Astrid and Veronika (12 page)

When he returned, he closed the window and the shutters of the stove. He got into bed like a cat, hardly disturbing the covers. I had turned onto my side, facing the wall. He lay down and I caught a faint whiff of toothpaste. I lay still, as did he. Then I felt his palm on my back. Not insistent. Just slowly moving down my spine. Then he turned, his back against mine, the sole of his foot touching mine.

When I woke up, the space beside me was empty, but as I stretched out my hand I could feel that the sheets were still warm. I could hear Johan moving about in the kitchen and I could smell toast. I got out of bed, wrapped myself in the blanket and crossed to the kitchen. I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him. His back was towards me and he was busy filling a tray with mugs, plates, a basket with bread, marmalade and cheese. The candles on the table were lit again. Coffee was dripping through the filter of the electric percolator. He was wearing his old green bathrobe and the faded pyjama trousers reached only halfway down his legs. He was barefoot. I walked up to him and pressed my wrapped body against his back, arms around his waist. He said nothing, just paused briefly with the bread basket in his hand.

‘I’ll have to leave soon,’ he said as we sat down to eat. I looked towards the window but it gave no indication of the time. It was snowing, but absolutely dark. ‘Just wrapping up — it’s my last working day before Christmas. We could catch the first ferry tomorrow morning.’ I held a mug in both hands, blowing air on the scalding coffee.

‘Okay, I’ll do a little Christmas shopping, then,’ I said. And for the briefest moment I felt a sense of anticipation.

 

When I stepped out the front door the world was a muted twilight where people walked in ankle-deep snow, lifting their feet like wading birds. The streetlights were still lit, though it was close to ten o’clock.

I walked down Sturegatan, crossed Stureplan and continued along Biblioteksgatan. The shops were opening and there were bright lights in the windows. I crossed Norrmalmstorg, where the Christmas market was hurriedly preparing for the trading climax of the year.

The mobile rang just as I was walking into the NK department store. I struggled to untangle the straps of my backpack and rummage around in the front pocket before the ringing stopped. Flustered I put the phone to my ear. ‘Veronika,’ I said into the phone, covering my other ear with my hand.

‘It’s James,’ he said. There was a long pause, and I was wondering if the phone had cut off, but then he said, ‘I miss you.’

As I stood in the entrance my back was hot from the shop’s air heater, while cold air blew on my face. ‘James.’ I looked out over the street, where cars moved slowly, like giant fish in a fish-tank. The headlights made tunnels in the swirling snow.

‘Where are you?’ he said.

‘I’m in Stockholm. It’s Christmas,’ I said, hearing how stupid it sounded. ‘I decided to come home for the holidays,’ I added.

He laughed, and I suddenly remembered the feeling of laughter.

‘Come to New Zealand, Veronika. Come here and be with me,’ he said. ‘It’s Christmas here, too. Once a year. And the rest is not bad either. Come and live with me in the new world.’ I took the phone from my ear and looked at his face on the screen. His hair had grown, I thought. I lifted my face and let snowflakes land on my skin.

By the time he started to talk again, I had made my decision.

I walked through Kungsträdgården, where rows of elms were outlined in white, as if topped with icing. Skaters filled the small rink, revolving gracefully to recorded music, the air filled with slowly whirling snowflakes. I passed the Opera House and crossed the bridge towards Gamla Stan, the Old Town. The water was steaming and ducks and swans were flocking on the icy crust along the edges, shifting from foot to foot and eyeing passers-by with hungry eyes.

I drifted through the crowds at the market at Stortorget. The air smelled of mulled wine, gingerbread, candles and smoked meat. Huddling together in the centre of the square a small choir was singing Christmas carols a cappella, blowing white mist with every note.

I felt as if my senses had suddenly awakened. As if I were taking note, collecting images for the future. I was leaving. On a whim I had decided to travel to the end of the earth to be with a man I hardly knew. So that I would be able to laugh again.

 

In the evening we went to Blå Porten. Johan had booked. There were candles on all the tables, and the menu was still the same. His hair was wet and he had a handful of shopping bags with him, which he stuffed underneath his chair. We ordered a bottle of red wine. He sat opposite me, rubbing his hands, and I remembered how his fingers always got so cold. ‘My hands are freezing,’ he said, with an embarrassed smile, blowing air into his cupped hands. I looked at his face, saving that, too. The grey eyes, the whites whiter than any eyes I had ever known, almost pale blue. The curled fair eyelashes. The long arched nose. The fine blond hair, which might begin to thin soon. It struck me that we must look like a happy couple out for a romantic pre-Christmas dinner. Lovers. Comfortable together.

We ate and talked. In the warm light from the candles it was possible to fend off the outside world for a while. We ordered coffee with whipped cream and the moment loomed, inching closer.

When I told him, I knew that I would never again want to cause someone such grief. Perhaps it was the light playing tricks, but it was like watching someone die. As if suddenly all life went out of his face and body. He sat absolutely still, his eyes wide open. Only his hands moved, clasping and unclasping. Then tears began to fall from his eyes onto his hands. He made no attempt at wiping them away. There was nothing I could say, and we sat in silence while diners at the other tables continued their meals, talking, laughing. As if nothing at all had changed. In the end, he excused himself and went to the restroom. I paid the bill, and stood waiting by the exit with our shopping bags when he came out.

We took a taxi back. When we got home, we sat at the table drinking whisky, not saying much. I suggested that perhaps I shouldn’t go with him to his mother’s the following day.

He looked at me, saying nothing. After a while he stood up and walked towards the kitchen. ‘Let’s decide tomorrow,’ he said, his back to me.

In the morning, it was as if we had both made the same decision. We knew I wasn’t going. Johan went about his packing. ‘I’ll come with you to the ferry, if that’s okay,’ I said. He didn’t turn to look at me, but asked me to ring for a taxi. It had stopped snowing over night, but the streets were not cleared yet. The whole city was in white padding, all sounds muted. We stood on the quay in front of the Grand Hotel, our feet in the snow, waiting for the ferry gate to open. The sun rose, illuminating some of the old buildings along Skeppsbron across the water. Johan was holding on to the shopping bags with the presents; there was nowhere to put them down. When the gate opened, he turned and put his arms around me, the bags bouncing lightly against the backs of my legs. ‘God Jul, Veronika. Merry Christmas, Veronika,’ he whispered in my ear. He took a step back, his eyes focused on a spot on the ground between our feet. ‘I was wrong, Veronika. I was wrong,’ he said, and looked up. ‘The moment was never enough. I wanted the future as well.’ And he turned and walked on board, never looking back.

Astrid hadn’t stirred and her breathing was light. Except for the buzzing of a couple of drowsy flies on the windowsill, the room was silent. Veronika closed her eyes and continued.

‘I left Johan there, and to me he is frozen in time. And all I see is his back. Never his face.’

She paused.

‘It is sad to lose the face of a loved one,’ Astrid said quietly. ‘So sad. We may think it makes it easier, not seeing the face.’

Veronika looked at the back of Astrid’s head in front of her. Her hair was swept back from her face, grey strands fanning out on the pillow. Veronika had an urge to stroke her head, but her hands stayed tucked under her chin.

‘But it is not true. It makes the pain worse.’ Astrid turned onto her back and unconsciously fingered the buttons of her shirt. Then she turned and looked at Veronika.

‘I have lost my daughter’s face,’ Astrid said. ‘I could describe every exquisite detail of it. But I can no longer
see
it.’ She closed her eyes and as she began to talk her face relaxed, softened, and a hint of a smile set on her lips.

‘She had soft coppery hair. Touched by the sun — it shone like my mother’s. Her eyes were large and black, but I think they would have become green, just like my mother’s. They were so very clear and they looked straight into mine with absolute trust. I would let my finger run over the skin of her forehead and I had never touched anything so soft. When I changed her I put my palm on her chest and stomach, and her eyes locked with mine. I carried her against my body and her hands rested against my chest, connecting with my skin as if she were still a part of me. Her feet kicked against my stomach and the movements were the same as when I carried her in my womb.’ Astrid paused. ‘There hasn’t been a day since she was born that I haven’t thought of her. But I can’t see her.’

Veronika lay on her back, too, her hands on her stomach.

‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Let me see your daughter.’

I called her Sara. My mother’s name. She was born here in this room. It was February and during the night a snowstorm swept by, piling the snow against the building and closing the roads. I lay awake listening to the howling of the wind and the snow beating against the windows, knowing that my child was about to be born. As the morning broke, the wind died and the sun came out. I stood by the window and looked out and it felt as if the world had just been born. As if the wind and the snow had created a new world for my child.

Eventually, the old midwife made it up the hill through the deep snow and when my baby was born she was there to help. She put the wrapped little body into my arms and smiled and told me it was a girl. I undid the wrap and ran my palm over the smooth skin of my daughter’s body. I held out my finger and her hand grasped it. Her nails were like shiny little fish scales. She held my finger tightly and I looked into her dark eyes. I was filled with such joy that I felt we were invincible, my daughter and I. My daughter Sara.

I put my nose to her neck and took in my daughter’s smell. I touched her hair, stroked her cheek, ran my lips over her forehead.

It wasn’t until I looked up that I noticed my husband had entered the room. He stood at the foot of the bed, his hands crossed over his chest. The old woman told him he had a beautiful little daughter. He said nothing. His jaws moved, but not a sound came over his lips. His eyes were fixed on the child.

‘Red hair,’ he said finally. ‘She has red hair.’ And without another word he left the room.

I carried my child with me everywhere. I felt I knew her every wish, her every need, and she never cried. When the weather grew warmer I carried her with me to the place in the forest. While we walked I told her everything. And I made everything beautiful for her. I told her the beautiful things, for I wanted her world to be good. I wanted to give her a good world. I wanted her to have love and I wanted her to love. We sat in the sun in the enclosed space, and again it was enchanted. Again, the firs stood guard around someone I loved. And for a time the world was truly good.

It rained all May that year, or so it seemed. But rain can be as soothing as sunshine. The mornings were soft, with the fine tapping of spring rain. No, not tapping. It was so light it had no sound. It filled the air and nurtured the new growth soundlessly. I took walks with my baby, carrying her underneath my rain cape. My husband had business in Stockholm and was away most of the spring, but when everything closed down for the summer holidays he came back.

Why can I see all this, when I can’t see my baby’s face?

I went up the stairs and I knew he was there. The door wasn’t closed — all I had to do was push it gently and it swung open soundlessly. He stood leaning over her bed. It is as clear now as it was then. A bright sun shone through the light curtains and it was as if it had come out to make me see every detail.

I walked up to the bed and took her. I held her to my chest, walked down the stairs and then out the front door.

We sat down at the back of the house by the strawberry patch. It was early evening but the sun was still high in the sky. Swallows darted above our heads, hunting for mosquitoes, which had arrived with the warm weather.

We sat on the grass and I held her against my chest with my lips touching the crown of her head. I told her about the strawberries. I promised to thread them onto timothy straws for her. I told her how sweet they would be. How I would pick her a straw for every day of the summer. But as I looked out over the patch, where the flowers were still tight little buds, I knew. I knew that there wouldn’t be time.

The room was darker. The sun had disappeared and gusts of wind rattled the window — a forewarning of rain.

Veronika turned her face and looked at Astrid. She placed her hand gently on the old woman’s head, stroking the grey hair, gathering strands behind her ear. She left her hand on the old woman’s shoulder and they lay still while the wind rustled the blind.

‘It’s Midsummer’s Eve, but I think it’s going to rain,’ Veronika said, finally. ‘I thought perhaps this afternoon we should walk down to the village and watch the raising of the maypole. I thought it might be a good thing to do. If the rain stops.’