Encircling (20 page)
Authors: Carl Frode Tiller
When I opened my eyes and saw the landslide sweep past us – rather like a dog’s tongue slipping out of its mouth and reaching down to lap something off the ground – I instinctively grabbed hold of your arm and screamed in terror. I felt the earth beneath our feet kind of contract, once, then twice, and straight ahead of us, about four or five yards away, I saw the ground crack open with appalling speed, rather like a piece of clothing being torn apart. Great clumps of soil broke loose and toppled into the slide and the tree in which you and some of your chums had built a tree house complete with rope-ladder when you were about eleven, as part of the Red Indian camp you made out there, was left hanging more or less in mid air with its roots, like long fingers, scrabbling to gain a purchase and return to the ground in which only a moment ago they had lodged.
But the worst of it was, of course, that the landslide took with it the Holseth family’s new house. It was almost as if
we were looking at a painting of a house and someone came along, lifted the painting off the wall and carried it away. All of a sudden the house seemed to come adrift and sail off as we stood there gaping, following it with our eyes until it was no longer a house, but a pile of timber lying at the bottom of the slope, with boards and beams sticking out in all directions like potato straws in a bowl.
What we didn’t know, though, was that Ida Holseth was at home at the time and that, strictly speaking, only a wall prevented us from seeing her depart this life. The first we heard of this was when her husband got back from the shopping centre half an hour later and broke down completely in front of the whole neighbourhood. Only fifteen minutes after that, however, when the reporter from the regional television news asked us for our version of what had happened, you said that as the landslide swept past you heard laughter coming from the open living room window. You told this same story again a little later when we were interviewed for the local paper, and to all of the neighbours who came round, wanting to know what it had been like to experience the landslide at such close quarters. I hadn’t heard this alleged laughter and you hadn’t said anything about exactly how it had sounded but eventually, whenever I thought about the landslide, I seemed to hear a cold, shrill, hysterical laugh.
That same evening, up in my room, while Mum was hoovering the living room down below us, we shagged for the first time and I remember that as you came you let out a great groan that really seemed to come from deep in your stomach. I didn’t say anything about it, but I remember feeling a twinge of guilt afterwards, not because we had had sex, but because we had done it on the day that Ida Holseth died, and because I had the vague feeling that that in itself was
somehow disrespectful. But without knowing exactly why, I am also convinced that I would not have crossed the line and shagged you on that particular day had it not been for the Holseth Landslide and Ida’s death. What I remember most clearly, though, is that when I pulled your jeans down to your ankles and was able to take a close look at you, your balls reminded me of great tits and the way they puff themselves up in the winter. This inspired me, by the way, to write a poem entitled “Great Tits are Tiny Mouthfuls in the Snow”.
“Okay, so dinner next Sunday,” Trond says. “Talk to you then.” “Great,” I say. “Bye,” Trond says. “Bye,” I say, and I put down the phone and go back to the kitchen. I pour batter onto the waffle iron, close the lid and hear the soft sizzle as the batter is squeezed between the plates. A moment later I hear the front door open and then I hear Egil cough and I press the lid down a little harder and hear the sizzling increase.
“Hi,” Egil says behind me, in a voice designed to let me know that he’s tired, but I can’t be bothered giving him the sympathy he’s after, he’s never exactly attentive and supportive when I’m tired so I don’t feel like being that way for him. A moment passes and I still haven’t answered him, and I’m still standing with my back to him.
“Hi, I said,” Egil says, a little louder this time, and I turn and look at him. He’s standing there with his briefcase in his hand, his shoulders covered in stray hairs again, and I promptly turn away. “Hi,” I say, and I hear how tired my voice sounds, I sound far more tired than I actually am, sound much more tired than Egil. “What are you doing?” Egil asks. “Making waffles,” I say, but I don’t turn round, I keep my eyes on the waffle iron. “Now?” he asks and
I hear him shoot his watch out of his shirt sleeve and I know that he’s wondering what’s happened to dinner, and I say nothing about dinner being in the oven. “But it’s dinnertime,” he says and I can tell that he’s cranky and irritable and I feel myself getting cranky and irritable too. If only he knew how tired I’ve been feeling lately, maybe not quite so tired today, but he couldn’t possibly know that and he’s got no right to be cross. “Yes,” I say shortly and the moments pass and I still don’t say anything about dinner being in the oven. I pick up the butter knife, slip the finished waffle off the hotplate, then close the lid and turn to face him, and he’s standing there staring at me, looking cross and confused. “Well … er,” he says, shaking his head and widening his eyes. “So, what’s for dinner?” “Waffles!” I say, it just slips out, and I turn my back again and gaze down at the waffle iron. It sizzles and grey steam rises to the ceiling. “Ha-ha,” Egil says, in a way that says he doesn’t find this at all funny. “No, really,” I say and I hear what I’m saying and I don’t know why I say it, I just do, and I turn to face him, give him a rather cold, indifferent smile. “We’re having waffles,” I say, and I turn away again. “The kids aren’t here for dinner this evening,” I say. “So I thought we’d have something simple for once.” It sounds as if I mean what I’m saying and I realize I’m enjoying this. “Cut it out,” Egil says. “We’re not having waffles,” he says. “Yes, we are,” I say. “Really,” I say and I turn to him again and I look at him and I give him a cold, indifferent smile. “And anyway, I’m tired,” I say crisply, and a moment passes and I get a little kick out of being the first to say I’m tired. “I hardly slept at all last night and I can’t be bothered making anything fancy,” I say. “Yes, but we can’t have waffles for dinner,” Egil says. “Well, we have pancakes for
dinner,” I say. “Yes, but that’s not the same,” he says. “Oh, yes it is,” I say, “there are exactly the same ingredients in pancake batter as there are in waffle batter.” I hear what I’m saying and it strikes me that what I’m saying is actually true. “Eggs and milk and butter and a little sugar,” I say. “Stop it, Silje,” Egil says. “I don’t eat waffles for dinner,” he says. “Why not?” I ask, and I look at him, try to look a little puzzled, and he stands there searching for something to say, but he can’t think of anything to say, and I realize I’m enjoying the fact that I’ve got him stumped. “Well, you eat pancakes,” I say. “Yes, but pancakes and waffles are two different things, I tell you,” he says. “You put jam on both,” I say and I hear what I’m saying, and it’s true what I’m saying, I’m actually right, and I’m enjoying this more and more. “Yes, but …” he says. “And you put sugar on both,” I say. “Yes, but that’s neither here nor there,” Egil grumbles. “Waffles aren’t dinner,” he says, and I look at him and I realize it annoys me that he will not accept the idea of waffles for dinner but can’t say why not.
“If we can have pancakes for dinner, we can have waffles for dinner,” I say. “The only difference is the name,” I say. “They contain the same things and you have the same things along with them,” I say. “Oh, yes?” Egil says. “What about pea soup?” he says. “Would you have pea soup with waffles?” he asks, and I can tell from his voice that he’s pleased with this question. “I’ve never tried it, but I’m sure it would be good,” I retort. “It goes very well with pancakes after all,” I say and I hear what I’m saying and yet again I’m struck by the truth of what I’m saying and I look at him and he just stands there, lost for words, and yet again I get a kick out of having him stumped. A moment passes and then he gives a sigh. “Stop it,” he
snaps. “You’re not serious?” he says. “We’re not really having waffles for dinner?” he says, giving me a look of indignation and dismay, and I’m growing more and more annoyed, he hasn’t come up with one good reason for not having waffles for dinner and yet he’s so sure he’s right. “Yes,” I say, “we are having waffles for dinner,” and I look at him and he looks at me for a moment or two. Then: “Well, in that case you’ll be eating alone,” he says crossly, then he bends down, sets his briefcase on the floor with a loud thud. “I want a proper dinner,” he says, straightening up. A moment passes and it annoys me intensely that dinner is in the oven; if dinner hadn’t been ready and sitting in the oven I wouldn’t have given in on this. But: “I’m only kidding, Egil,” I say sulkily and I feel myself getting even angrier as I hear myself say it, I sort of have to admit that he’s right, even though he’s not right, and that is so annoying. “The waffles are for after dinner, with coffee, and dinner’s in the oven,” I say and after a moment or so I hear Egil give a little sniff and I turn and look at him and see how angry he looks, and I get a kick out of the fact that he’s as angry as he is, don’t feel quite so angry myself when I see that he’s this angry.
“Oh, don’t be angry,” I say, trying to sound a little less angry than I am, trying to make it seem that he’s the angry one here. “I’m not angry,” he says. “It was just a joke, Egil,” I say. “Yeah, yeah,” he says and I can tell by his face that he’s getting angrier and angrier and I realize I’m enjoying this more and more, and I raise my eyebrows, pretend to be dismayed that he should get so het up over such an innocent little joke and I look at him and give a little shake of my head. “For heaven’s sake, Egil,” I say, exasperated. “What?” he asks. “Well, I can tell that you’re
angry,” I say, and it feels so good to know that for once he’s angrier than me. “Would you stop saying that I’m angry,” he says. “Because if there’s one thing that will make me angry it’s that,” he says and he says no more and I regard him for a moment or two, then I give a despairing shake of the head and turn away.
“Can I switch off the lamps?” I hear Egil ask and I turn to look at him again and he’s pointing to the lamps in the living room and he’s giving me a look intended to let me know how hopeless I am, how thoughtless I am, having the lamps on when it’s light outside. “Well, can I?” he asks and I look at him and my annoyance grows, I grin, give a little shake of my head and turn back to the waffle iron. “Oh, all right, Egil,” I say. “You can switch off the lamps,” I say and my voice is almost soft when I say it. “I simply don’t see the point of having all these lamps burning in the middle of the day, when the sun’s shining straight into the room,” he says. “No, of course not,” I say and I hear how airy and indifferent my voice is, and I smile as I check the waffle, knowing full well that it annoys him all the more when I’m all smiles and indifference. “I’m sick and tired of reminding you about this,” he mutters, and I hear the little click as he turns off one light switch, then I hear him stride briskly across the room, hear the click as he turns off the other switch.
“Ah, but maybe that’s what your father used to do?” he says, right out of the blue and I hear what he says and the moment he says it I feel a surge of ice-cold fury and I turn round slowly and stare straight at him. “What?” I say, my eyes never leaving his face. “Well, isn’t that what you’re always saying?” he asks. “That’s what Papa used to do,” he says. “Papa always used to say that,” he says, and he
looks at me and I don’t take my eyes off him, and then it seems to dawn on him what he has said.
“Oh,” he sighs. “I’m sorry, Silje,” he says. “That was a horrible thing to say, I didn’t mean it,” he says, and I stare straight at him for a second or two, then I turn away without saying anything and a moment passes, then he comes over to me, puts his hands on my shoulder, and I feel those long, slender shopkeeper fingers of his closing gently over my collarbone. “Hey,” he says, and I can tell by his voice that he really is sorry for what he said. “Silje,” he says, then he pauses, but I don’t meet him halfway, I just stand there, smiling my cold, indifferent smile. “Silje,” he says again. “Yes, yes,” I say and my voice is cold and indifferent. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s okay,” I say, and I’m stiff and still and he runs his hand over my shoulder. “I didn’t mean it, honestly,” he says. “No, of course you didn’t,” I say. “Don’t be like that,” he pleads. “I’ve had a lot on my plate at the shop recently,” he says, “and Mum has been even more difficult than usual,” he says. “But I really didn’t mean to take it out on you,” he says. “No, of course not,” I say. “Silje, please,” he says. “Oh well, as long as you didn’t mean it, then that’s fine,” I say and I pause. “But if there’s a problem don’t you think it might be better to speak to your mother, rather than taking it out on me?” I say. “I know,” he says. “I just don’t have the heart to,” he says, and a moment passes and I grin and shake my head slightly at what he says. “It’s no more than I can handle,” he adds. “All right,” I say and I smile that cold, indifferent smile. “But I’m not sure she can handle being told that she’s no longer of any use,” he says. “That shop has been her whole life,” he says. “Yes,” I say with a little intake of breath. “Oh, Silje, come on, you understand, don’t you?”
he says. “Of course I understand,” I say and moments pass, then I hear Egil sigh, then I hear him walk back into the living room and I hear the faint creak as he sits down in the wicker chair.
A moment passes. Then: “So where are the kids?” Egil asks, and I can tell from his voice that he’s trying to unbend, but I’m not playing his game, I just stand here, don’t answer him. “Hmm?” he asks, and a moment passes. “They’re at a concert in the church,” I say. It just comes out and I hear what I’m saying, and I don’t know where I got it from, this concert, and I’m amazed at what I’m saying. “Oh?” Egil says, looking even more amazed than me. “What concert’s that?” he asks and I hear the rustle as he lowers the newspaper onto his lap and I can tell that he’s sitting there staring into space while he waits for me to answer, and a moment passes. “Something by Vivaldi,” is all I say and I hear what I say and I hear how genuine it sounds, and I’ve no idea where all this is coming from, where I got the idea of this church concert. “Gosh,” Egil says. “What?” I say. “No … it’s just that I didn’t know they liked that sort of music,” he says. “Ah, well,” I say. “I mean, Vivaldi – it’s not exactly what they normally play in their rooms,” he says and I hear what he says and he’s right in what he says, but he’s spent so little time at home recently that he can’t possibly know whether he’s right or not. “Oh, they do play classical music sometimes,” I say. “Do they?” he says. “I’ve never heard it,” he says. “No,” is all I say, and there’s silence and then I hear Egil sigh. “I know I haven’t been home much lately, Silje,” he says. “But I’ll make it up to you,” he says. “Fine,” I say. “Hey,” he says. “No, if you’re going to try to make it up to me that’s fine,” I say and I hear how spiteful I’m being and I lift the waffle iron
lid, pick up the butter knife, ease the waffle off the metal plate and place it on top of the other waffles.
