Sister Alma

Elisabet? Can I read you something from my book? Or am I disturbing you? It says here:"All the anxiety we bear with us, all our thwarted dreams, the incomprehensible cruelty, our fear of extinction, the painful insight into our earthly condition, have slowly eroded our hope of an other-wordly salvation. The howl of our faith and doubt against the darkness and silence, is one of the most awful proofs of our abandonment and our terrified, unuttered knowledge." Do you think it's like that?

What are you hiding under your hand? Let me see. It's the photo of your little boy. The one you tore up. We must talk about it. Tell me about it, Elisabet. Then I will. lt was one night at a party, isn't that right? It got late and quite rowdy. Towards morning someone in the group said: "Elisabet, you virtually have it all in your armoury as woman and artist. But you lack motherliness." You laughed because you thought it sounded silly. But after a while you noticed you thought about what he'd said. You became more and more worried. You let your husband impregnate you. You wanted to be a mother. When you realized it was definite, you became frightened. Frightened of responsibility, of being tied down, of leaving the theatre. Frightened of your body swelling up. But you played the role. The role of a happy, young, expectant mother. Everyone said, "Isn't she beautiful? She's never been so beautiful." Meanwhile you tried to abort the foetus several times. But you failed. When you saw it was irreversible... you started to hate the baby. And you wished it would be stillborn. You wished the baby would be dead. You wished for a dead baby. The delivery was difficult and long. You were in agony for days. Finally the baby was delivered with forceps. You looked with disgust and terror at your squealing baby and whispered: "Can't you die soon? Can't you die?" The boy screamed day and night. And you hated him. You were scared, you had a bad conscience. Finally the boy was taken care of by relatives and a nanny. You could get up from your sickbed and return to the theatre. But the suffering wasn't over. The boy was gripped by a massive and unfathomable love for his mother. You defend yourself in despair. You feel you can't return it. So you try, and you try... But there are only cruel and clumsy meetings between you. You can't do it. You're cold and indifferent. He looks at you. He loves you and he's so gentle. You want to hit him because he doesn't leave you alone. You think he's disgusting with his thick mouth and ugly body. His moist and pleading eyes. He's disgusting and you're scared.

Is it really important not to lie, to speak so that everything rings true? Can one live without lying and quibbling and making excuses? Isn't it better to be lazy and lax and deceitful? Perhaps you even improve by staying as you are. (No response) My words mean nothing to you. People like you can't be reached. I wonder whether your madness isn't the worst kind. You act healthy, act it so well that everyone believes you--everyone except me, because I know how rotten you are.

Karl-Henrik and I rented a cottage by the sea once. It was June, and we were all alone. One day, when Karl-Henrik had gone into town, I went to the beach on my own. It was a warm and lovely day. There was another girl there. She'd paddled over from another island because our beach was sunnier and more secluded. We lay there, sunbathing beside one another, complete naked, dozing now and then, putting suntan lotion on. We had those cheap straw hats on, you know? I had a blue ribbon around mine. I lay there peeping out from under my hat at the landscape and the sea and the sun. It was kind of funny. Suddenly I saw two figures leaping about on the rock above us. They would hide and then peek out. "There's a couple of boys looking at us," I told the girl. Her name was Katarina. "Let them look," she said, and turned over on her back. It was a strange feeling. I wanted to jump up and put my robe on but I just lay there on my stomach with my bottom in the air, not at all embarrassed, completely calm. Katarina lay there next to me the whole time, with her breasts and thick thighs. She just lay there sort of giggling to herself. I noticed that the boys had come closer. They just stood there looking at us. I noticed they were terribly young. Then one of them - the more daring of the two - came up and squatted down next to Katarina. He pretended to be busy picking at his toes. I felt so strange. Suddenly I heard Katarina say, "Hey, why don't you come over here?" She took him by the hand and helped him off with his jeans and shirt. Then suddenly he was on top of her. She guided him in with her hands on his behind. The other boy just sat on the slope and watched. I heard Katarina whisper in the boy's ear and laugh. His face was right next to mine. It was red and swollen. Suddenly I turned over and said, "Aren't you coming over to me too?" And Katarina said, "Go to her now." He pulled out of her and fell on top of me, completely hard. He grabbed my breast. It hurt so bad. I was ready somehow and came almost at once. Can you believe it? I was about to say, "Careful you don't get me pregnant" when he suddenly came. I felt it like never before in my life, the way he sprayed his seed into me. He gripped my shoulders and arched backward. I came over and over. Katarina lay on her side and watched and held him from behind. After he came, she took him in her arms and used his hand to make herself come. When she came, she screamed like a banshee. Then all three of us started laughing. We called to the other boy, who was sitting on the slope. His name was Peter. He came down, looking all confused and shivering despite the sunshine. Katarina unbuttoned his pants and started to play with him. And when he came, she took him in her mouth. He bent down and kissed her back. She turned around, took his head in both hands, and gave him her breast. The other boy got so excited that he and I started all over again. It was just as good as before. Then we went for a swim and parted ways. When I got home, Karl-Henrik was already back from town. We ate dinner and drank some red wine he'd brought. Then we had sex. It's never been as good, before or since. Can you understand that?

Anaesthetise me... throw me away! No, I can't, I can't take any more! Leave me alone! It's shame, it's all shame! Leave me alone! I'm cold and rotten and indifferent! It's all just lies and imitation, all of it!

No! I'm not like you. I don't feel like you. I'm Sister Alma, I'm just here to help you. I'm not Elisabet Vogler. You are Elisabet Vogler.

Lots of people have told me I'm a good listener. Isn't that funny? No one's ever bothered to listen to me. Like you're doing now. You're really listening. I think you're the first person who's ever listened to me. It can't be at all interesting. You could be reading a good book instead. How I'm going on! I hope I'm not irritating you. It feels so good to talk. It feels nice and warm. I've never felt like this in all my life.

I have tremendous admiration for artists. I think art is enormously important in life, especially for those struggling for one reason or another.

You can't know how I feel. I always thought great artists felt this great compassion for other people, that they created art out of great compassion and a need to help. That was silly of me.

It doesn't make any sense. Nothing fits together. And the guilty conscience you feel over little things. You understand? And what about all the things you'd decided to do? Don't you have to do them anymore? Is it possible to be one and the same person at the very same time -- I mean, two people?

At the hospital where I took my exam, there's a home for old nurses who were nurses all their lives and lived for their work and were always in uniform. They live in their little rooms there. Imagine believing so strongly in something that you devote your entire life to it. Having something to believe in, working at something, believing your life has meaning. I like that. Holding on tight to something, no matter what -- I think that's how it should be. Meaning something to other people. Don't you agree?

He was married. We had an affair for five years. Then he got tired of it, of course. I was terribly in love, and he was the first. I remember it all like one long torment. Long periods of agony, and brief moments when -- your teaching me how to smoke reminding me. He smoked constantly. In hindsight it all seems so dreary. A real dime store novel. In some strange way it was never quite real. I don't know how to explain it. At least, I was never quite real to him. But my pain was real, that's for sure. But that was somehow all a part of it in some nasty way, as if that's how it was supposed to be.

You know what I thought after I saw a film of yours one night? When I got home and looked in the mirror, I thought, "We look alike." Don't get me wrong. You're much more beautiful. But we're alike somehow. I think I could turn into you if I really tried.

When you sleep, your face goes slack - and your mouth is swollen and ugly. There's a nasty wrinkle on your forehead. You smell of sleep and tears - and I can see the pulse in your neck. There's a scar there that you cover with makeup.

It felt so good to talk about it all. And I suppose I was flattered that a great actress like you would bother to listen. I even thought it would be nice if what I said were of some use to you. But that's awful, isn't it. Sheer exhibitionism.

Does it have to be like this? Is it really so important not to lie, to tell the truth, to speak in a genuine tone of voice? Can a person really live without babbling away, without lying and making up excuses and evading things? Isn't it better to just let yourself be silly and sloppy and dishonest? Maybe a person gets better by just letting herself be who she is.