The Woman Who Borrowed Memories: Selected Stories Read online

  “The Russian? I think he was one of those people we always included because we felt sorry for them. And there were a lot of those, way too many! But I always let them come. ‘Bring them along,’ I’d say. ‘The more the merrier.’ That’s my principle. If you’re having a party, then do it in style! We got twenty-two people in here, twenty-two. I counted. One of the best parties I’ve ever given for my friends.”

  “What do you mean?” Stella said. “It was my party!”

  “Yes, yes, of course, if you like. I gave a farewell party for you, so of course, in a sense, it was your party. Then off you went on the morning train.”

  Yes, the morning train, Stella thought. Sebastian came with me to the train. A lovely summer morning . . . He promised he’d follow as soon as he’d sorted out his travel grant, as soon as I’d found us a studio, or a room, or a cheap hotel, anywhere we could work . . . He hardly ever had a fixed address, so I was to send the address to Wanda . . . Bye-bye, darling, take care of yourself! And the train whistled and rushed out into the world.

  “Now, don’t go upsetting yourself about my party, Stella. Though surely you haven’t forgotten that I was the one who lived here. This was my home. Be honest, it was my place, wasn’t it? Of course it was.” Wanda laid her hand over Stella’s and went on in a friendly voice. “Memory plays funny tricks. But don’t worry about it; it’s totally natural. You’re every bit as welcome now as you were then. You were such a great help; you helped in so many ways, peeling onions and carrying out the garbage . . . And we included you in everything, our poor little Starry Eyes . . . Wait a second, there’s the elevator . . .”

  The sound of the elevator was very loud.

  “Third floor,” said Wanda. “Funny how often it goes to the third floor. Yes, all the things we did back then, and now here you sit in your old spot, between Ingegerd and Tommi and me on the sofa, with Bennu opposite. Sebastian used to sit in the window. You all talked and talked about art—all you cared about was your work. And how many of you became famous, can you tell me that?”

  “It’s so easy to lose track of how your friends got on,” Stella said.

  “You don’t know? Did none of them ever write to you? But Stella, sweetheart!”

  Stella lit a cigarette. “I sent you my address and asked you to pass it on to my friends.”

  “Did you? Hang on, your cigarette’s not lit. Here, this is a good lighter. You should start using a lighter; your hands have started to shake, just a little, just a tiny bit, nothing to worry about. Whatever. Well, Sebastian became quite famous, in a way. But you know how it is with great men; they forget the people who believed in them when they were a bit less great. Aren’t you going to finish your wine?”

  Stella said, “Do you know how he is? Do you know where he is?”

  They heard the elevator again and sat quietly.

  “Fourth floor,” remarked Wanda. “Time to put on the spaghetti, I think. Al burro. With Parmesan these days! You like Parmesan?”

  “Yes, thanks. Are you still at the council offices?”

  “Certainly am, and looking forward to my pension like everyone else. I’m departmental manager now.”

  “Really? What do you do with the rest of your time? Same hobby? Still doing your gymnastics in the evenings?”

  “In the evenings? You’re mad. One doesn’t dare go out on the streets after six o’clock in this city!” Wanda went to the little kitchen in the corner to put the water on to boil. She set the table.

  “Would you like to see Jaska’s photographs?”

  It was a beautiful album full of bad photographs of a tight crowd of laughing young people—at a fancy-dress party, at the beach in a strong wind, on their way somewhere carrying easels—charming snapshots of no interest whatsoever except to those who were there at the time.

  Stella said, “This was at Hanaholmen. I was standing beside Sebastian in my white dress. You can still see a bit of that dress.”

  Wanda looked and said, “That wasn’t you, that was someone else. Light got in, so I had to cut off one corner. Do you use ketchup?”

  “No, I don’t. Do you know where Sebastian is now?”

  “I might. But the thing is, dear, it’s a secret. I promised not to give the address to anyone. Say what you like about me, I’m loyal to my friends. And anyway, it wasn’t Hanaholmen, it was Äggskär. And you weren’t even there that time. Memory’s funny, isn’t it? Some things just disappear and others you never forget. Are memories important to you? Be frank, think about it. Those days when everything was so easy for you. This room. You’d like to go back, wouldn’t you?”

  “Not anymore,” said Stella. “I think the water’s boiling.”

  But the water wasn’t boiling; the gas tokens had run out.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Wanda. “Forgive me. I could go down and borrow some from Mrs. Lundblad, but she’s so unpleasant—”

  “Never mind. She’s probably busy with the stairs.”

  “You saw her? What did she say?”

  “Well, we talked a bit about this and that.”

  “But what did she say about me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. She didn’t say a thing. It’s really hot in here, Wanda. Do you think we could open the window for a bit?”

  The spring evening came into the room, cool and liberating.

  “This window,” said Wanda. “I remember you standing here laughing, you and Sebastian. You were laughing at the rest of us, weren’t you? What was so funny? Who were you laughing at?”

  Wanda’s voice, flat, insistent, and inescapable, was suddenly too much for Stella, and she lost her temper. “We weren’t laughing at anyone! Or we were laughing at all of you, at everything! Because we were happy! We looked at each other and laughed; it was fun. Is that so hard to understand?”

  “But why are you so angry?” said Wanda, distressed.

  “I’m tired. You talk too much.”

  “Do I? Silly me, so thoughtless. And I can see you’re not feeling well. You’ve changed so much. Is something wrong? You can tell me. Stella. Come and sit here on the sofa. Did those photos upset you? They’re just innocent old memories for safekeeping.”

  “You’re right—they’re innocent. This studio was innocent in those days too. It was a place where everything was friendly and straightforward. We worked and we trusted each other, because everything was open and aboveboard. I think about this place when I’m having trouble getting to sleep.”

  “Trouble sleeping? That’s not good. Not good at all. Listen, Stella, you’re not yourself. Have you seen a doctor? I mean, this business of forgetting things . . . But that’s probably not so serious, nothing to worry about.”

  “The elevator!” Stella yelled. “There it goes again. Wait till it stops!”

  “That was the fourth floor.”

  Wanda closed the window and filled their glasses. She was still talking. “He bought me a record even though they cost a fortune. And the other artists would also bring me a record now and then. Little me . . . We used to dance. Till dawn. And you know what I’d do then? I’d get up on the table and drink a toast with all of you and shout, ‘Skoal to the sun!’ And when the party was over and everyone had gone home and there was only the two of us, Sebastian and me . . . Stella? How about a bit of music? An old 78 he gave me. ‘Evening Blues.’ ”

  “No, not right now.” Stella had a headache, a nasty pain behind her eyes. The elevator started up again, almost right to the top. In this altered room she recognized only one thing: the bookcase. She reached out and touched it.

  “I knocked that up in a single evening,” Wanda said. “Pretty good, don’t you think?”

  Stella burst out, “That’s not true! That’s my old bookcase that I made with my own two hands!”

  Wanda leaned back in her chair and smiled. “What a fuss about nothing! That old bookcase? Take it, it’s yours, a present. But Stella, dear, I’m worried about you. Where did y
ou lose your starry eyes? What’s wrong, dear? Can’t you tell me about it? And now another cigarette. You smoke too much. You don’t look at all well. Take it easy, I beg you. Stop trying to remember the way things used to be; you just get sad and confused. That’s it, isn’t it? Tell me the truth. It makes you unhappy and confused. It was all so long ago now and, you know, the years haven’t been kind to you. Anyway, what’s so special about this old bookcase? Nothing. Think about something pleasant. Remember Tommi? He was nice, and he fancied you. He’d say, ‘We have to look after our little Starry Eyes. She’s so docile, she swallows everything. She’s our little rubbish bin: We fill her up and there’s always room for more—’ ”

  Stella broke in. “I don’t think we should talk any more about those days. We could talk about what’s happening now. Out there.”

  “What do you mean—out there?”

  “Out in the world. The great upheavals, all the violent and important things going on everywhere all the time. We could talk about that.” She could see that Wanda didn’t understand, so she added, “The stuff we read about in the papers.”

  “I don’t get a paper,” said Wanda. “Anyway, Tommi liked you. All my friends liked you. Believe me, it’s true. And it absolutely wasn’t pity—”

  “That elevator!” Stella burst out. “There it goes again!”

  “So?”

  “Are you expecting someone, or are you afraid?”

  “Of what?”

  “Burglars, Wanda, all the burglars who are going to come in and take your things!”

  Wanda looked straight at her guest. “Don’t be childish. No one can get in here.” There was a moment’s silence, then Wanda went on. “You remind me of someone, one of the ones we felt sorry for, who only came here to eat. She used to eat and eat and never say a word. Funny—she was like you. Poor thing. She used to follow me about everywhere. And you know what she said to me once? ‘You’re so strong,’ she said. ‘You’re like a strong electric current. You make me move faster, you make me feel alive!’ Then she disappeared. No one knew what happened to her and no one cared . . . Stella? What’s the matter—don’t you feel well?”

  “No,” said Stella, “I don’t feel well. Do you have an aspirin?”

  “Of course, right away . . . But darling, lie down on the sofa for a bit. No, I insist. You look terrible, you need to lie down. Don’t talk. Just promise me you’ll go for a proper checkup soon; it’s so easy to do.”

  Stella felt a great urge to sleep; the room disappeared. The inescapable voice whispered on: “Are you comfortable? Here in this room you’re with me and you can forget and let go . . . All of them, they all come to my room, they stand waiting at the door and I hear them and let them in and they talk and talk . . . Worries, worries, worries . . . Then I talk, frankly and honestly. One has to be completely honest, doesn’t one? Don’t you agree? One needn’t say so very much, but one has to weigh one’s words, one must find just the right words; it’s so important. But you’re freezing! Hang on, let me tuck you up nice and cozy . . . No, no, let me look after you—I’m right, aren’t I, about daring to be honest?”

  Stella screamed, “Let me go!” But the blanket crept up over her face and the voice droned on: “I told him what I thought, what I honestly thought. I said, ‘She’s suffocating you, you have to get rid of her—’ ”

  “The elevator!” Stella screamed, and for a moment the grip loosened. She jumped to her feet and ran to the middle of the room. Wanda was left sitting on the sofa. “Stella? What are you looking for?”

  “My bag, my bag!”

  Wanda laughed. “Well, I didn’t steal it! It has to be here somewhere. I locked the door from the inside. Sit down and relax. I’ll tell you how things are. Have a little more wine. No? Listen, being at home in your own room, where everything belongs to you and it’s all there, everything that’s happened and everything that’s been said, it’s all there, the walls are steeped in it, it’s all around you like a warm cloak and it holds you tighter and tighter . . . Don’t you believe me? I can prove it! I’ve got a recording. Please just listen and you’ll understand.”

  There came an incomprehensible chaos of voices and shrill music. Wanda cried out, “You hear that? That proves it, doesn’t it? There’s a glass breaking—you hear that?”

  Stella stood at the locked door holding her bag and coat. “Wanda, let me out! Let me go.”

  “No, don’t go, please, don’t go yet, stay a little longer, just a little while, it was all so long ago and there’s still so much to talk about . . . What are you afraid of? It’s not late, not at all, the streets aren’t dangerous yet, not till later, but then you can take a taxi and I’ll come down and make sure you get away all right . . . Stella? There’s no need to worry, I mean if you’ve got a lot of money in your bag and you’re scared of being robbed—”

  “I’ve already been robbed,” said Stella. “Just let me out.”

  Wanda came to the door and took her by the arm. “Stella? Is it the bookcase? Take it, please. I’d like you to have it! It’s so small, you can take it in a taxi. Don’t look at me like that, don’t be mean to me . . .” Her hand was still on Stella’s arm. Stella took it in her own and held it silently it until it was calm. Then Wanda unlocked the door and stood aside. Stella went down the stairs feeling wildly and inconsolably relieved. At the corner she turned to say goodbye but the door was already closed. “Evening Blues” began to play and then stopped again almost immediately.

  A thick fog had descended over the city, the first spring fog. A good sign. It meant that soon, little by little, the ice would go.

  Translated by Silvester Mazzarella

  TRAVELING LIGHT

  I WISH I could describe the enormous relief I felt when they finally pulled up the gangway! Only then did I feel safe. Or, more exactly, when the ship had moved far enough from the quay for it to be impossible for anyone to call out . . . ask for my address, scream that something awful had happened . . . Believe me, you can’t imagine my giddy sense of freedom. I unbuttoned my overcoat and took out my pipe but my hands were shaking and I couldn’t light it; but I stuck it between my teeth anyway, because that somehow establishes a certain detachment from one’s surroundings. I went as far forward as possible in the bows, from where it was impossible to see the city, and hung over the railing like the most carefree traveler you can imagine. The sky was light blue, the little clouds seemed whimsical, pleasantly capricious . . .

  Everything was in the past now, gone, of no significance; nothing mattered anymore, no one was important. No telephone, no letters, no doorbell. Of course you have no idea what I’m referring to, but it doesn’t matter anyway; in fact I shall merely assert that everything had been sorted out to the best of my ability, thoroughly taken care of down to the smallest detail. I wrote the letters I had to write—in fact, I’d done that as long ago as the day before, announcing my sudden departure without explanation and without in any way accounting for my behavior. It was very difficult; it took a whole day. Of course, I left no information about where I was going and indicated no time for my return, since I have no intention of ever coming back. The caretaker’s wife will look after my houseplants; those tired living things—which never look well no matter how much trouble one takes over them—have made me feel very uneasy. Never mind: I shan’t ever have to see them again.

  Perhaps it might interest you to know what I packed? As little as possible! I’ve always dreamed of traveling light, a small weekend bag of the sort one can casually whisk along with oneself as one walks with rapid but unhurried steps through, shall we say, the departure lounge of an airport, passing a mass of nervous people dragging along large heavy cases. This was the first time I’d succeeded in taking the absolute minimum with me, ruthless in the face of family treasures and those little objects one can become so attached to that remind one of . . . well, of emotional bits of one’s life—no, that least of all! My bag was as light as my happy-go-lucky heart and contained nothing more than one would
need for a routine night at a hotel. I left the flat without leaving instructions of any kind, but I did clean it, very thoroughly. I’m very good at cleaning. Then I turned off the electricity, opened the fridge, and unplugged the phone. That was the very last thing, the definitive step; now I’d done with them.

  And during all this time the phone never rang once—a good omen. Not one, not a single one of all these, these—but I don’t want to talk about them now, I’m not going to worry about them any more, no, they no longer occupy even a single second of my thoughts. Well, when I’d pulled out the phone plug and checked one last time that I had all the papers I needed in my pocketbook—passport, tickets, travelers’ checks, pension card—I looked out of the window to make sure that there were some taxis waiting at the stand on the corner, shut the front door, and let the keys fall through the letterbox.

  Out of old habit I avoided the elevator; I don’t like elevators. On the second floor I tripped and grabbed hold of the banisters, and stood still a moment, suddenly hot all over. Think, just think—what if I’d really fallen, maybe sprained my ankle or worse? Everything would have been in vain, fatal, irreparable. It would have been unthinkable to get ready and gather myself together to leave a second time. In the taxi I felt so exhilarated I carried on a lively conversation with the driver, commenting on the early spring weather and taking an interest in this and that relating to his profession, but he hardly responded at all. I pulled myself together, because this was exactly what I’d decided to avoid; from now on I was going to be a person who never took any interest in anyone. The problems that might face a taxi driver were nothing to do with me. We reached the boat much too early, he lifted out my bag, I thanked him and gave him too big a tip. He didn’t smile, which upset me a bit, but the man who took my ticket was very friendly.

  My journey had started. It gradually got cold on deck; there was hardly anyone else there and I presumed the other passengers must have made their way to the restaurant. Taking my time, I went to find my cabin. I saw at once that I wasn’t going to be alone; someone had left a coat, pocketbook, and umbrella on one of the bunks, and two elegant suitcases were standing in the middle of the floor. Discreetly, I moved them out of the way. Of course I had demanded, or more accurately expressed a desire to have, a cabin to myself; sleeping on my own has become very important to me and on this journey in particular it was absolutely essential for me to, so to speak, savor my new independence entirely undisturbed. I couldn’t possibly go and complain to the purser, who would have merely pointed out that the boat was full, that it was a regrettable misunderstanding, and that if the misunderstanding were to be rectified I would be aware all night as I lay on my solitary bunk that the man who was to have shared my cabin was having to spend the night sleepless on a deck chair.