Art in Nature

  They lay there on the table, the sun shining across the ice. A red sun touching the horizon, its mirror image in the blue ice.

  “We should go now,” John said. “But there’s no hurry. We’ve plenty of time.”

  A Leading Role

  IT WAS THE BIGGEST PART she’d ever been given, but it didn’t suit her, it didn’t speak to her. An insignificant, anxious, middle-aged woman, an obliterated creature without any personality whatsoever! She had one good scene in the third act, but the rest of it! A shadow – to play a shadow in her first leading role. She called Sanderson and said, “It’s Maria. I’ve read through the part and I think it’s lifeless. Maybe it’s literature, but it’s not theatre.”

  “I knew you’d say that,” Sanderson replied. “I’ve been waiting for you to call. Now listen to me. This is your big chance, and you’re going to take it. And it is theatre, great theatre.”

  “Oh, really,” she said. “I’m so glad you told me. It’s one of his short stories that he’s rehashed into a play. But he can’t write for the stage.”

  “You’re going to have to let us decide that,” Sanderson said. He was determined to take no nonsense from Maria. She was professional and she could take direction, but there wasn’t a whole lot more to her than that, which she ought to understand herself. He said, “You can count on the director. Go through the play again and call me. We need to make a decision this week to get the autumn season set.”

  Two days later, Maria Mickelson called and accepted the part.

  It was early summer, and she had driven out to their country house to open it for the season. The weather was dreadful, an ice-cold fog as grey and impenetrable as the role of Ellen. Down by the dock, the reeds vanished out into the empty nothingness of the lake, and the spruce trees were black with moisture. The fog forced its way into the house, and the fire wouldn’t burn. She let it all go, poured herself a drink and sat down on the sofa with her coat around her shoulders. The whole house was a mistake. It was too big, it had never been modernized, and it was too far from town. But Hans was fond of it – childhood home, and all that. Fishing on the weekends, dinner and sauna with his friends from the office. Jovial chatter with the local boatmen and fishermen. So how was your winter? Getting any whitefish in your nets? Doesn’t that look like a storm off to the southwest?

  She had spoken to him. “Don’t you see how isolated we’re going to be? I’m not interested in fishing, or gardening either. And there aren’t any neighbours to socialize with.” And he said, “Why not invite someone you like to come and stay? Someone from the theatre? One of your relatives? You know such an awful lot of people.” It was true. But she didn’t much care for them. They were all right in the city, but not at close quarters in a summer house. She had tried. And every time it was a relief when they finally left. Relatives were out of the question – childish, middle-class mediocrities who admired her, vaguely, without a clue about her actual work. It must be wonderful to be an actress! What an exciting life! I could just never appear on stage! Learning all those lines by heart!…Only her cousin Frida was quiet. Quiet and adoring. A grey little mouse with frightened eyes.

  Maria pulled her coat tighter about her shoulders and raised her glass. And at that moment it came to her, a perfectly simple, straightforward insight. She put her glass down again and sat quite still. Cousin Frida. Cousin Frida was the consummate model for the role of Ellen. She was Ellen. Her gestures, her walk, the way she held her head, her voice, all of it! Maria Mickelson laughed out loud, finished her drink, and stood up. She walked to the mirror and studied herself, her well-groomed regular features, and the first, fine network of lines that middle age had drawn about her eyes and mouth. A new hairdo, grey-brown and badly cut, like Frida’s … shoulders drawn up, nervous hands … How was it Frida moved her hands, that furtive, automatic gesture towards her mouth? And her way of holding a glass? Sitting down in a chair?

  How would this sound? Dear cousin Frida, it’s altogether too long since we last spoke. My dear, we mustn’t just let time go by and lose touch. But now I’ve had a wonderful idea that I hope you’ll agree to. Couldn’t you take some time off work and come out here for a week or so? Everything’s starting to bloom, and it will be warm soon …

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  But the warm weather didn’t come. The fog lay just as tight around the house when Frida arrived. Maria paid close attention to her cautious way of stepping off the bus, her exaggerated gratitude when the driver helped her with her bag. Her clothes were right, in fact perfect. Not too unpretentious. There was an actual attempt at a modest elegance – a misguided attempt.

  I’ll skip the glasses, she thought, that would be overkill. But I can keep the way she peeks over them. I can use that.

  “Welcome,” she said. “It’s been much too long. Let me take your suitcase. It’s not far …”

  “No, by no means,” Frida exclaimed. “What an idea!” She was obviously nervous. “It was so nice of you to invite me,” she said. “You have so many friends.”

  The spruce forest was very dark, the trees closing them in on every side.

  I need to write down my observations. Even the tiniest ones; they’re the most important. Every day.

  She said, “Let’s see how you like your room. It looks out on the lake. It’s still a bit chilly, but I’ve laid a fire.”

  “How kind,” Frida said. “But you really mustn’t go to any trouble, I don’t usually mind the cold … I mean, generally …” An unfinished sentence, voice trailing off to silence.

  “It’ll be fine,” Maria said. “I’m so truly pleased you could come.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The house was white with a black roof, tall and rather narrow, with steep stairs leading up to a long verandah. In bad weather, pressed against a wall of spruce, it was a gloomy house. In front of the verandah, the ground sloped down towards the dock and the water.

  “Is that really the ocean?” cousin Frida asked shyly, squinting into the fog. “I’ve never stayed right beside the real ocean.”

  “The open water’s further out,” Maria explained. “But our bay is quite large. The boat’s being repaired. As soon as it warms up a bit, Hans will bring it out.”

  “But, now in the fog, it’s almost like the open ocean anyway,” her cousin said and smiled. Her smile radiated a great, relaxed friendliness and altered her entire face. She turned around and contemplated the house, holding her suitcase in front of her with both hands.

  “The house doesn’t look its best at the moment,” Maria said, suddenly irritated. “It’s really made for big parties. You should see it when we have guests, with lamps in all the windows and lanterns over the verandah and all the way down to the dock! It’s all so lively and jolly … boats coming and going, sometimes all the way from Sweden.”

  Frida nodded eagerly. She looked almost frightened.

  What in the world’s come over me? Am I trying to impress her? So stupid …

  “It’s cold out here,” Maria said. “Come on, let’s go in. You’ve had a long trip.”

  Of course I could have picked her up in the car. But why? She would only have been embarrassed.

  A fire was burning in the fireplace. Some lamps were lit in the early dusk, shaded circles of light making the room’s colours soft and warm. The low table covered with bottles and glasses stood in front of the fire. Frida stopped in the doorway and looked around in silence. She took several steps and paused by a vase of yellow roses. “Flowers,” she said. “I should have brought flowers. I thought of it, but then …” Her voice sank and trailed away.

  Maria studied her, fascinated. “I’ll show you your room,” she said. “You’ll want to hang up your clothes. Then we’ll have a drink before dinner.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Maria Mickelson was an accomplished hostess, accustomed to filling pauses in the conversation. She did it spontaneously, without the least effort. Her guest ate very little. She listened with her eyes fixed on Maria’s face, and
gradually her smile came back and her stiff posture grew more relaxed. She no longer resembled Ellen quite so much. Maria noticed this and went quiet, a politely challenging silence. Let it be quiet – she’ll just have to manage on her own. I’ve talked enough.

  It had started to rain outside, and the rain rustled softly on the metal roof. Maria waited. She saw Frida shrink and grow anxious, fumble with her food, search desperately for something to say. Finally it came, quickly and too loud. “I saw you in your last play.”

  “Yes?”

  “You were wonderful. Your acting is so … natural.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “That’s so nice to hear,” Maria said and let the silence fall again.

  Frida’s face was red. She picked up her wineglass and took a big drink, her hand shaking.

  I need to remember that her back is straight while her shoulders are thrust forward and upward. And that movement of her neck, as if her collar were choking her. That will be good. She asked, mercifully, “Do you go the theatre often?”

  “Yes,” Frida answered. “But mostly when you’re in the play.” The smile again. A great, sincere admiration. It was hard not to like cousin Frida. Of course she was very irritating and would be a catastrophe combined with other guests, but there was something about her that was very disarming, something that had been frightened into hiding and become almost invisible. It peeked out only in her smile.

  After dinner, she wanted to do the dishes. She insisted, pleaded, and, when Maria finally gave in, her gratitude was almost embarrassing. Cousin Frida changed completely as soon as she had something to do. She moved quickly, calmly, matter-of-factly in the unfamiliar kitchen and in an odd way seemed to find everything she needed.

  “It will be such fun to help out,” she said. “I’m a good cook. And I love laying fires and getting them to burn with one match. I get up early in the mornings. Do you prefer coffee or tea?”

  Maria sat on the firewood box and smoked. The kitchen had suddenly changed; become friendly and secure.

  “Just think, here I am in the country,” Frida said. “And with you. I never dreamed. It’s all such an adventure.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Later that evening, when Maria was alone in her room, she took out a notebook and wrote a couple of pages. She tried to remember every nuance of gesture and voice, every glance, every pause. She rehearsed them in the mirror. They worked. They’d be perfect. The hand that covered the mouth, the taut neck … She tried to borrow Frida’s smile, but without success. Her smile was entirely her own.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Letting Frida take charge of the house had been a mistake. She resembled Ellen less and less. She escaped her mute helplessness by chatting about domestic details, always in motion, arranging, preparing dinners, sweeping pine needles from the verandah, raking leaves, polishing pots, carrying wood. And every time she had accomplished something and came to report, there was that brown canine gaze, submissive but expectant. Cousin Frida awaited praise. Maria had no use for her any longer. After a couple of days she called Hans and asked him to send out Mrs. Hermanson. “I know,” Maria said. “She wasn’t supposed to come until later. But I need a little help around the house. Can’t you eat out this week?”

  “I suppose I can,” said Hans, who was a kind man. “How’s it going with your cousin?”

  “Good,” Maria said. “Inviting her was a good idea.”

  Mrs. Hermanson arrived and took over the kitchen, the fireplaces, the cleaning, everything. And Frida crept back into the role ordained for her. In the evenings, they sat in front of the fire and Maria was very quiet. She watched her cousin.

  “I happened to think of something,” Frida said. “Do you have anything that needs fixing?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I just thought … The fog hasn’t let up.”

  “No.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t ask,” Frida said, very quietly, “but are you working on a part right at the moment? I mean, a new play …?”

  “Yes,” Maria said. “There’s a part coming up in the autumn. A leading role.”

  “Oh. That’s your first real lead.”

  “I suppose,” said Maria, growing annoyed. “If you like.” She leaned forward and stirred the fire. “How did you know that?” she asked over her shoulder.

  Frida didn’t answer right away; she was frightened. After a while she said, “I clip all the stories about you. And it seems to me the parts they give you are too small. And they don’t write what they should. They really don’t.”

  Maria stood up and walked over to the drinks table. She poured herself a drink and drank it standing, staring at the rainy verandah windows.

  “Did I say something wrong?” said Frida, her voice barely audible.

  “How so?” Maria walked back to the fire, her voice very chilly. She was suddenly tired of her experiment. “I just can’t understand,” she said. “I just can’t understand why Hans wants to keep this pile of a house. It’s so utterly boring. And the evenings are worst.”

  Frida crept up in her chair.

  That’s good. Let her think it’s all her fault. Just like Ellen. In the second act, when she doesn’t even understand that they’re being mean to her …

  Maria sat down slowly and stretched her hands towards the fire. “Of course,” she said, “of course I could get him to sell the place and buy something smaller and more modern, closer to town. But I think maybe my conscience would bother me …” She turned quickly to Frida and said, “Do you ever have a bad conscience?”

  “Oh yes.” Her answer was hardly more than a sigh.

  “Often?”

  “I don’t know … Maybe all the time. Somehow …” Her hands were folded over her stomach as if she were in pain, her chin down, her face rigid and turned away.

  “But you’re such a nice person. What can you possibly have done to give you a bad conscience?”

  “That’s just it,” Frida said. She’d gone pale. “I’ve never done a thing, nothing at all, nothing one way or the other.”

  “Why not?” Maria stared at her intently.

  “Maybe I never dared … I don’t know …”

  Mrs. Hermanson came in and drew the curtains, locked the verandah door, and said good night. They heard her steps in the kitchen and doors closing. Maria poured a little glass of straight whisky. “Take this,” she said. “Drink it straight down like medicine. You’ll feel better.”

  Frida stared at the glass, reached out her hand, and suddenly began to cry in long, laboured sobs. “Forgive me,” she sobbed. “This is just terrible … I’m so embarrassed … But you’re so kind, I don’t understand how you can be so nice to me …”

  Maria waited, her face expressionless. When the attack had passed, she said, “Now drink that down. And then we’ll go to bed. You’re tired, that’s all. Take an aspirin before you go to sleep.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The fog had lifted and the summer night was now a deep blue. Maria lay in bed reading slowly through her script. With great care she read through cousin Frida’s lines and brought them to life, one after another, with relentless attention to detail. It was a good part, very good. But it was difficult. It was only now she understood that the woman she was to play was not only submissive and insignificant; she also possessed a quality people seldom call by name – natural goodness. The quality that filled Frida’s smile but that she had never been allowed to pour forth – a confined and strangled generosity.

  But how does cousin Frida live? What does she do? I know nothing about her …

  Maria’s thoughts began to wander, and she set the script aside. At once, the silence in the house tightened around her and in vague unease she got up and opened the door to the stairs. No streak of light under the guest room door. Frida was asleep. Or was she lying awake weeping? Maria walked to the door and listened. No, nothing. It was a relief.

  Too bad, actually, that she had fe
lt it necessary to call for Mrs. Hermanson. Well, well. She could ask cousin Frida to mend some sheets. Not tomorrow, maybe. But soon. And maybe tell her some stories, some theatre stories. Everyone always seemed to like those.

  The Locomotive

  WHAT I AM ABOUT TO WRITE may seem exaggerated, but the cornerstone of what I have to relate is really my single-minded devotion to objectivity. In truth, I am not telling a story, I am recounting facts. I am known for my detachment and precision. And what I am trying to convey is intended for me alone, to help me make sense of certain events.

  This is difficult to write, I don’t know where to begin. Perhaps with some facts. I am an expert mechanical draughtsman and have worked for United Railways all my life. My drawings are very precise and skilful. For many years I have also acted as a secretary – a subject I will return to. My story has a great deal to do with locomotives.

  (I am fond of lovely old words like “locomotive”.) Naturally I often draw details of this particular machine as a part of my job, and in doing this work I am a model of calm, professional pride, but in the evenings, when I come home to my apartment, I draw machines in motion, locomotives in particular. I do this for my amusement. It is a hobby, not to be confused with an ambition. Over the last few years, I have drawn and coloured a whole series of such illustrations and sometimes I think they could be made into a book. But I am not finished yet and won’t be for a long time to come. When I retire, I intend to devote all of my time to the locomotive, or, rather, to the idea of the locomotive. At the moment, I am forced to write, every day, in order to clarify this. The drawings are not enough.

  A very long time ago, I used to walk to school by way of the railway terminal. It was a long walk, and I seem to remember that it was always terribly cold, but I walked as slowly as I could because that route was the best and most vivid part of my entire day. I told myself stories. And when I got to the warmth of the railway terminal I would often finish off a chapter right then and there. That is, I would save a high point, an unbearably exciting moment, for the minutes I would linger at the entrance to the platforms with the locomotives before my very eyes. Then I would let it happen.