Astrid and Veronika by Linda Olsson Page A

must have been flowerbeds along the fence once — she noticed a few struggling daffodils among the weeds. It struck her that her own garden needed work. Her own garden? It wasn’t her house, or her garden. She still had moments when she was overcome by a sense of surprise at being there at all. In the village. In the house.
    She spent time going through her journal, rereading notes and adding new ones. Each time she would be instantly transported to another world, curiously more present and alive with each passing day, as if time and distance functioned as a magnifier.
    She dreamt of the beach and the sea every night, but most mornings only a fragment would remain when she was fully awake. Still, the memory of the feeling lingered all day.
    It struck her that her memories seemed clear, alive, here in this unrelated environment. She watched her neighbour’s neglected garden slowly regaining life and preparing for summer, and the flax and budding pohutukawa of New Zealand intruded. Perhaps she had needed to get this far away in order to see clearly. To enable the memories to surface. But, although she was now beginning to touch the past, she wasn’t able to turn it into words. She would spend hours on the computer with nothing to show. The book she had set out to write seemed increasingly elusive. On the one hand, there were the invasive memories. On the other hand, everyday life in the village. And then the book. Somehow she lived with all three, but there seemed to be no connections between them.
    The following day she received the note. It was in her mailbox in the morning, although she hadn’t seen Astrid deliver it. The envelope was yellowed and the glue dried out. The handwriting was elegant, but somehow gave the impression that the process of writing had been painful, a struggle with pen and words. But it was an acceptance.
    ‘Thank you, dear Veronika. I was intrigued to get your note. There is rarely anything in my mailbox and I often don’t bother to check. Imagine my delight at a personal letter. An invitation. Of course I accept. With all my heart.’
    Astrid was coming to dinner.

9
    Tonight, nothing, nothing has occurred, but something yet takes place.
    Veronika had decided against meat in the end. It had been such a summery week, more suited to something light. She drove to the neighbouring village and bought three hot-smoked trout from the small smokehouse by the river. The first bags of new potatoes had arrived in the shop the day before, imported and overpriced, but she bought some.
    It was all set. She had decided they would eat in the kitchen, by the window that was open to the light, early summer evening. Air wafted in filled with the smells and sounds of the approaching night: flowers folding, dew settling on the grass, insects of the day falling silent and those of the night stirring. The warmth of the kitchen added smells of wilting dill on steaming potatoes, sliced lemon, pungent cheese. She had opened a bottle of New Zealand chardonnay and poured herself a glass. She stood by the window, waiting, and she raised the glass to her lips and took a first sip, letting the familiar flavours linger on her tongue. Apple, grapefruit, pineapple, feijoa, butter, grass — even experts struggled to find words to describe it. She looked out over the landscape, still wrapped in sunshine but distinctly evening quiet, and took in the immense stillness. She pulled the window to, leaving only a small chink. A fine film of steam covered the glass, the condensation running like tears. She was playing a recording of Lars Erik Larsson’s Förklädd Gud , God in disguise . It was as if all her senses had come together to form a complete whole. The stillness of the evening, the smells from the stove, the taste of the wine, the sound of the music. She was surprised to realise that she was filled with a quiet, measured feeling of anticipation.
    She put the glass on the table and went to the bench to prepare the mayonnaise.