Хьелль Аскильдсен - The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat and Other Stories from the North

“‘And why a pomegranate?’ I asked her.

“‘Every one of us is also something else—a pomegranate, a flower or some other living thing. He who knows how to move between himself and his other lives will have the doors of serenity and well-being opened for him,’ the old woman answered.

“‘Excuse me, but why can’t it be an orange tree or a grape vine?’ I asked her.

“‘Oranges cure nightmares and grapes are for treating grief, whereas the pomegranate is the pure blood of your daughter,’ the old woman said, and then asked me to leave.

“I would have liked to ask her some more questions, but the psychic said that too many questions undermined the power of mystery. I didn’t understand what she meant. I was thinking about the requirement that I plant the tree by night and in secret. I was desperate, and willing to do anything that might improve the health of the flower of my life, my only daughter.

“I drove there by night. I parked the car and took out the pomegranate tree and a spade. I cut the barbed wire and went deep into the orchard. I chose a suitable place. While I was digging, I heard gunshots. I didn’t pay much attention because the farmers in those parts used rifles every now and then. It might have been a wedding. I was kneeling next to the tree and levelling the soil when you suddenly appeared between the trees and aimed your pistol at me. It was pitch black. But you opened fire and killed me. Why?”

The Tiger didn’t believe the fat man’s story. That night, he’d chased and killed a member of the water gangs. Yes, it was true that the wretch had begged for mercy and said something about his tree. But the Tiger hadn’t seen his face in the dark, so why should he believe it was the fat man? Confused, the Tiger summoned up his courage once more. He had only one thing in mind: getting rid of this ghost of the past that had risen up from underground. The Tiger held his tongue for the rest of the journey.

Inside the forest he stopped the bus, waved his pistol in the fat man’s face and forced him out. He was inclined to stick the barrel in the fat man’s back there and then, but he was frightened of doing so. Could he really shoot a ghost?

The fat man made fun of him. “You’ve already killed me, man,” he said. “What are you doing?” Then he made a run for it.

The Tiger opened fire, but the fat man didn’t fall. He was running like an athletic young man. The Tiger chased him between the trees and in the darkness a shiver ran across his skin and he felt that he was back in the pomegranate orchard that night, as if the fat man, the bus, the snow, his son and Finland were just a waking dream in his head, as if he were still there, a strong Tiger, hunting down his victims in the vicious water wars, without hesitation.

Through the open window the Tiger caught sight of a shadow in the orchard. He fired a bullet into the head of the girl in the kitchen. Then he jumped through the window and ran after the shadow of the man who had escaped. He heard the sound of footsteps breaking dry twigs. Then he caught sight of another man sitting, levelling the soil around a pomegranate tree. He ran past him and continued to chase the man who had escaped.

The forest came to an end and opened out onto the frozen lake. The Tiger kept chasing him over the icy surface. Finally the man who had escaped came to a halt. The Tiger came up to him, aiming his pistol at the man’s face. The man from the water gang quickly raised his hand and pointed his own pistol in the Tiger’s face, and shots rang out.

Blood flowed across the icy surface of the lake.

IT IS UNCOMFORTABLE to stand so close. They must live simple lives, these people, who are here to send my mother off on her final journey. I start to feel angry. I can see that the man standing next to me has not bothered to shower. He still has bed-head. I can see that he has sleep in his eyes, yellowish gunk stuck in the corners because he hasn’t washed his face yet. The woman on the other side of me has at least tried to do something with herself. Her hair has been washed and tied up tightly into a ponytail. She coughs, and I see her teeth, which haven’t been brushed for many years. She smells of smoke, and her fingernails are brownish-yellow. Standing next to her is a man, who I’m sure is wearing his best jacket. It’s too nice to wear just any day. It’s too big for him, though, and it makes him look comical in a sad way in contrast to his threadbare, washed-out jeans with holes in the knees. He pulls a small bottle of schnapps out of his inside pocket and takes a drink.

I’m being choked by my Greenlandic national costume as well by my thoughts. The heavy beaded collar is making my brow sweat, the dark thoughts are making me claustrophobic. I can’t bear the beads any longer.

When I unpacked them this morning, I admired their colours and felt the immense love I have for my country. My country. The clear colours, distinct colours. These colours are not transparent, not half colours. My country is painted with the colours of love, painted with warm colours.

Since I put them on, the heavy weight has made me feel that all my country does is weigh down on me, that my people weigh down on me. I feel like taking a gulp from the man’s bottle. I want to live like them. To fall. To give up. To live without the weight of the world, just existing and being there. I want to seem as if I’m OK. I want to rely on people to take over. I want to be able to count on other people to deal with all of it. I am fascinated by the people who have given up, but continue to live. I could let myself fall down with them. Leave here with them, go drink with them, forget about the future and live by the bottle. Stop working, stop having an opinion about myself, stop paying the rent, stop having a place to live. I could just spend the nights wherever. I could just drink and be happy. How easy life would be: to be the living dead.

There isn’t a single man in a white anorak here. I get angry. Not one single man wearing an anorak! If just one man had an anorak on, I would feel better about the future. But now the men’s anoraks swill around instead inside of them, so they need to wear jackets that are far too big for them with inside pockets filled with more floating anoraks. They are no longer men; they are empty containers with floating insides.

It is one of those days again. I am a little girl, and I go to bed. My mother stays up. She sits alone in the kitchen and drinks. I can hear her getting ready to go out around eleven, as I expect her to, despite it being a weekday. I close my eyes and try to fall asleep, but I can’t because I keep listening to her, even though I don’t want to. I hear every single movement she makes. I can hear by her walk how drunk she is. How many bottles she has drunk. And I hear by the way she fumbles putting her glass down how hard she is trying to keep her head clear. I can hear by the way she talks to herself that she is in a good mood. I can even work out how the night will go. Many years, many nights of practising, have made me capable of predicting whether I will be able to sleep peacefully through the night or if I need to spend it constantly sleeping with one eye open. She needs to hurry now if she is going to make it to the bar, even if she does, perhaps, have a couple of bottles left still.

I hear them come in on Saturday night, and there are a lot of them. Sounds of laughter, of jokes and of people trying too hard to laugh at them, reach me through the wall. I feel calmer knowing they are happy, even though I won’t get any sleep as long as they are here. They move into the living room and start drinking, and I can hear that they have kept their shoes on. It will be me who will have to clean up after them in the morning. The music is turned on and turned up high, and they talk, and yell and laugh. I cover my ears with my pillow, but it doesn’t help. My mother is talking louder and louder as she gets more and more drunk. She gets this hoarse voice that doesn’t sound like her own. I hate that voice more than anything else in the world. It’s a voice that changes when it has taken a swig of what it likes. A voice that becomes friendly. A voice that sounds like the voice of fearlessness. A voice wearing a mask. Even her greeting has changed. Hi . I have listened to that voice all too often.