Copenhagen Tales

by Helen Constantine

  Henrik doesn’t believe she ever menstruates.

  ‘You can’t begin to menstruate if you have just one

  piece of toast for breakfast’, he says. But she does menstru-

  ate; there’s both Tampax and Always Night in the

  bathroom—she’s as clinical as the girls who do the sanitary

  towel ads on TV2.

  ‘She’s one of their target group’, says Henrik, and goes

  on about how he’s waiting for the day when he gets to see

  an ad for sanitary towels where there’s a dirty great punk

  wringing out a towel with cascades of blood welling up all

  over the place.

  ‘And the punch line will be: Always – sucks you dry!’

  And he explains how the ad would then go on to show a

  model—dehydrated, borderline anorexic, botoxed lips—

  draped picturesquely in a corner, smiling beatifically.

  ‘What the hell do they need all that blue liquid for?’ he

  demands, adding: ‘This is about blood! Blood-sucking

  sanitary towels!’

  ‘Stop it’, I giggle—I reckon Kirstine would disinfect the

  entire flat and sack me on the spot, if she knew I was living

  with a man with such a filthy mind. Still, she does hide it

  well—her period. Of course she keeps a chromium-plated

  bin in the toilet, and that gets me thinking how it is for me,

  the way I have to wrap the towel in loo paper, and when we

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  have people round I have to very discreetly carry it out to

  the kitchen and cram it deep down in the rubbish bin. And

  each time I think what do my girlfriends do if they’re on

  their period when they drop by—do they carry the used

  towel around with them in their handbags? How embar-

  rassing—I mean for me. And still I haven’t got round to

  buying a bin. The thing is there never are used towels in

  her waste bin, only cotton wool pads with a smidgeon of

  make-up on. Not even a cotton wool bud with earwax.

  Then we write notes to each other, Kirstine and me.

  The first time I wanted to ask her something I needed a

  pad of course, so I was forced to look in the drawers in the

  Montana bookcase. There was nothing in the top and

  bottom drawers, and in the middle one an empty pad.

  Luckily I had a biro in my jacket pocket. So then I write:

  Was it okay the way I ironed your sweatshirts and tracksuit

  bottoms?

  Yes, she writes back, they are only for wearing round the

  house. Now fancy that! She wears freshly ironed clothes

  round the house. And she leaves notes for me too: Would

  I be able to stay on an extra hour next time, as she is going

  to the wedding of Count So-and-So and Miss Pipsqueak in

  some castle or another. There is so much ironing to get

  through, we are staying the whole weekend, she explains in

  the note. You’d think she was kidding. Or: I like the way

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  you fold the towels so they fit the shelf exactly. You’d think

  she was kidding even more; I’m so glad I’m not like that.

  Her kitchen ware is also hyper cool—loads of steel. She

  has the weirdest stuff. Just one example: a Georg Jensen

  gadget for trimming the foil off the necks of wine bottles. By

  and large all the bottles in the wine rack have proper corks.

  The drinks cabinet would make Henrik hyperventilate.

  The food in her fridge: Gaio, Parma ham, Wonder-

  white sliced bread, Kærgården butter mix, Harild mineral

  water, plus little sachets of espresso coffee for the big

  Presto machine from Tefal: in matte black with loads of

  gold. And then of course I have to go and drop the big

  glass shelf from the fridge when I’m cleaning it one day,

  and a corner as big as half a sandwich breaks off at an

  angle. Naturally I was sorry about it, though it didn’t really

  show if you turned the damage inwards. I left her a note.

  Not to worry, she writes back. A couple of weeks go by,

  and then Henrik asks:

  ‘Well, has she got that fridge shelf changed?’

  ‘No’, I answer. He nods meaningfully, and says:

  ‘It has set in.’

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘The rot’, he says. ‘The shelf ’s the first sign. From now

  on it’s downhill all the way with her.’

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  So I carry on cleaning like my life depends on it. The

  hoover is a miracle: a mint green Panasonic MC-E751 with

  a perfumed filter—the scent of flowers.

  The Montana bookcase has to be sprayed at a distance

  of 20 centimetres with Sterling Furniture Spray—some

  kind of wax made of silicone and perfume which ‘en-

  hances the glow of the wood’, as the can says. Afterwards

  you polish the wood—that gets done once a week. The

  plants get sprayed with Substral Leafshine. All in all there’s

  heaps of spraying. I also iron her clothes with a steam iron

  that’s like something out of Star Trek. Certain clothes first

  have to be sprayed with Bio-tex, Pre-Ironing Treatment.

  She also has a spray called Swimsuit Cleaner to protect her

  super expensive swimsuit.

  ‘No bloodstains on the walls, by any chance?’ asks Hen-

  rik, when I tell him about the spray-and-ironing routine.

  ‘No, why?’ I ask.

  ‘She sounds almost like a Danish version of American

  Psycho,’ he says, ‘I bet there’s something kinky about her.’

  He could be right.

  I don’t know if she wonders about what makes me tick

  just like I wonder about her. Maybe she feels sorry for me

  because I have a kid already—I can imagine that, and it

  was actually a bit early—Sofie wasn’t planned but I do love

  her, even when she mucks up the whole flat. I don’t know

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  what to say . . . but in some ways it’s just as unnatural to

  live the way she does.

  Some things I’m not allowed to touch, for instance the

  Piet Hein table.

  ‘I polish that myself every Friday when I get back in

  from work’, she explained to me the first time I was there.

  So far as I can tell it’s only a simple melamine table top.

  I’ve had a look in the cupboard—she treats it with Trend

  Massive Oil which has to be rubbed in with a dry cloth and

  polished over afterwards—once weekly.

  I’ve told Henrik about it—over time he has become

  fascinated with her too.

  ‘I promise not to do anything obscene’, he says when he

  begs me to take him along to see her flat. But I can see in

  his eyes he has dastardly plans, and even though it might

  be fun it wouldn’t be right.

  ‘Do you think she fucks in the dark?’ is the kind of

  thing he can come out with. Don’t get me wrong, he says it

  to get me in the mood; I’m one of those gals who likes the

  lights full on—I want to see what I’m up to . . . and what’s

  being done to me.

>   It’s hard to tell with her. In some ways she comes

  across as probably finding sex far too dirty a business to

  get mixed up in. On the other hand . . . I mean, you’d think

  she must . . . do it. I know she pops Mercilon contraceptive

  pills—they’re kept in the bathroom, and you can see they

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  get used. And she does have some form of boyfriend,

  because once in a while there’s some of his gear among

  the laundry: T-shirts with film posters printed on and daft

  boxer shorts with Mickey Mouse characters and such. The

  weird thing is I’ve found long black hairs in her bed. I just

  can’t imagine her having a boyfriend with a long black

  ponytail, so that gets me toying with the idea she has a

  Latin lover. I almost hope so; I’d be turned right off if

  I went and bumped into Mickey Mouse just before the

  crown jewels.

  I can’t help peeking inside whenever I find a clothes

  bag sitting behind the curtain. One day I find two bras in

  the 4–500 kroner bracket which are only just starting to

  look a weenie bit tatty—like my own clothes once I’ve

  washed them a couple of times, because we always wash

  everything together, all jumbled up. And there’s worse to

  come: there’s a pair of dead smart high winter boots sitting

  there; I could so do with a pair like that. I try them on—

  and they almost fit. They’re a tad too big, but I’ve only got

  thin stockings on—with an inner sole or thick socks they’d

  do me perfect. Imagine being able to afford that sort of

  stuff . . .

  I start on with the cleaning. Her computer has

  vanished—no doubt she’s got herself a laptop. I hoover

  the kitchen. On the fridge door is stuck one of those

  magnet things with a plastic pig on. It holds a couple of

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  menus for pizzerias and Thai food. It’s got batteries inside,

  so if I happen to knock into it and it falls on the floor it

  says ‘oink, oink’ in an electronic voice—it’s hugely irritat-

  ing. She’s also got this pair of completely worn-out slip-

  pers, shaped like a lion with a mane. So now I think I’ve

  pretty well identified the three items which express her

  personality. Henrik and I are agreed the oinking pig sig-

  nifies: I can be good fun too; the worn slippers Now let’s

  have us a real cosy time; and the matches I have my very

  own style. And that’s it.

  Next the phone rings and the answer phone comes on.

  I go over and turn up the sound to hear the message after

  the beep:

  Hi there Kirstine, it’s Gitte. Okay, you’re not at home. Any-

  how . . . things are crazy busy here too. Maybe meet up Satur-

  day at NASA—if only I can make it. Talk soon . . . Byeee!

  While I carry on working these pictures keep popping into

  my mind starring myself floating down the street in the

  boots behind the curtain. In sheer distraction I accidentally

  spray the TV screen with Sterling Furniture Spray. It takes a

  long while to rub off.

  Anyhow, at long last I’m done. So I go behind the

  curtain to put Panasonic MC-E751 away. Oh heck, how

  those boots call out to me! I’ve got a short leather skirt on,

  because later I’m meeting one of my girlfriends at a coffee

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  bar. The boots would look great with the skirt and . . .

  Okay, to hell with it! I pull on the boots, and then I pull

  off my top and my old bra. The air feels cool against my

  breasts, which still show traces of breastfeeding, but no

  stretch marks and they’re beginning to get back their

  firmness, though of course they are a touch heavier, but

  actually I like that—it’s like I really have something to

  offer. Henrik likes them too.

  So I’m standing there in her boots and next thing I’m

  trying on her bra. It really does something for my tits—

  brings the best out of them. It’s the kind of bra you’d like

  to see a man’s hands undoing. I stand there in front of the

  mirror and sing:

  ‘These boots are made for walking, and that’s just what

  they’ll do—one of these days these boots are gonna walk all

  over you!’—Nancy Sinatra—only I look loads better, with

  my pout and my sultry turned-on look.

  Then the intercom buzzer goes! It’s her! Kirstine! I press

  the button to let her in. PANIC, PANIC! I plonk myself

  down on the floor to yank the boots off, but they are well

  and truly stuck. Why the hell hasn’t she got anything as

  simple as a bootjack? I’m tugging and tearing and feel I’m

  going to bust out in a fever. Finally they come off, but I can

  already hear her on the stairs. There’s nothing for it, I’ll

  have to pull my top on over her bra which now feels

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  welded to my boobs. I just have time to stuff my own worn

  bra behind my beaten up Fjällräv rucksack, which is also

  behind the curtain, before there’s a knock on the door and

  I have to let her in. She’s been shopping.

  ‘Hi, I have people coming tonight,’ and she explains

  she’s a bit behind. I stand there wondering if I can really be

  certain—absolutely bank on her bra being intended for the

  Sally Army. Because of course it could easily be she has an

  uncool sister who gets her cast-offs.

  ‘I’m nearly done,’ I say, frantically searching for some

  excuse to stop a bit longer, so I can put the bra back. ‘But

  I don’t mind staying on a little, if you need help with

  anything?’

  ‘Only if you have the time’, she says.

  ‘It’s no problem’, I say.

  ‘Can you really be bothered?’ She’s delighted. Next

  thing I’m out in the kitchen slicing up a sea of vegetables

  with a perfect razor-sharp Raadvad knife with a wood

  handle, on a perfect chopping board, in preparation for

  what gives every appearance of promising to be a perfect

  Thai dinner. She has two recipe books, both coffee-table

  size: Meyer’s Køkken, and Thai Cooking by Jackum Brown

  with a ‘consultant’ called Rachanee Boonthon! All authen-

  tic: packed with names of exotic spices such as ‘galangal’

  and ‘krachai’ and obscure ingredients like ‘tamarind water’

  and ‘wonton wrappers’. Kirstine puts the shopping away

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  and cleans the vegetables. There’s no chance of somehow

  sneaking the bra off from under my top.

  I slice the vegetables like a pukka chef, for I also worked

  in a café kitchen for a time. Kirstine is dead impressed. The

  funny thing is that when I look down at my hands at work

  my breasts take up more of the view than normal, because

  the bra gives them really good support, without squeezing

  or feel
ing tight.

  Kirstine rushes round—in and out of the kitchen—

  preparing all and sundry; seemingly her guests are sup-

  posed to feel like they’re in a restaurant. When we have

  people round they get a potato peeler shoved in their hand

  as they come through the door—we’re friends aren’t we, so

  chill out.

  And then Kirstine comes dashing back into the kitchen

  to dice a piece of lean beef. She reaches out to grab a knife

  from the long knife-magnet that’s screwed to the wall

  above the kitchen table. She’s in such a rush that she

  doesn’t get a proper hold on the knife, so then it drops

  and leaves a very visible nick in the table top which is

  wood. She freezes.

  Oh my God, now we’re in for a major crisis, I’m

  thinking, as she lets out a little despairing sigh. I hold my

  breath and watch her out of the corner of my eye. Then all

  at once she gives a shrug like she’s shaking it off, and starts

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  cutting up the meat. So now I can breathe again. Phew,

  I thought she . . .

  ‘So, are you expecting some hunky guys tonight?’ I ask

  to lighten the mood, but a bit also because I’m curious.

  ‘Ooh . . . no’, she answers, hesitating a bit before saying:

  ‘My parents are on a visit.’

  ‘So where do they live?’ I ask, sensing straight off this

  isn’t her favourite subject. Again she hesitates.

  ‘Randers’, she finally answers, ‘they’re coming over

  from Randers.’ I’m just about to say something like in

  that case she can’t get to see them so often, when she

  adds: ‘But they are staying in a hotel.’

  I’m not too sure how to react to this—whether it’s good

  or bad. Instead I say something about cooking, and so we

  start talking about that. After a bit of time she even asks

  what Sofie eats, and then I chatter away nineteen to the

  dozen.

  I’m still a bit nervous, for I just don’t know what she’s

  got in mind for her clothes. I decide to visit the toilet just

  before I go. So then I can take off the bra there and sneak it

  back into the bag when I fetch my Fjällräv from behind the

  curtain—and all should be okay. I don’t reckon she’ll spot

  I’m not wearing a bra when I come out of the toilet.

  After chopping and preparing for half an hour, and

  smoking one of her Marlboro Lights and drinking a