Ulla-Lena Lundberg - Ice

Slow steps in the corridor that almost stop outside the door. Someone is listening. Petter, self-controlled: “If we read the New Testament we see that Jesus was not so otherworldly. He was a carpenter, a worker. He knew what it meant to be poor. He sympathized with the sorrows of his fellow men not by pitying them but by showing them new paths to follow.” The steps move on. “When he saved the adulteress from being stoned, he showed that we are not put here to judge one another. But he also showed her how to change her life. ‘Go and sin no more.’”

“Do you think I’m an adulteress? Then what are you?”

“That’s easy to answer. A great sinner. No one is free of sin. That’s why Jesus came into the world, to save us from our sins.”

“I came here to get help and comfort, and you just talk about Jesus.”

“Hilda, you came here because I’m a priest. But if we leave that aside, what is it you want to talk about?”

“That life shouldn’t be so boring! That you ought to get to have some fun! That someone should like you. That you shouldn’t have to get old. That work shouldn’t be so hard. That you ought to get paid better. That you shouldn’t always have to skimp and save and borrow money. That you ought to be healthy and not have to go to the hospital. That you should have a husband who likes you. That people shouldn’t be so mean. That you shouldn’t ever have to cry.”

Against his will, he is touched, and he answers with warmth. “There are a lot of us who could subscribe to that. There’s much that every one of us has to do without.”

“No, I really don’t think you can compare yourself with me. Your mother writes about eminent postings and rectories and a fine wife and darling sweetie-pie kids. Money in your wallet and folks that bow and treat you to coffee. What do you know about it?”

There are many things he could reply to that, among them that there is truth in what she says. He counts himself fortunate at having come out of darkness into light. It means he owes everything to other people. He can’t show her the door because that would be the most comfortable thing to do, indeed the only sensible thing to do given tomorrow morning’s examination. His peace of mind is already deeply shaken, time is passing, and nothing can be repaired. By virtue of his ordination, he is put in a position to be the servant of his fellow men. She is unhappy and bitter and cries genuine tears. If his calling means anything, he must find the strength to sacrifice his convenience even in situations where his own future career is at risk. He can hear Mona’s furious objections, even the amused forbearance of the cathedral chapter, but here he sits. Nevertheless, he makes an effort.

“Not so much, I admit. But I’m trying to understand. But Hilda, it’s very late. Goodness, it’s eleven o’clock. And here we still sit. What are people going to think?”

She gives him an ugly smile. “Tomorrow you’ll leave. What difference does it make?”

“I’m also thinking of my examination tomorrow.”

“You’ll come through with flying colours. You’re so smart.”

“I’ve never said I was. It’s Mama who brags. It embarrasses me to think of it. The truth is, I haven’t had time to prepare the way I should have.”

“I’ll go. But I also came here in order to see you. I hope you haven’t become so sanctimonious that you’ve forgotten how I slept in the kitchen.”

“No, Hilda, you’ll have to forgive me. That was twelve, thirteen years ago. A half-grown boy isn’t really responsible for his actions.”

She snorts. “Grown up enough when it came right down to it.”

“Please, Hilda. We did wrong, both of us. But we never did again. Nothing further happened. Now let’s change the subject.” He is sweating under his shirt and exhausted. In his bag he has his cassock and collar, which he can never again wear with honour.

She snorts again. Her behaviour is equal parts genuine despair and a desire to wound and torment. She is not only spiteful. It’s rather that cruelty and envy are parts of her misery—people grow malicious when everything goes against them. “Easy for you to say, with a wife and children, nothing wrong with your married life. But I have nothing. Utterly alone.”

“Yes,” he says. “I know.” And thinks that if he is silent and lets her talk, she will eventually get it all out. Then he can go with her to the front door and say goodbye in the presence of the desk clerk and wish her good luck.

But he’s not to get off so easy. She has a great deal to say, and she has to say it several times because he doesn’t react in the wonderfully comforting way she wants. He sits there like a block of wood, nods occasionally, is cross-eyed with exhaustion, bleats, “I’m trying to understand. It must be hard.” She weeps, almost shouts, and he hushes her. “Think of the other guests, who’ve already gone to bed. Please, Hilda, it’s late.” Sometimes he sneaks a look at the clock. It’s twelve. It’s twelve-thirty. Thinks of Mona, who wouldn’t be as angry with Hilda as with him. “How can you be such a milksop! There’s no one on earth let’s himself be used the way you do. You should be in an institution!” And then finally he stands up, three hours too late.

“I know it’s hard. But it’s when we’ve come through such despair that we reach clarity and can leave some of the pain behind. Then the worst is soon over. But now I have to say good night. I’ll see you out.”

She leaves, indignant and disappointed. He remains, devastated. No point in even thinking about his notes, the important thing now is to get a few hours sleep so he’ll know his own name in the morning at least. He takes out his pyjamas and is suddenly freezing, lies shivering uncontrollably, his teeth chattering, beneath the thin blanket and the flimsy bedspread. A tremendous headache hovers behind his brow. A little sleep is all he needs, but at four o’clock he is still awake and remembers that he hasn’t set his alarm clock. Gets out of bed and sets it. Thinks that now he dares to fall asleep and still has time to get three hours. But he’s as wakeful as if he were paralysed and taken for dead, full of horror, unable to move, unable to do anything to keep the coffin lid from being nailed into place.

He is still awake at five, five-thirty, thinks he might just as well get up and try to read a little, but falls asleep as he thinks the thought. Flies out of bed when the alarm goes off, stumbles to the floor with a violent headache, doesn’t think he can stand up if he tries. Remembers that Mona has packed a tube of aspirin just in case. Climbs arduously to his feet and, moaning, swallows three. Forces himself to get moving, washes in the sink, shaves laboriously and naturally cuts himself and has to stop the bleeding with a piece of newspaper. Takes out clean underclothes, a clean shirt, his cassock that Mona has folded so carefully that it looks fine even without being hung on a hanger all night, fastens his collar at his neck with difficulty. Good morning, Pastor Kummel, slept well? Well prepared, to all appearances.

Rakes everything else into his suitcase. Makes an ineffective sweep of the room to see if he’s forgotten anything. Shamefacedly checks that his wallet is still in the inside pocket of his coat—yes, his money is safe. Checks his watch, checks his watch, checks his watch, the face of which is blurred and the numbers drifting. His headache has entrenched itself in his left temple and feels as if it were pushing out his eye. Its tentacles have a grip on his skull and are squeezing. He doesn’t know how he’s going to deal with the desk clerk but takes his things and locks the door and goes down, heavy steps like an old man. “Good morning.”

“Well, good morning, good morning. Yes?”