used to see him when he came to collect you! Not that I immerse myself in it or anything. I’m not all that interested in your actual feelings.”
“My file’s bulging,” I mumbled. “I can see you haven’t got anything like as much on Lilian.”
“Her life doesn’t interest me as much. I’ve just got a few external observations, because I might happen to catch sight of her when I’m being someone else. And she has to have birthday presents too, of course!”
Birthday presents! No wonder she was so good at choosing just the right present!
“I’m quite interested in you, on the other hand,” said Inez. “You seem to be someone else who observes, more than you take part. But I think you’re too impatient to file away what you see. Maybe, if you give it time.”
She sounded like a patient primary school teacher. Given time, you could be stark raving mad too, dear! But was she?
“Can you tell me anything about my life that I don’t know?” I asked, all of a sudden.
“Yes,” she replied. “But I’m certainly not going to. That would be cheating. And it could be dangerous. It would feel like one of those science fiction stories, you know, where somebody accidentally alters some little detail in the past and completely changes the present. Well, I don’t know. But I do know I’m really just trying out your life for brief spells, now and then. Just borrowing it. I don’t wear it out!”
I once heard a Finnish scientist say that normal just means someone who hasn’t yet been studied in sufficient detail. Why was it any crazier to map out people’s lives than to go birdwatching? No, she was no more mad than I was, and neither bitter nor sentimental. Just practical and efficient and rather poetic.
“That new man,” she said. “He puzzles me. He’s either completely wrong for you, or the only conceivable one.”
“Benny? Oh, Inez, what shall I do about Benny?”
“I most certainly do not hand out advice!” said Inez.
Something happened, around about the time she came out and told me about that colleague of hers. It was as if after that she started opening her eyes more often than her mouth. It’s hard to describe.
Of course, she tended to talk a lot. And I wasn’t one to object – considering the silence I’d been living in. I found most of what she said interesting, or fun, or sweet, or something. But I did sometimes wonder if it was possible for her to experience anything without talking about it simultaneously. It seemed to be her way of absorbing what she saw, as if she had to grind it up small to be able to swallow it, like pensioners with dodgy teeth.
There are people who use cameras like that, you know. Once when I was little, we went on holiday toGothenburg for three days, with Mum’s cousin Birgitta. And Birgitta spent all her time taking pictures: the botanical gardens, the harbour, the funfair at Liseberg, the tour boats and the trams. Somehow she didn’t enjoy anything unless she could take a picture of it. And then that winter, when she’d come to visit and we all sat talking about the trip and looking at her album, she turned out not to remember a single thing she hadn’t got a shot of, not even that daft waiter in the hotel restaurant who could waggle his ears. It must be hell for Birgitta if one of her films doesn’t come out – like losing a few months of her life. She didn’t even take particularly good pictures.
Shrimp was a little bit like that. She had to talk about everything. And there was really only one place where it bothered me: in bed. Because even as she was fondling me to the point where I felt quite giddy, she’d be talking, sometimes about what we were doing, and that made me feel a bit embarrassed: “Mm, wonder if the elbow’s an acknowledged erogenous zone, or if it’s you making it into one?… Did you know the Duchess of Nivers drew a map of her private parts and painted it in watercolours, so her lovers would find it easier to
“My file’s bulging,” I mumbled. “I can see you haven’t got anything like as much on Lilian.”
“Her life doesn’t interest me as much. I’ve just got a few external observations, because I might happen to catch sight of her when I’m being someone else. And she has to have birthday presents too, of course!”
Birthday presents! No wonder she was so good at choosing just the right present!
“I’m quite interested in you, on the other hand,” said Inez. “You seem to be someone else who observes, more than you take part. But I think you’re too impatient to file away what you see. Maybe, if you give it time.”
She sounded like a patient primary school teacher. Given time, you could be stark raving mad too, dear! But was she?
“Can you tell me anything about my life that I don’t know?” I asked, all of a sudden.
“Yes,” she replied. “But I’m certainly not going to. That would be cheating. And it could be dangerous. It would feel like one of those science fiction stories, you know, where somebody accidentally alters some little detail in the past and completely changes the present. Well, I don’t know. But I do know I’m really just trying out your life for brief spells, now and then. Just borrowing it. I don’t wear it out!”
I once heard a Finnish scientist say that normal just means someone who hasn’t yet been studied in sufficient detail. Why was it any crazier to map out people’s lives than to go birdwatching? No, she was no more mad than I was, and neither bitter nor sentimental. Just practical and efficient and rather poetic.
“That new man,” she said. “He puzzles me. He’s either completely wrong for you, or the only conceivable one.”
“Benny? Oh, Inez, what shall I do about Benny?”
“I most certainly do not hand out advice!” said Inez.
Something happened, around about the time she came out and told me about that colleague of hers. It was as if after that she started opening her eyes more often than her mouth. It’s hard to describe.
Of course, she tended to talk a lot. And I wasn’t one to object – considering the silence I’d been living in. I found most of what she said interesting, or fun, or sweet, or something. But I did sometimes wonder if it was possible for her to experience anything without talking about it simultaneously. It seemed to be her way of absorbing what she saw, as if she had to grind it up small to be able to swallow it, like pensioners with dodgy teeth.
There are people who use cameras like that, you know. Once when I was little, we went on holiday toGothenburg for three days, with Mum’s cousin Birgitta. And Birgitta spent all her time taking pictures: the botanical gardens, the harbour, the funfair at Liseberg, the tour boats and the trams. Somehow she didn’t enjoy anything unless she could take a picture of it. And then that winter, when she’d come to visit and we all sat talking about the trip and looking at her album, she turned out not to remember a single thing she hadn’t got a shot of, not even that daft waiter in the hotel restaurant who could waggle his ears. It must be hell for Birgitta if one of her films doesn’t come out – like losing a few months of her life. She didn’t even take particularly good pictures.
Shrimp was a little bit like that. She had to talk about everything. And there was really only one place where it bothered me: in bed. Because even as she was fondling me to the point where I felt quite giddy, she’d be talking, sometimes about what we were doing, and that made me feel a bit embarrassed: “Mm, wonder if the elbow’s an acknowledged erogenous zone, or if it’s you making it into one?… Did you know the Duchess of Nivers drew a map of her private parts and painted it in watercolours, so her lovers would find it easier to
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