Stella Descending (18 page)

Amanda

I’ve laid myself down on the bed beside Bee. Her red dress was itching, so I took off her funeral clothes and found her a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. Bee’s room has never been fixed up. It’s mostly white—white walls and a wooden floor painted white—not bright white but dingy. The ceiling is blue, but in a lot of places the blue paint has flaked off and underneath the blue it’s red, and under the red it’s yellow. I tell Bee that lots of people have lived in this old house, and in this very room, too. The first person to live here was a lady who painted the ceiling yellow to remind her of the sun.

“Why did she do that?” whispers Bee.

“Because this lady was never allowed to go outside and look at the real sun,” I say. “She was held prisoner by a beast who was in love with her. But then the lady gave birth to a little boy, and he lived in this room with his mother, and together they painted the ceiling red to remind them of” —I had to think for a minute—“to remind them of sugar candy, because sugar candy was the boy’s favorite thing of all.”

“So did the beast let him have sugar candy?”

“No,” I say. “Of course the beast didn’t let the boy have sugar candy, but his mother had been given sugar candy when she was a little girl, and she told the boy all about it. Just listening to her made him long for sugar candy.

“They used to lie side by side in bed, like we’re doing now, before they fell asleep, and while they were lying there she would tell him about the times she had sugar candy when she was a little girl.”

“But who painted the ceiling blue?” asks Bee.

“That was the beast,” I say. “One evening the mother wrapped her arms around her son, got out of bed, and jumped out of that window over there, and they fell and fell without ever hitting the ground. They rounded one world after another and never had to come back here. And the beast was so sad he painted the ceiling blue.”

We are both stretched straight out on the bed. Bee runs her hands down the legs of her sweatpants. She’s breathing softly and steadily, but her eyes are open, full of wonder. Maybe she’ll fall asleep soon. I stroke her cheek gently. Her skin is dry. Mamma used to put cream on her face. Bee would sit perfectly still on the bed, gazing at Mamma. Sometimes she would fling her arms around Mamma’s neck before Mamma had finished putting on the cream. This made Mamma cross. I could tell by the look on her face, but she would stay where she was until Bee let go of her. Bee gives long hard hugs. It’s kind of difficult to break free.

Nobody knows Bee better than me, but there are lots of things I don’t know about. There are lots of things I don’t know about being in charge of children, I mean, because now I’m in charge, and we can’t stay here with the ostrich king. No way. Lots of fifteen-year-olds have children. There’s this girl at school who got pregnant. She had an abortion. I’ve even read about twelve-year-olds who’ve had babies. It happens all the time. Twelve-year-old girls give birth to their babies when they go to the bathroom. Suddenly there’s a
plop
and there it is: a baby. I wonder what it’s like to stare down into the toilet bowl into those eyes. I think I’d pull the plug fast, flush it away before either of us started crying.

Before, when I was younger, I used to think about things like that a lot. Especially that summer we spent in Värmland— Mamma, Martin, Bee, and me. There we had to use an outhouse. And when I sat there, particularly once darkness had fallen in the evenings, I used to bang my feet on the walls of the outhouse to scare away rats and any other nasty things crawling around down there. The beast has long skinny arms. I was sure that one day I would feel his hands on my behind, that he would curl his fingers round my hips and drag me down into the shit alongside him.

And now Mamma’s been buried. Or, not exactly
buried.
The coffin disappeared into a hole in the floor, down and down until we couldn’t see it anymore. I didn’t know that was how they did it. There’s this secret hatch that slides open and the coffin disappears. And the minister didn’t so much as blink an eye, not once. It was a bit like the time the plumber and I managed to round the last world and finally found ourselves within striking distance of the king’s palace. A hatch opened in the floor, and we were imprisoned in a castle, but then another hatch opened and we got free. But what about the coffin? Is there a floor underneath the chapel floor and another floor underneath that one? She won’t give in, not Mamma. She’s still falling. She goes on falling and falling even after she reaches the ground. Do you hear me, Bee? Mamma’s still falling. She falls through layer upon layer of fire and earth and sand and roots. I don’t think there’s any bottom.

The plumber didn’t come to the chapel. He said he would be there, but instead he packed his things and left. Pappa wasn’t there either. To be honest, I’m glad he wasn’t. I don’t think Pappa and I would get on very well. I heard Mamma say once that Pappa went to Australia because he wanted to get as far away from her as possible—and Australia was the farthest-away place he could think of. I wasn’t supposed to hear that. Mamma was talking to the old geezer. But the old geezer doesn’t hear what people say, that’s the trouble with him.

Mamma said a lot of things I wasn’t supposed to hear. She would talk and talk: to Martin and to the old geezer. But I have two big ears. I don’t miss much. And one day I’m going to tell Bee all the things I can’t tell her right now.

Axel

When Dr. Isak Skald, my only true friend, insisted that I stop smoking, he did so on the grounds that if I did not it would kill me. This has never struck me as being a decent argument. Nevertheless, I did stop. When I attempted to start smoking again I was prevented from doing so by his widow, Else, that marvelous woman with the hands that could change a man’s life. In any case, the joy was gone. I smoked cigarette after cigarette, but joylessly, so why bother? But if I had gone on smoking, and if Skald’s medical observations were correct, as I have no doubt they were, I would probably be dead by now. I make myself a cup of instant coffee. Half an hour until the evening news. I, Axel Grutt, widely known as Gruesome Grutt the schoolteacher, am still alive. Why do my days on this earth never end? I am nothing but wasted flesh, and yet my heart is still beating. Is it really just going to go on like this?

Who leads me then to your refreshing rill?
’Tis death so still.

WHEN THIS DAY, Stella’s day, is over, I shall light a candle, or two, or three.

First I will light a candle for my wife, Gerd.
Now listen to me,
Axel, because this is going to hurt
. I can see her now. That yellow sweater. The defiant look in her eyes. The provocative air about her that I was to come across again, years later, in Stella. I have suffered physical afflictions for as long as I can recall. But afflictions of a physical nature were not what Gerd had in mind. That is not what she was talking about.

“So what was she talking about?”

“Oh, Stella, there you go again, always probing and prying!”

“Yeah, well, I’m curious.”

“Is it the shame of it that hurts you?” Gerd asked, when I begged her to stay. She was sick and tired of the whole business. She had had enough. She wanted to get away. She was going to take little Alice and go north with this other man. Of course, I should have let her go. Instead I asked her to stay. Don’t ask me why.

Victor was his name: her lover. A fellow teacher. Blond and handsome and very popular with the pupils. Gerd was besotted with him long before we were married, and he with her. Oh, dear me, yes. They were meant for each other right from the start. I was the big mistake, her life’s tragedy, the tumor in her stomach. But it was Gerd’s choice, and Gerd chose me. Because I could do magic. And he could not.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, Victor and I were good friends. It all started in the thirties, when we were students. I used to meet him at the Trocadero. I remember him well. On one occasion he kept an entire table entertained with love poems he had written himself, apparently inspired by Gerd Egede-Nissen the actress, whom, not surprisingly, he had never met. But there was another Gerd in Victor’s life—and the poems were, of course, addressed to her. And she, Gerd number two, was sitting at our table that evening, looking every bit as lovely as Gerd number one.

She liked us both. Victor recited poems; I did conjuring tricks. In the beginning she could not choose between us. Then one evening I magicked away her wristwatch, the gold barrette from her hair, her hat, her scarf, and the crucifix she wore around her neck. I threatened to magic away her blouse, her stockings, and her skirt, too, if she would not marry me, so she said yes. I felt I had won fair and square, but Victor refused to admit defeat.

“It’s me she wants,” he said. “This way you’re only going to ruin both your lives.”

“But I’m a better magician than you are a poet,” I said.

He looked at me long and hard. “And what about the wedding night?” he said. “And the night after the wedding night, and the night after that? Are you going to pull a rabbit out of a hat then too?”

That was when I told him to shut up.

Gerd and I were married in 1936. She endured it for a few months; then she went running back to him. He was waiting for her, welcomed her back with open arms, and I let them get on with it. I don’t know what was worse, their infidelity or their contempt. Their contempt, I think. The fact that they were laughing at me, in a mildly pitying, resigned sort of way. That was the worst. I was not a bad man; I wasn’t. I was a small man. I was a pathetic man. I was the kind of man other men would have spat on had they known. But I was not a bad man.

We had a deal, Gerd, Victor, and I; we made a pact: No one was to know. No one. This was to be our secret, our dirty little secret. This was between us three. Then came the war. Victor was one of the key figures on the coordinating committee of the teacher’s union—later banned—to which we both belonged. He was also quick to call for organized opposition to the new organization set up by the Nazis, which all teachers were compelled to join. And it was Victor who knocked on my door one evening to present me with a statement he felt I ought to sign. It was my duty, he said. He placed a matchbox in my hand, and in this box I found a slip of paper. I bent my head over the paper and scanned it quickly.

I hereby declare that I cannot take any part in the teaching of the young people of Norway according to the lines laid down by the German occupying force. . . . This would run counter to my own personal beliefs . . . forcing me to commit other acts that would conflict with my professional code of honor. . . . In all good conscience I must therefore state that I do not consider myself a member of the new teachers’ union.

It was my duty, he said, running a hand through his thick fair hair—the very hand, it occurred to me, that my wife could not live without. And if I had an ounce of moral gumption, he went on, if I had ever wanted to show the world the kind of man—

I interrupted this tirade to point out that he was hardly in a position to be lecturing me on morality. To which he replied that I would have to set aside my personal—he hesitated for a moment—my personal failings; what was at issue here was something much bigger. I told him he hadn’t changed a bit since the days when he was reciting bad poetry at the Trocadero. This was just more bad poetry. He nodded slowly.

“Am I to understand, Axel, that you won’t sign it?”

“No, why on earth should I sign it?” I said. “One organization is as good as another. I’m a teacher, not a politician.”

“And a magician,” Victor added wryly, “with Quisling’s blessing. You choose your friends with care.”

“Yes, I am a magician. And, like I say, not a politician. I don’t give a damn about any of this. I don’t give a damn about anything you say, Victor, or anything you do.”

I remember wondering where Gerd was. Sometimes she spent the night at his place. Was she there now? Was she waiting for him? Would they sit in his living room long into the night, laughing at me? I pulled myself together.

“It’s time you were leaving,” I said.

I led the way into the hall and opened the door. He followed but stopped in the doorway. He laid a hand on my arm. I pulled away.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he said.

“Ha!”
I retorted.

“Is it that you’re afraid?” he asked.

“Afraid? Afraid of what?”

“Afraid to sign the statement, afraid of what might happen if you did sign, afraid for yourself, for Gerd, and not least for little Alice?”

“Get out, Victor!”

“Because if that’s so, if you are in fact afraid of signing, I’m here to tell you that you should be far more afraid of
not
doing so—”

“I’ve never felt less afraid,” I snapped, cutting him off. “Goodbye!”

I pushed him out the door. He was heavier than I had expected, and a lot bigger. It took all my strength, but I eventually managed it. And then, with the door finally shut behind me, I dissolved, quite unexpectedly, into floods of tears.

When peace broke out, I knew it was only a matter of time before Gerd would want to leave me. Even so, when the word came I was quite unprepared.
Now listen to me, Axel, because this is
going to hurt.
I was panic-stricken.

“Axel Grutt, panic-stricken?”

“Yes, panic-stricken.”

I did not want her to leave. I wanted her to stay with me. That was the only time I have ever really fought for something. And it turned me rotten inside. That fight left me rotten to the core. I heard myself threatening Gerd, saying I would take Alice away from her. I would have the law on my side, I reminded her. After all, hadn’t she been neglecting house and home even before Alice was born, running off to Victor the way she did?

She was ready with her defense. “They won’t take Alice away from me because of Victor,” she said. “He’s a war hero, Axel. And what are you?” She all but spat on the floor.

“I’ll have the law on my side, Gerd. They’ll take Alice away from you,” I repeated. “They won’t hesitate.”

She came right up close to me, pressed her face against mine. “You don’t even know for sure that she’s yours,” she hissed.

I stared at her, stunned. I raised my hand to hit her. “She’s mine!” I roared. “Alice is my child. Don’t do this, Gerd! Not this!”

And I sank down onto the sofa and howled. Gerd walked through to the bedroom and lay down on the bed. After a while I went in and lay down beside her. I stroked her face, her throat.

“Forgive me,” I whispered. “Forgive me.”

She wept, hugged me, pressed herself close against me. I went on stroking her face. She grew soft in my arms. Her hands were all over me.
“Not so fast, Gerd, not so fast.”
But she wasn’t listening.

She was full of kisses.

I WAS PLANNING to watch the evening news at seven o’clock, but by the time I switch on the television the news is long since over. Everything has gone wrong today. It has all been too much. I take off my suit, unbutton my shirt, and hang everything in the closet. I set my shoes out in the hall, both my dress shoes and my sneakers. I take out a clean pair of pajamas, the ones with the blue stripes, and put them on. It is almost eleven o’clock. I shall sleep soon.

Often, before I go to bed, I listen to some of Schubert’s piano music, but this evening I am more in the mood for song. I put on
Die Winterreise
. Luckily my half-deaf neighbor, the so-called music lover, is not at home. I haven’t heard a sound from his apartment for days, maybe even weeks. It has been as quiet as can be in there. Maybe he’s dead. Sometimes people just don’t wake up from a good long night’s sleep. I mean, where would he go? He had no friends. He never had any visitors, never went out. Well, I never! Maybe he really
is
dead. Bless him.

It is Fischer-Dieskau who is singing. I glance around the dark rooms. When I moved in here after Gerd’s death, I brought nothing with me from the house we owned except the gilt mirror that hangs in the hall. I have never felt at home here. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I detest my surroundings, and my surroundings detest me. That is just how it is.

I sit down on the sofa. But then it is as if I got up again, crossed the room, and stood by the window.

So I stand there, looking at myself on the sofa, a little man sitting there all hunched up, so terribly alone. A bit of a poor soul, that one, I say to myself, and turn to look out the window. Suddenly it is snowing. Time has passed. It has been snowing for some days now. I lay my hand against the cold windowpane. A tram rolls past, almost empty, in the wintry gloom. Not the greatest of weather, if you ask me. I turn back to the poor soul on the sofa. Shall we have a cup of coffee, you and I?

I have lighted three candles: one for Gerd, one for Stella, and one for Amanda. I don’t think Amanda will come here anymore. But if she should surprise me and ring the doorbell—I mean, if she should come over anyway, tomorrow, for example, or the next day—I could show her my barrel organ. She has never seen it. Fancy that. All the times she has visited me, and yet it has never occurred to me to show her the barrel organ. Granted, it’s down in the cellar, so it would be quite a strain to lug it upstairs. But I could always ask someone to give me a hand. In my experience, people can be most obliging if you ask them for help. Take the young couple who’ve moved in next door, for instance. He’s a conceited ass, anyone can see that, but she is graceful and charming, not unlike my daughter Alice when she was young. Alice, who could positively take my breath away simply by running down the street to meet me, with her arms outstretched. I am quite sure that if I were to ask that young couple to help Amanda and me carry the barrel organ up the stairs from the cellar, they would. I would offer them a cup of coffee afterward, naturally, and maybe some layer cake from the patisserie on the corner—as a way of saying thank-you for their trouble. It would be a nice gesture on my part. And after they’d gone, Amanda and I would settle ourselves on the sofa and I would play for her.

“Funny old man,” she’ll say then, and I will see that she has her mother’s eyes. “Can’t I stay here with you a while?”