The Brothers by Asko Sahlberg Read Free Book Online Page B

turning the corner to the back of the house, Erik is standing on the veranda steps. I manage to cross the yard without running. I pass Erik. He says something, but I can only hear an indistinct grunt. His twisted, restless face moves out of my sight and I pull the front door shut behind me with calm restraint.
    Then I rush to the stairs and stumble up them. In our room, I throw myself onto the bed. The walls pant, the quilt quivers against my cheek. Henrik’s cold fingers are still all over my back. I am no longer here. I am in that other moment, when he was at liberty to explore my flesh for the only time. I do not regret it. I did not yet know about Erik then, I was innocent. Henrik’s man-smell, his stubble, his hands, like snakes rising up out of black soil at night. He was hideous, repulsive, wonderful. Fortunately, I did not allow him to throb inside me. Fortunately, I did not. And yet he remained there, throbbing even now. I squeeze the quilt. My clothes rot round me, the threads loosen, I am lying here naked. The walls crack and a hot wind whips me.
    I sit on the edge of my bed. Time turns over, early morning dawned in the middle of the day. Now I should go downstairs and put the loaves in the oven. Everything falls apart and we merely continue with our chores. At least that means we will not starve to death.
    A sharp knock makes me start. I breathe in sharply. ‘Who’s there?’
    The door opens with a dry squeal and the Old Mistress appears in the doorway. She looks at me with her eyes screwed up as if she were staring in my direction from afar. The words take a while to find their way to her mouth. ‘Have you spoken to Erik?’
    ‘About what?’
    Her gaze begins to wander. ‘General matters.’
    ‘We haven’t had time to talk.’
    ‘You should,’ she says wanly, her eyes lost. I stare at the lines etched on her face and notice that they all curve downwards. They hang down from the temples, the corners of the eyes, the sides of the nose, like the stalks of a plant that has given up. ‘He may have something to tell you.’
    I stand up and go to the window. Gusts of wind disperse the falling snow, so it forms slanting trails. Smoke curls out of the chimney of the Farmhand’s hut, to yield under the heavy snowflakes and spread around the shack like mist with long tongues. Desolate and beautiful. I say over my shoulder, ‘I don’t want to know anything about the woman.’
    The Old Mistress is silent for a while. I can hear her thoughts, gnawing. I sense she turns away from the door before asking, ‘What woman?’
    So she has decided not to face the truth yet. The whole family is like that: treacherous and deceitful. They have been given more than most but they do not know how to appreciate it. They do not respect other people, demands for honesty, life. I often ask myself whether I, too, have become a conspirator in this house; can I be trusted any more than the other travesties of humanity hanging around here? I always conclude that I am different. It is a small crime to fail to report that one occasion, an accident involving two people that has nothing to do with anyone else.
    I go down the stairs. The stove sends drowsy heat into the kitchen. I have just picked up the bread shovel from the corner when Mauri creeps out of the passage leading to the back rooms. As always, he reminds me of a whipped dog. The impression may well be enhanced by that shocking beard of his, which does not suit his round, little-boy face. It is curly, like a sheep’s fleece. He looks at me from under his ever-frightened brows and says in his clear child’s voice, ‘I thought of having some soured milk.’
    ‘Help yourself,’
    ‘I will. You’re baking bread again.’
    ‘Someone’s got to.’
    He is clattering about in the pantry. ‘It’s good you are. Will you be making some buns, too?’
    ‘I may well do.’
    I have nothing against him. I just cannot relate to him. I cannot even see him as Henrik’s and Erik’s