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Knut
Knut and his grandson woke to one another’s noises and met in the hallway. Knut bent over, with the intention of planting a kiss on Teddy’s head, but, feeling a pull under his right shoulder blade, he contented himself with ruffling the boy’s hair.
Good morning, little prince, he said. Where’s Mamma?
Teddy pointed in the direction of the bedroom.
The door was held open by Teddy’s trailing blanket. Knut edged the blanket back in and closed the door with only the faintest click of the handle. This had been his own room as a child, and he knew from the deep snug inside him that Bibbi would be safe there. He could not even feel guilty for letting his own mother move out to make room for them. This way, they could stay close.
Knut put a finger to his lips.
Let Mamma and Granny sleep, he said.
Bibbi had slept like a log the past week and, if she did, she needed it. Her marriage to that executive should never have gone ahead at all, if you asked Knut. But no one did, and if anyone had asked him, if Bibbi herself had asked him at the time, he would have said, What do I know? It’s your own choice.
Still, it was hard to regret it all when little Teddy was there, making music with marbles on the floor. Only a completely useless father would abandon his own son outright, but it was a good thing, for Bibbi, that he was gone. He made no marks, but that man had left a trace on her. Being an attractive young woman brought as much trouble as good. Knut worried about how often she went out at night ever since she came back. Staying in touch with friends, she called it, but before he knew it she would have a new partner. It never seemed to take long. Then she would be gone again, along with Teddy this time.
Apissu, apissu, all fall down, said Teddy.
Knut didn’t mind getting up in the morning anymore. Teddy’s little voice did something to him. It was like a breeze which blew his eyes wide open, a string which pulled him up to standing. Still, to appreciate Teddy fully at such an early hour of the morning, he needed a cup of black coffee in his hand. In the kitchen, he spooned ground coffee into the filter bag, added water and turned on the Moccamaster. He heard marbles rolling along the wooden floor as he measured out oats and milk. Enough for two, because Teddy ate like a man. He snuck out one cup of coffee before the brew had finished and heard Teddy saying, Ball, ball, with increasing frustration.
Knut turned on the wall lamp in the hallway.
There, he said, will we have some porridge?
Ball, said Teddy.
He had managed to pull Une’s knitted jacket from the coat stand and was, with some success, removing the spherical buttons.
No, no, no, Teddy, they are Granny’s buttons, you see? Buttons. What have you done with your marbles?
Ball, said Teddy, and Knut decided that the harm was done and there was no point in waking the others with the child’s screams, which were sure to erupt if he took away the jacket without a replacement.
Where are the little coloured balls? he said.
It was with considerable difficulty he got down on his knees and felt along the skirting boards, around the mat and under the hall stand.
What did you do with the lovely small balls? he said, getting a bit worried now. He could hear the porridge spitting, needing to be stirred and turned down.
You didn’t eat them, did you? We don’t eat small balls, do we?
Gone, said Teddy, his palms raised in proof.
Knut put two fingers into the boy’s mouth and felt along the inside of his chubby cheeks – huge muscles – as Teddy squealed.
Say ah, he said, and then the screaming started.
Bibbi appeared, bleary eyed.
What happened?
I think he swallowed a marble.
Who gave him marbles? He’s only just turned three, Dad. Did you give him marbles? Teddy, say ah.
Ball, said Teddy.
He found them himself, said Knut. They’re from the game of solitaire. I’m surprised he could reach them.
Of course he could!
I can’t find any, Bibbi. He had them just now.
He must have hidden them. He can’t have swallowed them all. It’s not humanly possible. He put his ear against Teddy’s round belly, listened for clinking, and Teddy patted his bald patch like a drum.
Bibbi had the wooden solitaire board in her hands.
Nine – no: six, twelve, eighteen, twenty-four, she said. There were thirty-three of them, I think, no thirty-two.
We’ll find them and count them, said Knut.
Teddy, where are all the little balls hiding? Teddy pulled at the buttons on Une’s jacket, and Une came out in her dressing gown.
The porridge is burning, she said, and look what he’s doing to my jacket.
We think he ate the marbles, said Bibbi.
All of them, said Knut.
It’s not possible, said Une, taking the game of solitaire from Bibbi. Knut, you can’t let him out of your sight. We’ll have to bring him to the A&E.
I’m sure he hid them, said Knut. I was only in the kitchen for a few minutes.
Bibbi and I will go, said Une. Let me just get dressed, and you can search, Knut. Ring us if you find them, all right?
Linda
Flink had been pawing the balustrade at the French windows for a good hour. He stood upright like a trapped human with his forepaws as high as they could go on the steel banisters, his wiry tail pivoting between ginger hind legs. Linda stayed in bed. She didn’t think he had it in him to scramble up.
He teetered a moment with all four paws on the top rail, before flinging himself into the bushes below.
The hurried struggle to the window set Linda’s old head reeling. The railing pressed against her lower ribs and loose flakes of rust-backed paint clung to her nightdress, black on white.
It had been a sultry night for early May, reminding her of that summer a lifetime ago when Leif gave her his first gift, a folding fan, and she kept it tucked into the waist strap of her apron.
She always slept with the bedroom window open: a small gap in the winter and open wide in the summer. Up in her top-floor apartment across the way, that had always been fine. She could see her old home from where she stood. Knut 8 and his family would still be in bed. Her bedroom up there opened onto the roof terrace via a pair of French windows just like these.
Down here, she lived like an insect. She felt she might be trampled on, and there was always someone looking in.
The other problem, of course, was the dog, little Flink, who had spent his entire life up on the fourth floor, where he could wander freely out to the terrace.
It was Leif who found Flink, brought him in one Saturday morning while Linda was scrubbing a buttery grit of mackerel skin off the pan. He was uncharacteristically quiet coming in, so Linda rushed out to him without taking the time to dry her hands on the tea towel. She was dripping water on the floor, and there was Leif with a cardboard box in his hands and Flink’s tiny puppy head sticking out. Flink was ginger, like Leif himself, and Linda fell instantly in love.
Leif! she’d scolded, because he was always springing surprises on her. She never admitted how much she liked it.
She repeated his name aloud now: Leif, Leif. She had read somewhere that we die our final death the last time we are remembered.
Flink was almost twenty years old now, on his last legs. That’s probably what they said about her. That architect couple – what were they called? – Frida and Fritjof, yes. They always waltzed past her with a hasty hello when they came down to walk their own dog. Perhaps they thought Flink was too old to sniff Rocky’s rump, or that he wouldn’t be able to reach, or that Linda couldn’t keep up if they walked together.
Flink was running around the rectangular pond, whose fountain was turned off this early in the morning. That awful Hildegunn’s silver cat was stalking the back garden for small birds. It was that idiot cat who drew her own Flink outside, though how the slinky feline managed to descend from the third floor, Linda couldn’t say. There was nothing to climb down, unless it hopped from one balcony to the next – a difficult task, since they were directly over one another.
The cat jumped out of the rose bushes, up onto the edge of a garden-level balcony. It slipped in under the wired glass balustrade by way of a tiny gap no animal should fit through. It was all fur, no substance.
For over half a century, Linda had lived with Hildegunn underneath her, hating her. Now she had nothing but a basement under her, crammed full of outdated possessions that would be difficult to get to if anyone remembered they existed. It was only when she moved here that she realized she had always walked across her old floor with unease. Of course Hildegunn had hated her after the affair – Hildegunn was the injured party – but she had already hated Linda before that, out of prejudice. The floor was fairly soundproof, but Linda had always left a room if she noticed a noise right below her. Blame rose, seeped through the painted ceiling, the concrete slab and the wooden floor, and it chased Linda’s heels all day. She had Hildegunn to thank that she had been so active all her later years, never sitting still, rising early, going out cycling.
There was a movement at the window directly opposite hers and – Bibbi, she thought, could that be you? She wondered what her poor granddaughter could be doing down there at this hour of the morning. Bibbi might be having an affair with whoever lived there, but then she realized that, no, old eyes deceive – it was only her worry that brought Bibbi to mind – and the person she saw was that quiet young woman she used to chat to when she lived over there. What was her name again? Solveig. No: Mette. No, of course, it was Sonja, like the queen.
Linda used to spy on birds on her terrace and compare notes on her sightings with Sonja. Now they had the same angle on birds, so there was no point in comparing. They lacked an excuse to talk, as well as the opportunity.
Sonja, like the queen: Linda tagged everyone’s name like this now. In her old head, everything worth remembering was still there, but the doors were sometimes locked, and the hinges creaked. She called her granddaughter Baby-Bibbi, though she had her own baby now. That girl had depths, dark and murky, that called to her, ever since her year in London. There were meanings behind Knut and Une’s silences whenever she brought it up. They didn’t want to upset Linda, to agitate her. They thought upset and agitation were fatal to old people.
Flink!
There was no puff in her whisper. The word got barely past her lips. If she called out in earnest, her old voice would fly, ricocheting back and forth between the buildings. She saw Flink in the rose bushes from which the cat had leapt. Poor Flink had not the agility to follow it further.
The earth outside was a good metre below the floor at her feet. Add to that the safety balustrade, and she was certain that Flink would not come back this way. When you were old like her and Flink, you had to go the long way round. She reached out her hand in a stay-where-you-areboy gesture and pulled back inside, pushing the French windows closed. This was an awkward enough manoeuvre in itself: she had to hold two latches open, one high up and one down low, as she slammed the frame. It banged right into her elbow joints, but it wouldn’t shut. In the warmth and humidity of this tropical night, the window, she presumed, had expanded and no longer fit into its frame.
Linda had known many a sultry night up in her old apartment, but this had never happened to the windows there. It must be the height that made a difference. Up on the fourth floor, the breeze sped past, unhindered, cooling. Down here at garden level, draughts seeped, plants sweated and the air was almost a liquid. She had sunk too low. She had gone underwater.
The back garden was full of honeyed light when Linda came out, and the birds in the big bush were going crazy. Some sort of delirium washed over those small brown balls of feathers at dawn. Every morning, without fail, off they went, equally surprised each time. Was that what they meant when they called you a birdbrain? She heard them more intensely these days, from her bush-level bedroom. She lived with the birds now, though she was further from the sky. Sometimes she wondered if it would be better to start going deaf. The peace of old age. ]
There was a movement in the bushes at the other end of the garden that had something of Flink’s swagger in it, so she walked in that direction and allowed herself to click her tongue to call him. Surely that couldn’t wake anyone; surely that was quieter than the dawn chorus.
Flink’s tail was sticking out of a bush, wagging so the leaves made the sound of plastic. She clicked her tongue again and he came out. The bushes caught her attention because it was the wrong time of year for berries. Bending down, she saw that the leaves were covered with hundreds of ladybirds. It must be a year for greenfly. She picked one up and let it crawl along her palm. She would need her reading glasses to count its spots. As she hooked the leash onto Flink’s collar, the ladybird spread its red-armour wings and flew back to gorge itself green.
She heard a child crying not far away and thought of Bibbi, of Teddy.
