Kjersti Skomsvold - The Faster I Walk The Smaller I am

“For everything there is a season,” the pastor said, “and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to harvest.” It almost felt like I was responsible for ending two lives. Three, counting the orchid.

After the funeral a man approached me, he said he was a colleague of Niels’s, and then he handed me a cardboard box. “This was in Niels’s locker,” he said. “I don’t know why he didn’t take it with him when he left.” The box held all my letters. Most were unopened.

Home again, I lay down on my bed and I wondered what would do away with me. And I wondered if I should have the light off or on. But it wouldn’t matter. The man with the scythe would find me and my raisin heart no matter what.

After Al has come, lingered, and departed, I take the teeth and leave.

I walk through the woods, Åge B. is there.

“Excuse me,” he says, “do you have the time?”

“I have something for you, Åge B.,” I say. “Maybe someday you’ll get tired of asking people for the time, and then it would be good to have a watch of your own.”

I take off Epsilon’s watch. Surely he wouldn’t have minded.

“So,” I say, “this watch needs to be wound. If you forget to wind it, it’ll stop, and then you’ll need to ask someone for the time again. Then again, you can always call Miss Time of Day.”

“I read in the newspaper that Miss Time of Day is dead,” Åge B. says.

“No?” I say.

“No one called her anymore,” Åge B. says.

Well, it happens to the best of us, I think, before I hand Åge B. the watch.

“That’s not necessary,” he says.

“It’s the least I can do,” I say.

He takes it.

“Well, thanks,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” I say.

“And Åge B., it could be that you’re making life harder for yourself than it has to be. Maybe it would be better to drop the B and just be Åge. Maybe just being Åge is enough.”

Åge B. doesn’t say anything.

“But you’ll figure it out,” I say and smile good-bye at him with all my teeth.

Then I head towards Lutvann. The carpet is green, the wallpaper is brown and the ceiling is blue.

I pause on the final hill. I listen to the trees and count “one, two, tree” in honor of them, and then I head down the hill as slowly as I possibly can.

When I reach the water’s edge, I kneel in the sand. I open the sandwich bag and empty out the teeth. I remember how sure I was that I’d find a use for them and that they’d have some sort of significance. But sometimes you have to give meaning to meaningless things. That’s usually how it is. So I pat the sand flat in front of me, before I start placing the teeth. There aren’t quite enough of them, but that’s okay. I use five small pebbles and a little grass instead. I dust off my hands, stand up and then read my last word. “Mathea.” That’s meaning enough.

I look out over the water. In a book I read, a condemned man was asked how he imagined life after death. “A life where I could carry with me the memories from this one,” he answered. I think that was well said.

I draw my wedding dress over my head and lay it on the ground beside me. Then I take off my shoes and hose and throw my panties into a bush.

I set my feet on the muddy bottom, the water’s cold, and I pull my hat down over my ears. I’m not afraid of dying anymore, I’m just afraid of dying alone, and I’ve already done that. I move forward with purpose, I don’t hesitate. The cold hurts and I begin to swim.

Since I’m so hunched over, I have to turn on my back to keep my head above water. I don’t weigh anything at all, and I swim farther out and make big circles with my arms and frog kicks with my legs, infinity plus one is over my head and eternity is below me. Soon I’m too far from shore and even the little islands.

I don’t swim much farther. I’m completely still and so is time and everything around me. Above me, all I can see are clouds that look like meringues, and the only sound I can hear is ambulance sirens. This time they’re coming for me, and without pausing to take a breath, I turn myself over onto my stomach. I’m under water, and it’s dark and clear.

The Norwegian Literature Series was initiated by the Royal Norwegian Consulate Generals of New York and San Francisco, and the Royal Norwegian Embassy in Washington, D.C., together with NORLA (Norwegian Literature Abroad). Evolving from the relationship begun in 2006 with the publication of Jon Fosse’s Melancholy , and continued with Stig Sæterbakken’s Siamese in 2010, this multi-year collaboration with Dalkey Archive Press will enable the publication of major works of Norwegian literature in English translation.

Drawing upon Norway’s rich literary tradition, which includes such influential figures as Knut Hamsun and Henrik Ibsen, the Norwegian Literature Series will feature major works from the late modernist period to the present day, from revered figures like Tor Ulven to first novelists like Kjersti A. Skomsvold.

KJERSTI A. SKOMSVOLD was born in 1979 in Oslo. The Faster I Walk, the Smaller I Am, her first novel, was the winner of the Tarjei Vesaas First Book Prize in 2009.

KERRI A. PIERCE is the translator of Lars Svendsen’s A Philosophy of Evil , Mela Hartwig’s Am I a Redundant Human Being? , and other novels available from Dalkey Archive Press.