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156 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 24, 2020
'I går besluttede han mod sædvane at tilbringe aftenen inde i stuen sammen med Maggie. Det var tydeigt at hun ikke brød sig om det. Hun sad meget stiv i sofaen og sendte ham af og til et sideblik, sådan som en fiskehejre kan gøre det, uden at bevæge noget andet på kroppen. Han ville sige noget, binde dem sammen i rummet, men allerede inden han nåede at tænke et ord, havde Maggie suget det ind til sig og ind i sin tavshed'.
'Der var en der tabte en blomme og lignede en abe da han med armene ned foran sig satte gennem stuen efter den trillende frugt.'
‘The worst fantasies are the ones about how little it would have taken for everything to be completely different. A hesitation one night, some sudden but insignificant occurrence that led her in another direction, and not ultimately into the arms of this life, which she believes began with—What is there to do?’
‘I want to be happy on the first page of this chapter, Maggie says. I want to be going home alone with a Coke. It’s a little after midnight, and if you opened up my heart, it would say nothing but Coke.’
‘Over the next few months, he kept checking for signs that she’d tried to reopen the mattress. He thinks it’s cold of her, unloving, that she didn’t want to know how much money he would have sewn in.’
‘—she’s happy not speaking English or Italian well enough to understand more. They like listening to each other talk, but they can’t really hear each other. Language has already failed them. They have no option but complete indulgence.’
‘She eats a tin of sweetcorn, feeling out of place in the small half-empty council bedsit.
On the first of every month, she goes down to an office and is handed an envelope containing what seems to her a fortune. On those days she forgets entirely what it’s like to queue at the grocer’s, to count on her fingers if she has enough for bread as well as milk, and she goes out and buys blouses and lacy knickers.’
‘–she’s long since given up on pride–but the money. Money is a space that extends far beyond the capacity for pain—In the park downstairs the roses are in bloom, powerfully fragrant. She sits on a bench and watches a squirrel dart up and down a tree trunk, somehow moved at the sight of this small red-glinting friend. Yes, of course, she replies to a woman who asks for a cigarette—with the lightness of a hangover, her mind swims off into an imageless nostalgia.’
‘A woman who had come to use the phone reached down a hand to me and helped me up. Du bist schwanger, das ist gut, ja? I couldn’t bring myself to meet her eye. In my room upstairs I lay in bed for days, doing nothing but watching the treetops shift in the wind outside my window. It was a high-ceilinged, dusty room that smelled sharply of urine from the shared toilet next door. One day I went to the zoo, and a marten hissed at me from inside its tiny cage. I was convinced it had to be the child, sending me a message. It’s not easy to admit this, now I know it was Sofie, or what would become Sofie, but I did everything I could think of to induce a miscarriage. I drank heavily and chain-smoked. I ran up and down the stairs, not stopping even when the pain was screeching in my belly.’
‘It terrified me that I was no longer merely in love with him but needed him to survive. What had protected me so far was the belief that I didn’t really need a man at all – that my chances were better alone. That I could board a train at any time and soon be thinking of the whole thing as a strange and distant flower, one inexplicability among many. Now I threw myself into our arguments with an abandon I had never known before. Gone was the pious, masochistic complacency of my silence, my forgiveness. There were no limits and no endpoint. We were terrified, the both of us, leading each other further out.’
‘She set off yesterday, leaving most of her things in her room and heading for the main station, where she took the first train out of the country, destination Gothenburg. She can’t be anybody’s child, including the council’s. She doesn’t like answering to anybody about what she’s doing, so she’d rather live with no one even asking—It’s give and take, she knows, the affection from the grown-ups at the council. You have to put on your tears like a costume, be grateful and renounce your former self, but you also can’t become someone else entirely, because then there’s nothing for them to pity or improve. But she isn’t grateful for anything. She refuses to be in anybody’s debt, and that’s that—until she has to go crawling back to humiliate herself again for some pathetic sum of money.’
‘When a whole village gets cancer after working with pesticides on an American-owned banana plantation, death and disease may not have been the point, exactly, but those people’s lives were a sacrifice the banana company was always willing to make. Death is not a mistake. A murder is a murder, even if the murderer is out for money not for blood—In order for one group to profit, somebody and something else may have to die. That is the idea. If one wants to add, one must subtract elsewhere.’
‘There’s a question inside her—that has long since ceased to be a question, and is now its own cell, dividing and dividing but never truly splitting apart. She files it under stupid thoughts. Long ago, back when she was always short of cash, she thought constantly of all the things the small amount of money she had then could have bought her a hundred years before. Another example of a stupid thought—She stares for a while at a picture of a man holding up a sign, which the caption says reads bread and freedom. She’s fascinated by his face. There is a calm to it she assumes must be because the words bread and freedom capture everything he wants to say. For a moment she sees the kitchen through the certainty of the man’s words, and the kitchen takes a turn towards the strange–it almost seems to tilt—The boyfriends she had before—are arrayed in her mind’s eye like a series of peculiar questions. More questions, but what are they asking?’
‘Everything looks so simple when you’re far away enough. But if you zoom in, if you examine the situation with your heart, you realise you know nothing at all. You can call it love, but that’s not an answer. It only begs a new and more incalculable question.’
‘People always think it’s something else you love them for. The other day, out of the blue, he promised me a house in Spain, and I couldn’t understand what made him think I wanted that—Like that swallow’s nest, destroyed in the storm. Or all the litters of kittens we’ve had by now, and he’s always as excited as ever, or as downcast when some don’t survive the birth. I love that about him. He can’t bear to see a dying potted plant. Not like me. I’m neglectful. I forget the things around me.’
‘Dizzy, reading—companies—overlapping clusters of owners—buying and selling from each other. Money that both does and does not change hands— about millions of dollars that split and grow, vanish and grow—anyway—I want to understand—He triumphs—operating in a language that silences. When I think I’m being stupid—he triumphs—He went into exile in Spain, impunity incarnate—impunity only ever granted to his class—people died—so that others could profit.’
‘—because she wants to say something to make her daughter laugh, it’s so funny the way they say chances and not chance. I mean, would you rather have several not-great chances or just one?’
‘So what was she supposed to say when—some man made her daughter think she might be better off not living? Of course, Sofie would have to leave him. But how could Maggie say that with any authority?’
‘Pain transported. From father and daughter to the television, and from the television back to them: as a brand-new shiny silver car, a shrieking audience.’
‘I’ll miss you too, she says—Then language moves beyond her grasp, drifting into morphine, into pain, and she enters a world of thought I’ll never know.’
‘Standing there, her mind is blank. If anything, it is a sea, an endlessness of translucent molluscs—’