I reached for it, Pernille said, ‘Isn’t that a lovely picture? It’s Halland as a boy – with a maverick!’
Without so much as a glance in her direction, I crumpled the photograph in my hand. Maverick indeed .
‘What are you doing?!’ she burst out.
‘None of your business!’ I said. ‘I’m leaving. I need to get these things down to the car, and then I’ll be off.’
‘And you will drive yourself?’
I didn’t reply.
18
‘And all the while, I suppose,’ he thought, ‘real people were living somewhere, and real things happening to them…’
Edith Wharton, THE AGE OF INNOCENCE
Halfway home I stopped at a service station for a sandwich consisting of meat and a disgusting white undefinable spread. Sitting in the fading light and watching people fill up with petrol in the dreary weather, I drank a bottle of water. Then I switched on the car’s interior light. Martin Guerre was rolled up lengthwise on the back seat. On the passenger seat lay Halland’s computer bag, his redirected post and the black notebook. ‘The most wonderful thing , indeed!’ I flicked through the pages again, skimming over entries describing a journey. A firm hand, blue biro, no dates, just days of the week.
We’re sitting waiting at a dark station, looking forward to going home, though no one awaits us there, or because no one awaits us there; we’re self-contained , as everyone should be allowed to be once or twice in their lives. We had bought some things for a picnic: a bottle of wine, a crusty loaf, two types of cheese, fragrant tomatoes that burst and drip. We had a compartment to ourselves, and when the conductor asked to see our tickets we were already half drunk and in high spirits; I imagined him rather envious in a friendly sort of way. He explained something I understood, but I didn’t let it sink in. I thought we had plenty of time, and anyway we had to eat the food first. When I staggered out to the toilet, the wine and the train and the joy made me uncertain on my feet. And to my great delight I deposited the biggest, well-formed turd I had ever seen into the toilet bowl. I looked at it with contentment and was only sorry that I couldn’t tell anybody about it. And then, just as I was about to let it slide from the bowl onto the tracks below, I realized that we were standing at a station. Flushing the toilet was forbidden. On my way back to the compartment I passed only empty seats; I opened a window in the corridor and stuck my head out to see how far we’d come, then called out that – according to the conductor’s orders – we must go to the front of the train. We ran as fast as we could with the suitcase and clutching the food, but we were too late. At the end of the carriage we came to nothing. We had been uncoupled and the rest of the train had left. And yet we were happy; it was the most wonderful thing.
I recognized the handwriting. I couldn’t breathe. That’s enough. Secret pregnant nieces. Secret rooms. And what kind of secret was this? Maverick? I know what goes on in Halland’s mind. I fell in love with him, of course I know. I can read his slightest passing thought; I can sense him without touching. I can hear the modulations in his voice when we speak on the phone, and I know exactly what each of them means. Such is true love.
It was time to go home. I got out of the car and strode across to a bin and dropped in the bottle and sandwich wrapper. I liked the smell of service stations. A smell that could make me cry.
The rest of the way home, I sang snippets of all the hymns I could remember, and when the words ran out I sang on unabated: Halland, oh Halland, oh why and wherefore, and glorious Halland, oh Halland, ha ha, and ye noble Martin Guerre, oh Halland the dwarf, a riddle was he, what is it that leaves and never comes back…
I parked on the square and sat for a while before opening the car door. My hands were sore from gripping the wheel. I had avoided the funeral
Without so much as a glance in her direction, I crumpled the photograph in my hand. Maverick indeed .
‘What are you doing?!’ she burst out.
‘None of your business!’ I said. ‘I’m leaving. I need to get these things down to the car, and then I’ll be off.’
‘And you will drive yourself?’
I didn’t reply.
18
‘And all the while, I suppose,’ he thought, ‘real people were living somewhere, and real things happening to them…’
Edith Wharton, THE AGE OF INNOCENCE
Halfway home I stopped at a service station for a sandwich consisting of meat and a disgusting white undefinable spread. Sitting in the fading light and watching people fill up with petrol in the dreary weather, I drank a bottle of water. Then I switched on the car’s interior light. Martin Guerre was rolled up lengthwise on the back seat. On the passenger seat lay Halland’s computer bag, his redirected post and the black notebook. ‘The most wonderful thing , indeed!’ I flicked through the pages again, skimming over entries describing a journey. A firm hand, blue biro, no dates, just days of the week.
We’re sitting waiting at a dark station, looking forward to going home, though no one awaits us there, or because no one awaits us there; we’re self-contained , as everyone should be allowed to be once or twice in their lives. We had bought some things for a picnic: a bottle of wine, a crusty loaf, two types of cheese, fragrant tomatoes that burst and drip. We had a compartment to ourselves, and when the conductor asked to see our tickets we were already half drunk and in high spirits; I imagined him rather envious in a friendly sort of way. He explained something I understood, but I didn’t let it sink in. I thought we had plenty of time, and anyway we had to eat the food first. When I staggered out to the toilet, the wine and the train and the joy made me uncertain on my feet. And to my great delight I deposited the biggest, well-formed turd I had ever seen into the toilet bowl. I looked at it with contentment and was only sorry that I couldn’t tell anybody about it. And then, just as I was about to let it slide from the bowl onto the tracks below, I realized that we were standing at a station. Flushing the toilet was forbidden. On my way back to the compartment I passed only empty seats; I opened a window in the corridor and stuck my head out to see how far we’d come, then called out that – according to the conductor’s orders – we must go to the front of the train. We ran as fast as we could with the suitcase and clutching the food, but we were too late. At the end of the carriage we came to nothing. We had been uncoupled and the rest of the train had left. And yet we were happy; it was the most wonderful thing.
I recognized the handwriting. I couldn’t breathe. That’s enough. Secret pregnant nieces. Secret rooms. And what kind of secret was this? Maverick? I know what goes on in Halland’s mind. I fell in love with him, of course I know. I can read his slightest passing thought; I can sense him without touching. I can hear the modulations in his voice when we speak on the phone, and I know exactly what each of them means. Such is true love.
It was time to go home. I got out of the car and strode across to a bin and dropped in the bottle and sandwich wrapper. I liked the smell of service stations. A smell that could make me cry.
The rest of the way home, I sang snippets of all the hymns I could remember, and when the words ran out I sang on unabated: Halland, oh Halland, oh why and wherefore, and glorious Halland, oh Halland, ha ha, and ye noble Martin Guerre, oh Halland the dwarf, a riddle was he, what is it that leaves and never comes back…
I parked on the square and sat for a while before opening the car door. My hands were sore from gripping the wheel. I had avoided the funeral
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