"I loved you even then although I didn't know that you were you."

"There's something different about you. I like the way you talk. I mayn't take it all in, but I like to listen to it nevertheless. Maybe in the long run I'll catch on. You were speaking about those tomatoes. I've never thought of them in any other light than that they're good to eat. You, however, cupped a tomato in your hand, touched it and stroked. By your face one could have thought it was something awfully precious." Arne gave a low, light brown chuckle. "Only listen to me! Such drivel! But my wife has never looked at any tomato like that. At best she would say she didn't have the heart to cat it up, they'd bring seven roubles a kilo on the market in spring."

Suddenly he fell silent, sighed, turned with his whole body towards Inger gathered her in close and said in a low troubled voice, his desire awakening again,

"What'll become of us, Inger?"

A guest school-leaver, a young man with a long, gaunt, Christ-like face was holding on,

"It's obvious that here we are dealing with a painter who has established himself as a great abstractionist. If I may be allowed an educated guess, I'd say it is an up to now unknown Picasso, but, on the other hand, these two violet splashes with sorrel edges in the top left-hand corner of the picture make me think it might be a Salvador Dali. At any rate the artist has depicted here with convincing flare and skill the split personality and loneliness of man ... "

Soova was sniggering and whispered to Inger,

"Yesterday, in the dark, I squeezed out some paint from a couple of random tubes on a piece of canvas, folded it and rubbed a little between my palms. The end result is interesting even to myself."

Everybody was having fun, there was an applause, laughter and even cries, "Artist, artist!" And Soova gave a modest bow.

The amateur dramatics turn they had cheerfully taken such great pains with was a success too, neither mikes nor tape recorders letting them down.

Then there was dancing again, Miss and Mister School-leavers were elected and Inger saw to it that the crowning was properly feted. Today it was she who was Mistress of Ceremonies, the puppet master or mistress, who took care that things went swimming.

The jury announced their school the winner Inger was greatly gratified. The ball had turned out just the way she had planned it–bright, happy, witty. Had she been a school-leaver herself, she wouldn't have been more pleased. Her pupils were delighted. They ran to Inger and threw her up.

But in the long run Inger's excitement and joy began to dim, and her keyed-up emotions were replaced by weariness. She wanted to go home, it was already past midnight.

Soova came up to her and said,

"Teacher Uunvald, I'm sure you can cope with them on your own. Let them dance, as things are they won't go to sleep before the guests leave towards the morning."

The other teachers, even the form mistress of the other eleventh, had slunk away already some time ago on one pretext or other. Inger sat on a bench, her feet smarting. She kicked off her shoes and shook her head to a strange young man who came and asked her to dance. She had been on the go since morning, rehearsed, scurried about, danced. She wanted to go home.

What if Arne had come to see her and was waiting?

Yes, what will become of them?

Love is like a seedling. It needs good, soft earth, temperate climate for germinating, growing and fruiting. If any of the conditions were violated a void which nothing could make up for would result. For the development of love, in the manner of that of a plant, is an irreversible act, no phase of it can be started afresh.

But Inger wasn't ripe for a thought like that yet, for it there was still time. And, all in all, was it her kind of thought, a woman's way of thinking? To look far into the future, to analyse the situation this and that way now that there was Arne? Now his every word and step had first priority, every opinion every look on his face every hint was of great moment. On the one hand everything was quite uncomplicated: when the man came and could stay, the future' was Clear and cloudless. But when he couldn't, Inger was seized by dark gloom and restlessness that didn't let her keep still. Then she noticed the cracks in the flooring, heard mice scramble, and this made her situation still more unbearable. The window didn't close properly, cold winds licked into her room, people downstairs fried pancakes and the stink of burnt lard came up. Tragedy! What will become of us?

Arne could ask so it should pluck uneasily at the strings of his heart he was a man. And, to all intents and purposes he had got everything, he didn't depend on anything, he was a free agent. Not as unfettered and free as Inger now assumed, but free for all that.

How could Inger who had nothing besides love, ask what would become of them?

The band struck up the final waltz–at long last. Inger stood up and took 'Tomas on to the floor.

How are you picturing me now, Arne? How could I See myself with your eyes?

The wind bad died down, the moon was high up the stars far away. As if everything had moved farther, gained distance dimmed. The air, the sky and the evening which sometimes veritably pressed against her window panes had retreated, had unconcernedly turned their back to her attic room.

Today he won't come. Inger knows be mustn't come, he's chained up. Chained to his sense of duty and to his family. To his habits and customs. To his truck and to his children. To his house and to his tomato-bed. For ten years he has gone to any lengths to develop strong, deep roots, to win his place in the sun. Home, house, family. These notions tell nothing to a nomad.

No. What Inger had, had to suffice for her.

But did it? The feeling of being only halfway there didn't give her rest.

I'm too rash, too restless, I want to decide everything at once and for ever. I'm too smart for love, I have my brakes on all along I must know what I'm doing. What's the use of all that knowledge and wisdom when it can't be shut out if it begins to interfere with life?

She wanted to feel the man's strong arms, his brown body the virility it radiated, protection belief in life. She wanted to stay in his arms till the end of the universe, come what may and not to argue, not to analyse.

But he doesn't come he's tied up. Hand and foot. A slender strong clothesline is cutting into his wrists and ankles is squeezing his chest. He's twisting and squirming, but in no way can he free himself the line is of good quality.

"Are you in pain?"

"That's not the word I'd use."

"Try to relax, then the rope won't cut your body so painfully."

"Can't."

"Wait, I'll cut the ropes. Wait, half a mo!"

"Cut them? ... I don't know, perhaps it won't do ... "

"What is it?"

"Wait don't cut ... Wait, stop ... "

What's there for Arne to say? What explanation would he like to give Inger, why is he afraid of getting free? Does freedom scare him, is he too afraid to decide? True, on the surface he is so calm, so slow. But Inger has known him to be quite different too–impatient, passionate generous. And that was right here in the darkness where his body showed dimly white, was strong and hot Oh. my darling, my love!

But why don't you make up your mind why are you waiting ropes will cut into your arms and legs, into your soul more deeply and painfully. Your soul is tied up and tortured under stress, poor beggar.

You don't come, you let me worry and pine away. You have no time, you can't, mustn't, you're conscientious.

Arne was as good as his word, he was able. The last time around he had been with Inger, his head pillowed on her breasts, he had said he would be able, although quite beside himself. I must be able, he had said. He had ripped himself into two uncompromising parts. Now he's a man whose soul is ripped up, that quiet, brown truck driver.

"Why did you fall silent, Arne? Why don't you speak to me, don't talk?"

"I must make a move now."

"Always moving and moving, going away, that's all you've got to say these days."

"But, girl, I have no choice, I must."

"That's what your other part says. You're a man who's fully torn up split, smashed personality, altogether. I'll gum you together."

What could she say? The stars are far away, the moon, too, limp and washed out. The view from the window is always the same, summer and winter alike. Trees, air, a pendent light with a yellow shade, a green-shaded lamp on the table. Exercise books, books, wallpaper and silence, so great and deep, so supernatural.

Inger walked up and down in her room. She could neither sit nor lie down, she resembled a prisoner who isn't able to find rest in the cell. Everything was revolting inordinate, meaningless. She didn't know when and how this limbo would come to an end, at any rate it felt endless.

Deadly evenings of waiting and despairing, imagining things. And all this only to find a permanent place in life and in the world, to do one's bit, to make use of one's resources, to love.

Less feeling unique, more joie de vivre! she brainwashed herself. If you genuinely aren't afraid of living, if your talk of fearlessness isn't just a catchword, not deeply sensed and newly minted, then come hell or high water, you must be ready for anything life will dole out.

The stars were far away, the moon rode high among the clouds, yellow, bright and cold. The evening sky was exuding cool conciliation, gentling and calming her heart.

And if Arne couldn't come today, what, actually, was then so terrible, so horrible, so unbearable about it? On top of everything else, he's got his job, too, it takes a lot out of him. One must understand him.

I must understand him. I must learn it, hell-bent and selfish though I am. I must learn to hold myself in check, to be his friend and tower of strength, too.

"Arne, please, don't pick up that bloom, it's filthy, you can never know who threw it on the road."

She's clasping Arne's small hand more firmly.

"I like that flower!" Arne persists and with all his might and main tries to pull himself free from his mother's restraining hand. Inger doesn't give in. Arne flings himself down on the asphalt and begins to bawl his head off, his face red.

This mental picture gave her a fright. No, she mustn't play with this thought, she'll put it right out of her head, wouldn't touch it with a barge pole.

So then the Table of Tenses. Still the children aren't awake to the fact that everything depends on the way one considers the action taking taking, it as completed or as still in progress. Exercise books will be red all over, she's to arrange remedial groups once again or there will be a deluge of twos at the end of the half-term.

Inger yawned and opened another exercise book.

At long last there came a night which brought Inger's anxious waiting, to an end with a knock at the door. Arne!

"I don't give a fig for anything they say to me at work. They can call me names when I'm woolgathering, I pay no heed. I'm thinking about you, trying to figure out what you're doing just then. I look at my watch: seven! Now you're getting up, drinking coffee, soon you're going to school. Now ... Tell me, what's the magnet you're hiding inside?"

"You, you, my love."

"I must see you. I know better, but I'll do it. I can't do without it. I'll find you wherever you arc. No matter where you are. You've become foremost in my thoughts. I keep wondering what brought it about that I'm allowed to keep you in my arms."

"You, you!"

"I won't let anybody else have you. Who am I to allow or forbid it, though. But still I won't."

Inger smiled and heaved a deep sigh: Arne was here and kept growing on her.

"Do you feel good with me? What if you think: how greedy he is, how pushy ... Keeps pestering me."

"I'm pleased by your wanting me. I keep thinking of it when I don't see you. I'd have never thought it could be so good. It penetrates flesh and bone ... "

"Funny, happiness is much harder to describe than pain ... I've wronged you. I wasn't fair. I was so unjust, so bad. We can put all that behind us now, can't we? I thought you'd forgotten me ...

Continued in Part XXIV...

Christopher Marquet

Copyrighted material; do not reprint without permission.

 

View all articles by Christopher Marquet