“What did the girl want?” Eddie asked Björn there in the yard by the barn when I got up and was almost out of earshot, just before Bengt here, now, is tumbling head over heels with his stupid theories.
“What did the girl want?” I don’t hear Björn’s answer, almost nothing at all. He’s already in another world, he and Eddie, in their own teenage world. New music on the transistor, trallallaa, new pop song, that’s the way it is.
Even if the summer will soon throw them away, though they don’t know that, I don’t know that either, yet. My plan: that is something I’ve also completely forgotten for the time being.
Walk calmly to Rita’s and my cottage, let myself be filled with Eddie, Björn, cigarette smoke, the steps. I’ll tell Rita about it. I’m burning with desire and excitement, hurry up the stairs, run the last bit.
Three evenings later, or it’s almost night then, Björn throws all the bills I gave him in the barn right in the cousin’s papa’s face in the kitchen of the cousin’s house. You can imagine: all of the money flying about, raining down over the kitchen where the cousin’s papa is sitting in a straight-back wooden chair, with his cane. This evening he has crawled out into the kitchen from his room, the cousin’s mama crying, or it’s more than crying. Loud shrieks, sobs, and scream scream, terrible. Björn who hasn’t known what to say but who does that. And rather drunk, so that too. Has been sitting in the shed with beer bottles the whole evening up until now. Björn who doesn’t say things like that, who doesn’t know what he’s going to say, who never knows, he isn’t someone who talks, but the cousin’s papa is someone who talks, can destroy with his talking.
Doesn’t Björn understand? And me, about Björn—don’t I understand?
Björn from another landscape. And the cousin’s mama, Astrid. “Children’s mama.” Only the two of them in the kitchen with the cousin’s papa. In that landscape. Exposed.
Everyone else somewhere else. Rita and Doris Flinkenberg in our cottage, where I should also be. Bengt and the American girl Eddie de Wire where they are now: in Eddie’s boathouse on the Second Cape. Bengt hasn’t been around all day.
I’m in position. Though still not. Because I’m sitting in the parlor, in the closet. In my closet. The whole time. Shaking, curled up, listening, but I can only imagine what’s going on in the kitchen. In the closet. Like always: no one knows that I am there.
I have snuck into the parlor and the closet at the beginning of the evening and now I can’t get out. I know what’s going on in the kitchen, I don’t need to see it with my own eyes. But at the same time I don’t know, I have no idea. That it isn’t going according to plan is clear. But as soon as I have the chance to think “plan,” then I also think that Solveig, idiot, there has never been any plan. “What did the girl want?” The American girl’s question, an unbearable question ringing in my ears, hits home, “You did that well.” That was where I was going, the cousin’s mama’s shining eyes on me, but the road there was murky, gave the money to Björn and that was almost a relief, and then it ended up like this.
When I at long last, it’s a long time afterward, maybe a few hours even, when it has been quiet in the kitchen for some time, dare to come out, there is barely anything left of what I heard with my own ears in the closet but only been able to imagine. No money is lying scattered about. They’ve done the dishes, no pots on the stove, the kitchen table, the counter shiny and clean, even cleaner than the day before. The magazines, newspapers, True Crimes and the family magazines with all of the crosswords, which the cousin’s mama likes to solve, in a neat pile on top of the refrigerator. Ordinary. The cousin’s mama understands that too.
For a moment I think I’ve imagined it, that nothing has happened. Then I see the transistor radio. On the windowsill, behind the curtain that I lift up. Broken to bits. In a mash. Yes. Unbelievable. But that’s what can happen if you throw it on the floor and go after it with a cane. That landscape. I’ve been there.
Ordinary. But the cousin’s mama who understands that, as said. Has done the dishes and cleaned the kitchen again, in the middle of the night. So that it will be just as nice as after yesterday’s cleaning, during the day. Even cleaner and nicer. Early morning, it’s getting light outside. The counter is shining, piercing the eyes. I was the one who cleaned it and polished it yesterday, during the day.
The cousin’s papa is sleeping with his clothes on in his room, the door is ajar, snoring, sawing wood, the house shaking, no exaggeration.
The cousin’s mama is also lying in her bed, in the bedroom, unmoving, the covers pulled almost all the way over her head. Maybe she’s sleeping, as well. Otherwise maybe she would be paying attention to the sounds that, despite everything, can be heard from me, in the kitchen, in the hall, from the parlor too. I couldn’t open the door without it creaking when I finally dared come out, the hinges aren’t oiled; the parlor, people rarely ever go there. The sound of a small rat, from a closet. From the parlor, besides. The forbidden room, but rats there as well. But forbidden and forbidden, now, after everything, you wouldn’t think it would matter.
But she’s lying still, not paying attention.
The cousin’s mama’s crying, the screams, the shouts. Over. And Björn who has gone out, has been a few hours by now. The cousin’s mama who has remained, the cousin’s papa who has fallen asleep sometime later, in any case, finally.
The cousin’s mama who hasn’t gone out after Björn then either. But has gone after the kitchen table, the dishes, the pots and the kitchen counter, polished, rubbed rubbed. It’s natural in a way, like it’s supposed to be, that too. But still, in the closet, I haven’t really been able to imagine exactly that.
Now, when I’m standing in the hall, looking into the bedroom, how much time? An eternity, but the cousin’s mama is breathing, lying on her side, not paying attention. I don’t dare open my mouth, not after everything. Terror struck, and I have a pistol in my hand. For protection. Otherwise I never would have dared come out of the closet, here, back, out.
It’s just that Björn left like he usually does when he’s angry. But this, this is more than angry. I know that already, the cousin’s mama knows, us in the house, everyone. Or does everyone, know?
Björn has left, and in contrast to other times, ordinary times when he gets angry, this time Björn won’t come back but stay away.
But when he left he was alone! Astrid. Didn’t she see that?
Oh. That’s just the sort of thing you think about, afterward.
Me in the closet, the parlor. I was also scared. And only when it had been completely quiet, for a long long time, did I dare come out. The pistol, the inheritance from the shoe box, in my hand. For protection. I have it with me now too, when I, in the silence of the morning-night sneak out just as quietly as I have moved around inside the sleeping house.
Björn was in a bad mood the night before. That’s how it starts. In and of itself, maybe it already started earlier. During the day, even if nothing had been noticed yet. Björn had been at work as usual but came driving home on his moped at a high speed somewhat earlier than usual. Left the moped in the yard and gone straight to the Second Cape where Bengt is intensely hanging out with the American girl Eddie de Wire, mainly during the day, which most everyone except Björn has been aware of for quite some time, at least a week. And a while later Björn came back, and got on his moped and drove off and got some beer. Came back, to the barn, and started gulping it down.