Milk (5 page)

 

X-Ray

 

C
arl
and Sonja huddle together around the small table. The kitchen is warm, and it smells of fresh coffee and toast. Carl sips his coffee; Sonja has drunk most of hers.

—What time do you need to be there? she asks.

—11:00, he says.

She rises and picks up the coffee pot.

—More?

—No thanks.

She pours coffee for herself, and he reaches for a piece of toast.

—Are you sure you don't want me to come with you? she asks, returning to her seat.

—I'd rather go alone, he says. He coats his toast with orange marmalade.

She opens her calendar and finds the day: January 11, 1994.

—I had the same dream last night, Carl says.

She looks up.

He immediately regrets having told her about it.

—It bothers me, she says. I don't like the fact that you're going by yourself.

—It'll be all right, he says. I'm not nervous.

He lays his hand on hers. She looks at him. Her eyes seem larger.

—Are you sure? she asks.

—Yes, he says. I'm positive.

 

W
hen Sonja has gone, Carl carries the newspaper upstairs. He lays his bathrobe over the armrest on the blue chair and crawls under the still half-warm duvet. He begins to read. He skims the news, glances at the TV program, and picks up the culture section. There's an article about Rembrandt that captures his attention.
Chiaroscuro
. He chews on the word a bit.

After reading the article, he rises from the bed and goes into Sonja's den. He pulls the encyclopedia volume that covers Q to Sve from the shelf, and returns to the bedroom. He reads the entry about Rembrandt. It lists a number of his masterpieces; the year in which they were painted is written in parentheses, along with their current location: Stockholm, Dresden, Haag, or Amsterdam. Carl regrets never having made the time to visit any of the museums named. As a young man he'd often gone to Rotterdam, and from there it would have only been an hour and a half by train to Amsterdam. Today it'd no doubt be even faster.

Carl looks at the painting that is reproduced in the encyclopedia. Its title is written in small letters under the black and white print:
Jacob Blessing the Sons of Joseph
. The painting shows an old, long-bearded man wearing a little headdress; he sits halfway up in bed extending his hand. Two small boys stand at the side of the bed; one is blond, the other dark. The old man gently touches the blond child's head. The children's parents stand behind them.

It occurs to him that even though the motif is sad, the scene is depicted with a tenderness reminiscent of happiness. Maybe it is because Jacob has lived so well and so long, so long that he can barely get up from the bed, so long that he has had grandchildren. Maybe also because the pillow that awaits Jacob's head looks so pristinely white. Carl's eyes rest on the pillow, then travel across the gray nuances in the painting's middle section to the mother's face and neck. From here they move toward the center, toward Joseph. His expression is gentle, sad, his eyes are looking down, possibly in the direction of the children; he stands near the bed, so close that it looks as though Jacob rests his forehead against his cheek.

Carl puts the book down and sticks his hand under his pajamas to probe his belly. He massages it carefully in large, circular strokes. Then he rises and goes to the bathroom. He undresses, puts out a towel, and gets in the shower. The water runs down his body, swirls into the drain, soapy and gray.

Then he hears the telephone ring.

Carl lets it ring. He turns up the cold water and turns down the warm water and can feel his skin tighten and tremble. He turns off the shower and steps out. He grabs his towel and dries his face carefully, then his belly. He can trace his own form in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. With his hand he clears a space for his face, but the mirror quickly steams up again.

After he has dressed, he goes downstairs and sits by the telephone. Outside, it has begun to snow. He dials his son Jesper's number; Jesper lives with Maria and her son, Jonas. The telephone rings a few times before someone answers.

—Hello, Carl says.

He can hear breathing on the other end of the line.

—Hello, he repeats.

—It's Jonas.

—Well, hi there, Jonas. It's Carl.

—Hi.

—How are you?

—I got chewing gum today.

—Aren't you lucky. What does it taste like?

—Like chewing gum.

—But you're doing okay?

—Uh huh.

—Is Jesper or your mother home?

—No.

—What's that mean? Are you home alone?

—Who is it? he hears Maria say in the background.

—Nobody, Jonas says, mouth turned from the receiver. Goodbye, he says.

—Bye, bye, Carl says.

—Jonas! Maria shouts.

There's a clicking as the receiver is hung up. Carl smiles and looks out the window. The snowflakes are large and downy and fall from the heavens in straight lines. He watches them settle into fine layers on the naked earth. He sees how the flakes are sifted through the branches of the chestnut tree, forming a complex pattern of snow and darkness on the ground beneath the tree.

Then he looks at his watch and rises from his chair.

 

C
arl has been sitting in the waiting room for almost a half-hour before the doctor's assistant peers her head through the door.

—Carl Skov.

He stands and follows her down the hallway. Examination rooms are on both sides of the hall. At the far end a door is open on the right, and she leads him into the room.

—Have a seat. The doctor will be with you in a moment.

Carl sits on a brown plastic chair and looks around. In one end of the room there is an examination chair with stirrups made of stainless steel. A white paper slip covers the black cushion. On the table beside Carl is his insurance card and a form he'll have to sign. Next to that is a file with his medical records and a big yellow-brown envelope, which he can see has been opened.

Carl looks out the window. On the lawn in front of the medical center a group of children are playing in the snow. They look comfortable in their quilted snowsuits.

—Hello, Mr. Skov.

The doctor slides the door closed and extends his left hand to Carl; Carl clasps it clumsily with his right. The doctor sits in the chair and skims Carl's records. With thick, competent fingers he opens the envelope and pulls out a number of X-rays. He holds them up to the light and examines them one by one.

—So, Mr. Skov, he says. I think you're going to have to change your eating habits.

—Is that so?

—There's nothing wrong with you. The photographs here indicate that you are fine. If your stomach is bothering you, it is because of nerves or poor diet.

The doctor bends forward and picks up a piece of paper that is lying on a shelf to his left.

—Here's a list of some things I'd recommend you eat.

Carl takes the paper and reads. Soundlessly he forms the words on his lips: carrots, celery, apples, whole-grain bread, fish.

—Do you have a lot going on these days?

Carl looks up.

—Not really. Nothing more than usual.

The doctor leans back in his chair.

—Something else bothering you?

—Not really. I can't think of anything.

—Marital problems. Financial troubles? An illness in the family?

—No, nothing like that.

Carl thinks a moment.

—Well, he says. I keep dreaming of water.

—Of water?

—I dream of huge bodies of water. Almost every night.

—Any idea why?

—No, actually I don't.

Carl looks down, and neither of them speak for a moment. Then the doctor smiles and shrugs.

—Every once in a while we have to accept some things we don't understand.

—I guess so, Carl says.

The doctor leans forward clutching the form.

Carl reaches for one of the X-rays and holds it up to the light. His stomach and intestines are marked with a thin white line, the rest lies in darkness. He sees the children outside. Their snowsuits appear gold and crimson through the cloudy film.

—I just need you to sign here.

The doctor pushes the form and insurance card toward Carl.

Carl is still holding the X-ray up to the light.

—Are those your children? he asks.

The doctor looks at him, puzzled.

Carl puts the X-ray down. After he has signed, he picks it up again.

—May I keep this?

—Sure, the doctor says, looking up. But believe me, there's nothing to see.

 

 

Phosphorescence

 

T
hey
sat on the keel of a dinghy that was lying on the beach. Thomas was leaning back, supporting himself with his hands, head tilted, gazing up. Jon looked straight off into the night. He could see the foam of the low surf, could hear the pebbles murmuring as the water moved back out to sea.

—I can't find it, Thomas said.

—What? Jon said.

—The Big Dipper.

—Does it matter?

—Yes.

Thomas leaned forward and took the wine bottle from Jon's hand.

—Have a little wine, Jon said.

Jon looked at the surf and Thomas leaned his head back.

They sat like that for a while.

—All the big things, Thomas said suddenly. For some reason, we can only approach them in images.

—What?

—Take the stars, for example. We can't see them the way they are, we arrange them into constellations. It's the same with death, or having a child. What can you say about it? But if you can find the right imagery.

—Yeah.

—Life is great, Thomas said.

—Maybe I'm not drunk enough.

—C'mon, stop whining.

Thomas handed him the bottle. Jon leaned his head back and looked for the Big Dipper as he drank.

—I can see two, he said. He pointed with the bottle. A small one up here and a bigger one there.

—No way, Thomas said.

Jon pointed again.

—God damn, you're right.

Thomas glanced from one to the other.

—Maybe we should go inside and wake up the others. Tell them we've made an astronomical discovery.

—I think Charlotte wants to sleep, Jon said.

—Isn't Vivian just fucking beautiful.

—Yeah, Jon said. She's pretty amazing. You're really lucky.

—Everything's just a matter of luck. It's all chance.

—Yes, Jon said.

—Charlotte is beautiful too. She's a really nice girl.

Thomas stood and pulled his T-shirt over his head.

—C'mon, he said. Let's go swimming.

He unzipped his pants and pulled them down all the way to his shoes. Then he sat down on the boat and untied his laces. A moment later he stood naked before Jon.

—Don't you think it's too cold?

—Not at all. It's never been warmer.

—And don't you think you're too drunk?

—Hell no.

Thomas turned and ran toward the sea. Jon could see Thomas' body standing out white against the dark water. Thomas ran until the darkness reached his knees. A ways out, the water was shallow. A splash. After that Jon saw Thomas in glimpses, a foot, a white arm, the upper part of his back. Then there was only the sound left, the rhythmic strokes and now and then a splash from his feet. Then even the sounds fell silent, drowned out by the beating of the waves and by Jon's own breathing.

A moment later Jon got up and
walked down to the water. Rocks and shells bit
into his feet. He stared into the darkness. The moon gave the sea a thin, flickering sheen of light. Below the surface the water was dark, and seemed darker than usual because the lights played tricks with his eyes.

Some time passed.

Then he called out,

—Thomas.

—Thomas! he called out even louder.

—Thomas, he called out a third time.

All the way out by the third sandbank, an arm appeared.

—C'mon! There's…The wind carried the last part of the sentence away.

—What? Jon shouted.

—Come on out here. There's phosphor.

Jon pulled off his jeans. He shrugged off his white T-shirt, then his underwear. They landed on top of the pile a few feet from the water.

The water was surprisingly warm, even a bit warmer than the air. Jon saw a swarm of small, glowing particles at his feet; he bent down, and scooped up a handful of water, letting it fall. The phosphor flashed briefly, then fell into the darkness. He squatted down and drove his hand through the water; it took on a green sheen and looked bigger. He pulled it up and then put it back in again. Then he stood, took a couple steps, and began to run. He ran until he couldn't anymore, and then let himself fall headfirst into the water, dived and crawled with long, calm strokes. For each stroke he turned his head, taking in air from the left and breathing out to the right.

On the second sandbank the water was too shallow for him to swim, and he got up and walked a few steps. He looked out towards the third sandbank but couldn't see his brother. He hurled himself forward.

When he reached the last sandbank he let his feet sink down, and glanced around. Thomas was nowhere in sight. Jon spun around, ran an arm through the water, and swirled the phosphor. Just then, he felt something grab hold of his right foot. He fell backwards and felt the water gush up his nose and into his sinuses. A moment later he got back on his feet. He threw himself at Thomas and tried to dunk his head under the water. Thomas got away from him and shoved a handful of water in his face. Jon threw himself forward again and this time he managed to grab Thomas's hair with both hands. He pressed Thomas's head under water and held it there a few seconds.

—Truce? he said, as he pulled Thomas back up.

—Truce, Thomas said, laughing.

Jon let him go and Thomas splashed him again.

—Stop it.

—What's wrong with you? Thomas said, pressing his hands together and shoving saltwater against Jon.

Jon leapt forward and swam away underwater. He had barely emerged when Thomas was on him again.

Jon took two steps away from Thomas, then turned and smacked him across the cheek. Thomas grabbed his hand before he managed to pull it away. They stood motionless across from each other.

—Look at me, Thomas said.

—Sorry, Jon said.

—Look at me, Thomas said.Jon

—It's not enough that I say I'm sorry?

—No.

Jon looked at him.

—Now tell me what's wrong?

Jon exhaled and stared up at the stars. He glanced toward Thomas, fastening his gaze at a point just above his eyes.

—I don't know.

—You don't know?

—Maybe I shouldn't have come.

—Why?

—I don't know. I just shouldn't have come.

Thomas still had a solid grip on Jon's wrist. They stood opposite each other, the water reaching their chests. The water was dark and still, and the phosphorescence had subsided. They stood without speaking for almost a minute.

—Don't you ever miss him? Jon finally said.

—Who?

—Who do you think?

Thomas let go of Jon's hand.

—Of course I miss him, he said.

—I can't help thinking of him now that we're here.

—Why?

—I don't know. Maybe because it was here he was happiest. That's what everyone says.

—Of course I think about him, Thomas said. But not all the time. It comes and goes.

Jon drew a hand through the water and the phosphor sparkled.

—I'm freezing, Thomas said. Let's swim back.

They swam slowly toward the beach, side by side with three or four feet between them.

Jon took a few powerful strokes, then let himself sink under the water. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep the water out. He lay against the bottom, sand scraping against his chest. Soon after he surfaced for air.

Thomas had stood and waded through the shallow water a few steps ahead. Jon followed.

They hadn't brought any towels. They grabbed their clothes and ran toward the house. The sand on the path was cool on their feet, and there was a smell of heather and resin in the air. They sprinted across the yard.

The towels hung on a clothesline drawn between two birch trees. They dried quickly, and pulled on their underwear and T-Shirts.

Before Jon opened the door to the house, he glanced at Thomas.

—Look, I'm sorry…

—It's all right, Thomas said. No need to apologize.

—We're going home tomorrow, Charlotte and I.

—Okay.

Jon opened the door and walked into the low-ceilinged living room.

—Sleep well, he said, before they parted.

Jon crawled into bed beside Charlotte. She turned in her sleep and clutched his thumb. He arranged his duvet and blanket with his free hand, and gradually he warmed up. From the bed he could make out the photograph of his father, which was hanging on the wall. The photo, set in a thin silver frame, had been taken down by the beach. He was wearing an Icelandic sweater and was looking directly at the camera. Before long Jon heard the bed squeal in the room next to his; then he heard a low, rhythmic moan. He couldn't decide if it was coming from Vivian or his brother. After a while he realized it was coming from Vivian.