Toxic, p.1
Toxic, page 1
When Mathilde is forced to leave her teaching job in Oslo after her relationship with eighteen-year-old Jacob is exposed, she flees to the countryside for a more authentic life.
Her new home is a quiet cottage on the outskirts of a dairy farm run by Andres and Johs, whose hobbies include playing the fiddle and telling folktales – many of them about female rebellion and disobedience, and seeking justice, whatever it takes.
But beneath the surface of the apparently friendly and peaceful pastoral life of the farm, something darker and less harmonic starts to vibrate, and with Mathilde’s arrival, cracks start appearing … everywhere.
TOXIC
Helga Flatland
Translated from the Norwegian by Matt Bagguley
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
A
JOHS
MATHILDE
JOHS
MATHILDE
c#
JOHS
E
MATHILDE
JOHS
e
JOHS
MATHILDE
A
MATHILDE
JOHS
f#
JOHS
C#
MATHILDE
JOHS
MATHILDE
JOHS
MATHILDE
JOHS
MATHILDE
a
JOHS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
COPYRIGHT
A
JOHS
‘And now your feet!’
The rubber soles of my trainers felt like they were glued to the laminate floor.
‘Feet!’
I curled my toes, we locked eyes.
‘Come on Johs, your fucking feet!’
Johannes held my gaze, then stamped the hard soles of his own shoes so forcefully it echoed round the walls of the gymnasium.
The fingers on my left hand moved lightly, my right wrist was loose, light and supple, I felt the rhythm in my chest, in my stomach, in my knees and thighs, I saw it in his nodding head, in the hand tapping the front of his shirt, I felt it in both ankles. But my feet weren’t having it, not until the notes from the first string strokes had ebbed away in the large room. At which point my right foot did a couple of awkward and silent thuds, and my cheeks started to burn.
‘You can’t play the fiddle without your feet, Johs.’
The rhythm of four hundred feet stamping in unison sends little tremors through the building, and me. I take a large swig of beer and stare down at the fiddle still resting in its case. ‘Look how nicely Vesla is sleeping,’ Johannes would often say when opening the fiddle case. As a child I felt slightly uncomfortable about the way he referred to his fiddle, but as an adult I realised that it was because he was always drunk when he was about to play, and that he talked about her – and to her – as if she was a child, but at the same time something he desired.
All I inherited from Johannes was my name and that fiddle. He tried getting my mum to change both these things just before he died. ‘Can’t you change his name?’ he cried desperately time and again in the final months of his life. ‘He’s twenty-five, Dad, it’s a bit late for that now,’ laughed Mum while looking at me. ‘What would you have me call him?’ she asked when he repeated the question. ‘Whatever you want,’ cried Johannes, ‘anything, but he ain’t getting my name.’
‘Are you ready, Johs?’ says a voice behind me.
I bend down, pick up the fiddle, and follow the woman whose name I can’t remember out of the practice room and to the back of the stage. It smells of burnt dust and sweat, and I hear my name being announced through the stage curtain: ‘And the next person on stage is not just anybody, he is the grandchild of – and, yes, playing the very same fiddle as …’ I straighten my shoulders, smile, and walk out into the spotlight in the middle of the stage then stand there, totally calm, until the applause subsides – long enough to hear the audience twisting impatiently in their seats, just as Johannes always did in order to create a sense of anticipation.
‘Kari Midtigard,’ I finally say into the microphone, before smiling at the audience, then pausing once again, fully aware that my playing in no way lives up to the confidence that my pauses and wry smile might suggest. ‘Do you know Kari Midtigard from Tinn, she never lets any boys in, Kari is pretty and Kari is kind, and now this fair sweetheart is mine.’
‘They have to see the story you’re playing,’ Johannes often said, ‘they have to hear the connection between the notes and the story, which should lift each other up. Not like that,’ he would say, ‘you’re telling it like you’re going to the shop, it’s so flat, your words should dance, come on, one more time, stand up, tell us, and play as though you mean it.’
I bring the fiddle to my chest, and play the song about Kari Midtigard from Tinn.
I stopped checking the results of the fiddle competitions I enter long ago, knowing that my name will be way down the lists, but that’s fine, it’s not why I play, I’ll tell anyone who might wonder – on this particular evening it’s Ingrid.
‘So why do you play,’ she asks while trying to untie the waistcoat of my costume.
I’m too drunk to help her, and my fingers are too numb, as is the rest of my body.
‘Because it’s in my blood,’ I say, ‘do you know who my grandfather was?’
I’m not ashamed of using Johannes’s name like that, and besides, it’s perhaps one of the few things about me he would have approved of. ‘Be careful you don’t end up in bed with one of our cousins,’ Andres once said, ‘it’s more than likely Johannes had children with women other than Grandma, the way he carried on.’ ‘It helps that you’re good-looking,’ Johannes once said to me, ‘it really does, when you’re as talentless as you are.’
‘Of course,’ says Ingrid abandoning the unlacing, instead moving her hands down to the belt and finding my knife. ‘Aww, it’s so little and cute,’ she says removing it from its sheath.
‘I think it’s a pretty normal size,’ I say.
‘Glad to hear it,’ she says, smiling.
The next morning I wake up alone in my hotel bed. My back aches. I have to do something about it before the spring ploughing – those endless hours in the tractor seat. I find my phone, and see the giant headlines about new infections. Andres is no doubt terrified right now, he’s been worrying about coronavirus since first reading about it in December. He’s inherited Johannes’s anxiety – and all the little movements in the tiny muscles around his mouth that come with it, as well as the sceptical look and restless joints that make him look even more like Johannes than he already does. More than I do. ‘You’re like a big, secure rock, you are,’ my mum once said, ‘calm and silent, you always have been, and you should be happy about that.’ But Johannes always said the music lies in our nerves, in which case our nerves should have been distributed a bit more fairly, because Andres is demonstratively uninterested in music – in all music, but particularly folk music, despite the fact that he has almost perfect pitch. His skin prickles if anything’s sharp or flat, ‘Play the right note, damn it!’ he would shout through the wall between our rooms when I practised the fiddle as a child. I can hear the difference between a bum note and the right note, but not to the same degree as Andres, for him it’s physical, it’s in his nerves.
I send him a message saying that I’ll be home in time to do the milking. Two minutes later he replies asking if I can stop at the wholesaler on the way and pick up some garden lime. I take a shower, comforting myself with the fact that he’s still capable of looking away, for a moment at least, from all the symptom reports that accompany the headlines.
The farm that Andres and I run has been in Mum’s family since the 1600s. Mum has two older brothers, but when she was still a child Johannes decided that Mum would eventually inherit the farm, and no one objected of course. He was a pioneering feminist, she occasionally says. No one objects to her saying that either, but it’s at best a favourable rewriting of the dictatorial and arbitrary way Johannes governed his surroundings. He never ran the farm himself, that was done by his brother, who lived alone in the cottage while Johannes and Grandma and their three children lived in the farmhouse. ‘That’s what he wants,’ said Johannes, ‘that’s how he wants it.’ I’ve never understood how the farm’s running and its income was shared back then. I was four years old in 1987 when Johannes’s brother died suddenly and my mum officially took over. Johannes and Grandma moved into the cottage, and I moved the three kilometres from my father’s childhood home to that of my mum. ‘In the heart of Telemark,’ Johannes said, who, despite the fact that he didn’t know one end of a mower, or a cow for that matter, from the other, used the farm for all it was worth when it came to how he presented himself. He would tell stories, both on and off stage, about his family, about the farm, the people and animals, placing himself at its centre, a big farmer among other big farmers. He told so many tales about the farm and my ancestors that it’s impossible now to know what really happened – whether he rewrote and elaborated on the stories he’d heard, or if what he said was true. One of his favourite stories was how my ancestor was directly responsible for why Telemark remained terra incognito for so long. ‘He beat the cartographer to death,’ said Johannes, ‘so no one dared go near the county for years.’ It was a story he told regularly, and proudly, as if it said something honourable about the family – and he carried on telling it, undeterred, even after Andres’s girlfriend, a historian, corrected him during a Christmas dinner that everyone still remember
s but nobody mentions.
The farm includes a cottage, a farmhouse, an old sheep shed that Andres is converting for meat production, and a new high-tech milking shed. In addition, it comes with four hundred acres of fields and forest. Andres, who is two years older than me, and has the right of inheritance, wavered and worried in typical style about what he should study and what career he should choose before deciding in his late twenties that his safest bet, after all that, was to come home and take over the farm, in line with what Johannes had already decided years earlier. I have been to agricultural college, I’ve worked as a stand-in farm manager and have been clearly focussed on eventually running a farm, be it this one or another, for as long as I can remember. It’s what I’m good at, it’s what I can do. Johannes knew it, my mum knows it. And Andres – whose refusal to make decisions means he cannot run a company that, due to the weather and wind and seasons, requires you to make decisions every day – definitely knows it. ‘I can’t do it without you,’ he said before making his mind up, ‘you know that,’ and, about the farmhouse: ‘I don’t want it … really, I’d rather live in the cottage, it’s what Kristin wants too, she thinks the house will be too big, too much to look after.’ It was impossible to know whether this was true or whether he was resigned to accepting it as some kind of penalty for having claimed his inheritance so late after I had effectively been running the farm for several years. Still, I thought it was a fair price for him to pay, and we said no more about it.
You have to run big to run profitably, my mum said throughout our childhoods, and she expanded the farm to include more and more animals and more and more machines, as well as buying milk quotas and leasing more land for grazing and for forage crops. If Johannes wasn’t exactly a pioneer, Mum in many ways has been. ‘It’s because I’m a woman,’ she has said numerous times, ‘women make better farmers, I have better intuition – and this business requires at least as much intuition as it does muscle power.’ As well as intuition, Mum has a fiercely competitive instinct, always feeling like she has more to prove, or disprove, and that in itself has probably resulted in at least half of the machinery and many of the plaques for exceptionally good milk that hang in the office. As I park the car in the driveway, I see Dad walking the puppies in our yard. He and Mum now live in his parents’ old house, but they are more often here at the farm than they are there. Dad is deaf in one ear and partially deaf in the other. He has a functional little hearing aid, but thinks it gets in the way of any physical activity and only uses it indoors, ‘in social settings,’ as he says. Since neither Mum, Andres nor myself qualify for what he would call a social setting, he uses the hearing aid roughly once every six months.
Dad doesn’t hear me arrive. I sit in the car for a moment and watch him through the windscreen, he is seventy-five, but still nimble and agile, no stiff joints. He bends down to pick up a toy, throws it, crouches down to say something to the three puppies, he points, laughs and spreads his arms when they instead launch themselves at him, their little tails vibrating with excitement.
He has bred elkhounds for as long as I can remember, although he stopped hunting many years ago, and I don’t think he’s ever shot an elk. He can’t do it, he’s too fond of animals, always has been, long before animal welfare became fashionable.
‘You’ll never train them to hunt like that,’ I say into his good ear when I get close enough.
Perhaps he heard me coming, or sensed it, as I often suspect he does, because he doesn’t jump, or look surprised. He smiles at the puppies without looking at me.
‘Maybe. They’re too small for it anyway, it’s mostly to give her some peace,’ he says, nodding towards the mother dog, who is sunbathing beside the wall of the shed. ‘How were the roads?’
He always asks about the snow on the roads when I’ve been out in the car, even in the middle of summer. It’s an open invitation for me to tell him how I’ve been, what I’ve been doing, or just talk about the roads.
‘They’re pretty clear now,’ I say.
‘Probably be a while before you can go out again,’ he says. ‘They say everything’s gonna shut.’
‘Everything?’
‘Yep. Because of the coronavirus,’ he says drawing out the word ‘corooohna’.
‘Have you spoken to Andres?’ I ask.
‘Yes, he’s glued to the TV and the news, I told him to switch it off – that I’ll tell him if there’s anything worth him knowing about,’ says Dad. ‘But you know …’
I laugh.
‘It’ll be a while before it spreads all the way out here at least,’ I say. ‘Do you want dinner? I just bought a couple of pizzas.’
‘No, I don’t dare,’ he says. ‘Your mum’s making her fish stew.’
‘Poor you,’ I say, before going inside.
The house is just as it was when Mum and Dad moved out and Andres and I took over. It’s far too big for just me, with its three living rooms, three bathrooms, five bedrooms, basement and loft. I can feel it when the others are here, how Andres’s kids fill the room, or when Mum and Dad sit where they always used to sit at the dining table.
I was planning on renovating the place, one of the bathrooms at least, but the money went into running the farm and it seems pointless renovating just for my own benefit. Apart from the bathroom there’s not much else I can change, anyway. Large parts of the house are listed. The original log walls date back to the seventeenth century, and wall-mounted cupboards with floral decorations line the walls in all the living rooms, and there are benches, corner cupboards and four-poster beds. As a child I thought the house was ugly and old-fashioned. ‘Old-fashioned?’ my mum would repeat when I complained, laughing out loud while pressing her hand or sometimes her cheek against the round logs of the walls. ‘Did you hear that?’ she would say to the log. ‘You’re not old-fashioned, you’re just old.’
Viggo always sits waiting for me outside the community centre before his fiddle lesson. I’ve told him that he can just go in, wait inside, maybe practise a little on his own before I get there, but he never does. I know that he sits there on the bench for two hours, from the moment school finishes until I arrive. His whole face lights up when I round the corner, and it hurts the same way every time I see it. He cannot play the fiddle, he will not get any better. ‘Have you practised?’ I always ask. He’ll nod. And he may well have, but it makes no difference, none of it sticks. His fingers are short, chubby and never press the strings properly, it’s painful to listen to, and even worse that I find his whole appearance so desperately irritating, I can’t resist answering tersely or mockingly even, always torn between wanting to take him home for a bath and a haircut, and wanting to hurt him in some way or other.
So when I hear that the schools and all the leisure facilities, including the music school, are closing, Viggo is the first person I think of. I send him a message saying that I hope he’ll practise in the meantime, ‘Use YouTube, you’re good at that,’ I write, giving him a thumbs-up.
It’s just like any other day for me, I’m not feeling the seriousness that everyone around me seems to be feeling. Andres, who’s now too afraid to step outside the door, calls out to me just as I’m leaving to collect a hay bale.
‘You were at that fiddle competition only last weekend!’ he shouts.
I can’t help laughing.
‘It wasn’t exactly chock full of globetrotters,’ I say, stopping the tractor when I hear how afraid he is.
He doesn’t reply to my comment. ‘My throat hurts, I’ve been coughing all night,’ he says instead.
I don’t doubt him. Andres always has the symptoms of every disease that worries him, and I know better than to suggest he’s imagining it. And he usually isn’t, he can psych himself into getting a fever and a rash, and in a way this tangible, physical evidence of the illness will seemingly calm his anxiety rather than escalate it.
‘What are we supposed to do now?’ he says, ‘when we have to stay indoors.’
‘You’re being irrational,’ I say, even though I know it will just make him angry. ‘Besides, there’s no Covid in the cowshed.’
‘It comes from bats, Johs, animals can give it to humans and probably vice versa. Anyone could have infected the cows, like that posh fucking vet, didn’t she just get back from a ski trip to Italy?’
