Auður Ólafsdóttir - The Greenhouse

Once that’s over I get the feeling that it’s not over at all. There isn’t a clear division between her body and mine yet, and for just a few minutes more we breathe in unison. In the ten minutes that follow I feel I couldn’t be any closer to another human being. I feel it’s incredible that I can be so close to a woman, that she’s in me and I’m in her. I’m extremely fond of her and I think that the fact that we have a child together doesn’t matter; she’s new and different, the greenhouse has vanished into the mist of time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it had been attacked by vandals and smashed to pieces. It’s all falling into place; Dad is very evasive when I ask him about how he’s managing to give away the tomatoes.

I touch Anna all over, partly to convince myself that she’s really all there. Afterward I walk out of the room to get a glass of water from the sink in the kitchen. The sky is strangely ablaze, and the moon drifts through the clouds. I see the old man opposite is having a sleepless night and stands at his window, staring at me. When I return to the bed I stroke her down her back, and she turns over without waking. She’s so slim. Then I stroke her over her waistline, several times; her waist is just a few centimeters above the sheet. I grope my way forward like a blind man trying to find his way; her thigh is sticky. I do everything that occurs to me that I can do without waking her up. The sheet is crumpled on the floor but I leave it be. It’s then that I realize that two eyes are staring at me through the darkness like two suns. Flóra Sól is standing up in her cot; she is puzzled that I’m not in my bed.

— Lie down and go to sleep, it’s nighttime, I say, quashing any possibility of dialogue; changing her diaper is out of the question. But it’s not very convincing, it’s seven o’clock and a streak of daylight pierces through the window, but I long to have some peace with Anna; I don’t want the child to disturb us. I have my eyes half closed to show her that I’m neither willing to talk nor play, but I can’t see if she’s offended by my refusal to engage with her. She sinks back into the cot again, helped by the force of gravity, and obediently lays her head on the pillow. I look at the horizontal row of three snaps on the back of her bodysuit and the quilt crumpled at her feet, so I creep over to spread it over her and glance fleetingly at her as I move. She’s turned over to face the wall and is hugging her rabbit. Her lower lip is quivering; she’s clearly fighting back some tears.

— We’ll do the jigsaw tomorrow, I say. Good night, I add, to make her realize the conversation is over. I crawl back into the other bed and slip my arm around the woman lying beside me.

Ten minutes later my daughter is standing up in the cot again and looking at me in the dark.

— Da-da-da-da, she says in a rapid hush.

I sit up.

— Do you want us to go and make porridge? I ask.

I stand up, slip into my trousers, and stoop over the cot. My daughter releases the drenched ear of the rabbit from her mouth and smiles at me. My hands tremble as I pick her up and I realize that I’m full of new, unknown, feelings.

— We’ll let Mammy sleep.

— Ma-ma dodo.

As I’m making the porridge, I try to work out this new situation that has developed and how I should behave when Anna wakes up and comes in. What am I supposed to do about this new intimacy? This is the first time that I’ve stayed put after sleeping with a girl. Up until now I’ve always vanished before they start making breakfast, not that I leave without saying good-bye. Besides, I couldn’t leave; this is my apartment, which I’m renting, no more than Anna could leave, since we’re both temporarily living under the same roof.

I throw the windows in the kitchen wide open. A thick mist hovers over the rose garden and it’s dead still outside. The old man is no longer standing by the window; I imagine he must have taken a sleeping pill.

We’ve got eggs and milk, and if I borrow two cups of flour from my neighbor on the top floor, whom I can hear has been up for ages, I could make pancakes for Anna, using Mom’s recipe book. In one of Father Thomas’s movies there’s a scene with people sitting at table eating pancakes with black currants and syrup; I think that combination could very well work.

I’m topless so I first slip on a T-shirt, and then hold Flóra Sól in her pajamas in my arms, walk up the stairs, and knock on the door. The old woman is glad to see us and invites us in, but I tell her we’re pressed for time. She tells me her friend’s asthma has been much better since she met the child and that the depression that plagued her with her asthma is also much better. The thing is that she’s expecting a visit from her cousin from a neighboring town next weekend, a three-hour journey on the train; she’s been through a lot and now she’s got cancer. The question is whether she might be allowed to introduce the child to her cousin.

— She’s taking the train straight back the next day, she says, as I shilly-shally uneasily in the doorway.

By the time my mistress comes in, all rosy-cheeked, I’m flipping my fourth pancake on the pan. She’s holding a book in her arms with her hand stuck in so as not to lose the page. She acts as though nothing has happened and smiles at me and kisses her daughter, who is doing a jigsaw at the table; then she sits down and opens the book. We’re platonic siblings again. Two individuals who accidentally had a little child with yellow angelic curls on her forehead.

— This is unbelievably good, she says of the syrupy pancakes. I notice she has a scratched chin because of me. I don’t know how close I should be to her; we’re once more separated by a table’s length. I’m not even sure that she notices that I’m looking at her, watching her with new eyes. I don’t see how I could ever have thought that she was plain looking. My former self of a year and a half ago is an obscure hidden mystery to me, like a stranger.

— What? she says with a smile. She almost seems shy.

— Nothing, I say.

I’m pondering on the miracle of being able to feel so close to someone who isn’t related to me. Then she asks:

— Were you operated on recently? You didn’t have a scar before, nineteen months ago.

Our daughter looks from parent to parent. Does she realize that a new situation has now evolved in the house? That our relationship isn’t just about her anymore?

— Yeah, I had to have my appendix out two months ago. I’m not the same body that I was.

The child stares at me as I try to grab a hold of myself. I suddenly find it difficult to handle this intimacy; it flusters me, so I stand up and search for my sweater. I can’t let Anna see me in this condition, see how sensitive I am about her. She also stands up.

— I’m off to the library, she says and kisses the child good-bye. Then she hesitates a moment and looks at me. I hesitate and look back at her as well; she’s the one who takes the initiative and kisses me.

This hurls me into a conundrum that I’m too agitated to deal with, so I dress the child in her outdoor clothes and hold her in my arms for the two flights of stairs down to the carriage. If Anna were to ask me what my feelings are, what would I say? Should I tell her the truth, that I’m not sure and that I’m thinking things over? A man can’t always express instant opinions on things the moment they happen.

There aren’t many people around at this hour of the morning, but the three tables have been put up outside the café. I can’t quite imagine what will happen next, whether the various parts of the day will be different from now on. How will the hours of the day be spread after last night? Will each part of the day, the morning, afternoon, evening, and night, take on a new meaning? Am I in a relationship or am I not in a relationship? Am I her boyfriend now or are we not a couple? Is this a love relationship or a sexual relationship? If we are a couple, should I be wondering if that makes me the father of a family, at the age of twenty-two? Or am I a friend she sleeps with and, if so, what’s the difference?