can tell me what they are up to out there.
I often lie with my door shut. I often shut it myself. But to be shut in by Ragna, that’s something quite different. I’m in the process of accepting her authority to decide the position of the door. At the same time, though, I feel resistance, as always when she forces me to accept her will, short-tempered and unshiftable.
My hands folded, I note in silence that it is impossible to overlook me, precisely because I exist. I exist .
I sit up angrily in bed. Full of this clarity of vision, this strength, I feel a sudden urge to assert my right of self-determination. I pick up one of the crutches, hold it in the air and shout.
‘I’m here!’
‘I’m here!’ I shout again as loud as I can. ‘And I’m bloody hungry!’ I scream, bashing the crutch against the wall.
I can’t help being startled at this outburst, this sudden expression of hunger, because I haven’t felt like food the whole evening. But the insistence of my stomach is there now and I probably haven’t eaten for four or five hours.
Ragna’s face at the door.
‘You’ll have to wait!’ Her eyes are burning, there are red, flaming patches at her neck.
‘There’s nothing to wait for – I’m hungry!’
I get up from the bed and, supported by my crutches, totter over to the door and tug at the handle. Ragna holds back.
‘Sister!’ She’s at a loss, her voice slips. ‘I know you’re hungry,’ she says, ‘but you’ll get something a bit later, straight afterwards. I’ll rustle something up when the Finns have gone.’
Dregs of words, tangles of sentences. Her mild tone of voice jars – she could at least speak clearly and distinctly.
‘Wait a moment!’ I hear her shuffle back into the room and talk to the men, who answer with grunts and groans.
I don’t wait, wrench open the door.
What predictable play-acting. They’re all sitting there, the men and my sister, fully dressed at the kitchen table, with their liquor glasses in their hands and a vague expression of disgruntlement. I don’t believe them, what hypocrisy: they’ve obviously got dressed quickly and cleared away the papers. I, for my part, haven’t considered revealing my suspicions, everything I’ve understood, and root around in the bread bin, unconcerned and with complete naturalness.
But although the mind is strong, the body is far weaker. Soon I’m shuddering, my arms and legs are shaking, and it’s all I can do to stay upright on one crutch, for I need the other hand to search for food. I usually don’t stand here at the worktop; for the last few years Ragna has prepared the meals. I rummage around and can’t find the butter. Or the cheese slicer.
After fumbling back and forth for a while, I begin to see myself as they must see me. And if I turn my head slightly I can see myself too – the face in the mirror above the sink is mine. Oh, let my pride bear me up, keep mestanding, my will straighten me up, for I am truly a pitiful sight. Is that what the Finns see? An emaciated creature of feminine origin, degenerated, mutated at the edge of the wilderness? A furry animal with bared canine teeth, snarling at the smell of strangers?
I exist . So pitiable and pathetic. I have swaggered out armed with two perverted words that suddenly fall to pieces, ashamed of their own alleged strength. I regret this, change the statement to a stuttering I exist? , for that’s the state of affairs now, with me clutching my crutches and whimpering, ‘Ragna, help me.’
‘What the hell’s she making a song and dance about?’ Johan asks.
Ragna tosses her head, empties the last dregs and puts the glass down hard on the table. She reels over to the worktop, starts to slice bread and immediately afterwards sticks a dish right up under my nose.
‘Eat!’
The bread’s got no butter and the salami has evidently been lying around sweating on the cutting board for several hours. I don’t like salami, it’s pure
I often lie with my door shut. I often shut it myself. But to be shut in by Ragna, that’s something quite different. I’m in the process of accepting her authority to decide the position of the door. At the same time, though, I feel resistance, as always when she forces me to accept her will, short-tempered and unshiftable.
My hands folded, I note in silence that it is impossible to overlook me, precisely because I exist. I exist .
I sit up angrily in bed. Full of this clarity of vision, this strength, I feel a sudden urge to assert my right of self-determination. I pick up one of the crutches, hold it in the air and shout.
‘I’m here!’
‘I’m here!’ I shout again as loud as I can. ‘And I’m bloody hungry!’ I scream, bashing the crutch against the wall.
I can’t help being startled at this outburst, this sudden expression of hunger, because I haven’t felt like food the whole evening. But the insistence of my stomach is there now and I probably haven’t eaten for four or five hours.
Ragna’s face at the door.
‘You’ll have to wait!’ Her eyes are burning, there are red, flaming patches at her neck.
‘There’s nothing to wait for – I’m hungry!’
I get up from the bed and, supported by my crutches, totter over to the door and tug at the handle. Ragna holds back.
‘Sister!’ She’s at a loss, her voice slips. ‘I know you’re hungry,’ she says, ‘but you’ll get something a bit later, straight afterwards. I’ll rustle something up when the Finns have gone.’
Dregs of words, tangles of sentences. Her mild tone of voice jars – she could at least speak clearly and distinctly.
‘Wait a moment!’ I hear her shuffle back into the room and talk to the men, who answer with grunts and groans.
I don’t wait, wrench open the door.
What predictable play-acting. They’re all sitting there, the men and my sister, fully dressed at the kitchen table, with their liquor glasses in their hands and a vague expression of disgruntlement. I don’t believe them, what hypocrisy: they’ve obviously got dressed quickly and cleared away the papers. I, for my part, haven’t considered revealing my suspicions, everything I’ve understood, and root around in the bread bin, unconcerned and with complete naturalness.
But although the mind is strong, the body is far weaker. Soon I’m shuddering, my arms and legs are shaking, and it’s all I can do to stay upright on one crutch, for I need the other hand to search for food. I usually don’t stand here at the worktop; for the last few years Ragna has prepared the meals. I rummage around and can’t find the butter. Or the cheese slicer.
After fumbling back and forth for a while, I begin to see myself as they must see me. And if I turn my head slightly I can see myself too – the face in the mirror above the sink is mine. Oh, let my pride bear me up, keep mestanding, my will straighten me up, for I am truly a pitiful sight. Is that what the Finns see? An emaciated creature of feminine origin, degenerated, mutated at the edge of the wilderness? A furry animal with bared canine teeth, snarling at the smell of strangers?
I exist . So pitiable and pathetic. I have swaggered out armed with two perverted words that suddenly fall to pieces, ashamed of their own alleged strength. I regret this, change the statement to a stuttering I exist? , for that’s the state of affairs now, with me clutching my crutches and whimpering, ‘Ragna, help me.’
‘What the hell’s she making a song and dance about?’ Johan asks.
Ragna tosses her head, empties the last dregs and puts the glass down hard on the table. She reels over to the worktop, starts to slice bread and immediately afterwards sticks a dish right up under my nose.
‘Eat!’
The bread’s got no butter and the salami has evidently been lying around sweating on the cutting board for several hours. I don’t like salami, it’s pure
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