Berit Ellingsen - Not Dark Yet

He rang the doorbell and took out the keys, but Beanie opened the door before he could use them. She shrieked and threw her arms around him with such force that he stumbled backward and the red, white-trimmed velour hat she was wearing fell to the floor. Beanie smelled of licorice and cigarettes and the perfume from some jeans designer he couldn’t recall the name of, but which he strongly associated with her, and hugged her hard.

He had hoped for a quiet evening before the big family dinner, but past the door, in the clearly newly cleaned and tidied apartment, stood Michael and Katsuhiro. They waited patiently until Beanie had pulled him inside and closed and locked the door, and when he could finally embrace Michael, it was like he had never been gone at all.

HE CAME BACK FROM SLEEP IN BLOCKS, FRAGMENTS of being. First he was an arm lying on top of the duvet which the rest of his body slept beneath. Then, somehow, he was the cobalt-colored glass lamp on the table at the end of the sofa. After that he was cat paws stepping on his chest, and finally, he was a face that woke up and took in the room.

The cat that approached him was the cream-colored one, the smallest and gentlest of the two felines he shared the apartment with. She sniffed his nose, and gave him slow, loving blinks with her elongated, copper-colored eyes. He stroked her soft, warm back and she purred loudly and kneaded the duvet with her paws. The living room was silent and gray, and beyond his feet that pressed against the armrest at the far end of the sofa shone the window which filled the north wall. Beyond the glass was the balcony, which didn’t reach further out than the length of a small table and two chairs, separated from the neighboring verandas by narrow concrete walls. Above the tall glass railing the sky was filled with clouds, looking like mist, thoughts, misconceptions.

When he lived in the apartment he used to enjoy lying on the sofa, seeing nothing but the edge of the veranda ceiling and the sky, and pretending he was in a parachute, a balloon, or a plane. Now he might have the chance of actually living in the heavens, but in a vessel which would be hurtling toward another planet. The thought brought apprehension, a slight tightness in his chest, but also a rush of joy and excitement. What if he made it through the tests? What if he had the chance to go to Mars?

It would, of course, only happen after years, perhaps decades of learning, training, and simulating. First there would be the basic knowledge for astronauts: piloting, parachuting, experiencing high gravity in centrifuge and microgravity in parabolic flight, learning the general aspects and procedures of current spacecraft, launch systems, and orbital habitat. Then the more detailed and specialized knowledge of the function and structure of specific parts of the spacecraft and orbital habitat, training inside full-scale models and in underwater tanks, both at the astronaut facility of the continent’s space organization and those on other continents. If he were selected for a mission, the training would be narrowed down to the specific needs for that flight: the scientific experiments, technological upgrades, or mechanical maintenance to be performed.

Mars itself would require at least half a year of traveling into the darkness, and a similar amount of time on the surface of the planet, which would be unknown, unfamiliar, despite the rovers and probes and orbiters that had already been there, to collect samples and carry out experiments, possibly to search for traces of liquid water and microbial life. Then another half year going back through the vastness of space, the orbit and trajectory arcing just right at the right time, what only species of a certain technological prowess, curiosity, and risk-taking could do. Would he ever come back? Would he even want to?

He shifted beneath the duvet, the cat lying flat on his chest with her paws curled up beneath her. She lifted her head and glanced at him, then squeezed her eyes together and blinked. She made it harder to breathe, but he had missed the warm presence of the feline and her thrumming, peaceful purring too much to move her. There was a loud meow and the other cat, who was larger and darker and more insistent, jumped up on the sofa. She strode across his belly and curled up on the duvet. The cream-colored cat moved to snuggle against the gray cat and create a chorus of purrs with her. He closed his eyes and a bolt of lightning rose up from his body to pierce him without pain. He let it burn and move as it wished, and fell into sleep to the sound of the cats.

When he woke again the apartment was still semi-dark and the clouds had dispersed to mist. Beneath the closed bathroom door a glow was visible and he could hear the shower going. Beanie was singing, a song he didn’t recognize or catch the words to. The unfamiliar fragrance of her shower gel dispersed by the steam mixed with the scent of basil, rosemary, thyme, and parsley from the potted herbs that now crowded the kitchen counter, making the apartment feel like it truly belonged to someone else. He pulled the duvet with the cats still curled up together gently aside, rose, and knocked on the bathroom door.

“I’m done soon!” Beanie yelled.

“Take your time,” he said. “I’ll shower at the pool. But may I come inside for a towel?”

“Of course!” Beanie said. “And don’t mind my singing.”

He laughed and opened the brown door with a hand over his eyes, ducked into the steam and scent, and pulled a bath towel from the narrow shelves by the sink. The small iridescent tiles on the floor and walls were damp with moisture.

He brought only the towel, a bottle of liquid soap from his backpack, and a pair of sandals from the hallway in the apartment to the swimming pool. When he locked himself into the changing room he saw the clothes and shoes of another visitor on the white wooden benches. Maybe a Christmas guest or someone who used the day off to enjoy the pool. The four shower stalls were empty, their white oblong tiles shining in the light from the LED lamps in the ceiling. The window had no curtains or covering; that didn’t seem necessary nineteen stories up and at an oblique angle to the next tower in the row.

He undressed and showered quickly, then hurried into the next room. The glass ceiling and walls gave him the same feeling of being in the sky as the view from his living room did. In the distance sat the high-rises of the city center and below the tower were the park, the rail line, and the dark wetlands which surrounded it. At night the illumination from the city would turn the sky and the marsh golden, but now they both looked gray and dull.

There was no one else swimming, no sign of the other visitor. They might be just using the gym next door. The lights in the room were off, but the illumination from the sky outside was more than enough to see by. He dove into the pool and swam fifty meters under water, two laps, while watching the white tiles and tiny sand particles glide past on the bottom. Living away from the pool had reduced his breath-hold, but he swam slowly and calmly for as long as he could, then went up for air before he had to. Then he swam another fifty meters under water and five hundred meters at the surface, halving his usual routine since he didn’t want to be late. Finally, he floated on the water that slowly smoothed from the cessation of his motions. Outside it had started to rain, large, slow drops that tapped on the glass and wept down the window. Low-lying clouds surrounded the tower on all sides, so dense he could no longer see the ground.

AFTER THE SWIM HE RINSED WELL TO GET RID OF the weak yet pervasive smell of chlorine from his hair and skin, and returned to the apartment. It was humid and filled with multiple fragrances from Beanie’s shower gel, shampoo, body lotion, and perfume. The bathroom door was ajar and the hair dryer was on.