Astrid and Veronika (5 page)

Each time she looked up, her eyes set on the other house. It stared back at her through the white morning mist.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a movement. In the bleak morning Astrid was slowly walking across the field. She trod cautiously, as if afraid of losing her footing. She wore the same clothes as the day before. Veronika didn’t move, just sat and watched the slow progress until she heard the steps on the porch, followed by a hesitant knock. Two quiet taps, almost inaudible. And when Veronika opened the door, Astrid had already taken a step down, her body half turned away. She stopped in her tracks and slowly stepped back up onto the porch. She held her hands clasped over her stomach, twisting her fingers.

‘I thought that perhaps you would like to come for coffee this afternoon,’ she said, shifting her gaze from Veronika’s face to the floorboards between them, then back again. ‘I was thinking I might make waffles.’ She paused. ‘I suppose it’s the same as pancakes.’ She paused again. ‘More or less.’ She looked up, shrugged and smiled uncertainly. ‘We used to have waffles for Marie Bebådelsedag, March 25. Annunciation Day. I don’t know why, but people here always had waffles that day.’ Another pause. ‘I don’t know why I came to think of that today. And you may have other things to do . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Perhaps some other day.’ She took a small step back, but Veronika stretched out her hand and held on to the old woman’s wrist.

‘I would love to,’ she said.

‘Three o’clock, then?’ Astrid said, and when Veronika nodded the old woman turned and walked down the steps and back towards her house without looking back.

It was still early and Veronika suddenly felt tired. She went upstairs and lay down.

 

She was by herself in the swimming pool. She was wearing the orange plastic inflatable cushions on her arms and she hung upright in the water with only her head above the surface and her arms outstretched on either side. The tips of her toes only just touched the blue tiles at the bottom. It was dark and the water was illuminated by invisible lights along the edge, below the waterline. She could see her legs beneath, pale blue, like some underwater creatures with a life of their own. She could hear the voices of her parents, but she couldn’t see them. Beyond the rippling bright blue water she could see nothing, only darkness. She knew they were arguing and she tried not to cry. There was a gust of wind and with a fright she realised she could no longer feel the tiles. She couldn’t swim; she wasn’t allowed in the pool on her own. She tried to run through the water, splashing as she waved her arms and gulping water as she tried to scream. Suddenly, a fierce gust of wind filled the air and it seemed to suck up all the water, pushing it to one end of the pool until it formed a large, blue, translucent wall at the far end, rising higher and higher. Then, just as it threatened to break over her head, she felt the tiles underneath the soles of her feet again. Soundlessly, the water sank back, embracing her and lifting her body until it was again bobbing gently on the surface of the illuminated pool, the tips of her toes back on the tiles. A tropical new moon hung in the sky and she could no longer hear her parents, just the cicadas playing loudly in the darkness. She knew her mother wasn’t there any more. Just her father, in the rattan chair, smoking and staring into space. And she knew it was all her fault.

 

She woke with a start, disoriented, her mouth dry. It was after two and it had started to rain, a thin drizzle that fell straight from the white sky. She had a quick shower and dressed. On her way out she stopped on the porch, struck by the thought that she ought to take something with her on this first visit to her neighbour. She walked back upstairs and opened the wardrobe where she kept her bags. She had brought a few copies of her first book,
Single, one way, no luggage
, and they were still in a box with things she hadn’t yet unpacked. She took one and weighed it in her hand for a moment, hesitating. Then she stood and went downstairs again.

She found a pen in the kitchen and opened the book on the table. ‘To Astrid, my neighbour,’ she wrote, then underneath, her signature. She turned the page and looked at the first paragraph.
The small rowing boat tipped to the side as he pushed it afloat and stepped inside. We were on our way.
She remembered the awe at the undertaking. Moving from the small streams and ponds of poetry and short stories into the ocean of a novel. Yet, even when the wind had sometimes died, or storms had hit, she had been confident of reaching her goal. There had been excitement, even joy. Frustrations, too, but of a creative kind. As she held the slim volume in her hand, she could recall the entire process. But it had nothing to do with where she was now, or the person she had become. She closed the book and left the house.

She could smell the waffles before Astrid opened her door. In the kitchen the old woman was busy by the wood stove, turning the waffle iron and checking the fire. A shiny, stiff white linen tablecloth covered the table, which was set for two with exquisite rose-patterned china. A delicate silver spoon and fork sat beside each cup and saucer, a folded linen napkin on each plate. Three candles flickered in a silver candlestick. The contrast with the rest of the room was striking: the faded curtains, the worn wooden chairs and the bare floorboards. Veronika felt moved, overcome by a sense of being treated to a ceremonial offering.

Astrid closed the oven door and brought the serving plate with the waffles to the table. They sat down, facing each other, neither taking the initiative to start.

‘It was my mother’s, the china set,’ Astrid finally said, picking up her cup. ‘I found it in the storeroom after my father died. He must have had it packed away when my mother died. I have never used it. I kept it in its boxes and only occasionally let myself handle any of the pieces.’ Astrid’s finger ran along the delicate ear of the cup. ‘When you hold it up against the light it is almost translucent. As thin as an eggshell.’

Astrid pushed the serving plate towards Veronika and handed her the bowl with jam, and Veronika helped herself to a waffle while Astrid poured coffee.

‘I brought you this,’ Veronika said, and pushed her book across the table. ‘Perhaps I feel a little like that about my book. That it is fragile and mustn’t be treated carelessly.’ Astrid ran her hand over the cover, left her palm on it, but made no attempt to open the book.

‘It feels like such a long time since I wrote it,’ Veronika continued. ‘Perhaps it is a little like having a child. It is of you, but it is not you. Once it is born it has its own life. You are there to protect it and look after it, you suffer with it and rejoice with it. But in the end you have to let it live its own life. Step back and let it free. And hope that it will fare well.’

Astrid looked intently at her, as if she were digesting Veronika’s words. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We must let go of even the most precious things.’ Her hand still lay on the book. ‘What is the use of keeping them in boxes?’ The look in her eyes became distant. Her lips moved, but Veronika couldn’t catch the words. The old woman took the book from the table. She opened it and read the dedication, tracing the words with her index finger. She looked up as Veronika started to speak.

‘I think I wrote this book because I wanted to try to understand the process of travel. The reasons for travel. How journeys affect those who travel. What separates those who do from those who don’t.’ Veronika looked out the window. ‘I have travelled almost all my life. My father is a diplomat and after my mother left us he took postings overseas. In order to be able to provide better for me, I think. Here in Sweden, it would have been harder. I was looked after by nannies — amahs, ayahs, au pairs. But I travelled with my father.’

Astrid rose and walked over to the stove, returning to offer Veronika a top-up of coffee. She sat down again and leaned back in her chair, resting her hands on her lap.

‘I look at my mother’s cups today, and I think about all those years. I imagine that they were bought and given with love, unpacked here in anticipation. Gently placed in the cupboards. Then stored away, never to be used. Such a waste.’ She looked up and Veronika was taken aback when she saw that the old woman’s eyes were brimming with tears. As if embarrassed, Astrid stood up and walked over to the stove again, busying herself with the fire, adding firewood and watching it catch before closing the oven door again.

‘Waste,’ she said, keeping her back to Veronika. ‘Such terrible waste. But then, in the wrong hands delicate things are destroyed. In the wrong hands a book can be just paper. To be used to light a fire or clean the windows. China as delicate as eggshells . . .’ She paused while she closed the window over the kitchen sink. ‘At least this way, it is still here. Perhaps one day, someone will unpack it again, as lovingly as my mother did. And allow it to be used as it was always intended.’

She returned to her chair, sat down and again took up the book.

‘All those years,’ she said, ‘here in this house.’ She looked up at Veronika
.
‘I have only left this village once. Once in a very long life. Yet I had so much to leave. So very little to stay for.’

I used to dream about the world. It wasn’t so much that I dreamed of leaving, but I would sit here in the kitchen looking out through this window. The village below was another world, and beyond the fields and mountains lay yet others. I would watch the river flow so eagerly on its way and wonder where it was headed.

It was January, bitterly cold, the day I left to go and stay with my grandfather, my mother’s father. The school was closed, the teacher was ill, and many of the children as well. I have tried to understand why my father made the arrangement for me to go. Perhaps he was afraid for himself. Or perhaps for me. Not me personally, but the representation of me that constituted his link to the future. Several of the children at school died that winter.

I knew that my grandfather lived in Stockholm, but there had been no contact with my mother’s family since my mother’s death. I had no memories of my grandparents, but I knew my grandmother had died not long after my mother did. My grandfather was just a faceless name. I knew that Stockholm was the capital of Sweden, but I had no concept of what the city might be like. It, too, was just a name.

Children have to build their world from such incomplete information. Other people make decisions for them, and only fragments of the rationale are ever conveyed. As children we inhabit a world built of incoherent snippets. The process of embellishing and filling the holes is an unconscious one, I think. And perhaps it continues all our lives. For me, being sent to Stockholm accompanied by Anna, the young girl who helped out at home, was totally incomprehensible, frightening. Yet once the decision was made I accepted it without question. ‘It’s just for a short time. You’ll enjoy it, you’ll see,’ Anna said. And I travelled further into my loneliness.

When we arrived in Stockholm, the sight of the solitary tall figure on the platform held no comfort. Anna accepted a folded ten-kronor bill from my grandfather’s gloved hand, and slunk away to the opposite platform with quick little steps. Without bending down, my grandfather looked at me and it was as if we were the only two people in the whole world. I stared back into his narrow face, but neither his eyes nor his mouth spoke to me. The grey beard had frost forming along the lower lip and in the moustache. He said nothing, just took my suitcase and led the way across the platform and out into the glassy winter afternoon. He had a large apartment in Drottninggatan and we walked there in silence. I had never seen large stone buildings before, never seen trams, paved streets or streetlights. But he gave me no introduction and I had to struggle to keep up with his pace. He was tall, and his long black coat flapped around his legs, making swooshing sounds. I hurried along, drawing quick, shallow breaths of the cold air.

There was an elevator in the building, and when he closed the gate behind us and we stood very close, but without touching, as the small carriage slowly creaked its way upwards I started to cry. When finally the lift stopped and we got out, and before he opened the front door of the apartment, my grandfather pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief, which he gave me without a word.

The apartment was large, with high ceilings and dark corridors that twisted and turned and opened onto dimly lit rooms. I could still hear the sounds from the street below, unfamiliar sounds. City sounds. A large woman with an apron came out into the hallway and took my grandfather’s hat and coat, before turning her attention to me. She squatted and her face came level with mine. She unbuttoned my coat and untied the ribbons of my hat. ‘So, this is little Astrid,’ she said. Her light blue eyes seemed enormous as they searched my face from behind thick glasses. She stretched out her hand and lifted my chin with a light touch. She smelled like soap. ‘I am Mrs Asp. Come, let me show you your room.’ She walked ahead of me, down the corridor, with my suitcase in her hand. The black skirt stretched over her buttocks and she moved like water swelling to and fro, the ends of the apron ties swinging slowly. Her hair was grey and curly and collected in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. I thought she looked very old, perhaps as old as my grandfather.

I am not sure how long I stayed in Stockholm. Six weeks? Two months? The first evening I lay in my bed, watching the lights from the street on the ceiling. The bed was cold, and the weight of the dark red quilt pinned me between the starched sheets. I could hear faint music from another room. Nobody had made an effort to comfort me — explain why I was there, when I would return home. For me, it could just as well have been a permanent arrangement. Perhaps my father had simply sent me to stay in this place for ever.

I saw little of my grandfather. Left to myself, I wandered the shiny, creaky parquet, hands on my back. I was ten years old and I had to make an existence out of a solitary twilight world that had no beginning and no end.