Drowned (19 page)

The white cardigan is damp from the mist in the air, it looks like a thin layer of crystals sparkling all over the angora, like a covering of snow. It hardly smells of anything after hanging outside to air all morning, glowing white like a ghost in the gray-brown garden. As soon as it has dried I put it on, carefully fastening the small mother-of-pearl buttons. In front of the mirror I put up my hair, tidily, pushing my stubborn curls into place with clips.

In the kitchen I put on the coffee machine, five cups, strong, otherwise he won’t drink it. I can hear him upstairs, the sound of the old office chair rolling across the uneven wooden floor from time to time, something falling off the desk with a thud, a book perhaps, from one of the tall, unsteady piles.

There is no really fresh bread, but when I have warmed some small rye rolls in the oven they smell newly baked. I fill them with ham and paprika, breaking off small sprigs of parsley from the bunch in a glass on the kitchen windowsill, the parsley seems to stay green and fresh all winter, presumably because the weather is so mild, the taste is slightly more bitter than it was in the summer, but it looks pretty on the rolls.

I pour coffee into two of the blue-and-white cups, add milk to mine, place everything on a tray. He usually has something to eat around this time, but sometimes he forgets. Both of us forget mealtimes, it’s as if they no longer meet an actual physical need but are simply a ritual, a habit.

There are seventeen steps leading to the upper floor, I have counted them. Soon I will know this house inside out.

He is sitting at his desk with his back to the door, but spins around on the old office chair as soon as he hears me. He stiffens when he catches sight of me, he
looks amazed for a brief moment, then his expression darkens.

“What the hell are you doing?” he says.

I don’t know how to respond. I don’t even know what he means until I see him staring at the cardigan, at the row of gleaming buttons.

“I don’t know, I thought …” I begin. “You did tell me to wear it.”

“I certainly did not.”

I put the tray down on the bureau.

“I’ve made something to eat if you’re hungry,” I say quietly.

“Take the cardigan off.”

His tone is sharp, and when he gets to his feet I recoil, he takes a step toward me.

“I thought you’d like it.”

It is impossible to read anything from his expression, for a second I almost think a smile flits across his face, a kind smile, as if he were doing this for my own good, or at least believed that was the reason. I don’t like not knowing, I don’t like it when something in his eyes is incomprehensible, incalculable. This isn’t normal, I think, but then nothing here is normal, I back away slowly. When he quickly moves toward me I turn around and run, through the bedroom and down the stairs, seventeen steps, my feet clattering down each one, I grab hold of the worn, shiny banister
so that I won’t fall on the curve of the staircase, I run through the hallway and into the guest bedroom. I can hear his footsteps on the stairs, he is right behind me. I slam the door shut, place my hand for the first time on the big black wrought iron key in the lock. When I turn it to the right the barrel follows without any problem, sliding into place with a heavy click. I think about Stella’s words that first evening,
Nothing works properly around here
, perhaps she was talking about more than just the awkward window catch. I try the door, it’s locked. My heart is pounding.

The next moment the handle is pushed down from the outside, without success. He mutters something.

“Marina?” he says in a loud voice. “What are you doing?”

He pushes the handle down again, tugging at it to check that he really can’t get in.

I move backwards, sit down on the bed, on the crocheted bedspread, looking at the door, at the handle, which he pushes down experimentally several more times.

“Marina?”

His voice is gentler now. I unbutton the cardigan, pull it off, and throw it in a heap on the floor. Then I notice that I am crying, I wipe the wetness from beneath my eyes, looking at the door. It’s cold without a cardigan, it’s cold everywhere downstairs apart from the kitchen
and living room. I gather up the crocheted bedspread, place it around my shoulders, curl up underneath it. I hear him talking on the other side of the door.

“You scared me,” he says. “You understand that, don’t you? You’re so alike sometimes, you and Stella. Open the door now. I didn’t mean to get angry, I’m sorry.”

He knocks tentatively.

“Marina? Open the door.”

After a while he gives up, I hear his footsteps in the hallway, running water in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes in the sink. I curl up under the bedspread and fall asleep.

It is already dark outside when I wake up, I can see only my reflection in the windowpane. It is still afternoon but the house is silent, it could just as easily be the middle of the night. I turn the key cautiously and open the door of the guest room, just a little crack. The hallway outside is dark and empty, I can see a light from the kitchen, a triangle of light falling on the rag rug on the hall floor. I can hear the faint sound of music, I don’t recognize it.

He is sitting in the living room, reading. There is an LP on the stereo, a fire is burning in the tiled stove. He smiles when he sees me in the doorway, closes his book.

“Darling.”

He’s never called me that before. Nobody has called me that before. You don’t say that unless you mean it, I think, that’s what he said to Stella last summer, the same tone, his voice can sound so soft. I still have the bedspread around my shoulders, I feel slightly dizzy, that’s what happens when you fall asleep in the middle of the day, it feels as if it ought to be morning. I meet his gaze.

“Did you fall asleep?” he says in the same kindly tone of voice. “Come and sit with me for a little while.”

He pats the sofa encouragingly, the way you entice a pet, he is still smiling when I sit down beside him. Then he kisses me, places his hand on the nape of my neck, draws me to him, runs his finger down my cheek.

“You’ve got a pattern on your face,” he says with a smile and I feel at my cheek, the bedspread has left an impression.

He puts his arm around my shoulders and picks up his book again, opens it and begins to read, he seems absorbed in it straightaway.

Were things like this between the two of them, I wonder? Quarrels and reconciliation, over and over again, always because he got angry about something, lost control, frightened her. It’s strange that she didn’t write more about it in her diary, I think, in its pages her life comes across as balanced, almost boring. I
remember the entry about getting her hair cut, the laconic
Gabriel wouldn’t hear of it
. And suddenly I understand: she knew he would read her diary. He must have known it was there in the drawer of the bedside table, it’s unthinkable that he wouldn’t have opened it and read it. Perhaps more for his own sake than out of any concern over how she was feeling, more a kind of self-obsessed curiosity about whether she had written anything about him. And she understood that, of course. That’s why her entries were so short, so impersonal. That’s why she wrote
Gabriel wouldn’t hear of it
about something that frightened her so much she ran weeping all the way across the field to Anders and Karin. Because she knew that was the way he would want to remember it.

His arm around my shoulders feels heavy now, I shrug it off, get up from the sofa, he looks at me in surprise.

“I’ll go and let Nils in,” I say.

“He’s already in.”

“I’ll go and get something to read.”

His eyes follow me as I leave the room.

“There’s tea if you’d like some,” he shouts when I am already in the kitchen, I don’t answer him.

I can barely hide my relief when he says he’s going to drive into town the following morning. He has
hardly pulled onto the little gravel road in front of the house before I am upstairs. I have already gone through all the closets and cupboards in the bedroom, all the piles of newspapers, magazines, and catalogs, all the books on the shelves, there was nothing there. I walk round and round the bedroom not knowing where to search, I sit down on the bed, open the drawer of the bedside table and look at the pale-blue notebook, feel at the base of the drawer. It could be a false bottom, I think, there could be a space underneath it where you can hide things, but there isn’t, it’s just a thin sheet of wood, I knock on it several times to prove it to myself, push the drawer shut.

I kneel down next to the bed, start feeling at the back of the bedside table, under the shelf that used to house books and magazines, there is nothing there. I glance under the bed, it’s an empty space, I feel inside the frame of the bed and there, right up at the top, my fingertips touch something. I immediately recognize the cool, shiny silk, I lie down on the floor and peer under the bed. Attached to the inside of the frame is a similar notebook to the one in the drawer, but this one is dark red, I try to pull it free, get a firm grip on it, it comes away with a tearing sound. There are two wide strips of Velcro on the back, and on the inside of the bed frame.

I realize my hands are shaking as I open the book, it is by no means full, but the pages are covered in Stella’s neat handwriting, short entries, all undated.

Perhaps it IS stupid just like everyone thinks, even if no one actually says it, I don’t know. In some way it feels as if I’ve made my bed and now I have to lie in it—I don’t really like it when people portray themselves as some kind of martyr, I’ve seen it so many times, the way they seem to derive strength from a role that is in fact purely destructive. I don’t know what you ought to demand or what you ought to settle for, that’s a terrible phrase, “settle for,” but I suppose that’s the way it is for a lot of people, I’ve often had that feeling about couples I’ve met in town, in the stores, at parties; they don’t even seem particularly fond of one another, it’s more as if they’re simply used to one another, I used to think it was terrible but now I don’t know anymore. I have no intention of being a martyr, I have no intention of feeling like one, not even when things seem difficult; he’s just as much of a martyr as I am in those situations, he knows as well as I do that this isn’t perfect, but this is the way it’s turned out, perhaps there is some merit in making the best of the situation
.

I am sometimes afraid of him when he’s angry. Sometimes it feels as if I’m provoking it although I
don’t do anything specific, it’s as if my presence is all it takes. I’ve given a lot of thought to what kind of father he would be, although I’m sure there wouldn’t be any difference, he would carry on being just the way he is now: someone you try not to annoy, someone you try to keep in a good mood
.

We have nothing in common whatsoever. Sometimes he isn’t even particularly pleasant, not even in the company of others, it annoys me and it embarrasses me. And yet no one ever asks what I see in him because he’s so good-looking, and that’s why no one wonders. If he wasn’t, they would ask
.

He was too rough with me again yesterday. It’s not just in the bedroom now, he doesn’t seem to be aware of what he’s doing: I wanted to get up from the sofa, he wanted me to stay, it was playful at first, I think. I’ve got a bruise on my arm now, it doesn’t show if I wear long sleeves
.

I have thought so many times that I ought to move away from here
.

Everything he does, I think he believes it’s for my sake, in some way
.

My period is late. I don’t know whether to tell him or not
.

I miss M, there has been some kind of barrier between us, I don’t know if that’s normal between sisters, but now I think the relationship between siblings can take many different forms, just like other relationships: I am so much older than her, so it’s hardly surprising that we have never been as close as some other sisters. I enjoyed having her here, I would like us to see each other more often from now on. I said that to her before she left, she seemed pleased
.

Stella did indeed say that, on the platform just as I was about to get on the train, the tears spring to my eyes as I remember. That was the last thing we said to each other, promising that we would try to meet up more often in the future.

It didn’t work this time either. I don’t know how I’m going to tell G
.

It didn’t work
, at first I don’t understand what she means, then I realize it’s exactly as I thought, ever since last summer in fact, even if I have never dared to think it through to its conclusion. Now I recall exactly how she wept in my arms on the park bench in the palace garden last summer,
He got so angry. Furious, almost
. That is the last entry in the book.