Gøhril Gabrielsen - The Looking-Glass Sisters

It’s the second Monday in August and, surprisingly, Ragna has gone off with Johan to the village. She announced this after my morning care. I pretended to ignore it, frightened of revealing my expectation, the agitated tingling sensation at the thought of being alone — to rummage through her things, perhaps find a letter from the nursing home, the draft of an application.

After waiting for a while, I am inside her room. I poke the door with my crutch, pull a chair over to the dresser, sit down, open the drawers, enter the forbidden land of Ragna.

All the contents are old acquaintances: every nightdress and sock, every jersey and pair of tights. Her jewellery, the long amber necklace and ear clip. Not for the first time do I preen myself in the mirror above the dresser. And once again I perceive this image of Ragna staring at her own perfect mirror-image, the jewellery that confirms her daily sacrifice, that she could have been a woman in a finer, more glamorous world.

In the bottom drawer I find a white box I haven’t seen before. I place my hand on the lid, let it lie there for a while before lifting it off. The contents are red, the material shimmers in my hands: a thin nightdress, a bra and — I don’t understand it to begin with — a tiny pair of panties. At the bottom, underneath the shimmering material, there lies a silver case: a crimson lipstick that smells sweet.

I hook up the bra, pull it over my head and down over my blouse. I do the same with the panties, bend down and pull them up over my trousers, lift my backside a bit in my chair, pull the elastic until it fits round my hips. I heave myself up and, with one hand on my crutch, I grab the lipstick and smear it on my lips with my face close to the mirror.

So this is Ragna. Her white body in red underwear. Johan must have ordered it — the cups are distinctly arousing, they bulge out, begging to be filled. Ragna is utmost poverty, a lifelong lean year, but Johan is hungry. If nothing else, the packaging stimulates the appetite.

Supported by my crutches and wearing Ragna’s bra and panties, I move from room to room to flaunt myself. I take a leisurely cup of coffee and eat the biscuits that Ragna has laid out before leaving, I open the front door so as to be gaped at by birds, heather and moor, I display myself to the lavatory, to all the things in my bedroom and hers. Gradually, I make her red secret pale, dull and my own — something Ragna doesn’t know. And in this way there is a shift in the balance of power in the space of just a few hours. I know everything about her little fairy tale, and she knows nothing about mine.

*

This erotic side to Ragna makes me wonder if her life — all these years in loneliness — has actually been as dull as I have tended to believe. For there’s no denying it, something jars in the way she behaves when meeting Johan. This abandon, this moral decline, the way she crudely and freely indulges in physical intercourse, they do not suggest an inexperienced woman. It’s possible that this sudden wantonness is merely biological, that it has lain dormant and unexpressed in her, waiting to be woken by the right man. But, and this is my theory, it may well be that she has become increasingly aroused as the result of a number of shameless encounters. It may well be that for several years now Ragna, on her trips to the village, on her weekly visits to the shop and the post office, exploited the opportunity to unleash the desire that had built up in the course of a long, strenuous week of nursing and domestic duties, and that on this day in the week she let it all go, her clothes included, that she lay down in a house, a home, with some acquaintance or stranger, giddy and playful, just like the hunting dogs we had for a short period.

Can I have overlooked situations like this one:

Ragna, who, flushed with excitement and expectation, places small and secret objects in her bag, things intended to seduce, to arouse desire? Ragna, who shouts ‘Back soon!’ with a rusty voice, short of breath from the blood pounding inside her, who says, ‘See you later!’, full of hidden urges? Ragna, who, heavy with lust, calls out, ‘I’ll be back just after eight!’

And, God help me, I can almost see it: Ragna, who for twenty-nine years runs light-footedly among the taut, sap-filled birch trunks, along the muddy country road towards the open expanse of emptiness and who there, blood-sated and dazzled, panting, imagines the hours ahead of her.

‘Yes, master! I’m ready for anything!’

*

Back in the chair in her room, and having returned the underwear to where it came from, I start to wonder about Ragna’s real reason for going to the village. This sudden decision to leave — she’s been gone for several hours. Is she doing some serious shopping? A new snow scooter? I make a mental list. She needs a new coat, possibly some kitchen equipment. But there is really only one explanation for my uneasiness: Ragna is of course meeting with the staff of the nursing home.

I see it all: Ragna is probably sitting at this moment wringing her hands, on the very edge of the chair in the principal’s well-scrubbed office.

‘Please be so kind as to help me,’ she says in a weak voice. ‘I’m completely worn out. You can imagine it yourself: never any help, my work set out every day from morning to evening!’

The principal nods sympathetically, hands her a glass of water to encourage her to go on. Ragna swallows and tries to pull herself together, makes an effort to keep back her tears, but is surprisingly down-to-earth and clear in her account.

‘My sister is much worse on her legs, the spasms have increased and she often wakes up with cramp at night. She needs help for practically everything, even the most intimate arrangements,’ she says, brushing away the tears gathering in her eyes.

‘What do you mean, the most intimate?’ the principal asks gently.

‘I have to wipe her behind,’ is the meek reply. ‘She can’t manage that any longer.’

‘And?’ the principal says searchingly, encouraging her to continue.

Ragna swallows again and averts her eyes.

‘It’s the fault of the spasms. When she wipes herself she sometimes falls to the floor, and, well… you can imagine.’ She lowers her gaze, shy like a young girl, studies her hands.

The principal takes a deep breath and straightens up.

‘Terrible,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘But I gather that is not the worst thing?’

‘No!’ Ragna says with a sob that causes her voice to break. ‘The worst thing is that she has become so suspicious and aggressive! She rummages in my things and flails around with her crutches for no reason!’

‘How awful, how unbelievable,’ the principal says, and exchanges a concerned look with the nurse who has appeared and is wiping the sweat from Ragna’s brow.

Meanwhile, the principal fishes out a sheet of paper that she stamps with great authority and energy. She places the sheet on a shelf marked ‘Admissions’, rises and strikes the table with both hands.

‘There’s no doubt at all that you must have help! I’ve never heard of a worse case. Not only is your sister becoming increasingly disabled, but she also shows every sign of mental confusion. We will offer you all the support and assistance you need, Miss Ragna, from today!’

*

‘Come on, open the door!’

Someone is hammering on the front door. I’ve locked it. What else can I do? I’m lost, my time’s over. Through the window I’ve seen Ragna and Johan arriving. And it’s worse than my worst fears: they are accompanied by three powerful men.

‘What on earth are you up to? Open up, I said!’

Ragna shakes the door. Johan swears in the background.

‘It’s not that simple!’

‘What do you mean?’ she answers angrily.