Like Snow

Like Snow

At first I thought it was just the wind. There’s this one window that isn’t completely airtight. It used to have one of those rubber seals, but now when it’s windy you can really tell. There was rustling coming from some papers and other things on the table—a folded newspaper, an empty peanut bag, the shiny crumpled-up plastic wrapper around some lemon cookies. And a box of hard candies that I suddenly saw was lying on the floor with all the candies strewn about. By then I’d been hearing the rustling for a while and figured it must be pretty windy outside and I was lucky to be wrapped in a warm comforter.

This place has more than its fair share of issues, but I’ve gotten used to them. The kitchen faucet drips, for example, but it doesn’t bother me. It used to. There were a couple of times when I almost called Sture, a sort of buddy of mine, or someone I know at least. My phone was still working then, and I was close to calling and asking him to come over with some pliers. Sometimes you just need to turn the damn gasket or scrape it clean.

But I pulled myself together. Sture, here?

Absolutely not.

I was sure it was the wind. Coming from the window—the missing seal. At least that was what I thought before I saw the overturned box and all the light-green candies scattered around. Then I realized it wasn’t just the wind.

It took a while before I caught sight of the little devil. My gym bag was open and kind of splayed open on the floor. And there it was, under the flap hanging over the side of the bag. Teeny tiny. The smallest I’ve ever seen. It kind of gave me the creeps and I jumped. I hadn’t been expecting something like this. It was a common shrew; I could see that right away. I know the difference. I’ve seen some really fat animals, too, down by the harbor. They aren’t that cute—but this one! With his little snout poking out just a hair from behind the flap. And then—right back under. I lay stock-still, barely breathing. Then he was peeking out again, a bit farther this time. Those tiny ears. They looked like the leaves of a flower I don’t know the name of. Small and pointed and compact. Lightning fast, back under the flap once more. The bag is just sitting there. I haven’t even considered picking it up, taking away this pathetic little shelter the poor thing has found for himself. The bag’s been sitting there ever since that day. It can just stay there. Poor bastard, so small and scared. An inch outside the flap now, and whoosh—right back under.

I can pretend I’m sleeping. That won’t even be that hard. I’m so lethargic anyway.

I can’t believe I didn’t get it before—when the package of cookies was suddenly empty. I crumpled up the plastic wrapper and felt a little disappointed. I’d been certain I had a few cookies left.

Oh well.

He must have come out at night and pushed the box of candy off the table. Without me hearing it. Without me noticing anything at all. I’m sleeping better now, and mostly at night. It’s strange, really, that this cycle persists—night and day. Even though I have blackout curtains. Floor to ceiling. And wide, so they cover everything. We hung them up a long time ago. Yes—it was when she was still here. There are so many people who walk by outside, right past the window, and nosy people have always annoyed me. They’re nice curtains, too, with a cord or a kind of pearl chain on one side you can adjust them with. But I let mine hang in peace.

Poor little fool. He can’t even get out. And how had he even gotten in? He must’ve made a hole somewhere, I guess there’s no other explanation. Hmm, but then there must be a way out as well. That’s good. I don’t have any interest in holding helpless creatures captive. I don’t have those kinds of inclinations. He can do as he pleases.

“You’re the one who decides,” the foreman at the factory said to me. “Do what you want,” he said. “You get one more chance. One. Got it?”

Yes, yes.

“Aren’t you happy about that?”

Yes, yes.

It all got to be too much—it really did. Jasmine was already nagging me incessantly about the same things. You might have even thought they were in it together. I don’t like being bossed around. It’s the worst thing in the world.

There he is again! Sniffing a piece of candy that’s rolled all the way over to the bag. I hope he isn’t thinking about swallowing it whole. They’re pretty big. He might choke. I scrape my nails on the backrest of the sofa a bit and boom, presto, like lightning he’s back under the flap. He likes it there. It’s like a little alcove. That’s what it’s called—an alcove. The kind of thing you have when you don’t have your own room. Maybe with a curtain that you can pull shut when you want to be alone. That’s nice. You have it pretty good now, buddy. Is that where you’re keeping the cookies? The ones with filling. The sweetest kind there is. You know what, you can have them. Just take them. I’m not eating anyway. I’m not hungry anymore. It’s easy to stop eating. You just…don’t do it. You don’t have the energy for as much, but that’s fine, because then you can sleep more.

One more chance.

Thank you.

They were generous. Both of them. I even said so: That’s generous of you.

First, we spent a few hours smashing glasses on the floor. I was the one who started it. There was a regular old pint glass right there in front of me, so convenient. She followed suit and really took off, starting with a crystal glass. We didn’t have many of those—I guess four?—and then we had to switch to something else. We had some made of the cheapest kind of plexiglass. The kind that breaks into a thousand pieces. Looks practically pulverized. It looks like snow.

When we were done, she started packing up her things. She was so calm then. So calm and collected it almost seemed like she was in a trance.

I think she overreacted. There’s some saying about being without sin and casting the first stone, or something like that. She’s not exactly the kind of girl who joins a knitting club, if you know what I mean. Jasmine. Even the name itself says something isn’t quite right.

Yes, we smashed the glasses. It isn’t often that that kind of mood strikes me these days—that something needs to be smashed, broken, trampled flat or whatever. Quite seldom, actually. But it was all a bit too much. So the glasses—off they went.

And afterward she went too.

“Do you know anything about that kind of thing, Little Mouse?

“Not that, no. You enjoy your cookie.”

Her father came to fetch her and her plastic bags. They were in a hurry, trying to take all of the bags at once, so they were barely able to get through the door frame. Two pack horses with pillows, blankets, and everything you can imagine, bulging in all directions. It was comical. Idiots, I screamed at them, and it couldn’t have been said any better.

I’ve been up. I have to get up. I’ve been drinking water. You have to get up to do that. I saw the droppings. Behind the bag. And under the table. I hadn’t seen them before. They must’ve been there for a while. But I never turn on the lights. Or almost never. Mouse droppings are dry and small and don’t smell like anything. Just shit away, little guy.

I don’t know what this is, but it feels better. Like when you’ve been swimming in ice-cold water. At first it’s hell. You almost can’t breathe. There’s a claw scratching your whole body and it stings like no other. But then you get used to it. And it passes—almost. That’s how it is now. Like being back on land. And you have a towel, a big one, and you wrap yourself in it, tightly, around your whole body, and your body is numb, and the towel is warm. It’s pretty nice when your face tingles like that. I’ve noticed it a few times—after I stopped eating.

Oh shit!

The glasses! All the shards. A thick layer. Almost like snow. I have slippers that I use when I’m up, but the little creature…

I have a broom. A vacuum, too, but I can’t be bothered with that. I have a broom—and a dustpan.

Sorry about that, Mickey Mouse. I’ll take care of it, I’m on it. Right away. Maybe. I just have to lie down for a bit, just a little bit longer. I scratch one nail across the sofa—yes, just stay under the flap now, okay? Don’t go scurrying around here with those tiny transparent paws of yours. Stay calm, you know?

It’s my vacuum. Even though she was the one who used it the most. She did tidy up and scrub and so on, I’ll give her that much. And she was kind to the elderly, I’ll give her that, too. She took shifts at the old folks’ home on the weekends. She had a bit of money from her job at the store as well. Enough for decorative pillows, lemon cookies, and so on. Kind and good with the elderly—she’s got that on paper. She wasn’t quite as good at home. Relentless nagging. Do this, do that. There was always something. I’m not one of those high-strung people. I like my peace and quiet.

I could have swept before. I don’t know what got into me—that I just let it sit there. Maybe because it looked kind of pretty with that white snow. It’s gone now, anyhow. Spick-and-span. I look to see if I have any more cookies while I’m up. I might not have the lemon ones, but there must be some kind of goodies in the cupboard. You’d think so at least. She was always buying things—the kinds of things you don’t really need. Sunscreen. And cookies. I threw out the sunscreen. And lots of other shit she left behind. I did it the day she left. I tossed all that crap in the bin.

Plain crackers. That’ll have to do. It’ll probably be a disappointment, especially after eating dessert first.

I’ll set them here, by the leg of the table, before I creep back to my bed. If I lie still, completely still, I might be able to say hi to you. If I almost close my eyes and barely breathe. I don’t expect you to give me your paw or anything, but it would be nice to get a glimpse.

Jasmine hated things like you. Really hated. Girls often do. They hate mice and that kind of thing, but it’s really nothing to worry about. She hated my games, Killzone and Battlefield, she hated my comics, my Batman issues I’ve been collecting since 2005. She hated that I was here and not here, or that I was a little late, and that did happen sometimes, if I had a beer after work—nothing more than that, just a casual beer or three. The food is cold, she would snarl. She wasn’t stingy with her snarling, and was often on the verge of tears.

You can’t live with so much hate!

Three oatmeal cookies in a nice little pile. Your friends outside surely have to settle for worse.

They’re damn smart, these creatures. I haven’t moved a finger, haven’t moved anything at all; I’ve been breathing without a sound. But he sniffs it out, the clever little fellow. He knows I’m awake.

Okay, then. I’ll take a nap. I have to go out later. I’ve been putting it off, but now I really have to. I need to get the damn stamps or they’ll come here, knock on the door. Both of them. My dad in front, my mom just behind him. They worry, I get it.

I need stamps and cards. Maybe something sweet—lemon cookies if they have them.

There’s a branch that’s scraping against the window. Or I guess there are still a few leaves on it, so it’s not really scraping directly—it’s a bit quieter. It grates, that’s what it does. That might be why. Maybe it isn’t me, my breath, the fact that I’m breathing—or blinking. It could be the leaves on the tree, plain and simple. I need to take care of that branch. I’ll do it after I get the stamps. Or maybe before—as soon as I go out. I don’t need to write all that much. Just “hi” and “everything’s good” will do. Maybe I’ll say it’s windy, or something else about the weather. I can even add that I’m looking forward to Christmas. That’ll look good. When someone’s looking forward to Christmas, everything is as it should be.

I’ll do the branch first. Then the stamps—and cards of course. With motifs from the city, maybe the park they like. The park with flowers would be a nice motif.

Jasmine. That’s a flower. People just aren’t called that.

She argued about all kinds of things. What was good enough, what I should do, and so on. It can be too much. Everyone must understand that.

But she made herself pretty. I’ll give her that. She was nice to look at. That hair. And a round mouth, very soft. She had all kinds of things, too. Tablecloths and knickknacks. She was obsessed with cats—made from porcelain or whatever it was. At least five of them. They’re gone now, Mickey, not to worry. I guess you must have girls where you come from as well. Minnie Mouse in all shapes and sizes. But maybe you’re too small. Not old enough. You should be happy about that. For now you just have oatmeal cookies.

I’m going to saw off that branch. I can do it; I just have to sleep a bit first.

The stamps can wait until tomorrow. It’s so cold right now—so terribly windy.

*

It got so quiet. I’d thought about taking care of that branch, but when it’s not making any more noise…

I looked up the name once. It’s a kind of tree. Or a bush, I guess. There were pictures. A spindly bush that wraps around and around something, in this case a pole, and it had flowers on it—small white ones, very pretty. In India it’s called something else, something about moonlight. But in many countries it’s called the same thing as here—Jasmine.

I saw her as soon as I entered. It isn’t where I usually do my shopping. I prefer the store on the corner since it’s not as far to go when I need to carry something heavy like a six pack, Coke, or milk or something. She had on a white collared shirt. Not a lot of people wear those. Most wear T-shirts. But it was a kind of uniform that they had to wear there. And it was summer, and she was so tan, and I saw that her eyes were the same color as her skin. I finished my shopping, but I kept wheeling my cart around for a while. I don’t remember exactly what I bought, but I kept shopping, rolling around. There was lots of space between the shelves, much better than where I usually shop, where I usually just grab a basket. I wheeled the cart for a few laps, sweeping past the shelves a few times. I had to look—she was so pretty. I didn’t knock anything over, I barely touched anything, but she laughed. She looked up twice and laughed. When I got to the cash register I asked if they had any old bread. I said I liked to feed the ducks in the park nearby, the poor things could use a little meat on their bones. “Do you want to come with me?” I asked. And she said yes. That was how it happened.

I have the curtains drawn. The cord with the white pearls sways back and forth if I move around, if I touch the curtain.

I don’t really know what’s become of my little friend. There are still some cookies left, a whole one and a little bit of another. They can just stay there. I really don’t know. I can’t know for sure. If I’d looked before—and sealed the holes—then this never would have happened. Then he would’ve been here still, pattering about on his little paws. And I could’ve stolen a glance with just one eye and seen how careful he was, and how smart, scurrying across the floor, watching out for shards. Because there are some left: small, completely white. I saw them afterward. I can’t see any now. I just hope you’re not lying somewhere around here with dried blood in your throat! Of course, I might have dreamed that I saw the shards—three or four of them. I dream so much and sweat like none other. Then I have to flip the comforter around. I grab the top and fold it down, then I drag the other end up. It’s heavy, but I can do it.

We fed the ducks. We broke off small pieces of bread and tossed them into the water. They didn’t exactly fight over the goods; they were already pretty fattened up after all. “Where are those poor little things you mentioned, huh?” she laughed. Of course, she understood that this wasn’t something I normally did.

She was so pretty. Pretty without the white collar, too.

Things are as they are. It’s not worth dwelling on them too much. There isn’t any point. There isn’t any point to anything. Sleep is good, in general. But some dreams are just plain stupid. Like the one where she was standing in the sun with that hotshot she used to date. He was good on paper—top grades in school and god knows what else. She was wearing a light blue top, and one strap slid down over her shoulder, almost to her elbow. Then she was gone. And then there wasn’t anything.

That father of hers. So furious he was foaming at the mouth. It was disgusting. Plain unpleasant to look at. And I said so. Make sure you don’t foam over, I said to him. He shifted the plastic bags, those big ones you use for recycling. Clothes and bedding, decorative pillows, teacups, and nail polish. Nail polish in a hundred and fifty colors. All of them mixed together, lobster and canary, pure chaos in those bags. They’re not all that strong, either. One of them ripped and he had to pack it all up again. She carried it out, a little of everything, but it was quite a lot, really—it seemed to me that they’d stripped the whole place. I bought that teacup, I told them. And he rolled his eyes and foamed even more.

I could’ve kept my mouth shut, of course. I know that’s the smart thing to do most of the time. But when they keep picking at you like that… When everyone keeps picking at you like that.

When she left, or when she was about to leave, before I’d shouted Idiots, she looked at me for a second, maybe two, and suddenly it was like that first time—at the park, when we’d fed the ducks and she’d looked at me, when she’d continued looking at me as though she were trying to figure something out. Whether she liked me, I guess. And then she’d figured out that yes, she did, and quite a lot too.

And still she turned. With her purse in one hand and two full plastic bags in the other.

She could’ve been here. If I’d been able to pull myself together. If I’d just had a little more time. I hadn’t asked for anything else. Just more time. But no. And then her father came here in the blink of an eye, and soon they’d filled the doorway with odds and ends in purses and backpacks and a hell of a lot of bags—plastic ones.

She could’ve been sitting here in that chair, holding a teacup with both hands, the steam from the hot tea reaching all the way up to her bangs. After the tea she could’ve asked if we should go on a walk. And I could’ve answered yeah, sure. And then we would’ve gotten dressed and gone.

Not long ago I dreamed about those figurines of hers—all the cats, lined up here on the table, right next to the bed, packed close together. It was nice. They were nice, really. If I shut my eyes, I can call up the image. Several images. I can call up my little buddy as well. He peeks out from under the flap. Hi, I say. And he isn’t the least bit scared.

It’s so quiet. So terribly quiet. She could have been here, filing her nails, making that awful sound, and I wouldn’t have said anything. There could have been paws scampering across the floor, too—if I’d sealed up the holes. There must be an opening. You must be outside now. You can’t be lying cold and stiff somewhere in here. I couldn’t take that.

That branch isn’t making noise anymore. So it must be covered in snow. So it must’ve snowed.

“Som snø” from Over Elva, Norwegian. Oslo, Norway: Tiden Norsk Forlag, 2015.

Image by Yusuke Nagaoka.