The Listener (2 page)

She would draw her lines of silver and gold, then wait, perhaps quite a while, then draw another line. She had time, and the material was inexhaustible.

It was early in May. Far into the bright nights she sat by the window and played her great, dangerous game. She didn’t light the lamps. The nights were luminous – the transparent, lingering blue that comes with spring. She didn’t need to look at the map; she knew it by heart. As she formed and spoke the words, the lines and ovals moved and the colours steadily changed. For the first
time in her life, Aunt Gerda had the sweet and bitter experience of power.

When the weather grew warmer, she opened the window, put on her coat, covered her legs with a blanket, and sat in the bay to look out at the city and the strip of open water. Now she could hear footsteps and voices down on the street, every sound clear and distinct. All the passersby seemed to be on their way to the harbour. It seemed to Aunt Gerda that the rooms where she lived no longer enclosed her, they had turned outward and away. The too luminous night was suddenly disquieting and made her sad. She began to think about all the things happening out there right now that she knew nothing about. All the time, every minute, something was happening out there.

Aunt Gerda sat quite still for a long time, then she threw off her blanket and went out into the hall. She called her nephew and asked him if he’d like to come by for a while and talk about his painting, but he was busy and couldn’t come. “Painting?” he said. “That was a long time ago, Aunt Gerda. I’m working for Papa now.”

She hung up the phone and went into the dining room. Her map was indistinct in the half-light. At the moment, it resembled one of those old representations of the earth seen from the sky, drawn at a time when the known islands were huge but the unknown continents vanishingly small.

Aunt Gerda was a perfectionist. It is possible that she didn’t know it or even know that sharp, lovely word. But in her opinion a thing half done was meaningless.
Time had tricked her, dreadful time, which she once again had wasted. Her map was invalid. She rolled it up carefully, fixed it with three rubber bands and wrote, “To be burned unread after my death.”

It was a beautiful piece of work, Aunt Gerda thought. It would in fact be a shame if none of them looked at it anyway. She put the map on the highest shelf in the hall closet and closed the window. The footsteps and voices on the street disappeared. Then she lit the lamp above the dining room table and got out her box of shiny pictures and pressed flowers. One by one she laid them on the table and remembered what they looked like. Then, with a single motion of her large, clever hand, Aunt Gerda swept all the pretty pictures back into their box. Several specks of glitter had fallen on the rug and glowed there as blue as the night outside.

T
HE SAND BARGE
had anchored beside the granite slope and sacks of cement had been carried ashore. Now they were unloading sand. They’d found a strong young man to handle the wheelbarrow. Again and again he pushed it across the plank, slowly at first but then with long, loping strides that made the plank quake. When he reached the granite he bounced the load up onto the next plank, ran it uphill at a good speed and dumped the sand. As the sand flowed out, he turned away towards the water and scratched his head as if none of this mattered a bit to him and was all just for fun. His back and arms glistened in the sun. His pants were very tight and he wore a greasy little cap, little more than a leaf that had floated down onto his hair. Finally he stretched out one arm, shook the wheelbarrow clean, whipped it around in one easy gesture, clattered back down the rock slope and back over to the barge. As the wheelbarrow rolled across the plank, the only sound was his light steps. Then he spat over the railing as if
he owned the whole world and didn’t give a damn. He let the others winch up the drum of sand and empty it. He was wonderful.

She stood beside the cement sacks and watched. Nothing important had happened since she’d learned to do a front flip, and now everything was coming at once, the unloading of the sand and the underwater dynamiting. She couldn’t be in two places at once; it wasn’t possible. First nothing happens and then nothing happens and then you have to choose. It was hard.

She had got up at four o’clock that morning so she wouldn’t lose any of the day and so the whole house would be hers. The early-morning light streamed through the sleeping cottage and across its yellow, varnished summer walls – the walls and floors divided into new spaces by sunshine that would not return all day. It was utterly quiet. She opened the verandah window and the curtain billowed inwards in a great slow surge. The air outside was cold. There were only two meatballs left in the pantry. She tipped them into her mouth from the edge of the plate, licked up the congealed sauce quickly and took bread from the metal breadbox.

The garden smelled of morning, a chilly, expectant smell. The gravel was wet and hurt her feet. With each step she moved further from the cottage, running and chewing, down to the shore and over the stones, jumping and skipping, precise, eating the whole way.

Now he set his feet, grabbed the wheelbarrow and balanced it across the plank again, changing his pace at the fourth step, crossing in a long, swinging gait, then the bounce and the hard clattering sound as the wheelbarrow ran the uphill plank. A new flood of sand spread out and he turned his face towards the water.

She stood behind the cement sacks and envied him with all her might. It was now she had to do it; now or never. She ran onto the boat and hollered down into the hold, “Can I help?” Her voice was too loud, and she was embarrassed.

Two old men stood down in the darkness. They didn’t answer. They looked up one time and went on shovelling, the drum was nearly full. She sat down on the deck and waited humbly. He came back with the wheelbarrow and the drum was unloaded into it. He made two more trips and she didn’t dare look at him. The third time, they let her go down into the hold.

The daylight vanished as if a door had closed; the vast space lay in deep, cool shadow. The drum came back down. She sank her shovel in the sand and lifted it as quickly as she could. The shovels crossed with a clang, and her hands burned. “You’ve got to work in rhythm,” said one of the old men. “Think about what you’re doing.” She waited obediently and thought while they filled the drum and winched it up. Shoveling sand is like jumping on rocks, she thought – rhythmic, every movement exact and just enough, never missing, like the guy with the wheelbarrow. The drum came back down. She filled her shovel and raised it, swung it up and over
in exactly the second that was hers, lifted and swung and emptied in step with the other two. The three shovels flashed in triple time in the twilight of the hold. It was perfect. Her feet sank deep in the damp red sand. When the drum was full, they stopped shovelling together, leaned on their shovels and rested as they watched the drum swing up on the winch. Up top, he moved to and fro, swaying back and forth across the plank. Again and again the drum came down, first on one side of the keelson and then on the other.

The first charge detonated deeper into the bay. I should have been there to watch. I want to be everywhere. How am I going to live if I always have to choose between two things.

“Second breakfast,” the older man said, planting his shovel in the sand.

When she reached the deck, the sunshine was blinding. She walked to the railing and spit in the water, very calmly. Another charge went off, a pillar of water rose above the edge of the woods, unbelievably high, and hung in the air for a long time before it fell. It was completely white. And just at that moment a string of swans flew in over the coast. She had never seen swans flying before, and they called, they sang! A new pillar of water rose towards the sky and the birds crossed it. For one long, lingering moment, there was a great white cross against the blue sky.

She ran across the plank, light and springy, gave a bounce and ran to the side, past the cement sacks and down into the woods. They were quiet and filled with
summer warmth, all of June blazed straight down like a fine, glowing rain, but morning mist still drifted across the marsh. She ran into the cool mist and out into the heat again and back into the coolness and through a strong waft of bog myrtle. She threw herself headlong on the moss and the myrtle bent beneath her, right down into the water of the marsh. It would be such an awfully long time until she was fully grown and happy.

A
T TWENTY PAST THREE
, the younger of the Häger sisters lit the candles on the birthday cake. It was already dusk. Her sister took the ice cream out of the refrigerator and began to set it out on a silver platter.

“Couldn’t you wait with that?” said Vera Häger. “They’ll be here any moment. I think we should greet them together. I’m not used to …”

Anja went on dishing up the ice cream. “Take them into the sitting room,” she said. “Give them some juice. I’ll come when I’m done in here.”

Vera went out to the front hall. She heard the lift. When it stopped, she opened the door. It was the caretaker. He nodded to her and went up the stairs to the attic. “Excuse me,” Miss Häger said. “I thought it was for us. We’re expecting visitors, I mean, guests …” She closed the door and waited behind it. She didn’t like the way the caretaker had nodded to her, and there had been no need whatsoever to give him an explanation; she should have kept her mouth shut. Now the lift came
up again. She waited for the bell to ring and then threw open the door. There were three children, two boys and a very small girl with her nanny.

“Welcome,” said Miss Häger to the nanny. “Our brother’s daughter is having a birthday, and her parents are away, and so we thought we – my sister and I – that we ought to throw her a little birthday party …” The children took off their boots and coats and caps and put them on the floor. The nanny went away.

“And what’s your name?” Miss Häger asked. The boys looked away and didn’t answer, but the girl whispered, “Pia.” The doorbell rang again. It was four children and one mother. More and more children came in and pulled off their winter coats, but their niece didn’t come. It was terribly hot in the front hall.

“Come in,” said Miss Häger. “Please, go right on into the sitting room, where there’s room for everyone. Don’t stand in the doorway, go right on in …” The children went into the sitting room. She clapped her hands and cried, “Now you can start to play! What game would you like to play?” They stared at her without answering. Vera Häger went out into the kitchen and said, “You’ve got to come, right now, right away. It’s not working.”

Her sister lifted the platter with the decorated ice cream and said, “What do you mean? What’s not working?”

“The party. They’re just standing around. I don’t think they like me. And Daniela hasn’t come.”

“Take the ice cream,” Anja said. “Go in and give them ice cream. I’ll call and find out where she is.” She went to the front hall, lifted the receiver and dialled. The line
was busy. She tried again. Her sister stood behind her with the platter in her hands and waited.

“Either put the ice cream down or take it in,” Anja said.

“Take it yourself,” Vera shouted. “Please, take it. Let me call. I’d be so happy to call. I’ll keep calling until they answer.”

Her sister took the platter and went in. Now it was quite peaceful in the front hall. She dialled the number again and again but it was always busy.

Anja Häger threw streamers over the children as they ate. She was good at throwing streamers. Calmly, carefully, she wove a multicoloured web across the large, dark room. The candles burned quickly in the warmth and made little lakes of wax between the marzipan roses. She blew them out. She passed out balloons and showed them where the lavatory was, and then she went back to the front hall.

“It’s still busy,” Vera said. “This can’t be the wrong day, can it? Do you suppose something’s happened?”

“I’ll bet they’ve forgotten to hang up the phone,” her sister said.

“Are they playing? Are they having fun?”

“They’re eating,” Anja said. “You can go in and watch them for a while. I think I’ll read for a bit.” She went into the bedroom.

Vera Häger stood in the doorway and watched the children. They were no longer stiff. They were all at the table, shoving and pushing. The little girl was building a house out of oranges. A boy was eating ice cream, sitting under his chair. She walked slowly closer. “Are
you having fun?” she asked shyly. The children stopped eating and stared at her. For a long moment they stared at each other through the curtain of coloured streamers.

“When I was little,” Miss Häger said, “we’d never heard of ice cream. I believe ice cream came along much later. Now don’t worry about Daniela, she’ll probably be here soon, maybe any minute …”

Now the children were utterly motionless. The house of oranges fell apart and fruit rolled out across the floor. One of the oranges rolled right up to Vera Häger’s feet. She turned and went into the bedroom. Her sister was lying on her bed, reading.

“I don’t get it,” Vera said. “I just don’t get it. Why is there always something wrong with our parties? Not even when it’s children …”

“Read something,” Anja said.

The lamp on the night table was green and threw a gentle light across the pillows. They were suddenly conscious of the ticking of the clock.

“We could talk about it,” Vera said.

Anja didn’t answer. Her glasses reflected the light so her eyes were hidden. She cut several pages of her book, and the book knife made a tinkling sound each time she put it back on the glass top of the night table. The apartment was very quiet.

Vera Häger stood up and opened the door. “They’ve turned out the light,” she whispered.

A lion roared in the sitting room.

“They’re playing,” Anja Häger said. “They’re playing wild animals. Don’t look like that. They’re having fun.”
Suddenly she was infinitely tired of her sister. “Children play,” she went on sharply. “They’re not like us.”

Vera’s face collapsed in a grimace and she threw herself onto the bed and wept. Her head was narrow and it was covered with small dry curls at the back that she could probably not see in the mirror. There is no back to her head, Anja thought. Utterly brachycephalic. She put her glasses back on and spoke into her book. “I’m sorry. I just mean that they’re having fun. It’s a good party. They’re eating and roaring at each other. Social life – that’s a jungle, smiling and showing your teeth …”

As she was speaking, she opened the drawer in her night table. Her sister took the tissue automatically, blew her nose, and said, “Thank you. What do you mean, ‘showing your teeth’? What are you talking about?”

Anja Häger sat up in her bed, looked at the wall and said, “Social life is dreadful unless you love the people you entertain. People smile with their teeth because they’re afraid. Children are honest. They make a dark jungle and roar.”

“I don’t understand,” Vera said.

“Is there anyone,” Anja said, “is there one single person we long to spend time with?”

“Are you trying to start an argument?” Vera said.

“It’s possible,” Anja answered. “But not right now. I’m asking because I’d like to know. We could talk about it.”

“We never talk,” Vera said. “We just live.”

They listened for sounds from the sitting room, and Anja said, “That was a hyena. Wasn’t that a hyena?”

Vera nodded. “Does it show I’ve been crying?”

“It always shows,” her sister said. She left the room and walked into the sitting room. The children had taken off their shoes and were crawling under the furniture in the dark. She could hear them snarling at each other. Two of them started fighting and rolled out growling into the weak light from the front hall.

Then the doorbell rang, and Miss Häger turned on the ceiling light and opened the door. The children trooped out and found their coats and boots and caps, the elevator ran up and down, and finally the front hall was empty except for two long black coats. The sitting room floor was covered with trampled streamers and bits of cake. She gathered up the plates and carried them out to the kitchen. Vera sat by the kitchen table, waiting. “You don’t need to say it was a great success,” she said. “I’m tired of you always saying the same things.”

“Oh, so you’re tired?” her sister said. “And I always say the same things?” She put the plates carefully in the sink and leaned against the counter, her back to the kitchen. Then she said, “Are you very tired?”

“Very tired,” Vera whispered. “What is it you want me to do? What is it that’s wrong?”

Anja Häger walked past her sister and touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Nothing,” she said. “We’ll leave it. It’s too late. It’s too late to clean up. Let’s go to bed and wash up in the morning.”