Chalk Circles

@ Excerpt from the Novella, written by Džena Andersone, 2023

@ Translated by Žanete Vēvere Pasqualini, 2023

Džena Andersone / Jen Anderson /

Chalk Circles

Because in much wisdom 

there is much grief,

and increasing knowledge

results in increasing pain...

Ecclesiastes 1:18

It wasn’t until that very Holy Saturday when Grandma stormed into the kitchen, brandishing the Weekly Herald which happened to feature the announcement of her death on its back page, that I was aware that the softly buzzing radio next to the bread bin could actually turn itself off. It was clearly unable to withstand the blast of electrical charge in the air as Grandma flung the paper down onto our breakfast table, spread as it was with hard boiled eggs in their holders, bowls of tomato sauce and plates of sliced lemon.

In all honesty, I had never doubted for a moment that Grandma was capable of anything. Absolutely anything at all. Not only did she deal effectively and swiftly with the various peculiar people who lived crowded in our house and walked the streets outside, but she could also give the thunder a good telling off, subdue a storm and even make the lightening stop if she put her mind to it. She was totally fearless. But this was the first time in my life that I had witnessed someone enter a room and fill it entirely with their presence.

Like a wounded bird, the newspaper thudded down onto the table, its pages spread like black and white wings. Dishes were knocked over like skittles, numerous eggs rolled away across the green and white checked table cloth and a great splash of tomato sauce splattered over the lot. The sun glistened off the granules of spilt sugar. The slices of white bread, nicely pan fried, sensed that all was not well and turned to rock. The radio’s small red ‘on’ light went off and the broadcaster’s voice went dead along with the soundwave. A deafening silence descended over the kitchen.

‘What is this?’’ Granma thundered, her hands on her hips. ‘And don’t you dare lie! Was this your doing?’  

‘Are you mad? What are you getting so worked up about this morning?’ my mum asked as, with rather trembling fingers, she reached out for the newspaper.

‘Have you no shame! I know it was you!’ Grandma accused as she pointed her stubby finger at a death announcement, enclosed in a thick black rectangle, on the food-splattered newspaper in Mum’s hands.  

‘Well?’ Leaning in, Mum tried to get a better look at what had been printed. ‘Our beloved … Marija E. Bahstelce, born May 13 … died … Funeral service to be held on Sunday … at 2 pm … Burial at St Peter’s Graveyard. What is this?’ 

‘I don’t know why you’re asking me! Shame on you! Come on, just own up that it was you playing this prank on me!’ As Grandma stepped back, I noticed that her bare feet, stamping away on the cold kitchen floor, were extremely red. She never wore slippers, winter or summer, and just the sight of her barefoot like that made me shiver with cold.

‘What the hell! You can’t really think I have time for such things? Or that I would pay good money for a death announcement just for the fun of it?’

Mum was clearly put out but there was a certain puzzled amusement in her voice, too.

Lately, Mum had been having a slightly better time of things. She had been taking her anti-depressants regularly, had stopped talking about suicidal thoughts and even managed occasionally to twist her face into something resembling a smile or give a funny little laugh.

‘It could just be someone with the same name …’ Mum said, looking pensively out of the window.

‘I don’t believe a word you say!’ Grandma yelled, standing firm where she stood and, with a mighty toss of her head, threw her long red hair over her shoulder. She hadn’t put her hair into a bun or plait that day and it cascaded down her broad back, as wide as a blackboard at school. 

‘There you are, you shameless creature, just waiting for me to die which, by the way, is something I can’t permit myself to do as I live only for you! I can’t die because of you! What would you do without me, waste of space that you are? Who would raise that child of yours?’ Grandma threw down every ace up her sleeve.

I hated when they argued and called each other names but, more than anything, I resented being referred to as a child, as if I weren’t even there. No one ever asked me what I thought so I simply stuck my nose further into my mug of tea and tried to close off my ears to stop myself hearing their shouting and all other accompanying noises. I pictured myself pulling my green swimming hat onto my head, down over my ears, then leaping into the mug and sticking myself to its white faience bottom. Even lying at the bottom of my tea mug, those angry, hate-filled words still managed to penetrate the large body of liquid above me, squeezing under my swimming hat and through my skin into my skull, attacking my brain as painfully as antiseptic doused on an open wound.

‘I’m not stopping you! Why don’t you just leave me alone, once and for all?’ Mum spat back. ‘I’d be better off without you, please don’t hang on for my sake! I’m sick and tired of the sound of your nagging voice!’  

‘Oh, are you now? And who will be around to raise that kid of yours the next time you stand on the balcony, threatening to jump? Tell me that! Who will it be, eh?’ Grandma clapped her hands together loudly. ‘I’m nearly ninety and there is no way that I can go to meet my maker in peace! All because of you! Because you can’t pull yourself together! Who will bring up that kid?’

I flinched every time I heard the word ‘kid’. I wanted to say “I’m Francis”. Why can’t you use my name? I said nothing, however. Just shrank back into an even tighter, smaller knot. It sometimes felt that no one could even remember what my name actually was. I was referred to as ‘the child’ at home. Maybe Robby or Frankie. Sometimes even Fran, which I loathed.

Robby was the hero of my favourite childhood movie, the one about Robby the Robot. I had so adored all the playful tricks the robot got up to in the strange world of humans that Mum started calling me Robby as a joke. That was when I started to ask myself if it wouldn’t have been better to have been born a boy rather than a girl. I could definitely see myself as a Robby; a cool, carefree sort of boy.

The more I think about it, the more intimidated I am by my real name. Only teachers and adults from outside the family ever called me that. It was too big as a name; too heavy and clumsy. It didn’t fit me at all. Rather like the clothes of my deceased mother when I tried them on in an attempt to come to some sort of decision as to what to keep from her wardrobe and what to donate to charity. But back then, on that Holy Saturday when Grandma came across the announcement of her own death in the newspaper, that was all yet to come. As can be the case with those things that make us feel sad for no obvious reason – the true cause of our sadness not surfacing until much later like some serious illness.

‘That child you keep going on about is almost sixteen, in case you hadn’t noticed! And you’re a fine one to talk about raising a child! You, the great role model! Don’t make me laugh! You, the Saviour!’ Mum’s voice was trembling by this point and I could tell how hard she was trying to hold strong. ‘There is absolutely no earthly need for you to save anyone.’

‘If it weren’t for me, the family court would have taken the child off you long ago! She’d have been gone, like a puff of smoke!’ Grandma stopped to draw breath and, for a moment, she seemed to have doubled in size, towering up as high as the kitchen ceiling. ‘Or worse still, that good-for-nothing would have got her!’

‘Enough! I won’t hear another word about it!’ Mum slammed her hand down on the table, loud enough to make me jump. ‘For the love of God, just shut up, will you!’

By ‘good-for-nothing’, Grandma was obviously referring to the father I barely knew. On the rare occasions he had shown up at the door, which was probably only about three or four in all, Grandma had barred the way like an army commando. Filling the doorway with her massive bulk, in her thunderous voice she let rip a barrage of swear words, most of which I neither understood nor wished to understand.

Busting past Grandma was something the good-for-nothing lacked the guts to do. From what I could catch a glimpse of in the gap between the doorframe and Grandma’s fluttering skirt, my father was a man of average height, reddish hair and non-descript facial features. He would try and speak to me but his attempts were always drowned out by my grandmother’s booming contralto voice as it crushed everything in its wake, including my father’s will to ever see my mother again or get to know me.

I have no recollection of ever speaking to my father. All I have imprinted in my mind are Grandma’s stories about what a useless waste of space he was and how he succeeded in charming my carefree, reckless mother, even going as far as to marry her, before cheating on her with someone from work.

It’s all so banal, it makes me retch, Grandma had added as she dragged heavily on a fag stuck into an amber holder. I didn’t ask what ‘banal’ meant, but it sounded quite serious, like some sort of medical diagnosis. Not something that could be appealed against, like a court ruling.

After Mum’s divorce came the bouts of depression. Suicidal thoughts, too, no doubt. All meaning seemed to have gone from her life and regaining it was easier said than done; not something that I had any power over. My existence was clearly not reason enough to go on living, something I struggled to comprehend when I was much younger but perceived nonetheless on some instinctive level. So despite it all, I formed an attachment to Grandma. She gave off such life force, strength, warmth and security. I was scared of her but she was the only one capable of giving me any sense of security. She was like an immense, hot stove; she warmed you but would also burn. I clung to her addictively in the way a victim might cling to an abuser. Humans can adapt to almost anything, especially in early childhood. Having to constantly deal with moderate abuse leads you to develop a skill set you are only aware of possessing once adulthood is reached. Then you wake up one day to discover a monster dwelling inside of you and spend the rest of your days trying to learn its language.

I would no doubt be the most contented person in the world if Mum and Grandma didn’t argue the whole time, living instead in a calm, peaceful home environment. But that would be like wishing for the sun never to set.

‘But that’s exactly how it is!’ Grandma thundered.

I tried not to look at either of them. Pulling my mug of tea towards me, I looked down at the round lemon face drowning in the red brown liquid as it gradually grew cold. Sneaking a peak at Grandpa sitting on the other side of the table, I realised he was doing the same thing; quietly, cautiously swilling the tea in his mug and hoping the enemy wouldn’t notice him.

Grandpa was as scared of his wife as the rest of us. He abhorred shouting and conflict of all sorts, preferring to remain calm and unobtrusive, occupying the room as blandly as a strip of skirting board. From what I remember of him, he was silent more than he spoke, slept more than he was awake and was invariably hidden away behind an enormous, thick newspaper by the window in the corner of the room. I pitied Grandpa, cooped up as he was in our communal apartment. Left to wither away in a home affording him no space to be on his own and savour anything life had to offer. At least I was able to get out into the big outdoors. I had the freedom to go and sit on some dirty bench or in the icicle-encrusted school yard for hours on end if I wanted. But Grandpa no longer had that opportunity. Not anymore.

Before having his leg amputated at the regional hospital, he used to clamber laboriously down the spiral staircase from the eighth floor at least three times a week and take himself off to the park for some fresh air. Now, with just one leg and crutches weighing three times his body weight, he was totally housebound. Confined to the apartment like a trapped mouse.

‘Bon appétit! Well, what a delightful breakfast, I must say!’ Mum cried, as she grabbed the eggs rolling away across the table.

‘If it wasn’t you, who was it?’ Grandma persisted, not giving in an inch.

‘Just back off!’ Mum said as she pulled a brown bottle from her pocket, shook out a yellow pill and tossed it into her mouth like a berry. ‘Ask the neighbours, the doctor, the police, whoever! You’ve made enemies for yourself left, right and centre! Work it out for yourself!’

‘Just bear in mind that you should watch what you wish for!’ Grandma pronounced as she turned to leave.

‘Are you threatening me or something?’ Mum asked, extracting another pill from her pocket. ‘Well …’

I waited patiently for Grandma to recede into the dark labyrinth of the communal corridors, planning on finishing up my breakfast as quickly as I could before coming up with an excuse to hotfoot it out of there. Mum tried to turn the old transistor radio back on but the thing remained respectfully quiet, as if in deference to Holy Saturday.

‘Dad, can you have a look at this? Why’s the old thing not working?’ she asked turning to Grandpa who, in the meantime, had roused himself and started tackling his porridge.

‘And what about you, has the cat got your tongue? Couldn’t you have said something in your mother’s defence just this once?’ Mum took aim at me resentfully.

I said nothing, aware that she always expected me to take her side in any argument.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, almost inaudibly. ‘You know that …’  

‘Lana, she’s only a child,’ Grandpa muttered. ‘No need to drag her into your arguments …’

‘Well, it’s nice to see how supportive you both are! The old battleaxe has completely lost her marbles yet no one comes to my defence!’ Mum smiled bitterly to herself before raising her undoubtedly cold cup of coffee to her lips. ‘But then again, no one is ever on my side, are they? I feel so let down by life, the people in it, everything surrounding me, all of you …’

‘Lana,’ Grandpa pleaded, ‘It’s you, too, you know. You should …’

‘Dad, don’t you start lecturing me, too! I’m fifty-one years old! I am allowed to feel miserable if I want. I am disappointed. I am allowed to feel what I feel. And there is no need to rub my nose in it, alright? So please do me a favour – don’t start!’ With that, Mum got up from the table and started clearing it, putting the dirty dishes in the sink. ‘You know, I could say plenty of things about you two as well but I …’

‘I’ll wash up,’ I say, wanting to contribute in some way to smoothing out the rather wrinkled morning.  

I had long since grown accustomed to my mother’s reprimands and that daily look of endless disappointment and reproach in her eyes. Despite knowing that whatever I did served no purpose and there wasn’t a hope in hell of anything I did having any sort of impact on the situation, I was somehow mechanically programmed, robot-like, to say certain things, carry out various tasks, do favours, try to be of help, coax and cajole. I did this ceaselessly and patiently; performing the programme of actions while sustaining the vain hope that somehow, someday, things would change for the better.  

It often seemed to me as if we were each just playing a role, going over the same scenes again and again. One day, if I was lucky, I might come up with a new and original interpretation of the scheme of events, something that might just divert the plot and force it down a different path. Give the story a new direction where all our lives changed for the better; mine, Mum’s and everyone else’s in this house, filled as it was with miserable, pining people. Changed in the blink of an eye, with the wave of a magic wand.

So far, nothing had changed. Except that with each passing day, I was improving the art of living life with patience. Great patience.

I can’t give up searching for a way. I must do better, I must try harder, I told myself stubbornly.

Waving her hand, Mum took a seat at the table and lit herself a cigarette.

‘What is it you want to say, my dear?’ Grandpa asked, pushing away his plate. ‘I’d love to help, if I could …’

‘Why-oh-why did you bring me into the world?’ Mum’s eyes had turned glassy. ‘Why? Why must I suffer this torment?’

‘Lana …’ Grandpa started before falling silent. He then gathered up his crutches and started making his way towards the corridor.

‘Why have you got the tap turned on like that? With the water gushing out so fast?’ Mum now turned her attention to me. ‘Turn it down a bit! Have you no idea how much we pay in water rates?’

I closed the tap off slightly and carried on washing up. Beneath the water, the dishes were hot and smooth like sun-warmed pebbles on the beach. Steam rose from the sink. I closed my eyes and imagined myself diving down into the sudsy water. For a moment I was a cup. The whooshing sound in my ears grew so loud that it drowned out all other noise. I hid beneath the stream of water where words had no meaning; where they could neither reach nor wound me.

The midday sun sliced the brown-painted floor of the big room into broad, slanting parallelograms. Perched on a stool, Grandma bent over the innumerable flower pots set out on the floor in a circle about three metres wide. Peaceably stoical, she re-potted her gloxinias, forked through the soil of her jade plants and lavished attention on her amaryllis.

Deferentially, I sidled into the single room that the three of us; me, Grandma and Grandpa, shared. Each to their own corner. Mum had the good fortune of being the only one of us with a room to herself. Sitting down cautiously on my bed, I took my postage stamp album from the shelf and ran my eyes over the impressive collection held within – Cuban, Polish, Vietnamese, Bulgarian, Korean and even Portuguese stamps! I had arranged them all according to topic: flora, fauna, motorcycles, the cosmos and sports. At the back of the album I had the stand-alone stamps – ones not fitting into any of the previous categories. The last one was quite odd; devoid of perforated edges, it featured something resembling perhaps an asteroid, or maybe a giant orange. I was undecided whether to put it in the cosmos section or leave it with the stand-alone stamps. And was it actually a stamp at all?

‘A Polish writer once said you have more to fear from those who are indifferent to you than actual enemies since the most heinous of crimes are usually committed with their tacit approval.’

Grandma’s voice distracted me from my musings over my stamp collection. ‘And she was right, no doubt about it. Do you care to know why?’

‘I do not’ I stated, closing my album.

‘Because you must never watch on in silence in the face of evil.’ Grandma bent down to pick up another flower pot which she placed on her lap as if it were a child. ‘When you witness a misjustice, you must make a stand. Defend whoever is in the right!’

I stayed where I was on the bed; silent, guilt-ridden. I wanted to leave the room, leave the house, escape from these people who did nothing but demand that I take sides in their unfathomable lives, make decisions and involve myself in things that were none of my concern. I was still just a child so, in theory, still incapable of drawing conclusions and making judgements about the lives of adults. But even so, something told me that I had ended up in this family by accident. Somewhere along the line there had been some sort of mix-up which had resulted in me being in this family of people who spoke a language that I increasingly understood less and less. I sat on the bed, my head lowered, saying nothing. Doing otherwise was pointless.

‘I’m sorry. But I don’t want you to argue and I never know what to say …’ I mumbled.

‘That’s just it! You don’t know … well, if you don’t, who does? Pushkin? You must take a stance, decide which side you’re on!’ Grandma was not going to back down. ‘You can’t always be caught between two stools.’

‘But I love Mum and I love you, too. And Grandpa. I don’t want to have to take sides …’

‘But that is not the case at all. You must see how your mother behaves with me, how unfair she is?’ Using her finger to check the soil level, Grandma patted it down gently before returning the pot to the floor. ‘She is so insolent and never treats me with the respect which, as an older person, I deserve. You can see that, surely?’

‘I don’t really know …’

‘Oh … she doesn’t know … Well, I must say that I’m very disappointed in you. When your mother is away for days on end, busy with her work, hospital appointments, boyfriends and whatever else she gets up to, you always know all there is to know! Then it’s a case of grandma this and grandma that, wheedling away the whole time,’ Grandma mocks. ‘When you need me for something, I’m just great, aren’t I? But as soon as your mother comes home, I’m cast aside, suddenly you don’t want to know anymore! So two-faced of you!’ 

‘What would you have me do?’ I asked, staring at Grandma’s broad back and feeling like a mouse caught in a trap.

‘Take her side if you want, but don’t come running to me the next time you need something!’ Grandma turned towards me. ‘And just remember, you reap what you sow. That monster living inside you will grow bigger by the day.’

‘Monster? But I’m not a monster.’ Tears welled up, choking me as they always did whenever Grandma was angry with me. She had an uncanny ability to make me cry.

‘Not you. You are not a monster, but you have one inside you! When you were small and fast asleep at night, it crept inside, in through your mouth. Like a worm. I saw it. Over time it has got bigger and bigger, and now it is quite monstrous,’ Grandma told me in a half-whisper. ‘It crawls out at night, to get some air. Like a fish. It takes a few deep breaths then slides back, back in through your mouth.’

‘That’s not true. I don’t believe you.’ I didn’t like Grandma whispering. It was creepy.

‘Each time you have a tummy ache or wake up in the night, it’s that monster sliding out, or back in again. And that’s the reason why you don’t know anything, don’t understand anything, can’t make your mind up about anything. The monster is inside you, gnawing away at your soul and feeding on your thoughts. He gobbles up all that has any use to it and leaves behind nothing but doubts and fears, all the dregs. In the end, all you will be left with is an empty shell.’ By that point, Grandma was almost wheezing. ‘And that is why, every evening, I draw a chalk circle round my bed. I do it to stop that monster you have inside of you from crawling inside of me, too! I’m not giving up my soul and I need to keep my wits about me!’ 

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