Scenes From A Marriage - Fiction

Interview, Oct, 1999

Linn Ullmann, daughter of Liv Ullmann and Ingmar Bergman, has written an intimate first novel that's bound for bedside tables everywhere

Sometimes I ask myself: When is a marriage over?

I'm sure it's long before the spouses agree that now it's over, now we have to split up - and then actually go through with a divorce.

So that's why I ask: When is a marriage over?

Is it when one of us thinks: I wish you were dead?

Is it when one of us says (for the very first time): I don't want to live with you anymore? You're ruining my life?

Is it when one of us stares at the ceiling, whispering: I'd do anything not to sleep with you tonight?

Julie says:

Sometimes I wish I were you, but I'm not you, I'm not you.

Then she says:

A few months ago, at the beginning of May, I wake Aleksander up in the middle of the night, closer to morning than night, stroke his face, shake his shoulder a little, careful movements so as not to annoy him, and I know he's awake even though he's pretending to be asleep. Finally he can't keep pretending anymore. He says: What time is it? I tell him what time it is. He says I'm trying to sleep. I say we have to talk. We can't keep going on like this. He sighs and says what do you mean tire this, Julie, it's the middle of the night. And I say tire this. I know that something's wrong but I don't know what it is. Like this. Nothing is wrong, he says. Nothing. Nothing, for God's sake. Then I say: I think you're being unfaithful. Are you being unfaithful? No, he says. Maybe not, I say. But can't you for once tell the truth? Just once? I have nothing to tell you, he says. Do you want me to make something up to satisfy you? No, I say, I just want you to tell the truth. And then I say: I've got an idea. I've got an idea, I say. First I'll tell you something . . . something I haven't dared tell you before . . . and then you'll tell me something . . . and then we'll be even. Don't you see? Then we'll be even. I can't be mad at you and you can 't be mad at me. I just want us to be back together the way we used to be.

If you think you have something to tell me, he says in a low voice.

I'm not saying I have anything to tell you, I say, I'm not saying I've done anything, I'm just saying, purely hypothetically . . .

Hypothetically? he says.

You know what I mean, I say.

And then Julie says:

We sat up in bed, Aleksander turned on the lamp on the nightstand. We didn't speak. After a little while Aleksander went out to the kitchen, carne back with coffee, sat down on the bed, and said: So come on, tell me?!

We looked at each other, and I swear I heard God say to the Devil: Now you'd better take over here, old friend, I can't do anything more for these people, and I cried and said that I'd met a man one evening when I was out on the town with Val and Torild; I said the man's name was Daniel; I said that I went home with him and had gone to bed with him; that of course I regretted it; that I hadn't seen him again. But I lied, don't you see? Daniel was just a name I made up. I had to say something. If I had said: Aleksander, I haven't been unfaithful to you, ever; well, then he would have replied: And I haven't been unfaithful to you - and then we would have been right back where we started, right? So I had to make up a story, not too extreme, of course, not three or four lovers over a long period of time, etc., he would never forgive that; but not too innocent either[middle dot] I knew that he would adapt his story to match mine - how much he dared tell me, I mean - he didn't want to be left sitting there holding the bag. The point was to be even, right? Being even is zero. Being even is a new beginning. Being even is good.

Being even has always played a big role in our marriage. Especially after Sander was born. Last night I got up when he was crying. Tonight it's your turn. Things like that. Last Sunday I took him out so you could sleep, this Sunday you'll have to think up something. We kept track of everything: who had done the shopping, made dinner, washed laundry, who had worked the longest, who was most tired, who had gone into town and had fun while the other didn't have fun, who had gone off with friends for a few days while the other one stayed home to take care of things, who had sung the most lullabies to Sander, who had read the most stories, who had spent the most hours alone with him on Sundays so the other one could have some peace; yes, we even counted the hours, and who had slept the longest in the morning. That was the big one. Who had slept the longest in the morning. We kept track, with time and sleep as the currency. Especially sleep. I fantasized about sleep, I thought sleep, I talked sleep, I dreamt sleep, I cried sleep, I wanted to furnish the whole apartment with sleep, a double bed in the bedroom, a rollaway bed in the living room, a cot in the hallway, mattresses and pillows and blankets in the attic. I wanted to have secret little rooms all over town, with beds in them too, so I could sleep, sleep as long as I wanted to without it costing anything, sleep without paying the price, because the price was to be awake, present, alert, as wife, as mother. I couldn't handle it. I didn't want to. I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to be.