The Looking-Glass Sisters by Gøhril Gabrielsen Page A

bloody-mindedness to put it on the bread, what is she thinking of? The greasy piece of meat suddenly symbolizes all her inconsiderateness. She expects me, then, to go the entire evening without food, to sit quietly in my room with a raging hunger, to be thankful for anything at all. There’s no doubt that Johan is her main priority now, that she doesn’t think about anyone else but him.
     
    ‘That’s my chair.’
    I stand at the worktop and with my crutch hit the chair Johan’s been sitting on all evening. I’ve shoved the plate right in front of him, between the bottles and the glasses. The Finns follow the situation with raised eyebrows and expressionless eyes, look first at me, then at Ragna and Johan. I hit the chair again. I’m so close I’m almost breathing down his neck, which folds into two thick sausages, so close that I notice the hairs sticking out from his shirt, the worn material over the meaty back. He sits motionless, his arms crossed on the table, doesn’t move a muscle.
    ‘I want to eat.’
    To underline that I mean business, I raise one of the crutches, lower it slowly over the table and shift a liquor bottle that’s close to the plate, slowly remove the crutch and return the tip to the floor. I do it as slowly as I can and with strength I scarcely possess. My legs are shaking, I’m breathing heavily, but now I am showing I demand my right to the chair and a seat at the table. One of the older Finns, a dark bloke with green, close-set eyes, smiles slightly. This sets a chain reaction in motion: soon the upper lips of all three of them start twitching, a twisted grin they try to restrain so as not to provoke Johan.
    And Ragna? Ragna has shrunk to a small girl, wringing her dry hands while glancing across at Johan, who now lifts his backside slightly in order to find a more comfortable position on the chair.
    ‘Ragna,’ he says calmly, almost gently, turning slowly towards her, ‘can’t you get that bloody nuisance out of here?’
    Ragna looks around helplessly, unable to deal with the unexpected situation.
    ‘Johan,’ she begs, trying to appeal to something in him, perhaps to the words he has whispered into the pit of her throat in the heat of their embrace, words that have given her the sense of a bond between them, something so strong that it can cope with a certain amount of testing. She is about to say more, but Johan interrupts her.
    ‘Can’t you just ask her to stay away while there are people visiting? She embarrasses all of us.’ He pauses, looks questioningly at her. ‘Don’t you agree, Ragna?’
    Ragna replies by tipping her head to one side and rubbing her eyes. Is it my previous episode with Johan that she is thinking of, when he flew out of the door in a rage?
    ‘Just get the hell out of here, Johan,’ I say before she has time to open her mouth. ‘And take these louts with you!’
    I raise my crutch and point at the Finns, who glance irresolutely at each other. Johan lifts his backside uneasily, then settles it down into the seat of the chair once more.
    ‘Well I bloody never,’ he says, staring at Ragna. ‘Haven’t you thought of reacting in some way?’
    But I’m the one who reacts, several seconds before Ragna manages to even think the thought. I bring the crutch down on the table with all the strength I possess, sweep it from side to side so that bottles and glasses and slices of bread fly off in all directions.
    ‘ Saatana ! ’ one of the Finns shouts.
    The table stands in the direct line of fire and the force of the explosion causes all those sitting there to fling themselves backwards. I bash the table with all the strength Ipossess, I strike and strike until I notice at one point in my fury that the crutch is bending. I’m injured, the crutch, my arm and foot are injured. I have to give up, step back. And at that moment I collapse on to the floor.
     
    Ragna is standing close to the worktop, muttering, the Finns have squeezed into a corner by the door,