The Novel in Stories

THE HUM OF CONCRETE A NOVEL CONSTELLATION Anna Solding A novel presented as part of the requirement for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Creative Writing Discipline of English School of Humanities and Social Sciences The University of Adelaide October 2007 The Hum of Concrete Feeling Malmö… 3 I, Bodil – cloud watching… 7 Nassrin – Lonefall… 17 Susanna – the Rain… 27 Hearing Malmö… 44 Estella – Forging Ties… 48 Rhyme – Ripples… 60 I, Nassrin – Secret Longing… 72 Smelling Malmö… 84 Bodil – Decisions… 89 I, Rhyme – Loneshine… 106 The Beginnings…115 Estella – Sexing Times… 123 Tasting Malmö… 133 I, Susanna – Listening… 137 Rhyme – Finding Hope… 149 Nassrin – Breaking Water… 160 Seeing Malmö… 167 I, Estella – Wishing… 172 Susanna – A walk in the Park… 182 Bodil – Frozen… 194 Knowing Malmö… 201 2 Feeling Malmö 3 As you pull the blinds up and see the layer of powder covering the spidery limbs of the young beech outside your second storey bedroom window you know it will be a Sunday like no other. A quick glance at the thermometer confirms winter’s sudden appearance and there is no time to lose. You know the city’s winter is a fickle friend who would never think twice about leaving you wet and wondering in a pile of grey slush. You have to savour this day of crisp white and endless blue. Breakfast is a quick affair. Convincing your friend to come along tobogganing doesn’t take long. Finding stray gloves and beanies at the back of the wardrobe is another story all together. At least the toboggans are where you left them, jammed between a cupboard and the old sewing machine at the back of the attic. Instead of catching the lift, you almost run up the stairs. From this nine storey vantage the children playing down below look like colourful ants designing a mini city of their own. Their little feet have already made intricate patterns from doors to slides to swings. Finally rugged up and ready to face the chill you enter the altered world outside. Squinting at the glare while adjusting the backpack, holding a thermos of hot chocolate and leftover homemade cinnamon scrolls from yesterday’s family gathering, you venture across the expanse that was once the lawn. Your friend, who might just happen to be an anaesthetist with a great love of the outdoors, bombards you with loose snow balls and you laugh at each other’s silly beanies. The only people you meet are pensioners with dogs in tow or puffy-eyed parents chasing their offspring. They are all smiling and so are you. The first day of snow is too special not to enjoy. It’s a fair hike to Krogsbäcks kullar but the council workers in orange fluorescent vests have already sprinkled the footpath with gravel, making it passable. 4 You sing all the songs about snow that you can remember and make up new words for a few of them. When you pass a poor parent pulling a childful toboggan you create giggles as well as open-mouthed stares from the little ones. Your friend, who adores children, sticks her tongue out at them behind their parents’ backs. One of the boys laughs so hard he almost falls off but is saved by his sister who grabs his overalls and pulls him back on board. The sun tickles your face. You want to reach out and pick this feeling, keep it hidden forever safe from memory’s corruption. There are still centimetres of snow covering the bushes and trees along the path. Two days from now it might all be melted and gone; two hours from now it will already look different, tainted and used. But right now it looks pristine. As if a star has sneezed. When you reach the hills you realise your idea of tobogganing wasn’t exactly original. Already miniature people in bright overalls are running up and sliding down all but the highest hills, screaming and laughing. So you head for the steepest hill with a light tremor in your bottom lip. Your friend looks at you curiously but you stride on, making foot holes in the deep snow. Once you reach the top, panting, you know why no one else has attempted this hill. Not that you have ever gone downhill skiing but this is kind of how you imagine it: like bungy jumping without being certain that the rope will support your weight. You take a couple of deep breaths, arrange the cushion to spare your sitting bone, glance at your friend who is getting ready next to you, pull your legs in and push off with both hands. At first it’s not as fast as you expected so you keep pushing with your hands but halfway down the toboggan picks up speed and by the time you reach the bottom you are screaming louder than any of the kids. You roll off the side and just lie there 5 listening to your own heartbeat, enjoying the sensation of crisp snow against your flushed cheek. Your friend makes it over with a huge grin on her face. She slumps down on her back next to you and starts waving her arms and legs to make an angel. You turn over and do the same. When you stand up and admire your art you see two perfectly formed angels with wings just touching, as if holding hands. Time and again you run up the two steepest hills and face your fears at the top. Once you hit a bump at high speed and the toboggan lifts off the ground. You have time to think that this can never end well, you’re going to break your neck, then the toboggan lands right way up with you still desperately clutching the handles, laughing madly as it continues down the hill. A few times it does turn on its side and throws you off but the fall is always soft and most times you manage to catch the toboggan before it makes its way down the hill without you. After what feels like hours of a strenuous workout at the gym, your stomach screams for cinnamon scrolls. Together with your friend you head for the back of one of the hills to get away from the bustle. You sit at the foot of the rise where long grass prevents tobogganing. The majestic shape of Hyllie water tower grows from the flat earth in front of you. You’ve always thought it resembles a space ship on a stick but your friend suggests an oversized mushroom. In the middle of a paddock which fills with poppies and daisies in summer it stands tall and proud, overlooking its city. The sun caresses your face. You take off your gloves, your scarf and beanie and feel naked in the snow. As you close your eyes and bite into the doughy bun you smell a first whiff of the hot chocolate your friend pours into plastic cups and you know nothing else could ever taste as good as this moment. 6 I, Bodil Cloud Watching 7 It’s such a beautiful day, I just want to run with my arms stretched out and scream like mad and embrace the world. Stefan laughs at me when I fall panting next to him. We lie on the lawn of his mum’s house in Klagshamn sipping disgusting pina coladas Stefan has made without knowing how to. We’ve been best friends for months, ever since we both sneaked a secret smoke behind the barracks at school and started talking. He’s a great artist, comes up with all this new stuff. Sometimes I wish I had his imagination. I’m only good at doing things other people have taught me, things with clear rules like maths or physics. But it doesn’t matter that we are different that way. We still have heaps of fun together. There’s no tension between us. Ever. Not that there is between me and the guys at school either. Dad says I’m still too tall and skinny. I don’t care. It’s more important to have fun with friends, isn’t it? Like today, the first day of the summer holidays. The first day of freedom. Stefan points to the sky. ‘Hey, look at that cloud! Looks like a boat, don’t you think?’ I see what he means. Lying down like this the sky takes on a deeper shade of blue. The fluffy white patches resemble anything you want them to. ‘Mmm. But now a huge dog comes from left field to gobble up the mighty ship.’ He takes another sip and turns to face me as he points straight up: ‘Right. I reckon the one over there looks like me.’ The cloud looks like a woman with great big breasts. I laugh. ‘You’re a stick insect.’ I poke a finger into his protruding ribs. He’s one of the thinnest guys I’ve ever met. ‘Since when do you have boobs?’ ‘Maybe not that big.’ He suddenly seems shy. ‘But I do have them.’ ‘Yeah right. Come on, show us your tits!’ I mock in a broad accent. We do that sometimes, pretend to be common. 8 When he starts pulling his t-shirt up I realise I don’t want to know. Who cares what’s in your best friend’s pants or under his shirt as long as he can see ships in clouds and make disgusting pina coladas. It’s like the first time you realise your parents actually have sex, not just once or twice but on a regular basis.

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