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Ragna will feel faint. What a horrible transformation, what
a fate for the poor man. I, with my peering face, will grin at
him and her, remind them of my existence, in all their
moments of pleasure.
If I know Ragna, she will quickly work out the consequence
of what has happened. She will slowly straighten up,
perhaps purse her lips and glance disapprovingly at the
deformed manhood, but will then without any mercy
decide that Johan must move back to his own house and
that henceforth he cannot be used for anything other than
hard physical labour.
*
A month passes, then a couple more weeks. The sun rolls
across the sky around the clock, without ever touching the
horizon – it’s already the middle of May.
The tree outside my window now has small, light-green
buds, and fresh shoots are sticking their heads out of the
thawed ground: grasses, heather and the first tentative
beginnings of what will become rosebay willowherb in large
mauve clusters.
One Monday morning, just after breakfast, Ragna decides
to accompany Johan to the village. I sit at the kitchen table
eating – a daily self-imposed chore so that I can better
study the state of the master of the house. Unconcernedly,