Memory of Love (9781101603024) (11 page)

14.

The very best part about my life with Ika was our joint project. To me, it felt as if for the first time in my life I was working together with another human being in an instinctive, almost telepathic way. I realised I had never experienced anything like this before. I had collaborated with other people both professionally and privately of course, but I had never felt that we were sharing the same task. Quite the opposite: we had divided the tasks between us. Not even in my marriage had I felt such a connection. My husband and I had lived beside each other, but I had had no insight into his world of ideas, nor he into mine. Never before had I experienced the joy of a truly joint project.

It felt as if I had been given a new life, or rather as if I were finally alive. I felt my cheeks blush from exertion as well as excitement, and each time we returned home after a day of labour I sat down filled with the kind of exhaustion that is good, and infinitely satisfying. I had no idea whether Ika was experiencing something similar.

We both had our assigned roles, and Ika was the project manager. But we did everything together. We needed each other. He had the plan in his head and he knew exactly where everything belonged. When we were out searching for material, he always knew exactly what he was looking for.

‘Not that one, we need a bigger one. And darker,' he would say if I held up a rock. Or, ‘We need more feathers. Grey ones.'

We had no stockpile; we collected our items one at a time, as we needed them. We never found something we liked and then created a spot for it. It was always the other way around. The plan took precedence, and then we searched until we found exactly the right item. Very early on I realised the plan inside Ika's head was complete and very detailed, and that it did not allow any impulsive adjustments.

We never noticed any interference with the installation: we always found it exactly as we had left it. And it weathered wind and rain without being damaged.

We didn't work every day. It took well over half an hour to get there, and some days there was not enough time. But as the days grew longer it became easier to spend time there after school. Weekends, we often brought a picnic lunch and stayed all day. We never invited anybody else, not even George. He probably wondered what we were doing – what was taking up so much of our time. But he never asked. And it didn't feel right to bring someone there before we had finished.

One day when we returned home later than usual, and sat at the kitchen table eating in semi-darkness, Ika suddenly looked at me across the table. Well, ‘looked' might not be the right word, it was just the quickest little glimpse before he lowered his gaze again. Still, it surprised me.

‘Have you ever had a child?' he asked.

I was completely unprepared for the question and I choked on my tea. Slowly, I put down the mug and tried to collect myself.

‘No,' I said. ‘I would have liked to, but it never happened.'

‘Do you have a mum and dad?'

I shook my head.

‘No, they died a long time ago.'

‘A sister or a brother?'

Again, I shook my head. ‘No,' I said, hesitating for a moment.

‘I did have a brother, but I lost him,' I said eventually.

An extended pause followed.

‘I can be your child. And your brother, if you like.'

His eyes were stubbornly fixed on his empty plate.

‘Would you?' I said, and it turned into a whisper, because I could not quite trust my voice. ‘You know, Ika, that would be the very best thing that could ever happen to me. The very, very best.'

He nodded.

And without another word, he picked up his plate and walked over, placing it in the sink. Then he left the kitchen.

I heard him brushing his teeth and walking into his small room.

After a while I got up, and went into my bedroom. I bent down and knocked softly on the partition wall that separated our rooms.

There was a quiet knock from the other side.

‘
I – never – wanted – a – fucking – child!'

The words come one at a time, almost in a whisper, yet they roar louder than anything she has ever heard before.

She is kneeling on the floor in front of the dollshouse. The parquet is cold against her shins and she shivers a little. She looks at the little people living in the house: a mother, a father, a little girl. And a baby. She has turned on the light in the living room and placed the mother by the piano. The baby is in its crib in the children's room upstairs and the little girl is sitting on the floor near the piano. She hasn't quite decided where to put the father doll. She is holding him in her hand when she suddenly hears Hans's voice from the kitchen.

‘Yours, that was fine. We had agreed that. But I NEVER wanted one of my own. NEVER! This will ruin everything.'

She has never heard him speak like that. Hans keeps saying things she doesn't want to hear. Even though he doesn't raise his voice, it feels as if he is shouting. She wants to cry, but this is so terrifying she is struggling just to breathe. She sits cold and stiff, and she can't make even the slightest move. The tips of her fingers tingle and when she looks down at her hands she realises she has broken the father doll in her clenched fist.

Mother is having a baby. Marianne knows because Mother has told her. The day before, Mother came into Marianne's room and sat down on her bed. She took up one of the cushions and hugged it to her chest.

‘I'm going to have a baby, Marianne,' Mother said quietly without looking at her. Then she just sat there with the cushion in her arms and her neck bent. Neither of them said anything. But slowly, slowly Marianne felt something extraordinary happen. It was as if something light and warm began to spread inside her. There would no longer be just her. There would be one more. A sister. Or a brother. There would be two of them.

Smiling, she looked up at Mother and met her gaze. And her smile died, because Mother was crying. She was squeezing the cushion and she was moaning and rocking back and forth, as if she were in pain. Marianne could not understand. She could think of nothing to do or say. She stood beside the bed, waiting. Finally, Mother stretched out her hand and took hers.

‘You will have to help me, Marianne,' she said. ‘I don't know what to do.'

Marianne nodded. She was no longer smiling, but the warmth and light were still there inside her.

‘I will help you, Mother,' she said. She sat down beside Mother, and Mother's hand rested on her lap. She wanted Mother to feel the warmth, and she leaned closer and put her arms around her waist. They sat like that for a long time.

Now, as she sits on the floor, her ears alert even though she doesn't want to hear, she tries to hold on to that moment. And she finds it again. The warm light lives inside her and nothing can take it away. Not even those awful whispered words.

She hears the front door shut with a bang that reverberates through the rooms for a very long time. And now she is finally able to move again. She walks slowly into the hall. She stops at the kitchen door. Mother is sitting on a chair at the table, her face turned towards the window. It is midday but she is still wearing her pink dressing gown. Her hands lie flat on the table in front of her. The silence is terrible, and that silence belongs to Mother. Marianne is outside, watching.

She stands there for an eternity, her bare feet balancing on the wooden threshold.

Then Mother turns her head and looks at her. She can see that Mother has been crying again. There is a bright red blotch on her cheek, and she lifts her hand as if she wants to hide it, then she lets her hand drop back onto the table. They are as if frozen stiff; Mother on the chair, Marianne in the doorway.

Marianne takes a tentative first step and walks slowly across the floor. As she reaches the table Mother opens her arms and pulls her close. She presses her face into the soft pink material and she can smell Mother's perfume. Mother slowly puts her arms around Marianne and it feels as if they become one. Mother rests her chin on Marianne's head. She can feel tears falling into her hair.

‘It will be a beautiful baby,' Marianne says quietly.

Mother doesn't respond, just keeps holding her tight.

‘Yes, Marianne, it will be a beautiful baby,' she says after a very long time. ‘And you will help me, won't you?'

Marianne presses herself hard against Mother's chest and she can feel her heart beating. She wants this moment to last a long time. She holds her breath and tries to be absolutely still. She knows that even the slightest movement, the softest sound, will end it.

Afterwards nothing will ever be the same. Everything has changed; it is as if something has suddenly pushed her closer to her mother. They are together, just the two of them, in this new world. Not by choice, but because they have to be. There is nothing else for either of them.

It is no longer just alien and lonely in the large apartment. Now it is dangerous, too.

Still, deep inside, she carries this new warmth.

A sister.

Or a brother.

15.

We slowly slipped into a comfortable rhythm, Ika and I. I picked him up every day from school, and most days we went to spend time on our project in the afternoon. When we were home, he either played the piano or was in his room listening to music. I had bought him a small portable player but he seemed to prefer my computer. I was happy because it meant we were listening, if not together, then at least at the same time. It felt as if we shared it.

His homework was a source of frustration. I met his teacher the week after he came to live with me. She had been nice enough but she was a little guarded and vague, as if she were reluctant to fully acknowledge her part in Ika's education. I was left with the impression that her overall reaction was relief that Ika was now not solely her responsibility. Ika, for his part, never expressed any feelings about school. As with food, he seemed to accept it with a kind of neutral lack of interest. He never demonstrated any wish to skip school, but nor did he express any enthusiasm at leaving in the morning. He never volunteered anything about his school days, and his responses to my questions were monosyllabic.

I soon discovered that he possessed streaks of ability. He was very good at drawing. Not figurative things, but geometric shapes. He could draw them with the correct perspectives and extraordinary detail. But they were never alive – there was no creative element involved. He also had an uncanny ability to learn things by heart. Some things. Things with rhythm. But also in this there was something lacking. It was as if he never took in the meaning. It was all about the rhythm.

He didn't seem to listen when I read him stories or pieces from the paper. I wasn't sure whether he could read in the proper sense of the word. He knew the letters of the alphabet, I knew that. But it was hard to tell whether he could absorb the messages contained in the words and sentences. He never asked me to read to him. It was only when one day I pulled out my old tattered storybook, the only belonging that remained from my early childhood, that something seemed to change.

After we had made a room for Ika out of my wardrobe I had been forced to go through my things and I had slowly worked my way through cupboards and drawers till I finally reached the bookshelves in the living room. I was on my knees on the floor and opened the worn book. I held it up to my face and took in the dry smell, let my palm run over the pages. The book had naturally opened at the beginning of my favourite story, ‘Lasse i Rosengård'. Although Grandfather had started reading it to me when I was very young, he had made no attempt to avoid the frightening parts, or soften them. But he always held me on his lap when he read.

There I was on the floor, a middle-aged woman in a house on the other side of the earth, and all the feelings that were forever associated with the words that had been stashed away for so long washed over me. I read and I remembered. I remembered how the story had frightened me, but also how secure I had felt in Grandfather's arms. I hadn't noticed that Ika had entered the room, but I suddenly felt him standing nearby.

I looked up.

‘I have kept this book since I was a little girl,' I said, and held it up with the cover facing Ika. ‘My grandfather used to read it to me.'

In his usual fashion Ika said nothing, but walked over and sat down on the sofa.

‘Would you like me to read a little to you?' I asked. He didn't respond, but he moved over as if to make room for me beside him. Not very close, but still on the sofa. I walked over and sat down at a mutually comfortable distance.

And so I began to read to him. Slowly, since I had to translate from Swedish as I went. He showed no impatience but sat absolutely still, almost without blinking. His face was expressionless, as usual. After a while I was too absorbed in the text to notice anything around me. When I eventually paused and looked up I could see that Ika sat with his arms around himself, rocking a little. I was overcome by an almost irresistible longing to pull him towards me and hold him in my arms.

‘Would you like me to stop?' I asked instead. ‘Is it scary?'

He didn't answer, but he shook his head. It was hard to know what he meant.

‘Read,' he said finally.

And I continued.

‘And Grandmother was right. Mrs Terror never left Lasse alone. Each time Lasse went through the forest she would be hiding behind a rock, or behind a tree trunk, waiting for him. He never quite caught sight of her, but he knew that she was there and that she could fall upon him at any moment. So what? you might say. Surely he could have asked her to make herself scarce and leave him alone? Yes, one might think so, but Mrs Terror is no ordinary woman – she is one of the worst witches on earth. And she has made greater heroes than Lasse from Rosengården take flight.'

I finished and closed the book. Ika stretched out a hand and I gave it to him. He sat fingering the closed book for a moment, then opened it and began to flick through the pages. After that first reading, the story about Lasse became his favourite. He had me read it again and again, and he never seemed to tire of it. He always seemed to listen with his full attention. At first I tried to talk to him about the story, but I quickly realised he had no interest in this. He just wanted to hear me read it. So it was impossible to know how he interpreted the story. Whether it resonated with something in his own life. All I could do was keep reading it to him.

The weeks went by. A couple of months. I heard nothing from Lola. I had no idea where she was, but I knew there were new tenants in the house. Ika never asked about his grandmother. I suppose we both had our reasons for not discussing the situation. And eventually I began to believe we would be left in peace.

Ika seemed to make some improvements at school. Each time I talked to the teacher she sounded more friendly, warmer. He still showed no particular enthusiasm for school, and he still didn't talk about it voluntarily. His replies to my questions remained monosyllabic. But I felt that things were improving. Or at least stabilising. At home, too. We had established comfortable routines. I thought that Ika was as contented as I was. I experienced moments when I was overcome by something that resembled happiness. It was as if we were slowly growing into an unusual little family.

Our project progressed. It was still hard for me to envision what it was that we were creating, but in a strange way it was as if Ika were my eyes. I had developed some intuitive understanding of the idea in his head, and my ability to place things in the right place seemed to improve day by day. It was as if I felt our project, rather than saw it.

I had lived almost my entire life with no responsibility for anybody other than myself. I had had no sleepless nights with worries over a loved one. Never dreaded a late-night call. So the shrill sound of the phone in the middle of the night didn't evoke any anxiety. If anything I was annoyed, assuming it must be a mistake. A wrong number.

But it was Lola.

It took me a while to recognise the voice. I kept the phone to my ear while I struggled to disentangle myself from the sheets and sit up.

‘I need him back,' she said with no introduction.

I froze. My whole body instantly went cold and stiff. I struggled to draw my breath.

‘Why?' I managed to say finally.

‘I just do,' she said.

‘But . . .' I started.

She cut me short. Said she needed him with her. That Child, Youth and Family had been in touch enquiring about his whereabouts. That she was at risk of losing the benefit. I asked her where she was but she didn't respond. She just kept repeating that she needed Ika back. She wanted him the following day.

‘No,' I whispered. ‘Don't do this to him. He has just started to settle in here. He is making progress at school. Please, Lola, don't do this. There must be some other solution.'

But she was adamant, and nothing I said seemed to reach her. She would come and get him the following day. And with that she hung up.

I sat with the phone in my hand, stunned.

I tried to call her mobile but got a message that it had been disconnected.

I suppose I should have realised this was likely to happen. Nothing had ever been properly arranged. I had purposely allowed not just myself, but also Ika, to develop a false sense of security. Day by day it had become easier to believe we were safe. That our arrangement had become permanent.

I sat on my bed and stared into the darkness.

Then I heard the piano. Ika was playing. I didn't recognise the music. It was peculiar, not like anything I had heard him play before. It was a simple tune and he played slowly. Slowly, but with clarity and intensity. It was painful to hear. But I sat and listened. I didn't weep, but I was filled with a sense of awful helplessness and utter distress over my inability to influence the course of events. And in their awfulness the feelings were only too familiar.

When he stopped playing, the house became eerily silent, as if there were no longer anybody living in it.

I walked slowly to the lounge.

Ika was sitting at the piano. The room lay in darkness and I could only just see him outlined against the pale moonlight that shone through the window behind him. I walked over and sat down beside him on the stool. He didn't move and for a brief moment our bodies brushed against each other. He didn't look at me.

‘Did you hear the phone?' I asked. I kept my hands between my knees to make sure I would not try to hold him.

He nodded.

‘It was your grandmother.'

He didn't respond.

‘She said she would like to have you back.'

I searched frantically for the right words.

‘Would you like to go back?'

He said nothing and I couldn't see his face. Then I saw the trails of tears glistening on his bare chest.

I clasped my hands hard and struggled to control my voice.

‘I will think of something,' I said. ‘I will think of something.' I nodded to myself. Tried to reassure myself as much as him that there was something I could do. ‘Your grandmother has problems, but we will find another way of helping her solve them,' I said. ‘We'll talk to her tomorrow. Don't worry, Ika. Nobody will take you away from here if you don't want to go.'

He slid off the stool. I stretched out one hand and tried to grasp his but he was already out of reach. He left the room without a sound. I heard him return to his little den and pull the curtain closed.

I remained on the stool for while. I felt numb, unable to move or think clearly. Think at all. For the first time in my adult life I was overcome by a longing for someone to help me. Eventually I walked over to the sofa, wrapped myself in a blanket and lay down. I stared into the darkness until it gradually began to dissolve.

And I realised the new day had begun.

She is no longer a little girl. It feels as if she has become someone completely different. She is almost nine years old and she is all alone. She will have to learn to live like this. She is not sure how, but it is absolutely necessary. There is no other way. It is easier now that she is no longer Marianne. Now that she no longer has anything to lose.

Nobody has asked her anything. They have all been so nice. They look nice. They say nice things. Yet they have taken everything from her. They look over her head – at each other, not at her. Whisper behind her back. Talk about her as if they know. But they don't know anything. And she can't tell them because she is not that girl any more. It is empty inside her and nothing hurts. She is all new and she has nothing to tell. And she is absolutely alone.

‘It will be all right, you'll see. You will be with your uncle. And your brother will be with a kind family who will love him and care for him.'

But they know nothing. They don't know how Daniel likes his milk. How he likes to be stroked at the nape of the neck before he goes to sleep. He will be so frightened, and so very lonely.

But she is not afraid at all. She doesn't mind being alone.