Kjersti Anfinnsen

Translated from Norwegian by Kari Dickson

GRAND HOTEL

We cling to our chairs in much the same way that we cling on to life. I, rather stupidly, have accepted an invitation from Oslo University Hospital to receive an award. I blame Javiér in part, he was so charmingly persuasive. He felt I deserved the attention. In our enthusiasm, we forgot how decrepit we are, and off we went, as we promised each other we would, only to discover, to our surprise, that age has a firm hold on us.

            And now we don’t dare leave the hotel room. We might not find our way back. It’s fatally slippery outside. And very cold. So we stay lodged in our chairs, wrapped in a duvet, and look out of the window while we wait to be collected. Well, that’s to say, Javiér has fallen asleep and I see practically nothing.

INHERITANCE

My sister has sent me her best pieces of clothing, neatly ironed and folded in a post office box. She spent the last year of her life tidying, sorting and storing, but didn’t throw anything away. Elisabeth never binned anything. I can just picture her rummaging through her cupboards and drawers. Bustling movements, as though she were busy.

            She still manages to plague me.

            But it’s probably me there’s something wrong with, I mean: she’s dead, and I’m still annoyed.

            Uppermost in the box is a coat. I lift it up by the collar and draw in the smell of my sister. Oh yes, that’s my little sister.

            ‘That’s how you smell,’ I say.

            ‘Chanel and fried onions,’ she says.

            I put the coat on. And vanish in its capacious folds. 

DEFEAT

Michel M is ill. Seems there’s a bug going around. I have to make my own dinner. To read the recipe, I need a good light and my strongest magnifying glass. I normally keep it in the middle drawer of the bureau in the sitting room. But it’s not there now. I can’t remember when I last used it. Yesterday, no doubt.  Goodness, it’s vitally important to put things back in the right place. Forgetfulness is like a slap on the face, huge parts of the memory collapse, and you can’t remember anything except that you are terribly old. I may have forgotten entire summers, and possibly some other seasons as well. A long autumn, a short spring, what do I know, other than that time is dissolving and slipping away. A whole season vanishes in the blink of an eye. Summers in particular have an unfortunate tendency to evaporate.

            I decide to look for quarter of an hour. No more. By then I’ll be tired and fractious. I remind myself there is always a danger that once you start looking, you start tidying as well.

            ‘I mustn’t do that,’ I tell myself out loud.

            If I start tidying, it will only result in more mess, broken glass and silly changes and I won’t be able to find anything. It’s a waste of time.

            Following a controlled search, I order food to be delivered to my door.

            Brioche and crème au chocolat. 

FLOW

I’ve never really had a favourable wind. When I was a child, children were not important. When I studied and worked, it was more advantageous to be a man. And now that I’m old, youth is what’s vaunted in this world.

THE MODEL

I sit down opposite Javiér at his drawing board and ask him if he’s hungry. He doesn’t react, just carries on filing a piece of wood he’s holding in his hand.

            ‘What are your thoughts on windows?’ he says.

            ‘They’re necessary,’ I reply. ‘Why do you like windows?’

            ‘The light that filters through them,’ he says. ‘The way the beams are softened and kiss the walls.’

            ‘I think arched windows are the nicest,’ I say.

            Then he turns the model around and takes out the windows from one side.

            ‘Is it really that important?’ I ask.

            He scratches his chin. A slightly sour smell wafts over towards me. I try to remember when he last had a shower. I can’t.