Read Online Stella Descending by Linn Ullmann - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Linn Ullmann
Tags: Fiction
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another night out of sheer politeness.”
“Right,” I said.
And so we sat there in my living room, listening to Mahler, this conceited young ass and me. He probably wasn’t all that bad once you got to know him—which I, of course, never did because we never did it again. We nodded politely when we bumped into each other on the stairs, but we never did it again—and then, a few months ago, he moved out, leaving behind his wife, his children, and the dog. I don’t know where he went. We did not say goodbye.
Since then it has occurred to me that I should possibly have played Schubert instead. It doesn’t do to be too stirred up when you listen to Mahler. Schubert might have given him more joy . . . or solace. Sometimes when I say joy, I mean solace.
Amanda
“Shut your eyes, Bee,” I say.
“They are shut,” says Bee.
“When you’re alone with the ostrich king, you have to imagine that Mamma is close by. Not right here, but close by.”
“Okay,” says Bee. “But she’s dead, really, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s right.”
Bee looks at the ceiling.
“But that doesn’t mean she’s not close by,” I say. “When you’re alone, you have to imagine that her arms are long, thousands of times longer than wings, thousands of times longer than my hair and your hair; her arms are so long that she can reach out any time, take you by the hand, and lead you away.”
Axel
When she came back from the trip to Høylandet she was different. I don’t know whether this change was due to the new surroundings—my apartment, instead of the sterile hospital room to which we had both grown accustomed—or whether it was something else, something that was, to me, intangible, unmanageable. More than once I came close to canceling our coffee klatch. The night before, I couldn’t sleep and my stomach ached. In the morning, after I had bathed and dressed, I walked down to the corner store, picked up freshly ground coffee and milk, and bought a layer cake from the patisserie. I decked the coffee table with candles, a cloth, and china. I tidied up and vacuumed, plumped the cushions, and folded the red plaid rug.
Ten minutes before she was supposed to arrive, I sank into a chair and burst into tears.
She rang the bell at one o’clock on the dot. It was a glorious, sunny, frozen Saturday in February. The first thing that struck me was that I had to raise my head to look her in the eye. She towered over me. Up to that point our relationship had been defined by the fact that I lay propped up in a hospital bed, tucked into a nest of white pillows and quilts, while she sat on the edge in her white uniform. Now she was wearing a yellow polo-neck sweater and a long black skirt. Her cheeks were apricot-pink and wet with tears from the winter wind, her eyes sparkling, her long fair hair caught up in a loose knot. She laid her hands on my shoulders and planted a kiss on my brow.
“I brought some fresh rolls.” She smiled. “Baked them myself!”
I pulled away from her and muttered something about making the coffee. Back in the kitchen, I stared numbly at the layer cake I had set out on a dish, ready to serve. I almost started to cry again. She was bound to think it ridiculous, over the top; she had brought fresh-baked rolls, clearly far more appropriate for a simple cup of coffee. Layer cake indeed! It was hardly as if anyone was celebrating a birthday! Hardly as if there was anything to celebrate at all. To serve a layer cake would be to give her the idea that I expected a great deal of this visit. It would put far too much pressure on an already strained situation. So I opened the cabinet under the sink, grabbed the serving dish, and tipped the cake into the garbage. I was licking the icing off my fingers when she appeared at my back.
“What a lovely apartment, Axel.”
She looked at me, looked at the empty cake dish, looked at the open door, the cabinet under the sink. “Don’t tell me you’ve been
“Right,” I said.
And so we sat there in my living room, listening to Mahler, this conceited young ass and me. He probably wasn’t all that bad once you got to know him—which I, of course, never did because we never did it again. We nodded politely when we bumped into each other on the stairs, but we never did it again—and then, a few months ago, he moved out, leaving behind his wife, his children, and the dog. I don’t know where he went. We did not say goodbye.
Since then it has occurred to me that I should possibly have played Schubert instead. It doesn’t do to be too stirred up when you listen to Mahler. Schubert might have given him more joy . . . or solace. Sometimes when I say joy, I mean solace.
Amanda
“Shut your eyes, Bee,” I say.
“They are shut,” says Bee.
“When you’re alone with the ostrich king, you have to imagine that Mamma is close by. Not right here, but close by.”
“Okay,” says Bee. “But she’s dead, really, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s right.”
Bee looks at the ceiling.
“But that doesn’t mean she’s not close by,” I say. “When you’re alone, you have to imagine that her arms are long, thousands of times longer than wings, thousands of times longer than my hair and your hair; her arms are so long that she can reach out any time, take you by the hand, and lead you away.”
Axel
When she came back from the trip to Høylandet she was different. I don’t know whether this change was due to the new surroundings—my apartment, instead of the sterile hospital room to which we had both grown accustomed—or whether it was something else, something that was, to me, intangible, unmanageable. More than once I came close to canceling our coffee klatch. The night before, I couldn’t sleep and my stomach ached. In the morning, after I had bathed and dressed, I walked down to the corner store, picked up freshly ground coffee and milk, and bought a layer cake from the patisserie. I decked the coffee table with candles, a cloth, and china. I tidied up and vacuumed, plumped the cushions, and folded the red plaid rug.
Ten minutes before she was supposed to arrive, I sank into a chair and burst into tears.
She rang the bell at one o’clock on the dot. It was a glorious, sunny, frozen Saturday in February. The first thing that struck me was that I had to raise my head to look her in the eye. She towered over me. Up to that point our relationship had been defined by the fact that I lay propped up in a hospital bed, tucked into a nest of white pillows and quilts, while she sat on the edge in her white uniform. Now she was wearing a yellow polo-neck sweater and a long black skirt. Her cheeks were apricot-pink and wet with tears from the winter wind, her eyes sparkling, her long fair hair caught up in a loose knot. She laid her hands on my shoulders and planted a kiss on my brow.
“I brought some fresh rolls.” She smiled. “Baked them myself!”
I pulled away from her and muttered something about making the coffee. Back in the kitchen, I stared numbly at the layer cake I had set out on a dish, ready to serve. I almost started to cry again. She was bound to think it ridiculous, over the top; she had brought fresh-baked rolls, clearly far more appropriate for a simple cup of coffee. Layer cake indeed! It was hardly as if anyone was celebrating a birthday! Hardly as if there was anything to celebrate at all. To serve a layer cake would be to give her the idea that I expected a great deal of this visit. It would put far too much pressure on an already strained situation. So I opened the cabinet under the sink, grabbed the serving dish, and tipped the cake into the garbage. I was licking the icing off my fingers when she appeared at my back.
“What a lovely apartment, Axel.”
She looked at me, looked at the empty cake dish, looked at the open door, the cabinet under the sink. “Don’t tell me you’ve been
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