The Cold Song

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Authors: Linn Ullmann
sisters and brothers,” she said. They were playing in the yard. “Sometimes we’re invisible and sometimes we’re not.”
    “You’re Siri,” Syver cried, “and you don’t have any other sisters and brothers, you have me.”
    “But I do,” said Siri. “And we all have different names.”
    “You’re Siri,” Syver cried again. He pulled off his gray woolly hat and planted himself in front of her. “You’re Siri and I’m Syver.”
    He tried to take her hand, but she shoved him away.
    “It’s just us,” he insisted, reaching for her one more time, his voice very quiet, “and we’re the only ones.”
    It had to do with her mother’s anger. It was absolutely necessary to divide herself. After a while it became a habit. She didn’t even feel dizzy. It came as a relief, all she had to do was breathe and let the invisible gas do its work.
    Jenny’s wrath was so vast and black and impossible to check once it began to build up that it was sometimes best to divide herself and become a whole army. One who kept a lookout. One who fought. One who cried and begged for mercy. One who tried to reason. One who danced and fooled about. One who said sorry. One who brought fruit and comfort and hot tea. One who tried to make everything all right again. And one who ran away but did not get very far.
    Her mother’s body was a beautiful and complicated structure, like an empress’s palace. But every week it was attacked—by demons and trolls and a good deal of liquor—and each time it crumbled, everything, all of Jenny, had to be rebuilt. Brick by brick, plank by plank, nail by nail. It could happen on Monday, or maybe Saturday, or maybe not at all that week, and that was scary, because then there was the waiting and the dreading—Siri knew that sooner or later it
would
happen. The palace
would
fall apart. Sometimes, though, Siri would allow herself to relax. She would get sloppy, speak a little too loud, hug her mother’s body a little too tight, barge through the door, muddy the floor.
    Forget to tread carefully.
    When Jenny was in one of her good moods, she would prepare sumptuous dinners in the huge kitchen. The diningtable, which could seat twelve, would be set for two with the best china and crystal, and both Jenny and Siri would put on their prettiest dresses and patent-leather shoes and lipstick and perfume; the freezer was full of ice cream (green pistachio)—as many helpings as you liked for dessert—and Jenny made her special casserole, which consisted of one tin of pork hash, one tin of cocktail sausages, one tin of spaghetti and meatballs in tomato sauce, and one tin of reindeer meatballs, a generous dollop of tomato puree, corn niblets, chives, a chunk of brown goat cheese to give it a nice gamey taste, and a sprig of parsley on the top.
    The main thing was not to be sloppy. But Siri kept forgetting. Was not sufficiently alert. That was the problem.
    She’d lose sight of the bigger picture.
    She’d mess up.
    And Syver lay in the water and Siri stood at the water’s edge and Jenny opened the door wide and gazed down wonderingly at the skinny girl standing outside, gasping for breath
.
    “Oh, Siri, darling,” Jenny said, “what is it? What’s the matter with you?”
    And then, more softly, but without the slightest trace of disquiet: “And what have you done with Syver?”
    WHEN ALMA WAS ten she changed schools. She wasn’t happy in the old one and she wasn’t happy in the new one either; she made no friends and didn’t play with the other children at recess, just sat on her own in a corner of the school yard or locked herself in a bathroom. It wasn’t a problem, she told Jon, she would rather be alone.
    “And anyway, you’re my best friend,” she said solemnly, “you’re the one I want to spend time with.”
    “But I’m your father,” Jon replied. “It’s good to have friends your own age too.”
    “I just want you,” Alma said.
    “How about we invite one of the girls in your

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