Astrid and Veronika (23 page)

He disappeared through the door to the left, and returned a moment later with a large brown envelope. He handed it over and crossed his arms. ‘There are some papers for you regarding the property in there. Have a look at them when you have time and let me know if you have any questions.’ He stretched out his hand to say goodbye. ‘Ah. And there is a letter from Mrs Mattson in there, too. She gave instructions for me to hand it over together with the keys.’ He dropped Veronika’s hand and returned his to his pocket, then lowered his eyes for a moment, shifting his weight from toes to heels and back again. In the end all he said was, ‘Good luck, then.’

His wife joined him in the doorway and they both waved goodbye as Veronika thanked them and stepped down the stairs. She heard the door close behind her and could sense that they were pleased to be able to resume their Saturday evening. She felt relieved, too.

Outside the gate she stopped, opened the envelope and pulled out the keys. She weighed them in her hand. There were two: one old, heavy and blackened; the other a shiny modern patent key. They sat together on a simple ring. Veronika stuck them in her pocket and got back in the car.

She started the short drive to the house. Her house.

But first, there was one more visit to make.

Dusk fell during the short drive. Bright yellow squares of light indicated the presence of the odd farmhouse along the road, but she met only a couple of cars. She slowed down at the bend just before the church came into view, then took the left turn off the main road and eventually stopped outside the looming white building. She took a deep breath. The air was cool now, with a hint of burning firewood. It was still, and all she could hear was the distant drone of the odd passing car. She walked along the western side of the church to the cemetery at the back. It was almost dark, but the snow that had survived in the shade near the wall seemed to fluoresce, giving off a pale light, and her eyes adjusted quickly.

Few of the graves looked well kept and only one or two showed signs of recent visits. Only one was new.

‘When I leave this house, it will be for the cemetery. I have chosen the space, and it is paid for. I needed to make sure I would have my own space there, you see,’ Astrid had said when they passed the church one day.

And here it was, Astrid’s space. A small granite plaque lying flat on the ground, no proper headstone. Just her name, and the words:

. . . nu vill jag sjunga dig milda sånger
.

Beside it lay another plaque, the same size and colour, but aged, and with the name Sara only just legible underneath moss and lichen.

Veronika reached into her pocket and pulled out two pieces of New Zealand greenstone. She held them in her palm, closing her fingers around the shapes. They were smooth and warm. She placed one on each plaque. She squatted and let her fingers trace the words of the single line in the new granite.

She remained there, eventually dropping to her knees, running her hand over the cold surface in front of her.

The sudden distant barking of a dog pulled her back, and she stood slowly and made her way back to the car.

She drove past the shop, closed now, and with frayed billboards announcing special offers to no eyes. She took the last sharp turn off the road and up the steep hill. There were no lights on in any of the houses along the road. At the crest of the hill she turned left onto the unsealed road, past the fence with the row of mailboxes. The small timber sheds behind were just shadows.

She stopped outside the gate and got out. The soft hum from the cooling car motor was the only sound. She could smell last year’s leaves and wet soil in the process of freezing yet another night. She paused for a moment and looked at the silent house in front of her, then opened the gate and walked up the path. The gravel was frozen solid, hard and dry under her feet. The keys bounced against her thigh as she stepped up onto the porch, and when she fished them out they were warm to the touch. She put the old key in the top lock, but it wouldn’t turn and she had to press her shoulder against the door and pull the handle upwards before the lock reluctantly yielded. The patent key opened the lower lock silently at the first attempt.

She had expected the air inside the dark hallway to be stale and chilly, but instead she stepped into semi-darkness that was warm against her face: unscented, dry and comforting. It was as if the house had been waiting for her. It had been cleaned, aired and heated. It was ready. She stretched out her hand to switch on the lights, but changed her mind and continued on in darkness. She walked slowly along the hallway, her hands outstretched like a sleepwalker’s, but as she entered the kitchen the pale light from the window was enough for her to find her way around. She stood by the window and looked out over the field where the grass lay flat, covered with a thin patchy layer of icy snow. She put her palms on the cold glass and pressed her forehead against it.

Her old house sat silently across the field, its black windows staring back at her without recognition. There was a child’s swing set on the front lawn and the hedge along the road had been trimmed. It was no longer an orphan house.

She sat down at the kitchen table and placed the envelope in front of her. She pulled out the papers, then lifted the envelope and tipped it upside down. The letter fell out onto the tablecloth. A thick envelope, the paper yellowed and the glue so dried that a strip of sellotape had been added to keep the flap down.

It had her name on it, and the familiar handwriting was elegant, although a little uncertain:
Till min käraste Veronika
. To my beloved Veronika.

Veronika’s hands smoothed the envelope and she felt a small lump inside. She shook it gently and a small object slid out, landing on the table with a soft thud. Astrid’s gold pendant. Veronika picked it up and the fine chain fell between her fingers. It was a small oval locket with a star engraved on the face. She threaded the chain between her fingers, closed her hand around the pendant and rested both hands on the envelope. She looked out the window.

Then her hands searched the edge of the table and found the handles of the cutlery drawer where she knew Astrid kept her candles. She collected the brass candlestick from the mantelpiece above the stove and the box of matches from their place on top of the firewood in the basket on the floor. She lit the candle and began to read.

My dearest Veronika

You sit at the kitchen table. It is March again. A night like the one when you first arrived. You have lit a candle and I can see your hands on the table, holding this paper. Your face is clear, your shoulders relaxed. Your hair is falling freely in all its curly abundance, but I think you are unconsciously pushing it away from your face, gathering it at the nape of your neck.

But I could be completely wrong, of course. These words may never be read. Or you could be anywhere in the world when my letter reaches you. But if all goes to plan, you will be here. In the kitchen where it all began. There are candles in the drawer underneath the table. Matches on top of the firewood by the stove. You should have found the house tidy, but stripped to the bare necessities. I don’t want it to impose on you. Make demands. I wish for it to be a gift with no ties.

That first evening in March I was right where I place you now. By the window. I think of it now as the first spring sunshine on the ice of a lake frozen solid. It seems to me that ice somehow thaws from underneath. The warmth comes from above, but it is only when the depths below have warmed that the ice finally recedes. It grows porous, water begins to seep through, it loses its grip on the shores. Watching you arrive was that first light after such a long darkness. I watched the outline of your slight figure in the tunnel of light made by the headlights of your car until you were finished unloading. I stayed by the window long after you had closed the door. I watched the lights go out, one after another. And I think I knew that life had returned.

You have known me as no other person has. And I like to think that I have known you a little. There was a long time when I took comfort from having nothing. Nobody. But now I know that we are not meant to live like that. I am not sad that my insight came so late. I am grateful that it came at all. To some, my life may seem tragic. Wasted. That is not how it appears to me. You have given me a new perspective. You pulled me out into the bright life again, opened my eyes. Made the ice thaw. And I am so very grateful.

Love comes to us with no forewarning, and once given to us it can never be taken away. We must remember that. It can never be lost. Love is not measurable. It cannot be counted in years, minutes or seconds, kilos or grams. It cannot be quantified in any way. Nor can it be compared, one with the other. It simply is. The briefest brush with real love can sustain you for a lifetime. We must always remember that.

Don’t grieve for me, Veronika. Do you remember how I said that it is sad when we forget the faces of those we love? I now think that we never do. I think that we imagine that they are lost, when what has happened is that they have become a part of us and can no longer be explored objectively. I would like you to think of me like that. Knowing that I will always be with you, though you may not be able to recall my face.

My dearest Veronika, with this house come no tasks, no musts. You are free to deal with it as you like — give it away, abandon it, sell it. But I hope that you will choose to accept it. It is a house in need of love and happiness. Deserving of it. I somehow think its time has come. Whether with you — as I hope — or someone else is not so important. I like to think that there will be children running up and down the stairs. I imagine it full of people for Christmas, New Year and midsummer. I think of leisurely summer days with children playing in the garden, picking the wild strawberries.

But then, more than the house, I think of you. This is the second time in my life that I have initiated a separation from someone I love. But this is so very different from that first time. Not sad in the normal sense of the word. I am long overdue to leave. And I like to think that you are ready to face life.

Live, Veronika! Take risks! That is really what life is about. We must pursue our own happiness. Nobody has ever lived our lives; there are no guidelines. Trust your instincts. Accept nothing but the best. But then also look for it carefully. Don’t allow it to slip between your fingers. Sometimes, good things come to us in such a quiet fashion. And nothing comes complete. It is what we make of whatever we encounter that determines the outcome. What we choose to see, what we choose to save. And what we choose to remember. Never forget that all the love in your life is there, inside you, always. It can never be taken from you.

I would like you to think of me with a smile. Remember, there was love. It was just that I had allowed hatred to block the memories. Now, I think that my life ends in a triumph of sorts. I have retrieved the love of my life.

My dearest Veronika, it is all your doing. You arrived that dark March evening and you fundamentally changed my life. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am. This house is but a small, inadequate — and potentially perhaps demanding — token of my heartfelt gratitude.

You gave me this CD player and I am playing Brahms again. The sonata for violin and piano, which my mother used to play. That also you returned to me. The music. There was silence, such a very long silence. Then you entered my life and brought it back. It has been heartbreaking, but also so very wonderful. I can’t think of a more beautiful piece of music than this sonata. I listen to the second movement, and though I must admit that tears blur my vision, they are not sad tears. They are soothing, warm on my cheeks. I look out the window. It is a clear day, early afternoon with a warm slanted light on the snow. It is still and I can see the smoke from the chimneys of the houses down below in the village. Soft grey pencil lines against the intensely blue sky, where the approaching evening is already deepening the colour by the minute. This, too, is your gift to me. The ability to take in the view. To see the beauty. And it is so very beautiful.

I am happy, Veronika. Very happy. And so very, very grateful.

I would like you to take the time to get to know the house. I somehow think that you can bring to it what you brought to me. Life. I also think that perhaps the house can give you what you seem to be searching for. A home. That whether you choose to make it your home, or just your quiet refuge from time to time, it will give you a place to call home. A place to leave from, and to return to. Whatever you decide, Veronika, it must be for you. Not for me, or anybody else.

Do you remember that day by the lake, reading Karin Boye? There is a poem by her called ‘Morning’ that I find so very beautiful. The last lines are:

Now blow out the candle and go to bed. Sleep well, my dear Veronika, and wake up to the new day tomorrow.

 

your

Astrid

Veronika smiled when she realised she had absentmindedly gathered her hair, pulled it away from her face. But tears were falling from her chin onto the table.

‘Astrid, I have finished the book,’ she whispered. ‘I hope you will like it, because it is your book. I came here with a bag of sorrows and a book to write. You helped me see that the sorrows were also love, joy and laughter, to be carried lightly and for ever. The book ended up being very different from the one I had in mind, but it is written, and I have it with me today, in my suitcase. I wish you were here at the other side of the table, with your coffee mug between your hands, ready to hear me read to you. Giving your approval with small nods of your head. But I think you know. And I think you approve.