Letters From Klara, Page 4

  Late that evening, something unusual happened – they had a visitor. He walked straight in without saying a word. He was very young and thin and looked angry.

  “Close the door,” Jonna said. “Where did you leave your boat?”

  He waved his hand vaguely toward the lagoon, sat down on the floor, and put his head in his hands.

  “Did you pull it up properly?”

  He didn’t answer. Jonna and Mari took torches and went down to look. It was a canoe, and it lay banging on the rocks. They pulled it further up.

  When they got back, their guest had thrown his wet clothes on the floor and stood in front of the open stove wrapped in a blanket.

  “Well,” said Jonna. “A few more minutes and it would have holed its bottom. Have you no respect for your boat?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess it’s a little late to drop in … Lennart Ågren. From Lovisa.”

  “Mari from Helsingfors,” Mari said. “Didn’t you listen to the weather?” She put out socks, trousers, and a sweater. “Lennart,” she said, “you can change in the hall.”

  When she’d closed the door, Jonna told her she shouldn’t start mothering him. And Mari said, “What’s the matter with you? I simply don’t want him getting pneumonia just as we’re getting packed, that’s all!”

  Lennart came back in and sat down on the bed. For the first time, he studied his hosts, a long, comprehensive look. Finally he explained that they probably couldn’t really understand anything as crazy as a truly desperate act, but that they really had to try.

  Mari hung his wet clothes above the stove. His red shirt bore the inscription “I couldn’t care less”.

  “Depends what you mean by desperate?” Jonna said. “What were you up to, actually, heading out into a storm in a canoe?”

  Lennart answered, “I wanted to die.” He stood up and started pacing furiously back and forth in the room. Then he said, “Women!”

  “What did you say?” Jonna said.

  “Women. What do they want, really?”

  The water had started boiling and Mari poured some in his glass and told him to drink while it was still hot.

  “Exactly,” said Lennart. “That’s what Mama always says. What is it? It smells funny.”

  “It’s rum and water, sugar, ginger, and butter. It’s called pirate rum. But don’t let the butter congeal, because then it’s not nice any more.”

  Mari put more wood in the stove and put on some potatoes.

  “Food,” he said. “No food for me. That’s the last thing I want.”

  “Good,” Jonna said. “We’ve already eaten.”

  “And my back hurts. Probably psychosomatic.”

  “Too much paddling. We brought up your paddle so it doesn’t blow away. Now, please couldn’t you sit down somewhere? The room seems so small with someone constantly marching back and forth.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lennart said and sat down on the bed again. “What I said about women,” he explained earnestly, “you probably don’t understand what I mean. You’ve lived too long and too protected. It’s not your fault.”

  “Would you like another one?” Mari asked.

  “Maybe, but without the butter. What I mean is, they try to own you, organize your damned life so completely that you have no freedom at all! I realize you do your best, especially when you’re old, but all the same … you can’t see the big picture!”

  Jonna said, “All I can see is that you went out in a canoe in a near gale. What were you thinking?”

  “I wanted to die!” said Lennart angrily. “I just told you!”

  “But why?” Mari said.

  Jonna observed that he could just as well die tomorrow instead, since the wind just seemed to keep rising.

  “You’re brutal,” he said.

  “Really. You find a landing place. There’s a light in the window, and you stumble to the house. People take care of you and they’re brutal. Have I got that right?”

  To their horror, Lennart started to cry, laboured, hacking sobs.

  Jonna whispered to Mari, “See what you can do. I was mean.”

  Mari sat down beside him on the bed and waited. Finally he said, “They want to own you. Love you to death.”

  “Yes of course. I understand,” Mari said.

  “You don‘t understand a thing! Why can’t they be nice, I mean, keep some distance, give you a chance to miss them a little, so you’re happy to see them again?”

  “Let’s have some coffee,” Jonna said.

  “Shush, Jonna. We’re talking. Don’t fuss.” Mari turned to Lennart and said, “You’re right. It was your mother, wasn’t it?”

  He jumped to his feet and shouted, “Don’t drag Mama into this!”

  “No, of course not,” Mari said. “Fine, fine. I think I’ll go to bed now.”

  “Sleep,” Lennart said. “Did you ever stop to think that people routinely sleep away a third of their lives? They just get into the habit of going to bed. Right? No curiosity, no imagination.” He put his hand on Mari’s shoulder. “Wait a bit,” he said. “I want to explain something. People are like boats, we head off for a place we’ve been longing to visit for ages. Maybe an island. Finally we get there. And what happens? We go right past, further out. You see? We go on! Towards the unknown.”

  “Well,” Jonna said, “it was good you didn’t go on past us. You could have wound up in Estonia.”

  The wind had risen. Something blew down outside and clattered down the slope. Probably the paddle.

  They went out and looked at the weather. The torch showed that Victoria was riding pretty low in the water.

  “She’ll make it,” Jonna said.

  “No,” Lennart said. “That line on the east side is too taut.”

  “No, it’s not.” “It needs another twenty centimetres at least, so the waves don’t wash into the boat. Can I go do it?”

  “No. You can’t loosen it, and now believe me, because I know. But if you want, you can go down and check the water line. If you can’t see the green, that means the accumulator is under water. Take a raincoat in the hall.”

  “Boy, how many times have I heard that!” Lennart burst out. “Take a raincoat, wear warm trousers, be sure you’re bundled up properly and don’t stay out too late!”

  “Yes, my friend,” Jonna said. “I had parents too.”

  The night had now turned coal black. They watched the torch’s cone of light move down the granite slope and then stop at the water’s edge.

  Mari said, “What shall we do with him? What does he want?”

  “He doesn’t know. He’s just a little despondent.”

  When Lennart came back, Mari had gone to bed. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful, gallant boat, but she’s getting a beating nobody could take for very long.”

  “You’re right,” Jonna said. “But she’s wood, not plastic. Victoria was built thirty years ago and she’s as seaworthy as they come.”

  “Yes. That’s the kind of boat I want.”

  “Why not? The last real boatbuilders are right in this area. I can give you an address.”

  “No addresses,” Lennart said. “Then it’s someone I have to write to.”

  Mari fell asleep as she half listened to them talking about boats. The conversation was very down-to-earth.

  By morning, the storm had passed.

  His jeans had dried. One day he’d find the boatbuilder’s address in his back pocket.

  About Summer

  1

  The sun was setting. After the storm, the water was all the way up to the boat shed. The whole meadow by the shore was flooded, and it felt funny walking across the grass with water swishing around your feet. I found an old broken barrel and rolled it down to the boat beach and turned it on end and climbed in. The grass under the water was very soft and it kept moving the whole time. I pretended I was in a submarine. The barrel had a big enough hole that I could see the sun. She was fiery and turned the walls of the barrel red. I sat there in t
he warm water and no one knew I was there. Nothing more happened that day.

  2

  I decided to make a road. If the trees were small and thin I sawed them down. The road was very twisty because it had to go around all the big trees. I worked at it every morning and it got longer and longer. I had planned to build a treehouse where the road went down to the water on the other side, high enough so they wouldn’t know where I was but not so high that I couldn’t look at everyone who went by down below. But it didn’t turn out so good. Maybe the road was too narrow and went in a circle, because it came out almost the same place where it started. That happens. But why do people need roads anyway? I mean, we get where we’re going anyway!

  3

  I made a secret room for myself in the attic and hammered only when I knew no one was in the house. When the room was done, I carried up the kerosene lamp from the kitchen and waited till it was dark to light it. I could see the lamp reflected in the window. They came up the attic stairs and said I couldn’t do that, that I could burn the whole house down! Pretend you’ve got a lamp, that’s what other children do when they build a house. That was too much for me. I’m not other children, I’m me, and I built a hideout. With a lamp. So I moved out.

  4

  For the first time I’ve swum in deep water and I did it by myself when no one was looking. It was four strokes, from the swimming place to the big rock. I had done enough thinking about Bottomless Depths so I just jumped in. The water was black under me, but I knew it would be. Getting across went real fast, but I started getting cold. There was a roll of birch bark on the rock and I took it back with me as proof that I’d been there. It took me six strokes on the way home. Actually, I don’t think parents should let their children swim in deep water without, for example, hiding behind a rock to see they get back all right. I’m going to remember that when I have children.

  5

  I taught myself to row. I got up every morning before the others because I didn’t want them to watch while I was learning how. You have to be very smart and stubborn. To start with, it just went around in circles. The boat is a dinghy and it’s only got one thwart, which means only one board to sit on, because there wouldn’t be room for any more. It is not made of plastic, which is very good, and it doesn’t have a name. We just call it The Dinghy. When The Dinghy and I shove off from land, the sun has barely come up and it’s cold. I pole my way out in the bay and start rowing. Since I’m facing the stern, not the bow, the wake is important. It’s supposed to be straight, but it’s not. I’ve noticed that I row too hard with my right oar, which is probably typical. You can pick a landmark, which is a good thing to remember, and then keep a steady eye on your wake. We row further and further away and it gets warmer. If I keep going straight on out, we could be like a little dot that you can barely see. They scan the horizon but decide that dot is just some eider duck and then they look in the other direction. I could teach myself to disappear. You just go on rowing, there’s no end to how far you can row once you learn how. But one thing I’d like to emphasize is that when you come back, you should tie up The Dinghy properly with half hitches and take in the rowlocks. And put the oars under the thwart. You can’t count on the weather. Sometime we’re going to row out when it’s blowing, hopefully with the wind at our backs. I know how to do it. You hold The Dinghy steady with the oars and just let it go, because the waves are coming behind you, from the stern. But that will be somewhat later.

  6

  On Monday, the others were in town and there was a storm that night. Hilma sleeps in the kitchen, and when she’s asleep she doesn’t hear a thing. I lay there under my quilt and thought about all those in peril on the sea, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, but in the end I only thought about me. The whole cottage was shaking. The storm surrounded the house and wanted to come in. It howled. I tried to find words for the storm. Mostly, it howls. But it can whine too, which could just be the stovepipe on the tile stove. I lifted my head so I could hear better and I came up with “shriek”, the storm shrieks, that’s a good word for it. It complains, that sounds right. It shouts? No, wrong. I started getting interested. I went out into the hall and opened the door just a crack but it blew wide open. Now the storm seemed far way and sounded completely different. I gave it new words: You roar. You rumble. You hiss like a cat! And sometimes you’re quiet and just wait, and then you thunder! I made up my own words for the storm but now I’ve forgotten them. Anyway, I can make new ones next time. Because now I know how!

  7

  I think when I have a daughter, I’ll teach her to whistle. It could be useful to whistle to each other in case we lost track of each other in the woods. If she doesn’t answer, then I’ll know she wants to be left alone. If she goes out in The Dinghy, I won’t row after her and bring her home if it starts to blow. I won’t make her pick blueberries, but she can pick mushrooms because that’s fun. My daughter can wear any old trousers she wants to, and she can talk back to me, though not too much. She will look like me but prettier. Autumn is coming, so I won’t write any more today. 8 I’ve discovered how to rhyme, it’s really easy. Listen to this:

  That old lady’s such a hag

  She just makes me want to gag.

  I won’t say who I’m thinking of.

  Or how about:

  Deep black water is a fright

  And it’s even worse at night.

  I think that one’s really good.

  Or you can make it longer, for example like this:

  I think that one day I’ll declare without so much as blinking Exactly what it is I want and what it is I’m thinking.

  You just have to hum it – ta di da di da di da – and then it comes to you. I figured that out today.

  9

  I’ve painted murals in the woodshed. It was quiet there because they’d already chopped all the wood for winter. The woodshed has good walls to paint on. The wood is old and it takes red lead and net dye and tar really well. I found brushes in the boathouse. It’s very important to put the brushes in a jar with turpentine over night. Some people forget to do that and then they find out what happens. I started at the top because I noticed that when the paint runs it can make new ideas further down. I had fun and no one came in. I painted as horrible as I could and it turned out pretty good. As soon as you come in you see the Loch Ness Monster rising out of the sea, she’s the biggest of them. Red paint is running out of her mouth because she’s just eaten some tourists. Above her, near the roof, are some black fighter planes in formation, like migrating geese. It creates an Effect. In the north corner I had some ghosts, but they didn’t turn out well. Maybe I’ll paint over them. I put in little Monsters here and there as the paint started to dry but they’re a little sketchy. This time of year the sunset comes straight in through the window and then my murals start to glow. It’s kind of a shame I can’t show them to anyone. But I know what would happen. Either they’d scold me or else praise me. And then it wouldn’t be the same any more. Since the summer is over tomorrow, I’ve nailed shut the door to the woodshed. Sometimes it’s good to make a decision. But I’m going to show the murals to my daughter.

  The Pictures

  YTTERBY LAY AT THE FAR END of the moor. The post came three times a week, and Victor’s papa signed for people’s registered letters, if there were any, and put everything on the veranda table where they could find their letters and newspapers whenever they came by. Otherwise, he had nothing to do with the other villagers.

  The registered letter about Victor’s scholarship came on a Tuesday in the first week of November.

  That same evening, Papa wrote the date in his notebook, along with the following facts: “With the help of a correspondence course and thanks to the exhibition ‘Young Painters’ in the capital, along with an evaluation from the State Committee on Art, my son Victor has been awarded a trip abroad, including round trip fare and seven weeks’ exclusive use of a private studio. Victor read the letter first and then I.”

&nbs
p; Papa put the notebook aside. A little later he took it out again and continued writing, rapidly: “My dear son, my dear distant, silent son: as you can see, I have used this notebook to make a strictly factual record of everything that has happened to you since the year after your birth, the way I suppose your mother would have done if she had not died (R.I.P.). So I have catalogued your somewhat difficult childhood (and what childhood is not difficult?), but now, because the Letter has come, I will permit myself to be a little more outspoken, in other words, to say what I mean. I love you, but I am a little tired of your remoteness and tired of the pictures that you so jealously conceal. I find the same lack of generosity in your silence.”

  Papa paused. He crossed out and started again. “I never ask and you never ask, why don’t you ask, is it that too many words make you silent? In any case you could say, for example – ‘Papa, your horrors don’t exist, you just imagine them,’ and I could defend myself and explain quite calmly and say believe me, they do exist. Have you never ever seen an apparition, the other face behind your own in the mirror, a hideous enlargement of your own conscience, no of course you haven’t … People think I’m odd, not to be taken seriously. They’ve never heard the footsteps that follow a person, that stop when you stop and then start again … Are you ashamed of me? You who help them with their everyday chores, their silly henhouses … But wait! Now everything is different, we’re being set free.”

  Papa tore out the whole page, then shouted, “Victor! Come here! Come here, I want to talk to you.”

  He looked at his son, yes, they were much alike, broad eyebrows, very light eyes, hesitant mouths. But his hair was his mother’s, black.

  Papa then reported, as a direct challenge, “They followed me all the way home, but I paid no attention. That annoyed them. One of them flew – very close to the ground.” He observed his son intently, and he thought, Who am I bluffing, you or myself? Doesn’t matter. But say something! You’re getting away from here, you little bastard, but you might at least argue with me or agree that I see, that I sense these … these companions, and without waiting for an answer, Papa continued. “I want to see your pictures. I want to look at them now, again, and take my time.”