“Now, Frederik. Come upstairs!”
But he doesn’t join us, and so I have to sit alone with Thorkild and Vibeke.
“Your cake looks delicious,” Vibeke says after we’ve sat down.
“Not as delicious as yours,” I say. “Anyone can see that.”
None of us believes in Bernard’s plan for saving Frederik. Prison awaits, and then the dole. The only one who puts any stock in the plan is Frederik. Then again, it’s impossible to know what’s really what in his inner mire of depression and antidepressants, lack of empathy and ill-timed elation.
My gaze drifts out of the dining room and into the living room, where two of the walls are covered with dark wooden shelves. I’ve paged through some of Thorkild’s books on past visits, when I was trying to disappear from these rooms. A large part of them are history books, with a focus on eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Denmark. Despite a brilliant career as an educator, Thorkild sometimes upbraids himself for not pursuing a university career as a historian.
“Wouldn’t you like to try this other cake too?” Vibeke has the cake knife in hand, ready to put a slice of her cake on my plate.
“No thanks, I’m not that keen on raspberry these days.”
Again silence, broken only by the faint sounds of Frederik pottering about in the basement. He and I haven’t left home on this Sunday outing; we’ve brought the mood of our home with us.
Thorkild’s spoon clinks against his plate. His voice is breezy. “You know who your best friends are by the fact that you can be silent together.”
Vibeke doesn’t give up. “I could cut the raspberries off—”
“No!” I say it with too much emphasis, I know.
Then Frederik’s back, and he places on the table a book, on the history of European philosophy. “I found this.”
Vibeke’s already putting food on his plate. “I’m sure you can eat two big pieces.”
Frederik looks at his father and says, “Mia leaves neurophilosophy articles lying around at home, spread out everywhere. So I need something to read as a bit of an antidote.”
“I leave things lying around? Am I the one who makes such a mess? How many times have I had to take your speaker boards and—” I stop mid-sentence, despite my fury; it all seems so pointless.
But Frederik continues unabated. “She’s convinced that new brain research is going to invalidate twenty-five hundred years of philosophy. But the question of free will was the same back then as it is today. Nothing’s new. Nothing at all in twenty-five hundred years.”
Thorkild reaches for the book and grips it firmly, regarding it with fondness.
“If you’re interested, I’ve got some others you can borrow as well. How on earth did it end up in the basement? It really shouldn’t be down there.” He gently strokes the dust jacket, and it occurs to me that I’ve never seen him touch Vibeke that way. He leafs through it and leans over, suddenly engrossed.
Vibeke sets Frederik’s plate before him. “Well, what do you think, Frederik? Do human beings have free will?”
“It’s a complicated question. For the time being, my only thought is that one should try not to say anything stupid.”
Thorkild nods approvingly. It would be impossible to articulate his creed more precisely.
They are like three peas in a pod. The Halling family tone of voice, the conventional, frosty self-righteousness, the cultivated hostility that they’ve thrown in my face for twenty years.
What am I doing here? Why in the world have I agreed to be present at their family’s private party?
Frederik eats quickly and then heads back to the basement. The rest of us follow, and we see that he’s dug all the way through to my in-laws’ first dining table and chairs.
“I remembered this furniture being somewhat different,” I say. “I don’t think we can use it after all. But thank you so much for the offer.”
“Do take it,” Thorkild insists. “Then you can keep it until you find something better.”
And Frederik’s too ill to twig anything at all. He’s got his hands on his hips, just like his father. “Yes, we could keep it till we find something else.”
We go back upstairs with three philosophy books that Thorkild found for Frederik in the storeroom, including one by a contemporary Spanish philosopher. Then we sit down in the living room. I’m aching to get out of here.
Thorkild says, “Speaking of Spanish, Vibeke and I were wondering if there was something we could do for Niklas.”
I didn’t see that coming!
Niklas got Ds in both written and oral Spanish, but all his other grades have been good. When Frederik was a boy, Vibeke and Thorkild coached him to a top GPA; now that their son has failed so utterly, Niklas is evidently supposed to be their next golden boy. And that means accusing me of being unable to raise my own son.
Vibeke says, “Maybe Niklas could use a little peace and quiet, what with the moving and all. Maybe it’d be good for him to live someplace else for a few days.”
I fly out of my chair. “Stop it now! How many attacks do I have to sit here and listen to before the two of you will let it rest?”
Vibeke looks frightened again. “Is it because of the cake?” she mumbles. “I was wondering if it was wrong of me to buy it, but then—”
“It’s not because of the cake, God damn it! Can’t you ever listen to what I say?”
I’m on my way out the door. “And Frederik! Couldn’t you for once in your life stand up for me when your mother runs me down?”
My cell phone rings. I glance at the display and find myself saying, “It’s Bernard.”
Everyone grows quiet. As if that’s what we’ve been waiting for all along. As if what we thought were life-or-death struggles were just minor distractions till we heard from Bernard again.
My fingers fumble with the button.
“Hello, Bernard.”
I can hear a faint wind, and his voice in the distance. “Do you have a few minutes?”
“Yes.”
No one moves. The others are seated; I’m standing up.
“Can you talk right now?”
“Yes.”
“I’m in Aumessas with Lærke.”
“You’re in France?”
Surprise in the others’ faces.
“Yes.”
“But we just saw you at the office.”
“After you left, I canceled all my appointments. Lærke and I have gone to Aumessas for four days.”
“Is it your anniversary?”
“No.”
He sounds so serious, so different from how he’s sounded to me before. I have the sense that something terrible’s happened.
“Is it Lærke?”
Frederik and my in-laws are still staring at me. But they’re far away now. An old faded photo I quickly flip past in the pile.
Again his grave voice.
“It’s not going so well down here. Not as well as it usually does … It made a deep impression on me, seeing you again at our meeting.”
I don’t look at the family for long. I’ve got to get out of here. I run out into the hallway; I’ll have to come up with some story for them later. But that isn’t far enough away. I run out to the driveway. And then farther, out onto the street.
They shouldn’t be able to see me anymore from the house; I check. What should I tell them when I return? I’ll find something — and otherwise screw it.
“What’s going on there?” Bernard asks. “Should I not have called?”
“Yes. Yes. You should have called. Nothing’s going on. I went outside.”
We fall silent.
“But I was just so … at the meeting,” I say. “After all, we didn’t do anything.”
“You were good. You’re trying! We’re both trying. That’s something we have in common. And you seemed to me lovelier than ever.”