Astrid and Veronika (2 page)

The house across the field remained dark and silent. For the first few days she wasn’t sure whether it was inhabited. Then one day she exchanged a few words with the woman at the checkout in the village shop and introduced herself.

‘I am Veronika Bergman. I’m renting the Malms’ house up on the hill.’

‘Ah, so you are Astrid’s new neighbour,’ the woman replied. She smiled and rolled her eyes. ‘Astrid Mattson, the village witch. Doesn’t like people. Keeps to herself. Not much of a neighbour, I’m afraid.’ She handed Veronika her change, then added, ‘As you will discover, no doubt.’

It was two weeks before she saw her neighbour for the first time. The old woman looked almost obscenely exposed, a hunched solitary figure in a dark heavy coat and rubber boots, uncertainly navigating the icy road on her way to the village. Her house had been her protector until then, the dark windows loyal keepers of the secrets of the life inside.

After her daily walk, Veronika sat down in front of the laptop, but her eyes drifted from the screen to the window and the landscape beyond. There had been a time when she had felt that the book was absolutely clear, perfectly shaped in her mind, and that the process of typing the words would be a mere technical exercise, swift and easy. That all that was required was her withdrawal from the world, and she would see. Stillness. Peace.

But the screen remained blank.

The grey weather prevailed. It was as if time stood still. It didn’t snow, but nor was there any sun. Invisible crows cawed in an otherwise silent world.

One morning, as she passed by her neighbour’s house on her daily walk, she noticed that the kitchen window was open. It was just a chink, wide enough for someone to look out, but offering no view of the interior. Veronika waved as she walked past. She imagined the old woman there, in the darkness behind the glass, but she couldn’t be sure.

She was thinking about the book, about the continuous process of reshaping and reassembling all her ideas and plans. It was as if the book she had begun in another world, in another life, had been written by someone else. The words no longer had a connection with the person she had become. Here, there were no distractions other than those she carried within, and everything lay exposed. It was time to find new words.

 

Then, finally, the promise of spring. Veronica stood on the porch and looked up into a sky that was an endless blue canvas, with a flight of migrating birds like delicate drifting black calligraphy. The morning had dawned with no hint of a change and she had cut short her morning walk. Now, with the sun on her face, she decided to walk down to the river. She strolled down the hill, crossed the road and carried on through the stretch of forest. Grainy snow still piled in the shade at the foot of the firs, but down at the river the ice was breaking, sending large chunks bobbing on the dark surface. The spring flood was yet to arrive: the snow in the mountains hadn’t begun to melt. She kept her face upturned towards the sun, and when she got back home she sat down on the front steps for a while. The stones were warm under her buttocks. She pulled out her notebook from the small backpack by her side and started to write. When she put down her pen, she was surprised to see that the day was gently folding, the slanting rays of sun filtering through the treetops across the road. She closed the book, lifted her face to the last light and slowly drew a breath.

And realised how long it had been since she had properly filled her lungs.

Astrid stood naked looking out the window. It was late and very dark. If not for the white snow, she wouldn’t have been able to see much. Just the yellow eyes of the windows across the field, startled awake after such a long sleep.

Her own house was in darkness, as always. Dark and warm. She kept it well heated. It was an organic part of her and its shapes were ingrained in her body: she navigated the space effortlessly without lights. Also, the darkness sometimes brought the animals close: the moose, the owls, even the lynx. Self-contained observers like her, with their own space, only briefly visiting hers.

She rarely looked out the windows: the view had lost all meaning.

Yet there she was, by the window, enveloped in the warm darkness of her house, intently following the movements across the white field. She crossed her arms over her chest, cupped her breasts with her hands. They were warm to the touch, heavy. She bent forward, her forehead almost touching the glass. In the stillness of the night all she could see was the dark outline of a woman moving in the bright tunnel of light from the headlights of a car. The front door was wide open, a gaping yellow square in the night. She ran her tongue over her teeth, let it glide over sharp edges and over stretches of soft gum, sucking away the saliva. All the while, she kept her eyes on the other house.

Long after the headlights had been turned off and the front door closed, she remained by the window, embracing herself, letting her hands run over the papery skin of her arms. Staring into the space that separated the houses.

She had expected the arrival, but she was taken by surprise at her own reaction. The fact that she was here, by the window, watching.

The following morning she woke early, as always, in the room behind the kitchen that was her bedroom. She had moved downstairs a long time ago, made her bedroom where once there had been a small dining room. She hadn’t made any major changes, just pushed the table up against the window, so that the four chairs on the far side were hard against the wall in order to make room for a narrow bed. She kept her clothes in the hallway outside the kitchen.

There was no blind, only strips of faded chintz pulled back on either side of the window. She liked to wake up in darkness. She dreaded the return of spring and the relentless white nights of summer.

She lay still, watching the shade of the ceiling change, her ears alert. The sounds of darkness were faint but familiar. She could hear the snow adjusting to the slowly rising temperature, the wind preparing to pick up, the rustling of small bodies scuttling across the hard crust of snow that had thawed and frozen over again. The night had folded; the day had arrived. She heard the first sound of morning: the cawing of a crow. As if carried on the light, the sound invaded her room. She didn’t move but her eyes were open, her ears sharp. The sound and the light stretched their tentacles around the room, fingered the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Glided over her blanket and paused. She watched the light on the ceiling as the first bleak rays of sun crossed the grey expanse. There was no escape; eventually she must surrender. It was there. She had to concede and begin another day.

Then, just as she put her feet on the floorboards, there was a new sound. She heard a window open, then a door. The sound of steps on icy snow, a car door open, then close again. Sounds of life.

Her morning routine was set and she did not welcome disruptions. The daily regime was not directed by discipline, but for convenience. It allowed her a sense of safety. The days had a pattern, unaffected by the changing seasons. Her life was a matter of sustenance, survival, and her needs were minimal. She made no plans for the future. The garden had gone to seed, the house was crumbling. She knew that the paint was peeling, the chimney cracked. A dying building, housing a dying body.

She walked to the village only when necessary. Especially now in the winter. The roads were rarely cleared up here, where cars had no business, and the melting snow became treacherous ice. She had no fear of death, but wished for it to be on her terms. A broken hip would land her in the hands of those she feared the most. Those who had been waiting for her to need them.

The past was kept at bay. There was no future, and the present was a still void where she existed physically, but with no emotional presence. She waited, her memories kept submerged. The effort was a constant, draining task, absorbing all her energy. And there were moments when it failed. When she was overcome by feelings as intense as when they were new. The triggers were unpredictable and she trod cautiously. For a long time she had drifted in still backwaters, patiently awaiting the final undertow. And now this, a slight rippling of the surface.

She got up and began her day. Washed herself, made coffee. Her kitchen was the same as always, with the old wood stove the centrepiece and an electric cooker on the side. The embers were still alive, needing only a soft breath of air and new wood to rekindle.

She cradled the coffee mug in her hands, sucking on a lump of sugar. When she put the mug down on the kitchen table, her hands absentmindedly stroke the brittle oilcloth, as familiar as her own skin, and brushed off non-existent crumbs. She sat sipping the cooling coffee while a pale sun rose. Her eyes wandered to the window.

Life intruded. Incrementally, it made its way back into her house. Sounds. Windows opening and closing. Faint music through an open window. A car driving off. And she found herself adding them to her daily pattern. As the days went by, observing the house across the field became a central part of her early mornings. She found herself at the table well before the other house stirred, waiting while the shadows of the night withdrew. Her eyes would settle on the upstairs window, where the first signs of life would appear.

She stood by the kitchen window, waiting, until the slight figure emerged from the other house and walked past. She made sure she kept still, well inside the window. Her arms crossed over her chest, embracing herself, she watched the young woman pass by, waving. Then, one morning, she found herself lifting her hand in response. It was a hesitant, slow movement, and as her hand sank she stared at it, as if surprised by its action. She sat down at the table and put both hands in front of her. She opened and closed them several times, then laid them flat, palms down. An old woman’s hands, she thought. Translucent, papery skin stretching over raised veins. Liver spots. Yet that split nail on the right little finger, where the soft tip of a five-year-old finger had been caught in the barn door, was intact on the old woman’s hand. And the indent at the base of the left ring finger. All those years and it was still there: a permanent, visible scar. A reminder. The mark of her wedding ring.

Her peace had been disturbed. She found herself wandering through the rooms of the house, hands on her lower back. The days were grey, the nights cold. The evenings grew longer and, as she lay awake, hands clasped on her chest, her eyes searching the ceiling over her bed, she listened intently for the new sounds. Muted music escaping through a closed blind. Bed linen shaken out through the upstairs window. The front door opening or closing. Quick steps over the front yard.

She listened and she felt the world invade. Life. And she turned her face to the wall and cried.

Then, on the morning of the first of May, she lay in bed, waiting. The birdsong, the wind were picking up. But no sound from the other house. The room grew lighter; she was ready to rise. But she was still waiting, her ears alert. Later, she sat at the table, her eyes focused on the house across the field. The windows were closed; there was no smoke from the chimney. The car stood silent. She waited.

She opened the window and stood watching. She placed her hands on the kitchen bench and leaned forward, looking out. Only when the cold air filled the kitchen did she close the window.

Two days went by. On the second night she woke and went and stood by the window. The other house lay deathly still. She sat down at the table, looking out. Just as the black night had reached its peak, the dark shapes of two moose gracefully emerged from the solid wall of black trees beyond the open fields. The two animals moved soundlessly over last year’s dry grass, the only signs of life in a still world.

Astrid could no longer sleep. She wandered between her room and the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. The car was still in the same place. She couldn’t have left. Yet there was no sign of life. She means nothing to me, she told herself. I know nothing about her. I have no business intruding.

She knew nothing more about her neighbour than what she had been able to observe. A young woman. She was no longer sure how to tell age. Twenty-five? Thirty? Slim, with curly dark hair. Short. Not tall, anyway. She had overheard someone talking about her in the shop one day, but as was her habit, she had walked away. Veronika. She had heard the name.

She found herself registering time again. The time of day, the day of the week. Time passed increasingly slowly, and with each passing minute she found it more difficult to tear her eyes away from the other house. It grew to occupy all space, all her thoughts. Eventually, she went and got her jacket.

As she stepped out onto the porch and hesitantly wandered down the gravel path, she was still not fully aware of where her feet were leading her. As when her hand returned the wave, her legs were now acting independently of her conscious mind. She walked down the road and across the front yard of the other house. There were no signs of life. She knocked on the door and stepped back, as if preparing to flee. But when there was no response, she stepped forward and knocked again, harder. She thought she could hear soft sounds, as of bare feet on wooden steps.

When the door opened and she stood face to face with the young woman, she realised that life had irrevocably returned. She cared.

The day before had been so full of promise, with bright sunshine on the snow. Then, dull and cold again. Veronika sat at the kitchen table sipping tea, watching the wind picking up. There were no colours, just shades of grey and white. The bare trees moved restlessly and snow lifted and swirled in irregular bursts. Time seemed to stand still, poised in a no man’s land that was neither winter nor summer.

She had been in the village two months. Finally, she had started to write. It was hard labour, not the rapid process she had anticipated. It was as if the story were a fragile cobweb, and she had to take the utmost care not to rip the thread. The contract and the discussions around the book belonged to another time, as distant as a prehistoric era, and she was struggling to recall her enthusiasm and joy for the project. Yet words emerged. Painfully, slowly. Unexpected words.