Butterflies in November

FIFTY-FIVE

He feels awful about having encouraged me to jump and looks seriously worried.

“I didn’t expect you to do it. I didn’t mean those words I said, it was just bullshit, I didn’t realize you were so docile.”

He has to go to Reykjavík for the weekend to see his kids and wants us to stay in his place while he’s away, so that I can recover. He is afraid it will be cold and damp up there in the chalet. I’m still in too much of a daze to be able to formulate any objections. Otherwise I could have said something like:

“Thanks for the thought, but I already have plans and I’m fine.”

“The fridge is full of food, for a change, I did some shopping. I’ll leave the dog behind, all you have to do is feed her and let her run in the garden. Don’t worry,” he adds with a smile, “the puppies aren’t due for another two weeks and I’ll be back on Sunday evening. She’s feeling a bit delicate too, so you’ll be good company for each other.”

“Thank you.”

“The kitten is no problem either, not for the dog at least.”

That is how we move down from the ravine to the shore, the boy, the kitten and I.

As he’s leaving, he pats the dog from top to bottom; he’s good to her. Next he pats the boy and then finally strokes me, adjusting my sling.

When you live in the home of an absent person, sleep in his bed, eat off his plates, skim through some of his books, occasionally opening one to read a small extract, you slowly develop an odd kind of understanding of him that isn’t far from affection. Or wonderment at what kind of man could be behind these books about saints and Japanese bonsai gardens?

His shirts hang in a doorless wardrobe with even gaps between them, most of them white, except for one that looks particularly gaudy. He doesn’t seem to own any ties. The fridge is crammed with food. He’s even bought cans of food for the cat. Without trying to actually work out the owner’s culinary tastes, I can’t help noticing that there are four types of olive oil in the house, and an equal number of bottles of vinegar.

“I roasted some lamb for you in the oven,” he said as he was leaving, “I hope that’s OK. You just have to heat it up, you can handle that, it was especially conceived for a one-handed person and slowly roasted for four hours — you could almost eat it with a spoon.”

The post-divorce bed linens of men are always new. Very few men take bed linens with them when they split up. They generally buy a set of two in the first round, and then another two a few weeks later, all the same type, rarely white, normally stripy blue, like the ones we’re lying in. The plates and cups also match and are still unchipped; the whole lot has been bought in a single trip, a complete set without the interference of any woman.

The dog seems to be tolerating the kitten quite well and treats him gently, almost with a touch of motherly care. Then she keels over to one side, spreading out her tummy and teats. The kitten vanishes under the sofa. The dog doesn’t want to eat, doesn’t want to drink and doesn’t want to play. The boy lies down beside her, patting her, and pulls a quilt over her. But she doesn’t want to be patted either and staggers about on four legs, moping aimlessly around the house for a good while, investigating every nook and corner, before finally lying down behind the door of the dark bedroom that is furthest from us. The boy sits on the sofa and finishes knitting a new yellow row in the sock. I feel quite weak and might even be running a temperature. The dog also looks weak to me and feverish in her eyes; she obviously has a temperature too. By the time I get to her with some water for her to drink, the first puppy is born. She is licking him and the next one is beginning to emerge. There will be three in all, by the time she has finished, all covered in yellow spots, and throughout all of this she doesn’t utter a single sound.