by Nils Schou
Wide-eyed, Boris sat in the rectory listening to Karen Blixen’s stories about Hemingway.
He later found out that everything she had told him was true; it was no African fairy tale, as she might have said.
Boris can write in any genre and has. Is he best as a poet, a novelist or a dramatist? It’s a moot question. However, there is universal agreement that he’s the darling of the gods and has been since his literary debut at the age of 21. The gods gave him talent, looks, charm, good health, an even disposition. Physically he’s built the way a romantic poet should be, tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick head of hair that he used to wear down to his shoulders when he was young. He was in the front ranks during the student uprising of 1968 and subsequently. He became a symbol of his generation. Compared to him poets who till then were said to represent the Zeitgeist suddenly became obsolete. To make sure no one was in any doubt he always wore floral trousers. He knew he too would become obsolete one day and looked forward to it. ‘When I meet my successor I’ll kill him.’
When the media wanted a statement from the world of Danish letters they would often turn to Boris. He could always be counted on to express an opinion that would create a stir.
When Boris walks down the street all heads turn in his direction. He’s always friendly and affable so it can take a long time to reach the end of the street. People stand in line to greet him. They can’t wait to comment on something he said or wrote. Some want his autograph or to have their picture taken with him. He’s that rare phenomenon, the literary superstar. This he enjoys to the full.
Puk was right when she decided that the four of us at the Factory should keep our personal contact outside the office to an absolute minimum. Boris is successful and success breeds envy. Boris’ personal friends pay a price. For some it’s a small price to pay, but not for others. Being friends with Boris is like being a member of a clan or a clique. You’re in danger of ceasing to be an autonomous individual; you’re merely a friend of the famous writer.
Boris did all he could to defuse the situation. He was not arbitrary, he was not self-absorbed. Nevertheless he was the flame that attracts moths and moths get burnt.
This posed no threat to the rest of us. We were careful never to be seen with Boris outside the office. We never went out for a coffee or to a restaurant with him, we never attended the same social events. When we met we always greeted each other pleasantly but slightly formally.
Puk had got it right. Our joint collaboration had to last a lifetime. Envy is a lurking pitfall. If any of us were envious of Boris’ success it had to be kept under strict control. The same rule applied if one of us was struggling with a problem the others could help with. No psychological ambulance service. No confidences. If we occasionally succumbed to the temptation to ask, ‘How are you?’ the answer was invariably, ‘Oh, just great. Thanks.’
That was why it took me so long to find out what was underway in the spring of 1981.
It began when a number of my fellow writers started lining up for an appointment with me in the Botanical Gardens. The first was Dan Turell. We were the same age and had met here and there. We had our first name in common. He was the real Dan. When people heard I was a writer and my name was Dan, they always said, ‘Oh, like Dan Turell.’ The real Dan was a highly sensitive, shy man. He had resolved not to be anonymous; he was going to be a famous poet. So he decked himself out in a wide-brimmed hat, brightly coloured clothes and nail polish. When he walked down the street people noticed him. It didn’t change the fact that he was an excellent poet and it didn’t make him any less shy. I myself have never been in the least shy. What did Dan Turell want to talk to me about? We strolled around the Botanical Gardens for three quarters of an hour. He smoked 7 cigarettes and I never found out what he wanted.
The same thing happened a few days later. Another colleague of the same age, Hans Jorgen Nielsen, wanted an appointment in the Botanical Gardens. We had met many times before. I was a great admirer of his. I didn’t tell him though. Like Dan Turell he was very shy. He was wearing a beautiful red jacket. We spoke a bit nervously about sports, pop music, haiku poetry and the Gastronomic Academy of which he was a member.
I never found out what he wanted either.
The third time was when Ebbe Klovedal Reich called to make an appointment in the Botanical Gardens. Another shy colleague hiding beneath a colourful façade. Another stroll in the garden, the conversation flitting between politics, architecture and mutual friends.
Not until we turned a corner and ran directly into Hans Jorgen Nielsen and Dan Turell did I realize anything was in the offing. I had no idea what direction it might take.
‘This is an ambush,’ said Dan Turell making a revolver out of his right hand.
The three colleagues looked at each other. They had agreed that Nielsen was their spokesman.
They had come because of a mutual friend, Boris.
‘What about him?’ I asked. ‘Did he send you?’
The three musketeers shook their heads. Boris didn’t know they had come. I had to promise not to tell him.
I promised.
Then they told me. They were here at the request of a woman they were all very fond of, Majken Suenson, Boris’ wife.
‘Why didn’t she just call me herself?’ I asked.
‘You’re the one that knows Boris best,’ said Ebbe Reich.
‘Me?’
Turell and Nielsen nodded. ‘That’s what Majken says.’
‘So? What’s up? Are they getting divorced?’
‘No, worse than that,’ said Dan Turell.
Then they took turns telling me what it was about. Majken had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She would tell Boris herself, of course, but there was something else she also had to tell him. While Boris had had a large number of mistresses over the years he could always count on Majken being at home. She was his anchor, his safe haven, mother of their three children. Boris loved Majken, no one was ever in any doubt of that. Now three of the husbands of Boris’ many women had taken an initiative. They wanted Boris to know that for all those years his wife, Majken, had had what they called a ‘friend.’ Boris had to be told that his wife had cancer and he also needed to hear that his wife had had a secret lover for all those years.
‘How do I come into the picture?’ I said. Even though I knew perfectly well how I came into the picture.
The picture was that Majken wanted to protect Boris. So she asked her good friends Turell, Nielsen and Reich for help.
I had stopped smoking many years before. The three colleagues were chain-smokers. They offered me a fag and we stood there on the path in the Botanical Gardens, puffing away.
My three fellow authors all talk very fast and I myself speed up in many situations. We were all talking at once, but we could hear what the others were saying.
We were sorry Majken was ill, but the idea of Boris and his loving wife, who even now wanted to protect the poet genius, made our collective blood boil.
To reveal what my colleagues said would be a breach of privacy as well as professional confidentiality. I can, however, relate what I said myself:
‘You devious sons of bitches! In a few minutes you’ll just walk out of the Botanical Gardens with a clear conscience. You’ve dumped the whole thing in my lap. You really are a bunch of assholes! I feel like shit!’
They completely agreed. They smiled, embraced me and hurried out of the Gardens.
Majken was right. I was the right man for the job. Majken is a realistic woman. She has a shop where she sells imported kitchen equipment with her sister and cousin. Being the wife of a lionised author is not easy. Being the wife of a man who’s always falling in love with other women doesn’t make it any easier. What Majken knew or didn’t know, or chose not to know, is something nobody knows, at least I don’t. The only reason I regret not being a personal friend of Boris is that I never see Majken.
Majken had now sent me a message through complicated channels. She knew of course
I wouldn’t refuse. For one thing, as she well knew, I was such a big fan of Nielsen, Turell and Reich that I would pay good money just to be in their presence. Any one of them could persuade me to do anything. And all three of them! I didn’t stand a chance!
I am a fairly cold person, at best my character is temperate. The situation did not cause me any great agitation or leave me in any doubt. I knew immediately what I had to do.
Many depressed people keep depression at bay by confronting the realities of a situation head on.
I returned to the Factory and did something I’d never done before. I knocked on the door to Boris’ office and went in. He was bent over his desk, his back to me.
‘We need to talk,’ I said.
He turned around. I could tell he knew I didn’t bring good news.
I told him then what I had come to tell him, what our three fellow authors had told me.
He looked at me and blinked. He kept looking at me and blinking.
Then he got up and put on his coat which was hanging on a hook on the wall. Before he left he waved the index finger of his right hand at me a couple of times in parting. We know each other so well he didn’t have to tell me what he was thinking.
For the next three weeks Boris and I met every evening in the neighborhood where Frederiksborgvej intersects Rentemestervej, in the northwest section of Copenhagen.
Boris and Majken had lived in a commune there during their first years together. We wandered the streets and always ended our session by having coffee in a café.
When people know each other as well as Boris and I do the most important thing is not what’s said but what’s not said. He knows what I think and I know what he thinks. We skipped the preliminaries and went straight for the jugular, the solution.
He said what he always says when he has a problem: ‘What does Amanda think?’
I knew what Amanda thought but, considering the state Boris was in, I had to discuss the whole thing with her thoroughly before presenting it.
Boris did the hard work himself. He knew what I would refuse to listen to: I didn’t want to hear the story of his life. I didn’t want to hear one word about the turmoil raging inside him. I didn’t want to hear how ridiculous he felt, like a spoiled child, a pompous writing fool. I offered him not one drop of understanding, empathy or forgiveness. I was my usual dry, unpleasant self, myself in fact.
He didn’t write a word during that time. He also became sexually impotent.
I refused to listen to that too. There were only two things I wanted to hear: What did he think of Amanda’s theories? How was he going to apply my theories on the Salinger Syndrome?
Both Amanda and Salinger caused him pain, I could see. He suffered and I let him suffer. Especially because Amanda and Salinger said pretty much the same thing.
They both raised the subject of Boris’s genitals, his cock and balls. Boris has written so much about his genitals that they’re a recurring element in the Danish Teachers Association’s notes to Boris’ work. Boris writes about sex. Sex is the source of his creative energy. One of his early mistresses called his genitals Fido and the Twins. Several times in the 1970s Boris appeared in films produced by his friends. Nude scenes were fine with him. That way everyone could admire Fido and the Twins, Laurel and Hardy.
Boris could only write when he was in love, sexually involved in his newest conquest. Everyone knew that.
Now Fido and the Twins had taken a hit. There was no need to bring Puk and Nora into it. They were red-blooded, red-stocking feminists. We knew what they thought. They were fond of Boris, but when it came to sexual politics they thought he was a jerk.
Amanda and the Salinger Syndrome had to find a way forward and out, instead of downwards into the hell of self-contempt towards which he was heading at high speed.
Amanda said Boris should unscrew Fido, put him in the freezer and wait for better times.
This was unmitigated cruelty, I felt.
Amanda pointed out that Boris used sex as a drug and should go cold turkey immediately.
But what if that meant Boris never wrote another word?
Amanda said: ‘Does he have to spread his seed over the whole town for his name to go down in literary history?’
Boris didn’t answer.
Amanda continued: ‘He who has sex with a thousand women has sex with no one.’
Boris mumbled something Amanda didn’t hear.
Boris did most of the thinking himself, Amanda restricted herself to raking him over the coals.
I brought up the only subject that really interests me, the Salinger Syndrome. Boris could see it coming. We both knew that was why we were spending hour after hour together around Rentemestervej.
Boris is a true artist. Whatever he experiences, whatever he sees or hears is translated into art. His system is never overloaded by too many impressions. He can’t experience enough.
My area of specialisation within Salinger Syndrome Theory is the how-to-please mechanism. It had worked perfectly for Boris until now. His soul was never in any doubt how to go about getting the attention and admiration he craved. He wrote, he charmed, he kissed, he hugged. His how-to-please mechanism got him more friendship, attention and love than anyone else in his generation perhaps.
Now it had all broken down. He held himself in the greatest contempt. When he read what he had written all he could see was an air of self-congratulation. When people greeted him on the street he felt he was being assaulted.
When he thought of Majken he saw himself as an overgrown baby, strutting about, his hand firmly grasping Fido.
Amanda and I quickly tired of watching Boris flagellating himself.
His self-flagellation took the form of claiming that self-flagellation was just as infantile as any other kind of sexual perversion.
That was when Boris touched bottom in his despair and slowly began to surface.
He did it with the help of the only thing I had to offer: a means of regulating the Salinger Syndrome’s how-to-please mechanism.
Boris sighed when he heard it. ‘That’s the most unsexy thing I ever heard in my life. You won’t mind if I start crying, will you?’
But it was the lever he needed to keep from drowning in self-pity and despair.
No more admiration. No more acclaim. No more literary prizes. No charming TV appearances. No in-depth interviews for the papers.
Then came the worst part, the part that hurt most, the part Amanda delighted in telling him. ‘No beautiful young women to seduce and conquer. No falling in love, no infatuations.’
Boris looked as though he was about to cry when he said: ‘No more sex?’
Amanda said. ‘Boris you’re not seven years old anymore. You have a wife you love. She needs your help. Try to think about her a little more and a little less about Fido and the Twins.’
Boris was crying in earnest now. He whispered: ‘You could have spared me that last remark, you bitch. Fuck you, Amanda. Fuck you to hell!’
FIFTEEN
Portrait of a Lightweight
One day Puk received a request. This was nothing new, Puk is always receiving requests. She never told us how the requests reached her, perhaps at a dinner party, or a friend of a friend may have called her.
Puk received a request from a woman writer who was encountering major difficulties in the novel she was writing. She needed help. It was a well known fact throughout the literary world that Puk was the one to see if you were having trouble with a novel. Puk would find the best man for the job.
Puk handed me a manuscript and asked me to read it. She’d only tell me who had written it if I accepted.
The novel was about the breakdown of a marriage. I had only read two sentences and I knew who the author was. The novel’s stumbling blocks were purely structural and easily fixed. I drafted my alterations and met with Tove Ditlevsen in the Botanical Gardens. She was 54 when I met her in 1971. She was a well known and much loved writer and editor. Before we met I had to promise two things:
never to tell anyone what she and I discussed, neither in writing nor verbally, and never to mention it in a private diary.
She explained why she felt so strongly about it. The letters she had written to friends and lovers over the years had been bought up by a collector. When she called the collector and reproached him she was told he had done it for financial reasons. He believed her current popularity would hold and one day she would be just as famous as Soren Kierkegaard and Hans Christian Andersen. He asked her if she realized what Andersen’s and Kierkegaard’s letters were going for these days.
I promised everything she told me would be in strictest confidence. That was easy enough because she told me nothing about her private life. I enjoyed that day in the Botanical Gardens. We discussed her manuscript; she approved my revisions.
Not until we were bidding each other goodbye did she mention Nora From, my dear colleague at the Factory, as she called her. She knew Nora very, very well, she said. But she always found it a little irritating when Nora was called the new Tove Ditlevsen.
‘For Christ’s sake! I’m not dead yet, am I?’
I replied that not only was she very much alive, she was also a very beautiful woman.
Then she told me something that made my blood run cold, and walked off.
Nora writes drama, film and theatre. She’s an expert at cliffhangers. The heroine is holding onto the edge of the cliff with her fingernails. While she’s hanging there the scene cuts to somewhere else. The spectators remain glued to their seats. They have to find out what happens to the heroine. Will she be saved or will she plunge to her death on the rocks below?
Tove Ditlevsen’s parting remark was just such a cliffhanger.
Cut to Nora.
The Factory rules stipulated we must never comment on each other’s work. Another absolute taboo was any mention of reviews, either our own or the others’.
For the fun of it we always concealed a wink at the others in all our work. For my part I always worked in the three others as secondary characters, disguised of course and under different names.