The saw cut through the wood. I held my hands before my eyes. Sawdust
spurted like a snowstorm. Dad stood in the midst of the storm wearing
protective glasses and earmuffs. Sometimes he would spit sawdust:
coughing, but not stopping. Sometimes I thought of all the sawdust he'd
swallowed, that it piled up in his stomach: perhaps the reason that he
hardly ate was that his stomach was filled with the doughy, sticky mass
of sawdust. And yet he made me dinner. He shut the saw and the storm
settled. He was white as a snowman, brushed off the splinters of wood so
as to become Dad again, walked me home, cooked a warm meal and made sure
I sat by the table to do my homework, even though I didn't always want
to. And then he would put his work gloves back on -- his knotty, orange
gloves -- and went back to the sawmill. A bit later he would return home
and go over my homework. He smelled so good. His beard was filled with
remnants of forest. Dad made supper. Then I watched TV for a while,
brushed my teeth, put on the P.J., and lay under the blanket. Dad sang,
and, even though he didn't believe in God, he made a sort of prayer. I
didn't know to whom. But each night he said: watch over my girl in all
that is light and all that is dark. Then he closed his eyes. It was as
if he every time would hold back his tears. He kissed my cheek, got up,
turned off the lights, left the door ajar, and stood there for a while
until I dared to be alone.
Is it all right now, Vibeke? Dad whispered.
No, wait a minute, I whispered back with the blanket draw to my chin,
thinking of the sounds that sort of stayed away for as long as Dad was
close, all the shadows that didn't come forward when Dad was here. But
soon he'd have to go, and it was as if it was me that had to tell him if
it was all right, because otherwise the sounds and the shadows would
tease me for not daring to be alone. So I said -- before I was really
ready to -- while my heart ached that, Dad, now you can go, I said as
quietly as I could. And I heard Dad walk down the stairs and disappear
into the night. And right away the creaking in the corners, the creaking
below the ceilings, the creaking behind the curtains, the crawling along
the walls and over the floors would begin. These sounds always arrived
when Dad left. After the sounds followed the shadows, and I pulled the
blanket over my head and forced myself not to scream, not to cry for
Dad, but only to think that it would soon pass. Soon all the sounds and
creaking would give up. They only wanted to test me. They only wanted to
see for how long I could hold out, to see how long it would take before
I cried for Dad. But I'd show them. I'd show them I wouldn't cry for
Dad. I would manage all on my own through this night as I had the
others.
From Brynjulf Jung Tjønn, _All that is Light and All that is Dark_ (Alt
det lyse og alt det mørke), Oslo: 2017.
--
Mvh. /Yrs.
Torgeir Fjeld (translator)
http://torgeirfjeld.com
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