The White City: A Novel by Karolina Ramqvist (2015), translation from Swedish by Saskia Vogel (2017)
The White City: A Novel by Karolina Ramqvist (2015), translation from Swedish by Saskia Vogel (2017)
During her pregnancy, she’d convinced herself that if she worried enough about getting stretch marks, she wouldn’t get any.
Now she knew that wasn’t how it worked.
Fear can’t be used like an incantation; it’s an unease that wells up when you know what’s at stake. It’s not true that what you worry about the most isn’t going to happen. Rather, it’s highly likely that it will (6).
He’d been the one who’d wanted to have kids. He had whispered his wishes in her ear. Suggesting a new direction for them, an opportunity. Word after word, long descriptions of how he loved her and what it would be like to have another one of her, who was also one of him.
For him, the idea of a child was a window opening; for her it was one closing. She thought of all the women she’d seen stand before their men, holding out their children and pleading for them to change their ways. She could see herself worrying even more and thought of the family rooms in prisons: the toys you brought, the stacks of coarse, gray paper napkins.
The paper plates.
But after a while, a response to his desire came from deep inside her. As if something in her suddenly understood and also wanted it. Hot, yearning to be touched by his words.
She’d immediately buried the feeling of having been convinced to do this. But now that he wasn’t around anymore and she didn’t need to keep her feelings about him in check, this particular one had wormed its way to the surface.
Now that he was gone, she could admit to feelings other than the fear of losing him in one of the many ways she’d been warned of. She used to have other thoughts about him too-fantasies about how things would change, the freedom she’d know if he weren’t around.
Now he was gone, but she hadn’t found freedom. He’d left her without letting go. A new version of him had latched onto her body (19).
She sat in the large bed clutching the phone and crying, letting his voice consume her. With each syllable, a room opened up containing everything he was to her and everything she believed she’d been to him. Their entire life as a couple seemed to be encapsulated in each of his ordinary words, in how he said them and strung them together, how they hung there between him and her (34).
She put on a thick hoodie that no longer smelled of him and went downstairs and dug out one of the old cigarettes she’d found. Her body felt fragile and fatigued. Because she couldn’t sit comfortably on the stool, she leaned against the kitchen island, smoking and enjoying the silence.
She stayed there, unsure of what else to do with herself. Smoked another cigarette, thinking about how people who choose to fall in love have no one to blame but themselves. If it’s even a choice at all. Could she have done more to prevent it? There must have been something she could have done. There was always a choice-the instant you decided to give in, reservations be damned-and she tried to pinpoint the moment it happened.
Actually, the moment had been inconsequential. There had just been something in the way he’d looked at her-how his gaze reassured her that it was going to be them against the world, and yes, she did in fact want that kind of solidarity.
When she’d stood there for so long she no longer minded if Dream woke up, she went upstairs and undressed her. Getting into bed hurt. Lying down, even the tiniest movement, made her ache (61-2).
If you believe everything will turn out okay, will it? Or should you not tempt fate and believe that nothing will go your way, like an incantation (94)?
During her pregnancy, she’d convinced herself that if she worried enough about getting stretch marks, she wouldn’t get any.
Now she knew that wasn’t how it worked.
Fear can’t be used like an incantation; it’s an unease that wells up when you know what’s at stake. It’s not true that what you worry about the most isn’t going to happen. Rather, it’s highly likely that it will (6).
He’d been the one who’d wanted to have kids. He had whispered his wishes in her ear. Suggesting a new direction for them, an opportunity. Word after word, long descriptions of how he loved her and what it would be like to have another one of her, who was also one of him.
For him, the idea of a child was a window opening; for her it was one closing. She thought of all the women she’d seen stand before their men, holding out their children and pleading for them to change their ways. She could see herself worrying even more and thought of the family rooms in prisons: the toys you brought, the stacks of coarse, gray paper napkins.
The paper plates.
But after a while, a response to his desire came from deep inside her. As if something in her suddenly understood and also wanted it. Hot, yearning to be touched by his words.
She’d immediately buried the feeling of having been convinced to do this. But now that he wasn’t around anymore and she didn’t need to keep her feelings about him in check, this particular one had wormed its way to the surface.
Now that he was gone, she could admit to feelings other than the fear of losing him in one of the many ways she’d been warned of. She used to have other thoughts about him too-fantasies about how things would change, the freedom she’d know if he weren’t around.
Now he was gone, but she hadn’t found freedom. He’d left her without letting go. A new version of him had latched onto her body (19).
She sat in the large bed clutching the phone and crying, letting his voice consume her. With each syllable, a room opened up containing everything he was to her and everything she believed she’d been to him. Their entire life as a couple seemed to be encapsulated in each of his ordinary words, in how he said them and strung them together, how they hung there between him and her (34).
She put on a thick hoodie that no longer smelled of him and went downstairs and dug out one of the old cigarettes she’d found. Her body felt fragile and fatigued. Because she couldn’t sit comfortably on the stool, she leaned against the kitchen island, smoking and enjoying the silence.
She stayed there, unsure of what else to do with herself. Smoked another cigarette, thinking about how people who choose to fall in love have no one to blame but themselves. If it’s even a choice at all. Could she have done more to prevent it? There must have been something she could have done. There was always a choice-the instant you decided to give in, reservations be damned-and she tried to pinpoint the moment it happened.
Actually, the moment had been inconsequential. There had just been something in the way he’d looked at her-how his gaze reassured her that it was going to be them against the world, and yes, she did in fact want that kind of solidarity.
When she’d stood there for so long she no longer minded if Dream woke up, she went upstairs and undressed her. Getting into bed hurt. Lying down, even the tiniest movement, made her ache (61-2).
If you believe everything will turn out okay, will it? Or should you not tempt fate and believe that nothing will go your way, like an incantation (94)?