The Uncanny Reader (62 page)

*   *   *

He has been exploring the city since his arrival, wandering its streets without stopping. He wrote to me excitedly that it is a city of the world: “Every conceivable language is here. No nationalities, no differences. You don't even need to speak to communicate your thoughts!” In the year that followed, his letters became less frequent and said nothing about this city of his—the city that seemed somehow out of this world.

*   *   *

Some time later, he went back to writing about the city: long letters that contained nothing personal—no information about him, no questions about me. Just extensive passages about this city that bears no resemblance to the cities I know, written in ornate script with small, carefully-drawn characters and an exaggerated attention to style.

*   *   *

He wrote: they called it the city of eternal sun. Its sun set only after the last inhabitant slept, and rose before the first got up. They were all deprived of the night. They were not even aware of its existence.

*   *   *

There was no giant then, or faded streets, or people running. Just the perennial day and a fierce, barely-setting sun. The streets of the city resemble each other so closely they are like infinite replicas of the same street. Its Gothic architecture inspires awe: spired towers and prominent arches; stark, imposing squares; screaming gargoyles with eyes wide open in horror; and gardens—more akin to woods—pooling out along the city's periphery.

*   *   *

These are the same woods from which the giant with the sightless eyes emerged—except, at the time, he was not blind, and his expression was suffused with seduction rather than sullenness. He moved about lightly then, speaking of a beautiful thing called
night
; he had read about it in the books piled high in his cabin in the woods and heard about it from the fishermen in the neighbouring lake.

*   *   *

They said they had seen it in other cities, while working on big fishing boats in faraway seas. He closes his seductive eyes and speaks of the night as though he can see it: “A great darkness that not even a thousand lanterns can dispel—only soften it slightly, imbuing it with even greater beauty.” He moistens his lower lip with his tongue, savouring the idea of
night.

*   *   *

He left the city of the sun in search of the night. He walked for hundreds of miles; days and weeks passed, then years. He asked all those he met, describing it in words that were muddled and unsure.

*   *   *

With the passage of time he began to lose hope—but he kept on his path defiantly, not once looking behind him. He walked for he knew not how long, picking fruit from trees and drinking spring water, until he found himself on the way back to his city.

*   *   *

He recognised it by its tall spires and crystal domes that reflect the sun's rays, giving rise to a galaxy of brilliant suns. He could not tear his eyes away from their frightening luminescence, until he began to feel the light seeping away. The closer he came, the dimmer they became. At first, he did not understand what he was experiencing; he assumed that the lights of the world around him were slowly fading out. Only when he was submerged in total darkness did he realise that he had finally fulfilled his quest. He had met the night face-to-face. He was overjoyed, for now he would carry his own private night back to the city of the sun.

*   *   *

The remaining distance, short though it was, was the most difficult in his long journey. He stumbled and circled the city walls several times before he could get in. When he finally entered, the city people were astonished by the sight of this scowling giant with dark clothes and lumbering steps. They discovered that, with his return, their city had been transformed into another: a pallid place, caught between a day that had left never to return, and a night that refused to arrive.

*   *   *

In the next letter my friend appeared to have forgotten about his last one, repeating everything he had already said, with minor adjustments, before continuing the story. The giant with the snuffed-out eyes retreated to his cabin in the woods for a long time, during which he did not utter a single word, instead listening to the sighing of the trees, the twittering of the birds, and the roar of the wind when it blew. When he tired of his solitude and his silence, he took to the streets with heavy footsteps that shook the ground beneath—leaning on his ebony cane, sheltering behind his blind and sullen stare, and armed with his experience in listening to nothingness. His eyes shift over the faces ahead until they fall on one that has the power to restore his vision. He points his finger, and its owner vanishes from existence. The giant tries to gather in all the details of the new world around him before he is plunged into darkness once again—but to no avail. He returns, despondent, to his cabin and his waiting.

*   *   *

The city with its Gothic soul takes root in my mind. Its identical streets and imposing squares inhabit me. I dream about the gargoyles on its buildings' facades, and awaken feeling like someone who has roamed its paths. I get up at dawn, weighed down by what I've seen. The giant moves in my mind, his expression transformed once again from sullenness to seduction, as though inviting me to follow him.

*   *   *

I read and re-read my friend's letters. I pore over the elegant script with its precisely-penned characters, and I think of how much he has changed. He no longer bears any resemblance to the person he once was. The city seems to have performed some mysterious black magic on him, driving him to write without emotion, without purpose, without stopping. I send him letters asking how he is, what he's doing, whether or not he is planning to return. He does not utter a single word in response to my questions, but continues to write about the city that has cast its spell on him, transforming him into an eye that captures the details of its surroundings and a hand that records them tirelessly.

*   *   *

I thought: I will follow his lead. Instead of letters steeped in questions that he skips over as though they weren't there, I began to write about my city. An invented city that lies between mountains clad in lush green plants and trees, and a relentlessly raging sea that films the air with the scent of iodine and whose waves, every morning, spit thick layers of salt upon the beach. Built entirely on the precipice that sweeps down from the mountains to the raging sea, the houses of the city appear to be in eternal freefall. Its people are caught in a neverending battle with gravity: they walk slowly in ascent or descent, fearful of falling from this great height to the crashing waves below.

*   *   *

I composed a letter for every one I received from him, not commenting on what he'd written or asking about him, and he—as always—appeared to have not even read mine. Then I begin to write without pause, long letters preoccupied with details and penned with care. I send some and neglect to send most, until I stop corresponding with him altogether, intent only on inking hundreds of letters that I stack high here and there throughout my house.

*   *   *

I write, ignoring my aching fingers and the pain in my hunched back, blurring the lines between my city and his, between the Gothic architecture with its squares and screaming faces and the perilous precipice with its houses resisting eternal freefall; between his giant with the black coat and blind eyes and the people I see when I open my window, walking cautiously up and down.

*   *   *

I re-read my letters, strewn all around me; I contemplate my ornate script with its small, carefully-drawn characters and exaggerated attention to style, and I think of how much I've changed. I emerge from my house, surrounded by plants and thick tangled trees, and come, in shock, upon my city with its grey streets and stark squares and the leaden silence bearing down on everything. Closing my eyes, I succumb to the darkness, and the scene opens up silently before me. I see throngs of people moving slowly, staring at a still point ahead … I see him walking, lost in thought … and I hear, loud in my ears, the thud of heavy footsteps. Could it be coming from me?

 

REINDEER MOUNTAIN

Karin Tidbeck

Cilla was twelve years old the summer Sara put on her great-grandmother's wedding dress and disappeared up the mountain. It was in the middle of June, during summer break. The drive was a torturous nine hours, interrupted much too rarely by bathroom- and ice cream-breaks. Cilla was reading in the passenger seat of the ancient Saab, Sara stretched out in the back seat, Mum driving. They were travelling northwest on gradually narrowing roads, following the river, the towns shrinking and the mountains drawing closer. Finally, the old Saab crested a hill and rolled down into a wide valley where the river pooled into a lake between two mountains. Cilla put her book down and looked out the window. The village sat between the lake and the great hump of Reindeer Mountain, its lower reaches covered in dark pine forest. The mountain on the other side of the lake was partly deforested, as if someone had gone over it with a giant electric shaver. Beyond them, more shapes undulated toward the horizon, shapes rubbed soft by the ice ages.

“Why does no one live on the mountain itself?” Sara suddenly said, pulling one of her earphones out. Robert Smith's voice leaked into the car.

“It's not very convenient, I suppose,” said Mum. “The hillside is very steep.”

“Nana said it's because the mountain belongs to the vittra.”

“She would.” Mum smirked. “It sounds much more exciting. Look!”

She pointed up to the hillside on the right. A rambling two-storey house sat in a meadow outside the village. “There it is.”

Cilla squinted at the house. It sat squarely in the meadow. Despite the faded paint and angles that were slightly off, it somehow seemed very solid. “Are we going there now?”

“No. It's late. We'll go straight to Aunt Hedvig's and get ourselves installed. But you can come with me tomorrow if you like. The cousins will all be meeting to see what needs doing.”

“I can't believe you're letting the government buy the land,” said Sara.

“We're not letting them,” sighed Mum. “They're expropriating.”

“Forcing us to sell,” Cilla said.

“I know what it means, smartass,” muttered Sara and kicked the back of the passenger seat. “It still blows.”

Cilla reached back and pinched her leg. Sara caught her hand and twisted her fingers until Cilla squealed. They froze when the car suddenly braked. Mum killed the engine and glared at them.

“Get out,” she said. “Hedvig's cottage is up this road. You can walk the rest of the way. I don't care who started,” she continued when Cilla opened her mouth to protest. “Get out. Walk it off.”

*   *   *

They arrived at Hedvig's cottage too tired to bicker. The house sat on a slope above the village, red with white window frames and a little porch overlooking the village and lake. Mum was in the kitchen with Hedvig. They were having coffee, slurping it through a lump of sugar between their front teeth.

“I've spoken to Johann about moving him into a home,” said Hedvig as the girls came in. “He's not completely against it. But he wants to stay here. And there is no home here that can handle people with … nerve problems. And he can't stay with Otto forever.” She looked up at Cilla and Sara and smiled, her eyes almost disappearing in a network of wrinkles. She looked very much like Nana and Mum, with the same wide cheekbones and slanted grey eyes.

“Look at you lovely girls!” said Hedvig, getting up from the table.

She was slightly hunchbacked and very thin. Embracing her, Cilla could feel her vertebrae through the cardigan.

Hedvig urged them to sit down. “They're store-bought, I hope you don't mind,” she said, setting a plate of cookies on the table.

Hedvig and Mum continued to talk about Johann. He was the eldest brother of Hedvig and Nana, the only one of the siblings to remain in the family house. He had lived alone in there for forty years. Mum and her cousins had the summer to get Johann out and salvage whatever they could before the demolition crew came. No one quite knew what the house looked like inside. Johann hadn't let anyone in for decades.

*   *   *

There were two guest rooms in the cottage. Sara and Cilla shared a room under the eaves; Mum took the other with the threat that any fighting would mean her moving in with her daughters. The room was small but cosy, with lacy white curtains and dainty furniture, like in an oversized doll's house: two narrow beds with white throws, a writing desk with curved legs, two slim-backed chairs. It smelled of dried flowers and dust. The house had no toilet. Hedvig showed a bewildered Cilla to an outhouse across the little meadow. Inside, the outhouse was clean and bare, with a little candle and matches, even a magazine holder. The rich scent of decomposing waste clung to the back of the nose. Cilla went quickly, imagining an enormous cavern under the seat, full of spiders and centipedes and evil clowns.

When she got back, she found Sara already in bed, listening to music with her eyes closed. Cilla got into her own bed. The sheets were rough, the pillowcase embroidered with someone's initials. She picked up her book from the nightstand. She was reading it for the second time, enjoying slowly and with relish the scene where the heroine tries on a whalebone corset. After a while she took her glasses off, switched off the lamp, and lay on her back. It was almost midnight, but cold light filtered through the curtains. Cilla sat up again, put her glasses on, and pulled a curtain aside. The town lay tiny and quiet on the shore of the lake, the mountain beyond backlit by the eerie glow of the sun skimming just below the horizon. The sight brought a painful sensation Cilla could neither name nor explain. It was like a longing, worse than anything she had ever experienced, but for what she had no idea. Something tremendous waited out there. Something wonderful was going to happen, and she was terrified that she would miss it.