Gøhril Gabrielsen - The Looking-Glass Sisters

I’m shaking, my jaws are in the process of crushing each other in anger the likes of which I have never felt before. Of course I can move out, become a piece of furniture at a nursing home. But! And at this but! I feel my jaws press together even harder: I would never have had the idea of leaving this house, my own particular spot in the world, if Johan hadn’t moved in, if he and Ragna hadn’t teamed up and doubled my troubles in this home.

I reach for my crutches. No, despite the revelation out on the ice I don’t want to leave one bit, not yet at any rate, and not before I have tried to turn the situation around. I count my lucky stars that Ragna has realized my decision, otherwise Johan would never get the punishment he deserves.

Isn’t it my cup he still lifts to that huge mouth of his? My plate his greedy fingers eat from?

*

There are various jobs that need to be done. But the project is of such a nature that I keep it to myself, I don’t say a single word about it in Home University , don’t formulate it for my inner gaze or ear, except as a magic spell, a hoarse incantation: tish, vish, vush, vish vanish…

All previous plans are put on hold, now there are other priorities: up out of bed, from my withered, will-less sickbed — that’s of the utmost urgency. But it’s not training I trust my luck to, the crutches’ complaint across the floor, no, it’s the collecting of paraphernalia, of small crucial items that will help me attain my goal.

Slowly, slowly I raise myself from my pillows, lift the duvet, and slowly, slowly I get out of bed. I am panting, sweating, feel dizzy from all the blood hammering away in my chest, but eventually I am standing upright on the rug.

My thighs, hips and stomach are a quivering landslide since my bones can hardly bear their own weight. I reel, and have to hold on to the side of the bed; the floor resembles an undertow beneath my feet.

Right, then. That’s the state of play, that’s how things are right now, and this is how it has been many times, it’s just a question of getting a good grip on the crutches, gritting my teeth.

*

‘Damn it, straight into the jaws of hell!’

Johan makes a quick-tempered move at the sudden sight of me in the kitchen doorway. The shock is probably due to the fact that after several months I am once more standing upright in my own house. My hair has probably tangled itself into great big knots and the state of my nightdress and the way my body smells have been affected by my long stay in bed, even though my sister has been attentive in caring for me.

Ragna gawps at me, absent-mindedly puts down a jar of preserves.

‘Are you crazy?’

‘No, I’m much better, and I want to be up for a bit!’

‘Dear sister, you’re still not well. Go back to your room and at least let me help you change into some better clothes!’

‘There’s no need. I’ll just sit here for a bit — it’s so long since I’ve been in the kitchen.’

I push Ragna aside as she rushes towards me and totter slowly, moaning, over to her empty chair, right opposite Johan. The chair receives me with a loud grating noise; the chair legs scrap across the floor. It really does hurt to sit on a chair, my hips don’t like the unaccustomed position. But I am convinced that this is what is necessary, in addition to the various things that have to be collected in order for me to carry out my assignment.

I can’t help laughing to myself. Both of them are clearly confused. Ragna places a cup of tea in front of me. I spend a long time putting in the sugar, stirring, and letting my hand shake affectedly.

I am the centre of attention, but I pretend not to notice, drink the tea slowly, study my nails at length, give a long yawn with my mouth wide open; a belch even emerges from the depths of my throat. Ragna has started to clear up in the larder again, Johan is laying out cards on the table. Then suddenly he stands up and walks into the corridor, starts to rummage around with his outdoor clothes.

‘Ragna! Shall we go for a ride?’

She turns and looks at me uncertainly. I stir my tea absent-mindedly, take a sip from the cup, stare out into space.

She is silent for a short while. Then she says loudly and abruptly, ‘Coming right away, Johan!’

Good. Couldn’t be better. The couple have once more been reminded of my existence. For the time being, their married life will continue in the presence of my unmistakable physical existence.

Collecting all the things I need proves easier than I had anticipated. As soon as they are out of the door, I check the kitchen table on Johan’s side, my former place, and, yes, there I find three thick, black hairs that must be his. I place them in a matchbox, grab a glass and totter slowly but surely back to my own room.

I put the hairs in the glass, place it on the chest of drawers, and if I’m quick — relatively speaking, in my condition — I can manage to get hold of some more. My heart is hammering, I’m in motion, I cackle and pant in turns, it’s a matter of time, of life, yes, a particular one.

In Johan and Ragna’s room it’s obvious where Johan sleeps. I’ve worked it out from the sounds already, but the clothes also make it clear: Ragna’s shiny red nightdress sticks out from under the pillow on her side. As best I can, I bend over Johan’s sheet, supported on a crutch, running a nail over the sheet, lifting it slightly, to collect the bits and pieces from his body in a small heap. I sneeze, my nose blocks up: it must be flakes of skin and dust swirling around in the air. But there, right beside his pillow, I discover what I am searching for, the curled, short form, the hardness: a hair from Johan’s private parts.

There’s no need to try and explain away what I am up to. Something has to be done and this is my means of doing it. But, to be honest, I don’t like it. In horror I witness myself tie a knot in the hairs, then place them in the glass together with a sheet of paper on which I have written Johan’s full name and the most horrible sentences I have ever concocted. And with loathing I see myself place a lit match to the piece of paper and the shameful contents and watch them flare up, and even laugh out loud when everything has turned into ashes.

Tish, vish, vush, vish vanish… tish, vish, vush, vish vanish… The moans, the booming in the voice; with amazement I hear the sound and the words come, I am lost, entranced by my deeds, I do it automatically, my reason gawping from the sidelines.

And I go on. I don’t want to stop. The hate in me brings the glass out from its place of concealment behind the bedside lamp, gets me to spit three times into the ashes; soon it will be morning.

Why all these qualms, these questions of right and wrong, when I know that every day from now on, nine days in a row, I will continue my ritual with incantations and sorcery, and finally pour the filth where it belongs — down our communal toilet?

No, spare me lifted fingers and sensible talk. The sorcery has already produced results: after only one day I have a feeling of control, the sense that my curse can affect developments in the house. Furthermore, the ritual has a soothing effect on my sudden need for companionship — I do not feel the urge to share a table with the married couple more than absolutely necessary.

As soon as I get a chance, I lie happily fantasizing about what will soon happen. What will happen to Johan is also not insignificant. The various phases of the transformation can take place gradually or quite swiftly, but that doesn’t mean all that much — it’s the result that counts. I have no doubt that some of my wishes might be a bit excessive for a single carcass, that it is not possible for all of them to be fulfilled, but on the other hand I enjoy thinking about them, so much so that I lie under the duvet shaking with held-in laughter at the images they conjure up.