She started whisking oil into mustard and egg yolks in a bowl, her hip against the edge of the bench and one foot lightly resting on top of the other. Her hands moved, the music played. There was no forewarning of the sudden flash of a memory, which hit her with an almost physical force. The two of them in his mother’s kitchen, laughing. James making mayonnaise. For her, in another life. His tanned hands moving with grace, effortlessly, doing their job while he talked to her of wonderful things to come. Her own hands stopped moving, resting on the bench, whisk in hand.
Just then, she heard footsteps on the porch. She put down the whisk and went to open the door. Her guest was lit by the lamp in the hallway behind, and Veronika saw Astrid’s pale face set off by a man’s white shirt. Her guest held out both hands, one offering a bottle filled with a dark red liquid, the other two small glasses, upside down and held by their slim stems. Veronika took the gifts, then gently touched the old woman’s elbow with hers and guided her inside, kicking the door closed with her foot.
In the kitchen, Astrid refused the chair and instead walked up to the window, where she stood with her hands on her back, her eyes set on her own house. Veronika couldn’t make out the shape of her body underneath the shirt, which was too big and hung loosely over her buttocks. Like the checked shirt she had been wearing on their walk, this one reached to midthigh, and the sleeves were rolled up to expose surprisingly slender wrists. Veronika could see the scalp through strands of grey hair at the top of the old woman’s head. Astrid had removed her shoes by the front door and her dark socks were a little too big as well, leaving an empty tip at the toes. The bottoms of the dark trousers looked wet from her walk across the dewy grass. Veronika offered her a glass of wine, which she accepted with a small start. She held the glass with both hands and drank slowly, her eyes closed. Neither of them spoke and in the stillness the music filled the room.
They sat down opposite each other at the table. The hot steam from the bowl of potatoes stirred in the light breeze from the window. The trout rested bright pink on a plate, surrounded by wedges of lemon, with the mayonnaise in a separate bowl alongside. There was knäckebröd, wedges of the large round crisp local rye bread in a small basket, butter, and cheese so mature it was crumbling. They began to eat. Veronika talked a little about New Zealand, about the book.
‘I thought I was writing a love story this time. Now I am not so sure,’ she said. ‘It is as if it has slipped out of my hands. Or off the screen of my laptop. I am beginning to think that perhaps there is another story intruding.’
The old woman listened, saying nothing and keeping her eyes on her plate. Whenever there was a moment of comfortable silence, the music expanded to fill the space. Suddenly, Astrid looked up.
‘They talk about me, I know. In the village.’ She smiled, a strange little grimace with firmly closed lips. ‘I don’t understand how they still find things to say. But they always have. Yet they don’t know anything worth knowing.’ She turned the glass in her hand. ‘I am sure you have heard that they call me “the witch”. I don’t mind. Perhaps there is something to that,’ she said, again with an odd smile, her eyes on the glass. ‘Lately, I have felt that it would be a relief to tell the truth. Or my version of some truth.’ Astrid looked up and her eyes met Veronika’s. ‘But then who should I tell?’
Veronika said nothing, turning her wine glass in her hand. They continued the meal in silence, pausing now and then with the cutlery on their plates and elbows resting on the table. Veronika opened a second bottle of wine. She went up to change the music, putting on a recording with songs with lyrics by Erik Axel Karlfeldt. She paused for a moment to listen to the words:
She comes across the
Just then, she heard footsteps on the porch. She put down the whisk and went to open the door. Her guest was lit by the lamp in the hallway behind, and Veronika saw Astrid’s pale face set off by a man’s white shirt. Her guest held out both hands, one offering a bottle filled with a dark red liquid, the other two small glasses, upside down and held by their slim stems. Veronika took the gifts, then gently touched the old woman’s elbow with hers and guided her inside, kicking the door closed with her foot.
In the kitchen, Astrid refused the chair and instead walked up to the window, where she stood with her hands on her back, her eyes set on her own house. Veronika couldn’t make out the shape of her body underneath the shirt, which was too big and hung loosely over her buttocks. Like the checked shirt she had been wearing on their walk, this one reached to midthigh, and the sleeves were rolled up to expose surprisingly slender wrists. Veronika could see the scalp through strands of grey hair at the top of the old woman’s head. Astrid had removed her shoes by the front door and her dark socks were a little too big as well, leaving an empty tip at the toes. The bottoms of the dark trousers looked wet from her walk across the dewy grass. Veronika offered her a glass of wine, which she accepted with a small start. She held the glass with both hands and drank slowly, her eyes closed. Neither of them spoke and in the stillness the music filled the room.
They sat down opposite each other at the table. The hot steam from the bowl of potatoes stirred in the light breeze from the window. The trout rested bright pink on a plate, surrounded by wedges of lemon, with the mayonnaise in a separate bowl alongside. There was knäckebröd, wedges of the large round crisp local rye bread in a small basket, butter, and cheese so mature it was crumbling. They began to eat. Veronika talked a little about New Zealand, about the book.
‘I thought I was writing a love story this time. Now I am not so sure,’ she said. ‘It is as if it has slipped out of my hands. Or off the screen of my laptop. I am beginning to think that perhaps there is another story intruding.’
The old woman listened, saying nothing and keeping her eyes on her plate. Whenever there was a moment of comfortable silence, the music expanded to fill the space. Suddenly, Astrid looked up.
‘They talk about me, I know. In the village.’ She smiled, a strange little grimace with firmly closed lips. ‘I don’t understand how they still find things to say. But they always have. Yet they don’t know anything worth knowing.’ She turned the glass in her hand. ‘I am sure you have heard that they call me “the witch”. I don’t mind. Perhaps there is something to that,’ she said, again with an odd smile, her eyes on the glass. ‘Lately, I have felt that it would be a relief to tell the truth. Or my version of some truth.’ Astrid looked up and her eyes met Veronika’s. ‘But then who should I tell?’
Veronika said nothing, turning her wine glass in her hand. They continued the meal in silence, pausing now and then with the cutlery on their plates and elbows resting on the table. Veronika opened a second bottle of wine. She went up to change the music, putting on a recording with songs with lyrics by Erik Axel Karlfeldt. She paused for a moment to listen to the words:
She comes across the
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