Memory of Love (9781101603024) (10 page)

12.

I opened my eyes and noticed immediately that Ika was no longer in the hammock. It swung empty in the light wind and I felt a moment's rush of panic. Where had he gone? Then I heard the music. He was inside, playing the piano. I listened for a moment and the flowing sound felt comforting. He wasn't going to run away. Not today. I had no way of knowing what he was thinking, but I knew that the only way for me to come to understand him a little was to give him time. Give us both time.

When I thought about my own memory of leaving home, the child's natural egocentricity struck me. I remembered only myself. My own despair. My utter loneliness, my grief. The overwhelming sense of hopelessness. And my total acceptance. But my mother was outside, distant.

Why had she suddenly decided to bring me into her life? I knew she was my mother of course. But the word mother had no meaning. I had no memory of missing her, longing for her. I had only seen her during brief visits at long intervals. She had never been a part of my life, nor had I been a part of hers. There was so little I knew. My grandfather rarely talked about my mother. When he did, it was just to give me little snippets of her present life, never anything about who she was. He would tell me she would be coming to visit the following week. That she had landed herself a new film role. That we should be proud of my beautiful mother. But it always felt so distant. As if she lived in another world that had no relevance to us or our lives in the village.

Instinctively I knew that it had been important to her, though. Claiming me and taking me with her to Stockholm seemed to be essential for her. And the look she gave Grandfather across the table as she took my hand was one of triumph. Much, much later, when I revisited my grandfather's village on one of the islands in the Åland archipelago, I stumbled across information that gave me some clues to Mother's need to prove herself as a mother. My mother. But by then it had no relevance. Or perhaps it did, in a way. Perhaps it was given to me to help me to find a place for my mother in my life's story.

Back then, as a miserable seasick six-year-old, I resigned myself to my new life, and I closed the door to what had been my life until then. I saw my grandfather only twice after that, and somehow his world had already slipped out of my grasp by then. Also, by then it was taking all my effort just to survive in my new environment. In my mother's world. I simply could not allow myself to hold on to the memories.

I wondered how this big step felt for Ika. I wanted him to understand that the door to
his
other world would remain open. That he was free to live in both worlds, on his own terms.

Besides, I had to accept that this was a temporary arrangement. I had no guarantee that I would be allowed to keep him with me. One day at a time, I thought. One day at a time.

The music stopped and I stood and cleared the table. It was time for our first proper walk together.

It was the day we started the project. The first day.

‘I think you should make a big one. On the beach.' Ika was standing on the deck with his eyes on the sea.

‘What do you mean?' I said.

‘A big one like the ones you make inside.'

‘An artwork?'

He nodded, but didn't turn.

‘A really big one. So big you can only see it from above.'

What did he mean?

‘But if I make it that big I can't see it while I am working on it,' I said. ‘I won't know what I'm doing. Even with the ones I make here it's sometimes hard to see the whole thing and get the proportions right.'

‘I can see it for you,' he said.

I wasn't sure what he meant, and I wasn't sure how to respond.

‘Okay,' I said after a moment's silence. ‘I'll try. If you help me.'

He said nothing.

‘We'll need a lot of material,' I said.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Let's go.'

And that was how we started.

I didn't quite understand what we were setting out to do, but the idea seemed to grow on me. We began to collect material and intuitively we picked more substantial things. Rocks that were so heavy I could only carry one at a time. Large pieces of driftwood. Feathers that we tied together into long ribbons. We created several stashes along the beach for the heavy material while we kept searching for the right location.

A couple of weeks later Ika asked me to follow him down to the beach. We walked further than we usually did, to a place where a small river forked before it reached the sea. The large stretch of sand between the two arms of the river was packed hard, and the surface was smooth.

‘Here,' he said, his eyes on the space. I could see what he meant. It was perfect. Well out of reach of the high tide. It wouldn't be permanent of course, but here it would last a long time.

‘Perfect,' I said. And Ika gave me one of his rare half-smiles, fleeting and without eye contact. It was almost as if he were mocking me. I had come to treasure those taunting little smiles, so quick that they were easy to miss.

‘Let's mark it,' I said. There were some rocks further up the beach and I walked there and collected one. I placed it on one side of the flat surface of the sand. Ika shook his head and pointed a little further to the side.

‘Here,' he said. I diligently moved the rock. We placed another three large rocks, one at each corner of the sandy canvas, and each time Ika directed me to the exact spot. When we were done he stood watching the space with his eyes screwed up. I stood beside him taking in the view too. And I was filled with a sense of excitement. Slowly, ideas began to take shape, and I could almost imagine what we were going to create.

‘It will be wonderful,' I said, trying to control my urge to hug him.

Ika nodded.

‘Isn't it wonderful?' Mother says as she opens the door to the room. Marianne instinctively knows some response is required but she is so tired. So very tired.

‘It is your own room, Marianne,' Mother says. But she already has a room in Grandfather's house, doesn't she? She doesn't want this big room with its big bed and strange smell. But she doesn't want to cry, so she says nothing.

They have arrived in a taxi. There are houses everywhere – big houses so high you can't see the sky. Lots of cars, and lots of people. They live in a big house in Karlavägen. Number 63, on the fourth floor. They haven't walked up the stairs but have taken the elevator. She will have to remember all these things. But right now she is so tired.

When she has had a bath and changed her clothes, Mother takes her by the hand and leads her around the apartment. It is very big and the ceiling is very high. She doesn't want to be here alone, ever. When they stop by the window in the living room she can see cars moving along the street far below. She feels a pang in her stomach again.

‘This is our TV, Marianne,' Mother says, and points to a box on a table in the corner of the small room beyond the living room. ‘You will enjoy this.' Marianne doesn't understand what she means but she asks no questions.

Just then there are steps in the hallway and a man appears in the doorway.

He is old. He looks older than Grandfather, though he is very nicely dressed. He has no hair and the light from the chandelier reflects on the pale skin at the top of his head.

‘Aha, this must be Marianne,' he says, looking down on her with his arms folded.

‘Marianne, this is Hans,' her mother says. She pauses a little as if unsure how to continue. Then she says: ‘My husband.'

Hans stretches out his hand but he doesn't move any closer. She has to walk up and take it. It is such a small hand, not at all like Grandfather's. It is soft and smooth and it holds her hand in a tight grip for too long. Because she doesn't know where to turn her gaze she stares at their joined hands. The nails on Hans's hand are long and they shine in the light from the lamp. It looks like a woman's hand, she thinks. She can smell his perfume. And when he finally bends forwards and opens his mouth she catches another strong, sweet smell. She would like to turn away but she can't do that. Her stomach tightens and she holds her breath.

‘Let's hope we'll be very happy together,' he says. ‘Anneli has been waiting for this for such a long time.' He looks at Mother and he's not smiling. Nor is Mother.

Later they have dinner in the kitchen.

‘This calls for champagne!' Hans says, and opens a large bottle. The cork pops with a bang and hits the ceiling, where it leaves a small mark. Hans laughs.

They have strange food that she has never had before. Prawn cocktail, Hans says. Pale pink things that smell like fish, in a strange pink sauce. Her stomach knots and she holds back an urge to retch. She holds her fork and pokes around in the glass bowl, but she doesn't eat anything. Hans and Mother don't seem to notice. Now they smile and smile. And they drink from high delicate glasses – Hans more than Mother.

Mother has poured her an identical glass from another bottle. When she tries to balance the glass and take a sip, it seems to go straight up into her nose. She struggles to swallow and her eyes fill with tears. But they don't notice this either. Hans talks and Mother listens. She smiles and nods and her fingers play with a strand of hair. She looks very beautiful in the soft light.

‘God, you're beautiful, Anneli,' says Hans and reaches for Mother's hand across the table. Mother smiles and lets him caress her hand where it lies flat on the table.

‘Your looks. My talent and my contacts. Unbeatable. We'll go far,' Hans says. ‘The world is at our feet!'

Then he turns to Marianne.

‘Your mother will be world-famous, Marianne! Let's drink to that! Cheers!' And they raise their glasses, all three of them.

Later, Mother sits on Marianne's bed and strokes her hair.

‘Sleep well, Marianne. I know it is all new and very different. But you will grow to like it. Life here in the city is so exciting. So much to do, so much to see.'

She looks at Mother's face. It feels as if it is burning behind her eyelids, but she doesn't know what to do, what to say. So she lies still and silent, on her back with her hands underneath the cold sheet. Mother runs her hand over the edge of the blanket but she doesn't bend down. Perhaps she doesn't know what to do either. They stay like this, in silence, for a long time.

‘I have wanted this for so long, Marianne,' Mother says finally. ‘It was just never possible before. Not till I met Hans.' Mother doesn't look at her, but towards the window. Somehow it feels as if Mother is talking to herself. Then she turns her head and looks down at Marianne. ‘Hans is kind. You will come to love him.' She nods slowly, as if to make the words penetrate. Whether into Marianne or herself is not so easy to know.

‘We will be like a family, Marianne.'

She says ‘like' a family.

13.

I
t is strange how quickly we fall into routines. Begin to take things for granted. After a couple of weeks it was as if we had always lived together, Ika and I. And always would.

We organised a room of sorts for him. I cleared out the things I had stored in one of the wardrobes in the bedroom, and then we spent a day removing the back wall to make it open into the lounge. It was a deep space, intended to contain two double wardrobes opening from opposite sides, I think. Closing the door to my bedroom and opening it on the lounge side, it became like a little cave, just wide enough for a narrow bed and a chair. Before furnishing it, I asked Ika what colours he would like his room to be. He didn't reply straight away and I wasn't sure if he had understood.

‘Come,' I said, and nodded for him to follow me into the kitchen. From my piles of things on the bookshelf along the wall in the dining area I pulled out a colour chart I had picked up from the paint shop in town several months earlier. We sat down at the table and I pushed the chart over to him. He didn't seem excited, but then I had never really seen him excited. I was slowly trying to learn the subtle signs of emotion that he did demonstrate. Now, there were none that I could discern. He turned the pages slowly, seemingly without much interest.

Then, ‘This,' he said suddenly, and pushed the leaflet back across the table.

He had picked a soft pale green, like the underside of olive leaves. For some reason his choice surprised me and sent a wave of emotion through my body.

‘That is a lovely colour, Ika,' I said. ‘It will make your room very beautiful.'

Next day after school we went to the paint shop and had the paint mixed for us. We also bought a bedspread a darker shade of green and a small striped mat. Ika insisted on holding the bags on his lap all the way back.

Painted and furnished, the small sleeping space looked very inviting. We hung a white sheet on a wire across the opening and I made a tieback from braided linen strips and showed Ika how he could use it to hold the curtain open.

He stood quietly looking at the result.

‘Happy?' I asked.

He didn't respond. After a little while he went inside and pulled the curtain closed behind him. I heard him lie down and I went around to my bedroom where I tapped on the closed door of the former wardrobe. I waited. Eventually there was a soft tapping in response.

I smiled and went over to my bed.

Marianne's room is an alien world where she lives, but which never quite feels like her own. As time passes, everything becomes familiar in a way, but she never stops to consciously take in every detail. The smells. How the parquet feels under her bare feet. How the wide marble ledge along the window feels as she lets her hands run over it – smooth and cold at the same time. It never feels right to lie down on the pink bedspread. Not even to sit on it. When it has been folded back at night she slides into the bed that still feels foreign to her. She gets no comfort from it, no warmth. It is as if her body wants nothing to do with any of these things. It keeps holding back, and it feels as if she cannot breathe properly here. At Grandfather's she had never been conscious of the look or feel of anything in particular. She had been one with all that surrounded her there. But that world no longer exists. All she has now is this. Nothing here belongs to her, and she doesn't belong here.

Here in this quiet world there is no time. There is no next day. Just an endless now. She lives here now. But it still happens that she wakes up and for a second she has no idea where she is. Then a faint hope rises from deep inside her. And before she is able to stop it, she has a notion of something else. A memory of another place, another time. But this happens more and more seldom.

She slowly learns how to find her way around – in the apartment and in the nearby surroundings. Sundays they often walk to Djurgården: Mother, Hans and Marianne. The best days are the rainy ones, because then they might stop and visit the large museum that looks like a fairytale palace. There is one display in there that she likes the best. It has windows and you can look through them into different rooms, all with tables set for dinner. You can stand and watch with your head close to the glass and imagine the people who will eat there. The best room has a large beautiful table covered with a white tablecloth, and with candlesticks and vases with flowers. In the centre of the table there is a swan, its wings slightly opened, as if it has just landed. If she stands there quietly with her forehead resting against the glass she can sometimes imagine how happy they will be, the people who will soon sit down on the chairs and open the folded napkins. How they will talk and laugh while they eat their nice dinner.

They rarely have guests at home. Most evenings, Marianne has her dinner alone at the kitchen table, because Hans and Mother eat out, in a restaurant.

‘Put on something nice, Anneli,' Hans calls out as he steps through the door such evenings.

Before they leave, Mother comes to say goodnight. Then she is beautifully dressed and her perfume is sweet and strong and drifts around the entire bedroom. Marianne can almost see it. Sometimes she reaches out to try and capture it in her hands, but when she puts her hands to her face she can smell nothing.

Some evenings Mother and Hans bring guests home with them when they return, but these guests don't come to eat. It is late, and Marianne has been in bed for hours, but she always wakes up when she hears the front door open. It sounds different when they bring guests. Happier. And she listens as they turn on the music, hears them talk, sing and laugh, and the glasses chink.

The girls come and go. The babysitters. Some often enough to become real people. Like Annette who lets her sit on the sofa in the living room and watch television until late. Annette wants to be a movie star and Hans has told her he will try to help her. If she looks at Annette and squints a little, Annette is almost as beautiful as Mother. But when she looks properly she can see that Annette's blonde hair is dark near the scalp, and her teeth are crooked. Annette says she needs to lose weight, but as soon as the front door has closed behind Mother and Hans she goes to the kitchen and opens the fridge to see what's there. Mother always puts out a bowl with nuts and sweets for Annette, but Annette still checks the fridge. And when she finds an opened bottle of wine in there she pours herself a glass. Marianne has to promise not to tell anybody. Then they sit together in front of the TV. Marianne doesn't much like TV, but she likes to sit there with Annette and feel like a grown-up person.

One evening when Mother and Hans return, Mother comes into her room to whisper goodnight as usual. Marianne lies with her eyes closed. She can never be sure whether Mother thinks she is asleep, but it doesn't matter. This is what they always do. Mother tiptoes across the floor in her stockinged feet, and bends forwards and whispers goodnight. She never waits for an answer, but turns and leaves as quietly as she has entered, pulling the door closed behind her. But this evening she stops on the way out. She stands by the half-open door with her hand on the door-handle. It's dark in the bedroom but the hallway beyond is bathed in warm yellow light. Mother stands absolutely still just inside the bedroom door. It is strange. Why is she standing there? So still. Marianne cautiously shifts her head a little off the pillow, and she can see into the hallway. And there is Annette with her back against the front door and Hans very close to her. She can only see his back and a little of Annette. She can see how Hans tilts Annette's face upwards with his fingers under her chin, while his other hand pulls up her shirt a little and then slides inside. Then he bends forwards and it looks as if he is kissing her. All is very quiet and she can hear the sound of the cars driving past far below in the street.

Finally Mother moves, but instead of leaving the room she walks back to Marianne's bed and sits down. Marianne keeps her eyes closed and Mother says nothing. She just sits there. When Marianne eventually opens her eyes a little and peeks at Mother, she can see that Mother is looking towards the window, where snowflakes slowly and soundlessly dance in the darkness outside. She has taken out her hair clasp and is slowly running her fingers through her hair that falls over her shoulders. It is not until Marianne has to move her legs a little that Mother suddenly seems to come to. She turns her head and puts her hand on the blanket over Marianne's chest.

‘Goodnight Marianne,' she says very softly, and the voice is not like her usual one. Then she makes a little sound, like a quiet cough, and says a little louder: ‘Goodnight, and sleep well.'

This time she doesn't tiptoe, but walks across the floor with heavy steps, her heels pounding the parquet. When she reaches the door she seems to hesitate for a moment. There is the sound of the front door opening and closing. When the bedroom door finally opens, the yellow light flows into the bedroom and Mother is a silhouette. There is the sound of Hans's rapid steps along the hall. It feels like a very long time before Mother finally steps out into the hall and pulls the door closed behind her. It's as if she has taken the light with her and the room seems darker than before.

Annette never returns. And Marianne stops thinking of the girls as real people. They become like everything else here.

Foreign and fleeting.