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352 pages, Paperback
First published November 1, 2015
The girl, like most children, enjoyed making lists and keeping count, and if anyone asked her about her father she could have said: My father has four houses, two cars, five wives, one swimming pool, nine children, and one cinema.
The house was an extension of him. You were not allowed to move around in it as you liked, there were rules for everything, I would never, for example, have taken a glass of water from the kitchen into the living room. No one ever told me. No one said: You are not allowed to take a glass of water into the living room. It was something I knew... The long narrow house, lying stretched out with a view of the stony beach and Baltic Sea, maintained a chaste order whereby everyone who lived inside it, children and adults, saw to their work, watched the time, and avoided emotional hurly-burly. A small world sketched out and planned in advance.
When Papa died, I couldn't bring myself to listen to the tapes: the floundering, the slowness, the searching for words. And my voice like an overeager recorder player in the middle of the requiem.
As a child, I was occasionally allowed to visit him in his study and sit in the big battered armchair in order for us to converse. He called it a sitting. I remember wishing the sittings would never end.
"Shall we have a sitting tomorrow, you and I," he'd say when I was a child, "around eleven if that suits you?"
"Okay."
...he took a rapid turn for the worse. I don't know whether rapid turn is the right expression here. The choreography of aging is complex. An intricate combination of quick and slow.
That summer everything was about dying, the work of dying, death leaning into life, life leaning into death, he would wake up in the morning and fall asleep at night, but died every day nonetheless. The heart was still beating, but the absence was overwhelming.