“We’ll go ashore,” Grandmother said. She was very angry. Sophia looked frightened. “There’s a big difference,” her grandmother explained. “No well-bred person goes ashore on someone else’s island when there’s no one home. But if they put up a sign, then you do it anyway, because it’s a slap in the face.”
“Naturally,” Sophia said, increasing her knowledge of life considerably. They tied up to the sign.
“What we are now doing,” Grandmother said, “is a demonstration. We are showing our disapproval.”
“A demonstration,” her grandchild repeated, adding, loyally, “This will never make a good harbour.”
“No,” Grandmother agreed. “And they have the door on the wrong side of the house. They’ll never get it open in a southwester. And look at their water barrels. Ha-ha. Plastic, of course.”
“Ha-ha,” Sophia said. “Plastic, of course.”
They went closer to the house and could feel how the island had changed. It was no longer wild. It had become lower, almost flat, and looked ordinary and embarrassed. The vegetation had not been disturbed; on the contrary, the owner had had broad catwalks built over the heather and the blueberry bushes. He had been very careful of the vegetation. The grey juniper bushes had not been cut down. But the island seemed flat all the same, because it should not have had a house. From up close, this way, the house was fairly low. On the elevations, it had probably been pretty. It would have been pretty anywhere, except here.
They went up on the terrace. Under the eaves he had put up a plaque with the name of the house: VILLA BLUSTERGULL. It was fancily carved and resembled one of those fluttering geographical designations that are found on old maps. Above the door hung two brand-new ship’s lanterns and a grappling iron; on one side was a freshly painted red buoy, and on the other a bunch of artistically arranged glass floats.
“It’s always like that at the beginning,” Grandmother said. “I suppose he’ll learn.”
“Learn what?” Sophia said.
Grandmother thought for a moment and repeated, “He’ll learn.” She went up to the shutters that nearly covered the wall and tried to peek in. The shutters were locked with padlocks, and the door was secured with something called LockInc. Grandmother produced her knife and opened the screwdriver blade. The padlocks had brass screws that were easily removed.
“Are we breaking in?” Sophia whispered.
“Well, what do you think?” her grandmother answered. “But of course normally we would never do such a thing.”
She opened one of the shutters and looked in. It was a big room with a fireplace. In front of the fireplace the owner had big rattan easy chairs with a lot of pillows, and a thick glass table with brightly coloured labels under the glass. Sophia thought the room was wonderful, but she didn’t dare say so. Full-rigged ship in storm, Grandmother observed, with gold frame. Maps, binoculars, sextants, ships models, anemometers. A proper maritime museum.
“He’s got a big painting,” said Sophia uncertainly.
“Yes. Very big. Everything he has is big.”
They sat down on the terrace with their backs to the house and gazed out over the long island, which at once seemed wild and lonely again.
“Anyway,” Sophia said, “I’ll bet he doesn’t know how to sink his rubbish. He doesn’t know you have to fill all the cans and bottles before you sink them. And all his old rubbish will wash ashore at our place and get caught in our nets. And everything he’s got is too big!”
They heard the motor for a long time without listening. The sound came closer and became a roar, then changed to a purr and stopped. And then there was silence, a charged and terrifying silence. Grandmother stood up as quickly as she could and said, “Go and look, but don’t let them see you.” Sophia crept in under the aspens, and when she came back she was pale. “It’s him, it’s him!” she whispered frantically. “It’s the owner!”
Grandmother stared wildly around her, took a few steps in one direction and then a few steps back. She was beside herself with terror. “Don’t let him see you,” she kept repeating. “See what he’s doing, but don’t let him see you!”
Sophia crawled back in under the aspens on her stomach. The owner had a big mahogany boat with an antenna on the cabin, and he was poling it in towards land. On the foredeck stood a dog and a skinny boy dressed in white. They jumped ashore together.
“They found our boat,” Sophia hissed. “They’re coming!”
Grandmother headed for the middle of the island with short, rapid strides, her walking stick jabbing into the ground and kicking up moss and pebbles. She was as rigid as a board and said not a word. It was pure, primitive flight, but she couldn’t think of anything better. Sophia leaped ahead, turned and came back, and ran around her in circles. The shame of being discovered on someone else’s island was enormous. They had stooped to the unforgivable.
They reached the thicket on the far side of the island, and Sophia crawled in under the creeping pines and disappeared. “Hurry up!” she shrieked in terrible distress. “Hurry up! Crawl!” And Grandmother crawled in after her, blindly, without thinking. She was dizzy and not feeling well; it was never good for her to hurry. “This is perfectly ridiculous,” she said.
“We have to,” Sophia whispered. “When it gets dark, we’ll sneak down to the boat and row home.”
Grandmother inched in under a pine tree that tore at her hair. She was silent. After a while they heard barking.
“That’s their bloodhound,” Sophia breathed into Grandmother’s ear. “Did I tell you they had a bloodhound with them?”
“No, you certainly did not,” said Grandmother angrily. “And don’t hiss in my ear. Things are bad enough as they are.”
The barking came nearer. When the dog caught sight of them, the barking rose an octave. It was a small black dog, as fierce as it was frightened. Its whole body shook with mixed feelings.
“Nice doggy,” said Grandmother soothingly. “Shut up, you little bastard!” She found a lump of sugar in her pocket and threw it, which made the dog hysterical.
“Hello in there!” called the owner. He was down on all fours, peering in under the scrubby trees. “The dog won’t hurt you! My name’s Malander, and this is my son Christopher – we call him Tofer.”
Grandmother crawled out and said, “This is my granddaughter, Sophia.” She was being very dignified, picking pine needles out of her hair as discreetly as she could. The dog was trying to bite her walking stick. Mr. Malander explained that she only wanted to play, and that her name was Delilah. “Delilah wants you to throw your stick so she can fetch it – you know.”
“Really?” said Grandmother.
The son had a skinny neck and long hair, and was making a formidable attempt to be superior. Sophia stared at him coldly. Mr. Malander offered Grandmother his arm, very politely, and they walked slowly back through the heather while he told them how he’d built his cottage in a simple, coastal style because that was the way he wanted it, and how a person was more in tune with himself when he lived close to nature, and how they were neighbours now, weren’t they, because didn’t they live on the next island in?
Sophia glanced up, but her grandmother’s face was impassive as she replied that they had lived on that island for forty-seven years. This made a great impression on Malander. His voice altered and he began to say something about the sea – how he loved it, how the sea is forever the sea – and then suddenly he was embarrassed and stopped talking. The son started whistling, and dribbled a pine cone, like a footballer, all the way up to the terrace. There was the padlock, still on the bench, with the screws around it.
“Aha!” said young Malander. “Prowlers. Typical.”
His father looked distressed. He poked at the padlock and said he never would have imagined such a thing – he had always admired the mainland skerry folk …
“They were probably just curious,” said Grandmother quickly. “You know, people get curious when a place is all closed up. That’s not the way
… It’s much better to leave everything open, with the key on a nail, say …” She was getting confused, and Sophia went blood-red in the face.
They went into the house for a little refreshment, just to be neighbourly. “Welcome to our home,” said Tofer Malander. “Après vous.” The big room filled with sunshine as one shutter after another was thrown open. Mr. Malander explained that it was a picture window, and asked them to sit down and make themselves comfortable while he went to get some drinks.
Grandmother sat down in one of the rattan chairs, and Sophia hung on its back and looked around furtively.
“Don’t look so cross,” Grandmother whispered. “This is socialising, and you have to learn how to do it.”
Malander came back with bottles and glasses and put them on the table. “Cognac,” he said. “And whiskey. But I’m sure you’d rather have a lemonade.”
“I’m very fond of cognac,” Grandmother said. “A small glass, and no water, thank you. Sophia? What would you like?”
“The other!” Sophia hissed in her ear.
“Sophia would prefer a lemonade,” Grandmother said, and thought: We’ve got to teach her some manners. We’ve made a mistake. She has to spend more time with people she doesn’t like, before it’s too late.
They toasted each other, and Malander asked if the fishing was good at this time of year.
Grandmother said only in nets. They got some cod and perch and sometimes a whitefish, close to shore. Malander explained that actually he didn’t like to fish. It was primitive, undisturbed nature he liked; that is, wilderness and solitude in general. The son was embarrassed and drove his hands down into the pockets of his narrow trousers as far as they would go.
“Solitude,” Grandmother said. “Yes, indeed. That is a luxury.”
“Uplifting,” Malander said. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Grandmother said. “But a person can also find solitude with others, though it is more difficult.”
“No, no, of course,” said Malander alertly and somewhat vaguely, and there was a long silence.
“Sugar!” Sophia whispered. “It’s sour!”
“My granddaughter would like to have some sugar in her drink,” Grandmother said. And to Sophia she said, “Don’t drape your hair on the back of my neck all the time. And sit down. And stop blowing in my ear.”
Tofer Malander announced that he was going to do a little casting from the point, and he took down a rod and reel from the wall and left.
“I am also fond of lonely islands,” Grandmother said rather loudly.
“He’s only sixteen,” Malander said.
Grandmother asked how many they were, and he answered five, plus friends and help and so forth. Suddenly he seemed depressed and suggested another drink.
“No, thank you,” Grandmother said. “I think we’ll be going now. That was very good cognac.”
On the way out she stopped to look at some seashells in the window, and Malander said, “I collect them for the children.”
“I collect seashells myself,” Grandmother said.
The dog was waiting outside and took a bite at Grandmother’s walking stick. “Sophia,” she said. “Throw something for the dog.” The child threw a stick and the dog retrieved it instantly. “Good Delilah,” Sophia said. If nothing else, she could apparently learn to remember names, which was a valuable social grace.
Down at the shore, Malander told them there would be a dock, eventually, and Grandmother advised him to use rollers and a winch instead, since the ice would break up a dock, or else a dinghy and a buoy. And she thought: There I go again. I’m always such a busybody when I’m tired. Of course he’ll try to build a dock. Everyone does. We did, too.
The oars had been stowed backwards and got all tangled in the painter, and they were off to a jumpy, amateurish start. Malander followed along the shore as they rowed out, all the way to the point, and from there he waved to them with his handkerchief.
When they were out of hearing, Sophia shook her head and said, “Well, my, my.”
“What do you mean, ‘Well, my, my’?” Grandmother said. “He just wants to be left alone, but he doesn’t know it yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“And he’ll build his dock anyway.”
“How do you know?”
“My dear child,” said Grandmother impatiently, “every human being has to make his own mistakes.” She was very tired, and wanted to get home. The visit had made her sad, somehow. Malander had an idea and was trying to work it out, but it would take him time. Sometimes people never saw things clearly until it was too late and they no longer had the strength to start again. Or else they forgot their idea along the way and didn’t even realise that they had forgotten. As Grandmother rowed home, she gazed at the big house interrupting the horizon, and it seemed to her it looked like a channel marker. If you squinted and thought about something else, it might almost be a channel marker – an objective indicator that here was a change, of course.
Every time there was a storm, they thought about Malander and tried to figure out different ways to save his boat. He never returned their visit, and so his house became an ever-fascinating landmark to consider and reflect upon.
The Robe
SOPHIA’S FATHER HAD A SPECIAL BATHROBE that he loved. It reached all the way to his feet and was made of very thick, stiff flannel that salt water, soil and time had rendered even stiffer. The robe was probably German, originally, and had once been green. On its front, it still bore the remains of an intricate system of laces, along with a couple of large dark amber buttons. Thrown wide open, the robe was as broad as a tent.
In the beginning, when Papa was a young man, he used to sit out on the point in his bathrobe whenever it stormed, and watch the waves. Later, it was nice to put on when he wanted to work or get warm, or simply hide.
The robe had survived various threats to its existence. There was the time some well-meaning relatives came out and, as a surprise, gave the island a good cleaning. They threw out a lot of things the family wanted, but, worst of all, they carried the bathrobe down to the water and let it float away. They claimed later that it smelled. Of course it smelled – that was part of its charm.
Smell is important. It reminds a person of all the things he’s been through; it is a sheath of memories and security. The robe smelled of good things, too – of smoke and the sea – but maybe they never noticed that. In any case, the robe came back. The wind blew, shifted and reversed, the waves beat against the island, and one fine day they brought it home. After that, it smelled of seaweed, and Papa wore virtually nothing else that whole summer. Then there was the spring when they discovered a family of mice had been living in the robe. The collar was edged with a soft, downy material that the mice had nibbled off and used for bedclothes, along with some finely chewed handkerchiefs. And then one time Papa slept too close to the fire and the robe was scorched.
When Papa got a little older, he put the bathrobe up in the attic. He would go up there to think sometimes, and the others always took it for granted that he did his thinking in the robe. It lay under one of the little attic windows, long and dark and mysterious.
Sophia went through a rebellious phase one cold, rainy summer when being unhappy outdoors was a lot of trouble. So she would go up in the attic to be alone. She would sit in a cardboard box and stare at the robe, and she would say dreadful, crushing things, and it was hard for the robe to talk back.
In between times, she played cards with her grandmother. They both cheated shamelessly, and their card-playing afternoons always ended in a quarrel. This had never happened before. Grandmother tried to recall her own rebellious periods in order to try and understand, but all she could remember was an unusually well-behaved little girl. Wise as she was, she realised that people can postpone their rebellious phases until they’re eighty-five years old, and she decided to keep an eye on herself. It rained constantly, and Papa worked from morning to night with his back to the room. They neve
r knew if he was listening to them or not.
“Jesus,” Sophia said. “There you sit with the King and you don’t say anything!”
“Don’t take the name of the Lord in vain,” Grandmother said.
“I didn’t say ‘God,’ I said ‘Jesus’.”
“He’s just as important as God is.”
“He isn’t either!”
“Of course he is!”
Sophia threw her cards on the floor and yelled, “I don’t care about His old family! I hate families!” She clambered up the attic stairs and slammed the trapdoor behind her.
The attic was so low that there was only room to crawl. And if you didn’t crawl carefully, you would hit your head on the rafters. It was also very crowded – just one narrow path through all the things being kept and saved and forgotten, all the things that had always been there and that not even the well-meaning relatives had found. The path led from the south window to the north window, and the roof between the rafters was painted blue. Sophia had no torch, and it was dark. The path was an endless, empty street in the moonlight between shaggy houses. At the end of the street was the window with its moon-white sky, and beneath the window lay the robe, a pile of stiff folds, coal-black in its own shadow. Sophia had slammed the trapdoor with such a bang that she couldn’t retreat. And so she crept over and sat down in her cardboard box. The bathrobe lay with one sleeve thrown forwards across its gaping neck. She stared at it, and as she stared the sleeve rose just a trifle, and a tiny movement crept in under the robe and down towards the foot end. The folds altered imperceptibly, and the robe was still again. But she had seen it. There, inside the robe, there was something alive – or else the whole robe was alive.
Sophia resorted to the simplest means of flight available in cases of great distress: she fell asleep. She was still asleep when they put her to bed, but in the morning she knew that there was danger in the robe. No one else must know. She kept the amazing truth to herself, and for several days she was almost elated. The rain had stopped. She drew pictures with shaggy shadows and made the moon very tiny, forgotten in a huge dark sky. She showed these pictures to no one. The danger dwelt in a fold deep down inside. It moved about at times and then crept back. When frightened, it showed its teeth, and it was far more dangerous than death.