Letters From Klara, Page 2

“Sit down,” Ada said. “Sit down for God’s sake and cool off. I know what it is you can’t ever manage to say, so let’s get it out in the open for once. Remember what it was like? ‘What’s she doing now? What’s she up to? Why is she so quiet? Doesn’t she feel well? Or did I hurt her feelings? What is it I said or didn’t say or didn’t do?’ Neither one of us has forgotten the way it was. But what difference does that make now?

  “You’re so hard,” Ina said. “Mama was wonderful.”

  “Sit down.”

  “Ada, you remember I got a toothache when it happened, and the doctor said it was only because I was clenching my teeth all the time.”

  “I know. You told me. Sit down. I don’t have the strength to deal with you any more – and neither do you. Now don’t start crying. I’ll go get some candles.”

  Ada came back with two lit candles and put them on the table. She said, very pleasantly, “Ina, could anyone have died more conveniently, and without its being a single person’s fault? She had fun. Do you understand that? Fun! And she never had to get seriously old. She was into a new age of rebellion, and what could we have done about that?”

  Now Ina was crying.

  “Yes, yes, there, there,” her sister said. “What is it you want? Maybe you want to believe that you should have painted that ceiling. It’s still stained and half finished and I’ll bet you close your eyes when you go to brush your teeth. Do you think you’re required to have a bad conscience? Are you even entitled to one?”

  “Now who’s preaching sermons?” Ina said. “And you always know better than everyone else, just like Mama! Can’t I even grieve in peace?”

  “Fine. Go right ahead. Be my guest. Here’s a handkerchief. Ina. Think about it. It’s so simple. Mama always wanted to do things herself, and she always got in ahead of everybody and didn’t trust anyone else. That’s the truth.”

  “Of course she trusted people,” Ina said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “She trusted us to leave her in peace.”

  “That’s good,” Ada said. “Excellent. And we did leave her in peace. That’s the best thing you’ve said for a very long time.”

  “You really mean it?”

  “Yes, I mean it. Dear Ina, don’t you think we could go to bed now?”

  “You go on. I’m going to stay up for a bit.”

  “And you’ll make sure to blow out all the candles?”

  “Funny,” Ina said. “Now where have I heard that before? Yes. I’ll blow them out when I blow them out.”

  That night an odd thing happened in the elderly sisters’ villa. One of them had climbed up on a stepladder to paint the bathroom ceiling, fallen off and broken her arm and two ribs. Two candles were still burning on the bathroom shelf. But the most remarkable part was that the poor woman was in such a good mood after the accident, absolutely elated. It must have been shock.

  The Lily Pond

  THEY HAD RENTED THE SUMMER HOUSE primarily because it stood beside a lily pond and they’d been told that their vacation would come just when the water lilies bloomed. Moreover, there was a small sauna they could use if they bought their own firewood. There were spruce trees on three sides of the house, making a dark green wall that shut out the world. It was hard to believe that a road with a bus passed just a stone’s throw from the place. It would be their first summer together.

  Kati had never met Bertil’s mother, she had just seen pictures of her and admired her aristocratic profile and white hair. He assured her that Mama had no objection to their living together. “Kitten,” he said, “she’s very modern, I might almost say young at heart! You’ll see!”

  One week before they were to leave, Bertil’s mother felt a little faint, as she put it, and wandered around her apartment not knowing what she was looking for. When he wanted to help, she just sat down, looked at him, smiled and said, “Oh, Little Squirrel, don’t bother … Mama Squirrel is feeling a little faint. It will pass.”

  Bertil grew more and more concerned. Days passed and she didn’t get better, quite the reverse. Finally, he had to discuss the situation with Kati. Kati questioned him matter-of-factly. Could his mother get along by herself for three weeks? No. Could she manage with home-care help? No …

  “Kati, my little Kitten,” Bertil burst out, “this isn’t easy for me!”

  “No, of course it isn’t. This hasn’t been easy for Tomcat.”

  “And why does it have to happen right now, all of a sudden?” he went on. “She doesn’t stub out her cigarettes properly, they lie around everywhere, still smouldering. She can’t remember whether she’s taken her medicine several times a day or not at all!”

  “And what would happen”, Kati asked, “if she took her pills several times or skipped them completely?”

  When Bertil didn’t answer, she said, “Tomcat, have her come with us. It’s high time I met your mother anyway.”

  And he said, “I love you, thank you, thank you, Kitten!”

  Bertil and his mother climbed off the bus at the crossroads and took the short path through the woods. Kati had dinner ready. Bertil had brought wine and a bouquet of flowers for each of the ladies. He was in high spirits and told stories all through dinner. When it was quiet, his mother turned to him and said, “But my Little Squirrel hasn’t put out the ashtray!” And he replied in the same caressing voice, “But Mama Squirrel smokes far too much …” He lit her cigarette and she gave his hand a playful little smack and said, “Now, now, let’s not exaggerate …” Kati put out an ashtray, cleared the table, and served the coffee.

  Day after day, these tiny rituals continued, a kind of teasing that Bertil and his mama had been rehearsing for so long that they played their parts without being aware of what they were doing. They had rituals that consisted of intimations, unfinished remarks that alluded to their long life together and entwined them in an inaccessible cocoon of memories, sometimes only a couple of words, a little laugh, a sigh, a touch of the hand.

  “Kati,” said Bertil, “do you think Mama is enjoying herself?”

  “I certainly think so,” Kati said. “But where did you get that squirrel business?”

  “I could do the dishes,” Bertil said. “There must be more to do with three instead of two.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “Provided you two just stay outdoors as much as possible. Now that the weather is so nice.”

  Bertil had bought some garden furniture in bright, shiny colours and a garden umbrella. He’d set it all up on the lawn sloping down to the lily pond.

  “Why don’t they ever bloom, those lilies?” Mama wondered, and Kati replied that they would bloom very soon, any day now.

  “It’s important to me that they bloom,” Mama said. “Ask Bertil to come here.”

  And Kati saw through the window how they sat whispering – definitely whispering – under the umbrella.

  The beautiful weather continued.

  “Little Squirrel,” Mama said, “why is she so quiet?”

  “Is she? Kati? Well, maybe so …” And Bertil straightened the umbrella and went to the shed to attend to something or other that needed his attention.

  It was the start of their second week when a squirrel hopped out of the woods, ran aimlessly back and forth, then sat down a short way from Mama’s chair and stared at her very attentively, or so it appeared.

  “It looked at me! For a long time!” she told them. “As if it wanted something from me … We have to feed it.”

  Bertil moved the squirrel’s food dish closer and closer to Mama’s chair, and as she sat waiting under the umbrella the cheeky, curious little animal grew more and more important to her. Finally, it came all the way up to her and ate from her hand. Bertil sat in the chair across from her, and he didn’t always know if she was talking to the squirrel or to him. It became a little family joke between them.

  She said, “And when will those water lilies bloom so it isn’t all so black? Mama Squirrel doesn’t like it black …” She looked at Bertil and smile
d mournfully.

  “I know,” he said. “But we can’t … It takes a long …”

  They fell silent, and the sunset made its customary way toward the spruce woods opposite, down a bright orange path across the pond.

  One morning the squirrel vanished. It didn’t come to its feeding place all day. Mama waited and waited, but it didn’t appear and she was gripped by a depression that only Bertil could understand. He came in and said, “Kati, we have to find that squirrel for her. She had to take her medicine twice already this morning. I can’t calm her down! You know, that squirrel means something!”

  “I’ve noticed. Kati said. “Don’t let it upset you. Old people get ideas.” She turned to the stove and added, “Maybe the crows got it.”

  Bertil went into the woods and searched for the squirrel. He called and clucked and came back and said, “I guess it’s moved away somewhere.” What else could he say?

  “But it meant something!” Mama cried. “It frightens me so!”

  That made him tired, and he said, “You’re being unreasonable! It has nothing to do with you. There are thousands of stupid squirrels all over the place and the only thing it means is thousands of stupid squirrels!”

  Mama cried a little, very quietly, and he tried to comfort her and said he was sorry. They made up just before dinner.

  That night when Bertil took Kati in his arms and whispered, “My little Kitten …” she pulled away and said, “Stop calling me that. It’s childish.”

  The next morning, the water lilies had blossomed all across the pond. Bertil moved Mama’s garden chair down closer to the water.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Kati said, and went to get the cigarettes, matches and an ashtray.

  “Let me,” Bertil said, and he lit Mama’s cigarette and adjusted the umbrella so the sun wouldn’t shine in her eyes.

  “Thank you,” she said. “My Little Squirrel. You’ll always take care of me, won’t you?”

  “Always,” he said. “Always …” And he went to the shed to attend to something or other that needed his attention.

  “Dear Kati,” said Mama, “I think I’d like to cool my legs. Could you help me down to the water?” When they reached the water’s edge, she said, “Now you mustn’t watch. I don’t want anyone to see my old legs except Bertil.”

  Kati turned away and waited. It promised to be a very hot day. Mama took off her shoes and stockings, stuck her legs into the black water, found no bottom and groped her way a little further out, screamed, and fell flat, headlong. Kati got her ashore, quite a heavy woman, black with mud, but she hadn’t swallowed very much water.

  Bertil came running, threw himself down beside Mama and shouted, over and over, “Kati, what have you done?! What did you do to Mama?!”

  And just then, almost like in a short story, the squirrel jumped out on the grass as if nothing whatever had happened.

  After a while, Kati went to fire up the sauna. It was the only thing she could think of to do.

  For the moment.

  The Train Trip

  BOB WAS IN THE CLASS AHEAD OF ANTON. Actually, his name wasn’t Bob at all but something quite different, but for those who admired him he was Bob, short and forceful, like the crack of a bat or a punch on the arm. And he had that enviable nonchalance, that self-evident right to cordially despise the whole world. Bob did not use his position to beat up his classmates; he just shrugged his shoulders and smiled absently. His way of reducing them to absolute nothingness was perfection.

  Anton in the next class down had only one wish – that Bob would notice his existence. It was a wild wish – let him see me, just look straight at me and say, “Hi, Anton.” He must come to see that I have a name and that I love him.

  This was when Anton began writing his book about Bob. Maybe not a book, exactly, just stories where he rescued his friend. Every evening he wrote another, volume after volume. Bob was no longer Bob but X, and he himself was Z as in Zorro. There were an infinite number of ways to rescue X from horrific situations. It was really easy – although deadly dangerous. And afterwards, he went his way with a serene smile, always the same, and X looked after him, confused, in grateful admiration. After that, it was easy to sleep.

  Anton came to a story he’d been saving for a long time – their exhausted trek though the desert. Their water is all gone. A sandstorm is coming. They try to take cover under a ragged tarpaulin that gets ripped to shreds, they cling tightly to each other in order to breathe …

  It’s a long story. They stumble onwards, the sun hotter than ever. X can’t go any further, he collapses, Z shields his friend’s face with the last bits of the tarpaulin and then goes on, searching, searching desperately for water in this burning hell of sand … And, remarkably, he finds a tiny pool of water at the bottom of a deep crevice, and with infinite patience he scoops the precious drops into his canteen. He stumbles back and says, “Drink, I beg you. It’s for you. You must survive.”

  Bob drinks. Slowly the colour in his face returns. Anton puts the compass down beside him on the sand and walks off across the sand dunes, away.

  When Anton has gone this far, something unexpected happens. Bob comes striding after him, extends the canteen and says, “You have saved my life. There is a little water left. I beg you, drink it. Share it with me just as we will share our life together.”

  Once that story was written, it was impossible to write more. Anton tried, but he couldn’t do it. No images came to him, nothing. The stories about Bob must be destroyed. The building had no incinerator in the courtyard, and ripping them to pieces would be barbaric and, moreover, a lot of work. Anton decided that all of it should vanish in the sea, the same way that he hoped his ashes would be spread some day on the bounding main (preferably the Atlantic). He went up to the attic for a suitcase and filled it with everything he’d written. It was very heavy when full, so he took the bus to the harbour. It was a Sunday, the ice had broken up and the sun was shining. Anton walked out to the end of the point, put some stones in the suitcase, and heaved it into the sea as far out as he could. Then he turned at once and walked back.

  The suitcase sank down to the bottom and there, very slowly, it began coming apart at the seams, because it was a wartime suitcase, made of camouflaged cardboard. Notebook after notebook, filled with writing from cover to cover, floated out into the harbour, but a friendly breeze carried them over to Tallinn, maybe even further.

  Twenty years later, an early morning in March, Anton took the train north. He was on his way to congratulate the family’s faithful old maidservant on her ninetieth birthday in the village where she was born. He had with him a beautifully decorated album of family photographs with his own verses, neatly hand-printed. Anton worked at a firm that specialized in greeting cards – cards for weddings, births, condolences, every kind of recurring event – plus some with small humorous verses that offered disarming apologies for lateness, say, or some social faux pas. The job amused Anton. He had put his album into a black attaché case. He hoped to complete the presentation in time to catch the night train home.

  The northbound train came in. He walked from carriage to carriage until he found a non-smoker, and there sat Bob, reading his morning paper. Bob, broader in the face, heavy under the eyes, but with the same expression of indulgent disdain. Now he lowered his paper and said, “Dr Livingstone, I presume? Have we met?”

  “I was in the class below you,” Anton said, putting down his case. He sat opposite Bob. It was terribly hot in the car.

  “And your name is?”

  “Anton.”

  “Yes, of course. How time flies. We don’t exactly get younger, do we?” Bob said, and laughed.

  His teeth are just as white. He is so tanned you might think he’d come straight from the tropics. It’s the first time we’ve ever spoken to each other. Now he’ll say, “And what are you up to these days,” and Bob said those very words, and Anton answered quickly.

  “I’m a writer.”

  “Never woul
d have guessed. Can you make any money writing books?” Bob lit a cigarette but put it out almost immediately and said how awful it tasted the morning after.

  It was really unbearably hot. Anton tried to raise the window but couldn’t get it open.

  “Let me,” Bob said. “See? Easy peasy.”

  The ground was still covered with snow, but the wind had blown it from the trees.

  “Look here, Alan,” Bob said. “As I said, last night was kind of a late night. I think I need a little hair of the dog.” He opened his black business case and took out a leather-covered flask. “From Tibet,” he said. “Genuine. It was part of a deal. Bottoms up. I’ll feel better in a minute.”

  It was quiet for a while, then Anton said, “And what about yourself?”

  “Just dandy. Buying and selling. Sometimes up, sometimes down. Big deals. You know, our man in Havana, our man in Haparanda!” He laughed again, and a few moments later he said, “I’m tired.”

  “Why don’t you sleep for a while?”

  “Good idea,” Bob said. “You’re a nice guy. If only it wasn’t for your eyes, those damned puppy-dog eyes that followed me everywhere … Scoot over.” He put his feet up on the seat across from him and fell asleep at once.

  The long Finnish landscape went by outside, forest on both sides, nothing but forest, further and further north, hour after hour.

  Bob woke up. “You look awful,” he said. “Are you feeling sick too?”

  “Yes, I am,” Anton said. “All these damned pine trees, on and on, all the same, all the time. It’s enough to make anyone sick.”

  “That’s good!” Bob exclaimed. “Alan, you’re funny! Pine trees, pine trees, pine trees! Now let’s have another snort and then go get something to eat. I could eat a horse.”

  He liked that. I was funny. Although actually I’ve always really liked pine trees …

  It was fascinating to watch Bob eat, slowly and with undisguised pleasure. Just like before. Like everything he did – lying stretched out on the school playground in the spring sunshine, showering after a football game, running faster, jumping higher – he was on good terms with his body, his sleep, his food, everything …