The garden suddenly seemed sinister in that gray light. I realized nothing was blooming anymore. The rosebuds were brown at the edges, diminished and curled up. They'll never unfold. From the covered bench I could see the wide staircase that leads up to the greenhouse. I thought I saw you up there with your hand resting on the railing as if you were on your way down, maybe you'd already put one foot on the first step. I looked away, but when I looked back a second later no one was there.
* * *
It got darker, rainier, colder. I was stuck. A panic attack took hold of me. I woke up in the middle of the night with my heart in a wild gallop, terror-stricken, certain that my end was near. I sat at the edge of the bed in the dim light, feverishly checking my pulse, convinced that I was dead, that there was no relief, that eternity was here, on this planet, in this damp apartment, and I imagined that your last moment alive turns into eternity. The way lightning is materialized in a piece of glass. But then not completely, because I imagined eternity as a living picture — a looping, unending repetition, a prison of arrested time. And soon I began to obsessively think about how I should ensure a means of dying happily, preferably in a state of well-being, empty well-being. Which led me to masturbate every time I was struck by anxiety. Or I tried to. I decided that from the perspective of eternity, the seconds just after an orgasm would be a perfect moment. But all too often I just sat there with my limp member in my hand, out of breath. All too often I cried. And winter came, from my window I could see out over the snow-covered roofs and hear the sound of traffic becoming more and more woolen and distant. I dreamed about your springy step. Your hand drawing a half-circle in the air.
It was well into January before I dared to take a stroll in the garden again. It had snowed a lot. Tiny ice-pearls glittered on the twigs and straw. Some great tits pecked hungrily at frozen paradise apples. A skinny cat ran across the path. The clear air was doing me good. I looked for pebbles in the gravel under the snow. I rattled them around in my hand in my pocket. I was getting closer to my silver maple. It was so beautiful. The sun shone on the thick snow that was covering the branches. I reached out and tentatively caressed the trunk. I rubbed my cheek against the bark. I pressed my lower body against it. Tears welled up in my eyes. And I realized you were gone. I accepted it. It was as if in that moment I became calm and accepted it. Maybe I anticipated a new start for my life. In any case, I was back in the garden by the tree; relieved, I slid down into the deep snow, ate it, washed my face with it.
* * *
But you were not gone. Three weeks later I followed you on the garden paths. A peculiar chase. Filled with energy you moved with self-assurance and determination, while I reeled behind you, hiding behind bushes and trees, sprinting then creeping out of breath behind the red shed when you suddenly stopped and turned to sit on a bench. You pulled a pack of cigarettes out of your purse. You took your gloves off so that I could see your hands. You had painted your nails blue. Then you lifted your face to the sun. Large black sunglasses hid your eyes. It was clear you had changed. I saw how confidently you inhaled the smoke into your lungs with a long drag, how you toyed with a small red phone, and a smile flickered across your face when you apparently received a text. You crossed one leg over the other, you twisted your hair between your fingers and pushed your glasses up on your forehead — and then you looked directly into my eyes. I fought to endure your gaze. You threw the cigarette down and continued to stare at me and I endured it. I did not let go of your eyes and you would not let go of mine. Your look was angry and defiant. Then at last I looked away. My footprints were deep holes in the snow. You got up from the bench and came storming over to me.
* * *
I could smell you. Your mouth was painted dark red. A little stone sparkled in your nose. You were very close. First you spoke low, almost tenderly, to me:
"Where have you been? Where have you been all this time?"
I didn't answer. Then more accusingly:
"Where have you been?"
Finally you yelled, your spit hit my face like a spritz of water.
"WHERE?!"
"Away," I mumbled.
"What did you say?!"
"I've been away."
"AWAY?!" You kicked at the snow furiously with your foot. Then you stood still with your hands on your hips:
"I thought. . " And you took a deep breath.
"What did you think?"
"That we. . "
I stared at you for a long time. You were so close.
"I thought that you…" Now you looked unhappy.
I wanted to speak. Then suddenly you sneered at me.
"You're fucking sick in the head!"
I wanted to say something. You came even closer. I could feel your warm breath. You glared at me. Your hair brushed my chin. And then you grabbed my cheeks with your hands and pressed your mouth against mine and stuck your tongue into my mouth and it was fierce and hard. I was shocked. I pulled my head back. You held me tightly. You bit me. You pressed your body against mine. I couldn't breathe. You pinned me against the shed and drove your stiff tongue round and round in my mouth. It was very unpleasant. Then at last you let me go. I was gasping for air. Still low, but not tender: "I wanted to have sex with you in the bathroom. I've thought about it a lot." And then you yelled, "But now it doesn't matter!"
And you shook your head; I was terribly dizzy and bent over. Now more shrilly: "I wanted to make out with you!"
Then you shoved my shoulder hard so that I nearly lost my footing.
"Say something!"
I slowly got up. But I couldn't say anything. I saw your mouth move, quick and hostile, but I couldn't hear you. Then at last you left. You tripped on a rock. You moved quickly over the white lawn, but then you turned. You stood there a while looking at me. And then, then you made that movement with your hand. And my heart sang. A pile of snow slid down from the roof and landed with a muffled sound next to me. I saw you turn by the linden trees. It occurred to me that maybe you were under the influence, or upset about something. And then again, maybe not. My breath pumped everything out of me. I was freezing. The pale sun was low in the sky, and the sky was white. My heart sang. Your disgusting kiss had postponed death. And your hand had waved me back to life. That's the way it was, there was no doubt about it. The time of waiting was over. Slowly, slowly. I rose up the same way a turtle moves toward the surface of the water.
THE CAR TRIP
Nikolaj slams the car door, and then they realize that Tobias isn't in the car. "God damn it," he says looking at Mia who unfastens her seat belt and gets out. He follows her with his gaze as she walks back to the house, and watches her fumbling with the keys. "When are we going to be there?" asks Signe, and Baby Brother starts to cry. Nikolaj turns and reaches for the pacifier on the floor, but it rolls under the front seat. "Give him the pacifier," he says to Andreas who's engrossed in a comic book. "Give it to him right now!" Andreas grudgingly sticks his hand under the seat and grabs the pacifier. Baby B becomes quiet. Nikolaj watches the house impatiently. Then at last Mia comes, pushing Tobias in front of her. The sulking, lanky fifteen-year-old boy looks straight ahead. Nikolaj senses a rustling, like a gust of wind blowing through reeds, as if the reeds are growing inside him. He clenches his teeth and starts the car. Tobias squeezes into the back seat. Andreas says, "He's sitting on my leg." Signe says, "Ow! Shit!" "Alright," says Mia with a stern, decisive tone, "let's go."