by Helle Helle
We had the coffee afterwards. I sat on the edge of the little desk and looked across at my bungalow. The windows were all open, I’d wanted to get some air in all of a sudden and freshen the place up, it was the same reason I’d been sweeping the path. There were some clothes soaking in the bath, tops and socks that would dry on the line in the back garden. He sat on the swivel chair and put his hand on my knee.
‘You’re up early today,’ he said.
‘No earlier than usual.’
‘You sleep later, normally.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘You’ll be having yourself a nice long snooze now,’ he said. I slapped his hand, the one he had on my knee, and he slapped back. He gulped some coffee, then he wiped his mouth.
‘I’ve applied to become a guard,’ he said suddenly. ‘You haven’t? What sort of a guard?’
‘On the trains, of course.’
‘Starting when?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ve applied, that’s all.’
‘It sounds like a good opportunity.’
‘Yeah, I think it is.’
‘You won’t be able to keep an eye on me all day from the office, though. You’ll have to make do with looking over from the flat,’ I said.
‘We’d have to move as well,’ he said.
‘Move? Where to?’
‘Looks like Høje Taastrup, at the moment. Hanne’s from there originally.’
‘I see,’ I said.
‘Are you upset?’ he said.
‘Not really. I’ve got nothing against Høje Taastrup.’
‘You needn’t be. It won’t be until summer. Perhaps we can write to each other.’
‘Ha, ha.’
‘What’s funny about that?’ he said with wounded emphasis, it made me feel sorry for him, his firm, triangular body on the swivel chair with his polo shirt untucked. He ran his fingers once through his hair. I smiled at him.
‘Nothing. Of course we can.’
When I got back to the bungalow the door had blown shut. I stood on the step and rattled the handle, my key was inside. It must have been the draught, all the open windows. I fetched a rusty garden chair and placed it under the bedroom window. I opened the window all the way and wriggled my way over the ledge and straight into bed. I decided to stay there. I wasn’t really upset, it was just the abrupt change of situation, from standing with him inside me to sitting apart and being informed about Høje Taastrup in the space of a few minutes. As he’d predicted, I slept well into the afternoon, then when I woke up I went out and picked a handful of crocuses. I went over to the station with them, he was cashing up, his girlfriend was standing next to him in her baggy jumper. They both looked up at me in surprise, I handed her the flowers.
‘Here,’ I said. Her face softened and her mouth widened slightly.
‘What are they for?’ she said.
‘I’ve got so many,’ I said.
39.
My savings account was empty. To keep my spending down I’d started taking a packed lunch with me to Copenhagen. I ate on a bench on Axeltorv looking across at Scala. They’d put tables and chairs out now, when the weather was nice people sat with burgers and ice-cream sundaes. I saw nothing of Hase. I’d sent him a postcard from the Bicycle and Moped Museum thinking it was better than the last one, but he hadn’t replied. I had a sandwich or a pitta bread with me and some water in a bottle. After I’d eaten I sometimes went into Scala and bought a bag of pick ’n’ mix, the smallest I could get away with. I walked up and down the Strøget and went round the narrow streets behind Rådhuspladsen, then along Vesterbrogade with my canvas bag hanging down at my side. It went dark brown in the rain. They sold cheap ankle boots next to the Føtex supermarket. I found a pair in my size and wore them straight away, they put my old shoes in a bag for me. Vesterbrogade seemed endless. I bought a big chocolate-covered marzipan bar at an overpriced kiosk. There was a hint of warmth in the air, it swirled between the buildings and rose up off the pavement. A man cycled past with a lamp, a woman called after him. I dumped the bag with my old shoes in it in a bin where the street came to an end. Then I went back along the opposite pavement. I turned right down Enghavevej to the bicycle shop and went up to Hase’s. I rang his bell, but there was no answer. I pushed the marzipan bar through the letter box, it landed on something that sounded like a newspaper.
Back on Vesterbrogade I discovered I’d got a blister on my heel, but it was too far to the bin I’d dumped my shoes in. I might not have liked rummaging around for them anyway. I limped along bit by bit. At Central Station I went into the chemist’s for some plasters. There was a long queue and I missed the four o’clock. I waited for the next one by the stairs to the platform. I bought a hot dog and a small bar of nougat that I ate on the train. I sat falling asleep with my head against the window. The curtains always had the same smell, fuel of some kind, or tar.
The sun was low at the end of the road when I hobbled home from the station with an ankle boot in my hand. The postman had been, there were three letters. One from the bank telling me I was in the red. One from someone I didn’t know saying Dorte had gone into hospital with what you weren’t supposed to call a nervous breakdown any more. She was feeling a lot better now and I wasn’t to worry. I could go and see her, there was an address and a ward number, and two hundred kroner in a square of tinfoil. And then a postcard in a thick envelope from Hase, it was from Prague, he was there with an old friend. He was coming home on the Friday and wanted to take me round Søndermarken on the Saturday if I felt like it. That was tomorrow. I sat on the step and felt unstuck. The ankle boot was on the doormat, I still had the other one on. I sat like that for some time, trying to separate things. If I smoked I would have smoked. I did want to go to Søndermarken.
40.
Dorte was sitting in her room on the ward in a woolly jumper and a pair of jeans, all the way there I’d been picturing her in a hospital gown. She sat at a little table with a mug and a cigarette, and looked up when she heard me come in.
‘Oh hello, love. How nice of you. Come and sit down.’
There was only the one chair in the room. She got halfway to her feet, but I shook my head.
‘No, don’t get up.’
‘Are you sure?’ she said. Her clothes hung miserably from her frame. She sat down again with her cigarette.
‘You sit on the bed, then,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ve not brought anything.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘That’s all right, then. There’s some peppermints in the drawer, do you want one?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘There’s chewing gum as well.’
‘No, thanks. How are you feeling?’
‘Oh, coming along, I think,’ she said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Just coming along, that’s all.’
I looked out of the window. There was a big lawn and flowerbeds with blue perennials, and birch trees with still, bare branches. Beyond lay the fjord, white and calm as a millpond. The bus I’d taken had gone right along the edge, the only passengers had been me and two young girls. They kept sniggering about something one of them had in her bag.
‘Who sent me the letter?’ I said.
‘What letter? I don’t know about any letter,’ said Dorte.
‘There was two hundred kroner in it.’
‘That’d be Andy, then. He’s been such a help.’
‘Is he from England?’
‘No, he’s in the kitchen.’
‘Here, you mean?’
‘Yes, you can go and say hello.’
‘Okay.’
‘You should.’
‘I will, then.’
‘Yes, do. Look out for his cheekbones,’ she said.
He wasn’t in the kitchen, he was in the lounge wiping the windowsill with a cloth. He turned and smiled.
‘Hello, there,’ he said.
‘Hi. I’m here visiting Dorte. She’s my aunt,’ I said.
‘Oh, so you�
�re the one,’ he said, pulling off a rubber glove and extending his hand. ‘Nice of you to stop by.’
‘Thanks for sending that letter.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘How long’s she been here?’
‘Oh, ten or twelve days. She’s coming along fine now.’
‘She seems a bit confused to me.’
‘Do you think so? It might be the medication. She’s not off it yet.’
‘Why was she brought in?’
‘She was in a state. Not very well at all.’
‘Had something happened?’
‘No, nothing in particular, as far as I know. Sometimes it just happens, bang.’
‘How did she get here?’
‘As I understand it, your parents came with her. At least, I think it was them.’
‘I’m sure,’ I said.
‘Could that be right? I can ask to look in the record.’
‘No need,’ I said. ‘Thanks for helping her and everything.’
I went to the bathroom and drank some water. Everywhere was so clean and deserted. Dorte’s mug was empty when I went back to her room. I poured her some more coffee in the corridor and some for myself. There was some Battenberg on a plate and I took two pieces, one for Dorte and one for me. I got her to have a bite and talk about what happened.
‘I’d just made a tuna mousse, with gelatine. And then I dropped the whole lot.’
‘You poor thing.’
‘On the floor, you know. I didn’t know what to do.’
She shook her head.
‘I just stood there looking at it. Odd, don’t you think? I couldn’t move. There seemed to be tuna mousse everywhere. Then I felt so frightened.’
‘I understand.’
‘Do you? Anyway, the shop’s going to be so nice now, your dad’s going to paint it for me. It’ll brighten the place up no end. And your mum.’
Before I left we sat on the edge of the bed together. We looked out at the white fjord, she leaned her head against mine.
‘Are you getting on all right?’ she said.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
We spoke very softly, we were sitting so close together.
‘Have you got exams?’ she said.
‘Now, you mean? No, not yet.’
‘That’s nice. You can take things easy, then.’
‘Yes, I suppose.’
She patted my thigh, then her own.
‘I’ve been meaning to give you these trousers. They’re no good on me any more.’
‘I think they’d be too small for me.’
‘Do you think so? We’ll have them let out, then.’
‘I didn’t think you could let jeans out.’
‘Oh, yes. You can put a gusset in.’
‘That’s kind of you.’
‘I can’t very well do without them here, but once I get home they’re yours. Proper Levi’s they are, from Bilka.’
‘Thanks.’
‘We could do a Bilka trip one day.’
‘Yes, we could.’
‘I’d like that.’
When I reached the stop, the bus had already gone eight minutes earlier and there was an hour and a half until the next one was due. The gulls soared silently over the fjord. I started to walk, I wasn’t bothered.
41.
All through April I stayed in Glumsø. I slept when I could. I ate, and sat at my table. In the afternoons I’d go for a walk. I walked further and further along the road before turning back. I never came across anyone I knew. The grain was growing in the fields now, skylarks ascended in bursts, the plum trees were in blossom. A new charity shop had opened next to the bookshop, I was there every other day, rummaging through the bins. It was mostly tablecloths and pillowcases they got in, not at all like in Copenhagen. I bought a length of material with lemons on it, but ended up throwing it out. Knud stood on the step in the sun in his breaks, he waved across at me. They’d already started clearing out and packing. They’d taken an old bookcase apart, it stuck up out of the skip in the car park. I put my rusty garden chair out under the apple tree in the front garden and sat there turning brown to match. Sometimes I saw a face looking at me from the window of a train.
There was an intense exchange of postcards with Hase, starting with one he sent me from Søndermarken. Seeing as how you never came, he wrote. I’ll be coming soon, I replied. Do, he wrote back, I’m looking forward to seeing you again, I’ve got an extra bike and a trench coat, we’ll go to Hvidovre and watch the lights come on. I’d rather sit on the back, I wrote, then I can hold on to your trench coat, I’m not keen on cycling in the city. Sounds good, but Hvidovre’s not the city, you’ve a lot to learn, he wrote, and then after that: I’ve met someone you should meet, she lives in Vanløse, that’s not the city either. She wants to look at our work with us. She’s nearly a proper writer, she goes to a writers’ school. You’d never believe it, but I met her in Scala. What work? I haven’t got any work, I wrote. She can meet with us on May the tenth, he wrote, she’s got room in her diary then. It would mean a lot to me if you came, I’ll buy you a beer, a big one.
It turned out she preferred coffee. We sat at the same table where I bumped into Hase the first time. His hair was long now, it suited him. He tucked it behind his ears whenever it fell down in front of his eyes, it made his face seem narrower. His eyes were a very bright blue. I hadn’t noticed they were that blue before. It might have been because he’d got such a tan. It had been sunny every day for three weeks.
‘You’ve got a tan, Hase,’ I said.
‘That’ll be the sunbeds,’ he said with a laugh, and she laughed too. It was a giggly laugh and I joined in.
‘Ha, ha,’ I said.
‘No, actually I’ve been sitting in the courtyard reading a lot lately,’ he said.
‘It’s lovely that courtyard,’ I said.
‘Yes, it is,’ he said. ‘Then last Saturday I was at Nyhavn all afternoon with an old friend of mine.’
‘Your trumpeter friend?’ I said.
‘Do you play the trumpet, Hase?’ she said.
‘He couldn’t if he tried,’ I said with a laugh, and Hase laughed too, he shook his head, his hair fell out from behind his ears again.
We were going to go through the fugue poem. Hase had made copies for us and we sat reading it to ourselves. She sipped her coffee while she read. Then she needed to go to the bathroom. She smiled and got up. She took her bag with her.
‘How come you don’t like her?’ said Hase.
‘I do like her.’
‘I think she’s very perceptive.’
‘She’s a bit smarmy. With that hair, and everything.’
‘It’s just her style.’
‘I wouldn’t call it that,’ I said, and he sucked his cheeks in and leaned back against his trench coat. I tried to concentrate on the poem, I put a couple of exclamation marks in the margin with my marker pen and underlined something else. She came back from the bathroom. She’d put lipstick on, a dark red. She giggled as she sat down again.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’m not a poet myself.’
‘No,’ said Hase.
‘What are you, then?’ I said.
‘I write prose.’
‘Short prose,’ said Hase.
‘Other things as well,’ she said.
‘You mean short stories?’ I said.
‘No, short prose. And other things as well,’ she said. ‘But I really think this poem has a lot going for it. You’ve worked hard on the cadence. You should cut down on the adjectives, though.’
‘Yes, the pale hand is probably overdoing it a bit,’ said Hase.
‘That’s one example,’ she said. ‘Try seeing what happens if you use hand on its own. It might be enough. Usually you can make do with a lot less.’
‘There’s got to be some flesh, though, surely?’ I said.
‘Not if there’s no need,’ she said. ‘That’s how I work, anyway. I’m always asking myself why does this have to be there
, why does that have to be there? And if I can’t find a reason, it goes.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said. Hase nodded.
‘I suppose that’s the best advice I can give. Lots of things sound good, and anything can go into a text. Anything you like. But there has to be a reason. Anyone can have a funny little man in a hat wander in.’
‘Or a budding writer. Or a woman on a moped,’ I said. Hase looked at me.
‘Exactly,’ she said.
‘I’m not sure I agree with you on that,’ I said. ‘Sometimes things happen.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But that’s only in reality. And here we’re talking about fiction.’
She was meeting someone on Havnegade at four o’clock, so it was a brief appraisal. We both got up and shook her hand, Hase went to the counter and got two large beers. I looked out onto Axeltorv. There were flowers in the hanging baskets now, they looked like the ones in Haslev. People sat around chatting or stood looking at the water sculpture. Hase put a glass down in front of me. It was filled to the brim.
‘Just the two of us now.’
‘Yes.’
‘Now we can have a beer and catch up.’
‘Yes,’ I said and took a big sip. Now that we were on our own again I felt relieved and more at ease.
‘This ought to end at the Tivoli Gardens,’ I said, putting down the glass, and he smiled at me over the rim of his own.
‘It’s all in your hands,’ he said.
42.
I wrote too much about that doorway. Where I stood with a picnic basket full of kitchen utensils. Where I looked out at Knud. There he was, walking down the middle of the road to the station with my tartan suitcase. I followed on behind him, the air was warm and mild.
He put the suitcase down on the platform, then turned and raised his hand in a wave. I raised mine too.
‘Thanks for your help. Best of luck,’ I shouted.