Astrid and Veronika (3 page)

It was the last day of April, Valborgsmäss Eve. The celebration of the end of winter and the beginning of spring. Yet, as always, a bitterly cold day with an icy wind. She had been thinking of making her daily walk a late one so she could go down to the village to watch the bonfire. But she was tired, spring tired. She sat at the kitchen table in front of the laptop. The room was warm — she had lit a fire in the stove — but she still felt cold. The words on the screen in front of her seemed to paint an almost forgotten landscape. It was as if she were slowly unpacking, pulling out one scene after another and exposing them to this bleak light. The effort was enormous. Here, now, each passage seemed out of place, like clothes bought on holiday. Distant and without any connection to her, to this place. She lifted her eyes and looked out the window, but the still landscape seemed withdrawn. She felt as if she were suspended between two worlds, belonging to neither.

The neighbour’s house was closed and silent. But the day before, as she had walked past waving, she had noticed that the kitchen window was again ajar, despite the weather. She could have been mistaken, but she thought she saw a movement in the darkness behind the glass. She thought she saw the old woman return her greeting. Today, there was no sign of life.

She shivered and went upstairs to get her fleece jacket. The red one. James’s. She pulled it on and sat down again at the table. Unconsciously, her hand stroked the soft material of the sleeve. She lifted her hands to her mouth and blew into them to warm her stiff fingers.

The day drifted into afternoon and she remained in front of the screen, reading more than writing. But as the hours passed the words seemed to withdraw, to blur and rearrange themselves into sequences that became increasingly difficult to decipher. Eventually, she turned off the laptop and closed the lid. The kitchen lay dark; the grey day had deepened into early evening. As she stood she had to support herself with a hand on the table for a moment before crossing the floor. Upstairs in the bedroom she lay down on the bed, curled up and pulled the bedspread tightly around her body.

She lay naked on her back on a beach. The universe was black. Blacker than black — where she was there had never been light. The rough sand was scalding hot under her back, burning and scratching her skin. Yet cold water sloshed around her body. A wild sea roared beyond and the sound was deafening. Her eyes ached, staring wide open into space that was completely void of light, trying to make out shapes in a solid blackness. All around her the thunder of the sea. The air was thick and salty, sticking on her tongue and in her nostrils. She wanted to get up, to run, but the weight of the black night pressed her body deeper into the hot sand, paralysing her. Then, in the splitsecond between sleep and wake, there was a blinding flash of light and she could make out a wave of gigantic proportions, filling the entire universe and moving towards her, rising ever higher, gaining momentum, looming above in its deadly, shimmering enormousness, poised to break. Her hands clawed at the sand, breaking her nails. Soundless screams filled her mouth, choking her. When darkness swallowed her again, she knew the wave was breaking.

She only just managed to make it downstairs to the bathroom before she threw up. She shivered and her teeth chattered, yet her skin was on fire. She turned on the tap and let the cold water run over her hands, then put the wet palms against her cheeks. She cupped her hands and filled them, and drank. The house was dark.

Then it was not night, but not daylight either. She was in her bed, her throat throbbing. The sheets were twisted and rumpled. Colourless light filtered in through the half-pulled blind. She was desperately thirsty, but the door and the stairs were impossibly distant. There was a sick smell in the room. And such sad light. She closed her eyes.

She was on a New Zealand west coast beach, her bare feet on the hot dark sand. High hills loomed behind; in front of her the sea stretched to the horizon, thundering waves crashing onto the empty beach. She was panting, running, her feet sinking into the sand. He was ahead — all she could see was his bare back and his legs moving swiftly, his feet light on the sand. She was trying to catch up, struggling to fit her feet into his footsteps. But his strides were much longer than hers and she had to jump to reach each mark in the sand. She knew she had to hurry — the marks were getting fainter and more and more difficult to distinguish. The tide was coming in, moving closer and closer to the fading imprints in the sand. She stumbled, lost momentum and began to miss steps. When she looked up she couldn’t see him any longer; she was alone on the deserted beach. She stopped and the tide reached her feet, lapping against her ankles. Helpless, she watched it sweep over the sand and in one brief stroke erase the prints, leaving a flat mirror behind as it withdrew. She sank to her knees, overcome by a sense of grief so intense it stopped her heart, her breath. Tears streamed down her face and she cupped her hands over her eyes. But her hands could not contain the tears: they fell between her fingers over her thighs until she sat in a pool of tepid water. When she lowered her hands she saw that the rising water was the brown, coppery stillness of a Swedish lake. She lay down and let the soft water carry her body, sinking deeper and deeper, the water closing over her face. Shafts of light filtered through the amber liquid, making golden flecks of innumerable drifting particles. She was gently rocked, weightless.

Then white morning light outside the window and she was back in her room. A blackbird sang outside the window. Veronika crawled out of bed and made it downstairs to the bathroom. She pulled off her nightgown and stepped into the shower, making no effort to wash, just allowing the water to run over her body. Eventually she sat down, her back against the tiled wall and her forehead against her knees, while the shower kept running. She sat immobile until the hot water slowly ran out, bearing the gradually colder water until the skin on her shoulders felt numb. She stood slowly, dried herself and returned upstairs, where she pulled off the crumpled sheets and replaced them with clean ones. The effort made her pant, and as she lay down the room seemed to pulsate with the beating of her heart. She closed her eyes.

Her father was standing outside a house. She didn’t recognise it, but she felt that she ought to. He waved at her, smiling, and she wanted to wave back, but there were cars and buses obstructing her view, separating them. She stood on her toes, bending this way and that, craning her neck, trying to look over the traffic. But each time he came back into view he seemed to be further away. She tried to shout to him to stay put, to wait for her, but the noise of the vehicles drowned her words. She ran into the traffic, attempting to cross the road. There were buses, cars, trams and motorcycles all around her; she was caught in a turbulent sea of traffic. She realised that she would never reach the other side and she was overcome by a sense of loss that drowned all sounds. She stood like an island in the silent turmoil that swirled around her, unaffected and unconcerned.

There was a sound. Or was it in her dream? She was on her knees, on all fours, pounding her hand on the packed, black sand of the beach. She was trying to speak but tears kept choking her, and the more upset she became, the harder she beat, her palm burning. But then she was back in the bed, her hand stuck between the mattress and the edge of the bedframe, and there was a knock on the door downstairs.

 

Except for the stale pancakes, the small jar and the blue thermos that were still on the table the following morning, it could have been the creation of a feverish brain. She had opened the door and her neighbour had been there, standing on the doorstep, peering hesitantly and looking distinctly uncomfortable. After a brief look and a nod, the woman’s eyes had wandered, focusing on a spot just beyond Veronika’s shoulder. And when she had spoken, it was with obvious effort, slowly and hesitantly. As if she were uncomfortable with the sound of her own voice and needed the time to listen to each uttered word before releasing another. She had said she would be right back. And then she had turned and hurried off.

Veronika had gone into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror above the hand-basin. Her face looked small, as if observed from a distance. She ran her hairbrush through her tangled hair and brushed her teeth slowly. She sat down on the closed toilet lid, her head between her knees, with her arms around her thighs. When she heard the front door open, she wrapped the dressing gown tightly around her body. She lifted the sleeve to her face and buried her nose in the dark red terry cloth.

In the kitchen she saw that her neighbour had returned and was busy lighting the stove. She had her back to Veronika, and didn’t indicate that she had noticed her. Veronika sat down at the table, watching the old woman. She was dressed in a large green woollen jumper and grey trousers, too long for her and clumsily rolled up to expose a glimpse of blue-veined pale skin between sock and trouser. She had found the frying pan and Veronika could smell melting butter. On the table was a small jar of jam and a dented old blue thermos. The old woman was frying pancakes and when she had finished the first one she brought the plate to the table. She opened the jar and spread a generous helping of jam over the pancake before rolling it up with a fork. Her eyes on Veronika’s face, she pushed the plate across the table, but said nothing. Veronika took the rolled-up pancake between her fingers and took a small bite. It tasted wonderful — light, yet smothered in butter, and the jam sweet and filled with the flavour of wild strawberries.

The old woman returned to the stove, saying nothing, but every now and then she turned around, nodded and gestured with the spatula, urging Veronika to take another bite. Meanwhile she kept her focus on her task, pouring mixture into the pan, watching it set, with her hand on her hip holding the spatula, then turning the pancake with a swift movement before sliding it onto the serving plate. Still she said nothing.

She brought out two mugs and poured tea from the thermos. It was strong, almost black, and very sweet. Eventually she turned off the stove, rinsed the frying pan under the tap and sat down at the table. She didn’t eat. Her right hand brushed the surface in front of her in quick nervous circles and her eyes kept drifting towards the window. After a while she stood up, took her jacket, which she had hung over a chair, and started to put it on. Halfway through, she stopped, turned to Veronika and said, ‘Just open your bedroom window and call out if you need anything.’ Then she pulled on the other sleeve and walked towards the hallway. With her hand on the door handle and without turning around she said, ‘I will look out for you.’ Then she stepped out onto the porch and softly closed the door behind her.

Three days were lost, a string of feverish phantom images all that remained. After the old woman left, Veronika went straight back to bed and slept until the following morning. When she woke, the stale pancakes and the blue thermos on the kitchen table were the only tangible proof of the visit. Her neighbour was an enigmatic apparition, interwoven with her dreams. She knew nothing about the woman who had appeared on her doorstep. But as she looked out the window, the house across the field no longer looked uninhabited.

She spent the rest of the week recovering, trying to write a little. But mostly she just sat at the table, looking out the window, her mind drifting. Then on the Saturday she dressed to go outside. Even the slightest task, like walking up the stairs to the bedroom, made her break out in a sweat. But the weather was mild and sunny and she decided she needed to get out, if only for a short walk. Also, she wanted to return the thermos and thank her neighbour.

She stepped out onto the porch and it was as if a whole season had passed in her absence. The bright sunshine made her squint as she walked across the field to the other house. The kitchen window was open, and when she knocked on the door she knew that her arrival must already have registered. Still, it took a while before the door opened. She was pleased that she had a specific reason for being there and held out the thermos as proof. The old woman stood well inside the door, only partly visible, her eyes squinting as she peered at her visitor. Veronika thanked her, commented on the jam. Mentioned the weather. The old woman said nothing, just nodded and took the thermos. Veronika kept up a strained one-sided conversation, but the words fell to her feet like dry leaves. Finally, she explained that she was off on her first walk since getting out of bed. She had no intention of asking the old woman to come with her, and was taken by surprise by her own words. ‘Would you like to come with me?’ The question hung in the air.

The old woman shook her head, but remained where she was, with the door half open. Veronika paused and looked out over the fields, overcome by a feeling of loneliness and an odd sense of disappointment. The quiet space between the two women lingered uncertainly. As Veronika turned her eyes back, her gaze was returned. The old woman seemed to pull herself up, a physical manifestation of her mind’s decision. ‘Wait,’ she said. With a nod she indicated the unpainted bench fitted to the wall of the house along the porch, and disappeared, closing the door behind her. Veronika sat down in the shade. She heard the old woman’s footsteps inside the house, then the sound as she closed the kitchen window. She came through the door wearing a threadbare cardigan over a checked man’s shirt, corduroy trousers and a pair of black rubber boots with the tops cut off.

They set off down the hill, Astrid slightly stooped and with her hands clasped behind her back. Her boots made a hissing sound with each step. Suddenly Veronika thought of spring days as a child, walking outside in summer shoes for the first time after winter. Feeling so light she could fly. But here this old woman was awkwardly plodding along in heavy boots too big for her feet, stirring up little clouds of dust with every step on the dry road. Wild anemones dotted the bank on the southern side, the bright blue petals surprising signs of new life among blackened leaves and flax-coloured grass.