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Best European Fiction 2017

Page 9

by Eileen Battersby


  “Hello-o-o. Anyone there?”

  She didn’t care much for his tone and opened her eyes. There he was, holding the tray steady in both hands, that same critical look in his eye.

  “Yes,” she said, offended.

  “There’s coffee here, and some juice and bread.”

  He placed a glass, a cup and saucer, and a plate with a bread roll on it in front of her.

  “Eat,” he said. “It’ll do you good.” She was still embarrassed and rather in a huff, and the more she chewed, the more the bread seemed to swell in her mouth and she realized to her dismay that tears were welling in her eyes.

  “Have some juice,” he said kindly, handing her the glass.

  “Thanks,” she muttered, not daring to look up for fear of crying.

  Some time passed in silence as she ate and drank. He sat and sipped a cup of coffee. “Feeling better?”

  She didn’t want to say anything, but he didn’t need an answer.

  “You’ve got some color back in your cheeks now,” he said with satisfaction. She did feel a lot better and her natural urge to be friendly was coming back to her, too.

  “Aren’t you on your way somewhere?” she asked. “You mustn’t let me keep you.”

  “It’s all right, I was only going home. I live just along the road here.”

  “Then I am keeping you.”

  “I’m not in a hurry. It doesn’t matter.”

  “I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

  He smiled, nothing more. She stole glances at him over the rim of her coffee cup. Her experience with men was limited, but some things she knew. For instance, she was aware that if he had taken her home with him instead of to the café where they were now seated, she would eventually have come to a point at which she felt obliged to repay his kindness by going to bed with him, and she was thankful for the fact that this was not going to happen. In all, she had been with two men, the most recent being Søren, who had noted the three fridges. They had stayed behind in his room after the others had gone home from study group, and when the time passed eleven and they had drunk a bottle of wine, it had seemed to Mie to be the only way of getting home again with her honor intact. He had peeled off her loose-fitting, undemanding clothes, and his eyes grew wide at what he discovered underneath: “Hey, you actually look GOOD!” he exclaimed, with such astonishment that the words, and the sudden gentleness with which they were uttered, remained within her, as immovable as if they had been equipped with barbs. Until then, she had been wholly unaware that a compliment could be so humiliating.

  “Where were YOU going?” the young man asked.

  She told him about her study group.

  “Don’t you have to get going, then, or call someone?” he said.

  “No, it’s not worth it now.”

  “I see.”

  “She died, that woman,” she went on. “They said it was a woman who jumped out in front of the bus. Or ran, I mean.”

  “So I heard.”

  Of course. Slightly at a distance, slightly familiar. Not too much, but not too little, either. And inside, Mie was burning.

  She fell silent. She wanted to talk about it some more and searched for the proper, objective words to use that would be quite at odds with the chaos she felt inside. But he spoke first.

  “You’ll be in shock,” he said. “I’ll get you another coffee.”

  While he was away she found a tissue in her bag and blew her nose without making a sound, her upper body twisted over the arm of her chair. She straightened up with a feeling of resolve.

  “I saw her just before it happened,” she said when he came back, then adding quickly to explain: “I mean, not just before she ran out in front of the bus. It was while we were waiting for it to come. She came along the pavement in her dressing gown and slippers. Didn’t you see her?”

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

  “I even spoke to her. I went after her. But she wouldn’t talk to me.” As calmly as she could, Mie told him all about it. About what had been said. She told him about the woman’s odd determination. “It was like she just popped out to get something,” she said. “And I felt so stupid for interfering.” The only thing she didn’t mention was her relief on realizing that perhaps she wasn’t needed.

  “She must have been senile,” he said.

  “Do you think?”

  “It doesn’t matter how much of a hurry you’re in, no one goes into town in their slippers in this kind of weather.”

  “I suppose not.”

  There was a pause.

  “I didn’t think of that,” Mie said after a bit. “Or rather, I did, of course, when I first saw her. But then because she answered me and seemed so … Where did she come from? What about the people who were supposed to be looking after her?”

  “She probably sneaked out,” he said, and smiled reassuringly. Mie smiled back. The dark hand that had clutched her inner being released its grip.

  “So you don’t think it was a suicide?”

  “No.” He pondered for a moment. “No,” he said again. “I think she was a poor, confused old lady who had run away from home. I don’t think she was going anywhere in particular, just wandering about aimlessly. She probably didn’t even realize she was crossing a busy road. Not from what you’ve just told me.”

  “But what was she thinking?” Mie went on, now sufficiently at ease in his company to say what she had been wanting to say all along, and what she in actual fact had been wanting to say to Søren from her study group, indeed to anyone if only they did not appear to her to be so outlandishly obsessive and false. But this young man seemed genuine: “Do you think there was something I could have done?”

  “Yes, I do, certainly,” he said.

  “There was?” she replied, aghast.

  “Yes, of course. It’s called citizen’s duty. Perhaps you might think about it next time.” He looked at her, coldly, she thought, and her cheeks bloomed red.

  “You can talk, you just stood there reading your paper,” she retaliated. “You didn’t even try. You didn’t lift a finger.”

  “We’re not talking about me.”

  She reacted instinctively. Without thanking him for his help or even replying to what he had just said, she pushed back her chair, stood up and left the café, burning with rage and without looking back.

  She marched along the pavement, not looking where she was going, colliding with other pedestrians, who spun round in astonishment and stared at her as she went. She sensed none of it, but felt herself consumed by bleakness, seething and spuming. How unfair! He had refused to discuss the matter, and had passed judgment on her. But what about him? What about him? She spat out the words as she marched on: “What about yourself, now that we’re talking about it? What about yourself? You make me want to puke. Puke!” She came to a crossing and stopped. Anger boiled inside her, and only impulse propelled her along. But when the light changed to green she did not cross the road. She was buffeted by those whose way she was blocking, and stepped aside. All of a sudden she could hardly move her legs. There she remained, rooted to this spot in her life, and so immersed in herself as not to realize it. No one had ever made her feel so shameful and so enraged as this stranger, this young samaritan whose name she didn’t even know. She thought about the glass of juice he had handed her, and how to begin with he had studied her as though she were an object in some experiment, transforming before his eyes. She thought about his smile that had prompted her to confide in him. She thought about him having said he was in no hurry, that he was on his way home. It struck her now that he had lied. If he lived in the vicinity of Bruuns Gade and had been waiting for a bus at the city hall he must have been going somewhere else.

  But why had he told her differently?

  To reassure her.

  To be kind.

  Because he wanted to be with her.

  These were the only answers.

  *

  Twenty years later she is driving through Aarhus in
her car one evening in autumn. She has come from another part of the country and has been on the road for some time. She is going to give a talk at the library in Risskov, and she must find something to eat before eight o’clock. She is rather late. She had reckoned on getting here before now, but there was an accident on the freeway, and a detour. It’s now quarter to seven. There’s still time to find somewhere.

  It’s been many years since she was here last. Nothing more than slumbering recollections connect her to the city. Now they begin to stir, gradually. It’s October and already dark. Leaving the freeway she took a wrong turn and finds herself now in Højbjerg. She drives through the woods and along the sea, which is inky and restless. The moon is waning, though as yet still almost round. For a brief moment she feels as if she could drive her car across the bridge of moonlight that illuminates the water. “I’ve never seen it like this before,” she says to herself, for she has retained her former habit of speaking out loud whenever something makes an impression on her. With the march of time these utterances she hears pass over her lips are no longer mere exclamations and single-syllable mutterings of despair or rage, but well-composed, sociable sentences, as though some warm-hearted companion were always at her side. She drives along Dalgas Boulevard, then carries on down M.P. Bruuns Gade, past the railway station that has been sandblasted clean and now looks so much brighter than last time she saw it. She turns the corner and passes by the concert hall. The car is driving her. She must find a place to eat, had almost forgotten, so absorbed as she is in seeing her former city again. But then halfway up Frederiks Allé she recalls the café and decides on the spot that she will eat there. Most likely she’ll have to make do with a sandwich or a salad, but that doesn’t matter, for by now she has little time for dinner. She turns onto Banegårdsgade and slows down as she rejoins Bruuns Gade. She can drive as slowly as she likes, there’s hardly any traffic at all. She thinks she remembers where it was, but crawling past she sees only a greengrocer’s and a minimart. She pulls in to the curb, gets out, locks the car door, and looks up. The sky above Aarhus is overwhelming. Some gulls screech from the rooftops and she is gripped by a sense of familiarity that feels like a yearning, a shudder that passes right through her. “I’ll have a little walk,” she tells herself.

  She goes along the street to the next crossing. The pedestrian light is red, but there are no cars in sight. She walks over and continues on, peering in at each window along the way. Some she remembers, others not. But the café is nowhere to be found. Eventually, she abandons the idea. She goes back to the car and gets in. She’s no longer hungry, more important matters occupy her now: she has not finished visiting herself yet. She is struck by an odd feeling of tenderness at the thought of a timid young girl who was so easy to correct. What a long time ago it was. She indicates and pulls out, turning down Johannes Bjergs Gade, and there it is, the café. Bright and inviting. The very same place.

  Inside is empty. For a moment she thinks it might be closed, but the door opens as she turns the handle. She remembers the table at which they sat, and there she puts down her coat and her bag before going up to the counter and ordering a club sandwich with mineral water and a cup of tea. She sits down. The floor is worn. The furnishings are all different now. She remembers the young man had on black jeans, a green shirt, and a navy blue sweater by Zacho, the label was at the cuff. He was still at the table when she went back. He hadn’t moved. His newspaper was on the floor and he sat turning his cup slowly on its saucer. But when she came through the room towards him he looked up, his entire face lit up at once, he got to his feet and they swept into an embrace that lasted for many, many years. An embrace.

  What would she have done if she had known what was to come?

  After the first years of eagerness and devotion she wearied and would look for excuses to be on her own. She could be childish when things got too much for her, mustering the strength to pull herself together only after being taken to task. And then one day it was over. She was through with feeling ashamed and left him, the young man who in the years in between had become a very grown-up man indeed, with a displeased and reproachful countenance.

  Would she rather have carried on over the crosswalk instead of turning back? It was a silly question. Of course not. Young women lust for life and love and life again, and she felt she almost could have burst as she ran back towards the café. Please let him be there. Please don’t say he’s gone. Let him be there.

  Everything that was to come lay concealed within that embrace. Their almost grown-up children were there.

  The waiter comes with her sandwich and drinks. But she has lost her appetite now and can only sip her tea. She’s not worried about the evening ahead, knowing herself to be fully prepared.

  Yet time passes, it’s already twenty past seven. She pays and goes back to the car, and is driving north through the city center when a sudden impulse prompts her to turn past the cemetery. She does not stop until reaching Otto Rudsgade, number ninety-two. The door is locked, of course, everyone has security systems now. But then two women happen to be on their way out. They ask if she wants to go in.

  “I used to live here,” she explains. “I’d like to look inside and see the staircase again, if it’s all right.”

  It is. “Have a nice time,” they say kindly and laugh. Their footsteps disappear along the pavement in the direction of the woods. She remains standing just inside the front door. The wall is yellow at the bottom and white above, and the banister is a mousy grey. She stares blankly at it all.

  A moment later she is back behind the wheel of her car on her way to her speaking engagement. She empties her mind of everything other than what now lies before her. She is so used to it that this slow and gradual evacuation of thoughts proceeds entirely on its own. Her empty stare registers the road, the cyclists, and the car behind her, but she pays them no heed. It could all be an uninteresting film she was watching while half asleep. She isn’t really present, is neither here nor there, nor anywhere else. But turning into the parking lot in front of the library she emits a snort of laughter that tears her from her soporific state, stumbling suddenly over a recollection that’s been hidden away, forgotten all these years.

  By the time she got home that evening after the road accident and her first encounter with Ove, she was ravenously hungry. She went straight to her fridge and found a hunk of rye bread and what was left of her cheese. No more had been taken since that morning. The door of Bodil’s room was wide open and she could see Bodil herself sitting huddled at her desk, the light from the lamp shining in her waxy, yellow curls. She was making a funny noise. And Mie, who was still being wafted along by the day’s sustained and resplendent effusion of caresses and tender lovemaking in Ove’s tiny flat on Bruuns Gade, as though she had not yet stopped making love with him at all as she stood there with the cheese in her hand, went in to say hello. She found her drinking oatmeal soup through a striped straw, her back hunched as she sucked.

  “What are you doing?” Mie asked. Without sitting up or putting down her straw, Bodil looked at her and bared her teeth, revealing a crisscross of wire and little screws.

  “God, I’d forgotten. You’ve been to the dentist’s,” said Mie. Bodil replied by emitting a series of sipping and sucking noises.

  “What?” said Mie.

  “It’s her jaw,” Annie called out from the kitchen, appearing then in the doorway. “Her jaw!” she repeated solemnly. “Her jaw’s been wired together. She’s on spoon food for the next three weeks.”

  “How awful,” said Mie.

  “Awful!” Annie repeated.

  Now, twenty years later, on this contented evening, with the past appearing to her in such forgiving light, Mie thinks this: “I wasn’t as alone as I thought.” And she decides that when she gets home she will write to Annie. It can’t be that hard to find her on the Internet. She won’t send a long and detailed letter, just a postcard with a few short words.

  TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH BY MARTI
N AITKEN

  [FINLAND]

  MIKKO-PEKKA HEIKKINEN

  FROM The Destruction of the Liquor Store in Nuorgam

  “The Dogs Down South”

  THE WORST ARE THE ASS-EYES on the short-haired dogs. They stare back bare at the stranger walking along behind, stare arrogantly, as that curly little tail twists the sphincter oval-shaped.

  That ass-eye says: Watch me, human. I can shit any time I want, plop in the path of your fixed-gear bike. I can shit smack where your vintage Nike’s gonna land. I can speckle the sidewalk. And there ain’t nothing you can do about it. My owner cares more about me, his dog’s butthole, than he does about the vital functions of say that drunk passed out over there on the pavement. I’m untouchable. You don’t believe me? Give it a whirl. Touch me. The dog’s owner’ll clock you in the jaw. What, you don’t want to test it? Okay, then, watch how I squeeze out a squiggly brown spiral on the Boulevard. Who’s gonna stop me? Sometimes I locomote it out like lava. I got all the time in the world. God, look how crowded the trams are today. My, my, how the trees over there in the old church park have grown. Now it’s done. The dog steps daintily to one side. The owner has a plastic bag on his hand like a glove. He bends down and scoops up my shit. The owner, who lives in fucking Punavuori, picks up my shit with his fingers. You see, human?

  These ass-eyes wink at you in the tens of thousands in Helsinki. No one knows the exact number, because no one keeps track of mongrels. Tens of thousands of scraggly, sugary animal assholes, in apartment buildings, row houses, detached houses, high on Royal Canin farts.

  There’s no way this many anuses operating on animal instincts won’t leave their calling cards. Brown skidmarks on designer sofas, silk sheets, paper rugs, haute couture dresses, mink furs, motorized leather seats. Doggie anuses answering the call of nature meet random doggie noses at street corners in every season. Wet snouts then eskimo-kiss infants that non-family members are not allowed to touch without disinfecting their hands first. Having given the baby the treatment, the dog and its asshole take possession of the living room from the easy chair. All through business hours the beast barks at the barren apartment. Forget how hard the breeders have worked to turn a herd animal into a stuffed animal. The endless yapping in cheap prefab apartment buildings exasperates the neighbors, but even if they complain to the authorities, the owner cares as much about that as if the beast is visibly suffering, you know, because its fur’s been shaved off, its snout’s been amputated, its nostrils’ve been tied in a knot, its eyeballs’ve been sucked up out of their sockets. The only sad thing is that the critters weren’t built to take their own lives.

 

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