Merethe Lindstrom - Days in the History of Silence

Both Simon and I participated in these conversations with unusual eagerness.

In the evenings we formed a little group distributed among the settee and our three chairs, never facing the television, but each with a book or bent over the chessboard. Simon showed her his books, the history books with detailed descriptions of areas where important battles have been fought, he had marked all of them on various maps, look at the mountain ranges, these long river courses, I will show you what happened, if you see that line there, what it indicates, he talked as though he himself had seen armies fall on the battlefield. She seemed like a friend, he said later. A true friend, did she not?

She was indeed, I said. That was after she had left, after her dismissal.

They were lovely, those days she stayed here. We have never had many friends.

The new cleaner arrives around ten. Once a week, mostly on Wednesdays. This one works in several other places, before holidays she brings a friend with her, they work together and clean the entire house. I hear the key in the door, and sometimes, if I am not particularly observant or have forgotten that she is coming, I think for a moment that it is Marija out in the hallway. She always calls out her name. It is Ana, she says, or is it pronounced Anna. Then she places the key on the bureau with a little bang. But she doesn’t come into the living room to chat, only if there is something in particular. As a rule she gives me instructions before she leaves. She fetches the vacuum cleaner that Marija was in the habit of using. She has pointed out that it needs a new nozzle, really we need a whole new machine, it does not work the way it should, she says.

But she does not insist.

She lets herself out.

And then it is silent again.

IT BECAME SILENT after Marija. She might just as well have let the house remain empty. Removed the furniture in every single room and just left the marks behind, shadows and pale spaces.

It was on my birthday that it began. What I still don’t completely understand, and have spent a great deal of time considering. Immediately after that evening I could still blame it on hidden misunderstandings, other interpretations. But now that is of course no longer any consolation, Marija herself helped me to clarify it. For a time it upset me that I could not replay our conversation like a recording in my memory, what was said that evening. All I remember is some disconnected fragments of a conversation. Simon had booked tickets for a concert, a concert by a well-known philharmonic orchestra, several weeks in advance he came and said: What about inviting her to come with us.

Marija? I said, I was taken aback, even though this was actually something we had briefly discussed, that she should celebrate with us.

Why not, he said.

No, I responded, happy, why not indeed. We were in such agreement, he was fulfilling something I myself had mulled over in my mind. It was his idea. But it could have been mine, if he hadn’t managed to come up with it first. She had also talked about the concert in the Grieg Hall, part of the music festival. I wouldn’t believe for a moment that she had any ulterior motives about it, she was not trying to persuade me to invite her along, she was not the kind of person who had ulterior motives, I am sure of that. She simply liked to talk about the event, the actual concert, that particular orchestra, I know she also said that we ought to attend, Simon and I, that it was something we shouldn’t miss.

I phoned the box office and made reservations. When I first received the tickets, it was as though this had been the intention all along. We always agreed about her, about Marija. That was perhaps why it felt shameful later. Shame that we had been so mistaken about her? In a way it felt like our responsibility. And simultaneously: shame about what we had not spoken about and that had turned into a lie, nothing that could be explained. We participated in it as though it were our own downfall. That was how we saw it.

AT FIRST SHE would not accept the ticket, no, it was impossible. She couldn’t. And I recall that birthday, from the morning onward: Outside there is fog, but Simon says that it is going to be fine, that they have said it is going to be a fine day. I hear him out in the kitchen. He is making coffee, he is placing slices of cake neatly on a plate with a napkin.

Happy birthday, he says as he sits down on the edge of the bed.

How old am I, I say.

He just smiles. Kisses me.

The phone rings, once, then once more. I talk to the children. I put down the receiver and look in the mirror. Marija knocks on the door.

It’s your birthday, she says. You are going to a concert. Now you’ll both have a nice day.

Then you must come too, Simon says.

SHE JUST LAUGHED. But he insisted. When it dawned on her that he was serious, that we really had bought her a ticket, she became solemn and concerned. It was too much, she said, far too much.

Not until we were in the taxi that evening did she become animated again. She had dressed so beautifully, had borrowed a dress from a friend, a short black jacket, with a lilac coat. Stockings with threads like a fine net. She talked to the taxi driver and told him we were going to a concert, as though everybody had to know about this special occasion, she laughed at something he said, her dress, her hairstyle and the stockings obviously made her extra outgoing. I believe the same applied to our silence, her sociability made us slightly self-conscious, and I think she noticed that, because afterward she said something about just being so happy about this, that we were able to go together.

The taxi drew to a halt outside the Grieg Hall. Marija chattered all the way in. When we sat down she talked about what good seats we had, and for the next few minutes she spoke about how long it would be until the concert started. When the conductor made his entrance, she took my hand and squeezed it.

During the first movement, I was aware that we were leaning back, both of us. I breathed in time to the music, she kept hold of my hand. Simon on the other side of me, it was so long since we had been to a concert.

At the intermission she was enthusiastic, we were all enthusiastic.

She was absorbed by the musicians, the conductor, we had bought the program, and Marija peeked inside it on the way out to the lobby. While we were standing there, a couple of Simon’s old colleagues walked by, they stopped and expressed surprise at seeing us, and I introduced them to Marija. My friend, I said. They said hello to her.

When we returned to our seats, there were still a few minutes left of the intermission.

She was reading the program, it said something about the conductor.

He is Jewish, she said. She said something further. Something I did not catch, just a single sentence as she turned her head away. No, he isn’t, or: Really he can’t be. It was trivial. It was a triviality. I thought it over, and let it go.

For the remainder of the concert I forgot everything except the music. It is one of the best concerts I’ve ever attended, Simon commented afterward. All three of us agreed.

On the way home in the taxi she tried to persuade us that we should hear them again on another occasion. She took my hand again in the backseat, squeezing it tight. I remember that. Thanks, she said. Thanks again.

I PEER OVER at the neighboring garden, the curtains are closed in what I believe has been turned into a utility room. The neighbor has allowed a hedge to grow, he seems preoccupied by his garden. The hedge is not so tall yet, but tall enough, he bought large bushes that he planted and so changed the landscape overnight. Why does that upset me? I must have become fond of continuity, but what does that mean. When there is something you cannot do without, there is a need, it is often called love. I wonder whether he ever invites the girl for a coffee or a mineral water, the young girl who cleans for him, whether they converse.