But it is of no importance. There are not many people I am going to show myself to, and I only have the one mirror. To tell the truth, I have nothing against the face in the mirror. I acknowledge it, I recognise myself. I cannot ask for more.
The radio is on. They talk about the coming millennium jubilee. They talk about the problems that are bound to crop up in the transition from the solid 97, 98 and 99 to 00 on all the computer systems, that we don't know what is going to happen and must safeguard ourselves against potential catastrophes, and Norwegian industry is staggeringly slow to take preventive measures. I cannot make head nor tail of this, and really it does not interest me. The only thing I am certain of is that a whole pack of consultants not one of whom has a clue what is going to happen are out to make a buck. Something they will definitely do and have done already.
I get out my smallest saucepan, scrub some potatoes and put them in, fill up with water and set the pan on the stove. I feel hungry now, working with the wood has sharpened my appetite. I have not felt this hungry for days. I bought the potatoes at the shop, next year I will have my own from the old kitchen garden behind the shed. It is quite overgrown and needs digging up again, but I am sure I can manage that. It's just a matter of putting in the time.
It is important not to be careless about supper when you are alone. It is easily done, boring as it is to cook for one person only. There must be potatoes, sauce and green vegetables, a napkin and a clean glass and the candles lit on the table, and no sitting down in your working clothes. So while the potatoes are boiling I go into the bedroom and change my trousers, put on a clean white shirt and go back to the kitchen and lay a cloth on the table before putting butter into the frying pan to fry the fish I have caught in the lake myself.
Outside, the blue hour has arrived. Everything draws closer; the shed, the edge of the wood, the lake beyond the trees, it is as if the tinted air binds the world together and there is nothing disconnected out there. That's a good thing to think about, but whether it is true or not is a different matter. To me it is better to stand alone, but for the moment the blue world gives a consolation I am not sure I want, and do not need, and still I take it. I sit down at the table feeling well and start eating.
And then there's a knock at the door. The knock as such is not so odd as I do not have a bell, but no-one has put a hand to that door since I moved here, and when people have come to call I have heard the car and gone out onto the steps to greet them. But I have not heard a car, nor have I seen any lights. I get up and leave the meal I have just started, a little annoyed, and go into the hall and open the front door. It is Lars, and behind him in the yard sits Poker, still and for once obedient. The light outside seems almost artificial, as in films I have seen; blue, staged, the source of light invisible, but each thing distinct, and at the same time seen through the same filter, or each thing made of the same substance. Even the dog is blue, it does not move; a clay model of a dog.
'Good evening,' I say, although it is really afternoon still, but in this light it is not possible to say anything else. Standing there, Lars seems embarrassed, or there is something else, something about his face, and with the dog it is the same; a stiffness of the body which they share, and neither of them looks me straight in the eye, they wait, saying nothing, until finally he says:
'Good evening,' and then he goes quiet again, saying nothing about what he wants, and I do not know how to help him.
'I was just about to eat,' I say. 'But that doesn't matter, come in for a bit.' I open the door wide and invite him in, certain that he will refuse, that what he wants to say will be said there on the steps, if he can only get the words out he is struggling with. But then he makes
The radio is on. They talk about the coming millennium jubilee. They talk about the problems that are bound to crop up in the transition from the solid 97, 98 and 99 to 00 on all the computer systems, that we don't know what is going to happen and must safeguard ourselves against potential catastrophes, and Norwegian industry is staggeringly slow to take preventive measures. I cannot make head nor tail of this, and really it does not interest me. The only thing I am certain of is that a whole pack of consultants not one of whom has a clue what is going to happen are out to make a buck. Something they will definitely do and have done already.
I get out my smallest saucepan, scrub some potatoes and put them in, fill up with water and set the pan on the stove. I feel hungry now, working with the wood has sharpened my appetite. I have not felt this hungry for days. I bought the potatoes at the shop, next year I will have my own from the old kitchen garden behind the shed. It is quite overgrown and needs digging up again, but I am sure I can manage that. It's just a matter of putting in the time.
It is important not to be careless about supper when you are alone. It is easily done, boring as it is to cook for one person only. There must be potatoes, sauce and green vegetables, a napkin and a clean glass and the candles lit on the table, and no sitting down in your working clothes. So while the potatoes are boiling I go into the bedroom and change my trousers, put on a clean white shirt and go back to the kitchen and lay a cloth on the table before putting butter into the frying pan to fry the fish I have caught in the lake myself.
Outside, the blue hour has arrived. Everything draws closer; the shed, the edge of the wood, the lake beyond the trees, it is as if the tinted air binds the world together and there is nothing disconnected out there. That's a good thing to think about, but whether it is true or not is a different matter. To me it is better to stand alone, but for the moment the blue world gives a consolation I am not sure I want, and do not need, and still I take it. I sit down at the table feeling well and start eating.
And then there's a knock at the door. The knock as such is not so odd as I do not have a bell, but no-one has put a hand to that door since I moved here, and when people have come to call I have heard the car and gone out onto the steps to greet them. But I have not heard a car, nor have I seen any lights. I get up and leave the meal I have just started, a little annoyed, and go into the hall and open the front door. It is Lars, and behind him in the yard sits Poker, still and for once obedient. The light outside seems almost artificial, as in films I have seen; blue, staged, the source of light invisible, but each thing distinct, and at the same time seen through the same filter, or each thing made of the same substance. Even the dog is blue, it does not move; a clay model of a dog.
'Good evening,' I say, although it is really afternoon still, but in this light it is not possible to say anything else. Standing there, Lars seems embarrassed, or there is something else, something about his face, and with the dog it is the same; a stiffness of the body which they share, and neither of them looks me straight in the eye, they wait, saying nothing, until finally he says:
'Good evening,' and then he goes quiet again, saying nothing about what he wants, and I do not know how to help him.
'I was just about to eat,' I say. 'But that doesn't matter, come in for a bit.' I open the door wide and invite him in, certain that he will refuse, that what he wants to say will be said there on the steps, if he can only get the words out he is struggling with. But then he makes
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