“I roasted some lamb for you in the oven,” he said as he was leaving, “I hope that’s OK. You just have to heat it up, you can handle that, it was especially conceived for a one-handed person and slowly roasted for four hours — you could almost eat it with a spoon.”
The post-divorce bed linens of men are always new. Very few men take bed linens with them when they split up. They generally buy a set of two in the first round, and then another two a few weeks later, all the same type, rarely white, normally stripy blue, like the ones we’re lying in. The plates and cups also match and are still unchipped; the whole lot has been bought in a single trip, a complete set without the interference of any woman.
The dog seems to be tolerating the kitten quite well and treats him gently, almost with a touch of motherly care. Then she keels over to one side, spreading out her tummy and teats. The kitten vanishes under the sofa. The dog doesn’t want to eat, doesn’t want to drink and doesn’t want to play. The boy lies down beside her, patting her, and pulls a quilt over her. But she doesn’t want to be patted either and staggers about on four legs, moping aimlessly around the house for a good while, investigating every nook and corner, before finally lying down behind the door of the dark bedroom that is furthest from us. The boy sits on the sofa and finishes knitting a new yellow row in the sock. I feel quite weak and might even be running a temperature. The dog also looks weak to me and feverish in her eyes; she obviously has a temperature too. By the time I get to her with some water for her to drink, the first puppy is born. She is licking him and the next one is beginning to emerge. There will be three in all, by the time she has finished, all covered in yellow spots, and throughout all of this she doesn’t utter a single sound.
FIFTY-SIX
Low-pressure belts are lining up above the island, piling up, one on top of the other. It’s been almost six weeks now, the drainpipes can take no more water and in many places basements have started to flood; water leaks into boots and down necklines, and children need dry socks and trousers several times a day. The weather clears for short intervals to allow people to run down to the video store to change DVDs and buy a snack, although many stay in, without noticing the brief dry spell that would have enabled them to see December’s half-moon.
Dawn is slow to break; it’s not before noon that a glimmer begins to form over the harbour, a streak of daylight through the muddy darkness. Huddled up in bed, we linger there solving crosswords. He’s helping me to find a feminine noun beginning with b.
After that, he fixes the pyramid in the bowl of mandarins; he wants it to be tall and impressive and is constantly adjusting the fruit.
The tiger kitten scuttles several times diagonally across the floor. He no longer zigzags, has stopped galloping sideways and has recently developed the ability to walk along a straight imaginary line — on four legs. He eagerly observes the small birds on the deck outside; he is slowly but surely turning into a shrewd hunter. One morning there’s a dead snow bunting lying on the floor; the kitten pleads innocent and makes itself scarce. The boy picks up the bird and holds it tight to his chest. I tell him we’ll bury it later in the day. A short while later I find the bird under his bed, beside his treasure chest.
By the time we’ve finally climbed into our rain gear and are ready to go out on an exploratory mission just after noon, the end of this very short day is already approaching. Our first and final destination is the playground. I lead him with my good hand. He’s wearing a new green cable sweater under his overalls.
Tumi weighs thirteen kilos and I weigh fifty-three, so in order to get some kind of balance I have to shift closer to the middle of the see-saw. He’s not interested in trying to tackle the climbing frame. When he walks up or down steps he always moves forward with the same foot; three steps are like a steep cliff to him. Afterwards, we sit on the white plastic chairs by the shop and have an ice cream with chocolate sauce.
He has finished decorating my cast and drawn a bulldozer on it, but also fish and marine vegetation. We are not likely to be going to the swimming pool for at least a week. My friend offers to take him along with him. That would be the first time in six weeks that I would be separated from him for more than an hour.
“I’ll keep a good eye on him,” he says, “don’t worry.”
The boy seems pleased.
While the two boys are at the pool, I lie on the deck with a trashy novel and a scarf coiled around my neck. How many women in the world can allow themselves such a luxury at this precise moment in time? Could a newly liberated woman ask for any greater bliss than this?
“See what I’ve got for you?” says my father in the middle of a pile of books. We are visiting a second-hand bookshop.
“There you go, that’s for you”, he says, blowing the dust off a book in front of me. “There’s so much music in the words, if you don’t hear the music, you won’t get the story,” says the man whose favourite composer is Bach. “There are a few pages missing from it so it ends in mid-sentence. You can decide how the story ends, invent your own ending, aren’t you lucky?”
I read it many years ago and remember only being moderately happy about the ending. I expected something more decisive to happen between them. A woman doesn’t brush fluff off the shoulder of a man’s jacket at a dinner party unless there’s something intimate going on between them, or does she? “Your ending will be better,” he says, smiling, and then pats me on the cheek.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Across the chasm there is some kind of stone arch or bridge. It has been considerably eroded since I last crossed it, but I decide to give it a chance and lean forward, at first only gently pushing against the stone with one arm. Then a bridge automatically stretches across the abyss; it obviously has hinges. I tell myself that this is an ingenious invention. But as I’m pondering on whether I should leap over the chasm or not, I’m awoken by the phone. I leap out of bed, searching everywhere for my new mobile, our renewed link with the vanished world, and finally find it in the pocket of my raincoat. It’s 04:07.
It’s my ex-husband calling from the capital from some bar where he says he’s been drinking beer for the past two and a half hours. He tells me he’s been trying to track me down for three weeks to tell me he’s had a daughter. He’s emailed me a picture of her, but I obviously don’t answer. He got my new number from his ex-mother-in-law.
“She’s lovely, tiny and soft,” he says.
“Congratulations.”
“You didn’t have to run away like that, just vanish. You’ve got a new address, a new phone number. What crime did you commit?”
“I’m not running away, I’m taking a break.”
“Just because we’re divorced doesn’t mean we have to lose all contact, does it?”
He wants to know if he woke me up.
“I hear you injured yourself.”
“Who told you that?”
“Your mom, when I finally reached her to get some news about you, she just got back from India.”
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, the cast was removed yesterday.”
“How are you anyway?”
“Just fine, thanks.”
“I was thinking of visiting you, coming to say hello?”
“I thought you were tied down, with a woman and child.”