Relate to This

There was just so much going on at the time. Arranging the funeral and all the Christmas fuss, marking exams and answering emails, planning the next term and being an inspiring manager. And on top of everything else, the Nobel Banquet, which she was invited to at the last minute when the head of department was unable to attend. She said yes because that was easiest, but it was that very afternoon, as she was about to powder on some rouge and get into her party frock, that something gave way in her brain.

It felt like a twig snapping, and sounded like it too, before a dull, warm fire surged through her head and knocked her out. The stroke paralysed the left side of her body. For the first few weeks she could not speak. After a while she managed to get hold of language again, but returning to herself was a laborious process. While everyone else carried on doing what they always did, she sat at the piano in the drawing room and picked her way through the mere fifty pieces written for the right hand. But not once did she wonder what would have happened if the haemorrhage had gone the other way, because there were more than five hundred pieces for the left hand. At least she had one hand.

A year or so after all this, she ran into an old classmate from Lund. They had spent quite a lot of time together for a while, because they lived in such close quarters and had similar temperaments. Alike, but never quite friends. Back then, there had always been a quiet rivalry embedded in every one of her acquaintanceships. Everyone was heading in the same direction, but not everyone could make it all the way.

The classmate was standing by a doorway trying to manoeuvre a stroller up the steps, spotted her and said: My dear, it’s you, come in and we’ll have a chat.

The apartment was furnished in a simple yet eclectic style, probably because it had become a fusion of two disparate families: rustic antiques interspersed with IKEA, the vinyl collection and the glass dolphins. The classmate’s husband came ambling in from the kitchen. He was handsome and polite, asked whether she would like some rooibos, and she did. There were freshly baked coconut macaroons. And it must have taken them a good two or three minutes before they noticed the arm hanging there by her side like a stowaway.

So she explained everything. How at first everything had gone very quickly upwards, life and career alike. How it had all been abruptly cut short by the brain bleed. How the wedding plans had fallen apart, how she had been cut off from sickness benefit. How she picked her way through the days at the piano like a Paul Wittgenstein. How she had come to see the life within life, that there was no point in becoming regretful or bitter. This was simply how things were now.

The classmate and her husband listened reverently to what she told them, while the baby slept. Sweet little sighs drifted into the room every now and then. Then they looked at her, then at each other, then back at her again, and the classmate said, her face arranged in perplexity:

You have to understand, I can’t relate to this at all.

She turned to her husband and asked:

Can you?

He replied sympathetically:

No, I’m afraid not. This is very difficult for us to relate to.

Yes, said the classmate, it really is.

A silence fell, not because it wanted to, but because there was not much more to say. Even the little one made no sound.

Her arm felt heavier than usual. Her thoughts formed so slowly that she could almost follow the process, the synapses exchanging information and settling into different patterns, which then became conclusions. She did not know what to say now, or whether she should eat another coconut macaroon, but then she would have to put down her teacup, and it was filled so close to the brim that it was probably better to take a few sips first.

The classmate said, in an attempt to combat the strange atmosphere:

Such a shame you never made it to the party.

Yes, indeed, said her husband.

We’re actually keeping an eye out for the Nobel dinner service at Bukowskis. It’s so elegant, though a little too expensive. So ugly it’s beautiful with those gold rims, and don’t you think the nineties have somehow started coming back? That enough distance has opened up for the outlines to become visible. Haha. Yes, we’re old now.

Very elegant, said her husband.