Gøhril Gabrielsen - The Looking-Glass Sisters

‘Yes, I know, Ragna. The food’s fine, it’s just I’m not hungry.’

Ragna studies me for a moment in silence. She stares at me with a worried frown. I try to smile, would so much like to tell her that I’m quite content now, but just as I open my mouth to do so, she shovels in another spoonful. I chew and chew with tears in my eyes, cannot do anything else, my protests are all long since gone.

‘There, that’s a good girl,’ she says. ‘You’ll see, it’ll all turn out fine again.’

*

Kind, considerate Ragna.

Cool air streams towards me from a gap in the window. Low light falls into the room and spreads out over the floor. The sun is once more on its way towards the sky and life is returning. The blackest time of year is past, Christmas is over, yes, even my birthday in January has passed by unnoticed. I have lost several weeks from illness and a fever, it must almost be February, everything is airiness and light — and it has been streaming towards me for several days.

The world is new and open. I’ve got new bedclothes, the room smells fresh and the dust is gone from the corners. Fruit is placed on my bedside table every morning, cut into small pieces, to suit my stomach. A glass of water is served at the same time. I have to drink it while Ragna stands watching me.

One morning, the taste of the cool water makes me remember the experience out on the ice; the thoughts I had about myself under the sky, yes, the actual revelation about the limited, yes, straightforwardly horizontal nature of my life.

I drink the water, swallow it down, and nod, smiling cautiously at Ragna. She opens her mouth, revealing her teeth as an answer. In this state of awakening and purification the possibility of leaving her exists. I can let the single gaze remain in this room.

*

Ragna searches through the clothes in my cupboard. She pulls out one piece of clothing after the other, two, three old dresses, a pair of trousers, some jackets, takes them over to the window, squints and holds them up, examines the seams, sees if the material has any holes.

She divides the clothes into two small piles. Some items are obviously to be thrown out, I can sense this from the way she kicks them away. Others are to be mended, and a few of them washed. There’s no limit to the consideration she is displaying at present. It would seem to be a good opportunity now to talk to her about my decision:

‘Ragna,’ I say from my bed, well propped up with pillows. ‘There’s something we must talk about, something that happened out there on the ice.’

‘There’s nothing more to talk about, that’s all over and done with.’

‘But Ragna, I’ve got to talk to you about it.’

‘There’s nothing more to be said, we’ve finished that discussion.’

‘We haven’t talked about it one little bit.’

‘You behave properly and you’ll see that everything works out all right.’

‘Yes, but Ragna, I don’t want to have it like this any longer.’

‘Well, things will be different in future, I can tell you that.’

‘I mean, it could just be that I want something else.’

‘You’re always wanting something else. Making trouble, that’s the only thing you’re good at.’

Ragna’s attention is on the clothes; it’s difficult to tell if she has realized my genuine need to talk, the words come out mechanically, she simply churns them out, in the same way that she churns out meals when she’s busy.

*

I must talk with Ragna before the letter with the blank sheet of paper is returned, before she announces she’s heard nothing, before she phones the nursing home and asks what’s become of their answer — her application was sent ages ago.

What application? the woman in charge will ask. We haven’t received any letter. I’ll check to be on the safe side, but I’m absolutely sure we’ve never received an application for your sister to be admitted. What address did you send the letter to? Well, that’s the right one, the street number’s correct, strange, the postal service never mixes things up normally. When was it sent? Really? No, all I can suggest is that you send a new one, and as quickly as you can, and in the meantime we will try to find out where the mistake has taken place, yes, and what can have happened to your letter.

‘Ragna!’ I try again several days later when Johan is out of the house and she is close by, in the bathroom to be more precise, where she is down on her knees scrubbing the floor.

‘Do you think I’m a good human being?’ I call out from the bed into the corridor.

‘You should be glad you’re as healthy as you are,’ she calls back.

‘I mean, do you like the person I am?’

‘You’re much too preoccupied with yourself. There are more important things to think about. Many people are far worse off than you are.’

‘So you really think that I’m just a lot of trouble? You don’t like all the caring and nursing?’

‘What I don’t like is all your fussing. You have a tendency to yap away about things that don’t exist.’

‘Perhaps it would be best if we just went our separate ways?’

‘I didn’t say that. All I’m saying is that far too much of your talk consists of lies and imaginings.’

‘But Ragna, it’s the way I see the world, it’s how the world is to me.’

‘All well and good, but a lot of what you see isn’t right.’

‘How can you know that?’

‘Because so much of what you think is such utter nonsense!’

‘So there’s never any nonsense in your life?’

‘No, I really haven’t time for that sort of thing. Stuff and nonsense, that’s you, you lazy little beast!’

Ragna has got up from the floor, her last words drowned by the sound of water being emptied into the washbasin. The discussion is clearly over for the time being, I can feel this from the way the bucket is slammed into the cupboard. Even so, I’m surprised. When did Ragna and I last have such a long conversation?

*

Ragna’s care of me becomes increasingly cursory as soon as I feel a little better. She spends nearly all her time with Johan; they sit in the kitchen playing cards and drinking coffee, unless they happen to be discussing politics and the apportioning of water and outlying areas. The daily routines are interrupted only by Johan’s sudden lust and some scooter trips to the village.

Towards the end of March the sun causes large patches of wet grass and mud to appear. The main roads are already dry, I hear them say, and after a short while the snow scooter is replaced by Johan’s motorbike.

The change of transport is an occasion for great rejoicing; they yell and shout when the bike picks up speed in the wet earth and skids on slush.

From time to time, she mends my clothes. The sewing machine hammers away over loose seams and open holes, and she mends stockings, pants and socks by hand with needle and thread. When the clothes are washed and clean, she hangs them up on the outside of the wardrobe, and smaller items destined for the drawers she places on the chest of drawers. Nothing is put back, everything is left out, eloquently expressing how much Ragna does for me.

The battle for the toilet has died down — as far as I’m concerned, at any rate. My long stay in bed and the draining exhaustion of my convalescence have meant that I have to relieve myself in the chamber pot that Ragna places under me in the bed. And perhaps that’s just as well. There wouldn’t have been enough time for us all in the morning, with Johan sitting there for an hour at least.

Several months after the wedding, it turns out that Ragna has the same impatience with Johan that she used to have with me. She turns the light off and on when she feels he’s been in there too long, kicks the door, or just leaves him inside in utter darkness.