You got out of bed and joined me. Your fingers were cold when you ran them along the scar on my back. Beginning at the top—with your forefinger, I thought—you traced slowly down my back. Stopped, then continued under my arm and round onto my chest.
“How old were you?”
“I was eight.”
You came closer. I felt your breath on my back before your lips touched the scar. The finger continued on its journey. It was as if you were exploring a map and had stopped on the boundary between the familiar and the unknown. You lifted my arm and inserted your head underneath, kissing me on the chest and looking up into my face. I thought I saw curiosity in your eyes.
Once outside, I walked across the street and looked up at your window. You waved to me, wrapped in a white sheet. The wind had picked up and was blowing winter over the city. I wound my scarf round my neck.
Before saying goodbye, I had told you about my studies at the Commercial College. I’d had the story prepared for days, but you never asked. You didn’t ask about anything. And that was the worst. I felt as if you were trying to spare my feelings. As if you saw through everything already.
I said I was taking business courses. On Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays from three till six. I had six months left till I graduated. I was getting on well. I was waiting on tables to make a little extra.
While I was speaking, you sat up in bed and turned towards me. Your breasts were like pears, white and beautiful, the nipples hard in the morning chill. Fingers long and delicate. When you touched me, I was in your power.
Did you know then that this story was a lie? Did you know that I cleaned the classrooms on Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays? The graduation certificate I brought home to Iceland before we married was a forgery. You had it framed and hung it above my desk in the office at home.
Has completed his studies in Accounting, Commodities, Invoicing, and General Economics with the highest marks.
I had bought the textbooks and studied alone in the library when I’d finished cleaning, but I couldn’t afford to attend courses.
I never corrected these lies. By the time I wanted to, it was too late.
When did you find out?
17
A golden plover awoke in the marshes, flying through the spring night like a black thread through a white blanket.
Had she been awakened by the swish of the bird’s wings or was she dreaming? Elisabet climbed out of bed. As she turned the door handle and stepped out onto the landing, the dining-room clock struck three faint chimes. Someone had forgotten to close a window at the end of the hallway. When she shut the window she noticed the fog out in the bay. As she was about to return to her room, she again heard the sound which had awakened her. Unable to work out immediately where it was coming from, she paused and looked alternately down the stairs and along the hallway to the other bedroom wing.
The curtains over the window she had shut were now still, the embroidered carriages awaiting their passengers, the teams hanging their heads in neat rows, their reins slack.
Silence. She waited, and as she did so her eyes fell on the portrait of her mother that hung on the wall by the stairs. Lately she had been wondering whether she had ever missed her. She’d been a child of three when she died, too young for such feelings.
She turned abruptly and headed along to the other wing. The sound became increasingly clear, though she still couldn’t work out what it was—breathing? Rattling? Whispering? She walked towards it with slow, even steps.
When an icy draft swept along the floor, she stopped for a second, as if she had stepped into water. She bent automatically to dry her toes but her fingers encountered nothing but cold.
Am I dreaming, she asked herself?
She hesitated outside her father’s bedroom. The door was not closed but stood a little ajar, admitting a thin crack of light which stretched across the floor and up to his bed. She
“How old were you?”
“I was eight.”
You came closer. I felt your breath on my back before your lips touched the scar. The finger continued on its journey. It was as if you were exploring a map and had stopped on the boundary between the familiar and the unknown. You lifted my arm and inserted your head underneath, kissing me on the chest and looking up into my face. I thought I saw curiosity in your eyes.
Once outside, I walked across the street and looked up at your window. You waved to me, wrapped in a white sheet. The wind had picked up and was blowing winter over the city. I wound my scarf round my neck.
Before saying goodbye, I had told you about my studies at the Commercial College. I’d had the story prepared for days, but you never asked. You didn’t ask about anything. And that was the worst. I felt as if you were trying to spare my feelings. As if you saw through everything already.
I said I was taking business courses. On Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays from three till six. I had six months left till I graduated. I was getting on well. I was waiting on tables to make a little extra.
While I was speaking, you sat up in bed and turned towards me. Your breasts were like pears, white and beautiful, the nipples hard in the morning chill. Fingers long and delicate. When you touched me, I was in your power.
Did you know then that this story was a lie? Did you know that I cleaned the classrooms on Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays? The graduation certificate I brought home to Iceland before we married was a forgery. You had it framed and hung it above my desk in the office at home.
Has completed his studies in Accounting, Commodities, Invoicing, and General Economics with the highest marks.
I had bought the textbooks and studied alone in the library when I’d finished cleaning, but I couldn’t afford to attend courses.
I never corrected these lies. By the time I wanted to, it was too late.
When did you find out?
17
A golden plover awoke in the marshes, flying through the spring night like a black thread through a white blanket.
Had she been awakened by the swish of the bird’s wings or was she dreaming? Elisabet climbed out of bed. As she turned the door handle and stepped out onto the landing, the dining-room clock struck three faint chimes. Someone had forgotten to close a window at the end of the hallway. When she shut the window she noticed the fog out in the bay. As she was about to return to her room, she again heard the sound which had awakened her. Unable to work out immediately where it was coming from, she paused and looked alternately down the stairs and along the hallway to the other bedroom wing.
The curtains over the window she had shut were now still, the embroidered carriages awaiting their passengers, the teams hanging their heads in neat rows, their reins slack.
Silence. She waited, and as she did so her eyes fell on the portrait of her mother that hung on the wall by the stairs. Lately she had been wondering whether she had ever missed her. She’d been a child of three when she died, too young for such feelings.
She turned abruptly and headed along to the other wing. The sound became increasingly clear, though she still couldn’t work out what it was—breathing? Rattling? Whispering? She walked towards it with slow, even steps.
When an icy draft swept along the floor, she stopped for a second, as if she had stepped into water. She bent automatically to dry her toes but her fingers encountered nothing but cold.
Am I dreaming, she asked herself?
She hesitated outside her father’s bedroom. The door was not closed but stood a little ajar, admitting a thin crack of light which stretched across the floor and up to his bed. She
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