Jonna went on whittling on her net peg, observing by and by that “There must be all kinds, but mostly people are a mixture of all three. Or all ninety-five, or whatever.”
“Yes, of course, but there are still typical cases of what we might call hunters. And they’re born that way.”
“Speaking of gulls,” Jonna said, “do you remember the one that broke its wing and crawled to the steps every day? I suppose you were being a gardener when you tried to comfort it with food it didn’t even have the strength to eat. And what happened? I threw the pike net over the poor thing’s head when you were off doing something else and took care of it quickly with a hammer. I’m sure it was full of worms. You can’t mend what’s totally broken. And for that matter, you were relieved. You admired me. You said so.”
“Well, yes,” Mari admitted, “but that was completely different. That’s anecdotal evidence.”
“There are times,” Jonna went on without listening, “there are times when a healthy ruthlessness is the right thing. What about that time those idiots came ashore in their horrible plastic boat — it was purple — and were going to shoot our birds before the season even opened?! And what’s more they were drunk, though that doesn’t excuse them. Remember?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“So you see what I mean. I went down to the shore and gave them a piece of my mind. No effect. They sneered at me and sauntered up onto the island with their shotguns.”
“They were dreadful,” Mari agreed.
“They were. And then I thought, the only right and just thing to do right now is to shoot holes in their boat. That would teach them, right? A couple of holes at the waterline, bang.”
“But how did they get home?!” Mari burst out.
“They had to bale. Or maybe they had rags.”
Jonna and Mari sat silent for a moment.
“Odd,” Mari said. “Did you say that was last year?”
“Yes. Or the year before. And the boat was violet. Lilac.”
“But are you absolutely sure you really shot holes in it, or did you just think about it?”
Jonna stood up and shoved the dinner dishes into the box under the bed. “Maybe I just thought about it,” she said then. “But the point ought to be clear enough. You have to realize that there always has to be an aggressor. Someone who attacks when no one else has the guts to get involved. To protect…”
“Ha!” Mari cried. “You’re very clever at getting me to go along with all sorts of things that are beside the point! The point is, you think guns are fun! Admit you think they’re fun! At midsummer you shot the stovepipe on the tent sauna full of holes, and the smoke’s been coming in ever since. Did I say a word about it? No. But let me tell you something once and for alclass="underline" I loathe that pistol!”
Mari took the rubbish bin and went outside.
After a while, she came back.
“Jonna, they’re here again. The purple plastic boat. Can you go down and talk to them?”
“The nerve!” Jonna said. “But maybe they’ve come to apologize. They might even have brought water. Or wood. Wait. I’ll go down and see.”
When Jonna was halfway across the meadow, Mari came running after her. “Take this,” she said. “You never know.” And she handed her the pistol.
Catfishing
THE SUMMER HAD MOVED INTO JUNE. Slowly, thinking Mari didn’t notice, Jonna went from window to window, tapped the barometer, walked out on the slope or out on the point, came in again with comments about things that needed attention, complained about the gulls screaming and copulating to drive a person crazy, and spoke her mind about the local radio, which had the most idiotic programmes — for example, about amateurs who had shows and thought they were God’s gift to art. And the weather was implacably beautiful the entire time.
Mari said nothing. What could she say?
Finally Jonna got busy. She built up her great unassailable barricade against work, against the agony of work. With small, polished tools she began shaping exquisite small objects of wood, tinier and tinier, more and more beautiful. She visited the islands to the west looking for juniper; she walked the shoreline gathering unusual kinds of driftwood, odd shapes that might give her an idea. She arranged it all on her workbench in symmetrical piles, smaller ones, larger ones, and every piece of sea-polished wood had its own special potential to keep her from making pictures.
One day Jonna was sitting on the granite slope polishing an oval wooden box. She claimed it was an African wood, but she’d forgotten the name.
“Will there be a lid?” Mari asked.
“Of course.”
“Have you always worked in wood? I don’t mean woodcuts or wood engravings, but for real?”
Jonna put down the wooden box. “For real,” she repeated. “That’s brilliant. Try to understand, I’m playing. And I mean to go on playing. Do you have a problem with that, maybe?”
The cat came in, sat down, and stared at them.
“Fish,” Mari said. “We ought to take in the net.”
“And what happens if I do nothing but play? Until I die! What would you say to that?”
The cat meowed angrily.
“And ambition,” Mari said. “What are you going to do about your goals?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“But what if you can’t help it?”
“I can help it. Don’t you understand; there isn’t time any more. It’s all I do, just observe, observe to distraction, pictures that don’t mean shit until I draw them, and redraw them. I’ve had enough for one life, my only life! And anyway, I don’t see them any more. Admit I’m right!”
“Yes,” Mari said. “You’re right.”
The sky had clouded over and there was rain in the air. The cat meowed again.
“Fish,” Mari said. “The cat food’s all gone.”
“We can leave it overnight.”
“No. What if the wind picks up? Nothing but seaweed, and it’ll catch on the bottom. And you know, it’s Uncle Torsten’s last net.”
“Okay, okay,” Jonna said. “Your Uncle Torsten’s sacred net that he made when he was ninety.”
“Over ninety. We laid it wrong. I know we laid it too close to shore, the bottom there’s too rocky.”
The cat followed them down to the shore. Jonna rowed and Mari sat in the stern to take up the net. The float had drifted far out behind the point. The wind was rising.
“We’re not getting anywhere,” Jonna said. “Can’t you tell? We’re standing still. Your uncle and his blessed net…”
“Be quiet. It was the last thing he did. A little more out, no, no, turn! Backwater a little, backwater… Now I’ve got it.” Mari pulled in line and got hold of the net peg. “Just like I thought, it’s hooked on the bottom. Go upwind… Back around. Don’t row! Backwater! This is hopeless. And it’s his last net.”
“Oh, fine,” Jonna said. “Wonderful. It won’t come up, and if it won’t come up then it won’t come up. I’ll backwater around, all the way around! What do you want?”
Mari was holding the net with both hands and could feel it breaking and tearing apart on the rocks on the seabed. What she’d already gathered slid off the net peg into the bottom of the boat in one big tangle and Jonna shouted, “Let go, let it go!” and the whole thing went back over the gunwale until the net peg stuck up its tail and disappeared. Jonna rowed in against the wind and crashed the bow up on the granite. The cat sat waiting and meowed. They didn’t tie up; just climbed out and sat on the thwarts. The sea had turned black to the south. It had begun to blow hard.
“Forget it,” said Jonna. “Forget it. Don’t grieve for a net, grieve for everything else that’s broken and can’t ever be mended. Your uncle liked making nets; it was what he knew, it was calming and familiar. Going into that loft you’ve talked about. I’m sure it helped him shut everything out, and everyone. He wasn’t thinking about fish, not a bit, and not about you getting the net as a present. He was just at peace, doing work that was his and only his. You know I’m right. He didn’t have goals any more.”