Gøhril Gabrielsen - The Looking-Glass Sisters

In one of the fantasies I see the pair of them in Ragna’s bedroom, where Johan is lying pale and half-dead in the bed.

‘I can’t understand it,’ he’ll say. ‘What’s happening, Ragna? Look at this!’

And he’ll loosen his belt and pull down his trousers, quickly, so as not to lose her interest.

‘Just look,’ he’ll say again, and jiggle his hand inside his pants.

He’ll stare wide-eyed at her, with a glazed look, trying as best he can to ensure her sympathy before he shows her his wretched state.

‘Well?’ Ragna will ask, with a touch of impatience in her voice. ‘Let’s see, then.’

Johan will slowly pull his pants down over the back of his hand, slowly reveal what he is holding between thumb and index finger.

Ragna will raise an eyebrow.

‘Yes,’ he’ll interrupt, his voice in falsetto, before she has time to say anything. ‘It’s unbelievable.’

Ragna will lean forward, wide-eyed and shocked.

‘Can’t you see it?’ he’ll ask nervously.

‘Yes, of course I can,’ Ragna will reply, full of astonishment.

‘Doesn’t it look like your sister? Can you see it? It’s bloody well got her face!’

Ragna will feel faint. What a horrible transformation, what a fate for the poor man. I, with my peering face, will grin at him and her, remind them of my existence, in all their moments of pleasure.

If I know Ragna, she will quickly work out the consequence of what has happened. She will slowly straighten up, perhaps purse her lips and glance disapprovingly at the deformed manhood, but will then without any mercy decide that Johan must move back to his own house and that henceforth he cannot be used for anything other than hard physical labour.

*

A month passes, then a couple more weeks. The sun rolls across the sky around the clock, without ever touching the horizon — it’s already the middle of May.

The tree outside my window now has small, light-green buds, and fresh shoots are sticking their heads out of the thawed ground: grasses, heather and the first tentative beginnings of what will become rosebay willowherb in large mauve clusters.

One Monday morning, just after breakfast, Ragna decides to accompany Johan to the village. I sit at the kitchen table eating — a daily self-imposed chore so that I can better study the state of the master of the house. Unconcernedly, half turned away, I minutely examine him as usual for signs of the imminent fall: a worried look, a sudden movement of the hand, a marked loss of zest for life and desire. But he seems as untroubled as ever, feet planted wide apart, scratching his nose, and there seem to be no other horrors lying in store except for some bruises on his backside from all the potholes in the road.

I am not worried, consoling myself with the fact that everything in this world takes time. Just look at the spring outside the window. It slides slowly towards fulfilment, almost imperceptibly. The mere thought of my secret, treacherous deeds makes me feel as light as a feather — springlike, pale green.

Ragna has noticed the change, my good mood, and has been surprisingly gentle of late. Before they leave, she actually bares her teeth slightly, a small, encouraging smile that tells me to take things easy until they get back. As soon as she is out of the door, I slap my thighs, laugh and chuckle to myself: If only she knew what I have been thinking about for the past few weeks.

Finally, at last, I am alone again — it’s been too long since the last time. I snuggle down in bed among the soft pillows, the warm duvet. How nice to be undisturbed in the house, so marvellous not to be a source of trouble or irritation. I let out a cautious I exist! , try again, louder: I exist! The room shakes with my power, with my presence, and I confirm that I own myself right from the tip of my tongue down to my withered toes.

*

I’m woken by Ragna and Johan standing staring at me. They’ve still got their outdoor clothes on, the return trip must have been cold — her nose is dripping. Their looks: I don’t like their looks. Something must have happened to me while I was asleep. Have I have come out in a rash, a tumour, something frightening? I quickly sit up, check the skin on my arm, touch my face, but all seems normal.

‘What is it?’ I say with a sudden dryness in my mouth.

‘What is it? You dare ask?’

Johan and Ragna glance briefly at each other. Johan is biting his lower lip and Ragna is breathing out quickly through her nose.

‘Yes?’ I attempt.

Johan stretches out an arm. Before I have time to see what he is holding, Ragna grabs it from him, brings it right in front of my eyes with a quivering hand. She doesn’t need to tell me. I know from the sinking feeling in my stomach, the dizzying sensation that knocks all the air out of me and presses me down into the bed.

‘What’s this? Can you tell me that?’

Her hand is so thin, the sinews and veins wind their way over the bones, and her nails are so sharp, they bore into the blank sheet of paper that is crumpled between her fingers.

‘Answer then, damn you. I’ve no more patience left. Answer!’

To underline that she means business, she grabs one shoulder of my nightdress, shoves me hard against the wall.

‘For a while things were quite all right,’ I answer weakly, rubbing the back of my neck with my hand.

‘All right? They’re bloody well not all right. It’s all pure obstinacy on your part.’

‘You don’t understand. For a while I wanted to leave, but then you refused to talk about it.’

‘What’s all this bullshit? I only want a straight answer: was this you?’ She holds the ball of paper up in front of me once more.

‘In a way, yes. I didn’t want to, but then I did, but now I don’t want to any longer. And it’s your fault.’

‘Don’t want to any longer? My fault? Explain yourself a bit better, will you?’

‘Yes, it’s your fault. You never listen to me.’

‘My fault! My fault! Are you out of your mind — am I the one responsible for the letter arriving like this?’

She opens her hand around the crumpled piece of paper, smooths it out with quivering hands, displays the evidence in front of me.

‘Yes, if you’d been a bit more open, we could have talked about it.’

‘Talked? All you’ve got to do is explain how this blank sheet of paper got into the envelope I sent to the nursing home.’

‘But first you have to listen to me.’

‘Your excuses aren’t worth wasting a second on.’

‘You’ve got to. I can’t stand all this quarrelling.’

Johan has caught sight of the glass behind the lamp. He wrinkles up his nose, examines the contents with obvious confusion.

‘What the hell is all this muck, Ragna?’

Ragna turns round quickly, stares angrily at the glass Johan is holding.

‘It looks like some coal-black filth,’ she states.

He raises the glass up to the light in the ceiling, turns it round and round; the light can’t filter through the thick black ooze, but some flakes of ash sticking up betray its contents.

‘What’s the old cow been burning? And what did she put it out with?’

Johan sticks his nose into the glass. He grimaces and pulls away quickly again.

‘What have you been burning?’ Ragna asks.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, swallowing.

‘There are the remains of some writing here!’

Johan pokes down into the glass with a finger. Ragna seizes the glass, glares at the contents, turns slowly towards me, disbelievingly, her mouth open.

‘Oh, my God. You burned the application. You’ve bloody well gone and burned the whole of my application to the nursing home!’

I’m about to protest, but immediately realize that it’s almost impossible to come up with a simple and plausible explanation that Ragna might believe. I twist the duvet around me, start to babble about trivialities to give myself time to concoct a story both of them will accept. But a glance in Ragna’s direction tells me that she sees my babbling as a sign of lies and evasion. She yawns loudly and rolls her eyes, is pale and clearly in a state of shock, grabs the collar of my nightdress with both hands, twists it round hard, presses me down into the bed.