Because Margrete lay in Lily’s lap, and she was healthy and fine and lovely. Lily looked up quickly. She made a strange sound, the kind an injured cat makes when it snarls. The kettle whistled and he stood. But when he reached the kitchen, he left the kettle and opened the fridge instead. He returned with a bottle of beer in his hand. Lily looked at him wide-eyed.
‘You’re going to have a beer now?’
He put the bottle to his lips. He felt very gloomy.
‘What if you have to drive?’ she snapped.
He drained half the bottle before putting it down with a bang. ‘Why would I have to drive?’
‘If something happens,’ she said, rocking Margrete.
‘What would happen now?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s four in the morning.’
She pulled the blanket tighter around her, as if to demonstrate her vulnerability. ‘Anything can happen,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you realised that yet?’
He finished his beer. She’s spooked out of her wits, he thought. And I’m angry. She’s sulking like a child, and I’m growling like a dog. This can’t be happening. We’ve got to sleep. We’ve got to put Margrete to bed. We’ve got to move on. There are so many things we want to do.
‘If you don’t start sleeping soon, maybe we can get our hands on some sleeping pills.’
‘Sleeping pills?’ She rolled her eyes at this offensive suggestion. ‘Then I couldn’t be alert.’
‘But I’m right beside you. I’ll wake at even the faintest sound. I’ll take care of you two.’
‘He came while we were eating,’ she reminded him, ‘and we didn’t hear a thing.’
Karsten leaned across the table and looked at her. ‘Yes, Lily. He did. But he’s not coming back. Can’t we agree on that? Come, let’s go back to bed. I know you’re suffering. You’re probably in shock. But you need to pull yourself together.’
Finally she pushed the blanket away and got up. He turned off the lamp and followed her into the bedroom. She put Margrete between them in the bed, and did so with a glance that thwarted any protest. Then she flicked on the lamp that was on her side of the bed.
‘I’m going to read for a bit,’ she said, ‘but you can go to sleep. If you’re so tired.’
She seemed to imply that he should be ashamed of himself. Because he was so tired. Karsten felt the urge to lash out at what had happened to them. What had happened to Margrete was certainly terrible – he was the first to say it. What he’d seen when he came out to the garden, Lily on the ground screaming, the child under the blanket, bloody as slaughter, he would never forget it, never. But what about the rest of our lives? he thought. We’ve got to find some kind of order. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the light bothered him. And each time she flipped a page the riffling of paper was like a clap of thunder to him. The sound rumbled through his head. Maybe we’ll end up raving mad, he thought. Maybe that was what he wanted, the one who’d come from the forest.
Gunilla Mørk had celebrated her seventieth birthday with her children and friends and neighbours, and now she was glad it was over. The platter she’d ordered from the cafe was quite excellent, so too the cake table to which she had contributed a delicious marzipan ring. Will I make it to eighty? she wondered, looking out of the kitchen window. Many don’t live that long, and it’s not a given that I will either. As active, agile and clear-headed as I am.
The sky was bright blue, and the sun was rising. God has given us another gorgeous day, she thought. I must make the most of it. It is our duty as human beings: we must appreciate the good things. And if we don’t, we’d better have a good reason. This was Gunilla Mørk’s philosophy of life. But because she’d turned seventy, she had also begun thinking of death. It hung over her like a dark cloud, and wouldn’t give her peace. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, this darkness came to her and disturbed
‘You’re going to have a beer now?’
He put the bottle to his lips. He felt very gloomy.
‘What if you have to drive?’ she snapped.
He drained half the bottle before putting it down with a bang. ‘Why would I have to drive?’
‘If something happens,’ she said, rocking Margrete.
‘What would happen now?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s four in the morning.’
She pulled the blanket tighter around her, as if to demonstrate her vulnerability. ‘Anything can happen,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you realised that yet?’
He finished his beer. She’s spooked out of her wits, he thought. And I’m angry. She’s sulking like a child, and I’m growling like a dog. This can’t be happening. We’ve got to sleep. We’ve got to put Margrete to bed. We’ve got to move on. There are so many things we want to do.
‘If you don’t start sleeping soon, maybe we can get our hands on some sleeping pills.’
‘Sleeping pills?’ She rolled her eyes at this offensive suggestion. ‘Then I couldn’t be alert.’
‘But I’m right beside you. I’ll wake at even the faintest sound. I’ll take care of you two.’
‘He came while we were eating,’ she reminded him, ‘and we didn’t hear a thing.’
Karsten leaned across the table and looked at her. ‘Yes, Lily. He did. But he’s not coming back. Can’t we agree on that? Come, let’s go back to bed. I know you’re suffering. You’re probably in shock. But you need to pull yourself together.’
Finally she pushed the blanket away and got up. He turned off the lamp and followed her into the bedroom. She put Margrete between them in the bed, and did so with a glance that thwarted any protest. Then she flicked on the lamp that was on her side of the bed.
‘I’m going to read for a bit,’ she said, ‘but you can go to sleep. If you’re so tired.’
She seemed to imply that he should be ashamed of himself. Because he was so tired. Karsten felt the urge to lash out at what had happened to them. What had happened to Margrete was certainly terrible – he was the first to say it. What he’d seen when he came out to the garden, Lily on the ground screaming, the child under the blanket, bloody as slaughter, he would never forget it, never. But what about the rest of our lives? he thought. We’ve got to find some kind of order. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the light bothered him. And each time she flipped a page the riffling of paper was like a clap of thunder to him. The sound rumbled through his head. Maybe we’ll end up raving mad, he thought. Maybe that was what he wanted, the one who’d come from the forest.
Gunilla Mørk had celebrated her seventieth birthday with her children and friends and neighbours, and now she was glad it was over. The platter she’d ordered from the cafe was quite excellent, so too the cake table to which she had contributed a delicious marzipan ring. Will I make it to eighty? she wondered, looking out of the kitchen window. Many don’t live that long, and it’s not a given that I will either. As active, agile and clear-headed as I am.
The sky was bright blue, and the sun was rising. God has given us another gorgeous day, she thought. I must make the most of it. It is our duty as human beings: we must appreciate the good things. And if we don’t, we’d better have a good reason. This was Gunilla Mørk’s philosophy of life. But because she’d turned seventy, she had also begun thinking of death. It hung over her like a dark cloud, and wouldn’t give her peace. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, this darkness came to her and disturbed
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