth of July. She looked at the light washing over the ceiling. It was still early, but the breeze that filtered in through the mosquito mesh covering the window was already the same temperature as the skin of her arm. She kicked off the sheet and turned onto her side, her hands between her legs. She was naked. She tried to recall the same morning a year earlier. In another world, another life.

 

‘Happy birthday, Veronika.’ She felt his lips against her thighs underneath the blanket. She pulled it over her head and reached for his face. He kissed her lips, then gently pushed her down against the pillow and let his lips walk over her chest and stomach. As she arched to accommodate him, she was overcome by a sense of joy so intense it splintered and burst into multicoloured fragments that filled the entire universe.

Afterwards, as she lay with her head on his chest, her damp hair plastered to his skin, she said, ‘It’s my birthday. My first birthday. This is where my life begins.’ She closed her eyes and smelled his skin. And she knew that births were like this — hot, smelly, dangerous, even life-threatening. Jubilant.

They spent the day doing all the things she had come to love. Hours in the art gallery, then browsing the little shops down High Street, stopping at her favourite bookstore, then coffee, two flat whites, which James had the waitress make sure had the milk swirled into a heart. She laughed, too, the waitress. He could make anybody laugh. It was as if even the weather did its best to make it her day. The sky was intensely blue, the air crisp, and when they sat down for lunch they picked a table out on the pavement. It was warm in the sun and James removed his jacket. He took off his sunglasses and looked intently at her.

‘This is how it will always be. Whatever happens, wherever we go, we will make sure this is how it stays. Until the day we die.’ He pulled a small green velvet pouch from his pocket. ‘Happy birthday, Veronika,’ he said and pushed it across the table.

She left it there, only stroked the soft material with her fingers. ‘Remember when you gave me the mobile?’ she said. ‘And I gave you nothing?’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘Self-interest,’ he said. ‘Pure selfishness. I just needed to know I would be able to reach you.’

‘Well, I have given you nothing.’ She looked into his eyes, her hand still fondling the velvet pouch. ‘So, I am giving you my next book. It’s all for you. For James with all my love. And it will be a book of love. It will contain all this.’ She made a gesture that captured the two of them, the café, the street beyond, the sky. ‘And I will make it so very beautiful.’ She took up the pouch and opened it. Inside was a piece of very dark, almost black greenstone. A rectangular piece, the size of a matchbox, but thinning at the middle, making the centre almost transparent. James stretched out his hand for her to place it on his palm. He lifted the stone and held it against the sun.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Look here. If you look with the right heart you can see the land. You can see the sea. The mountains, the skies. The people.’ He opened the clasp and leaned across to place the thin cord around her neck. ‘It’s yours,’ he said. ‘It’s all yours. All of this.’

 

A year ago. On the other side of the earth. In another life.

She opened her eyes and set them on the blind, which bounced gently in the morning breeze. It was early, but she sat up and bent over to pull out the drawer of the bedside table. She removed the small velvet pouch and opened it. The greenstone slid out and landed on her lap. She held it up against the soft light, then tied it around her neck. One hand still around the smooth stone, she took out her mobile phone. Turning it on, she placed it on the bedside table. She walked across the floor to the window, pulled up the blind and stood there looking, her hand still around the greenstone. The summer was at its peak, bursting with exuberance. The high grass was mixed with bluebells and daisies, the leaves of the birches a rich, saturated green. She could hear the swallows that were nesting above, just underneath the roof, the fledglings ready to fly any day now.

They had agreed to leave while the morning was still fresh, before the midday heat, but it was still a while before she had to start getting ready. She pulled on the red bathrobe and went downstairs to make coffee. Mug in hand, she opened the front door. On the doorstep there was a white plate with a timothy straw of small bright-red wild strawberries. Veronika sat down and took the straw in her hand. She held it up and smiled, put it close to her nose and smelled it, before slowly pulling off a berry and putting it in her mouth. She ate them all, one at a time, and let the sweetness stay on her tongue while her bare feet sat on the morning-moist grass. The distant sound of a woodpecker cut through the drowsy morning, otherwise all was still. She had come to treasure these mornings on the steps. Each was a new beginning, a clean slate. She drifted closer to the surface day by day, and the light grew.

Dressed and ready to leave, she stopped herself and went upstairs. She returned with the mobile, which she pushed into the pocket of her small backpack.

For the first time since they met, Astrid was wearing a skirt. The dark-red fine wool reached her ankles as she rose from the bench and walked towards the gate. She wore flat black shoes and a white short-sleeved blouse. Veronika noticed she wore earrings, small white pearls. She carried an old-fashioned wicker basket, the kind you would use for picking berries or mushrooms.

Veronika had booked lunch at a small pension in a neighbouring village, where the food was said to be very good. They would drive through the village on their way to the city, then return the same way and stop to eat.

‘I like driving,’ Veronika said. ‘I never really knew that, until recently. This is the first time in my life I have had a car of my own. Though of course it isn’t really mine, it’s rented. But I think of it as mine. And I think of it rather like a pet. When I take it for a ride, it’s like taking a dog for a walk.’ She smiled and patted the steering wheel.

The road was dry and empty; the radio played popular music. They drove slowly and were overtaken a few times. Astrid took a bag of sweets from her basket and held it out for Veronika to help herself.

‘In one place where I lived with my father he had a driver called Muhammad,’ Veronika said. ‘He was illiterate, but my father only discovered this when he wanted to let him go. The other staff petitioned on the old man’s behalf when they heard. Muhammad had four adopted children, and one of them was still to finish university. Illiterate and old, Muhammad would never find a new job. When my father heard, he immediately gave in and Muhammad stayed and drove us until we left.’

Veronika had her eyes fixed on the road. She pulled her hair away from her face with her left hand. ‘My father is a gentle, kind man.’ She threw a quick glance at Astrid. ‘I have spent more time with my father than with anybody else. Yet when I look at him now, as an adult, I am not so sure I know him. I know he is kind, I know he is gentle. I know what he likes to read, what music he enjoys, what sports. But I don’t know what he thinks. I don’t know him as a person. Just as my father.’ Her right hand on the steering wheel moved, the fingers tapped and the hand clasped and released.

Just then the mobile rang. But the bag was in the back seat and when Astrid made an attempt at reaching for it, Veronika put her hand on the old woman’s arm and shook her head. ‘Let it ring,’ she said. ‘I’ll check it later.’

They drove through drowsy villages where the rusty-red wooden houses with white trims sat surrounded by flowerbeds and bright green lawns. They saw few people; it was still early. There were long stretches where the road ran along the river, which was wide and still, a peacefully meandering metallic waterway, reflecting the blue sky.

They reached the city just before ten and found a carpark outside the domed shopping mall. There was still a little time to go before the shops opened so they decided to take a stroll in the park across the street while they waited. When they saw the doors open they returned and went inside. Seemingly the only early shoppers, they walked slowly past shop windows where the displays looked as drowsy as the city itself. The summer clothes and holiday articles seemed a little faded, as if covered in light dust, resignedly waiting to be dismantled to make room for next season’s displays.