Bereft of Identity

"Elaine, how's school?"

When Jorgen asked this question, Elaine was diligently sketching something in her practice book with charcoal. Upon hearing the question, she lifted her head slightly and then lowered it again, not looking at Jorgen, continuing her work. It was lunchtime, and the Boar and Whistle Inn was not quiet, but the surrounding noise didn't seem to bother her.

"Mr. Jorgen asked you a question; don't ignore him," Elaine's mother, Elin, turned to her daughter and tapped the tabletop with her knuckles.

"School is good," Elaine still didn't look up.

"She's two years older than most students her grade," Elin said. "But I've convinced the school to consider advancing her by at least a year. They had the audacity to say they'd wait for the test results from her first year. It's unbelievable. Jorgen, can you help with this?"

"I don't know."

"Every time you say 'I don't know,' I feel like there's hope. I can't stand the thought of Elaine being with those brats who can't even change diapers or make their beds. He patted Elaine's head. "Did you hear me? Mr. Jorgen agreed to help. If someone at school bullies you, go to Mr. Jorgen. I guarantee they'll be terrified along with their parents."

"What are you talking about?" Jorgen said.

"When kids have conflicts, it's best not to have their biological parents solve them. You don't have kids, so you don't understand."

Shelley came to their table, carrying a tray. First, she placed two glasses of wine in front of Jorgen and Elin, and then she said, "This one's for the little girl," as she set down a glass of orange juice in front of Elaine.

Elin picked up her wine glass, holding it closer to the orange juice. "Want to mix a bit?"

"Hey!" Shelley frowned. "Don't be silly."

"Just a joke," Elin put the glass down.

"You never used to do that at home, right?" Jorgen said.

"The pork chops today look great. Shelley, you've put in some effort," Elin didn't answer Jorgen, instead, she picked up her fork to start serving the dishes that had just been placed on the table.

"Dad," Elaine put down the charcoal and took a sip of orange juice, then said, "I can't drink alcohol. It's in the school rules."

"The school can teach you math and geography, but it will never tell you how important it is to drink with your dad. You'll have to learn it sooner or later, so why not..." Elin began.

"Jorgen," Shelley said, "could you throw this guy out? He might cost me my liquor license."

"Let's talk about it later. I'm a bit hungry."

"Elaine," Elin told her daughter, "What were you just holding? Go wash your hands again!"

After finishing their lunch, they didn't leave immediately. Jorgen and Elin discussed work arrangements, and Elaine continued with her drawing. After a while, she turned her practice book, showing the page covered in lines to the outside, which caught the attention of the two adults. She didn't speak but rested her chin on the top edge of the book, her gaze directed at the tabletop.

"Who are you drawing?" Jorgen asked. He could discern a woman's face on the paper. She was wearing a headscarf, and at the bottom of the page were hands that seemed almost disconnected from the body.

"Mom," Elaine said. "I think it looks a lot like her."

"Really?" Jorgen didn't know how to respond. He felt like he should offer some words of praise, but he found himself getting lost in thoughts, imagining Greyna's appearance from these rudimentary features. Elaine had colored the background a thick, solid black, wasting nearly half the charcoal stick. There was only a circular blank space in the upper left corner, perhaps representing the moon.

"Make the eyes a bit larger; it'll look more like her," Elin said.

"No," Elaine replied, "Dad, you're mistaken."

They fell into silence for a little while. Elaine glanced at Elin and then at Jorgen before flipping to the next page in her book.

"Who are you drawing this time?" Jorgen asked. It was still a woman's face, with longer hair and smaller hands.

"Lady Dalia," Elaine said. "It looks like her too."

An hour later, Jorgen arrived at the familiar front of his residence. A worker stood perched on a ladder, hammering away at the portion above the doorway.

"You," Jorgen called up to him, "move aside. I need to get inside."

"It'll just be a moment, sir. Please wait. Ten seconds."

After another half a minute of fiddling, he finally descended, tools under his arm, with a door plaque in his right hand, adorned with inlaid copper lettering: "Dalia Shawl Mansion."

Jorgen inspected the plaque after it was removed, noting the distinct difference in color from the surrounding surface. "This looks terrible. Can you repaint it?"

"I'm not a painter, sir. Besides, aren't you planning to replace the plaque sooner or later?" The worker wiped his brow and then looked at Jorgen. "Two silver coins, sir."

"You can take this plaque away."

"Really?"

Jorgen nodded.

"Thank you, thank you," he said, smiling as he admired the exquisitely carved door plaque in his hand. He repeated his thanks to Jorgen several times before shouldering the ladder and leaving.

Jorgen unlocked the door and entered the house. As he passed through the living room, he encountered a maidservant who was about to greet him, but Jorgen waved off the formalities, continuing up the stairs to Dalia's room. He closed the door behind him and found Dalia standing by the window. She turned to face him, and the light streaming in through the window illuminated the room's center. She smiled.

"What were you doing?" Jorgen asked.

"Nothing at all. Just waiting for you."

"I brought something for you," Jorgen said, approaching her and producing a rolled-up piece of paper, which he handed to her. Dalia looked into his eyes as she took the paper and unfurled it.

"Oh... is this Elaine's artwork?"

"Yes."

She held up the drawing, placing it next to her ear. "Does it look like me?"

"To be honest, not really."

"She'll improve."

Dalia placed the drawing on the dressing table. Jorgen came up behind her, and she took his right hand, positioning it in front of her with her left hand beneath his palm, gazing at the knuckles of his middle three fingers. There were some inconspicuous scrapes on the joints. After a moment, she raised her head, looking into Jorgen's eyes through the mirror. Jorgen pulled his right hand back and embraced her by the waist.

Insignificant scrapes. So minor that they almost escaped notice and were barely associated with pain. Many people carried such scars on their bodies, often with little recollection of how they acquired them. But Jorgen remembered. He remembered the momentary sting, the sound – the thud of a fist striking the doorframe and its echo, briefly permeating the air of the hallway and stairwell before fading away.

On the day the meeting ended, he had returned to Dalia's room, and she had embraced him in full view of the maidservant. She had lifted her head only to encounter Jorgen's expression, strangely severe and filled with the harshness of a decision she couldn't fathom. She hadn't needed to ask; he had explained without delay. The old man had decided to strip her of the Shawl surname. She was no longer his daughter-in-law, not Matthias's mother, nothing – just an ordinary woman, and not permitted to claim any connection to the Shawl family in any context.

A radiant spark appeared in her eyes, instantly replacing the ceaseless confusion. She turned away and ran towards the stairs. Jorgen hadn't attempted to stop her and only realized he should follow after she had begun ascending.

When Jorgen reached her bedroom door, it was already locked. He knocked and called her name, but received no answer. A terrible premonition gripped his heart. He struck the door with his fist several times, and the frantic maidservant hurriedly caught up, fumbling for her key. It was only then that Jorgen realized how extreme anxiety had muddled his mind, making him oblivious even to such a simple task as retrieving a key. The maidservant was trembling as she dropped the key when trying to open the lock. Jorgen was quicker to pick it up, and they entered to find Dalia had said, "Let me be alone for a while." Jorgen halted his actions, persuaded the now more flustered maidservant to leave, and then sat with his back to the wall. He felt he should trust her and stayed there until night. The maidservant came to serve dinner, found that Dalia hadn't touched her food, and inquired if Jorgen wished for a meal. He could see that she hadn't eaten either, so the two of them had a simple dinner in the kitchen. While tidying up after their meal, they heard the sound of Dalia descending the stairs. The maidservant hastily reheated Dalia's food, left it for her, and departed, leaving Jorgen and Dalia alone in the room. Jorgen pulled out a napkin and carelessly wiped away the traces of blood on his knuckles. They talked for a while, returned to Dalia's room, and did nothing more; Jorgen held Dalia, watching her fall asleep, but he remained awake the entire night. He pondered a lot.

When the old man made this request, Jorgen couldn't refuse. To the old man, he had merely cast aside a woman who could no longer influence Matthias; to Dalia, the disconnection from the Shawl family name was, in the long run, beneficial for her safety. Of course, all the insincere admiration and social status derived from the surname would vanish, but they weren't what Dalia truly desired. For Jorgen, he had to discard his identity, the link between himself and Dalia and the Seven Sides. Jorgen understood that perhaps this simplified analysis was overly optimistic, but how could he not be as optimistic as possible? It was just the way it was, with no room for change, and what he shouldn't do at this moment was hesitate.

The old man made this request for a clear reason: it would be difficult for Jorgen to accept if someone else conveyed the message. What he had to give up was merely emotional turmoil without any real damage. The old man wanted him to be more loyal, and there was nothing to blame.

Now, Dalia turned to face him. At the sight of her eyes, Jorgen would hear the phrase in his mind again: "We don't talk about the past." The past? Fine, maybe they could manage not to talk about it. But what about the future? Did they even have the right to discuss the future? For now, there were no answers, and Jorgen knew only that he had one hour with her before he had to start working. Fifty-nine minutes of the future.

"Here," Dalia said, brushing her right hand over Jorgen's left shoulder and driving away a small spider that had been lurking there for who knows how long.

Losing the Shawl surname, Dalia hadn't considered reclaiming her old name because there were no other members of her family. Like Jorgen, she became a person without a surname. A name was a symbol that meant nothing unless it was spoken by someone dear. The symbols they carried in the world were incomplete, but for the two of them, it was enough. But Jorgen didn't know that Dalia was thinking: if only they could discard other things as easily as they discarded their surnames. Then they could go freely to other places. There would be no need to pack envelopes in their suitcases, because there was no one at home to write to; no need to hurry on their journey, because no one was waiting for them to come back. 

"Jorgen."

"Yes?"

"Answer me a question."

Fifty-eight minutes.