Two Women

CHAPTER ONE We meet in the garden center. We are separated by a huge trolley, some three meters by eight, filled with thousands of pansies. An unruly blue and purple sea, with flashes of yellow like waves glittering in the sun. She is standing directly opposite me, and her face reflects my own delight. I gesture towards the flowers, saying something about how wonderful they look. She smiles broadly and replies that there is nothing like flowers for making you feel that life's worth living. "Or maybe small children too," she adds. This startles me. She speaks good but accented Swedish and I realize she must be an immigrant, perhaps from Chile. "I haven't thought about it like that," I say. "But you're right, of course." Then we both react to the wind rattling the panes in the roof of the tall greenhouse and agree that it is too early in the year to plant our pansies. Every night still brings a touch of frost. "And then there's the wind," she says. We hug our coats tighter as we walk from the greenhouse to the shop. "My name's Ingegerd," I tell her. "People call me Inge." "And I'm called Edermira, but here in Sweden it's Mira." We nod, as if to signify that things somehow feel right. I am curious about her. A little later Mira is speaking quickly and eagerly to the girl behind the counter. She is asking for the bulbs of . . . She is forced to halt, close her eyes, think and find the right name. In Spanish. The shop assistant twists the corners of her mouth into a smile that is both anxious and scornful. Then she laughs, shrugs and says, turning to me, "Do you know what she's on about?" I answer awkwardly, blushing with shame: "She's asking for African blue lilies." I try to catch Mira's eyes and say, "They stick to tulips in this place. Let's go." But my voice falters when I register how furious she is. It is a deep black fury shot through with red, and crackling like electricity. Her entire being seems to spark. Instantly, I realize her inner force. We leave, and trudge along in a wind that pierces our coats and sweaters. I am freezing. Mira seems unaware of the cold. Down by the water's edge the sun slips through the gray. We find shelter behind a rock and turn our faces up towards the light. There is so much I want to tell her: how ashamed I am and how it is true that every nation has its share of stupid people. That the girl in the garden center was just being silly, not nasty. And probably nervous, I also want to say. But I stay silent, because these are the kind of words that fall flat, the kind that leave no trace, let alone grow any roots. A kind of hopelessness is gnawing at my insides; nothing can put this right. On an impulse I put my arm round Mira's shoulder, but realize at once that I am overstepping the mark. I withdraw and instead point at the sky. "See those gulls? They're heading for my lawn to hunt for worms." Mira is not interested. She says, "I'm always so concerned about my dignity." Overhead, the gulls are now screeching so loudly I have to shout to make myself heard. "I'm just the same. I think it has something to do with getting older." I fall silent for a bit, ashamed again, then add, "But, of course, it's different . . ." "Yes, that's right. I'm sure you're respected wherever you go." The sun succeeds against all odds and breaks through. The sky has a purple tinge. The sea turns blue. We look at each other and smile. I note that the sheen has returned to her honey-colored skin. Her hair seems to have settled back into place; she wears it in a smart, short cut. "I went to Madeira last autumn," I tell her. "In November, when the weather here is at iFredriksson, Marianne is the author of 'Two Women' with ISBN 9780345440129 and ISBN 0345440129.