A Great Deserted Landscape (Electric Literature's Recommended Reading) by Kjell Askildsen Page B

they’re gone now. That’s a pity, said Sonja. What’s that down to? That’s what no one can figure out, said Mom. Then they didn’t say anything else for a while. Now we can’t tell if it’s going to be nice or if it’s going to rain anymore, said Mom. You could just listen to the weather forecast, said Sonja. You can’t rely on them, said Mom. In the Mediterranean, swallows fly low even if it isn’t going to rain, said Sonja. Well then they must be a different type of swallow, said Mom. No, said Sonja, they’re the same type. That’s odd, said Mom. Sonja didn’t say anything else. She drank her wine. Is that true what Sonja’s saying? asked Mom. Yes, I said. Jesus, you never believe anything I say, said Sonja. I think it ought to be beneath your dignity to swear on a day like today, said Mom. Sonja drained her glass and stood up. You’re right, she said, I should wait until tomorrow. Now you’re being mean, said Mom. And to think I was such a good-natured child, said Sonja. She came over and helped me to more wine. She didn’t hold my head high enough, and some of it ran out of the corner of my mouth and down my chin. She wiped me rather roughly with a corner of the sheet, her lips were tightened in anger. Then she went into the living room. What’s got into her? said Mom. She’s an adult, Mom, I said, she doesn’t want to be told off. But I’m her mother, she said. I didn’t reply. I only want what’s best for her, she said. I didn’t reply. She started crying. What’s wrong, Mom? I said. Nothing’s the way it used to be, she said, everything is so... strange. Sonja came back out. I’m going for a walk, she said. I think she saw that Mom was crying, but I’m not sure. She left. She’s so pretty, I said. What good is that, said Mom. Oh, Mom, I said. You’re right, she said, I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s okay if you want to go home, I said, Sonja’s here after all. She started crying again, louder this time, and more uncontrollably. I let her cry for a while, long enough, I thought, then I said: Why are you crying? She didn’t reply. I started to get annoyed, I thought: what the fuck have you got to cry about? Then she said: Your father’s met someone. Met someone? I said. Dad? I wasn’t planning to tell you, she said. It’s not as if you don’t have enough sorrows of your own. I’ve no sorrows, I said. How can you say such a thing? she said. I didn’t reply. I lay there thinking about that skinny little man, my father, who at the age of sixty-three... a man I’d never credited with more libido than was strictly necessary to sire me and my siblings. An image of him, naked between a woman’s thighs, flashed before me. It was extremely unpleasant. Mom brought the empty glasses inside, but she soon came back, so I could tell she wanted to talk. She stood with her back to me looking out at the garden. What are you going to do? I asked. What can I do, she replied, he says I can do what I want, so there’s nothing I can do. You can stay here, I said. I could see by her back that she had started crying again, and perhaps because she didn’t want me to see her, she began walking down the veranda steps. She likely had tears in her eyes, and she must have stumbled, because she lost her balance and fell forwards, and disappeared from my view. I called out to her, but she didn’t answer. I called out several more times. I tried to get up but there was nothing I could hold on to. I turned over on my side and eased one leg, in plaster, out over the side of the lounger, supported myself by my elbow and managed to sit up. Then I saw her. She was lying face down in the gravel. I lifted my other leg, also in plaster, off the lounger. My shoulder and arm hurt most. I couldn’t walk with both legs in casts, so I slid down onto the floor. I inched my way over to the steps. There wasn’t a great deal I could do, but I couldn’t just leave her lying there. I edged my way down the steps and