Gøhril Gabrielsen - The Looking-Glass Sisters

Ragna and Johan, kind and happy, will never meet with cruel grief, be consumed by violent misfortune .

Ragna and Johan, never kind and happy, will meet with cruel grief, be consumed by violent misfortune .

I take a breath. Try to prevent a landslide of images that press against my forehead, the gaze behind the closed eyes. I don’t want to watch these images: the cruelty in them, the humiliation, yet I am drawn towards them, yes, I observe every single shot, coolly, with distance and without dignity. Me with an axe and hammer. Ragna flung to the crows outside. The freezer full of Johan turned into steaks and ribs, mince and chops.

Everything starts swirling. I’m falling.

‘Ragna! Help me!’

*

On her wedding day Ragna is up at five o’clock, stoking the stove. She hums as she puts on the coffee. Everything’s ready. The pans are sparkling, the windows and walls are gleaming. I have been washed, cleaned, scrubbed the previous evening, and the meal stands prepared in the pantry, it will only need to be heated when they return from the wedding in the village.

‘We’ll be coming back with guests — it will be a celebration the likes of which you’ve never seen before!’

I wonder if she’s saying this as a piece of information or a threat, but first and foremost I am thinking that I will be sitting eating and conversing with the rest of them — I’ve no experience of doing that, since I very rarely sit at the table and talk to Ragna.

People. The house is going to be full of people. But not more than three guests — I know that from the number of places laid out. It will be a strange experience. I’ve hardly seen Johan of late. He’s wisely kept himself out of sight so as not to provoke a quarrel with his in-laws. The war has been de-escalated. We’re to meet together on the great day in peace and harmony.

They set off into the darkness — through the window I see that Johan has fixed a flag to either side of the handlebars on the snow scooter. Beneath her capacious scooter outfit Ragna is dressed in her newly sewn dress, and her veil has been laboriously crammed in under her hood. A corner of it has escaped and is fluttering in the wind, waving to the heavens, which bless the bridal journey with a clear sky and stars.

The sound of the scooter dies away. I am left behind in a green dress.

The crows settle on the window ledge and stare into the room. The dwarf birch presses its branches against the outer wall, listening.

I collapse into a chair. Sigh wearily. Life has received me with hands that were far too polished. I glided away, slid, slipped from the good things in life as soon as I had been born. That is why I find myself in this remote corner of limited possibilities. I get up, shake my fist at this life on crutches.

Home University , Vol. VI, ‘Man and Society’, in the margin, at the back of the book: ‘The crutches woman howls in the wilderness, screams to the sky, “This is bloody well more than enough!” The wild animals stop, prick up their ears, was that the sound of a human? But they slink on once more, it was nothing, only a murmuring of silence.’

*

From force of habit I totter into Ragna’s room, sit on her chair, on her bed, open boxes and cartons, look at clothes and jewellery, all the things she collects. The red underwear is still there — a nauseating smell comes up from the box, I don’t dare touch anything and quickly replace the lid. In a heap of magazines I spend a bit too long on a brochure with ladies’ clothes bargains, for when I go to put it back I notice Johan’s bag behind the door, the one he uses every Monday when he goes off to the village to do the shopping, to fetch and leave the post. I let out a small gasp of anxiety and enthusiasm — I must get a move on, the bag’s the only thing worth spending time on. I pull it towards me: its weight doesn’t surprise me, he’s going to spend the next few days here — the morning after the wedding too. The bag contains both his toothbrush and a change of clothing. I open all the fasteners and pockets, examine and scrutinize everything. There’s a knife and shaving things, a pack of cards and a calendar. And in a brown, worn envelope, along with some unpaid bills, there lies a letter addressed to the head nurse at the nursing home. The letter has been sealed and a stamp stuck on. Ready to be sent on Monday, the second day of Ragna and Johan’s honeymoon.

There’s not much to be said about what I do now, except that it takes every ounce of my strength to fetch the implements I need to open the letter and carry out my criminal act without leaving the slightest trace: a damp cloth to moisten the glue, a sharp knife to unseal the letter, a sheet of blank paper to replace Ragna’s elegantly handwritten and painstakingly formulated application, an iron to flatten out all the creases and finally a little glue to seal the envelope again.

My whole body is shaking when I replace the letter in the bag. The physical overload is one thing. But the anxiety is worse. Can a blank sheet of paper, a thwarted application, prevent me from finally being sent away?

Left on the kitchen table lies Ragna’s treacherous composition, the sheet with her personal request to the head of the nursing home. I quickly read a few lines, I don’t need to read more, that’s enough. I tear the letter to pieces and toss them on the stove; a sudden flare and the pieces turn to ash in the embers that have been smouldering there since the morning.

‘…I simply can’t cope any longer… Now you will have to take my sister. I’m completely worn out. She has many aches and pains and there are more of them all the time… She’s not good-natured or grateful either… She belongs in a nursing home, I’m sure of that. Please fetch her, and as soon as possible. If not, you will end up having to take us both…’

Right, then, here’s the final confirmation of her treachery. In a way I feel relieved. The doubt and nagging suspicion and the never-ending search for evidence have now given way to certainty. The plan has been identified, and with a clear conscience I can direct my hidden artillery against the newly married couple.

I hear the procession at a great distance, the hot-tempered snow scooters plough a path through the wood — there must be three or four vehicles. I would guess at a party of five. From my seat at the window I see that I’m right. In addition to Ragna and Johan three men are standing outside the house. They seem to be calm and self-assured, so it’s probably not the Finns.

The guests move towards the entrance; the newlyweds stay standing by the scooters. They have their arms round each other. Ragna is leaning against Johan, who is clearly waiting for something to happen. I turn my gaze to the front steps, where I observe the three man take down the hoods of their scooter outfits and fish out hats from their inner pockets. They hold them between their hands while raising their chests towards the sky, inhale deeply and let out a roar of sound. It takes a few seconds before I realize they have started singing.

‘May God bless our precious fatherland…’ streams out from the steps, and Johan joins in with a loud voice.

‘…Let folk as brothers live as one, as does befit true Christians!’

Johan’s voice is surprisingly strong. I can’t help but be impressed by it — it is so melodious, resonating deep within. I have to turn away. The voice tells of a power that appeals to me, one that is greater than the power that I know Johan possesses.

The front door opens: Johan and Ragna enter the house arm in arm, followed by the three men.

‘Dear sister, come and congratulate us! Now we are husband and wife!’

‘Like hell I will,’ I say from my post at the kitchen window.