You Disappear Page 18

  “I don’t exactly want lawn-chair cushions hanging on the wall either.”

  “Well, we’re both going to have to compromise there. It’s important to me. And there are two of us.”

  It’s the first time since the operation that he’s said compromise or two of us. There’s progress all the time. Now I can leave him home by himself—he stays in his workshop anyway, pretty much from when he wakes up till when he goes to bed—so we no longer have Thorkild and Vibeke at the house every weekday. And when he’s rested, strangers think he’s healthy—that he’s just an unusually self-centered man with an obnoxious laugh.

  We’re accustomed to living modestly. But what we can afford now—on his disability pension and my teacher’s salary—is very modest. We’re looking only at two-bedroom apartments. Somehow we’ll have to manage the lack of space. But I’m going to miss my yard something terrible. I’m looking for an apartment I can be happy to come home to after a day at work, an apartment that despite the lack of square footage is light and inviting. An apartment where I can imagine a future.

  The one we’re looking at now is horrible. Even though it’s one of the larger apartments on my list, the layout is so ill conceived that regardless of where I stand, it makes me feel trapped. Even the realtor looks as if being here is making him ill.

  “I could have this room to myself,” Frederik says happily when we’re in the only large room, which also happens to face south. “My desk could stand here, my workbench here. I could have a bed here, and the armchair could stand here. On this wall I want my large poster, and over here I want a bulletin board.”

  “What’ll we use for the living room then?”

  “The room next to this one.”

  “We cannot share our bedroom with Niklas!”

  “He’s a big boy now and will be moving out soon. You have to think of the long term, Mia. This is an apartment we’ll have for years and years after he moves out.”

  “But we’re also going to have it now, while he’s still living at home.”

  “He can move in with Emilie. He’d be happy to, I’m sure. Then he’ll be happy and we’ll be happy. See, it’ll work out great. I could have the TV here, and then I can watch it from the armchair and the bed and the desk. It’s a fantastic apartment. I think we’ll take it.”

  I try to avoid the agent’s gaze. “Frederik, it’s simply out of the question.”

  Every minute we’re here, I despise this apartment more. The view on either side is wretched, looking straight into other apartments, and the staircase is squalid, almost disgusting.

  Frederik acts as if he doesn’t hear me. I canceled two earlier showings because I only want to look at apartments when he’s rested. He’s rested now, but this showing has brought out the worst in him.

  It’s also hard to know how much I should listen to him. He’s right, that we’ll end up keeping the apartment for a long time after Niklas leaves home. But who’ll Frederik be in two years? Who’ll he be in two weeks? Will he lose all interest in acoustics and stereo equipment from one day to the next, just like he did with motor sports?

  The realtor tries to fake some enthusiasm for the possibilities. He talks about the lovely shared party room in the basement and the excellent soundproofing of the windows.

  But I have no idea if Frederik will get any better than he already is. The doctors said his progress would be rapid in the beginning, but that after the first three months it’d gradually stop. And no one can say when it will stop completely.

  Frederik stands with his head in the breaker box. “It gets better and better!” he exclaims. “Look, there are two separate circuits for the electricity to my room. So we can connect the lights to one and the hi-fi to the other. That could make a huge difference.”

  I tell the realtor that we’ll think about it, and drag Frederik away.

  On the way home, I decide that from now on, it should be just Niklas and me who choose the apartment. But I don’t know how much I should listen to Niklas either. He hates being home anyway, and in a couple of years he’ll be moving out. Then I’ll be stuck with the apartment and Frederik all by myself.

  When we get home, Frederik goes up and takes a nap, and I start to text Niklas, telling him the apartment wasn’t anything for us, and that I have an appointment to look at another one a little later.

  As I stand there, cell in hand, Bernard calls. The prosecutor’s misplaced some of the files, and Bernard wants to hear if we have a backup somewhere. I’m sure we do. When Frederik still had his act together, he always backed up our most important files on an external hard drive. It’s over at Vibeke and Thorkild’s, in case of fire or theft at our place. I promise to make him a copy.

  “Now that I’ve got you,” I say, “are you doing anything forty-five minutes from now?”

  “No …”

  “Any chance you want to go with me to look at an apartment?”

  “Yeah … Sure, I can do that.”

  • • •

  The apartment’s on the second floor of an old house on one of the residential streets nearby. The ground floor has large bricked-up windows and must have been a store once. From the outside, it all looks a bit run-down, but that’s also probably why the apartment’s affordable.

  Another realtor from the same agency lets us in. His colleague must have said something about Frederik, for the realtor looks at Bernard oddly, as if he keeps expecting him to act weird.

  An old narrow stairway leads up to an apartment that is darker than the one I saw with Frederik. A converted attic, but I can see right away that it’s got character. We walk around wordlessly and look. From the small bay windows in back, I look down on a hidden yard that is larger than the one we have on Station Road. It’s neglected and overgrown, but it looks like it has some interesting plants, suggesting that at one point, somebody invested some effort in it. In a few summers, it could be very nice.

  The agent follows my gaze. “The yard has potential. You’d be sharing it with the tenant downstairs, but you can see they haven’t had the time to use it very much or take care of it. You can put your own stamp on it, and most of the time you should be able to use it without being bothered.”

  Without saying anything, I turn to see what could be done with the central room. If we tear down the wall it shares with the kitchen, we could have a large open room for cooking and eating. We’d probably spend most of our time there, and then the other two rooms could be bedrooms.

  The outside wall between this room and the backyard also catches my eye. Apparently, Bernard sees the same thing I do, for he asks the agent, “Would it be possible to put in some large windows and a balcony here?”

  “It’s certainly possible. If you wanted to put in a full balcony, it’d block some of the light for the downstairs tenant, so you’d have to get permission from them. But there shouldn’t be any problem with putting in windows and a French balcony.”

  “And this wall here,” Bernard says, indicating the wall between the central room and the kitchen. “It doesn’t look like a load-bearing wall.”

  “No, you could knock that out if you wanted.”

  I catch Bernard’s eye: French balcony doors on an open kitchen and living room, looking out over a yard that’s all but our own. There’d be a flood of light up here, and a view. We could eat, relax, sit in the balcony opening, and watch the sun drop behind the trees.

  Then Bernard says, “The garage that the listing mentions—is that the one I can see down there?”

  “Yes.”

  “There wouldn’t be any problem using it for a workshop, would there?”

  “You can do what you want with it.”

  I have to sit down. This is much more than what I resigned myself to: Frederik would have his own workshop. I struggle to keep my cool so that we can push them on the price.

  Bernard walks past me and his fingertips brush my shoulder; I think it’s a signal, to warn me that my excitement is a bit too obvious. He turns, and his face expresses
calm, but when the realtor looks away, I can see Bernard’s relieved on my behalf.

  On his way into one of the other rooms, the agent says, “If you made this the master bedroom, you’d get some fantastic morning sun.”

  At some point, I suppose we’ll have to tell him that Bernard isn’t my husband.

  “The stairs are very narrow,” Bernard says, with convincing dissatisfaction.

  He’s well aware that I’d be only too happy to have a narrow stairway. It would create a little psychological distance from the street in case the Medico-Legal Council report goes against Herdis Lebech’s recommendation, and lots of people continue to despise us.

  The realtor’s phone rings. He excuses himself and goes down the stairs. After making sure he’s out of earshot, Bernard comes over within whispering distance.

  “This place—it really is you.”

  In my relief I could almost hug him.

  “Your dinner table could stand here, right next to the balcony doors.”

  “Yes, and the paneling’s from the same period.”

  He walks over to a corner of the main room that would make a nice quiet nook. “Your armchair would be perfect here.”

  I place myself at his side and try to see the corner the way it would look after we arranged the furniture.

  “And then the two chairs you used to have in Frederik’s office could stand here.”

  “Yes,” I say, “but there’s not much room for my coffee table. Yours, however, would be narrow enough—and work great with the chairs.”

  The words just fly out of my mouth. I wasn’t thinking of anything except how perfectly his table would fit.

  We look into each other’s eyes. Is it my imagination, or could we kiss now? What would he do if I brought my mouth closer to his?

  I allow myself at last to look at his face, long enough to take in the curl of his eyelashes, the pores of his skin, a broken blood vessel on his temple; the crow’s-feet in the corners of his eyes. I see everything.

  So aren’t we going to kiss? Isn’t he going to come closer? Isn’t there going to be an exchange of glances and small advances, a drawing of breath, a dilation of pupils?

  “The slanting walls here make for great acoustics!” the agent’s voice exclaims.

  I turn around and find him looking at Bernard.

  “And it shouldn’t be any problem to install extra electrical circuits,” he adds while the corners of his mouth tighten slightly, as if he’s suppressing a smile.

  I clear my throat. “There must be some misunderstanding,” I say. “Bernard’s just a good friend.”

  “Ohhh.” Now it’s me the realtor stares at.

  “I need to see the bathroom too,” I say, leaving the room quickly. Inside the bathroom, I lock the door behind me.

  Maybe I’ve also become unbalanced; maybe Frederik infected me. Two of the women from support group say they feel as if they’ve contracted their husbands’ disease. They become confused just like their men, take the initiative much less often, fumble for words.

  And maybe, just like Frederik, I believe that I’m fully rational and well when in reality I’m doing something crazy. It’s not something I’d be aware of. I wouldn’t realize it any more than he does.

  I fall into my usual escape fantasy about playing tennis. The sultry heat, the low sun. The strike of ball against racket; the sweat running into my eyes. A stroke. The sweat reaching the bridge of my nose now. Skidding on the crushed stone. Another stroke. I glimpse my opponent, and it’s Bernard I’m playing. He’s good. Athletic, power in his strokes. A handsome profile in the evening light. The fantasy’s mine, but Bernard has followed me here. Stroke on stroke. I’ve got to get away from him.

  Another fantasy: my happiest years with Frederik. Sitting in the hanging sofa in our yard. We’ve blown off the neighbor’s garden party to be by ourselves. I rest my head against his chest. The sun still coloring the northern sky. His strong arm around me … but wait, Frederik’s arms aren’t strong! I turn my face and find myself looking up at Bernard. I’m not resting my head on Frederik’s chest; it’s Bernard I’ve run off with. I’ve been to the neighbor’s party with Bernard. I’ve got to leave again.

  Walking along Lake Farum: Frederik and me in the sun. He wraps a strong arm around my waist. We meet the parents of some—

  “Mia?”

  I hear a knock on the door, and Bernard’s voice.

  “Mia?”

  I open the door. He stands close, right outside the door. Now I feel it. He comes even closer. The exchange. Our breath, our pupils.

  I grab him, pull him into the bathroom, close the door, and kiss him. He kisses me. He presses me to him, so that for a moment I can’t breathe. Our tongues, our lips, our skin and spittle. I encircle his shoulders. Our eyes and noses, bellies and groins. It’ll never stop, we’ll keep on and on. So it was true. So there were signals from him. It’ll go on forever. So it’ll be the two of us now.

  He gasps for breath, and I pull my face back a little so I can smile at him.

  But now he’s gasping too much for breath. He tears himself free and stands doubled over, his hands on his knees as if he’s going to throw up.

  I’ve been in a state of alert for months and I don’t even think, I just shout for the realtor before I know what I’m doing. “Call an ambulance! Damn it! Damn it! Call an ambulance!”

  The husbands of my friends in support group keep having strokes. Strokes right and left. The men drop dead. The real estate agent’s steps sound on the far side of the bathroom door. He knocks over something with a crash and swears under his breath.

  I’m not sure if I should reach out to touch Bernard. May I hold him?

  “Bernard? Can you say something?”

  “I’m not ill,” he says. “Or rather yes, I am ill, but I’m not … He shouldn’t call for an ambulance.”

  I drop to a knee so that I can see his face. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  It takes time to get such wet cheeks; he must have been crying while we kissed.

  “Bernard? What’s wrong?”

  The realtor enters the bathroom with his phone to his ear. “They’re asking what happened. What’s wrong? What should I tell them?”

  We both look at Bernard, who doesn’t answer.

  “Bernard?”

  “It’s nothing. Just hang up. We don’t need an ambulance.”

  But he’s speaking with Frederik’s voice. The toneless voice from the weeks after the operation. My friends’ husbands. My husband.

  I find myself shouting. “He himself doesn’t know! That’s one of the symptoms—apoplexy! His brain!”

  Now Bernard is weeping—again, almost like Frederik. “It isn’t apoplexy. I’m sorry!”

  I know what the eyes of a stroke victim look like.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he repeats.

  “There’s no reason to … can you move your right side? Can you say your name? Do you know where we are?”

  “I have to go now,” he says.

  He straightens up and heads for the door.

  “You can’t go now!”

  “I’ve got to.”

  I run after him down the narrow stairs.

  “But you can’t drive a car,” I say.

  “Yes. I can drive just fine.”

  He’s walking quickly, so I have to run around the parked cars and back onto the sidewalk, where I plant myself in front of the station wagon door. “You aren’t allowed to get in. This is for your own good.”

  “Mia, stop it now.”

  And now he’s speaking in his own voice again.

  Maybe it’s me who’s sick. He isn’t, in any case. Maybe I just can’t deal with kissing another man. I step aside, and he gets behind the wheel.

  “I’m really sorry,” he says. “I’m really, really sorry.”

  I want to go closer. Lean into the car. But something tells me I shouldn’t. And then he drives away.

  The real estate agent and I are left standing th
ere.

  The agent leads me back to the apartment, and now it’s myself I don’t dare to let drive. With solicitude, he guides me over to an armchair in the middle room, the room we wanted to open up into the kitchen. And then he gets me a glass of water in what might be Frederik’s and my new home.

  18

  Soon we won’t be living here anymore. I look at my white house. The black-stained timbers, the light shadows on the wall where I scrubbed away the graffiti. I take it in as if I’m not looking at a real house, just paging through an old photo album.

  Someday, years from now, I’ll point to this page and say, We used to live here.

  It looks so charming, so homey, a future acquaintance will say, sitting beside me on the cheap ugly couch I’ll have then.

  Yes. We were happy living there.

  And then a stillness will descend between us. She won’t say, That must have been before it all went south—and really, what else could she say? And I won’t say, That was when I kissed another man. What else would there be for me to say?

  The house back then, the photo poster you can faintly make out through Niklas’s window, the wicker enclosure I built around the garbage cans with my own hands.

  I continue to leaf through the album as I walk down the flagstones to the front door. Yes; we were happy living here.

  Before I pass the FOR SALE sign, I wipe my lips off on my sleeve one more time. Bernard also wanted to, didn’t he? Should I call him, text him? Have I done something awful? Have I wrecked the good working relationship we have with our lawyer?

  In the living room, Eurosport is on with the sound turned down. I switch it off. On the floor lie three books, two of them open. I leave them lying there but pick up the plate with the jam sandwich, one-fourth eaten.

  I place it in the kitchen, where I find another plate with bread and jam, this one half eaten. I yell up to Frederik, who’s in his workshop, no doubt. “I’m home now! It was a lovely apartment—just the thing for us!”

  He doesn’t answer.

  Our folding clotheshorse is also in the kitchen. For once, Frederik’s remembered to hang up the clothes that don’t get tumble-dried, just like I’ve asked him to.