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

“Are you OK?”

I nod in order not to show my frustration. We lie in silence holding each other. “Fia…” She clears her throat to firm up her voice.

“Three years.” I smile and she starts again.

“I love you, and you know it. You love me, I can feel it. When I think about my future, I always imagine spending it with you. You’re so precious to me and I don’t want to lose you. I can’t imagine life without you.” She smiles and continues. “If you feel the same way about me, I would like to marry you, make a home with you and have children.” She kisses my cheek.

“Of course I feel the same way about you. If all goes well, I obviously want to live the rest of my life with you and have children. You’re a part of my future because I have no chance of ever being happy unless you’re with me.” This is what I want to tell her, but I’m worried what other people might think. “Get married? Have children? You have to understand that our relationship will never be straightforward. Can you imagine what people would say if we were to marry? If we have a child, people will look down on her or him because she or he doesn’t have a father. I’m telling you, our child will be bullied at school. He or she will have two bloody dykes for mothers, and that will be a shame.” I don’t pause to think before I launch into my rant. She looks shocked.

“If our child doesn’t have a father, but gets plenty of love, feels safe and can talk openly to us, having only two mothers won’t be a problem. I know that we would make good parents. I’m sure that we can offer a child everything it needs. Are you against marriage? Are you against making promises to each other, loving and respecting each other for the rest of our lives? You have to ignore what other people say and live your own life. Many people think that we’re completely ordinary. Our relationship is no different from their relationships.”

The truth of her words hits me hard and I snap. I get up and reply: “But I know that lots of people think of me as a freak!” She gets up, comes over to me and puts her arms around me, even though I shrug them off. “Fia. And so what? I don’t want them getting in the way of our love. Don’t let them stop you from being yourself.” Her embrace reassures me, but I remove her arms and get ready to leave. “Where are you going?” she asks softly. “Out to buy fags,” I reply angrily and leave. The rest of the evening I’m unapproachable. I walk away whenever she comes near me. I go outside to smoke when she tries to talk. My body grows tenser and I can no longer control my rage.

Everything comes back as images. A sofa. A 42-inch television. A big lamp. A double bed. A freezer. A MacBook Air. A PlayStation 3 and two games. I remember now that I sold it all except my iPod. Her mother’s pale and red-eyed face appears when I close my eyes. Her grave. Sara being buried deep in the ground. Sara. Sara. Sara. I can’t remember attending her funeral, but terrifying images flash up in my mind. Everything is dark, but her bright white coffin shows up horrifically and I can’t make the disturbing sight go away. I remember the phone call. The words seem so fresh that it feels as if they were spoken only a few seconds ago. “Knocked down. Dead.” Sara’s last word, “Sorry”, and her pretty face filled with grief repeat on a loop, tormenting my ears and eyes.

San Francisco’s warm atmosphere is choking me. I can no longer bear to watch the otherwise fascinating people. The enchanted city turns into something ugly. I start to wish that someone would blow up the Golden Gate Bridge. I have to go. I need Sara because I’m going crazy. Sara. Sara. Sara. How do I find her? I want to search the entire city, but instead I go to a hotel because deep down I know that I won’t find her anywhere. I throw my heavy body on the bed and I suffer. I don’t care that children are starving to death in Africa; all I want is for Sara to come back. I don’t care if World War Three breaks out; I would be content as long as Sara is by my side. I don’t care if I die as long as I can touch Sara again. I’m dying because I can’t go on living. I hear my heart beat, but I can’t feel Sara’s heart. Sara isn’t here. She is gone. She is dead.

I have to fall asleep. I have to forget her. For the first time since her death, I remember going to bed. I’m cold. I’m in pain. I’m shaking. I’m insane. I’m alone in the world. I prefer not to wake up again. “Sara, come here. Sara, I’m sorry I threw you out. I’m sorry. Lie down next to me and warm me up. Lie down next to me and love me. Come back to me. I will always love you.” I don’t usually believe in God, but I pray to him with all my heart for help. I close my eyes. I try to recall the feeling of Sara’s warm skin against my body. She is by my side. I can feel her breathing against my neck and my body feels safe. She is by my side. Her love embraces my heart. She is breathing. Her heart is beating. She is alive. I can see it. I believe it. I will fight unto death to preserve this magnificent love that I feel. I am no longer cold and I fall asleep.

I wake up. I can feel Sara in my heart. I want to be by her side for the rest of my life. I will love and take care of her for the rest of my life. I want to be with her for the rest of my life. Is there anything left of my life? Is there a rest of my life?

“Don’t leave me,” I beg Sara.

“I’m right here,” Sara says.

I have probably lost my mind, but I don’t care. Her voice calms me down. I’m no longer afraid, I open my eyes and all I can see is SF…

The small picture frame is sitting on the small table in our room. SF, heart. We carved it into a small log cabin in the mountains so that our love would last forever.

Sara. Fia. Heart. It is so reassuring that it brings me to my senses. I feel her hand near my heart and I grab it and I will never ever let it go. My heart is pounding. I turn around—I turn towards Sara. Her eyes sparkle, her cheeks are flushed, her beautiful face is alive. Her heart is beating. She is alive. She is alive, and I’m restored to life. I awake to life. I am alive. I feel her warmth, I embrace her wonderful body, I kiss her soft lips. I feel love and reassurance in my heart. My eyes fill with tears of joy and I say:

“Why don’t we go to San Francisco?”

NOTE 1

A creek.

The fireweed blossoms.

Nothing here is coincidental.

The fireweed is an intelligent plant that knows where the dirt is

rich on nitrogen.

Long roots fetch nourishment from the deep.

He who understands the fireweed can read off its stem

what is north and what is south.

Rarely do people know that the fireweed’s blossoms also can be white, like water lapping the stem of a moving boat.

NOTE 3

He’s got a washing machine that’s gone to hell. He takes out the drum, cuts off the top and puts it on a rack. Now he’s got a grill. When he tears down the old shed, he builds a wind-stopping wall out of the rubble.

NOTE 4

She looks at him smoking a fag. After a while she goes inside. She knits. A scarf with a message in Saami for mum. “Eadni, don leat máilmmi buorremus!” says the pattern. “Mum, you’re the best in the world!” Only one word is misspelt.

NOTE 5

It’s a few generations back. King-Jo stands on a hill overlooking the village. A mastodon of a man. He’s heard that the Swedish king himself will pass here with his cortège on his way to the coast. Jo’s brought two planks of wood onto this hill which has a good view in several directions. Now he just waits. Nobody in the village understands what he’s doing. Until now they’ve called him only Jo.