Merethe Lindstrom - Days in the History of Silence

But now, when I think about her litany on the kitchen floor, her rendition of the fairy tale. How she makes a speech, she mustn’t be interrupted, because then it is possible it will all fall apart. And when she is finished, she will not listen to protests, as there are no arguments that can be used outside this context, it is similar to a religion, it is a system built up in order to nourish itself.

There is no doubt in it.

Her confident speech. And my own voice in the following days, my own and Simon’s voice, the search for the words. It is beautiful, I think, doubt.

I REMEMBER ONE more thing about her. I remember that she came, as she had come that first day, that she stood beside the bookcase in the living room, I tried to pretend that everything was as normal, that it was not unpleasant to stand there together. She prattled again, this time about details, practical details, as though she wanted to talk her way through a brick wall, using her speech as a battering ram. I felt everything she said, felt it as though it were me she was trying to penetrate, her explanations about everyday matters, as though she was only taking a vacation and wanted to warn us about practical things we needed to remember while she was gone. Things we must take care of. She said that we must remember to turn the alarm on when we went out, and at night. It is important, she said.

She was really going to travel. She talked about wanting to go back now, that she would go home for a while. To Latvia.

I did not reply. Or I said: That’s fine. Have a good trip.

Can I give you a hug? she said. She was gripping the shoulder strap of her bag, a worn strap, she always used that old bag. Her hand clutching the leather strap tightly, stroking it.

Before I managed to say anything, the doorbell rang. A friend came to collect her, they were going on a job together. Once she had stepped through the door, across to the car, she turned and looked back at us. Simon had gone inside, but I was still standing there. The friend said something to Marija. Perhaps that she should sit inside, that they had to drive off. We looked at each other. Did I hesitate just then? I believe I hesitated. But I did not know what I should do, I could not think of a single word that would help. I shut the door.

Marija. I think about it being her birthday, she had her birthday around this time. I have tried to imagine where she is living now, what it looks like there, an apartment in the capital city, her uncle, her daughter, other relatives who have arrived to celebrate her special day. The girl who grinds her teeth and clenches her fists. I cannot write to her.

In the bathroom I see my face in the mirror, the corners of my mouth turned down. Have they always done that, or have they become like that with the passing of time, I think it was something that happened gradually. The mentolabial furrow is the name of the groove that marks the beginning of the chin, it has become deeper while the chin itself seems diminished. I have never liked using makeup. I take out a mascara brush. The sticky consistency on the eyelashes. Lipstick tastes of stearin. A magpie is busy in the garden.

I remember calling out to him. Awhile ago I arrived home after being out shopping. He did not answer. Simon, I called as I walked into the living room, the bedroom, the kitchen. I searched the entire house first, that was when I started to become afraid. It comes creeping, not abruptly, that fear. I went down into the basement, what would he be doing there. I searched the garden.

In the end I rang our neighbor’s doorbell, but he was not at home.

I walked across the road, down by the lake. The anxiety growing, I ran home again, I had forgotten the garage, I switched on the light and thought I might perhaps find him there among the skis, the old chairs. I don’t know why I thought that, perhaps it was simply the fear. It was empty. When I returned I remained standing by the telephone, before thinking of something. I had seen him go down the garden earlier that day. I shouted again as I ran, and when I pulled back the branches at the foot of the grove of trees, he was sitting on the stump of a blasted tree. Where I found Kirsten sitting many years ago. The stump we had never removed because the children used to balance on it. I never liked them playing down there, hidden behind the trees.

I was scared, I said as I sat down beside him. I was searching for you.

He nodded, uttering not a word, and he did not look at me. But for the first time in ages, he nodded.

•

THE INTRUDER, I recall him as immature and young now that I am older myself. I believe I saw him again at a bus stop many years ago. I was intending to take the bus not far from here. There had been a lot of rain that spring, fine drizzle that washed away the last remnants of winter on the streets and the roads. Is that not the way winter disappears every year, I am never able to notice it, in this city everything is rained away and that’s how it has been here for as long as I can remember, the rain that competes only with the fog and the wind, it comes from the front, at an angle, lashing you in the face even if you hold an umbrella before you like a shield, rain in fine vertical lines suspended in the air, or invisible, so light that you don’t actually believe it’s raining until you arrive home and discover that everything is damp. He was waiting at the bus stop, the one located next to an old tramway kiosk. I positioned myself at a distance, sheltering from the rain, we were the only ones there, we were waiting for the same bus. He was a few years older now, his hair was hanging down across his forehead, it seemed darker, but that was perhaps because it was wet. It was probably also because of the cold rain that he had a twitch at his mouth, a slight twitch, it could have been conscious or involuntary, he had this twitch, as though the rain was bothering him, but like the dog so many years earlier, he could not drag himself away, could not protect himself, but had to stand there becoming gradually wetter with the rain running down his face, his clothes, his shoes. He looked over at me, a brief glance with no sign of recognition, but I had an urge to say hello. I wanted to greet him, I became confused about this need to demonstrate that I recognized him. At that moment I remembered it differently, that morning he had stood inside my house. I saw before me the undeveloped boyish face, the seriousness in his eyes, the worn-out overcoat he had been wearing, other details popped up, even the hand that accepted the money was transformed in my memory, did it not tremble? And what I had later read in the newspaper, the description of him as confused, I remembered that he had stood there, by my side, facing the children, in the bright open living room with the windows overlooking the terrace and the garden, I thought I had never got to know what he wanted, for me he had simply been an intruder, a threat, but now I thought that he could just as well have been someone seeking refuge. Or searching, for something or someone.

At three o’clock I drive to collect Simon, I drive the usual route, parking in front of the low building with benches outside. And there he is. It is always astonishing that he has managed, that he has got through the day and emerged at the other side. Sometimes he smiles and seems almost secretive. Other times he is exhausted and falls asleep in the car on the way home.

If I go inside, I find him in the room with the people in whose company he spends the day. A young caregiver who is always there, I cannot hear his voice, but through the glass door I can see that he is talking to Simon, at one point he kneels down, and his white trouser legs are stretched at the knees as he explains something and Simon looks at what he is showing him.