The Weeping Girl

7

The man sitting in the armchair by the open window reminded her of a bird.

That was her first thought, and somehow it stayed with her.

My dad’s a bird.

He was small and thin. Dressed in worn and shabby corduroy trousers far too big for him, and a blue shirt hanging loose over his hunched shoulders. The head on his skinny neck was long and narrow, his eyes dark and sunken, and his nose sharp and slightly curved. Thick hair, cut short. Mousy in colour. And stubble a few days old that was a shade darker.

He put down the book he was reading and looked at her for two seconds, then looked away.

She remained in the doorway, holding her breath. She suddenly felt convinced that she was in the wrong place. That she — or rather, the young carer — had come to the wrong room. Could this really be her father? Could this tiny creature be-

‘Are you Arnold Maager?’ she said, cutting short her thoughts. Felt surprised that her voice sounded so steady, despite everything.

He looked up at her again. Licked his lips with the tip of his tongue.

‘Who are you?’

The words sounded as insubstantial as the creature who had uttered them. She put her rucksack on the floor and sat down in the other armchair. Waited for a few moments while continuing to look him in the eye, and decided that he didn’t actually look all that old. About forty-five, she thought. Her mother was forty-three, so that could be about right.

‘My name’s Mikaela. You’re my dad.’

He made no reply. Didn’t react at all.

‘I’m your daughter,’ she added.

‘My daughter? Mikaela?’

He seemed to shrivel up even more, and the words were so faint that she could hardly make them out. The book fell to the floor, but he made no attempt to pick it up. His hands were shaking slightly.

Don’t start crying, she thought. Please, Dad, don’t start crying.

Looking back, she found it hard to say how long they had sat there in silence, opposite each other. Perhaps it was only half a minute, perhaps it was ten. It was all so odd, every second seemed both static and gigantic, and when quite a few of them had passed she slowly began to realize something she hadn’t grasped before — nor even thought about. . Something about language and silence. And perceptions.

It wasn’t at all clear, but for the first time in her life she suddenly noticed that it was possible to experience things without talking about them. Experience things together with somebody else, without putting anything into words, not even for herself. Neither while things were actually happening, nor later. . That words, those unwieldy words, could never be one hundred per cent accurate, and that it was sometimes necessary to desist from using them. Not to let them trample all over experiences, and distort them.

Just to sit there in silence and experience things. To let everything be exactly what it was. Anyway, something along those lines is what she became aware of. Discovered during her first meeting with her dad. Her bird dad.

During half a minute. Or maybe ten.

Then he stood up, walked over to the bureau next to his bed and opened the bottom drawer.

‘I’ve written to you,’ he said. ‘It’s good that you’ve come to collect it.’

He produced a bundle of letters. It was at least six inches thick, and tied up by a length of black tape the shape of a cross on the top surface.

‘It’ll be best if you throw them away. But as you’re here, you might as well have them.’

He put the bundle down on the table between them, and sat down again.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But you shouldn’t have come. I think it would be best if you left now.’

He blinked a few times, and jerked his head from side to side. He was no longer looking at her, and she assumed he felt uncomfortable. That he thought it was awkward to be sitting here with his daughter who had just materialized out of nowhere.

‘I want to get to know you and talk to you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know who you were until yesterday. I want to know why that has been the case.’

‘It’s all my fault,’ he said. ‘I did something terrible, and it’s right that things have turned out as they have. There’s nothing to be done about it. It’s not possible.’

He jerked his head from side to side again.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Mikaela. ‘I need to know in order to understand.’

‘It’s not possible,’ he repeated.

Then he sat there in silence, staring down at the table. Leaned forward, clutching the arms of his chair. More time passed.

‘You have another dad now. It’s best the way things are. Go now.’

She could feel the sobs welling up in her throat.

Look at me, she thought. Touch me! Say that you are my dad, and that you’re pleased that I’ve come to see you at last!

But he just sat there. The remarkable silence had gone — or was changed — and now, all of a sudden, there was merely repugnance and hopelessness. Just think that moments could disintegrate so quickly, she thought, feeling increasingly desperate. Disintegrate so totally.

‘I don’t even know what happened,’ she whispered, trying somehow to force back the tears thumping away behind her eyes. ‘My mum doesn’t say anything, and you don’t say anything. Can’t you understand that you have to tell me? You bastards. . You fucking bastards!’

She heaved herself up out of the armchair and stood in front of the open window instead. Turned her back on him. Leaned out and squeezed the sharp tinplate on the window ledge until her fingers caused her agony, succeeding in forcing back her despair with the aid of the pain and her fury. You bastards, she kept repeating in her thoughts. Bloody fucking bastards — yes, that’s exactly what they were!

‘You think you know what’s best for me, but you don’t at all!’

He didn’t move a muscle, but she could hear him breathing in his armchair. Deeply, and with his mouth open as if he had adenoid problems. She decided to ignore him for a while. Deflate the tension, or try to at least. She looked out of the window. Summer and sunshine were making their presence felt in the grounds. The dog had stopped barking. It was lying down in the shade instead with its tongue rolled out onto the ground in front of it — you could see that from above, where she was. She had a good view over the surrounding countryside as well: she could see the road she had walked along on the way here, and the village where she’d got off the bus, St Inns. And beyond there was the sea — more of a hint than a reality, and she wondered how life here might feel so terribly enclosed by all those extensive views. All that summer, all that sunshine, all that endless sky. .

‘How old are you, Mikaela?’ he asked out of the blue.

‘Eighteen,’ she said, without turning to look at him. ‘It was my birthday yesterday.’

Then she remembered that she’d brought something for him. She went over to her rucksack and dug out the parcel. Hesitated for a moment, then put it down on the table, next to the letters.

‘It’s nothing special,’ she said. ‘But it’s for you. I did it at school when I was ten years old. I want you to have it.’

He felt hesitantly at the thin packet, but made no effort to open it.

‘You shouldn’t-’ he began.

‘If I give you something will you be kind enough to accept it,’ she interrupted angrily. ‘I’ll accept your letters, so you’ll accept my story — okay?’

It was indeed a story. An illustrated story about an unfortunate bird she’d spent almost a whole term writing when she was in class four. Writing and drawing and painting. She’d thought of giving it to her mum or to Helmut as a Christmas present, but for whatever reason she hadn’t done so.

She couldn’t remember now if it was because they’d fallen out, or if there was some other reason. But when she’d remembered the story last night, it had felt like a symbolic gesture.

Giving her dad a story that she’d written. A sad story with a happy ending.

And about a bird as well, it now occurred to her — that fitted in with her first impression of him.

She stood by the window again and waited. Made up her mind not to say a word nor to leave the room until he had made some kind of a move. Just stand there and refuse to budge — just like her mum had done, and just as he was doing. Refuse to budge. For as long as it took. So there.

After a few minutes he cleared his throat and stood up. Paced hesitantly back and forth for a while, then stood by the door.

‘I want to go out,’ he said. ‘I usually go out for a walk in the grounds at about this time.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Mikaela. ‘And I want you to tell me what happened. I’ve no intention of leaving here until you’ve done that. Is that clear?’

Her dad went out of the door without responding.