The Lover From an Icy Sea (50 page)

He closed the door and continued to survey the property, then reached down and dug up a handful of earth. The soil was good: neither too sandy nor too loamy—just the right combination of both—and so, he wouldn’t need to trouble Daneka with picking up compost. He also wouldn’t need to trouble himself with thoughts of how he was going to pay for it.

They hadn’t yet discussed the issue of money for plants and whatever else he might need to do the job. He was hesitant to bring it up—as he was hesitant to bring up the topic in connection with anything else they did together—but he knew he really couldn’t afford it. He was already stretching his overdraft privileges to the breaking point, and it was she who’d picked up most of the tabs along the way. It was just a different life-style, a different perspective, a different capacity for living the good life—even if they both knew how to enjoy it.

He hoped she’d bring it up and allay his anxiety—that she’d simply acknowledge he was a capable gardener, but a penurious one, and so not really able to give her more than the gift of his hands, his love and some talent. He decided to return to the kitchen in order to see whether she’d made any progress with the beans.

When Kit opened the front door and walked in, he was quietly pleased to see she’d indeed put a pot of water on to boil, had ground the beans, had even poured the ground coffee into a filter. At the same time, he was less pleased to see she was still scrubbing the refrigerator—that she’d moved on from the shelves and was applying all of her energies to the walls. Kit gave them a cursory glance: they were beyond clean. If she was still finding spots, he was at a loss to know where.

“
I wonder whether you wouldn’t mind helping me with the living room today,” she said without looking up from her scrubbing. “I think it needs a thorough cleaning.”

“
I thought you were going to visit your mother, Daneka. We have a whole week to clean. I was really looking forward to getting started on the garden.”

“
Oh, I’m going all right, darling. I just thought we could straighten things up a little bit. You know—a little vacuuming here, a little polishing there.” The pot had begun to whistle. Daneka, apparently, didn’t hear it, as she had her head and shoulders in the refrigerator so as to get a closer look at the spot she was scouring into oblivion. The hyperbole came naturally to Kit at that instant: the whole place reeked of cleaning fluids and disinfectant. He stood up and turned off the gas, then filled the coffee filter to the brim.

“
Look, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you just finish up there, and I’ll take care of the rest, okay? You go see your mother, and I’ll clean up the living room and bedroom myself. The kitchen looks pretty much done to me—except for my cup and saucer, which I’ll be sure to rinse off and put into the dishwasher when I’m finished.”

“
Oh, this kitchen’s filthy!” she said. “I could spend five days on it alone! But if you really wouldn’t mind?”

“
Not in the least. Why don’t you just put that sponge down and run on up to powder your nose before you leave? I’ll have my coffee, then get straight to work on the rooms.”

“
Well, if you really don’t mind,” she said more to the back wall of the refrigerator than to Kit. At least, he thought, the view of her rear was pleasant enough to contemplate—even if the reason she was flashing it was rather less so.

“
There!”

Finally she quit, re-emerged from the refrigerator and rinsed off her sponge. Kit filled the coffee filter back up, then watched it drain. It was less painful to watch water run through coffee grinds than to watch Daneka rinse her sponge—and they were taking about the same length of time.

“
Why don’t I show you where I store all of my cleaning utensils, and then I’ll walk you through what needs to be done in each of the rooms?”

“
I already know where you store your cleaning utensils, Daneka, and I can probably figure out for myself what needs to be done.” Kit was trying desperately to keep a level voice—at the same time, trying to understand all of this from inside her head.

“
You do?”

“
I do.”

“
Well, in that case—”

“
Yes. Now, go powder. Everything’s in good hands here. I promise. I think you’ll be delighted at what I can accomplish with a mop and a pail of soapy water.”

“
Oh, just let me show you where I keep the pails and which one I use for the floors, which one for the bathroom, which one for the kitchen—”

“
I know where you keep your pails, Daneka. But if it’s important to you that I use a particular one for the floors, perhaps you should point that out to me.”

“
Oh, but it is, darling! We can’t be mixing our germs now, can we?

We just played sexual
Star Trek
with a fruit basket twelve hours ago, and now she’s worried about a couple of kitchen germs ending up on the bathroom floor? Kit was beginning to wonder how far into Daneka’s head he’d have to climb to find the circuit breaker: this particular horror show was turning really, seriously horrid.

She finally finished rinsing out her sponge; placed it carefully next to the sink; aligned it with the side of the basin; dried off her hands with a dish towel; folded the towel carefully and put it back on the rack to dry; stepped a few feet away, looked back at the rack; returned to it to adjust the corner of the towel perhaps half an inch so that its edges were in perfect alignment with the horizontal edges of the rack; stepped away and looked back again. Kit was relieved to see that she now seemed satisfied with its revised position. At the same time, he again felt an urgent need to step outside for a second cigarette. Daneka left the kitchen and walked up the stairs.

When she came out the front door ten minutes later, he was on his fourth cigarette and second cup of coffee. Wanting her out of his sight was a feeling Kit had never had about Daneka, and it disturbed him. If only they could be apart from each other for a few hours, he thought, perhaps this feeling would simply disappear.

“
Darling, anything you need me to pick up in Rønne?” she asked as she opened her car door and climbed in.

“
No, not a thing. I’ve got everything I need to get started. I’m sure that preparing the beds will take me the better part of today.”

“
Oh, I don’t want you to spend that much time on them, darling. Just put the pillow cases out to air and hang the duvet out the window. When I get home, I’ll show you how to make them up.”

“
Sure thing.” Kit was crushed. She either hadn’t heard him at all, or had clearly misunderstood him. He began to wonder whether this matter of making her a garden—like the gift of the lichen—was simply all in his mind. “Have a nice time with your mother, and please give her my warmest regards.”

Daneka started the car and began to back out. Her only acknowledgement of Kit’s last request was a half smile that seemed to come to him out of some other toolshed of little-used tools.

Chapter 62

With her gone, he could breathe again—and did: lustily, creatively, freely. He would also work fiendishly over the next several days to find some way to convey to her, in the form of a free-flowing garden, what he felt—even if it might eventually be to no avail.

*  *  *

The routine was always the same. He’d wake up to empty sheets, find her cleaning in the bathroom or somewhere downstairs, would then manage somehow to get her out of the house. Once she’d left, he’d set to work: clearing the beds; turning soil; planting—mostly seeds, but also some plants she’d brought back from her mother’s greenhouse. They’d managed to reach a compromise—seeds would do just fine, she’d insisted; the two of them weren’t going to be around anyway to appreciate the flowers. Seeds, of course, were cheaper than plants from the garden center in Rønne; the plants she brought from her mother’s, cheapest of all. He might not see the product of his labors—at least not until next spring, but that, too, was all right.

He’d retire his tools each day at about the same time, careful to wipe them down as she’d shown him. Then he’d turn his attention to some other task she’d set out for him to do inside the house—and try to complete it just in time for her arrival. Daneka wasn’t lazy. Nor was she using him to do jobs she really didn’t want to do. Quite to the contrary: she always re-did them when she returned, usually far into the evening, sometimes far into the night.

The dinners they now had together were functional affairs. It wasn’t that she was cheap. She wasn’t. She never failed to bring something fresh and tasty back from Rønne. They’d eat well—entirely to Kit’s satisfaction—but in silence; would then retire their empty plates to the kitchen; rinse them, set them in the dishwasher, and run it. The dishwasher became their evening music.

She taught him how to load it—how to set each plate, glass or cup just so; how to lay each piece of silverware in the top rack—with the tines all pointed in the same direction for maximum efficiency. She taught him how to make her bed—she never called it “our bed”—but by the fourth morning, he still hadn’t quite learned her way; and so, he gave up and would simply put the duvet and pillow cases out to air, then assist her when she got home at the end of the day. She made the bed; he simply handed her the bits with which to make it.

When he assisted at all, he usually just held, or handed, or awaited further instructions. They’d both reached the same conclusion early on: he simply couldn’t learn to do it the way she wanted it done—and so, “no way” was preferable. Sometimes, mercifully, she’d dismiss him from watching, waiting, holding, handing—and he’d go outside for a smoke. Since she hated inefficiency, she’d invariably attach some little task to his trip downstairs: take out the garbage; return a tool that wanted returning to the toolshed; fetch a tool that needed fetching from that same toolshed; unstick a window that needed unsticking from the outside. She never once asked him to chase a moonbeam, lasso a star, go for a midnight swim, take an evening walk, or even just talk.

Wine was always served with dinner—good wine—but she now handled the pouring of it, as he couldn’t seem to keep the last drops from running down the outside of the bottle. She kept the bottle next to her—as well as the cork, which she assiduously returned to the bottle after each of them had had two glasses. It was better this way, she reasoned: they’d sleep more soundly; be more productive; rise earlier and more refreshed each morning. She was right of course—in this, as in so many things—and Kit knew it. He’d retire to a smoke, but only after having first removed, rinsed and stacked his empty plate, then been handed the garbage, some tool, or some instruction. Daneka would also then retire—to a task.

Occasionally, they’d make eye contact across a candle. But the contact was fleeting—almost like an accident.

Occasionally, he’d say a word—but her terse, usually monosyllabic response would result in a still-birthed conversation.

Occasionally, when she returned from her mother’s by early evening, she’d glance at his work in the garden. She might say a word; she might not. He eventually stopped asking, anticipating, seeking her approbation. He simply wanted to complete the task and retire the tools—after, of course, first cleaning them to her satisfaction.

When they retired each night to bed, she’d leave one candle burning in the window facing west—towards Rønne, and beyond it, New York. He’d curl up behind her, his lips half an inch from the nape of her neck, but not quite touching it. He’d stare at the candle either until it burned out, or until sleep overcame him—usually the former. In that same window, he could see the reflection of the face next to his on the pillow, her lips closed, her eyes always open—at least until his no longer were, or until the flame had burned out.

On the fourth evening, after dinner, Daneka announced that it was time for them to return to New York. She was right, of course. She always was. Kit knew it. The work in the garden was finished. There’d be nothing more to do until the following spring—if there was to be another spring. She’d just tidy things up around the cottage, she said. Would maybe even pack their bags so that they could get an early start the next morning. She’d already called from her mother’s house and made the reservations. The flight would leave from Copenhagen shortly after noon. That would give them plenty of time—if they got up early enough—to visit with her mother one last time; return the car; take the ferry to the train; take the train to the airport; check in.

Kit retired his empty plate, wineglass and silverware to the kitchen; rinsed them; put the plate and glass in the dishwasher—just so—and laid his silverware in the top tray—with the tines all pointing in the same direction. Daneka handed him the garbage. He took it and his cigarettes outside for a smoke.

He noticed—or maybe it was only in his imagination—that the days had begun to grow shorter in just the space of the week they’d been in Denmark. It was not yet even nine o’clock, and already he sensed that night was moving in upon them. If there was a shimmer from the western sky, there was none at the opposite horizon. Kit looked up straight overhead as he put a lighter to his cigarette. The sky was cloudless, stars too many to comprehend in a single glance—or maybe even in a lifetime.