Travelling Light. Sandra Field
fell from Kristine’s fork and rolled on to her plate. Deciding subtlety would be wasted on her cousin, she said, ‘Harald, I’ll talk about anything under the sun except Lars.’
Harald replaced the tray on the table and said with unmistakable force, ‘I turned thirty last month, and I’m beginning to realise life doesn’t give us as many second chances as we might think—be careful here, Kristine. This man Lars...unless my judgement’s way off, I don’t think he makes a habit of dancing like that. Nor, I would suspect, do you make a habit of responding as you did.’
She stared at the intricately curled piece of fish. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do this,’ she said in a low voice.
He gave a quick sigh of impatience. ‘Neither is it my habit to give advice to those I scarcely know,’ he said. ‘You should try this one—reindeer meat with cranberry relish.’ He then began to talk very entertainingly about how he had met Gianetta on a crowded railway platform in Vienna in the rain, and in the middle of this tale Lars and the rest of his party left. Little by little Kristine started to relax.
She was in bed by eleven, woke at eight, and joined Harald in cleaning up the flat. At nine-thirty the phone rang. Harald passed her the receiver and she said with entirely false composure, ‘Hello, Lars.’
He sounded distracted. ‘I’m back in Lillehammer—can I meet you around three?’
Unbidden, a picture of the young woman in the narrow black dress clicked into Kristine’s brain. Against every lesson of the past sixteen years she said, ‘Harald recommended the Vigeland sculpture park...why don’t we meet there?’
‘By the monolith. Thanks, Kristine.’
He rang off. ‘Congratulations!’ Harald said.
‘I must be certifiably insane,’ she answered succinctly. ‘Pass me that cloth.’
While Harald vacuumed the living-room, Kristine threw out most of the contents of the refrigerator and wiped the top of the stove. He cleaned the bathroom; she vacuumed the bedrooms. She then showered, changed into her blue shorts and flowered blouse and took the subway to the sculpture park.
Harald had loaned her a guidebook, so she knew as she went through the wrought-iron gates that the park contained dozens of sculptures by Gustav Vigeland. However, the photos in the book had not prepared her for the reality.
She walked across the bridge with its monumental bronze figures, wandered through the rose garden, and listened to the splash of water from the great fountain upheld by six nude men. Human figures entwined with trees surrounded the fountain, figures from youth to old age, male and female, an inescapable cycle of endings and beginnings. Huge granite carvings stood in massive silence on the steps that led up to the monolith where she was to meet Lars. The monolith itself was more than she could bear, so full of energy and life force were its contorted forms.
She hurried back to the rose garden, knowing if she had any sense she would drive back to Sweden that very afternoon. Instead she listened to a young girl play Mozart on the violin by one of the parapets on the bridge, and put a coin she could ill afford in the open case on the ground. Near one of the ponds she ate the sandwich she had made at Harald’s. Then she looked at her watch. Quarter to three. She’d better go.
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