Grace by Linn Ullmann Read Free Book Online

subway station.
    There were plenty of other people he could have asked, Torjussen said later; the street was awake even early on a Sunday morning. People were on their way to the 77th Street flea market; people were walking their dogs; people like himself were running out for breakfast and the Sunday paper.
    But the young man didn’t ask anyone else for directions, he asked Ole Torjussen. And Torjussen gave him precise directions, even explaining where he could switch to the express to save time. Ole Torjussen had become a guide in the metropolis of New York. It was nothing, really, but as he walked back to the apartment on 73rd Street with the newspapers under his arm and the bread in a plastic bag and the coffee dripping in a paper sack, he felt as if he had conquered the world.
    Johan had been in the hospital for several weeks when the attending physician on his ward decided that he could go home. Dr. Meyer, who knew Mai slightly from years before, reminded him of a ballet dancer: she spoke with her arms, her hands, her whole body. Every time she uttered a word, moved around doing what doctors do, or stood perfectly still, just listening to him, she seemed to be onstage, dancing. She was beautiful, flat-chested and lightly clad under her white coat. When she came to see him she would perch on the edge of his bed. She was never in a hurry. And one day the following happened.
    Dr. Meyer got up from the bed and walked over to the window. Johan could hear piano music. He was about to ask her—Could she hear it too? Was it Tchaikovsky? Something from Giselle?—but he couldn’t open his mouth, couldn’t take his eyes off her as she stood in the light from the window. Suddenly she rose up onto her toes and went into a deep bend from the waist, her body forming a spectacular curve. It was a beautiful, perfect movement. Johan was not quite sure what he was witnessing, but when she finished, he thanked her.
    She sat on the edge of his bed again.
    “Is it the morphine that makes me think you’re always dancing?” he asked. “Is it my imagination?”
    “No,” she said, straightening his pillow, “it’s not your imagination.” She made another gesture. “It’s time to leave,” she said, still smiling, “for a while, at any rate.”
    He noted those words,
for a while.
The life that went on outside, among the healthy, was no longer his life. But he was to be allowed to mingle with them one last time. The pain had abated somewhat, and his body was responding well to treatment.
    “But,” said Dr. Meyer, who never showed the slightest sign of dancing when Mai was around, “don’t hesitate to call me if anything happens.”
    Mai took her spindly husband by the hand and led him out of the hospital and into the car, driving straight to the cottage in Värmland. It sat on its own by a lake, just over the border from Norway, surrounded by forest. A peaceful spot.
    Johan slept right through that first night, and on the first morning he made love to his wife. His wasted body wound itself round hers until she gently guided his soft penis inside her and moaned.
    Even now, when I’m half dead, she manages to take pleasure in me, he thought with wonder.
    Afterward, Mai cleaned his boil, drained it of fluid, and tenderly kissed his face.
    He so much wanted to savor this time. He wasn’t in much pain. It was almost as if he had managed to slip away from the illness. Not that he would have voiced such a thought; he never said, “I’ve slipped away from my illness.” He knew that if he uttered such words, the beast would find him and make him pay. Best to tread softly and try to enjoy life a little. Not too much, just a little. Although even this little bit of enjoyment was not easy to extract, for on their first morning in Värmland, Johan had woken up with a sty on his right eyelid. It stung and itched and suppurated, and his eyelid swelled. Mai had a Swedish colleague write out a prescription for eyedrops. Now they sat, each