After this, peace reigned supreme in the living room for a long while. Boletta went to the bathroom; she shuffled over the floor as if she couldn’t be bothered lifting her feet. But she ran back. “Vera’s had it!” she cried. The Old One listened. “What’s that you said?” “You heard me well enough! Vera’s had her bleeding!” Boletta held out the bloodied towel. The Old One folded her hands and had to sit down.
“God be praised,” she whispered. “The King has come back, and Vera has menstruated. Now life can go back to normal again.”
The Clock
And I can feel someone’s breath on my neck now, I feel their breath, though this still isn’t my story — I haven’t made my appearance yet. I’m not on the track, out in the warmth — and even when I do get there, out onto the track, I’ll no doubt get caught up in reams of detail like the slowpoke I am. A lace that breaks on the way to dancing classes, the vicar I stick my tongue out at, right in front of Majorstuen Church, a lemonade bottle I have to get my money back on from Esther in the kiosk — all these things, all this that some will believe is meaningless, missing the point, a roundabout way of saying things simply — but that may be just as much the mysterious passive perspective necessary in all stories, from the stillness somewhere at one side. It’s right there that I intend to sit and listen to all you others, but you won’t be able to see me. And it’s in this quiet I hear the Old One saying, over and over again, Now life can go back to normal again. Because they believe everything is as it should be. They think that Vera is herself again. She has bled as normal and everything will be as it was before. The red slippers are neatly positioned beside the divan. The Palace flag is hoisted. The moon is hanging from a branch over Aker, and once again a day has exactly twenty-four hours. Because for five years of war time has been out of action. War took time prisoner and cut it up, second by second, minute by minute. War is precise. War is from hand to mouth. War is made of moments, of little happenings. But now they can put time together again, wind it up and make it go. The Old One buys more Malaga at the Majorstuen “pole.” Boletta keeps on reading from the Telegraph Service Handbook, until her headache hammers inside her like a woodpecker. And at the Exchange she avoids Director Egede because she still hasn’t said whether or not she’ll accept the new position. Vera sleeps in every morning. Then, without any sense of joy, she gets up. She drags herself slowly through the apartment. She puts on big sweaters and loose jackets even though the weather is becoming warmer and warmer. Some say it’s set to be the hottest summer of the century, and there’s a reason for that, for this is the summer the people deserve. She barely eats, preferring to feel her own lightness; she would rather grow inward and get closer to her own shadow. From the kitchen she can see that there are new curtains in Rakel’s apartment — dark-red — but she still hasn’t seen anyone inside. Down in the yard the clotheslines are crammed with winter garments and sheets; the caretaker walks along the gravel weeding. The stray cat lies in a sunny corner in a circle of fur — until Bang sees it and chases it off with a rake. Even then the cat only stretches sleepily lifts its tail and sprays a flowerpot before vanishing unhurriedly through the gate onto Jonas Rein Street. The boys out in the yard are polishing their bicycles and repairing the tires; occasionally they glance up at her window, but there’s no one there now. Vera sees all of this and fills her silence with all of it, a silence that’s beginning to get on Boletta’s nerves — she’s on the point of shaking a few words out of her daughter. But the Old One whispers, Those who speak no words, tell no lies. One night Vera cuts open the wound in her tongue again and feels her mouth fill with blood to overflowing, and she lets her towels absorb this blood. This is her hopeless lie — her hope nonetheless — as hopeless as waiting for Rakel. Time had been taken prisoner. Now time had been set free. Vera stands by the window and sees that the boys are clad in raincoats and that they’ve grown in the course of the summer; they’re almost unrecognizable, and they bicycle out through the gate without looking back.
One morning, just before Boletta left for the Exchange to meet Director Egede and finally give him an answer, the doorbell rang. Vera heard the sound in bed and was awake at once. Someone rang their doorbell early in the morning in September 1945. For a second she was sure, quite sure, that it was Rakel, that finally she’d come back. Vera got up, almost paralyzed with joy, and looked out into the hall. Boletta opened the outer door. But it wasn’t Rakel. A bald man was standing there instead, and Vera could just recollect him, but the memory was vague and indistinct, from another time altogether. He wore a light coat and the rain was still dripping from his narrow shoulders; he carried a small square case with two polished clasps on each side, and in his other hand he held a gray hat. And when Vera set eyes on the briefcase she was certain she knew who he was, and for some reason he gave her the creeps — she always shivered when he came to visit. He lifted his briefcase, as if realizing it was that they would recognize first. “I hope you remember me,” he said. “Because I certainly remember you as if it was only yesterday I last saw you!” His smile enveloped his whole face and he bowed. Boletta let him in. “Of course I remember you. Barring the hair, of course.” He quickly drew a hand over his bald head and the smile was reduced to a tight moue. “I was in Grini,” was all he said.
He let his case drop to the floor. Boletta blushed and hung up his coat. He glanced around quickly; his eyes leaped from wall to wall and door to door as if his gaze alone could record every detail. Vera retreated. “And everything’s just where it was?” he asked. Boletta followed him into the hall. “Yes, everything here is just where it was.” “That’s good to hear. There are far too many who’re all for changes these days. They have to refurnish. And what’s the point of that?” Again he let his gaze circle, slowly, right until it rested by the oval clock on the cabinet. It was twelve minutes past ten. “I’m not quite certain if there’s enough money,” Boletta breathed. “We’ve rather lost count.” “And tell me who hasn’t? It’ll take the rest of the autumn before we’re back to normal again.” The man turned to Boletta. “I take cream with my coffee. If you remember?” Boletta clapped her hands. “But of course I remember. Cream with your coffee. Can I tempt you with some sugar too?” “If you have it. Just three spoonfuls, thank you.”
All at once the Old One stood at the dining room door in her nightgown and slippers. She shaded her eyes as if there was strong sunlight in the apartment. “Are you talking to yourself again, Boletta? Or are you trying to get Vera to answer you?” Boletta hurried over to her. “Arnesen’s here, Mother. You remember Mr. Arnesen, don’t you?”
For it was Arnesen, from the insurance company Bien, who had come that morning. It was with him we had insured our lives. Almost all those in the block had. He tended to put in an appearance twice a year, once in autumn and again in the spring, on exactly the same date, as long as that didn’t turn out to be a Sunday, in which case he would come on the Monday instead. It was a long while since he last visited — back in September 1941. And I can remember the oval clock, too, which always kept the right time. On the last Saturday of each month, Boletta or Mom would put money in the drawer under the clock face, just as if it were a savings box, and it was almost like a time of prayer. Fred and I would stand with our hands behind our backs and follow it all, as the coins were slotted into the thin gap and we would hear the sharp ringing as they landed, all depending on how much was there already. The soundless notes, too, that were folded together with great concentration to be small enough to fit. I liked the five kroner note best, with its blue color like the sky on a fine summer morning when there’s nothing to dread, and, of course, with the picture of Nansen’s face. I couldn’t count to a hundred yet and those notes were far too large and all but impossible to get into the drawer. After that Arnesen could come to collect what they called the premium. I thought this was something we could win, that the money would be transformed into a prize, a gift. But Arnesen never had one with him. Quite the opposite, he just took the premium
and went. In the end he took too much and put the premiums in his own shadowy pocket and lost everything just the same. And for long enough I believed that it was the money we put there that made the clock go. And if we put too much there it would go quicker, and if we forgot altogether time would slow down and soon stop completely. If only it had been like that! I tried it out one Christmas Day. I put two extra five 0re coins in and it sounded as if there had been a landslide at the bottom of the clock. It made no difference. I remember Fred once emptying the whole drawer with a hairpin. But time didn’t stop. The Old One needed to take a step closer. “Arnesen? Is it really Arnesen? Well, life really is back to normal again.” He gave a deep bow. “We insure both high days and holidays. Life itself has a place on our calendar.” The Old One snorted. “I think you should leave that in the hands of the Almighty, my good man. Your little briefcase isn’t big enough for eternity.” Arnesen drew in his breath and pulled out a handkerchief with the insurance firm’s monogram printed on it, as though he was surrendering, and begging for an end to hostilities. But the Old One came closer still and peered at him. “Tell me, is there nothing left of what you used to have on your head?” “He’s been in Grini,” Boletta hissed. “Shut up, Mother!”
Then Arnesen brought out the tubular key that only he had and positioned himself with his back to them, like a magician who didn’t want to give away the secrets behind his tricks. He glanced over his shoulder and suddenly saw Vera in the shadow of the door. He smiled. Then all of them heard a click and Arnesen brought out the drawer under the clock face; there was a rushing slide of money and no one could count that faster than Arnesen from Bien. He never needed to use his fingers — he counted with his eyes, his eye was the quickest muscle he had. Finally he put the whole load in a leather bag with a zipper (not unlike a pencil case), and placed it in his briefcase, which he then proceeded to lock on both sides with enormous secrecy. All of it was like one great performance.
Boletta went into the kitchen to make coffee. Arnesen straightened up. “It’ll take a bit of time before the arithmetics all sorted out,” he said. “The wars turned everything topsy-turvy.” The Old One crumpled into one single smile. “Yes, the cheaper the human life, the dearer the premium. Isn’t that it?” Arnesen gave her no answering smile. “It’s more the case that some things are so precious they can’t be valued in kroner and 0re, Jebsen.” The Old One threw back her shoulders. “Talks cheap!” she said. “You just count your coins; that’s what you’re best at.”
Arnesen was about to answer back but decided against it. Instead he went into the living room, carrying the case that he never took his eyes off. Arnesen was given hospitality wherever he went, almost as if people felt guilty about something or wanted to make a good impression on him. Maybe it was because they thought their lives were in his hands. He walked slowly past the bookshelves, letting his finger run along the leather spines, looking around the room as he did so at the dining room divan that was made up as a bed, the glass of Malaga, the game of patience. His fingers stopped at a wide gap in the shelf from which only the dust rose. Now Arnesen smiled again. “He should have been shot,” he said. He sat down in the soft seat with his back toward the balcony. The Old One leaned over the table. “Who should have been shot?” “Hamsun. The traitor.” “You mean the writer?” “The writer and the traitor.” The Old One leaned back in the sofa. “I prefer reading Johannes V. Jensen,” she said.
Boletta came back with the coffee tray and a bar of milk chocolate. Arnesen immediately broke off a piece and sucked it, and put four spoonfuls of sugar in his cup. The Old One was on the point of walking out, but Boletta restrained her. “What was it like in Grini?” she asked. Arnesen clamped his eyes shut and swallowed. “It was worse for my wife. She had to wait with all that fear and uncertainty.” Now Arnesen could see clearly again, and he cleared his voice with more chocolate. “But she came through it. Women can be stronger than you think. That’s certainly something the war’s shown us.”
He gave a quick glance in the direction of his coffee cup. Boletta poured him some more, and the Old Ones sigh was even deeper. “Waiting is a privilege we more than willingly surrender.” But Arnesen wasn’t listening any more. His gaze ranged around the whole room again, and suddenly he asked, “Isn’t it smaller here?” Boletta put her cup down. “Smaller than what?” “Than the apartments on the other side of the block?” The Old One secured the last bit of chocolate before Arnesen got his hands on it. “It’s possible they are larger,” she admitted. “But we have more sunlight up here.” “I wouldn’t be certain of that. We ourselves have a south-facing balcony.” Boletta and the Old One leaned forward. “We?” Arnesen smiled from ear to ear, and his arm sailed through the air like a conductor’s. “I’ve got the corner apartment on Jonas Rein Street. The one where that poor Jewish family lived.”
The Old One got up. Her hair scattered softly over her shoulders. “Is Arnesen telling us we’re neighbors now?” He lifted his cup with two fingers and looked about for more sugar. “By rights we should have moved in before the summer. But first my wife wanted everything in place. You know what its like, don’t you?” Arnesen found the sugar bowl; he put two more spoonfuls in his coffee, pursed his lips and slowly drank. The Old One remained on her feet. She was shaking. “No,” she said loudly, “we don’t know what it’s like. What is it like?” Without a sound he put down his cup, and suddenly his tone was very confidential and quiet. “A piano, dessert spoons, an ironing board. And a crib. All the things that make a home. My wife is expecting our first child, you see. After all these years.” “Shall I fetch more sugar?” the Old One asked. Arnesen looked up at her. “No, thank you. I’m quite full now.”
Boletta had to cling on to the table. “Are you quite sure they’re not coming back?” she breathed. “Who?” “The Steiner family. Rakel. Their daughter.” A shudder passed through Arnesen as though the teaspoon had given him a shock. He dropped it on his plate. Then he leaned back and almost sounded offended. “But of course. They never came back from down there. Everyone knows that. There isn’t even someone to whom we can give insurance money. Unfortunately.”
The Old One looked past Arnesen, who sat sunk in his chair with a sad smile, and it was then she saw Vera. Vera was suddenly standing by the bedroom door, staring in at them, and as the Old One saw her Vera hid her face in her hands and blood flowed out between her fingers. She collapsed onto the floor, and now Boletta and Arnesen had turned too; they saw Vera and the blood that gushed from her mouth. Arnesen upset his coffee cup and the sugar bowl; Boletta reached her daughter in a single bound, and for the second time since the end of the war the Old One had to call for Dr. Schultz from Bislet. Arnesen just stood by his chair unable to take his eyes off Vera — her nightgown, the skin that was almost transparent, the blood pumping from her mouth. Now he had something to keep secret on his rounds — but if someone pressed him he could perhaps let slip a word or two, about Vera lying on the floor twisting with spasms as she babbled between mouthfuls of blood. And those who listened to the tale he had to tell (perhaps the caretaker), would at once hunch closer and demand, But what did she say? Did she mention any names? Then Arnesen could guard his precious lies and keep quiet until neither he nor his audience could stand it any longer. Many years later I heard this one day when I was coming home from school and took a shortcut through the laundry rooms in the basement. The caretaker was standing there by the mangles telling stories to the women from the block, because he’d made those stories his own now — he’d converted his lies for a new currency. “The blood was foaming all around her mouth,” he hissed. “It was a red foam, and she was hitting out with clenched fists like a wild animal!” “But what did she say?” the others wanted to know. “Did she mention any names?” But the caretaker couldn’t say any more than that.
The Old One put down the receiver. “Dr. Schultz is coming right away,” she said. Boletta was crying, and Vera lay quiet in her arms. “She’s got an ulcer from eating so little!
I’ve been saying that the whole time. That she must eat!” The Old One turned toward Arnesen. “Now we’re done with one another for this occasion. Pass on greetings to your wife.” But Arnesen had no wish to go. Arnesen didn’t want to miss out on any of this. He tidied up the sugar he’d spilled and put his coffee cup back in its place and dried the cloth with his large handkerchief. He did everything quite slowly and he took his time. He even wanted to help Vera into the bedroom. “I did my first-aid training in the army,” he said. Then the Old One pointed in the direction of the hall and the outer door. “I see your coat’s still hanging there. You can take it on your way out.”