Will and Testament Read online

  WILL AND TESTAMENT

  A novel

  by

  Vigdis Hjorth

  Translated

  by Charlotte Barslund

  This translation has been published with the financial support of NORLA

  This English-language edition published by Verso 2019

  Translation © Charlotte Barslund 2019

  Originally published as Arv og miljø

  © Cappelen Damm AS 2016

  All rights reserved

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Verso

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  US: 20 Jay Street, Suite 1010, Brooklyn, NY 11201

  versobooks.com

  Verso is the imprint of New Left Books

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78873-310-6

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78873-312-0 (US EBK)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78873-311-3 (UK EBK)

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  LCCN: 2019942598

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Typeset in Electra by Biblichor Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

  You should do something you have to do as something you intended to do all along. Or: If you have to do something, do it as if you meant it.

  SLAVOJ ŽIŽEK

  Contents

  Will and Testament

  A Novel

  Will and

  Testament

  A NOVEL

  Vigdis Hjorth

  Dad died five months ago, which was either great timing or terrible, depending on your point of view. Personally, I don’t think he would have minded going unexpectedly; I was even tempted when I first heard to think that he might have fallen on purpose, before I knew the full story. It was too much like a plot twist in a novel for it to be just an accident.

  In the weeks leading up to his death, my siblings had become embroiled in a heated argument about how to share the family estate, the holiday cabins on Hvaler. And just two days before Dad’s fall, I had joined in, siding with my older brother against my two younger sisters.

  I learned about the row in a roundabout way. One Saturday morning, which I had been looking forward to, when all I had to do was prepare a contribution to a contemporary drama seminar in Fredrikstad that same day, my sister Astrid called. It was a bright and beautiful late November morning, the sun was shining, I might have mistaken it for spring if it wasn’t for the leafless trees reaching for the sky and the leaves covering the ground. I was in a good mood, I had made coffee and I was excited about going to Fredrikstad, pottering around the old city centre when the seminar was over, walking on the ramparts with my dog and gazing at the river. After my shower, I saw that Astrid had called several times. I assumed it was about a collection of articles that I had been helping her edit.

  She answered her mobile in a hushed voice. Hang on, she said, I could hear beeping in the background as if she were in a room with electrical equipment. Hang on, she said again, still whispering. I waited. I’m at Diakonhjemmet Hospital, she said, her voice louder now, the beeping had gone. It’s Mum, she said. But it’s all right. She’ll be fine.

  An overdose, she then said, Mum took an overdose last night, but she’ll be fine, she’s just very tired.

  It wasn’t Mum’s first attempt, but in the past there had been such a build-up each time that I hadn’t been surprised. Astrid reiterated that everything was fine, that Mum would recover, but that it had been dramatic. Mum had called her at four thirty in the morning to tell her that she had taken an overdose: I’ve taken an overdose. Astrid and her husband had been to a party that night, they had only just got home and weren’t in a fit state to drive; Astrid rang Dad who found Mum on the kitchen floor and called their neighbour, a doctor, and he had come over; he wasn’t sure that an ambulance was necessary, but had called one anyway, just to be on the safe side, and the ambulance had come and taken Mum to the hospital where she was now on the mend, but very, very tired.

  Why, I asked, and Astrid became vague and incoherent, but at length I gathered that ownership of our parents’ much-loved cabins on Hvaler had been transferred to my two sisters, Astrid and Åsa, without our brother, Bård, being told, and when he did find out he thought the notional value was way too low. As Astrid put it, he had kicked off and raised hell. She had been in touch with Bård recently because Mum would be turning eighty soon and Dad eighty-five, which was cause for celebration; she had written to invite him and his family to the party and he had replied that he didn’t want to see her, that she had wheedled a cabin on Hvaler, that this was the final straw in a long line of financial favouritism going back years, and that she was only ever looking out for herself—as usual.

  Astrid had been shocked at his words and accusations, and would appear to have told everything to Mum who in turn became so distraught that she took an overdose and had now been admitted to hospital, so ultimately it was really all Bård’s fault.

  However, when Astrid had called Bård to tell him about the overdose, he had replied that she only had herself to blame. He’s so heartless, she said to me. He uses the most devastating of all weapons, his children. Bård’s children had unfriended Astrid and Åsa on Facebook and written to Mum and Dad how upset they were at the loss of the cabins. Mum had always been terrified of losing contact with Bård’s children.

  I asked her to wish Mum a speedy recovery, what else could I do? She’ll be pleased to hear that, Astrid said.

  Funny how random it seems, our meeting people who later prove pivotal to our lives, who will affect or directly influence decisions that will cause our lives to change direction. Or perhaps it’s not random at all. Can we sense that certain people might nudge us onto a path we consciously or subconsciously would have taken anyway? And so we stay in touch with them. Or do we have a hunch that some people might challenge us or force us off a path we want to take, and so we decide not to see them again? It’s remarkable how important just one person can become in determining how we act in critical situations, just because we happened to consult that individual in the past.

  I didn’t drink my coffee, I was troubled so I got dressed and went outside to feel the wind on my face, to clear my head. I wasn’t handling this well, I thought, and called Søren, who of all my children knew our family best. He was surprised about the overdose, of course, but he knew about past overdoses, and it was always fine in the end, his grandmother invariably called for help in time. When I got to the transfer of the cabins and the low valuation, he grew pensive and said that he could understand why Bård was upset. Bård hadn’t cut contact like I had done; he had always kept in touch, true, he wasn’t as close to my parents as Astrid and Åsa were, but that shouldn’t cause him to be financially penalised, surely?

  I rang Klara who was outraged. Playing at suicide was just not on. Giving family cabins to two of your four children on the sly and too cheaply was not on either.

  My parents had every right to do what they had done, but in recent years they had frequently declared that they would treat their children equally when it came to inheritance. However, it had now become clear that the amount of money Bård and I would get by way of compensation for the cabins was remarkably low. That was what had upset him, I realised, and the fact that no one had bothered to tell him that the transfer of ownership had already taken place. I hadn’t been told either, but then again I hadn’t spoken to my family for decades. In the last twenty or so years I’d only had contact with my second youngest sister
, Astrid, and only with a few phone calls a year. So I had been surprised when, on my birthday some months ago, I’d had a text message from my youngest sister, Åsa, whom I hadn’t heard from in years. She wrote that she had texted me happy birthday before, but must have used the wrong number. And then the penny dropped. Up until now they had been two against one, Astrid and Åsa against Bård, but now that I was involved, everything was up for grabs. I’d always said I didn’t want to inherit anything and I guess my sisters were hoping that was still my position, but they couldn’t be sure. It was what I had said to Astrid every time she wanted me to reconcile with my parents. It felt like Astrid was emotionally blackmailing me; she would tell me how much they suffered as a result of my estrangement, how old they were, how they would die soon, and why couldn’t I just turn up at Christmas or for a big birthday? It was probably Mum putting pressure on her, but I wasn’t moved by Astrid’s talk of old age and death, instead I felt provoked and angry. Didn’t she take me seriously? I had already given her my reasons. Explained that being around Mum and Dad made me ill, that seeing them and pretending that everything was fine would be a betrayal of everything I stood for, it was out of the question, I had already tried! I didn’t relent, but was provoked into growing increasingly angry, not at the time, but later, at night, on email. I wrote to her that I never wanted to see Mum and Dad again, I would never set foot in their house in Bråteveien, and that they should go ahead and disinherit me.

  After I had cut off contact, Mum rang me several times; this was before caller ID so I couldn’t tell it was her. She would alternately sob and yell at me, and I felt physically sick, but I had to stick to my guns if I was to survive; in order not to sink or drown I had to keep my distance. She wanted to know why I refused to see her—as if she didn’t know—she asked me impossible questions: Why do you hate me so much when you’re everything to me? I told her countless times that I didn’t hate her, until I did start to hate her, I told her over and over, would I have to explain myself—yet again—only for the next conversation to be as if I had never even tried and I felt rejected, would I be rejected yet again?

  The first few years after I cut off contact, these phone calls were deeply distressing. Mum would ring with her accusations and pleas, and I would get angry and lose my temper. Eventually they tailed off, then she gave up all together; I guess that she, too, must have decided that certainty and peace were preferable to the misery caused by these pointless conversations. Better have Astrid give it a try every now and then.

  In the last few years, however, Mum had started sending me the occasional text message. Sometimes when she was ill, as most old people are from time to time, she would text me. I’m ill, please can we talk? It would be late at night, she had been drinking for sure, I certainly had, and I would reply that she could call me in the morning. Then I texted Astrid to say that I was willing to talk to Mum about her illness and her care, but if she launched into her usual accusations and histrionics, then I would hang up. I don’t know if Astrid passed this on, but when Mum rang the next morning, she spoke only about her poor health and her care, and perhaps she felt like I did after I had rung off, that it had been a good conversation. At any rate, she stopped dumping her disappointments and unhappiness on me and, I gathered, dumped them on Astrid instead, and it must have been tough on Astrid to handle Mum’s disappointments and unhappiness, so perhaps it was no wonder that she tried to steer me towards a reconciliation.

  ~

  Because of the disappointment and unhappiness I had inflicted on my parents by cutting off contact with them, I was expecting to be disinherited. And, if against all my expectations they didn’t, it would be purely because it wouldn’t look good in the eyes of the world, and they wanted things to look good.

  But all this lay far in the future as they were both in rude health.

  So I was surprised when, one Christmas three years ago, I received a letter from my parents. My adult children had visited them just before Christmas as they usually did, as they had done since I cut off contact—at my suggestion because Mum and Dad seeing their grandchildren eased the pressure on me. And my children enjoyed seeing their cousins and returning home with presents and money and three years ago, a letter. I opened it while they stood next to me and I read it out loud. My parents wrote that they had made a joint will and that their four children would inherit equal shares. Except for the cabins on Hvaler, which would go to Astrid and Åsa at the current market value. They wrote that they were happy to bequeath their assets to their children. My own children smiled cautiously, they too had expected to be disinherited.

  It was a strange letter to get. Very generous, really, given how awful I had supposedly made them feel. I wondered what they expected in return.

  Mum rang me a few months after that Christmas. I was in a market in San Sebastian with my children and grandchild; we were celebrating Easter in a flat I had rented there. I didn’t know it was Mum, I hadn’t saved her number. Her voice was trembling, as it always did when she was upset: Bård is raising hell, she said. I had no idea what she was talking about.

  Bård is raising hell, she said again, the same expression Astrid would later use, because of the will, she said, because the cabins are going to Astrid and Åsa. But Astrid and Åsa have been so nice, she said, so caring. They’ve been going to the cabins with us all these years, we’ve had such lovely times together that it seems only natural for them to get the cabins. Bård has never used the cabins, nor have you; would you like a cabin on Hvaler?

  I would have loved a cabin on Hvaler at the very edge of the rocks with a sea view, except for the constant risk of bumping into Mum and Dad.

  No, I said.

  That was the answer she wanted to hear, I realised, because she instantly calmed down. And since I hadn’t been in touch with Bård, I didn’t twig what she was really asking me. I reiterated that I didn’t want a cabin on Hvaler, that I thought their will was generous, and that I hadn’t been expecting to get anything.

  Astrid would later tell me that there had been a major row about the cabins. When during a visit to Bråteveien, Bård found out that Astrid and Åsa had got them, he had stood up and said that Mum and Dad had already lost one child—he was referring to me—and now they would lose another one, then he had walked out. I could tell that Astrid thought he was being unreasonable. He hadn’t been to the cabins for years, he had a cabin of his own, and his wife had never got on with Mum and Dad back when they still went to the cabins on Hvaler.

  I was taken aback by her strength of feeling, but I didn’t say anything. It was a blessing, I thought, not to be involved in the cabin feud.

  ~

  However, now it had escalated. Ownership of the cabins had already been transferred to Astrid and Åsa, Bård was furious and Mum was in hospital after taking an overdose.

  The first time I saw Klara Tank she was pushing a pram down the corridor of the Department for Literature. In it sat the son of a famous artist. When Klara attended lectures, she would bring with her the child of this artist, who was said to be in the middle of a divorce. I was a dutiful student who read everything I was supposed to read, but I spent little time at the university as I was pregnant with my second child and busy with my family. As a result I saw Klara only a few times at the Department for Literature, but I took notice of her, the student with the pram. The first time she spoke to me was on the pavement in Hausmanns gate some years later, after a talk on literary criticism. She was now the editor of a literary magazine which had mauled a popular author; she had been defending her criticism, bare-legged and waving her arms around, she had meant to say literary trial, but ended up saying literary toilet, had started to laugh and been unable to stop, then she burst into tears, ran outside and didn’t come back. When I left, she caught up with me on the pavement in Hausmanns gate, still with bare legs, although it was October, unbuttoned my coat, touched my silk blouse and told me how nice it was. I walked away, I didn’t want her eccentricity to rub off on me.
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  I went for a longer walk than usual although I was due in Fredrikstad that same evening. I headed into the protected forest, which was still quite green, but it didn’t have its usual calming effect on me. Trees that had keeled over during the storms in recent weeks lay with their heavy dark roots exposed and blocked the footpaths. I called both my daughters, but couldn’t get hold of them, I called my boyfriend, but couldn’t get hold of him, I had an overwhelming urge to share my news and I wondered why that was, after all nothing terrible had happened, in fact things were fine.

  I thought about my earlier conversation with Astrid only a few days ago. I’d had more contact with her these last six months than I’d had for years. She was writing a collection of articles about human rights education and wanted my opinion on the layout and division into chapters which I, in my role as a magazine editor, understood. I read and commented, we talked about format and angles, and in our last conversation, only days previously, we had discussed final tweaks and publishers. That had also taken place while I was out walking; I remember shifting my mobile from one hand to the other because the phone was so cold when held without mittens. When we had finished talking about her book, I asked, as I usually did, how the family was. Well, there’s this business with Bård and the cabins, she replied, I thought she was referring to the will.

  ~

  I went to Fredrikstad and it wasn’t until I drove into the dark, practically deserted, old part of the city that I started to calm down. I found a place to park near the B&B where I would be staying, I had stayed there before, I walked the dog along the ramparts by the river, which glowed copper red in the rays of the setting sun, I tried to focus on the seminar about the lack of contemporary Norwegian drama, but found it difficult to concentrate. I called Tale and Ebba again, but they didn’t pick up, I called Lars, but he didn’t pick up either, then I called Bo before I remembered that he was in Israel. I asked myself why it was so imperative for me to tell my daughters, my boyfriend and Bo about Mum, her overdose and the two cabins. I called my oldest friend, who was driving and so had to be quick. She had heard about Mum overdosing before, but she was interested in the inheritance dispute, she had experience of such things. They’re perfectly entitled to do what they’ve done, she said, they can dispose of their property in any way they like, but they don’t come across as generous as they did in their Christmas letter. Besides she had reflected on the issue of inheritance, she said, when her brother had inherited the family cabin because he was their parents’ favourite and she felt that she should have been given it instead as compensation for lack of love and attention.