Enga mellom fjella

In the bathtub the water turns red

Taking a bath once a year is a luxury for some. I hadn't taken a good soak in two months since I'd come back from England. I bathed there every time I could.

Here, the bathtub is out the door, turn right, turn left and go down 17 steps. It's a trudge with towel, soap and bubblebath. I prefer patchouli in winter, but hadn't taken a bath at home since Spring; I carried the essence of lilacs in a bottle.

The week had been cold, snow in the air, so I reveled in the moisture and warmth that flowed from the spigot into the tub. A squirt from the bottle and Spring filled the air! Then off with the clothes.

Once, who knows when, I took a bath fully clothed. Just because I could. But I agree, naked is best. I'll spare you the details. The sag of age has given me a tire round the middle. My life-saver or taker. I'm not sure which.

At least I still fit in a tub, an old fashioned one, a deep gravy-boat with claws. Me the lumps floating. I leaned against its smooth porcelain slopes, slid into the warmth and grabbed soap. Ah, Coast. And more memories unlocked.

It's a lonely place this, this bathing alone in a room with a tub. A rack loomed overhead sat my feet, a wired place to hang ...something. A basket for soap and the bottle of suds. A mirror I avoid. Hooks for the towel and my clothes.

No place for a book. So I'd brought a chair so I could read "Nemesis", a detective novel about murder, that Jo Nesbø the Norwegian wrote. A tome to gnaw on while I soaked.

There were voices outside in the hall, the slam of a door, muffled quiet fading into silence. I rake the back of my hand over the wainscot, reassuring myself with the clack-clack-clack of my nails. The water is rising, turning pink by the inch, smelling of lilacs as each bubble bursts. Then pinker. I'm not fond of pink. I'd rather bleed red.

The pinkness surrounds me, enshrouds me as toe-nails sing hallelujahs. Skin sloughs off my ankles in a dirge, and the toe nails join in. My neck loves the warmth, dirt coming off under my nails. Is it dirt that keeps us from falling apart? I scrub behind ears, hear water churn red.

I relax, let the water take me to Norway. Harry Hole has just witnessed a bank heist, the gunshot, the hole spurting red. He doesn't know how it will turn out and neither do I. The water is cooling. I turn on the handle that pour hot on ankles with my toes.

The bubbles are gone now. The lilac is fading. I feel like a lobster being served up for dinner. I don't want to turn pink. I already am.

Then it's over. All over. The water swirls down the drain taking its redness elsewhere.

My toes feel thankful, my ankles well scrubbed and even my ears fell the lightness of being. I dry off, put on clothes, grab the chair, the soap, the book and the bottle of suds, my towel over my arm. Trudge up 17 steps, turn to the right, then the left. Set everything on the chair while I let myself in.

Then the duty of drying all that's still red. 7 hangers next to the stove, 7 maroon shirts, at least one running red. I've never quite figured out which. Does it matter? They'll dry by tomorrow. They are cleaner with a slight hint of Coast, a fragrance of lilac still clinging to threads.

ME:

I'm better now. All scrubbed and dried off. I have more piles of shirts. It's the maroon ones I wash separate, that tint everything a pale shade of red.

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