Garbo’s Faces

a Novel — Part 8: The Poem

She opened the book, looked over the first page for a little while, then began reading in Swedish, mostly to herself but surely for my benefit, too: for she paused and looked up at me after the first word, Tomten, then continued reading with what struck me as a smile of concentration:

Tomten

Midvinternattens köld är hård stjärnorna gnistra och glimma Alla sova i enslig gård djupt under midnattstimma Månen vandrar sin tysta ban snön lyser vit på fur och gran snön lyser vit på taken Endast tomten är vaken

She read this first Swedish verse to me in a clear, almost frosty voice. I am not lying when I say I could almost hear those distant forests shift and move among her words. Perhaps the glogg had something to do with it — perhaps illuminating things, but hearing her read that evening, in that strange language they speak so close to the North Pole, was magical. I must have glowed with the experience.

She however, still studying the page, was now frowning.

“My lord,” she said. “This is not going to be easy. My English is not good.”

She looked up at me to make sure, the way she did now and then, that I was with her.

“Tomten,” She said. “We talked about this. He’s a gnome, I think you said brownie, but Tomten is also the name of the poem, so I think we should leave it alone. I am not going to translate that.”

I nodded. Yes, let’s leave Tomten the way it is. No need to translate.

“Well, that part was easy. Tomten,” she said again, then continued, “The cold of the midwinter’s night is hard. The stars . . . , the stars, what is gnistra?” she said more to herself. “I have to get my dictionary,” she said to me.

She carefully put the book down, then rose and stretched. “Be right back.”

She returned with a largish, gray book, which translated both ways as she put it, and sat down.

“Gnistra,” she said, “Let’s see. Sparkle, it says. Or Gleam. The stars sparkle and glitter? Now, that doesn’t sound right, does it?”

I said nothing.

“The stars . . . ,” she began. Then started over, “The stars glitter and gleam. That’s better. Yes. The stars glitter and gleam. That sounds more like a poem, does it not?”

I said nothing, just glowed.

She looked up at me, smiled, and then read her translation:

Tomten

The cold of the midwinter’s night is hard

The stars glitter and gleam

All are asleep on the distant farm

Here she stopped and said, “I am not going to try to make it rhyme. I just want to tell you what it says, what we heard when Father read it to us.”

I nodded. “Of course, that’s fine.”

“Good,” she said, and began again.

Tomten

The cold… or chill…

And stopped. “It really should be The cold, but chill sounds better,” she said. “Don’t you agree?”

“The cold of the midwinter’s night is hard,” I said. Then compared it on my own tongue: “The chill of the midwinter’s night is hard.”

“I agree,” I said then. “Chill is better.”

“Good.” Then she looked down at the book, which was rather thick for being a single poem, even if amply illustrated. “This is going to take all night,” she said.

“We have all night,” I answered and smiled.

“That’s true,” she said: a smiling child now, with her Christmas book. She started again.

Tomten

The chill of midwinter’s night is hard

The stars glitter and gleam

All are asleep on the distant farm

Deeply at midnight’s hour

The moon travels his silent path

The snow lies white on pine and spruce

The snow lies white on the roofs

Only Tomten is awake

“Does it make any sense?” she asked.

“Oh, lots,” I said. “It is beautiful. You’re doing fine.”

“It’s not me,” she said. “I’m only telling.”

“Telling?”

“Telling you the way Father told us.”

“And I am you,” I said. “Listening.”

“Yes, and you are me.”

She continued, first in Swedish — almost as if to sip it, to taste the next verse before she attempted her translation:

Står där så grå vid ladgårdsdörr grå mot den vita driva tittar, som många vintrar förr upp emot månens skiva tittar mot skogen, där gran och fur drar kring gården sin dunkla mur grubblar, fast ej det lär båta över en underlig gåta.

“Boy,” she said. “It doesn’t get any easier”

There he stands all gray by the door to the barn

Gray against the white drifts of snow

And looks, like so many winters before

Up towards the disk of the moon

Then he looks to the forest, where pine and spruce

Encircle the farm with its somber wall

And ponders, without much luck

an old, strange riddle

“Dunkla should really be translated as dark,” she said. “But I think he, Rydberg, means it more like dyster, which becomes somber in English. That’s the feeling I get.”

“The feeling,” she said again, to herself.

I didn’t say a thing. She was wonderful to behold, so absorbed by the telling.

För sin hand genom skägg och hår skakar huvud och hätta “nej, den gåtan är alltför svår, nej, jag gissar ej detta” slår, som han plägar, inom kort slika spörjande tankar bort går att ordna och pyssla går att sköta sin syssla

He pulls his beard and touches his hair

shakes his head and his…

She reached for the dictionary. “Bonnet?” she says. “Bonnet?” She looks up at me. “They say here that hätta is bonnet. Well, let me tell you, Tomten never wore a bonnet in his life. He wore a cap. This dictionary has it all wrong. Let me start again.”

He pulls his beard and then his hair

He shakes his head and cap

“No, this riddle is much too hard

I cannot guess it”

Then, as always

He dismisses his wondering thoughts

and goes off to make his rounds

goes off to do his chores

“That wasn’t very good,” she said. “But do you get the picture?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “I do.”

“Good,” she said. And continued.

Går till visthus och redskapshus känner på alla låsen korna drömma vid månens ljus sommardrömmar i båsen glömsk av sele och pisk och töm Pålle i stallet har ock en dröm krubban han lutar över fylls av doftande klöver

He goes to the storehouse and then to the tool shed

He makes sure that all is secure

The cows dream in the moonlight

summer dreams in their stalls

Forgetting harness and whip and rein

Pålle, the horse, has a dream as well

The crib he leans over

is filled with fragrant clover

“Ah, the poor thing,” she said. “Dreaming about food. And I rhymed,” she suddenly realized, and laughed.

I was no longer sure whether the person I saw, sitting on the floor, book open in her lap, was the little girl from Stockholm or her grownup, New York counterpart. Could easily have been either.

“Actually,” she added. “Rydberg doesn’t say Pålle, the horse, he just says Pålle. But how are you to know that Pålle is a horse? Only a Swede would know that. At home, you see, just about all horses are called Pålle. It’s almost like in Swedish Pålle is another word for horse. I added the horse for you. Still sounds okay, though, no?”

“Sounds wonderful,” I said.

“I need some more glogg,” she said. “What about you?”

“Please.”

She stirred to get up, but I said, “Please, let me get it.”

The glogg was still simmering on the lowest flame, and smelled of what I have always thought of as Christmas since then.

“Here you go,” I said handing one glass to her.

She took it, took a sip, said “Aaah,” smiled at me and continued.

Går till stängslet för lamm och får ser, hur de sova där inne går till hönsen, där tuppen står stolt på sin högsta pinne Karo i hundbots halm mår gott vaknar och viftar svansen smått Karo sin tomte känner de äro goda vänner

He walks to the pen for the lamb and sheep

sees them sleeping in there

goes to the chicken, where the rooster stands

proud on the highest pin

“Wait, I can make it rhyme here, too” she said, and giggled a little. She took another small sip of the glogg and started again. “I’ll do this verse from the beginning,” she looked up at me, not quite asking for permission.

I just smiled. She brushed the hair out of her eyes, and started over.

He walks to the pen for lamb and sheep

sees them sleeping within

goes to the chicken, where the rooster stands

proud upon highest pin

Karo enjoys the doghouse straw

wakes and wags his tail a little

Karo knows his tomte

they are very good friends

“Well, at least the second and fourth lines rhyme,” she said.

I agreed, and she went on.

Tomten smyger sig sist att se husbondfolket det kära länge och väl han märkt, att de hålla hans flit i ära barnens kammar han sen på tå nalkas att se de söta små ingen må det förtycka det är hans största lycka

At last he steals to check on

the dear master and mistress

for he has long noticed that they

honor his hard work

then he tiptoes to the children’s bedroom

draws near to see the sweet little ones

no one must threaten them

they are his greatest joy

Without looking up, she takes another little swallow of glogg, and continues.

Så har han sett dem, far och son ren genom många leder slumra som barn; men varifrån kommo de väl hit neder? Släkte följde på släkte snart blomstrade, åldrades, gick — men vart? Gåtan, som icke låter gissa sig, kom så åter!

He has seen them, father and son

for many generations now

sleep like children, but from where

do they descend here?

One generation after the other

flowered, aged, and departed, but back to where?

The riddle which doesn’t allow

itself to be guessed returns

“Oh, can’t you just see him?” she said. “Poor thing, he cannot figure us out.”

“The riddle which doesn’t allow itself to be guessed,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. Then looked briefly up at the tree, warm with lights and silvery festoons, then out into the now dark and snowy night. Then back to that other winter, so long ago:

Tomten vandrar till ladans loft där har han bo och fäste högt på skullen i höets doft nära vid svalans näste nu är väl svalans boning tom men till våren med blad och blom kommer hon nog tillbaka följd av sin näpna maka

Tomten then returns to the barn loft

where since long he has settled

under the roof in the fragrant hay

close by the swallow’s nest

empty now of course

but come spring, with leaf and flower

she’ll return

with her sweet husband

“Yes, that’s what he says. Sweet husband.” And then, as if to prove it, she turned the book my way so I could see the illustrations for myself — not that Jenny Nystrom had drawn any sweet swallowy husbands to corroborate — “Followed by her sweet husband, he says. I always thought of swallows being males with wives, not females with husbands. Not that it matters, of course.”

I didn’t get a chance to reply, for she had lowered herself into the book again.

Då har hon alltid att kvittra om månget ett färdeminne intet likväl om gåtan, som rör sig i tomtens sinne Genom en springa i ladans vägg lyser månen på gubbens skägg strimman på skägget blänker tomten grubblar och tänker

Then she always has a lot to chirp about

many a travel memory

but nothing about the riddle

that still stirs in Tomten’s mind

Through a crack in the barn wall

the moon shines on the old one’s beard

the streak on the beard glimmers

while Tomten ponders and thinks

Then, without hesitation, transported:

Tyst är skogen och nejden all livet där ute är fruset blott från fjärran av forsens fall höres helt sakta bruset Tomten lyssnar och, halvt i dröm tycker sig höra tidens ström undrar, varthän den skall fara undrar, var källan må vara

The forest and fields are quiet

life out there is frozen

although, from far away

you can her the slow rumble of a waterfall

Tomten listens, and half adream

seems to hear the stream of time

wonders where it goes

wonders where it begins

“Adream,” she said. As if tasting it. “Is that a word?”

“I don’t know.”

“Adream,” she said again. “It should be a word.”

“It is now,” I said.

“So I made it, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Does it make sense?”

“Absolutely.”

Midvinternattens köld är hård stjärnorna gnistra och glimma Alla sova i enslig gård gott intill morgontimma Månen sänker sin tysta ban snön lyser vit på fur och gran snön lyser vit på taken Endast tomten är vaken

The frost of the midwinter’s night is hard

the stars glitter and gleam

All are asleep on the distant farm

deep till the morning hour

The moon sinks in his silent path

the snow glows white on pine and spruce

the snow glows white upon the roofs

Only Tomten is awake

Again, her eyes glistened as she closed the book. And again, she wiped them with her shirt sleeve.

“Frost,” she said. Then she opened the book again and looked at the first verse. “Yes, it should be frost. Frost is better than chill.”

“Harriet,” I said. “You should have been a poet.”

She didn’t answer.

“Tomten listens, and half adream seems to hear the stream of time,” I said, “that is a beautiful rendition. Is that how he wrote it?”

She opened the book again, and found it, “What he says is . . . is Tomten listens, and half in a dream, thinks that he hears the stream of time.”

“Half adream,” I said. “It is the right word, and you’ve made it. I know exactly what you mean by it, and I’d venture it is exactly what Rydberg meant as well. It takes a poet to translate poetry, you know.”

“You’d venture?”

“It means propose, or offer as a guess,” I explained.

Suddenly she looked sad, and quite tired. “I wish,” she said. “I really wish I had chosen a different life for myself. That I hadn’t wished everything that did happen so hard.”

She took me in, solemnly. “To them I was never an actress, you know. Never, no, not really. I was a face. Only a face. A face that sometimes could act, if they were lucky. That sometimes could talk. But just a face. Always a face.”

I was about to protest, but she waved me silent with her hand, not unkindly.

“Always a face, Nachiketa. Salvador Dali — you know him of course?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, he was right when he told me, had the nerve, or courage, to tell me, to my face, that he didn’t want to paint me because there was no one there to paint.

“I got furious with him at the time, of course I did, but he was very perceptive, and right. There was just the face. I was never allowed, or was never expected, to be more than a face. That is what everyone wanted of me, everyone. Mayer, the boss, and William with his perfect lighting, and the public, always that paying public. They wanted only the face. Always the face. And Nachiketa, when your art is your face, when your life has become your face — something time will, and does, tarnish and dismantle with every passing second — then you are doomed.”

She fell silent and so was I.

After several heartbeats I suggested, not that I wanted to give her the impression I agreed, “But why not write, then? You are a poet, you really are.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it,” she said and took me in again. A long silent look, as if unsure whether to go on, afraid to perhaps; I couldn’t tell. “I’ve tried, believe me. But I am no Conrad. And now, here, I find myself in the terrible place of not knowing English nearly well enough to do a job I could be proud of, and of not knowing Swedish well enough anymore. I’ve forgotten too much of it, all those important words. I’m caught midair between two languages, drifting. Rudderless,” she added, as if to underscore her dilemma.

“Are you really being fair to yourself?”

“It’s not a question of being fair, Nachiketa. It’s a question of being honest. I cannot be dishonest, not with myself. I am too close to the consequences and I’ll not blind myself just for comfort.”

She took the book from her knee and placed in on the carpet. She then reached over and took my hand. “I’ve grown old with my face, Nachiketa. But with you here, now, and with Tomten, I’ve grown young again. No longer my face, no longer this awful commodity that’s not me at all.”

I felt her strong squeeze and returned it.

Then she let go and stirred and said, “What’s this gloom? Let’s have some more glogg.” And with that she was up and on her way to the kitchen with both our glasses.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” she asked when she returned.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Sleep in?”

“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “One can’t sleep in on Christmas day. It’s just not done. For one, there’s the early service.”

She handed me my glass, and sat down again, crossed her legs, arranged her skirt. “We call it julotta. It’s at six in the morning. When just the stars and Tomten are out. And it’s cold, and the snow crackles under your feet as we trot off to church. And it’s always full, too. The church is. Sometimes you have to stand. Even so, you always go to julottan. That’s part of Christmas.”

“They have that here?” I asked.

“You can find anything in New York,” she said. “Even a julotta.” With that she rose again and disappeared into her bedroom. Soon she returned with the paper. “Let’s see,” she said, and began perusing the classifieds.

We found a service at the Gustavus Adolphus Swedish Lutheran Church on 22nd Street, and yes, she was right, it was scheduled for six in the morning. Did I want to go? Well, she asked in a way that didn’t leave a second option.

“Sure,” I said, outmaneuvered.

“We’d better get some sleep then,” she not so much suggested as proclaimed.

I looked at my watch. It was well past midnight. “Yes,” I said. “Would not be a bad idea.”

“I’ll wake you at four,” she said, as she bent down to collect our glasses and the book of Rydberg’s poem. She was not leaving it on the floor.

“At four?”

“I doubt we’ll find any taxicabs at that time. We may have to walk.”

Interesting prospect.

“Good night, Nachiketa,” she said. “And thanks for your wonderful gifts.” Then holding up Tomten, “Especially this.”

“You’re welcome. And thanks, and good night to you too.”

On the way to my room I heard her place our glasses by the sink in the kitchen, then, from just outside her bedroom, her voice, one last time, “God Jul.”

It made its way down her hallway, round a corner and down mine. A faceless Swedish greeting.

When I didn’t answer right away, this followed: “It means Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” I answered, and not long after that I was sound asleep.

© Wolfstuff