by Helle Helle
‘You’ll have to come and see me sometime,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I’ll do a turkey stew. I’m good at turkey stew,’ he said.
I went to the bathroom. I had no idea what the time was. The good baker’s at Central Station had cream buns for Lent, I’d planned to get one on the way home and hoped I wouldn’t forget. I splashed water on my face, then remembered I was wearing foundation and dabbed myself dry with a paper towel. It didn’t matter about that bun. But I’d get the next train, if there was time, or the one after that.
Hase had got more beer in when I got back. There was no way I’d be able to drink it, I didn’t know how to tell him. I steered myself down onto my chair. Madame Bovary was gone, probably in his rucksack. He sat with his head in his hands, his hair flopped forward a bit.
‘Did you know I’m a poet now?’ he said.
‘A poet?’ I said.
‘Yeah, since November. The nineteenth, to be exact,’ he said with a small grin, and scratched his throat. He’d started going to a poetry club in the autumn where it was open mic, at first he’d just sat and listened to the others, but then in November he’d plucked up the courage and put his name down to read. His hands had been so sweaty the paper got wet while he was waiting for his turn. The poem was called ‘Fugue for Meat’. He was already out of breath as he made his way up to the little stage, he was on after an elderly man in a leather hat. It was a funny thing about those leather hats. Whenever there was something arty on there would always be at least one. Not that he’d call his own poem art. The organiser took the microphone and introduced him.
‘And now we’re going to listen to Poet Hase.’
‘Poet Hase,’ I said.
‘I know,’ he said, and we laughed. The reading had gone down well, everyone applauded.
‘I’d like to read that poem,’ I said.
‘No, you wouldn’t. It’s no good.’
‘But they applauded.’
‘They always applaud,’ he said, and took a slurp of his beer. I did the same, the afternoon went, and in the evening we had cajun food on the second floor, gumbo and pecan pie. After that we went to the Irish pub. We spent all our money, and somewhere along the way I forgot my carrier bag with the hair slides in it, but that didn’t matter much. I could buy some more the next time. They weren’t very expensive.
36.
I was sleeping a bit better at night. I’d found a technique of sitting up yawning for an hour before going to bed. I let fresh air into the bedroom, and when I got under the covers I repelled intrusive thoughts by saying ‘Right you are’. I still kept waking up a lot in the night, though. As soon as I found myself thinking the thought that I was awake, I knew I might as well get up. I went and got a glass of water or a piece of bread and sat in the front room looking across at the station. Sometimes there was a light on in the flat, I took it for granted it was Knud who was up. He had so many worries about his future. In principle he would have given his girlfriend whatever she wanted, she’d always been there for him one hundred per cent, she’d literally saved his life, he said. She’d fetched him home from Cosy Bar when he’d passed out in a corner and had lost his shoe. The biggest problem was her coldness, he said, she could be so cold. His own body was burning hot, it was one of his best attributes. He could really warm my bed up, usually it was freezing. When I was on my own and couldn’t sleep, I carried the duvet into the utility room and draped it over the boiler. Then I would lean up against the radiator in the front room and sit in the dark looking out. One night I saw a movement over by the bushes in the light from the lamp post. I put my bread down and went and opened the door. I padded a little way down the path in my bare feet, I was just about to say something soppy. Only it wasn’t Knud’s white dressing gown, this one was green, a little puff of smoke curled in the air around it. His girlfriend was standing with a cigarette, she heard me and turned round.
‘Oh, hi,’ I said.
‘Hi,’ she said, and took another drag.
I didn’t know what to pretend I was doing there on the garden path. I breathed in and out. My breath was white, the air was so cold it hurt inside my nose. I made to go inside again, but then she spoke to me.
‘I don’t smoke,’ she said.
‘Oh, right,’ I said.
A few moments went by. I looked up at the sky. There wasn’t much to see.
‘I can’t sleep,’ she said after a bit.
‘Me neither,’ I said, but she didn’t seem to be listening, she closed her eyes.
‘I’ve got to be at work in four hours, we’ve got performance evaluations, I’m absolutely knackered,’ she said.
She had pyjama pants on under her dressing gown and a pair of furry boots with suede laces, I’d got some the same that I’d bought on the Strøget.
‘That must be hard on you,’ I said, a bit indistinctly, I had to clench my teeth so they wouldn’t start chattering.
‘Anyway,’ she said as if she was about to go, only then she stayed put. She took a drag on her cigarette then tossed it away.
‘I’ve got the same boots as you,’ I said.
We both looked at them, she didn’t answer. She gathered her dressing gown. I was frozen stiff by this point. I ventured a smile.
‘Well, I’d better go back in where it’s warm.’
‘I’m sorry if I gave you a fright,’ she said.
‘No, it’s all right, you didn’t.’
‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘Don’t worry about it, really.’
‘Okay.’
‘Right you are,’ I said with a nod, then turned and went back in to what passed for warmth. I took the duvet off the boiler and scrambled into bed. After a long time the Gedser train came clattering through, so it was half past five. I got up and made toast and put some coffee on. I looked across at the flat. At half past six a light came on, first in the living room, then in the kitchen, then after that someone opened the bathroom window. At quarter past seven the light went off again and another one came on downstairs in the ticket office. I fell asleep at about half past eight and woke up well into the afternoon, but it didn’t matter. I had no plans.
37.
Hase sent me a postcard inviting me over for turkey on the Sunday evening, not stew, but a leg. It’s in the fridge and it’s huge, he wrote. We were going to eat early and then go to the open-mic night at the poetry club in town. He would expect me around six. He’d written his address down one edge, down the other he’d written WE’RE WAITING FOR SOMEONE in small capitals. There was a photo of an owl on the front, I thought it was quite exotic. I went to the bookshop and the supermarket to find a card I could send back with a reply, but all they had were novelty and birthday cards with pre-printed messages. I made my own instead, from the cardboard backing of an A4 notepad, I frayed the edges and used a black marker pen. Then I decided to shade the letters, but that only ruined it. I ended up finding an old Christmas card at the back of a folder, there was a little sparrow on it, so it was a good match for the owl. I wrote in pencil, casually and with a light hand, then more distinctly at the bottom: BUT FOR WHOM I WONDER. I thought better of that bit later on when I couldn’t sleep, and then I couldn’t sleep at all. It was Friday, music was coming from the pub, upbeat jazz and a chorus of raucous voices joining in on a repeated line, bitter-sweet something. It had me missing Knud. I tossed and turned, eventually I got up and went into the front room, but their flat was all dark. I cut a couple of slices off a cob loaf and listened to the radio. I sat by the lamp and tried to write a poem. I wanted it to be called ‘Novices’. Someone coughed heavily outside in the street, a rattle of mucus. It was a group from the pub, off to catch the last train. One of them caught sight of me and waved, a little man with a beard, I waved back on a reflex. They all waved then, and carried on until they disappeared round the other side of the station building. I felt uplifted, I sat there with a smile on my face. When I went back to bed I kept seeing all their waving hands
in my mind’s eye and thought about the gesture. The fact that raised hands could make you feel wanted, special almost, even if you weren’t. Just as you were sitting there in your slippers behind a single pane, with a shaky stanza in your head.
It really was a huge turkey leg. He hadn’t got round to putting it in the oven when I arrived, he’d fallen asleep in the afternoon. He didn’t wake up until I rang the bell just after six, he could hardly get himself together. His hair was dishevelled, there was a red blotch on his cheek.
‘How stupid,’ he said.
We were standing by the worktop. It was a nice kitchen, he had plants in the window behind the sink, a fern and some chives, and a cuckoo clock above the fridge.
‘It doesn’t matter. What a funny clock,’ I said.
‘It’s kitsch,’ he said, and I nodded.
‘Oh right.’
Then I looked at the leg again.
‘Can’t we just put it in now?’ I said.
‘Yeah, let’s. I don’t suppose it needs more than an hour.’
‘That’ll be fine, then.’
‘Yeah. We can have some wine while we’re waiting.’
We sat down in the living room, he took the sofa and I got the old wicker chair with the blanket. He’d lit a candle in the windowsill, the flame flickered. Muffled sounds came up from the street, cars and a horn, a voice shouting, another shouting back. Then came a sharp hiss that stopped abruptly.
‘That’s just someone getting air,’ he said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘From the bike shop.’
‘Oh, I see. Aren’t they closed?’
‘Yeah, but it’s outside.’
‘Oh right,’ I said.
We drank the wine I brought with me. It was French, something with Michel in it. It tasted okay. I sat thinking I ought to stop saying oh right all the time. He drew his legs up on the sofa, there was a hole in his sock.
‘Are you writing at all?’ he said.
‘No. Are you?’
‘Yeah, but nothing good. I sit up half the night with it and never get to bed.’
‘I know how it is.’
‘Do you?’
‘No, I meant not sleeping.’
‘Oh right,’ he said.
The blotch on his cheek had gone, only now it felt as though my own cheeks were flushing like mad. My glass was nearly empty, I leaned forward and filled it up again. I filled his too, and we drank.
‘Are you cold?’ he said.
‘No. Just a bit.’
‘Put the blanket around you, if you want.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Nice floorboards you’ve got.’
‘My brother did them. Sanded them down, that is.’
‘Oh right. He did a good job,’ I said.
He found a packet of penne in the kitchen, we were both really hungry and the dinner was taking for ever. There was a good smell from the oven, but the leg was still raw inside, he’d just had a look. We tucked in to the pasta and had another glass of wine. I had a feeling it was late, but it didn’t seem like we were in a hurry.
‘Are you going to be reading tonight?’ I said.
‘No. I’ve got nothing to read. Are you?’
‘You must be joking.’
‘You never know.’
‘No, but I’m looking forward to listening. I’ve never heard anyone read before.’
‘Haven’t you?’
‘Only Ib Michael.’
‘Yeah?’
‘He came to our school.’
‘Oh right.’
‘Have you noticed we both say “Oh right” a lot?’ I said. He looked at me and smiled.
‘We do, don’t we?’ he said, and we had a good laugh about it, we couldn’t stop, and then we drank the rest of the wine. There was a really good smell of roast turkey now. He realised he’d forgotten the side dishes, we were meant to have a rice salad, but he hadn’t even started it yet. He skidded out into the kitchen on his sock with the hole in it. I went with him, but he’d only got brown rice, it needed forty minutes to cook.
‘Any idea what the time is?’ he said, and I shook my head. I looked up at the cuckoo clock, but it was only for show. ‘It’s quarter to eight,’ he shouted from the bedroom, we had to get going. I turned off the oven and took the leg out. I put it on the hob, it was spitting fat. We pulled our coats on, his keys jangled as we went down the stairs. When we got outside he took my hand and we ran left, zigzagging between some people with suitcases before crossing the road. Then he stopped. He didn’t know which bus we had to get, he was always on his bike and didn’t know the routes. The air was cold and damp, I thought it might rain.
‘We’ll get a taxi,’ he said, and stopped one almost straight away, all he did was hold up his hand. We were out of breath when we got into the back, we began to laugh again. I could smell the turkey on our coats. I told him, and he sniffed his shoulder.
Apart from us there were only five others there, including the man in the leather hat and the two organisers. They stood on the stage with Cokes in their hands, they looked just like each other, both of them short-haired and wearing jumpers. Hase went to get us some wine. The leather-hat man and a girl at the table nearest the stage sat hunched over their papers. A young couple in black coats came in at the last minute, each with a carrier bag. They sat down quickly. Then the lights were dimmed and a spot lit up the stage. Hase came back with two glasses of wine just as one of the organisers stepped up to the microphone and welcomed the evening’s readers and the audience. The girl at the front table was going to read first, she had ordinary jeans on. She adjusted the mic. Hase whispered that her poems had recently been accepted by a publisher. She had finely shaped eyebrows and said she was going to read a poem dedicated to a friend from Sweden. She stood and breathed for a bit, then she began. Her voice was deep and calm. My eyes filled with tears nearly straight away. At first I blinked madly, then I just let them go. She read three poems in all and used the word substance more than twice. I sat completely still in the dim light. When she was finished, she smiled and nodded and went quickly back to her seat and we all applauded loudly. I sniffed as we clapped. Hase leaned forward and looked at me. I took a sip of wine and when I put the glass down he stroked my arm.
Later, after the readings, we went somewhere else, to a cafe with big windows facing the street. We bought peanuts and a whole bottle of red wine. I could see myself behind his back in the mirror on the wall. My face was streaked, but it didn’t matter. We talked about living in Copenhagen and about writing seriously, he said next time I should read something for him. I said I might be able to remember something off by heart. As we walked along Vesterbrogade much later it started to rain. We stood under an awning outside a jeweller’s and then I recited some of what I remembered. Afterwards he put his arm under mine and led me across the street, my legs were a bit wobbly. We went back to his and opened another bottle of wine, we had the turkey leg with bread and butter. I fell asleep on his sofa with the blanket over me and didn’t wake up until mid-morning. There was a note on the coffee table, he’d gone to the dentist’s and I should make myself at home. Before I left, I wrote on the back of it: See you, lots of love.
38.
Much to my surprise, the front garden had come alive with white and yellow crocuses peeping up from the tiny lawn and under all the bushes. The sun was out and I swept the path. The ten o’clock had just gone, a lone passenger had got off and trudged past with her bag. She nodded towards the lawn.
‘What a lot of life.’
‘Yes, isn’t there?’ I said, and smiled at her. Then I saw Knud on the step of the station building waving me over. I left the brush and ambled across. He folded his arms in front of his chest.
‘Fancy a coffee?’
‘Yes, why not.’
‘Come on, then,’ he said, and I followed him through the back door into the little office behind the counter. He pulled me to one side and began to kiss me on the throat and then my neck.
&n
bsp; ‘Do you want something to go with that coffee?’ he said in a breathy voice, and I did. I looked out of the window at the platform, there wasn’t a soul.
‘The next one’s not due for fifty minutes,’ he said, his trousers already down.
‘That can’t be right. There’s one any minute.’
‘That’s a through train.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since today.’
‘Is there a new timetable?’
‘No, it’s just for this week.’
‘How come?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody tells us anything.’
‘But what are people supposed to do?’
‘What people?’
‘Passengers.’
‘There aren’t any. There never are for the ten-twelve.’
‘Never?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Suppose I wanted to get on?’
‘You never go that way.’
‘No, but what if I did?’
‘Well, you couldn’t,’ he said, and then the train came. He was right, it was a through train, it whistled past with its long trail of carriages. A white carrier bag flew up from the platform and settled again a bit further away.