it, it’s the same look he had in the car, after he had kissed me, suddenly I realize he might be thinking exactly the same thing as me, perhaps he’s finding this just as difficult as I am.
He nods, gets up slowly from the sofa.
“Yes,” he says. “That is what I think, unfortunately.”
I am woken by the noise of the vacuum cleaner, Gabriel is up early and doing the housework. He nods to me from the living room, where he is vacuuming the old Oriental rug that covers almost the entire floor.
I get myself some breakfast, make a sandwich, put the coffee on. When I open the cupboard door under the sink where the trash bag is kept, a cloud of tiny flies swirls out and a heavy, sweet stench hits my nostrils. This is the time of year they call the dog days, and with the unusual heat as well, everything goes bad straightaway. Stella mentioned it at dinner last night, the fact that it’s barely possible to harvest anything because it’s ruined almost immediately, they’d been talking about it on the news, weary farmers in Skåne with rotting vegetable crops. I wave my hand in the air to disperse the swarm of flies, then I holdmy breath and tie the bag tightly before placing it in the doorway between the living room and the patio so that I won’t forget to throw it out.
I eat my breakfast on the patio, I open Gabriel’s book and begin to read. It’s exciting from the very first page, creepily unpleasant, I think how strange it is that I don’t remember it more clearly. One of the chapters ends with a short sex scene between the principal male character and a younger woman, I read it several times, feeling my cheeks burn.
Gabriel comes out onto the patio after a while, he looks hot, his thick hair is tousled. He shakes his head.
“That will have to do,” he says to me, as if he wants me to agree with him, so I do.
“I’m sure it will.”
“It’s crazy, cleaning in this weather.”
Then he notices what I’m reading, he reaches for the book, regards it with a critical expression.
“It hasn’t aged very well, has it?” he says, looking at me.
“I was just thinking it was better than I remembered.”
“Stella hates it.”
I can tell from the tone of his voice that he isn’t joking, there’s the tiniest hint of bitterness there, and disappointment, a disappointment that has become a habit.
“Of course she doesn’t,” I say anyway, and he nods.
“She does. She hates the main character. I think she hates the story too, she hasn’t said so, but that’s what I think. Sometimes I don’t know …”
He falls silent, looking at me with a searching expression.
“What?”
“Sometimes I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to make her happy,” he says, more quietly.
“She doesn’t always show her appreciation very clearly,” I say, also more quietly, as if I am afraid Stella might hear, although she isn’t even home. “She never has.”
He clears his throat.
“The cover is good anyway,” he says cheerfully, drumming his fingers on the woman on the front.
“Absolutely.”
“Do you know the story of this painting?”
“No.”
“Her name was Elizabeth. She was married to Rossetti,” he says, placing the tip of his forefinger on the drowned woman’s chest. “And she sat for Millais. Or lay , to be more precise … in a bath full of cold water, looking as if she’d drowned, for several weeks. She got sick after that, she got pneumonia and died.”
You can almost see it in her face, I think as I gaze at the cover, it looks gruesome. Her mouth is open, and her eyes, open but motionless, her face looksparalyzed as if it has stiffened in a moment of panic, as if she screamed out loud at the moment she realized she was actually in the process of dying. A penetrating scream, I think, a scream that would frighten the birds in the nearby bushes, making them take off in terror in a surge of beating wings, making the slow worms wriggle beneath stones and ferns and the rabbits hide
He nods, gets up slowly from the sofa.
“Yes,” he says. “That is what I think, unfortunately.”
I am woken by the noise of the vacuum cleaner, Gabriel is up early and doing the housework. He nods to me from the living room, where he is vacuuming the old Oriental rug that covers almost the entire floor.
I get myself some breakfast, make a sandwich, put the coffee on. When I open the cupboard door under the sink where the trash bag is kept, a cloud of tiny flies swirls out and a heavy, sweet stench hits my nostrils. This is the time of year they call the dog days, and with the unusual heat as well, everything goes bad straightaway. Stella mentioned it at dinner last night, the fact that it’s barely possible to harvest anything because it’s ruined almost immediately, they’d been talking about it on the news, weary farmers in Skåne with rotting vegetable crops. I wave my hand in the air to disperse the swarm of flies, then I holdmy breath and tie the bag tightly before placing it in the doorway between the living room and the patio so that I won’t forget to throw it out.
I eat my breakfast on the patio, I open Gabriel’s book and begin to read. It’s exciting from the very first page, creepily unpleasant, I think how strange it is that I don’t remember it more clearly. One of the chapters ends with a short sex scene between the principal male character and a younger woman, I read it several times, feeling my cheeks burn.
Gabriel comes out onto the patio after a while, he looks hot, his thick hair is tousled. He shakes his head.
“That will have to do,” he says to me, as if he wants me to agree with him, so I do.
“I’m sure it will.”
“It’s crazy, cleaning in this weather.”
Then he notices what I’m reading, he reaches for the book, regards it with a critical expression.
“It hasn’t aged very well, has it?” he says, looking at me.
“I was just thinking it was better than I remembered.”
“Stella hates it.”
I can tell from the tone of his voice that he isn’t joking, there’s the tiniest hint of bitterness there, and disappointment, a disappointment that has become a habit.
“Of course she doesn’t,” I say anyway, and he nods.
“She does. She hates the main character. I think she hates the story too, she hasn’t said so, but that’s what I think. Sometimes I don’t know …”
He falls silent, looking at me with a searching expression.
“What?”
“Sometimes I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to make her happy,” he says, more quietly.
“She doesn’t always show her appreciation very clearly,” I say, also more quietly, as if I am afraid Stella might hear, although she isn’t even home. “She never has.”
He clears his throat.
“The cover is good anyway,” he says cheerfully, drumming his fingers on the woman on the front.
“Absolutely.”
“Do you know the story of this painting?”
“No.”
“Her name was Elizabeth. She was married to Rossetti,” he says, placing the tip of his forefinger on the drowned woman’s chest. “And she sat for Millais. Or lay , to be more precise … in a bath full of cold water, looking as if she’d drowned, for several weeks. She got sick after that, she got pneumonia and died.”
You can almost see it in her face, I think as I gaze at the cover, it looks gruesome. Her mouth is open, and her eyes, open but motionless, her face looksparalyzed as if it has stiffened in a moment of panic, as if she screamed out loud at the moment she realized she was actually in the process of dying. A penetrating scream, I think, a scream that would frighten the birds in the nearby bushes, making them take off in terror in a surge of beating wings, making the slow worms wriggle beneath stones and ferns and the rabbits hide
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