Self-Control. Stig Saeterbakken

      

      SELF-CONTROL

      STIG SÆTERBAKKEN

      Translated by Seán Kinsella

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      OTHER WORKS BY STIG SÆTERBAKKEN IN ENGLISH TRANSLATION

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      About the Authors

      NORWEGIAN LITERATURE SERIES

      Copyright

      OTHER WORKS BY STIG SÆTERBAKKEN IN

      ENGLISH TRANSLATION

       Siamese

      Chapter One

      I hadn’t seen her … talked to her of course, but hadn’t seen her, in … how many years had it been? … even though she was my own flesh and blood … and that’s why it seemed natural to me to explain it this way, because it was as though the opportunity arose so seldom that it gave us both … or me at least … a sort of fear of failure with regard to the benefits of our rather hastily arranged meeting. Even though she wasn’t the daughter who lived farthest away, no, on the contrary our homes were so close to each other that actually it was a wonder that we didn’t bump into each other unexpectedly from time to time. That this wasn’t the case made it natural to assume that it was because she didn’t want to, and for that reason had taken measures not to … or simply … and perhaps more likely … because it was extremely seldom that I … if at all in the past year … had deviated from my regular daily route through the city.

      She had lit a long, thin cigarillo, I got the idea that it was chosen on account of her fingers, which were also very long and thin. She kept looking out the window all the time, as if there was something exciting going on out there, or she stared down at the table or at the cigarillo when I answered her or asked about something: surveying with great interest, it seemed, the grey glow advancing down along the slim stem. A bit put-on, this excessive nonchalance. But what else could I expect? Every time she opened her mouth I thought I’d hear something terrible, that she’d blame me for something, or tell me about something horrible that had happened to her. But after a while, as the conversation ran its course, still without any particularly unpleasant subjects being brought up, I ascertained to my surprise that it was all progressing in an extremely polite and restrained way: I couldn’t help but imagine how friendly and relaxed our little meeting would appear to an outsider, one of the cafe’s random patrons.

      I took a glance out the window, in the hope of perhaps discovering something of interest that could explain her slight absentmindedness. But there was nothing to see, not from where I was sitting anyway, nothing other than a fire hydrant that stood on the other side of the street, squeezed against the fence, with a drooping bush as a roof. It had a sort of dignity, standing there. A few long blades of grass had struggled up through the asphalt and grown closely around it, and a couple of dandelions had accompanied them, of which there were only a few greenish-brown leaves left, making it look like a headstone. It was completely calm, cars passed without a sound. Yes, it all seemed so peaceful that it appeared almost staged. I started to think about that girl who’d been reported missing earlier in the day, she was sixteen and hadn’t come home from a party the night before. We’d heard the police appeals on the news during our lunch break but it didn’t seem like anyone else had taken any particular notice of it … perhaps you just hear about that sort of thing too often nowadays? … and this had exasperated me, I realized, even though it was only now, in retrospect, that I noticed what an impression it had made. It was so tranquil in the park as well, when I strolled through it, a bit before six, and still warm in the sunlight. The pea shrub bushes crackled like a lively fire in a hearth along the promenade, the empty pods hitting the asphalt with a dry slap. She’d suggested the place to meet, I had to ask for directions twice. And when I finally opened the door, a couple of minutes late, and caught sight of her … she had sat down at a round table, in the middle of the cafe … there was something strange about her, just at first glance, that made me proud, like a confirmation of something, without my being sure of what it was.

      Our chairs were plastic, the seat felt cold against my behind when I sat down and I had a hard time ignoring the goose bumps it gave me on my skin down there, it felt like tiny nails being pulled out of my rear. All at once I became aware that I was frightened of running out of things to say, and I thought I recognised the same fear in her. Then I thought that I could actually say anything at all, that it still wouldn’t make any difference. It was as though the lack of contact, on a regular basis, which at some times bothered me and at other times didn’t, relieved us of all responsibility: however you looked at it, we didn’t have the time we’d need to become so acquainted with one another that it would be of any significance, no matter what we said. At the same time I couldn’t quite get away from feeling a certain sort of secret admiration for her. Because I did see, to my amazement, that it was a grown-up and extremely sensible woman sitting in front of me, one who wouldn’t allow herself be knocked off her perch just like that, wonderful to see, yes, quite beautiful actually, it struck me, as I studied her more closely. I thought I could picture her reprimanding one of her colleagues for substandard work, or rolling her eyes over a particularly stupid remark from Karl-Martin, with whom she had unfortunately and for reasons that were incomprehensible ended up with; she who could probably have chosen anyone she wanted …

      “You’re all settled in then?” I asked.

      “Yeah” she answered, a little sullenly, as if the question bored her.

      “And everything at work is all right?”

      “Yeah.”

      “And Karl-Martin?”

      “Karl-Martin’s work is okay too. He’s just started in a new job. The last job he had was just awful, he hated it so much he was on the verge of … well.”

      I nodded, even though I didn’t know what she was going to say.

      “But he’s happy now,” she said, it seemed like fatigue was on the verge of overwhelming her.

      “Do the two of you have any particular plans, or …”

      I immediately regretted the unfinished sentence, because I knew she wouldn’t help me in the way I had helped her. She looked at me. As I’d thought. She just waited.

      “Or are you both … ?” I felt I’d already entangled myself in something that would be impossible to find my way out of again.

      “Y’know? Thinking, right now, how should I put it … ?”

      She gave a wry grin. “About children, you mean?”

      I threw my hands up. “Yes, for example.”

      “That can wait,” she said, but it seemed from the way she said it as though this was out of the question. She began to tell me about Karl-Martin’s job, not her own … described in detail what his new position involved, how much responsibility he’d been given, how much they expected of him, how much freedom he had to plan his workdays.

      While I sat there listening to her I noticed something peculiar about her lips, how they stuck to each other at a particular point at the far corner of one side of her mouth when she spoke. This detail, insignificant as it was, now caught my attention in such a way that I lost sight of everything else. I couldn’t manage to take my eyes off it. It bothered me to look at it, all the same I let myself become completely absorbed by it. There was something about it that didn’t fit … was that why I was so fascinated? … the rest of her, something that didn’t match, no, absolutely not, with what I otherwise took as being her, or rather her