She can hear the tram coming down the hill, tell exactly where it is by the sound and adjust her tempo accordingly, how long she takes to button her coat, how quickly she walks. The gate has to be lifted slightly as she opens it, so as not to scrape the ground.
The sense of liberation at leaving the house, of turning the right way, downhill towards the station, of stepping onto the tram and heading into town, where there is life. Even though she is only going to Dr Vold. As well as running a few errands perhaps, if she is up to it. She must not manage to do too much though, that would only make Hartvig suspicious.
The doctor seems to be sitting far away from her. She is nearly falling asleep in her chair, this happens every time: she enters, sits down on the opposite side of the desk, and suddenly experiences a floating sensation, like when she dozes in bed with the curtains drawn in the afternoons. She also feels extremely tired. She tells him that the boy has been in the country and is soon coming home.
She says she has heard that children should not be too dependent on their mothers. Dr Vold seems neither to agree nor to disagree. Perhaps not, he says, probably unwise, generally speaking.
He is terribly difficult.
My nerves can’t take it.
He won’t behave as I want him to.
She says things like this and feels like crying. Imagine she could accompany the doctor home, was invited to dinner, was placed at the middle of the table with the doctor and his wife at each end, looking at her amicably, nodding when she spoke, thinking her charming and fascinating to converse with. Dr Vold would then see that she was funny, spirited and kind. Because she is kind.
Her eyes drift around the room while the doctor is speaking, asking her questions that she answers, about what time she is going to bed, if she is devoting enough of her day to diversions, eating regularly. She notices a green brooch on the Persian rug, enamel and shiny, slightly bent, with two tulip leaves on it.
There is a long, brown leather couch in Dr Vold’s office. He has never asked her to lie down upon it. Perhaps she is not sick enough. She wonders what his wife is like. Beautiful, of course, and slender. Is it her brooch on the carpet? Has she been to visit, has she lain here, on the floor, her clothes in disarray with his hand on its way up under her skirt? She has only seen him once without that white coat, she had been the last patient of the day, perhaps he was hot and tired, was thinking about getting home and had readied himself to leave as soon as their appointment was finished. His trousers were tight across his bottom. Narrow hips and long legs. Strong hands with hair creeping further up under his shirt cuffs. He is manly. Yes indeed, she could imagine what they get up to. Even professors have appetites. Yes, is he in fact a professor? See, she does not know. Dr Vold is a respected neurologist, Hartvig says. He was the one who suggested him of course. One does not contact a GP for an illness of this character, he said, as though he knew something about it. A doctor cures illnesses, she had replied, not characters. That was well said.
She does not quite know what is wrong with her, she says. Tiredness, headaches, dizziness. As well as which she is irascible. Hartvig cannot cope with that. He is weary of her neuroses, he says. Yes, him, who scarcely knows what a neurosis is. She is the one who is weary, weary beyond words. But I am not mad, really, she said to Dr Vold during her first consultation, and they both laughed, no, nobody thought that, he assured her.
It grows quiet. Dr Vold apologises for the noise of the traffic outside and closes the window. She asks for a glass of water. His secretary brings it in. The doctor shifts in his chair, causing the material on his shirt front to crease. She knows that he was born in the same year as her. Just think, she is thirty-seven years old. She will be forty before long. Now that is old. But Dr Vold’s skin is smooth and his hair is dark. Sometimes, on entering his office, she experiences a certain sensation in her stomach, not unlike delight. The two of them could just as well be sitting flirting in a restaurant, he could be admiring her, her looks, how witty she is. Not in reality of course, she does not fit in with the likes of him. A doctor. Besides, most of the time she considers him as being around the same age as her father. That mean man. There is a large portrait on the wall by the door, not of Dr Vold, but of a well-known senior consultant. Or is he the director of a hospital? She could not remember what Hartvig had said, he told her after they had been there the first time, when he had accompanied her. Why had he done that actually? Had she asked him? She could not remember that either.
How is it that some people can do anything and know almost everything, are they born that way, are they some sort of miracle? The consultant in the painting looks quite normal, a man of mature years, of ordinary appearance. Ordinary people are the worst thing she knows of. His doctor’s coat is only buttoned over his stomach, a blue waistcoat visible beneath. He is holding his pocket watch in his hand, part of the watch chain hanging down between his fingers. She does not think he looks mean.
It is different with Dr Vold. Does he think there is something seriously wrong with her?
It is first and foremost a feeling that arises when she attempts to discern the nature of her sickness. A feeling of everything being terrible, unbearable. She is wicked, the world is wicked. Everyone is mean and nasty, even Mama. Even though there is nobody who dislikes Mama, she is so lovable. So how could her daughter turn out like this? She knows they think she is difficult. Hartvig and his family, her parents-in-law, sister-in-law, all those cousins, uncles and aunts, ugh, there are so many of them. An artistic temperament, Mama says, in her defence. That just makes Cessi angry. But I’m not an artist, she screams, I’m nothing. Nothing but mean and horrible, I know that’s what you all really think. And that upsets Mama, so she goes out in the garden to Finn, while Hartvig laughs. Not out loud, but you can see it in his face. What did I tell you, his expression says, what did I tell you. Outwardly pleased.
Moreover, there’s her hysterics. She gets in such a state of excitability, Hartvig says, and if he is irate enough he accuses her of putting on an act, of feigning more than feeling genuine despair. But that is not true. It just flares up, cannot be controlled, she really can do nothing for it. Because Hartvig is like a wall. Cold and immovable even when he is worked up. That lack of response. Impossible to budge him. He is wilful and obstinate as well. The way he sees it, if something has been decided upon then that is that, and everything must be thought through thoroughly all over again if anything crops up requiring a change of plan. But with Hartvig things rarely change. She is simply helpless.
The room will not stop moving, the air turning grainy when she notices Dr Vold looking at her. Is this the only possibility of any form of contact between them? Images race through her mind, the wind in the trees, over the small forest lake, through the boy’s hair. She would rather be sitting on the tartan blanket by Mindedammen now, watching him swim. She does love the boy, in spite of everything. But where would Dr Vold fit in this scene? This is becoming too difficult. These troublesome images, they often overpower her. They are like photographs, only sharper, and in colour. As though she is there, almost there. But they are taking place in her head. The visions: hospital beds. A bedpan. Deaconesses. Light blue bonnets, light blue tablets. The trees in the forest.
The tram passes by outside. He asks what she is thinking about and she replies that she wishes he was an older gentleman, she likes old men. There are so many tiny dots in her vision that she can hardly make him out, she should not have said that, because now he asks if she and Hartvig have sexual intercourse. It is as though they are actually sitting in that restaurant she pictured earlier and she has had one drink too many. Her laughter is high-pitched and excessive because the question is so impertinent, because she was not prepared for anything like that, and does not know what to answer. So she shakes her head. It does happen of course, Hartvig will come to her and she is, as he quite rightly points out, his wife. But she does not feel any actual desire to be intimate with Hartvig.
Once in a while, she says to Dr Vold, naturally, I have conjugal duties, as all married women do.
Dr Vold leans forward in the chair, his elbows on the desk, holding the fountain pen between his hands as he absent-mindedly screws the top on and off, and asks:
Do you find yourself masturbating on occasion?
Well, I mean really, she replies, turning her head away. She does not even want to think about it, that sort of thing does not belong in here. The room fades completely to grey, she can vaguely make out the windows, as bright patches far away.
Dr Vold asks why she wishes he was old, and this time she just tells it like it is, that with age comes experience. That was probably a very stupid thing to say, because now he no doubt thinks she means experience of women, so she hurries to add that, moreover, older men no longer dwell on erotic matters. Now it is getting impossible. Dr Vold is by no means an elderly man, now he must think that she thinks that he harbours such thoughts about her, or even worse, he will assume that she entertains such thoughts about him, which she certainly does not. Or rather, she does, but that has nothing to do with this, with sitting here in his office.
A man must win his wife over and over again, he then says.
She feels intense warmth in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps he finds her attractive, he looks at her and would like to have what only Hartvig is entitled to. The purely erotic. Besides, it is true.
Hartvig is a practical man, she says, but she knows that is not the right word either, it is something else.
Ah, so he’s good with his hands, Dr Vold says, that’s a fine attribute.
But Hartvig is by no means skilled in that way, she is, she can both sew and do carpentry. It is more that he is so level-headed. In everything, she says. And quick to reason, but slow when it comes to action.
He’s perhaps extremely rational?
Yes, that is the word. She nods. But it is not.
He can have such a cold look in his eyes, she says. No, I mean ironic. He looks at me as if looking down from a mountaintop.
Or is it the opposite? Suddenly she is unsure. She can become terribly annoyed when he is too kind and lays his hand upon her, her body becomes too hot, she cannot breathe.
No, I don’t know, she says, I really don’t know.
Dr Vold leans back, folds his arms across his chest and nods at something, although she does not know what. He then looks at the clock on the wall and says that their time is up for the day, and she can schedule a new appointment with his secretary, a fortnight should be suitable.
She gets to her feet, takes one step and picks up the brooch. Holding it in her hand, she can see it resembles one of Mama’s, the shiny green enamel.
Someone seems to have lost this.
The doctor thanks her, but barely raises his head, the consultation is finished, he sits making notes in her journal, now she is merely another patient, one of many who come and go, she wants to cry again, does nothing matter?
She could sew an outfit to match that brooch. She usually listens to the wireless when she sews. It is a recent acquisition, a gift from Hartvig. To offer you some diversion in your spare time, he said, by which he meant a number of things, she understood that. That he had a guilty conscience for being away so much, but would not admit it. Moreover, that he was of the opinion she could do more work than she does. Giving her a radio was a way of saying that. She is not stupid. He does not consider sewing actual work. Not even when she had made him an entire suit had he appreciated the amount of work involved. After all, she was able to sew, so she should just get on with it, there was no more to it. That was the way Hartvig thought. But it was kind of him, to get her a radio. The Heyerdahls do not have one yet.
It is comforting to listen to the weather forecast, they often broadcast it. She has heard some lectures too, about the home and child-rearing, but that put her so out of sorts, irritable. As if she was not already aware of the mistakes she made. These know-it-alls, Brinchman and Mrs Grude Koht or whatever their names were. She does do one thing right, the boy gets good food and plenty of sleep, wears proper clothing and footwear and gets lots of fresh air in their lovely garden. What they said about not subjecting children to distressing scenes was more difficult. But she knows there are worse things, oh yes, she herself is living proof of that. A sudden and uncontrollable temper. Life is wicked. Oh dear, no, she would rather listen to the music they play, that seems to send waves of gladness over her, as it were, that is a feeling of happiness, she thinks. And then cigarettes, they are like chocolates, she cannot just have as many as she likes. She has to wait at least an hour between each one and the next. At times, she can have both Freia chocolate and her cigarettes out on the table. Smoking is even more enjoyable when you suck on a piece of cooking chocolate at the same time, as well as take a few sips of coffee. No matter if it is lukewarm. She probably drinks at least eight or nine cups a day. The sight of the cigarette packet also makes her happy. She tried out her new brand as soon as they began to advertise it. It was the picture on the packet that attracted her, those clean, deep colours, blue and green, besides, it was new and did not look like any other type she had seen before. She looked at the billboards up at Majorstua and Nationaltheatret stations, and took pleasure in the knowledge that she had just such a packet in her handbag, that she was a part of what was happening, and for once it was something beautiful. Blue Master. She liked the sight of the blue horse rearing up. Oh, she has such a yearning for beauty, she really does. As sensitive people often do.
Moreover, smoking helps keep her slim.
She goes into the wardrobe on occasion. She is really good at sewing, everyone says so. She slides the clothes on their hangers, takes out dresses, suits and blouses she has made. She is slender at times, no one can say otherwise. She has lovely outfits, and dainty feet.