The Glitter Scene (49 page)

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Otherwise Björn and Bengt are best friends, and together with Björn, Bengt becomes different, so to speak, softens, relaxes. That prickliness that in and of itself is always going to be a part of him is evened out. Bengt is peculiar after all, has always been too: “his own kind.” Which doesn’t mean what the cousin’s papa says: crazy. The cousin’s papa and Bengt don’t get along. According to the cousin’s papa, Bengt isn’t good for anything, walks around and mucks about. A dreamer, Astrid Loman tries to say, but then the cousin’s papa says deranged and he hits. Bengt isn’t someone who lets himself be beaten, he hits back. He has always hit: arms flailing in the empty air when the cousin’s papa held him when he was
younger. The cousin’s papa laughing. Wiggle fish. But as is often the case with these kinds of stories there comes a time when the smaller one grows and acquires some force behind his punches—and hits right in the face. The cousin’s papa isn’t particularly strong either. And we three siblings, Bengt and me and Rita, are all rather tall. We have that in common: the height, the stature.

So already before what happens with the American girl and with Björn, after which Bengt moves out to the barn on the cousin’s property, the real fights between Bengt and the cousin’s papa have stopped altogether.

Crazy. The cousin’s papa continues saying it when he’s in that kind of a mood. From his chair, panting. Bengt imitates him sometimes. At a distance. Then he goes out.

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Of all the children, the cousin’s papa immediately prefers Björn. Because Björn comes from a different landscape? Probably not. What does the cousin’s papa know about that, inside his room, three sheets to the wind? He drags himself out into the yard only when it’s cleaning day. Sitting in an old blanket with holes in it, which the cousin’s mama throws over him so that he won’t get cold, like a mean old Indian chief. Sits in a recliner in the yard, fifteen feet from the barn wall where he’s throwing darts. Then back inside.

And in that “landscape,” if he then one evening on his own accord happens to wander out into the yard, “propperty”: waters the flagpole with the spray bottle. His woods, which he stands and asserts with determination to no one in particular. It is of course unclear whether or not he knows that the flagpole isn’t one of the trees in the woods that he owns or just an old rotten
flagpole that will eventually break in a storm. But that’s how it’s supposed to be: this ambiguity. Uncertainty. That’s what it is and has always been like being in his landscape.

But what the cousin’s papa appreciates most about Björn is “his skill.” Björn does carpentry, hammers on old boards in houses and barns and it results in something. And when Björn saves money for a moped and becomes impatient because it is taking too long, the cousin’s papa gives him the outstanding amount. “There’s always more money.”

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Björn is also the only one who can actually stand to listen to all of the ideas Bengt has in his head. The houses on the Second Cape, which he had on his mind when they are being built, knows everything about them. In and of itself, he has them on his mind just as much later, when the summer residents who have bought the houses arrive, he runs around there. It’s pathetic, sometimes you’re ashamed of him. If someone asks, “Is that your brother?” you don’t want to answer. Then it’s nice being together with Rita. She answers back, fiercely. Certainly not because she doesn’t think that Bengt is making a fool of himself, but because she
is
someone who always answers back. There are those who are a bit afraid of her even when she’s still young. But there is one good thing about Bengt’s preoccupation with the houses on the Second Cape: not a lot of talk of the Winter Garden anymore. When we walk up to the house on the First Cape, Rita and I, it’s usually just the two of us. And then we don’t do anything in particular. Stroll around in the old abandoned garden. The beginning of an English Garden,
says the baroness whom we call Miss Andrews, whom we swim with in the mornings at Bule Marsh. I look at my reflection in the crystal ball sitting in the middle of the tall grass surrounding the houses. My face looks funny. We laugh.

Björn listens to Bengt, as I said. Björn in the yard with his moped, Bengt is sitting in the opening to the barn wearing a cap and is explaining things to him. When he notices that Björn is listening, the words just pour out of him, like they will flow later as well, all the time, with the American girl. Bengt so excited he’s almost stammering. Björn who’s listening and asking normal questions that you wouldn’t dare ask yourself, not me in any case, because then Bengt becomes furious.

“How is it possible?” and that question, from Björn, Bengt loves answering. Though I’m certainly not listening to what he’s saying. “Why didn’t you say that right away?” Björn says. “NOW I understand.” And only then does Bengt become happy. Even if it can be the case of course that Björn says that only to make Bengt happy.

But it isn’t bad. Because I’ve actually started thinking that it’s still a bit beautiful in a way. Bengt a dreamer, head filled with dreams. Which the cousin’s mama tried to tell the cousin’s papa, who got angry at her.

And besides: you can’t get away from the fact that Bengt draws really well.

“A budding artist,” Miss Andrews says, at Bule Marsh.

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Bengt and Björn: in other words they’re the ones who have both fallen head over heels for the same girl. Björn’s first girlfriend, the American girl Eddie de Wire. Then on the other hand, the difference between them
will become that much more obvious. Not “the skill,” as the cousin’s papa goes on about, that sort of thing barely makes a difference now. But otherwise.

Maybe it’s the case in general that what is different about two people who seem to be on the same wavelength on the outside stands out the most, sees the chance to stick its head out, in relationship to a third. Like with me and Rita and Miss Andrews at Bule Marsh, for example. Miss Andrews, the baroness from the Second Cape: the name she makes up in order to tease us, I know that. Rita takes it much more seriously, takes an exception to Miss Andrews, and Miss Andrews exactly as Miss Andrews, not the baroness, more than I do.

At Bule Marsh in the mornings we teach Miss Andrews to swim and she teaches us English. It’s a business exchange, but also, mostly, a game. And actually I would rather practice swimming. I don’t mean all the time. But when we’re there. Sometimes I also suspect that Miss Andrews isn’t as bad a swimmer as she says she is. She seems to float pretty well, in the water I mean. In and of itself, I think she comes to the marsh because she wants to put on a show for Tobias who also shows up there quite often. Tobias is our “almost” godfather, mine and Rita’s.

Rita and I have decided that we’re going to become swimmers. I’m a better swimmer than Rita. I’m a little faster. I’m not afraid to jump from Lore Cliff. Headfirst. High up for the ladies: a vault in the air. When my body breaks the surface of the water I quickly swim away. Away from the current, it is strong. You have to have strength for this, and precision. Rita doesn’t. Maybe she’s afraid. Doesn’t dare: that is an amazing idea, new. Sitting on the
beach, making froglike movements in the air, showing Miss Andrews a swim stroke. Talking about the Bermuda Triangle with each other, in English.

I come out of the water after this jump. “Did you see?” Yes, it was nice, Miss Andrews says absentmindedly. Rita too. Saw but didn’t see. Then I get angry. A little. When I get angry I don’t let anyone see. Except for Rita. I mean, we’re twins, she knows.

There comes Tobias from the woods. Then we can talk about swimming practice again. Rita is standing in the sand, concentrating now, digging her heels deep into the sand. “Come, Solveig.”

Then we swim. And we swim.

We are swimmers, we are going to amaze the world.

We aren’t the type to stand on the beach and crow about it, pounding our chests, so to speak. This is serious.

Later when Rita has left I will think about Rita on the beach like that. Switching from the one to the other. Suddenly in one world, then in the other. It will be an extenuating circumstance. It is admirable. But it also gives a false image of what you’re actually able to do and what you can handle.

And Rita has a violent temper. It isn’t a temperament, it’s a mood. Temperament can be seen on the outside, it exists inside someone who always has her own show going on, like Doris Flinkenberg. And now I don’t mean to say that Doris was false. No. As clear as water. But she had show.

No, besides. I don’t want to tell it this way. About my reflections about Rita and myself in that way. Or bring the future in now. We don’t know anything about the future in the present. Maybe it’s best to say it like it is.

I’m a better swimmer than Rita. A little better. Rita lacks stamina and precision: not completely, of course, and in everyone’s eyes it can’t be seen, but she doesn’t have as much of it as I do.

I was the one who was Sister Blue in the swimming school that existed on the Second Cape before the public beach was moved to Bule Marsh. I was the one who saved Susette Packlén from drowning and got the Lifeguard’s Medal, which I still have. Rita saw but didn’t see. Not because she didn’t want to but she didn’t take control. Rita is preoccupied with Miss Andrews. Miss Andrews is the baroness on the Second Cape, an acquaintance. And I say the baroness, Rita says Miss Andrews. But just as much, or even more, I want to be with the cousin’s mama in the cousin’s house, the District. I don’t like being on the hill on the First Cape that much, being at the stone foundation and playing the Winter Garden. I would rather be with the cousin’s mama in the cousin’s kitchen, a helper with all of her chores.

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So if the difference that exists between me and Rita, despite the fact that we are twins, comes out in relation to Miss Andrews then you could say that the difference between Bengt and Björn is most obvious in relation to the American girl Eddie de Wire, who gradually becomes Björn’s first girlfriend. There, suddenly, Bengt and Björn are like night and day.

Björn and the American girl Eddie de Wire: in the future Björn is going to marry her and have a family. Here in the District, or close by. It also isn’t something that needs to be stated in words. And if not with his first girlfriend Eddie de Wire, then with some other girl.

Eddie de Wire is actually the first girl who happens to come by. Literally, slowly wandering down the road from the Second Cape where she’s living in the baroness’s boathouse that summer, it is the year 1969, she is in the District. One evening, two evenings, back and forth on the road she walks, in the sand, on the side of the road, sauntering. Restless teenager in light-colored clothes, walks past the yard where Björn is with his moped. Tinkering for all he’s worth. A teenager’s intuition tells him that he should do something about this. Ears burning, damned shyness.

Up until that evening when she finally calls to him from the road: “Do you have a cigarette?”

After which, since Björn had answered in the affirmative, she comes to him across the yard.

Transistor music, cigarettes glowing in the summer twilight.

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On the other hand, not much later Bengt will be hanging around with the American girl during the day when Björn is at work. And as if transformed. Is GOING TO do a lot of other things too, and precisely with her, everything. Run away. The world. The Winter Garden. Everything. Babbling on the terrace of the boathouse. Eddie with her guitar. Yes, she’s talking too, looks happy.

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I don’t know the American girl Eddie de Wire. I don’t know anything about her. I have no idea how she relates to everything, or which boy she prefers. But you can also think like this: that if you’re Eddie de Wire, both alternatives are pretty attractive. Bengt and Björn.

Two who are head over heels for her.

Eddie Young: inside each of us there is that eternal YOUNG that wants to glitter, be loved,
BE LOVED
mercilessly.

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And: not a bad way of spending your summer.

It’s so boring at the baroness’s.

You can see it that way too maybe.

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But this I know: that I prefer it when Eddie and Björn are together.

Moped, transistor radio, cigarette, going out for a walk.

And cigarettes: spots of light in the opening of the barn, a calm, green summer evening in eternity.

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Though it must immediately be said anyway: regardless of what it’s like with Björn and Bengt and the American girl, Björn and Bengt never fight with each other because of her. In Björn’s eyes, Bengt is always a cousin, a brother, they are friends. She is the one who betrays and it’s obvious that you would become furious if you’re Björn when you find out about it. But it isn’t something you kill over. Not her, or yourself. That isn’t why he hanged himself in the outbuilding.

When Björn realizes that Eddie de Wire can’t quite be trusted he does what guys do when they have been left by some girl. Ride off on their moped, come back with a lot of beer, and go out to the barn. He gets drunk, of course.

That evening which is the last evening, night, I will be in the closet. Incidentally there’s also a pistol there. In a shoe box: it is our pistol. Mine, Rita’s, Bengt’s. Our inheritance, which the cousin’s papa has taken away from
us. We’re too young to be playing with pistols. I have it under the palm of my hand, I feel it.

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We’re in the garden on the hill on the First Cape, me and Rita, we are looking at our reflections in the crystal ball, looking around. You can see a long way from the hill, down to the Second Cape, and also a glimpse of the Glass House.

“Look, Miss Andrews!” Rita says suddenly. We see the baroness from a distance. On the cliffs, by the sea. And the house, with the large veranda with the windows that can swing open toward the sea when it’s really warm. Her Winter Garden, which she had talked about once. Welcome girls to my lovely garden. That’s just something you say, it never happens. The swimming and the English at Bule Marsh are, so to speak, for the baroness, games, another place. I know that better than my sister Rita.