Wilful Disregard (10 page)

‘But you’ve already got the answers. These aren’t questions. They’re assertions and accusations. Everything’s already clear, in your exemplary judgement. All you’ve got to do is force me into confession and submission and then you’re done.’

‘I detest submission. The only thing I want is for us to be together, and close to each other mentally. That’s all I wish for. Why didn’t you try to meet me halfway instead of going mute and silent? We’d established a relationship. So then people try to accommodate each other, don’t they, even when anger and unpleasantness come into it?’

He shifted in his chair. Half of him was not even on it.

‘Your aggression strengthened me in the belief that I’d made the right decision in not telling you where I was going for the weekend. You would have been furious and wouldn’t have accepted it.’

‘And then I was furious anyway.’

He said nothing and didn’t utter the missing sentence, the one that crossed Ester’s mind as a human possibility: that he had always solved this sort of thing by unsentimentally withdrawing. He cut contact. He didn’t meet anyone halfway. They had to take what he offered or nothing at all. Inconvenience was not for him. Stimulants that caused discomfort rather than pleasure had to be disposed of. The simplest way to avoid anger was by not concerning yourself with those on whom you had inflicted pain.

‘Doesn’t she ever get cross?’ said Ester.

‘Who?’

‘The woman in Malmö.’

‘I haven’t got a woman in Malmö.’

He bit his nails and scanned the street beyond, where freedom lay. Neither of them spoke for a long time. He shifted on the very edge of his seat, leaning forward, about to go. They had not ordered any food, nor would they. Ester hadn’t ordered anything at all.

The discomfiture quivered between them.

Then his face lit up as if something witty and entertaining had occurred to him, something he could contribute to the discourse. He said:

‘Do you still go running as much as you used to?’

The question was vast in its implications. From it she realized that he did not count her as part of his life in even the slightest way; that she was a hideous distance from him. Her claims and assumptions about an unspoken sense of intellectual fellowship must therefore appear unfathomable to him, not to say mysterious, since his perception of the world was such that he could gaily ask:
Do you still go running as much as you used to?

It was an attempt to be kind, she realized that. People at great distances from others are often kind. They employ gestures of kindness, which cost nothing. Things that concern other people have little effect on them, so gestures of kindness seem more appropriate than those of malice, which lead only to unpleasantness and trouble. Gestures of kindness mean you will be left in peace.

Hugo Rask was the sort of person who wanted you to think of him as likeable. A warm, considerate man was what he wanted to be. He came across most warmly of all to strangers. The more the strangers got to know him, the cooler and harder he grew.

He drummed on the edge of the table, looking longingly over to his studio.

They stood on the pavement outside the restaurant. He shifted from foot to foot, shuffling restlessly on the spot. Ester ought to go. There would be no more of this tonight, there would be no more of it full stop. She reached out her hand and laid it against his cheek, held it there for a few moments before she lowered her arm, turned and left.

There was snow on the footpath, fresh snow, but well on its way to being slush. She could see in the rear-view mirror of a parked car that he was still standing there, staring after her.

Somewhere within her she knew that the moment a person is not insisting and accusing, resistance becomes meaningless and superiority is transformed into weakness. Disinclination turns into loss, unwillingness into doubt. But not enough of it to make him call her back.

She followed his movements in all the rear-view mirrors, seeing him shake free of his paralysis, walk across the street and enter the building, through the door to the place where he belonged.

In order to seem like a living human being she made an effort to do things, tried to engage in some activity.

She went to Paris.

A good friend of hers had been there for six months for work, and persuaded her to make the trip to revive her spirits and give her something more pleasant to think about. (Interestingly, in general linguistic perception a ‘good friend’ counts as more distant than a basic ‘friend’, just as an ‘older person’ is younger than an old one. This was one of those good friends. More than an acquaintance yet not close.)

She checked into the New Hotel by the Gare du Nord, a claustrophobic little establishment which in case of fire would barely have managed to evacuate its cockroaches. She was allotted a tiny room on the second floor with dust in the corners and a plastic cover on the mattress. The thought of the bodily encounters that had necessitated this arrangement was painful, but no worse than all the other things hacking and stabbing at her internal organs with tools both blunt and sharp. She chewed endlessly over what had happened, with herself and with anyone who would listen, going through what she could have done differently at such-and-such a time or on such-and-such an occasion, if only she had known things would turn out as they had. Not one single step from the moment she and Hugo went to bed together would she have taken in the same way, had she known.

One mistake perplexed her. She could not have avoided it because it arose from a judgement and an evaluation that she could not consider wrong. The fact that anger was forbidden in love was something unknown to her. She could not conceive that a single outburst of anger, the one she had sent as a text message on the Saturday evening after the film, on finding his premises in darkness, was sufficient to ruin everything. On the contrary, she thought anger was permitted precisely when you were close to each other.

And perhaps she was right that this was a universally accepted notion, she thought. And therefore wrong in her perception of their closeness.

The closeness that makes anger permissible was the closeness he did not want to have with her.

But why did he want to be physically intimate with her if he did not want to be close? And why those long, intense conversations over the preceding months?

She did not understand.

She thought that if she were ever to write a work of poetry about this she would call it:
Don’t understand
.

She had had friendships that had not withstood anger. They had not been durable, close or loving enough, not of the type in which fully expressed disappointment was an option; they had lacked the emotional structure to support confrontation. She suspected that this was how their relationship had been for him. He was not attached enough to her to put up with the least amount of bother.

Every morning in her dreary hotel in Paris she made a point of rising at seven and went down to eat breakfast before writing in her room for two hours. She set her alarm and when it rang she stopped work abruptly. Then she went out and walked, moving aimlessly through the city, taking in the atmosphere and the smells. When her legs got tired she went to sit in a cafe and read. For a few minutes here and there it felt as if she was enjoying life and was an individual being who could live without symbiosis. For the rest of the time she was vividly aware that she barely had a life. In those minutes of independence, euphoric in comparison with her general mental state of constant pain, the euphoria made her want to send him a text message to show how independent she was, and happy, how their relationship was based on equality of friendship and how she had accepted things and moved on to new, intrepid goals. She wanted to inform him that she was sitting in a Parisian cafe savouring life and did not need anyone else for mental stimulation because she was strong, thirsty for knowledge, and entirely autonomous.

One day she gave in to the temptation and sent a text. She imagined that the spiritual fellowship she felt inside her was real, and thus mutual. There was no answer, so even those tiny fragments of independence were ruined and the rest of the week was spoilt. Why could she not grasp that the abysmal anguish of an unanswered text was the same every time and the only way to avoid it was not to send any? It was Hope that got her into such a mess, deadening the memory of the shame and anguish and making her take a chance on it all being different this time.

In the evenings she met up with her good friend. They went out for dinner but the good friend did not understand the grief of unrequited love. She thought an unhappy person must be all right if said person produced a laugh or two in the course of an evening. No one seriously burdened down by life could laugh, thought the good friend, who had seen documentaries about chronically depressed people who let their kitchens fester and were given electric shocks. They never laughed. After a disappointment you had to try to move on and remember how well off you were compared to those who were really suffering, people with cancer, the paralysed, the starving and those forced into prostitution. The good friend was not up to carrying others’ burdens and wanted everything to be normal so she could take up some space in the conversation for her own troubles and questions without feeling guilty.

After a few evenings they no longer felt like meeting so they saved each other’s faces by deciding, wordlessly, discreetly and in total unanimity, to dine alone.

Paris was full of smells and fragrances: dirt and buttery pastries, exhaust fumes and perfumes. Day followed day, walk followed walk, impression followed impression and all the while Ester knew it to be a pointless trip. She took in the slender, dark-green metal railings between the pavements and the traffic, the pale-green men who kept the streets clean, all the distinctively Parisian things that she had always loved, and the street corners with their brasseries. Coming to Paris didn’t help. Nothing helped if you still had yourself with you.

On her penultimate evening she went out to buy a bottle of wine to go with the takeaway food she planned to eat in her hotel room in front of the television. On the way to the shop, her mobile rang. It was half-past seven. She fished the phone out of her pocket and saw Hugo’s name on the display. There it was, plain and clear, Hugo Rask. She stopped in mid-step, stood still and answered with her first name and surname, in a stifled voice. A person with only a first name is sitting there in a flutter, waiting for the world, she thought. First name and surname on the other hand had gravitas, signalled supremacy and self-respect. First name and surname was not waiting pathetically by the phone but was engrossed in something of their own, fully occupied. Surname only would have been even better but, in this context, distancing in such a studied fashion that it would almost sound like a joke. He would be able to see through it.

She let the phone ring several times before answering and said her first name and surname in a calm, measured tone, then waited to hear his voice. In her ear canals she could hear her heartbeat, but on the line, no one. She could hear the murmur of voices and identified his among them, but none of the voices was talking to her. They were chatting during a break in their work. Someone laughed and someone put down a wine glass on a smooth surface, to judge by the sound an emptied glass and the bar counter in his studio. Was it Eva-Stina’s, the one whose name he found hard to remember?

Ester said hello, loudly. After five hellos she stopped. It was at about that point, she sensed, that it could start to seem desperate. Her desperation being real, she was extra-sensitive to the ways desperation could be expressed.

The murmur continued. Receiving calls from Sweden was not free of charge and she would soon have to hang up.

‘Hello,’ she called, one last time. ‘Hello.’

When his name had come up on the display, all hope rushed back, and now she could not rid herself of it. It could not be the case, she argued, that feelings for another person evaporated from one day to the next, and he must have had feelings, otherwise he would not have invested all that time in spending those hours with her. The clear logic of this made it very easy to mobilize hope. All night long she hoped with her whole body, sleeping very little.

The next day was her last one in Paris. She wrote and went out for a walk, sticking to her usual schedule, but breathed in no scents and saw no city. She was consumed by the worry of not knowing whether he had tried to make contact the evening before and had then lost his nerve, or what else it could be. Was he making fun of her? Did he want to make her suffer? For what possible reason?

By the evening she could stand it no longer and called him. The weight that had been constricting her lungs for weeks vanished the moment he answered. He chose to answer, even though he could see it was her. His voice was guarded but when she said she was calling from France it became as soft, warm and enveloping as it had been in their first three months. France was a long way away, as distant as the strangers to whom he was always so warm, and there was no need for him to defend himself.

‘You rang me yesterday,’ she said, rapt and anxious.

‘Did I?’ he said amiably.

‘Yesterday evening.’

‘That’s odd.’

‘I was on my way to the shop to buy a bottle of wine for my evening meal. I was walking along the pavement in the middle of Paris when you rang. I’m staying near the Gare du Nord. It must have been about half-past seven. But maybe it was by accident?’

‘It must have dialled the number itself, in my pocket.’

‘There was nobody on the line when I answered.’

They both laughed awkwardly.

‘So you’re in France?’

You’ve known this for several days now, she thought, I sent you a text from here on Wednesday, which you didn’t answer.

‘So it dialled by itself in your pocket?’ she said.

‘It’s always in my pocket. A key must have activated itself when I leant against something.’

‘Against the counter in the kitchen.’

‘Possibly. Yes, could well have been.’