By Sarah Lawrence
At 11:23 in the morning of December tenth, the sun rose over the horizon in Kiruna. Twenty minutes later, it was gone again. North of the Arctic Circle, it wouldn’t rise again for another month. Judit never moved from her bed. The heater had broken a week earlier and the coals in the woodstove had died during the night, leaving the house cold and quiet. Judit curled up and lowered her hands to rub her feet. Even in two pairs of socks, her toes had gone numb with cold. The sun’s brief visit cast a cool light over her white sheets. As the room dimmed again, Judit reached out from underneath the covers to pick up the box of matches off her nightstand. Striking a match, she lit the four candles that stood at the base of a set of brass angel chimes. Shaking out the match, Judit left it on the base of the stand, pulling her arms back under the covers. Soon the heat from the candles moved the fluted top, and the three angels turned, hitting the bells. The candles brightened the dark room, and as the angels turned, all else was still. The chimes rang bright and the sound seemed to warm the little room. Judit pulled the duvet up to her nose. Judit let her eyes close, listening to the light chiming of the bells. Wednesday was her only day to sleep in.
—
Six blocks away and four hours earlier Markus had woken and taken a kick-sled to school. With the streets packed with snow, it was easier than taking the car, even with its snow-tires. He slid past rows of houses painted Falu-red with copper-tinted paint. When the sun would rise, just before lunch, Markus planned to take the children outside for their last moments of the year’s sunlight. It was always a scene, as some children cried while others ignored the sun entirely. Markus’s first-graders were too young to appreciate Kiruna’s seasons; some worried the sun wouldn’t return in January.
Markus loved the children in a distant way. He was always thankful when he could leave them at four. The next few nights were an exception, though. In the evenings, the parents would bring their children to the Pastorat on Finngatan to rehearse for Lucia. Someone in town had come up with the idea that the first graders should participate in the concert celebrating Saint Lucia Day. The parents had gotten terribly excited by the idea, so their teacher was forced to assume the role of chaperone. The school day was slow, as it always was. Markus helped a child named Matias, who was behind in his maths. Jakob and Hilma got in a fight when Markus’s back was turned. Markus used the lunch period to clean up after them.
—
Judit spent her day indoors avoiding tourists. They were the worst part of her job. Wearing her thickest socks, she ate sour hushållsost and drank coffee in front of her computer. She watched old stand-up videos that’d been her favorites in college. Knowing the videos far too well, Judit wouldn’t laugh anymore, but she’d feel her laughter move inside of her like a can of soda being opened somewhere between her heart and her stomach. Outside in the darkness, the snow had stopped falling, but the wind blew clumps of snow from the roof to the ground, leaving indentations in the powder.
—
At the first rehearsal, Markus and Judit didn’t notice each other. Judit was being fitted for her Lucia crown, and the priest was inquiring about her experience at the music school in Piteå.
Min systers doter tanker studera där. My niece is thinking of studying there, she said.
Judit smiled, holding her head still as the crown went on and the candles it held were lit. Ja, Piteå är nög nara. Många av mina klasskamrater har käriarer i musik nu. Yes, Piteå’s close enough. A lot of my classmates have careers in music, Judit said.
Where is your family?
Judit closed her eyes. Down south. Stockholm and Skåne.
So it wasn’t all that close for you.
Judit opened her eyes and said, It’s close enough.
The priest looked away, her right hand tapping on her left wrist, as if movement would make things less uncomfortable. It was too personal and sudden and casual to come out in polite conversation.
And what do you do now? the priest asked.
Feeling the crown being lifted from her head, Judit turned to face the priest. The woman’s dark hair, parted down the middle, hung like curtains obscuring the sides of her face.
Jag jobbar i ishotellets krog. I tend bar at the Ice Hotel, Judit said.
On December eleventh, the second day of rehearsals, Markus saw Judit first. He watched her out of the corner of his eye and tried to remember the last time that they spoke. It must have been at least eight years. When Judit noticed him, her eyes jumped around the church once before returning to his face. She tilted her head and furrowed her brow before smiling at him in greeting. Markus nodded back at her. Through the night they found comfort in each other’s sour expressions. With each scratchy note sung, Markus’s eyes became more pinched and Judit’s shoulders tensed. Markus was tired and Judit could tell as he moved slowly after the children running around the church in a wild mess. Judit didn’t envy his position. She tried not to laugh. With one child’s awful and confident note Judit was unsuccessful and let out a large laugh before swallowing the rest. Markus stared at her pointedly then, as if to say, Du har ingen ide. He quickly turned away, careful not to maintain eye contact any longer than necessary. Judit considered approaching him after rehearsals, but he disappeared into the crowd of children and their parents.
On December twelfth, Judit found Markus.
As he shook the snow off his coat, Judit said, Jag hoppas dinna barn har alla tappat röst. I hope your kids have lost their voices.
Markus smiled and shook his head, Nej men jag har nästan tappat min hörsel och det är nästan så bra. No, but I’m losing my hearing, which is almost as good.
Judit laughed. She opened her arms and hugged him tentatively around the waist. How didn’t I know you’d moved here?
Looking down at her pale hair, Markus hugged her back, careful to let go just a moment before she did. What do you mean? I never thought you could live in the winter’s night, Markus said, careful not to sound judgmental.
Judit shrugged, pulling away. Livet känner gamalt här. Jag tycker om det. Life feels old here. I like that.
When Judit smiled up at him, Markus felt lucky to receive such a lovely, knowing smile. Ja, detsamma.
Judit shook her bangs out of her eyes and blinked, saying, You should come over for dinner tonight.
The doors to the church opened and in blew a gaggle of children with one frazzled father. The man looked at Markus and rubbed his cheeks, red from the cold. Jag hämtar dem i en timma. I’ll be back in an hour, he said. Markus nodded, but the man was already out the door. He turned back to Judit.
Okej.
—
After rehearsals were finished, Markus and Judit met at the front door. They walked to her house on Trägårdsgatan, Markus gently pushing the kick-sled as they went. The walk was uncomfortably quiet, each uncertain of who to be with the other once outside of the church. When they had first met in college both had been new to Piteå. Markus made sure to keep the kick-sled between them as they walked. They’d never been close, but would nod to each other when they passed at school. They’d hugged at graduation, but hardly expected to keep contact. At Judit’s house, they hung their parkas on a hook by the door and left their boots to drip from a rack raised a couple centimeters above the wooden floor. Her home had once been a barn. When Judit had first moved in, it still smelled faintly of hay. Markus looked around the kitchen, hesitant, but feeling he should be helping somehow. The walls were painted white, with a few picture frames hanging on them. In one was Judit’s parents; in another, her friends from school smiled. They could’ve been stock images that came with the frames. The most color there was came from the Sami flag hanging on the wall by the entrance. The kitchen opened into a small living space with the woodstove and an old sofa covered in blankets. Markus offered to get the fire going and Judit paused in getting the pans out to pass him a box of matches. Once he was sure the fire wouldn’t go out, Markus stepped back.
Judit slid thick slices of blood pudding into a skillet. On the next burner, she ladled raggmunk batter from the night before into another pan. Hot oil sizzled and jumped, landing on her hand. Judit winced and shook it. Markus sat at the kitchen table on a wooden bench covered with a reindeer pelt.
Det ser ut som min mammas hus. This looks like my mother’s house, Markus said. Thick wooden beams ran between the slanted sides of the ceiling. A large window looked out onto the snow-covered street. An adventsstake sat on the window sill, lighting the condensation on the window. Ornaments made from straw and red string hung from the curtain rod. It felt overwhelmingly like a home, calm but cluttered with Judit’s life. When Judit turned away from the stove and walked toward the table, plates in hand, Markus was struck by the way her hair fell past her shoulders, strands standing awkwardly with static. He was reminded of the way she would, when he had known her, lie in Piteå’s great snowdrifts and puff clouds of condensation into the cold air. Det känns lung, Judit had told Markus when he, nineteen and flustered, had asked her why she would lie in the snow that way. It feels calm.
Judit put the plates of blodpudding down on the table, then opened a jar of lingonberry preserves and slipped a spoon inside. Markus was silent, running his hands along the edge of the table and looking out the window.
Vad är det? What is it? asked Judit, staring down at her plate.
Ingenting, Markus said, still staring out of the window.
Why aren’t you eating?
Markus shook his head and said, Titta, pointing outside toward the house across the street. A light blinked on in the bedroom. Someone drew a thick roller blind over the window, let go, and it snapped back up. The blind came down again and snapped back. The person was clearly becoming frustrated, jerking on the blind, up and down the way one does when a seatbelt freezes. Judit laughed and the sound was warm in the small kitchen. Markus leaned back and seemed to smile with his whole body. Brown eyes and brown hair reflected the light of the electric advent candles. Knives and forks slid against porcelain plates. They seldom looked each other in the eye unless they were sure the other was looking away. When Markus stood to refill his glass from the tap, Judit pointed out the hair from the reindeer pelt that had stuck to the seat of his pants. After they’d eaten and the dishes were drying in the rack, Judit pulled her parka back on and ran outside to fetch more wood for the fire. She tapped the logs against the side of the house to take off a thin layer of snow. The noise echoed over the empty street. Once inside again, Judit shook herself off, slamming the heavy door behind her, and carried the logs over to the fire. Markus was sitting cross-legged on the rug before the woodstove.
Do you have any coffee? Markus asked. Judit pointed to the cupboard above the stove. As Markus made the coffee, Judit rebuilt the fire, then sat on the floor in front of it. Markus brought her a cup. He sat next to her and warmed the soles of his feet by the fire. Sticking a sugar cube between his teeth, Markus drank the coffee through it. Judit made a face at this, and he was struck by how little they knew about each other. The familiarity of her face had, for a moment, brought Markus back to a time when they could have been close.
Jag brukar inte träffa någon som jag vet. I don’t usually meet someone I already know, she said.
I don’t get out much, Markus said.
Not much to get out to, I suppose.
Markus laughed nervously. No, I guess not.
Judit stared through the open grate at the fire.
Är du kall? Aren’t you cold? Markus asked. Judit shook her head but moved closer to the fire.
I’m waiting on a piece to fix the heater, she said.
How often do you run into someone from college? Markus asked.
About as often as you use your degree, Judit said.
Markus sobered, and Judit looked him in the eye. Tycker du om din jobb? Do you like your job? she asked.
It’s not what I wanted but it’s not bad.
What did you want?
To compose, Markus said. I know, my parents warned me.
Judit smiled and shook her head. I wanted to be a conductor. God knows we could use more female conductors.
You could’ve changed the world! Markus said, laughing.
Judit rolled her eyes. And now I pour drinks.
Where? Markus asked.
Ishotellet.
At least that’s nice.
If you can stand the tourists.
Markus shrugged and said, How do you like being so far from all your friends?
Judit ran her hands up her arms. She smiled a little and said, Jag vill vara ensam men jag tycker inte om att känna mig ensam. I like being alone, but I don’t like feeling alone.
Markus swallowed hard.
Det känner jag altid.
—
Judit kissed him first, sharing the coffee on his breath. His cheeks were cold. Markus struggled to set his cup down without spilling it before reaching for her. They stood and stumbled. Her house was only two rooms big, as the barn had been divided simply with a thin wall before selling. Markus learned this when Judit led him from the kitchen to her bedroom.
Judit’s hair, still wet from the snow, stuck to Markus’s neck and left trails of water on his skin. He traced lines on her body: along veins and stretch marks. She ran her fingers over the hair on his cheeks to the creases around his eyes. They closed their eyes and learned each other’s bodies. Her feet were cold. His back was warm. They peeled away layers. Blankets and socks, skin and eyes. Judit winced when Markus accidently leaned on her hair. His fingers were sticky and sweet with the memory of lingonberries.
I’m not with Kristina anymore, said Markus. Haven’t been for years. He was breathing hard and his skin was sweaty beneath the blankets.
Judit let out a light laugh. A little late for all that.
Markus tensed, as if he were gearing himself up to say something he never had before.
Jag kännde mig femtio när jag var tjugo. I felt fifty when I was twenty, Markus said into her collarbone. Om du vill vara ensam, vill jag vara ung.
Judit ran her hand up his spine before pulling away.
They slept side by side, without touching.
—
In the morning Judit climbed over Markus to leave the bed. She lit the candles on the angel chimes, started a fire in the woodstove, and poured water into the coffee maker. The smell of coffee and wood burning woke Markus. The cold from the floor shot up from the soles of his feet, along his legs, and he leaped over to the fire. Judit poured Markus a cup of coffee and brought it to him with the box of sugar cubes. When Judit moved over to the kitchen table, Markus watched her from his spot in front of the fire. Crossing his legs like a child, he drank his coffee slowly. Judit looked outside at the dark street. They didn’t speak. As the candles on the angel chimes burned down, the silence became too loud to bear. Judit rubbed her eyes and sighed. She suddenly felt sour and sick high in her throat.
Markus examined his hands as if they were terribly interesting and said, Jag tänkte inte stanna. I didn’t think to stay.
Judit nodded. Do you want breakfast first? she asked.
Markus smiled and shook his head. Kaffe räcker.
That morning he walked back to his house. He didn’t believe himself capable of staying upright on the kick-sled. At home he kept himself busy cleaning the kitchen, though it didn’t need it.
Judit cleared away the dishes and headed off to work. She wore thick gloves to protect her hands from the ice. When a man in a thin sweater with blue-tinted lips approached the counter she struggled to remain polite. The ice glowed pale blue under the lights. All the chairs were draped in reindeer skins. Above the bar, a pike was suspended in a block of ice dyed green and yellow. The shimmer of the scales under the ice made Judit nauseous. She poured drinks into glasses made of ice and didn’t think of Markus.
—
That night, Markus herded the group from the school, gently pushing children back into line and righting their candles. He brought them to stand at the entrance of the church. The pews were full of families eagerly awaiting the concert. The children were all dressed in plain white gowns. The girls wore red sashes and laurel crowns; the boys had white pointed hats with gold moons and stars on them. After the parents had objected to their children carrying open flames, they carried battery-operated candles.
Judit saw Markus from across the room. She put the Lucia crown on her head and waited for the music to start as he put the children in line, the girls first and then the boys. She shook out her fingers and breathed deeply, anticipating the town watching her. The candles on her crown burned bright.
When the music started, and the children proceeded up the aisle, Markus stepped back into the darkness of the entranceway. The church was lit by the singers and the dull lights on the music stands for the musicians. The procession was slow-going. When Markus turned to his right, he saw Judit standing there, the laurel crown with its burning candles lighting her face. He didn’t know what to say or why he wanted to speak at all. Judit smiled, and he hoped it wasn’t for him. He was suddenly tired and felt older than he ever had. And Judit felt alone, but not terribly lonely.
Markus left the church. The wind was picking up. He leaned against the wall of the church and watched his breath disappear into the wind. After a moment, he pushed himself off the wall and walked to a snow drift several meters from the church doors. The singing drifted out into the dark. Markus drew a deep breath and let himself fall back into the snow drift. Fine powder kicked up as his body landed. He gazed up at the sky. It was warmer in the snow, protected from the wind. He listened to the wind fly by and the crunch of snow against his body. His breathing slowed.
On a clear night the northern lights might be waving brilliant curtains of green, purple and pink light. The stars would be out, pinpricks made in the heavy blanket that covered Kiruna in the winter. But tonight all was covered with a thick sea of grey clouds, and the snow struggled to light the world from the bottom up. The sickly arms of a dwarf birch were dark against the clouds.
—
Behind the heat of so many candles, the bodies of the singers appeared to tremble. Judit walked up in socked-feet to join the performers at the front of the church. She stood in the center of the crowd, hands in prayer. On her head the candles made of sweet-smelling wax reflected off her yellow hair. Static from her scratchy gown made her hair rise, one strand at a time. Hot wax dripped, landing on her head. Before Judit could react, the burning candle met the fly-away hairs and her hair was on fire. Song gave way to shock, and, for one horrible moment, all was still, save the flame consuming Judit’s hair. Judit screamed.
Someone was quick to respond. A wet towel was thrown and wrapped around her head. It sizzled like water dropping onto a hot pan. Everyone was still for just a moment, quiet, waiting to be sure the fire was out. Then the towel was peeled away, revealing the remains of blackened, singed hair. It smelled sulfurous. Breathing fast, Judit raised her hand to her head and pulled away quickly. Everything felt rough and wrong.
—
Judit cut off the burned tufts the next day. Her hair was left uneven and refused to lie flat. She swept the pieces into a trash bag and set it on the bathroom counter next to a bottle of peroxide. She went around the house and picked every candle from its stand and threw them into the bag along with her burned hair. She put them out with the trash. Snow covered the can until the garbage truck carried them away a week later.
