Encircling (27 page)

“You know what, Egil?” I say, and then I pause and something’s got to be said now. “Either,” I say, “either you’re so stupid that you actually believe all this pseudo-psychological crap you’re spouting or you’re every bit as dazzled by your own brilliance as I think you are,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying and I’m trying to figure out what I actually mean and I look at Egil and realize I can’t just leave it there. “Dazzled by my own brilliance?” Egil says. “Yes,” I say and then I pause. “You simply cannot believe there could be anything wrong with you,” I say. “If anyone criticizes you it has to be for one of two motives: either they’re out to get you for some reason or they’ve got it all wrong,” I say. I couldn’t agree more with everything I’m saying, what I’m saying is true. “It’s not really you I’m getting at, it’s my mother … my mother!” I say, my voice rising almost to a falsetto at the end of the sentence. “Have you ever heard anything so downright fucking stupid?” I say.

“You can say what you like, Silje,” Egil says. “It looks like I’ve touched a soft spot, though,” he says, and a moment passes and I just stand here staring at him. “For fuck’s sake,” I say, then I pause “Would you listen to yourself, Egil,” I cry, my voice almost cracking with delight and fury and I fling out my hands as I say it. “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” I say and as the words leave my mouth I realize that this actually is exactly what I’m talking about. “When I get mad at you like this you automatically dismiss any idea that I might have reason to be mad at you,” I say. “You immediately assume that I’m mad at you because you’ve touched a soft spot,” I say, and I hear how true it is, what I’m saying, and I realize how furious I am with him
for being the way I say he is. “In your world you’re always right, Egil,” I say. “Why are you like that, why are you so pathologically afraid of not being perfect?” I say.

“Hey,” he says. “Now I think we ought to just calm down a bit, because this isn’t serving any purpose.” he says. “Listen to yourself,” I cry. “You’re trying to evade the issue again,” I say. “Silje,” he says, jutting out his chin as he says it and blinking both eyes slowly as he says it. “Take it easy,” he says and he holds one hand up, palm outward and I stare at him and the fury grows inside me, because now he wants me to think that I’m being hysterical again; the calmer and more responsible he appears to be, the more hysterical and out of control I’ll seem and he wants me to seem hysterical, and I feel my eyes bulging in their sockets and I stare at him with wild, staring eyes and a moment passes and I have to calm down now, I mustn’t fall into this trap, I have to pull myself together now, and I take a deep breath, I have to breathe more slowly now.

“It’s no use,” I say, and I hear my voice quivering with anger, and a moment passes and I look at him. “I’m not getting through to you,” I say, sounding a little calmer now, and there’s silence, and I hold his gaze as I shake my head. “Could you not make a little effort to listen to what I’m saying, Egil?” I say, and a moment passes and Egil looks at me, then suddenly he draws breath and sighs and I realize how angry this makes me, him standing there acting as if he despairs of me but is, nonetheless, a big enough man to listen to what I have to say.

“All right,” he says, and he looks at the floor. “I’m sick of it, Egil,” I say, “and I have been for a long time,” I say. “I’m sick of you taking me to task for everything I do that doesn’t measure up to your standards for proper behaviour
and good manners,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying and I hear that I’m saying the same as I said just moments ago and Egil sighs again, then he gives a breathy little grunt and sends me a look that says he’s fed up hearing me harp on and on about this. “I’m sick of it, because it makes me feel that I’m never good enough,” I say. “I’ve heard all this before,” he says, giving me a studiously jaded look, then he closes his eyes and nods and at that I feel the fury explode inside me. “You’ve heard my words, yes!” I roar at him, and Egil’s whole body flinches and he gazes at me, shocked, and I take a step towards him and I stare at him with my big wild eyes. “But you haven’t taken in a single word of what I’ve been saying,” I cry. “Because as soon as it registers with you that I’m actually criticizing you, you go on the offensive, without giving any thought to whether my criticism is reasonable or not,” I say, and I hear how true it is, what I’m saying, and for the first time it seems as if he is actually hearing what I’m saying, for the first time it seems as if I’ve got through to him. His face changes, the calm expression is gone and all at once he looks flushed and angry. And I stare angrily at him.

“Well, let me tell you something, Silje,” he says. “If what you say is true, then I’m certainly not the only one in this house who sets impossibly high standards for other people,” he says. “Oh, really,” I cry. “And what, pray, are these impossibly high standards that I set for you?” I ask. “Well, I’ll tell you,” he cries. “You set unreasonably high standards for how I’m supposed to respond emotionally, for the feelings I’m supposed to show,” he says. “I see,” I say, holding his gaze. “Meaning?” I say.

“Meaning it seems it’s not enough for us to love one another,” he says. “It’s not enough that we respect one
another and treat each other decently, we also have to live up to all your ideas of the great love affair,” he says. “You’re supposed to be the only woman in the world who can make me happy and I’m supposed to be the only man who can make you happy,” he says. “There’s no end to the depth of the feelings you expect us to show to one another,” he says. “I feel like an emotional bloody acrobat sometimes and I just can’t take it,” he says.

“Well, let me tell you something, Egil,” I say. “We wouldn’t have lasted a week as a couple if it hadn’t been for such hopelessly romantic notions, as you call them,” I say. “Oh, really?” he says. “Oh, really?” I cry. “What do you think would have happened to us if either of us had started telling the other that they could be replaced at any time by anybody?” “I see, so you’re saying you could have swapped me for just anybody,” he asks indignantly. “No, it’s you who’s implying that,” I shout. “No,” he says. “You’ve got it all wrong,” he says. “If we’re to function as a couple maybe we need illusions like that,” he says. “But the point is that the role you’ve given me in this charade feels so implausible that I have real trouble playing it,” he says. “The things you’ve scripted for me to do and say seem so false that I sometimes find myself thinking that everything we have together is false, that our whole relationship is founded on imaginary emotions,” he says and then he pauses for a moment and he stares at me and I stare at him. “Do you know what I think? I think you miss your father!” he says.

“What?” I say. “This tremendous need you have to feel that you’re the only woman I could ever love, I think this could be traced back to the image you have of you and your father,” he says. “Oh, honestly,” I say, “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” I say. “How often have I had to
listen to stories of how he used to shield you whenever Oddrun threw one of her tantrums?” he went on. “How he looked after you and gave you all the love that you needed, but that Oddrun could never give you,” he says. “Daddy’s little darling,” he says. “Precious little Silje,” he says. “That’s what you miss now, that’s how you want me to make you feel,” he says. “I’ve often thought that that’s why you have such huge expectations where love is concerned,” he says, and the moments pass and he stares at me and I stare at him.

“What is it with you?” I cry. “Why do you have to link everything I say or do to my parents and things that happened when I was a child?” I ask. “I mean, if I were to psychoanalyse you the way you’re always psychoanalysing me, I could say that you are the way you are because you grew up with a father who loved your brother more than he loved you,” I say. “I could maintain that the reason why you’re so dead fucking set on being perfect is that you’re still a love-starved little boy who’s doing everything he can to win as much of your dad’s attention as he gave to Trond,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying and I realize how pleased I am with what I’m saying and I’ve no idea where the things I’m saying are coming from, they just come. “Perhaps that’s what your pernicketiness and your pragmatism is all about. Perhaps this is a technique you’ve developed in order to be as perfect as you believed your father wanted you to be,” I say, then I pause for a moment, not taking my eyes off him.

“The only problem is, though, that it’s so bloody easy to say something like that,” I say. “But we’re not that simple, Egil,” I say. “Even you’re not that simple,” I say. “Perhaps it would be just as true to say, for example, that
your nit-picking and your craving for perfection is part and parcel of the job you have,” I say. “One might perhaps say that the nit-picking and the pragmatism and everything else is a strategy you’ve developed in order to do a good job,” I say, “a strategy designed to enable the shop to survive in the marketplace,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying, and I’ve no idea where it’s coming from, I can’t remember any of this ever entering my head before, it just spills out of me, and a moment passes and I don’t take my eyes off Egil and I see a resentful look come over his face.

“Don’t tell me you’ve become a socialist along with everything else,” he says wryly. “All I’m saying is that I’m sick and tired of the way you reduce me to a victim of my own childhood,” I cry. “I’m fed up with all your pseudo-psychological spoutings,” I say and I nod sharply at him, never taking my eyes off him. “Oh, well, pardon me for being so stupid,” Egil snaps. “Oh, for God’s sake,” I say, and again I screw up my face and I gaze at Egil and smirk. “So, are you going to start acting all hurt and hard done by now?” I ask.

“No,” Egil says. “I’m simply telling it as I see it,” he says. “I was stupid enough to believe in those pseudo-psychological spoutings and I still am as a matter of fact,” he says. “It may sound facile, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to it,” he says, and he pauses, stares at me. “I can’t live up to the standards you set, and if your father were alive today I doubt if he’d be able to live up to them, either,” he says. “He’s never loved little Silje as much as he does now, twenty-five years or more after his death,” he says, “and nobody can compete with a man like that,” he says.

“D’you know something, Egil?” I say, my voice quivering with anger. “The man you’re competing with isn’t dead,” I
blurt and I hear what I’m saying and I realize how surprised I am by what I’m saying. “In fact, he couldn’t be less dead,” I say and I’ve no idea where it’s all coming from, it just comes. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Egil asks and he looks at me and frowns and now there’s nothing for it but to keep going. “It means exactly what you think it does,” I say, and I stare at him and I’m struck by how plausible I sound and I can see that Egil believes what I’m saying and I see how his face changes, his face grows pale and still. “Oh, yes,” I say and I’m laughing inside, a great peal of laughter rings out inside me and I stare straight at him and nod. “That’s precisely what it means,” I say, my voice quivering slightly.

“Who?” Egil asks. “I doesn’t matter who,” I say. “Is it that smarmy bastard you were talking to at the Christmas party last year?” Egil asks. “It doesn’t matter who it is,” I say again. “The hell it doesn’t,” Egil says and now he’s losing his cool. “But why should it matter?” I ask. “Because I want to be sure I punch the right man,” he says. “Oh,” I say with a contemptuous sneer. “Don’t be so pathetic,” I say and I look at Egil and Egil stares at me. “It’s him, I know it is,” Egil cries. “I saw the way you two were drooling all over one another,” he says. “Christ,” he says.

Then there’s silence again and the moments pass and I hold his gaze. “Well, if I’ve been doing emotional somersaults and if I’ve been trying to get you to do them too, it might be because I’ve been trying for so long to save our marriage,” I say and I hear what I’m saying, and again I’m struck by how true it sounds. “The worse things got, the harder I tried,” I say. “And feelings may have …” I say, and I pause for effect and in my mind I see how I look, and I see how natural I look, how genuine I seem and I look at
Egil and I see how pale he is. “I don’t know,” I continue, “feelings may have run pretty high sometimes,” I say, and a moment passes, then Egil takes a deep breath and lets it out again, and he shakes his head, then he walks straight past me without so much as glancing at me, walks over to the wicker chair under the window, sinks down into the chair, bends forward and runs his fingers through his hair. He sits like this for a few moments, then he straightens up, lets both hands flop into his lap and sits like this, gazing blankly into space, laughing mirthlessly and shaking his head, and yet again I’m struck by how true all of this seems, it seems almost more true than what is actually true, more real than what is actually real.

“I feel so stupid,” Egil says. “I feel so fucking gullible and so … ridiculous!” he says. “Here I was, thinking that everything was okay,” he says. “Christ, and all the time you’ve been …” and he breaks off, looks at me again and pauses with his eyes fixed on mine. “Who is it?” he says and his voice is suddenly deeper than usual, and it strikes me as very apt that his voice should be slightly deeper than usual, and it strikes me that this seems more and more real. “No,” I say. “I’m not going to say who it is,” I say.

There’s silence again and Egil looks at the floor and the moments pass, then he suddenly looks up and gazes at me, his eyes wide and intent. “It’s Trond,” he whispers and I hear what he says and I realize how surprised I am when he says it. “It’s fucking Trond,” Egil says, and more moments pass, and we stare at one another, there’s total silence and I’m just sitting here staring at him and the longer I sit like this the more convinced he’ll become that it’s Trond. And I picture to myself that it’s Trond I’ve been having an affair with and it strikes me as very apt, assigning this role to
Trond, and the moments pass, and I feel my heart pounding and I feel my pulse pounding and I just sit here.

“For fuck’s sake, Silje,” Egil says, staring at me in shock. “Have you been cheating on me with my own brother?” he cries. He stares at me, looking more and more shocked, and now he’s utterly convinced that I’ve been cheating on him with Trond, and I just sit here, I make no effort to deny what he’s saying, it could have been Trond I’d been unfaithful with and it’s so appallingly apt that he should believe Trond’s the one I’m having an affair with. “For fuck’s sake,” Egil says, then he looks at the floor again, runs his fingers through his hair again and I just sit there staring at him, and I realize how powerful this is, it feels as though we’ve hurled ourselves into some sort of force field, and I feel the power coursing through me, life courses through me.