Saeterbakken - Through the Night

OTHER WORKS BY STIG STERBAKKEN AVAILABLE IN ENGLISH TRANSLATION

Siamese

Self-Control

Contents

Grief comes in so many forms. Its like a light being turned on and off. Its on, and its unbearable, and then it goes off, because its unbearable, because its not possible to have it on all the time. It fills you up and it drains you. A thousand times a day I forgot that Ole-Jakob was dead. A thousand times a day I remembered it again. Both were unbearable. Forgetting him was the worst thing I could do. Remembering him was the worst thing I could do. Cold came and went. But never warmth. There was only cold and the absence of cold. Like standing with your back to the sea. Ice-cold ankles every time a wave came in. Then it receded. Then it came in.

While I stood there, the sun went down, and night fell, and its been night ever since.

I didnt do much in the days following the funeral, apart from watch TV. As though in the hope that if I just sat like that, without moving, wholly concentrating on what was happening on the screen, that the pain would disappear after a while, that Id become part of that second reality, where pain doesnt exist. One night I watched a Pink Panther film. It was the one where Clouseau (Peter Sellers) is questioning a well-to-do English family and he gets his hand stuck in the glove of an old suit of armor and turns the sitting room into a disaster area before bringing his Poirot-like summation to a close. And suddenly I couldnt contain my laughter. I, who was certain that I would never laugh again, I laughed so hard it felt like an animal inside me was trying to eat its way out. Finally, I had to turn off the TV; if Id watched the film until the end, I would have burst.

That goddamned fucking TV! One night I was standing outside smoking during the commercials between two series Id started to follow, when I saw Evas shadow passing across the yard like an apparition. Then I heard a clatter from the garage, but didnt give it much thought. When I came back into the living room, the TV had been destroyed, an axe handle sticking out of the screen, which resembled a treacly black pulp more than shattered glass. She was standing in the middle of the room wheezing, as if she was having difficulty breathing. Fortunatelyor unfortunatelyStine was there, sitting with her arms wrapped round her knees, crying, so there wasnt any question of me doing anything more than what little I could in order to calm her down. While I held her, I thought about how it had been one of my recurrent complaints over the years, all the hours Eva spent in front of the TV, how it had gotten on my nerves so often, the lack of initiative it testified to, this perpetual pastime she justified as relaxation, vital, if I understood her correctly, between one office crisis and the next, as if her job was the only thing that was real, the remainder of the day not good for anything other than gathering your strength so as to be able to return to it again, as if shed given up being who she actually was when she was at home together with me, together with us, that her self was something she saved for when she was at work; just like it wasnt necessary, apparently, to make an effort with me anymore, that the work on me was finished, as opposed to the work on everyone else in her life: All these thoughts could well up inside me at the mere sight of her stretched out on the sofa with her face bathed in the all-consuming glow of the TV screen.

After the TV was destroyed, long walks took the place of CSI Miami, Dexter, and classic movies on TCM. On the whole, I preferred routes I hadnt taken before, and even discovered some trails I hadnt known about. On some of these I got it into my head there hadnt been people on them for years, branches hung in the way and slapped against my jacket as I passed. Sometimes, when it was dark, I could catch sight of a light, several lights, made tiny by the distance, but visible all the same through the countless breaks in the foliage. A cars rear lights appeared right in front of me, for instance, and after that, a traffic light changing from yellow to green, far off in the distance.

Every time I got home, I stood for a moment in the hall listening before I went in, to hear if anyone was crying.

There was so much I didnt understand. The brutality of everything: in a store, the way people shoved their way around with their shopping carts, the way they rummaged through the frozen foods and then stood around by the fruits and vegetables talking loudly, as if nothing had happened. Out on the street, the infernal traffic, motorists taking their lives in their hands, blowing their horns as soon as the car ahead of them took just a bit too long to advance after the lights had changed. Schoolchildren who moved in great herds and looked like they could almost burst with happiness. Noise everywhere, cars driving along, people talking, loud music. All to drown out the vast abyss of silence that would have opened up if everyone stopped what they were doing. People talking, but not one of them about Ole-Jakob. Goddamned fucking bastards. How was it possible? What did they have to talk about, now that he was dead?

The world mocked us. It mocked Stine, who should have been a member of the teeming multitude, who was supposed to have been part of the great scheme of things for many years to come, but who had barely gotten started when she was excluded. Although I knew that in time she would join the herd again. And that in all probability things would work out, given time. Given time: what a mockery. The idea that it would all be okay. That shed pull through. That it wouldnt be too long before shed get back into the swing of things, laugh and smile, joke around, wholly adjusted to the endless nonsense of a life among people of her own age, the games of which it was supposed to consist, as though an essential part of her journey, on the way to her adult self. Shed return to all that, buoyed up, it was only a question of time. Shed shake off what was weighing her down, perhaps not completely, but enough for her to be able to continue on, living among her peersenough for her to get back into the swing of things once again.

She didnt say anything for the first few days. What was there to say? Every time Eva or I, both fearful of how she was doing, tried to get anything out of her, her expression stiffened, hard as stone, or she began to cry, which eventually made us more frightened of trying to reach out to her than of what wed find out if we succeeded. When she finally did break her silence, it was nothing but invective and profanity. GODDAMNED FUCKING SHIT was the first thing I heard her say. She sounded just the same as Eva, their voices almost indistinguishable. The undertaker had been to the house to discuss the final details. Id just closed the door behind him when I heard Stine from the kitchen. GODDAMNED FUCKING SHIT! I felt a pang of happiness. The first sign of life from someone wed thought was lost to us! I went in to them. Stine was on her feet, the words just poured out of her, as though she were throwing up, one obscenity worse than the next, the accusations rained down. Eva reached out and just about managed to get hold of her before her hand was pushed away. I looked at them and I saw how alike they had become, mother and daughter. Stine more beautiful by a hairsbreadth, as if she had taken Evas face and perfected it. And I thought about how often she, when she was smaller, had sat listening quietly to her brother while he held forth on everything under the sun, how she sat and observed him and admired him, how she left all the talking to him, sent him out into the world ahead of her so that he could tell her about it.