Lærke knew she wasn’t supposed to act that way at the pool, but just as it was impossible for her to increase her energy level at home through mere force of will, at the pool it was impossible for her to lower it.
Bernard led the two women out into a hallway where Lærke could calm down before they took her back to the water again. They did that twice. The third time she no longer tried to run, but her right arm was still out of control, flying every which way, and she was shouting with such joy that the lifeguard came rushing over and Bernard — who had decided once and for all to never act ashamed of his wife — had to explain that the only thing happening was that Lærke was happy to be there.
Since then, Bernard’s used what he saw at the pool to make Lærke’s life easier. He’s constantly on the lookout for experiences that might increase her engagement at the right time. He can’t take her swimming every time they have to do something important, of course, but less drastic measures also help. Disco music and old video recordings of talk shows with Jarl Friis-Mikkelsen are perfect.
Disco gets put on the stereo fifteen minutes before guests arrive, or before Bernard and Lærke have to go somewhere. If the music remains on for more than ten minutes, Lærke becomes overwrought and agitated, and if it isn’t put on, their friends will be disappointed by how listless she is.
They use Jarl Friis-Mikkelsen to create a calmer joy. Winnie will often pop a talk-show tape in their old VCR before Bernard or the boys come home. Lærke has also learned to manage her own energy level with music and other experiences; with time, it’s become as natural for her as it is for others to drink a cup of coffee or have some candy to wake up or calm down.
This three-day vacation’s the first time since the accident that Bernard’s been away from her for several days in a row. Down in the break room at school, we concocted a story about how he had to work for a business client in Aalborg.
As for me, I signed up for a continuing-ed seminar on pedagogical theory, leaving the course materials around on the dining table and then in my bedroom. I’d stand with program and participant list in hand, talking about how I was looking forward to it. Perhaps I overdid it; it’s hard to know, as I never really paid attention to how much room such papers took up in our family’s everyday clutter.
The stories seemed so simple when Bernard and I planned them, but one lie feeds the next. When Helena heard I was going on a seminar, she naturally asked why in the world I’d chosen to use some of my relatively few days off this summer with these particular teachers, who were so theoretical and impractical. Normally, neither of us would have considered taking a course like that. She wanted to know what I thought I could use their highfalutin theories for in my everyday work — and Frederik happened to hear my reply.
He threw himself into a disquisition on educational theories and challenges, and while otherwise we might have been able to connect with each other through our shared interest in teaching, our discussions now were grounded in lies about what I thought and what I wanted from my job — lies about who I was.
A pall of deceit and alienation settled over our meals and interactions, heavier than before. And when Niklas was there, too.
This must be what it’s like to have an affair, I thought — something I’d never tried before. The real Frederik, my unfaithful spouse from before the tumor, must have lived for years like this, inhabiting two realities at the same time. This had been his life.
On the first morning of the seminar, I showed up and struggled to sit calmly in my chair, unable to focus on anything at all due to pure physical anticipation. A couple of hours later, I told the course leader I was feeling ill, and then I drove to the Elsinore ferry to Sweden and waited for Bernard.
• • •
In the bright dining room of the guesthouse, each regular has her own white linen napkin and napkin ring, waiting for her at her assigned place at one of the small tables. Everything’s just as it has been for half a century, with guests who return gratefully year after year.
Bernard places his cell phone and our room keys on the starched white cotton tablecloth, and then we walk over to the buffet.
The guesthouse was furnished many years ago by the family who lived in this stately manor, just a hundred yards from the beach and even closer to the woods. They’ve let their old mahogany furniture remain in the rooms and the family pictures on the walls. Over time, the manor and the grounds have only grown more idyllic, though the guests are older now. Around us are several well-dressed women in their seventies and eighties, each seated at her own table with an empty place across from her.
Soon I’m back from the buffet with a bowl of oatmeal topped with stewed apples and cinnamon, evidently a traditional breakfast in Sweden. Bernard walks leisurely around the long table, pondering the eggs, the bacon, the cheese and fruit. He wakes in stages, I now know. And when in a little while the young woman asks me what we’d like to drink, I also know I should order him a double espresso.
While he’s up there, I hold his cell in my hand, feeling its smooth backside against my palm, a bit like skin. Suddenly the display lights up: Winnie calling, it says, and without thinking I press the END CALL button before the phone manages to ring.
This holiday mustn’t end early. But it’s about to — or in any case, its unspoiled happiness is. For Bernard’s mother-in-law wouldn’t call without a reason — and the reason must have something to do with Lærke. I feel the urge to cry. An icon on the cell display indicates that there’s been a call, and a moment later another icon appears, to show that a message has been left. Can I erase the message and remove the icon? These are the last good minutes of our vacation. Of a vacation I never thought I’d take.
Bernard lumbers back to the table in his one-quarter-asleep gait with fruit, two croissants, and a little Nutella on his plate. I want to drink him in. To inhale him like air, suck him into my lungs, I want to see every little hair on his face, every little wrinkle, for this is the last I’ll see of him before our vacation ends.
Will he glance down when he grasps the arm of the chair to seat himself? Will he notice his phone and pick it up to see who’s called?
No, he only looks at me. And smiles broadly.
“Thank you for last night,” I say.
“I think it’s me who should be thanking you.”
We both laugh.
Yesterday morning, we studied all the widows at the breakfast tables around us and imagined their lives. Some were excessively erect of posture while others were hunched over, but they all radiated a certain dignity in their fine summer dresses, pressed and pastel.
Every summer for forty years, we agreed, they’ve been coming down here from Stockholm — at some point with just their husbands, and before that with their children too, who could play on the grounds. As each man died, his widow had to consider carefully: should she lay this little paradise with him in the grave, this preserved essence of their summers’ happiness during the ’60s and ’70s? In the end, however, each widow insisted on her freedom and her right to go on living life on her own, and she kept making the trip.
But even though each return has been a declaration of independence, a loud exclamation to herself and the world at large that she still has a life to live, yet each summer’s visit, each napkin ring lying in the same spot in the dining room, becomes a shadow dance with a man who had once been warm and muscular and laughed when he came home from work, who chewed her out or ignored her or pressed himself into her during sleep. A man who is now dead and gone. And each sunken widow’s face moves about this bright dining room as a memorial tablet testifying to a love that extends beyond death.