Chapter 8 - Only Human

It is her nerves. They are overstrained. So Dr Vold says. He has not said anything else so far, not even after she told him about Hartvig’s plans to divorce. Only that it would probably be best if they both came in to talk to him.

She remembers one time in late winter, standing in the wardrobe among the winter overcoats and jackets. The sun was shining through the little window and it was warm. It was time to tidy away galoshes, pitch-seam skiing and winter boots. But it was as though she were paralysed. How was she to manage all this? Finn and Hartvig. The house. It required too much of her. Could she not just – what did all this have to do with her? The house, clothes, the roads up here, the large gardens.

Sometimes she sees Papa down on the road. He wears a dark coat all year round. Stops at the gate. He takes the underground from the city for the sole purpose of standing to look at the house she lives in. Then he walks off. She cries. She is never going to say what he did. What was it anyway? There does not seem to be anything left of it other than the images she has of his big white face. The feeling. The anger, his or hers. The hatred in his features. The leather seat of the chair, his hand. Papa was horrid.

It was completely dark. She could not find a door, the floor was cold and scraped the skin on her knees when she fell. Weeping, scrambling. She could not go anywhere, could not go out. No Mama, nothing. When he finally opened up, it was too late. She was empty, blown clean through. He sat her at the table and made her eat the cold leftovers from dinner. It was something in thick gravy. The sun shone right in the windows, the surface of the table was scorching hot. She thought the room was visiting the house and that she would never come home again. Now and then they heard the black children yell and shout in the blocks beyond.

Sunday. Heat everywhere. White Sunday dress, white socks, sweaty shoes. Boredom. She has been told to wait, not to get dirty. The stairs have two planks on every step with a little gap between each. She jumps up on the first step, hops on one leg to the next, alternates between two feet and one. Up on the veranda she turns and does the same back down. The grass is bare at the bottom of the steps, a little hollow formed by all the feet walking here every day. Dry sand is sent into the air when she lands in the sunken patch, covering her shoes in a thin layer of dust. She draws a line with her forefinger, one on the tip of each shoe. Her back is sweaty and hot. Her dress tight and stuffy, her stomach quivers when she jumps, and her socks are warm and itchy. It is hard to breathe. The heat makes her throat feel thick. The windows in the house are open. Cessi hears their voices, not what they are saying, but what Papa is doing, that he is drinking, from both the big and the little glass. Hears him moving around the living room, raising his voice to Mama, he is teasing her, in that way she does not like. Why are they not coming? She clambers into the hammock on the veranda. It is lovely and shaded there, and she wants to swing but her feet do not reach the ground. She pulls herself up and stands, holding on to the frame, she sets the hammock in motion by bending her knees. Up and down, up and down. She is not allowed to stand in the hammock with shoes on. Not in her bare feet either. But she only does it once, to get it moving. Then she slides down into the seat. The speed is such that the frame lifts a little from the ground. She sits with legs outstretched and the tips of her shoes touch the edge of the table when the hammock swings forward. Then the table lifts a little too, the legs scraping on the veranda floor. She bends forward and backward, throwing her back into the seat and bending far forward to see if she can manage to keep the speed up that way.

She does not know how long he has been standing at the veranda door watching her. He is smiling, but is angry. She notices he has taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves even though they are to go for an outing in the park. Her brother Finn cries in the living room and Mama says a few words to him. Papa has probably said that they are not going. Or that Finn cannot come along. Then Mama calls out: Johan, can you please come in? And bring Cessi with you.

Papa does not answer. He looks at her as she sits unmoving in the hammock. It is only rocking ever so slightly now.

Are you bored, Cecilie? Papa smiles and smiles.

She nods.

I gathered that. Since you were standing in the hammock with your shoes on. He roars the last part. The fear gives her a bad taste in the mouth. When he is like this it turns white, cold and flowing in her all at the same time. She sits completely still so as not to do anything that could provoke him. That is what Mama says: Try not to provoke him.

Get up. His voice is calm but not kind. She waits a moment. Then he comes towards her, takes hold of her arm, squeezes it, lifts her up, hurting her under the arm and in the shoulder. He puts her down hard on the floor, and she stumbles, has to take a step backwards and feels the seat hit the backs of her knees, making them give, and she falls back onto the hammock again.

Stand still! he roars, pulls her up from the seat but does not strike her. He seldom hits her, but it can happen, and she never knows when it is coming. Usually not when Mama is at home, not when she can hear in any case. Now she is standing in the doorway with Finn on her arm shouting something to Papa which Cessi cannot hear because her heart is pounding so loudly in her ears. But Mama says it again: Papa has to come now. They’re ready to go. Papa does not want to. He tells Mama to stop nagging. She can take her mummy’s boy with her, yes, she and Finn can go to the park on their own. He is going to cure Cessi of her boredom, they are going to take a walk. He pulls her down the steps. Mama follows after, she calls out for him to stop with this foolishness. And Cecilie doesn’t have a hat, she cries out, you can’t take her anywhere in this heat. Finn wails, but Papa leaves with her. His hand is angry and squeezes hers much too tightly. He walks too quickly as well.

A hat, he says, surely you don’t need a hat when it’s this warm, Cecilie. And then he laughs. He is mean. He knows all too well that you need a hat to protect your head from the sun. Mama and Finn are good, they get to stay in the shade of the house, rock in the hammock, drink squash. It is nice there when Papa is not at home. Papa is here with her. She was naughty and stood with shoes on in the hammock and made everything nasty and white and wrong. They walk and walk. At some spots the trees cast shadows on the pavement, but mostly the sun beats right down on them. She sweats and is both thirsty and sick.

Papa, she says, Papa. He walks so quickly she needs to run alongside him. If she stops he tugs her, pulling her on. Eventually they come to the café. They have taken a roundabout way, because she knows it is right by their house. Papa’s friends are sitting around one of the tables. The sunlight outside makes the room seem dark as they enter. Two big fans turn in the ceiling and the door is open. There is a draught and it is airy and had it not been for all the tobacco smoke from the pipes and cigarettes it would have been lovely. The men wear white shirts with sleeves rolled up, just like Papa. They have hairy arms and large bodies, powerful legs in dark Sunday trousers, shiny shoes that scrape the floor beneath the table when they move their feet. Their voices are deep, they almost shout when they speak, and when they laugh it is much too loud and does not sound like laughter. More like they want to laugh than actually laugh. When they catch sight of Papa they bellow oi! Johan and wave him in the direction of the table, move to make room, the legs of the chairs scraping, and the owner comes with one big and one little glass. Beer and spirits. Papa lets go of her hand and sits down. She recognises the faces of Peter and Robert. They work with Papa at the shipyard and have been to visit the house together with their wives. Their children were still only babies and she could not play with them, only with Finn. They sat around the garden table drinking then too. Not Mama and the wives, but Papa and the men.

Well, well, Johan, such fine company you have today. A little lady.

Peter looks at her and he is not mean, but his eyes are strange.

Lovely dress, yes, lovely dress.

Peter has drunk many small glasses, they are on the table in front of him.

Oh, she won’t be a nuisance. She’s going to practise standing with her feet on the ground and not on sofas and that kind of thing. Papa turns to Cessi.

Go and wait by the door.

The skin on Papa’s face looks as though it is heavy to carry. His cheeks and the bags under his eyes hang. He does not look directly at her. His moustache is really horrible. She can hardly breathe when he hugs her goodnight and it scratches and pricks her in the face.

Even though he was talking to her, it was somehow as if it was not to her all the same, but to the men around the table, it is them he is with now. So she remains standing for a moment.

Can I have something to drink, Papa?

Do as I say!

Papa strikes the table, but she is well aware it is to show off to Peter and the others.

Come, come, Johan, no need to make such a fuss. Peter laughs. Surely she can have a little water.

Peter turns towards the counter to attract the owner’s attention.

But Papa shakes his head.

They only serve grown-ups here, he says, and disobedient little girls don’t get anything. Nobody says a word. Papa looks at her and points at the door.

Papa is not right in the head.

She’s a plump little one, Johan, one of the others says in a loud voice, is that what they mean by too much of a good thing?

Ah, she hears Papa say, come back in ten years, you’ll be singing a different tune I’d say. There ought to be something to grab on to. She’ll be a fine thing. If you behave yourself I’ll let you borrow her, free of charge.

They break out in laughter around the table. Peter says, Johan, for God’s sake, she can hear you!

Cessi stands at the steps. The sun is shining straight in the door and windows, and it is terribly hot there even though the awnings provide shade. She is sore in the small of her back and her feet hurt from standing so long, but as she goes to sit on the steps, Papa shouts from inside that she is to get up.

You were the one who was so eager to stand, he calls out.

She stands and stands. Now and again people pass by on the pavement. Women with parasols and prams. Gentlemen with walking sticks, and children in their Sunday best holding the men by the hand. They are their daddies. Papa is not a proper daddy, she knows that. No one can help her, people have to pass right by, and she has to stand there. She has almost melted and become invisible when Peter comes with a chair and a glass of water, and this time Papa does not say anything, not that she can hear anyway.

The sun is not shining on the house any more when he comes out, she thinks it must soon be night. Papa carries her, because she cannot manage to stand.

There there, little Cessi, he mumbles, lovely little Cessi, come to Papa. Papa is sorry. But now you’ve learnt. Haven’t you? Papa is sorry. And he rubs her up and down the back. He smells of alcohol, staggers and steps off the pavement several times.

When they arrive home Mama is sitting at the table in the living room not doing anything. She has been crying. Finn is asleep. Cessi wonders if they went to the park without her, but does not ask, she is not able to speak. Nor does Papa say anything, just heaves her over to Mama, goes out onto the veranda and sits down in the hammock with his pipe and a little glass. Mama starts to cry again. Say something, Cessi, she pleads, say something. Where were you? What has he done with you? Are you hungry, do you want something to eat? But Cessi cannot open her lips, they are stuck together. Just like her arms, that are around Mama’s neck. She just holds on, hangs on Mama, cannot let go. Even though Mama is so slight and pretty, and Cessi is already a big, heavy girl. Mama cries even more, and says: I’ll take care of you, Cessi, take care of you, don’t be afraid.

She dreams about taking the boat back to New York. Just to see. Just to sense the freedom. The relief when they left. She remembers the wind snatching at her breath when she opened the door out to the deck, the air pressure seeming to suck her out through the doorway. She stood by the railings and the sea just glided and glided by. She was going to get away! She walked to and fro in the narrow corridors, strangers smiled at her, many laughing and joking with one another. The stairs between decks were carpeted. And in the cabin it was completely quiet, it was just for her and Mama. They got hot chocolate in the dining room every morning. Mama was happy, it would be so good to come home, she said.

Cessi had been given a book by Mama to read on the trip. The voyage took a good few days so she had read some of it, even though she did not particularly like reading. It was about a poor little girl who became a governess and married the wealthiest man in the parish because she was so exceedingly good and kind even though she had suffered greatly.

Mama thought the profession of schoolmistress might suit her. Within the practical area, mind you. Needlework, perhaps. But not a governess, Cessi said, having no wish to suffer. No, dear, Mama replied, not a governess. Times have changed.

Yes, for many years she had dreamt of returning to New York. Before she met Hartvig and they had little Finn. She would break through by sewing, that was what she would do. Start at one of the big fashion houses. With two empty but industrious hands. She would show them. After years of hard graft she would make a name for herself in the fashion world. Clothes by Cessi. Cessi’s Dressmaker’s Shop. Something like that. No one would dare make fun of her. It would be something else altogether from the unsuccessful year she spent at the sewing class. A wicked burning in her chest.

Papa accompanied them all the way to Kristiania. That was a fly in the ointment. But he was not staying. He had to get back to work, Mama said. She said that for several years, his contract isn’t up yet, she said, or: Papa likes it there. Now and again he came to stay with them in the apartment in Frogner for a few weeks at a time, or a few months, and then he drank, hit, threw things around. On occasion he would come home drunk and roaring in the middle of the night, throw them out of the apartment and lock the door. The following day Cessi would walk arm in arm with her friends and tell them how mad he was, her father. Oh dear, they said, oh, poor you, but Cessi merely laughed, with the expression of someone who has suffered much and become hard and tough, that was how she wanted to appear, and how she became. Because her friends’ horrified reactions mixed with compassion warmed her, but only in the moment. Once alone again, she felt how it was in reality, how everything she told them marked her. Inwardly they turned away, her friends, they were deceitful, it was only their curiosity and appetite for sensation that made them flock around her momentarily. Because she was sullied, vile, disgusting, they saw her the way she saw Papa, she heard herself talk like him when she told them what he had done. Oh yes, she was disgusting, and her frail mother had bruises on her arms. Not so strange then, that Mama wanted a divorce the day Papa came home to Norway for good.

I made my mind up that day, Mama said later, that time he came home with you, and you were completely white in the face, I thought you were going to die.

Cessi likes to hear about it, how Mama had to hold her, how despairing she was for her sake. At the same time she gets angry and wants to hit Mama. She knew damn well which café Papa usually went to at that time. There was no getting away from it. Mama was cowardly.

The next time she is at Dr Vold’s she tells him that the nervousness is probably caused by natural changes in the body. She is expecting. Dr Vold must be well aware that— she breaks off in the middle of what she is saying. It must be the first time she has seen him look surprised, he always looks as though he knows best about everything. He even puts his pen down and looks. At her. Her stomach, her breasts, her face. Yes, it seems to be four months already, she says, hot in the face, hot all over, trembling, the blood flowing heavily down below, along the insides of her thighs. Those eyes. To be kissed by that mouth. Rasping stubble. Strong jaw. Firm lips. Hot, hot. Her breasts tingle. Even though she is with child.

Are you happy, Mrs Viker? Dr Vold is still leaning back in his chair.

Children are a gift from God. That is the kind of thing Mama says. People say that type of thing. So she does too. Dr Vold leans forward and picks up his pen, makes a note, his face has the usual, closed expression now: And what does Mr Viker say?

Hartvig? He’s pleased. Children are what being a family is about. One child is not enough. It’s how things ought to be. And the divorce? Hm, divorce? She is with child. She is not thinking. Her body is following nature’s course. The doctor asks if she is apprehensive about how busy things will get. Busy? She does not know. It is an anaesthetic of sorts. She does not feel anything. Is not anxious. Does not know. But Dr Vold is concerned. He says so. Will they be able to afford help around the house? A nanny? More a question of if he is willing to pay for one. Hartvig is miserly, she says. Time enough to worry about that. Perhaps it’ll do me good to forget myself a little more, she says. Those were Hartvig’s words. She believes in Hartvig now. He wants to support her. Even though he is slight and feeble. She sits in the chair at Dr Vold’s and leans heavily on Hartvig. Everything he says at the moment seems like the right solution to what she cannot manage to cope with. The doctor can do what he likes. Him and his aloof, pretty wife.

She looks at the desk lamp. The brooch is still lying in the little hollow in the stand, with a couple of binder clips and his fountain pen. Oh, she would like that brooch. Green, shiny, curved. Put the pin through her lapel, fasten the catch. She fixes her gaze on the carpet. It is not her brooch, she cannot have it.

The worst part about being pregnant is that she should not drink beer and preferably not smoke. She is well aware of it, they do not recommend it, no spicy seasonings, no strong drinks or powerful mood swings, it can be transmitted to the little one. But the one or two small bottles of ice-cold beer she drinks in the evening are precisely what keep her in balance. Hartvig speaks harshly to her about this, the improper urges she has for stimuli. It is not seemly, he says, and maintains she needs to work on her weak strength of character. At the least sign of adversity she reaches for something to help her, it is a trait in her he dislikes, he says, it is extremely unbecoming. Cessi laughs in anger, and says she can understand why he is so preoccupied with outward appearances and etiquette, what with those short, ugly legs of his. She does not say this to Dr Vold. Because supposing she cannot do without the bottles of beer, what happens then, what will they do with her? Dear oh dear, no, it does not bear thinking about, so many what-ifs, so many thoughts to grapple with, best to let it go. In the dim light beneath the desk she can just make out Dr Vold’s shoes and trousers, she imagines his legs are probably quite hairy as well. The doctor needs her, if not he could not be a doctor. She does not know where that thought came from. That he must think healthy people are boring. That he himself is boring.