But Maj-Gun, with regard to her size, had laughed loudly. The Book, the Manuscript. Or whatever it was called, Authorship. That was in a way what was wrong with everything after all, or had started to be, there in the cozy house, the cozy family life. I am a dwarf in these rooms, Maj-Gun tried to say to herself, but it did not fit either really. Because otherwise, if it were not for “the Book,” which had started taking on mystical proportions at that kitchen table, “go upstairs and work, write,” then Maj-Gun would have been able to spend time sitting in the kitchen with Gunilla whom she really appreciated and talk chitter chatter about just about anything, “One should really start dieting.”
“Listen to this, Gunilla, what your stomach fat says about your character.” A funny thing she had also written in “The Book of Quick-Witted Sayings.” But the talk, which there was not anything special about, still fun, relaxing.
And Göran and the kids too, of course, when they were in the kitchen. “Maj-Gun is walking around here like a Poet in Bourgeoisie,” Göran could say, with a funny tone of voice, and then all of them could actually laugh, a bit relieved.
On the other hand: “I should probably go up and write some now,” because right then, in moments like that with Göran and Gunilla and the kids in the kitchen, Maj-Gun had once again been reminded in some way about something she should have. Like flipping through to find a new page in a magazine. Get something like that for herself. Become hungry like a wolf, go to the movies, the disco, out and hunt.
“No, now I really should go up and write.” So Maj-Gun, book-pregnant elephant girl, girl, gradually the only gracious thing about that creature, had removed herself from the warm, bright kitchen.
I am without space. Up to the room. The novel. Djeessuss. The Thinking Chair. The Book. Authorship, the Animal Child here and paper there, in all places.
Paper paper, between her, the world, everything. Had been working “in tight connection with the Book Editor for a while now” who had certain “minor” changes, that hellish word which always entered her mouth when she was standing, hanging by the door, wanting—certain “minor” suggestions for changes and comments…
The room, the Thinking Chair, the desk. But the truth was also the following: at the very beginning, ages ago, when she had come to this house, from Java to Sumatra, she had “the manuscript” with her. But it had not been “the manuscript” then, in any case not in the same way, but at that time this writing had in other words been real.
Where she had started writing, in the other rented room, with the woman on the first floor, rug rags. Suddenly, amid the rags in that kitchen in Java, she had seen the Animal Child, peering into the darkness. Demanding. So close. She had almost been able to touch it and feel the raw, slightly damp fur with her fingers. Unexplainable, but not crazy; it became crazy only when you tried to explain the Animal Child. Here it is. That closeness.
But then, the woman died, the talk. All of the talking. Became vaporized. Rug rags. Susette.
Search for it in Susette as well, in Susette’s big eyes. But djeessuss, still, every time she had become so disappointed with Susette.
“And may I ask how it’s going with the boo—” Gunilla has asked her one last time in the kitchen now during the farewell coffee. And then for once Maj-Gun does not look moody instead she says that she is thinking about putting the book project on the shelf and starting to study law at the university. Which, she still has to add out of loyalty to something she once was, may be bad news for the Literature but good news for the kids—they worship that typewriter, that is why she is giving it to them.
Gunilla cheers up, whether or not it is the typewriter, she seems a bit relieved otherwise too.
“Oh, but I’m sure it must still have been nice to rest up at the rectory. You looked, to put it mildly, a bit worn out.”
And in the room for the last time, and alone. Gunilla had to go back to schooclass="underline" “Don’t worry, we haven’t touched anything, no one has been in the room since you left!” The key in the lock, pushing the door open carefully, almost sneaking in. The mess. Almost even worse than she imagined. There was paper here, paper everywhere. “The Manuscript of a Life,” ten thousand pages, swelling over the desk, the floor, the Thinking Chair, and the bed, “all the shortcomings.”
“The true story” and that and that and that… one of those thousand working titles in horrible glittery red letters, solidified nail polish, red and mother-of-pearl, which she and the children had amused themselves with by coloring together when she let them come in at some point, also wanting to play, not be alone.
And other papers: the letter from the Book Editor, which she still, before the appointed evening that had been the last evening in this room when everything had overflowed, neatly stored in a leather-bound folder in the top desk drawer and taken out and hastily glanced at sometimes, reading a few lines: “Promising in places, kill your darlings and tone down the self-pity…” And periodically it had given her a calm feeling of confidence but she had not been able to follow the advice, had not toned down but up. All of the humiliations, everything that was done to me and me and me, in a thousand scenes, “characters,” an ocean, billowing waves that could, from the Thinking Chair, be heard like a satisfied clucking from her mouth sometimes when she thought she had been able to jot down a few particularly good parts. Sometimes not written at all, just thought things out, because she would gradually become so inspired that she did not even have time to write anything down, ideas, impressions that rushed through her head. And the jealousy. And Susette. MY love. A new story that came pouring in. Had not exactly improved matters any.
But now, as mentioned. All of that. Foreign. Gone.
Despite the fact that everything is exactly the same as when she left the room almost two months ago, turned off the lights, click, click, taken the getawaybag, and headed out.
In the morning. Early. Susette, on her way to work, was going to be picked up by Solveig down by the main country road, she had known that. Had waited for Susette in the darkness, stood in front of her on the walking path a bit past the town center. “I don’t know anything about anything.”
Had she said that? Could not remember, maybe she had not said anything. Just stood there and stared ahead, with her big dumb eyes.
“You’re so easy, Susette.” And Susette had become frightened, pushed past her.
They were going to meet up later in the day. On the Second Cape. Neither of them had known that then. Then, in the morning, Maj-Gun still had no idea that she would be heading out to the capes, not at all.
In other words, they had not arranged to meet at the American girl’s hangout in the early afternoon. “Come down there, and we’ll settle things.” Nah. The Killer Rabbit had not said anything like that on the walking path that morning-night, it in no way had any plans. Killer Rabbit. That was namely how she had felt, as well, somewhere. Like a terrible black rabbit who, because it looked so horrifying, was called the Evil Rabbit, not the Killer Rabbit even though that was the word you thought about in that context, the context of the children’s garden, and in other words for that reason, the rabbit had been considerately placed on the highest cabinet where it could not be reached or seen in order not to scare the life out of the kids in the children’s garden from where it was now on the run.
A fictive children’s garden in other words, of course she did not know anyone who would have or had such an experience from their own children’s garden and Maj-Gun did not have any memories like that either. She and her brother Tom never went to the children’s garden, in their own home; it was always looked after by Mama Inga-Britta, or by Aunt Liz who came to the rectory and “babysat” sometimes when she needed to rest. No, nothing less than the novel writing again, the Book, again an “interpretation,” and “tone down the self-pity.”