Astrid and Veronika (15 page)

She stood, walked over to the stove, took the tea-towel and wiped her eyes. She stood by the stove, her eyes on the window, her hands twisting the tea-towel.

‘I have never allowed myself to even touch on this before. I buried all thoughts together with my daughter. It hurts so . . .’ She pressed the towel to her mouth. ‘You see, it was me. It was always about me. Because my love wasn’t strong enough.’ She crossed the floor slowly and sat down again. ‘I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t be sure I would be strong enough. And if I couldn’t be sure, then it could all have happened again. I think that is how it was. But perhaps that is not the truth. Perhaps it wasn’t that my love wasn’t strong enough. Perhaps it was that my hatred was too strong.’

She stared straight ahead, her profile a silhouette against the light outside the window. ‘And that is an unbearable thought,’ she said quietly. She turned to Veronika. ‘I am sorry you had to see this. Hear this.’

Veronika stretched out her hand and let it touch the old woman’s cheek. ‘Let me help you to bed,’ she said.

They walked slowly up the stairs, Astrid leaning on Veronika’s arm and with her other hand on the banister. Astrid lay down fully clad and Veronika pulled a blanket over her. She brushed her cheek again and crossed the floor to the window, where she pulled down the blind. When she turned back Astrid’s eyes were closed. Her face was very pale. Veronika sat down in the chair near the window. The room was in morning twilight and the only sound was the odd sudden soft, stifled sob, like that of a small child that has cried itself to sleep.

But Astrid was not asleep. She had turned onto her side and she lay with her hands tucked under her pillow and her eyes on Veronika.

‘I have never talked to anyone about that night. Ever,’ she said. ‘And now when I listen to my own words, I realise that they tell a different story from the one I have carried all these years.’ The old woman closed her eyes. ‘I think that if we can find the words, and if we can find someone to tell them to, then perhaps we can see things differently. But I had no words, and I had nobody.’

‘Yes,’ Veronika said. ‘Perhaps I should try to find the words, too. I am a writer, yet words have never come easily to me. Only with great difficulty. And only written ones. I came here with my manuscript unwritten. Now I think that there will perhaps be a book, but not the one I thought I would write.’ She looked across at Astrid, but she could not tell whether she was awake. Her white face expressed no emotion and the eyes were closed. Still, Veronika continued to talk.

‘You see, I went to New Zealand thinking I would pick up more or less where my last book finished. Thinking I would write a book about place, about home. About love, and how love can give a sense of belonging. But it was never that easy. First, I had to give myself — give us — time to settle. I had to develop my own way of looking at his world. And I thought I had all the time in the world.’

She stopped talking and stared into the space between herself and the old woman.

When Astrid opened her eyes and looked straight at her, she continued.

‘Let me tell you when my time ended.’

It was the first weekend of November and the summer that had never quite ended began again. The days were warm, but the nights still cool. It was early morning and it was Saturday.

While I lay quietly waiting for James to wake up, I pressed my leg against his, absorbing his warmth through my skin. He lay on his stomach, arms outstretched, one over the edge of the bed, the other across my chest. His breathing was soft, almost inaudible. I heard the morning paper being tucked into our mailbox just outside the window, which was pulled up an inch or two. I could see that it was light, but I had not yet learned to interpret the shades of daylight. Southern Hemisphere November light. Late spring or early summer, so unlike any November I had known before. Here, it was as if summer and winter were intertwined: there was summer in the midst of winter, winter in the midst of summer. And there was no autumn, no spring, no time for anticipation, no time for remembrance. Only the present. Or perhaps I had just not yet developed the sensitivity required to distinguish the subtle season changes. I still had three unexplored months before my first year in New Zealand would be complete.

There was an almost imperceptible change in the rhythm of James’s breathing and I knew he was awake. His hand on my chest moved and cupped my breast. I turned and faced him as his eyes opened.

His eyes were always wide open when we made love, looking straight into mine. Like those of a small child, they expressed every shift of emotion: passion, pleasure, excitement, tenderness. And joy, always joy.

We stayed in bed until hunger drove us out. In the kitchen we opened the doors to the veranda and took our coffee and toast outside. The sky was clear, with only the occasional light cloud dissolving in the high wind. It was still cool, but you could sense that the day would be warm.

‘Ah, what a day. Let’s go to the beach,’ James said, standing on the steps leading down into the garden, his eyes on the sky.

Then, the words that would change everything. My words.

‘All right.’

Just the two. There are so many others I could have chosen. I could have said, ‘No, let’s take the ferry to Waiheke and go bicycling.’ Or ‘Let’s walk down to Cox’s Bay.’ Or ‘Let’s walk into town, go to the art gallery, have lunch.’ Or just ‘No, I don’t really feel like the beach.’ I could have said, ‘I think I am pregnant.’

Instead, all I said was, ‘All right.’

While I showered, James started to prepare lunch. Bread, eggs, olives, tomatoes. Mussels, cheese. Beer and water. I stood in the doorway watching him putting everything together. I watched his hands and felt an urge to hold them, to put them on my body. He grinned and stuck an olive in his mouth.

On the way, we stopped at a petrol station to fill the car and get some ice for the chilly-bin. Traffic was light as we drove west. We had decided on Karekare and as we turned off the main road onto the meandering steep drive down to the beach I was again struck by the view. Lush green bush, reminiscent of a tropical forest yet distinctly different. It looked new. Raw, recently created, but at the same time prehistoric and untainted by humans. I felt as if I could still see the structure, the overall shape of the land, before it was inhabited.

At the bottom of the road there were small houses with defiant flowerbeds of petunias and geraniums. There seemed to be no connection between these quaint dwellings and the stark landscape. Even on such a cheerful, bright, early summer day Karekare was haunting, awe-inspiring, and to me the small houses seemed out of place, as if they had been conceived with an entirely different, safe, ordinary environment in mind. This seemed a place to admire more than love, I thought. It inspired a spiritual reaction, an acute awareness of human insignificance.

We parked and unpacked and, with our arms full, waded across the stream and onto the black sand, already warm under our feet. The beach was almost empty, with a group of lifesavers assembled around a four-wheel-drive bike and an inflatable rescue boat. The flags were up.

The sea crashed onto the sand and a fine gauze of sea spray softened the view over the shimmering expanse beyond. We spread our mats and James opened the beach umbrella and secured it in the sand. We sat for a while, looking out over the sea. Seagulls screamed high overhead. And this is the next point where my words might have changed everything.

‘Feel like a little swim?’ he said.

I could have said, ‘Okay, for once I think I will.’ Or ‘Yes, but I’ll only go in to my knees.’ Or I could have said, ‘James, I think I am pregnant.’ Instead, I said, ‘You know I don’t really like swimming here. You go; I’ll stay here and read.’

He pulled on his wetsuit and again sat for a moment beside me. I was on my stomach, my book open in front of me. I was rereading
The Werewolf
by Axel Sandemose. I had been thinking of interweaving the story with the narrative of my own book. I was reading carefully, focusing on structure, a pencil in my hand.

‘It’s perfect,’ James said, squinting as he looked out over the sea. I half turned, leaning on my elbow to follow his gaze, but then lay down again. ‘We’ll eat when I’m back,’ he said, and I felt him bending over and pressing his lips onto a spot at the nape of my neck. I smiled to myself, but I didn’t turn. I didn’t see him pick up the board and wander across the sand down to the water. I didn’t see him wade into the water, drift seawards, catch the first wave.

You told me, Astrid, that it is impossible to say what it is that makes you
know
that summer has peaked. That one day, when the sun is as high in the sky as the day before, the water as warm, the grass as green, you just
know
.

I lay on my blanket and read, then rested my head on my arms and dozed off. But as abruptly as if I’d been doused in icy water, I woke. I
knew
. It wasn’t the stretch of time that had passed. Nor were there any alarms, any screams. The sky was still blue, the seagulls still circled high above. A woman played with a dog on the flat mirror of wet sand along the edge of the water. But I
knew.

I stood and with my hands shielding my eyes I looked out over the sea. There was a small cluster of swimmers well inside the flags, and a few a little further off. A couple of young boys were chasing a frisbee. But there were no surfers.

In silence my body began to move. My feet landed on the black sand as they picked up speed, running towards the lifeguards. I was racing, but the world around me moved in slow motion, holding me back. The first lifeguard turning to face me, then screaming to the others, their swift movements getting the rescue boat into the water and jumping on board. To me, it all took place in absolute silence and with unbearable slowness.

I ran down to the water, my eyes on the orange boat zigzagging through the breaking waves. People gathered around me but they were in another world, on the other side of a gigantic gulf that swallowed all sound. Water splashed around my feet as I ran along the beach, following the direction of the boat. A girl in a yellow lifeguard T-shirt ran beside me, her arm reaching out to catch mine. The boat was now further from shore and dipping out of view between the waves. I felt my teeth begin to chatter as I stopped and stood in ankle-deep water. The girl in the yellow T-shirt put her arm around my shoulders and we stood silently, our eyes on the thundering sea, where the boat was now an orange speck.

I felt as if all stood still, as if my own breathing had stopped. Then I saw the boat returning, still dipping in and out of view, but each time emerging a little closer. And suddenly I could sense the lack of urgency. It was no longer a rescue operation.

They carried him up to the makeshift lifeguard base and placed him on a blanket. There were no attempts at CPR or mouth to mouth. The lifeguards stood back and I fell to my knees, my hands reaching out to touch him. I licked the salt water from his eyelids. I put my ear to his chest. I whispered into his ear, the words of our entire life. I put my ear close to his mouth and listened for an answer. Above us the pitiless sun, while the world swirled incomprehensible around the stillness that was the two of us. Then the violent crashing of the victorious sea.

There was a small cut above his left eyebrow and a deep scratch along the length of his left arm. That was all. His head had fallen to the side facing me. I put my hands on his cheeks, bending down to press my own against his. I lay down beside him, stroking his hair.

Eventually, someone gently pulled me up and the girl in the yellow T-shirt wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. There were people gathered around us, their faces pale moons, some crying. They put him on a stretcher and carried him up to the clubhouse. I walked slowly and it surprised me that others were running. There was loud talk, screaming. I noted the commotion with detached surprise.

I sat on a chair in the bare lifeguard clubhouse, a cup of scalding tea on the table in front of me. Around me, there was a world to which I no longer belonged. It was if a heavy door had shut with a sigh and left me outside, alone. I could remember the morning, making love, packing, driving to the beach, but it seemed as if in another time. When I was still alive.

Astrid lay still, tears streaming down her face to her pillow. She made no attempt at wiping her face; her hands remained tucked underneath the pillow. Veronika stood and pulled up the blind. Outside, the sun was gently awakening the wind. The light reflected on her face and she closed her eyes.

‘The shortest night of the year. Midsummer’s night,’ she said. ‘And here is the new day.’

She turned and walked up to the bed, bent over and placed a quick kiss on Astrid’s forehead. The old woman pulled out her hand and stroked Veronika’s cheek, but she said nothing. Veronika walked across the room and as she opened the door she threw a quick glance over her shoulder, but Astrid had pulled up the blanket and turned towards the wall. Veronika closed the door softly behind her.

 

On the Monday after midsummer weekend Veronika took Astrid to the rest-home where they had arranged to meet the undertaker. He had initially suggested meeting at his office in town, a good hour’s drive away. Alternatively, he had offered to come to Astrid’s house. But Astrid had insisted on meeting at the rest-home. Neutral ground, perhaps.

When Veronika drove up to Astrid’s gate, Astrid was waiting on the porch. She came down the path wearing her usual outfit: trousers and a large shirt. Yet somehow she looked serene. Her hair was brushed back from her face and her eyes were sharp and very blue as they set on Veronika’s face. ‘Thank you,’ she said, before getting into the passenger seat.