The Boat in the Evening (6 page)

She stood as motionless as the dark man of iron. He was lonely and deserted. The girl was bubbling inside with joy.

I'll stand like this till he comes. She thought: He's no man of iron; he's a live boy. ‘Is it you?' he'll say. ‘Or is all this just snow?' he'll say.

Warmer and warmer.

What does the snow matter then?

*

It was the first time they were going to meet like this, by agreement. It felt important. It was more important than the evening and the snow.

She thought:

What shall I find out?

What is he like? I don't know much about him. I've only seen him a couple of times.

There was music in her and she said:

But I know enough. I've seen enough.

It could snow as much as it liked; she was thinking about the coming meeting.

What will he do?

She was really thinking only this one thing. What will he do?

He'll say ‘Good evening' and take my hand.

Yes, yes, but what will he do?

He could do many things.

Will his hands come close after a while perhaps? They do that, I know. Someone has done that already, but I'm not going to think about it, because it wasn't as it ought to have been.

Tonight it will be right.

I wonder how much
will
be right this evening?

This was a dangerous train of thought. She completely forgot her plan about the snow that was going to transform her and make her beautiful. Her thoughts were suddenly as wild as the snowstorm and just as difficult to check. She did not check them until she had taken the measure of all she knew, and it proved to be more than she had expected.

She looked about her and thought: Good thing no one can see what you're thinking.

She shut it away.

Meanwhile it went on snowing, building her up into towers and spires. She carried it well. She was short and lightly built, and seventeen.

*

He's no older either, she thought. It won't be long now before I shall find out something, whatever it may be. It's almost time. I
wanted
to be first and stand waiting for a long time.

There he is!

Through the whirling snow she caught sight of something coming towards her, seeing it only as something black.

It is, and here I am with all this snow on me!

It was a man or a boy, and he was approaching quickly. But she started in surprise: it was not the boy she was waiting for. It was someone else, from her own neighbourhood. Someone she knew slightly. The boy she was waiting for didn't even live here. What does this mean? That he's passing purely by chance, of course. Don't move a muscle because of him.

But he stopped right in front of her and gazed at her as she stood in her heavy robes, her eyes glittering deep in the snow.

‘What on earth ...?' he began, but did not finish it. Sudden astonishment. He stood there and simply looked at her. She couldn't help it, she looked back at him with that charm she was capable of putting into it; it happened automatically before she had time to feel ashamed. Her eyes were dancing inside the wet snow. It was true that the shadow was not real shadow, after all.

He came close. Suddenly she felt afraid and whispered, ‘What is it?'

He put out his hand as if to touch the snow piled on her, but withdrew the hand again. It seemed an unconscious gesture.

She whispered, ‘What is it?'

No answer. He looked at her, thunderstruck. Walked round her, his eyes fixed on her all the time. She did not revolve with him, but whispered into the air after him, ‘What is it?'

Now he seemed to remember. He gazed into her face. But still he gave no answer to her question. She had stopped glittering at him, even though it was tempting to make use of what she possessed so plentifully.

Suddenly he began talking, fumbling for words.

‘Yes, there is something—you mustn't be frightened, you see.'

She felt a shaft of ice pass through her. The certainty of what this meant, this thing he had not said, came to her by some mysterious path.

‘Isn't he coming?'

He simply looked at her.

She questioned him harshly the second time, and about worse things, knowing it already.

‘Has he gone?'

The boy scarcely nodded. This one was a young boy too. His eyes were bewitched now. He simply nodded.

She did not start trembling so that the snow fell off her. She just stood. It was because of his eyes. But she felt as if the snow slid off like an avalanche. There seemed to be a roaring as when an avalanche falls. A cold wind blowing. No, she noticed then that not a flake had fallen off.

‘Did he get you to come here and tell me this?'

He would not discuss it. Had probably said enough by nodding. Stand steady, said a voice inside her.

The messenger said something quite different.

‘Don't move. You have no idea what you look like.'

He didn't manage to say what he wanted. He had taken on himself too powerful a message.

But she knew in her innermost being what she looked like. He could think what he liked. Nor was she in complete control of herself: sudden tears welled up in her eyes, quickly and briefly. Then it was as if the weather turned milder, and no more came. The young man stood watching.

‘That's good,' he said when her tears stopped just as suddenly as they had come.

She did not understand. She only asked, ‘Did he say why?'

He did not answer her. Instead he said something that made her start in surprise.

‘I'll unpack you.'

Again she heard her thoughts. Without waiting for her permission he did as he wished. He took off the worn pair of gloves he was wearing, and used his bare hands to lift off the snow crown that had built up on the boyish cap.

‘Won't be fun any more now,' he said. ‘Think it's stopped snowing.'

Yes, it had stopped. She had not noticed before. It was silent and the air was mild. He shook her cap free of snow and put it on again. She was the short girl once more. He unpacked her out of the snow piled on her shoulders. She was confused by his manner of doing all this.

Unpack you,' he said. Over and over again. Fistful by fistful. He took his time.

He unpacked her out of the little snowdrift on her breast. She saw that his fingers were uncertain. And so cold, she thought.

What will he do?

She held her breath, but all he did was go on unpacking her. Bit by bit she turned into an ordinary girl.

‘That's that,' he said, and had finished at last. But he did not go.

What will he do now?

Again she held her breath. She saw he was trying to say something, and he was so strange to look at in everything he did that evening. He said unexpectedly, ‘You cried.'

She had no answer to make. No use denying it.

‘I said you cried.'

‘Maybe I had reason to.'

He said, ‘Maybe. I don't know.'

She snapped, ‘No, you certainly don't know everything!'

‘I'm
not sorry about it,' he said, ignoring the interruption. ‘But that's another matter,' he added.

‘Why are you standing like that?' she asked.

‘Can't I look at you? I feel as if I've never seen you before. It's so strange,' he added. He sounded quite helpless.

She replied, ‘Yes, I suppose it is.'

Then he said something: ‘My fingers are cold from unpacking you out of the snowdrifts all this time.'

Something in her responded. ‘Are they?'

There was more to be said. Both of them knew it. So he said it.

‘Maybe I should warm you.'

‘No,' she said quickly.

‘All right,' he said.

All she said was, ‘That's good.'

He stood looking at her. Everything seemed to be standing on its head. And it was so incredibly mild.

‘The snow's quite wet,' she said confused.

‘Oh yes,' he answered, almost as an aside.

But would he go now? She had been a little abrupt with him. So he would probably go.

She stammered, ‘Are you going?'

He muttered something and there was an embarrassed silence. He mustn't go. She stammered again, ‘What about those cold fingers of yours?'

He brightened a little and asked, ‘What about them?'

‘Nothing.'

‘If they really are so cold,' she said again.

‘Oh no. They're not so cold really. They've been colder.'

‘Yes, I expect they have.'

Everything was standing on its head.

‘Why don't you feel them?' he asked.

It was incredibly mild. She let the hands come. The hands, cold as ice, held her close. They made her burning hot. Neither of them could feel cold now.

He said softly: ‘Awfully good to hold in your hands.'

‘Yes,' she replied, in scarcely a whisper.

4

Daybreak with Shining Horses

We met unexpectedly, at daybreak one morning. Two young men. The other was called Per. We were acquainted, but not close friends. Now we met on the grass one warm, fine summer morning, before anyone else was up.

Was there something different about Per? As soon as I saw his face, I thought: What is it?

I saw he thought: What is it? when he saw me.

Then one of us said aloud: ‘What is it!'

It was Per who said it. As if it had nothing to do with him. Perhaps that's how it was. Perhaps my impression of him was distorted.

In any case I could not answer his question. But why was he out of bed at such an unusual time if nothing was the matter?

Neither of us asked again.

*

For my part I had got up for reasons that I cannot explain. I had simply done so—as one does when desperately waiting for something.

We looked about us. A warm summer morning. Early, early! was the feeling inside us; it's the only way to describe it. We knew in advance that something was going to happen; it came to us the moment we met and thought we looked alike. Then we felt this early, early! that there was no other name for.

The landscape had just taken on its distinct solid day-shape with everything in its place—it wasn't because of
that
.

*

Everything as it should be—but was it? We didn't have to look about us to answer no. It was earlier than early inside us. We were wide open. The one looked at the other and realized that our ordinary everyday life had vanished for the time being. If this had been true of only one of us at first, now it was true of both. It had leaped across like lightning.

Suddenly there was a strange shimmer in the air.

I wished he would say: I can see it on you.

He looked at me and said, beyond all reason: ‘I can see it on you.'

I felt myself burn. Don't say any more, I wished, and he didn't.

What was to come of this?

Something is approaching.

Per was no longer his usual self. What had we done to each other?

Without saying anything more, we knew: It is today.

*

And it happened.

In the first place it came facing the sun, which was odd.

A shining aura settled above the hill, facing the sun, before the sun rose in the opposite direction. We were out as early as that. Whatever else we might have wanted to look at, our eyes turned towards this.

We could not help but believe that what was approaching had its own sources of power. We had a premonition, too, of incredibly long distances to travel across unknown tracts, and of terrific speed—and first and foremost of fascinating things.

Our bodies were buoyant. At the same time we were nudged by a kind of absurd anxiety: the kind that prepares the way for sudden involvement and happiness. Meanwhile the light approached in a way that we did not understand.

We thought of it as air, but knew it was the glow from something approaching, just as the sun with its light was approaching over a hill to greet us. Our senses alert, we watched it coming from the opposite direction. We compared it fleetingly and haphazardly to many things. We did not compare the enchantment to anything; it was simply enchantment.

*

And indeed the enchantment sprang up around us in our own landscape as never before, in unexpected forms. In our happy bewitchment we suddenly saw a naked girl at the top of a rock on the other side of the sound. Our own familiar narrow sound. Quite incredibly, she stood there waiting, erect and immovable like ourselves. Like ourselves she was turned towards what was coming, and we understood her so well: understood why she had stripped to face this. We did not know who she was, we did not know where she came from.