Why do the stories we tell matter in a world on the brink?
Even though our Nordic welfare states are today as modern/post-modern as they can possibly can be, the great works of twentieth-century Nordic literature makes us keenly aware that we are just a generation or two—maybe three, four, I tend to forget as I get older—away from life lived in hardship brought on by unjust and unforgiving societies. This is a literary and social heritage I don’t hesitate to insist no Nordic writer can escape from and which can be found at the root of all the stories in this anthology, even when it is not directly noticed; no matter if their authors are born sixty-one years apart, in 1929 like the Norwegian Kjell Askildsen or in 1990 like Niviaq Korneliussen from Greenland.
But what they also share, apart from this grounding in social awareness, is the need to tell a good story (melancholic, absurd or grim as it may be) with means both tested and newly invented. Because who has the patience to read a tale from small places at the edge of the globe or on the margins of communities if it isn’t told with wit—dark and dry, of course, we are Nordic—precision and restrained empathy for its characters?
The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat travels with diverse stories in its pockets and even in its linings. It comes to its readers from the affluent North that tops every global survey of happiness and equality, but on closer inspection it will reveal itself to be worn at the elbows, patched up here and there. In our present world of conflict and climate change, it offers what literature has always had to offer—the few moments of warmth that come from sharing a story, a chance for people to compare their fates, to discover their common humanity and to ask for stories in return.
SUNDAY
NAJA MARIE AIDT
IT WAS COMPLETELY STILL ON the terrace in front of the house where Iben was sitting on a bench with her back against the wall, enjoying watching the children bounce on the trampoline. She could hear Peter shouting something, making the children squeal with delight. It was such a beautiful day. The September sun crashed down from a cloudless sky. The cat snuck under the bench. They had all sat there eating breakfast a little while ago, and now Kamilla was inside doing the dishes with the girls. Iben closed her eyes and leaned her head back. She remembered a sad and pretty song that had always made her cry with joy when she was young. She whistled the opening lines to herself. Then someone was pulling on her sleeves. It was her son wanting to go down and throw stones into the pond at the far end of the yard. She got up and took him by the hand.
Mosquitoes swarmed over the water. She threw a stick in and told the boy that it was now sailing out into the wide world. But the boy replied that it would never come up from that mud-hole again. The girl bounced light as a feather up and down on the trampoline. Peter stood near them smoking. Then Kamilla came out on the balcony with a camera. “Smile!” she shouted. Iben and the boy went over to the others, and then all four of them looked up at her. Peter made the children say cheese. Kamilla suggested that they go to the bakery to get some pastries.
They put both children in the pram. The neighbourhood was abuzz with Sunday and late summer; people were busy with garden work and afternoon coffee, a group of teenagers played ball, and some younger boys sat in an apple tree and threw rocks at a small group of girls playing hopscotch. The strong orange afternoon light made everything look clear and almost surreal. Peter’s brown eyes shone like illuminated stained glass, and she began to wonder about the yellow spot she thought he had in his left eye, which he definitely once had, but that she hadn’t noticed in a long time.
“What a day!” he said, pushing her to the side so he could take over the pram. “And here we are taking a stroll,” she said. “Yeah,” he said, “here we are taking a stroll.”
The bakery was closed so they had to go to the petrol station at the other end of town. They walked in step, side by side. They talked a little about the older girls. Iben said they should probably start thinking about birth control for the oldest one. “For Christ’s sake, she’s only fourteen!” Peter said, raising his voice. Iben told him that the youngest one was still lagging behind in school and was getting terrible grades. “You have to go over her homework with her more,” she said. Peter snorted, “Birth control!” She looked up at a poplar tree and caught sight of a squirrel. She counted to ten slowly to herself. A large BMW was parking in front of them. “They’ve got too much fucking money around here,” said Peter, stepping testily to the side as the car backed over a large puddle. “We’ll never have that problem,” she said. Then he stopped at the hotdog stand and got the children hot dogs with ketchup and relish. He bought a hamburger for himself. She had a bite, and he wiped ketchup from her cheek. They shared a pint of chocolate milk. “Like the old days,” he said, with his mouth full of relish, “before we learned how to cook.” “When we lived on fried cod roe,” she said. “With mushy potatoes,” he said. “Yeah, and that was because you insisted on cooking them in the duvets, like your mother taught you, but you can only make rice pudding that way.” Then the girl began to cry and he pulled her out of the pram and swung her around. That scared her and she gulped down most of her hot dog. Iben hurried to walk ahead. It was such a beautiful day.
They stood in the convenience store at the petrol station, each with a child in their arms—he wanted a lemon pound cake and she, a marzipan cake. They ended up buying both. On the way back, he wanted to have a cigarette. “Why didn’t you buy some yourself?” she asked. “I didn’t think of it,” he answered, as she rooted around in her pocket for a match. She sighed. He began to hum an old pop song, and soon he was screaming it at the top of his lungs. People in their gardens turned to look at them. The girl fell asleep. The light grew deeper in colour, redder, and she said she’d heard that at some point people who are dying blaze up, become their old selves again, full of energy, so that their loved ones almost think that they’re about to come round, and then suddenly they die; this feels unexpected and so it comes as a big shock. Peter threw his cigarette over a wrought-iron gate. “That’s what they deserve,” he said. “Did you hear anything I said?” she asked. “Rich bastards!” he yelled. The man passing them on the path in a polo shirt and tan trousers stared condescendingly, first at them, then at the worn pram, which they had bought for the older girls.
When they got back to Kamilla’s house, the girls came bounding up the garden path. The eldest smacked the garden gate into Peter’s stomach. Kamilla came walking across the lawn with a coffee pot. “They’re going down to get the dog at Madsen’s,” Iben said. “What the hell is the dog doing at Madsen’s?” Peter asked. “They used to have a dog salon, Peter. You know that Mum and Dad always got Bonnie trimmed there.” Peter looked at Iben with an expression that made her laugh hysterically. “Peter! It’s a terrier,” she said, miffed. “It needs to be trimmed once in a while, and Madsen does it on the cheap.” Iben took the boy out of the pram and walked a little way away. “A terrier!” she heard him say, and she began to titter and pushed herself forward in order not to laugh outright. She could feel that Peter was watching her. She heard him laugh loudly. “You two!” said Kamilla, who was disappointed about the pastries. She had been looking forward to cream puffs. And it was cold now, even though all three of them were wrapped in duvets. Iben still didn’t dare look at Peter. Laughter stirred in her throat; for a moment she was afraid she’d begin to cry. The boy stuffed a large piece of lemon pound cake in his mouth. The girl sighed in her sleep. Peter said, “Can you take the girls next weekend? Dorte’s parents are coming to stay with us.” “Poor you,” said Iben, wiping the boy’s mouth. He was busy pulling apart a dead flower. A cold wind blew the petals onto the grass. She had finally got control of herself. “I thought you were coming to Aunt Janne’s birthday on Sunday,” said Kamilla. “Sorry,” said Peter, shooting Iben a look, who suddenly had to put her hand to her mouth to hold back the laughter. Kamilla leaned back in the chair. “How long have you two been divorced?” she asked. “Seven years in November,” said Iben, looking at Peter. “Isn’t that right?” He nodded. “Seven years in November,” he repeated. The sun shone right in his eyes, and she finally caught sight of the yellow spot in the brown. She felt strangely relieved. She knew it was there somewhere.