to find out in one of her many medical books whether the white flecks on Kristiane’s front teeth might be symptoms of too much milk or any other imbalance in her diet. Anxiety, bad conscience, and the feeling of never being good enough were all part of her normal frame of mind, and she had grown accustomed to living with it.
But this was different.
There in the dark, quiet room, with the heat from Adam’s body against her back and the barely audible breathing of her sleeping daughter to remind her of everyday joys and security, she couldn’t put her finger on what was making her uneasy, a feeling that she knew something she did not want to remember.
“What’s the matter?” Adam whispered.
“Nothing,” she said quietly and closed the bedroom door again gently.
It was years since she had dared to drink coffee on a plane. But the tempting aroma of coffee had filled the cabin so quickly that she wondered if they had a barista on board.
The flight attendant responsible for her row must have weighed well over two hundred pounds. He was sweating like a pig. Normally she would have been disgusted by the unsightly rings of damp that were visible on the pale shirt fabric. She had nothing against male stewards. But she would prefer the more feminine type, thought the large lady who was now standing and staring southeast from her panorama windows on the hills above Villefranche. Pants-wearing stewards often had a slight gay twist of the wrist and chose aftershaves that were more like light spring perfumes than masculine musks. This red-haired boar was therefore an obvious exception. She would normally have ignored him. But the smell of coffee had undone her. She had asked for a refill three times and smiled.
And even the wine tasted good.
She had recently discovered that the prices the wine monopoly in Norway charged for goods that had been so carefully and expensively imported were in fact the same as in any old wine shop in the Old Town. Unbelievable, she thought, but true. That afternoon she had opened a twenty-five-euro bottle of wine and drunk a glass. She couldn’t remember tasting a better wine. The man in the shop had assured her that the bottle could stand open for a day or two. She hoped he was right.
All these years, she thought, and stroked her hair. All the projects that had never given her more than money and a headache. All her knowledge that had never been used for anything other than entertaining other people.
This morning she had felt the edge of winter in the air. February was the coldest month on the Riviera. The sea was no longer azure blue. The dirty gray foam lapped tamely at her feet as she walked along the beaches and enjoyed the solitude. Most of the trees had finally lost their leaves. Only the odd pine tree shone green along the roads. Even the path to St. Jean, where noisy, well-dressed children with willowy mothers and wealthy fathers usually shattered the idyll, was empty and desolate. She stopped frequently. Sometimes she lit a cigarette, even though she had stopped smoking years ago now. A slight taste of tar stuck to her tongue. It tasted good.
She had started walking. The restlessness that had plagued her for as long as she could remember felt different now. It was as if she finally understood herself now, understood the feeling of existing in a vacuum of waiting. She had wasted years of her life waiting for something that would never happen, she thought to herself as she stood at the window, holding her hand up against the cool glass.
“For things just to happen,” she whispered and saw a brief gray hint of breath on the windowpane.
She still felt restless, a vague tension in her body. But the unease that had previously gotten her down and pulled her away had now been replaced by an invigorating fear.
“Fear,” she whispered with satisfaction and caressed the glass with slow hand movements.
She chose the word carefully. A good, exhilarating, bright fear was what she felt.
But this was different.
There in the dark, quiet room, with the heat from Adam’s body against her back and the barely audible breathing of her sleeping daughter to remind her of everyday joys and security, she couldn’t put her finger on what was making her uneasy, a feeling that she knew something she did not want to remember.
“What’s the matter?” Adam whispered.
“Nothing,” she said quietly and closed the bedroom door again gently.
It was years since she had dared to drink coffee on a plane. But the tempting aroma of coffee had filled the cabin so quickly that she wondered if they had a barista on board.
The flight attendant responsible for her row must have weighed well over two hundred pounds. He was sweating like a pig. Normally she would have been disgusted by the unsightly rings of damp that were visible on the pale shirt fabric. She had nothing against male stewards. But she would prefer the more feminine type, thought the large lady who was now standing and staring southeast from her panorama windows on the hills above Villefranche. Pants-wearing stewards often had a slight gay twist of the wrist and chose aftershaves that were more like light spring perfumes than masculine musks. This red-haired boar was therefore an obvious exception. She would normally have ignored him. But the smell of coffee had undone her. She had asked for a refill three times and smiled.
And even the wine tasted good.
She had recently discovered that the prices the wine monopoly in Norway charged for goods that had been so carefully and expensively imported were in fact the same as in any old wine shop in the Old Town. Unbelievable, she thought, but true. That afternoon she had opened a twenty-five-euro bottle of wine and drunk a glass. She couldn’t remember tasting a better wine. The man in the shop had assured her that the bottle could stand open for a day or two. She hoped he was right.
All these years, she thought, and stroked her hair. All the projects that had never given her more than money and a headache. All her knowledge that had never been used for anything other than entertaining other people.
This morning she had felt the edge of winter in the air. February was the coldest month on the Riviera. The sea was no longer azure blue. The dirty gray foam lapped tamely at her feet as she walked along the beaches and enjoyed the solitude. Most of the trees had finally lost their leaves. Only the odd pine tree shone green along the roads. Even the path to St. Jean, where noisy, well-dressed children with willowy mothers and wealthy fathers usually shattered the idyll, was empty and desolate. She stopped frequently. Sometimes she lit a cigarette, even though she had stopped smoking years ago now. A slight taste of tar stuck to her tongue. It tasted good.
She had started walking. The restlessness that had plagued her for as long as she could remember felt different now. It was as if she finally understood herself now, understood the feeling of existing in a vacuum of waiting. She had wasted years of her life waiting for something that would never happen, she thought to herself as she stood at the window, holding her hand up against the cool glass.
“For things just to happen,” she whispered and saw a brief gray hint of breath on the windowpane.
She still felt restless, a vague tension in her body. But the unease that had previously gotten her down and pulled her away had now been replaced by an invigorating fear.
“Fear,” she whispered with satisfaction and caressed the glass with slow hand movements.
She chose the word carefully. A good, exhilarating, bright fear was what she felt.
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