Rita who left, never to be heard from again.
Bengt who died, burned up in a house—this house.
And Solveig who remained.
“I was Sister Blue.”
The lifeguard, who saved a little girl named Susette Packlén from drowning.
A blue girl on a cliff, in the picture.
Three children at the foot of the hill. Rhythm. Rumba tones.
The three cursed ones.
They had a game called the Winter Garden.
The house that burned, Bengt who died in the fire, Solveig who built a new one, Solveig and the Winter Garden, Rita’s Winter Garden.
“Rooms under the earth, Lille. The truth about everything.”
There is a blue child screaming on a cliff.
Sister Blue.
Burned?
The outbuilding that burned. Fire on a stick. Solveig who tried to set fire to it.
Ulla with the mask, the Angel of Death Liz Maalamaa.
The Child, fluorescent, on the wall, the Red One, in the Winter Garden.
It’s your MOOOM.
Ulla, who out of sheer devilry had imitated the district dialect that she does not speak unless it is needed on stage.
“She knew him. The Red One. They were adults then.”
“And so, Lille, there was a completely different story, about two at a newspaper stand. Ha ha ha—”
“Who is my mother, Solveig?”
Solveig, never, does not answer.
The storks in Portugal.
Transcendence. Explosion. And suddenly Johanna sees like a picture a scene for the Winter Garden.
A man who is lying in a room, in a house.
It is winter, snow outside. Walk in snow.
But he is lying dead, shot. Blood everywhere, on him.
The Boy in the woods. And she knows. It is her father, Bengt. In the house, before it starts burning.
Mooom.
“You put balls into action, Lille. Come to someone… Maalamaa.”
But Ulla who was afraid. At first. Before she put the mask on.
“I said I don’t want to. Doing something else now. Screaming Toys.”
Project Earth. You think you are going to get one story and then you get another.
And now Johanna is afraid.
More afraid than she has ever been.
She is standing on the field outside the window.
The Red One. Maj-Gun Maalamaa.
The Child, fluorescent. Flames up on the wall.
But Johanna gets dressed, to the Winter Garden, and to the Red One, out to her.
II. THE MASK, THE ROSE, THE SILVER SHOES
(An entirely different story, or maybe not?)
THE MASK
TO THE WINTER GARDEN, Liz Maalamaa’s things:
The Angel of Death, Liz Maalamaa (a mask).
A mask that Elizabeth “Liz” Maalamaa received in a small package at the post office in her childhood during the forties. Came from Hollywood, she was pen pals with them. The movie stars. Ingrid Bergman, Ava Gardner. Really, truly. She received autographed head shots with letters at home. She took them and saved them in a scrapbook, or hung them on the wall in her room in the farm up north. And then the mask, one time. You could put it on and then you had the face of a movie star. Maybe Ava Gardner, Janet Leigh? Funny, as an adult she would not remember. Funny too that when you put that mask on, you did not look like a movie star at all. Just horrible, and frightening.
Did not go to the movies that much, there in the countryside, there was no movie theater. The movie theaters were in the cities. The movie stars, Hollywood, she had come in contact with them through a magazine, the Film Journal. An exciting magazine that she read, in addition to God’s word, the latter of course increasingly more.
There were strange things in the Film Journal, you did not know much English back then. Readers who sent in letters and asked questions, how should that movie star’s and the other one’s names be pronounced? In particular she remembered a question like that, they used to laugh themselves silly about it, and the answer, her and her brother, Hans, in the parental home. “Janet Leigh, but how do you say Janet?” Djanet was written out phonetically in the column, it was wrong that too. It should have been Djehnet.
She would explain this to the family she came to later, when she married a man from a society family in the city where she attended a training school for deaconesses. They would not understand. They would be absolutely certain that she was the one who had said Djanet, and in these circles they, skilled in languages, would correct her Djehnet Djehnet, in a well-mannered way. But first repeat her Djanet, so that the tone could be heard like a sheep bellow from the farm where she originated.
She would learn to hold her tongue in these circles.
She gave the mask to her niece and nephew later. She and her husband were childless.
THE GIRL FROM BORNEO, 1
SHE CAME FROM BORNEO, the little girl. Borneo’s docklands, she dances there, the Happy Harlot. Hamba hamba, for her brother in the rectory. Maj-Gun Maalamaa, or Majjunn as her aunt Liz calls her, the aunt who often comes to the rectory to visit, comes to “rest,” in dark sunglasses, sometimes she has bandages. Maj-Gun, and her brother, Tom, who is lying stretched out on his bed in his room behind the closed door, peering through the fingers of his hands he is holding in front of his eyes, “Idiot, there aren’t any docklands in Borneo, there’s just jungle, an island.” But then, he cannot control himself, he starts laughing so that he chokes, more and more, in the musty summer heat in the room—he sits up, stamps a beat on the floor with his feet, claps his hands.
Maj-Gun, hamba hamba, a dried dandelion in her mouth, it is supposed to represent the harlot’s red rose. And her aunt’s silver shoes, she has once again been into the guest room and swiped them from her aunt’s bag without permission. The aunt does not like it, she gets angry.
“And now for the thousandth time: get out! Out into the fresh air!”
And then suddenly, of course, in the middle of the dance, the door is flung wide open and Mother is standing there or the aunt herself, yelling.
Two sweaty children, must go out into the summer day—wrinkled brows, still in high spirits from playing indoors, out out into the hot sun, the sunshine from the hazy high-pressure-filled sky is always stuffy in this childhood that is not unhappy, just the opposite. They do not know, these two siblings, what they are going to do, what they should get up to out there. On the other hand, the dance, there is no question about that either. A means of passing the time when you do not go outside. Not wanting to go out; these siblings have that in common. And a means of not fighting. Maj-Gun and Tom, always at each other’s throats, it is almost comical. Like mama Inga-Britta says, dog and cat, dog and cat.
Sometimes when they have been chased outside, Tom will sneak back in. Locking the door behind him, lies there and reads the first best book, such as Gustav Mahler’s memoirs, something like that. But then his sister is not allowed to come in anymore; she is going to stand there knocking on his door for ages if she also manages to sneak into the house again without anyone seeing her. Just silence on the other side of the door, dog and cat, she does not get in. As it turns out somewhat later, as teenagers, when her brother has his first girlfriend there. The Big-Eyed One, from the cemetery, who has grown up. The brother on the other side of the door, not talking, and Mahler’s Ninth playing over and over again. Maj-Gun rushes to the cemetery and is hamba hamba the Happy Harlot, with everyone who wants to. The DAY OF DESIRE with the hayseeds, it is pretty and big and strong and everyone who wants to come—hamba hamba, dancing there, with everyone for a while. Imagines her brother at the window and the pale girlfriend at the window. And he is standing there, really: “The Disgust, Maj-Gun,” you are Vile Disgusting Get Out of My Sight, buttons the cuff links of his shirt, no girlfriend there then, just the two of them and a pale, icy mood.