The sun is starting to go down, so I switch on the lamp above the table. My dad massages his eyes, takes his jacket from the back of the chair, and says that we’d better be going.
That evening his movements at the lighting desk are slow. I don’t know if the actors notice, they’re probably too busy remembering their lines. But I see it. His hands are usually resting on the buttons while he counts to himself or whispers the lines as they’re spoken on stage. Tonight his eyes are half closed and he forgets the cigarette in the ashtray. I smell the filter burning.
After the performance he kisses Sara goodbye and tells her that he’s tired. We leave the theatre together with the last members of the audience. There are tiny droplets in the air; they settle on my cheek, they make my hair damp. I ask my dad where we’re going.
“We’re just going for a walk,” he replies.
We eat at a hot dog stand. I’m still chewing my last bite of hot dog when my dad looks at his watch and says it’s time to go. The first newspapers come out just after midnight; he buys them from a newsstand at Hovedbanegården, Copenhagen’s central railway station. He also buys a pile of magazines, cigarettes, and a comic for me.
When I go to bed that night, my dad’s back at the table. I fall asleep to the sound of scissors.
The screen shows red deer in a forest, the leaves are yellow. A man steps out in front of the animals, he’s wearing green clothes, he fills most of the picture. He points to the red deer behind him. The volume of the TV is turned down, but it looks as though he’s whispering.
My dad goes from television to television, takes a couple of steps back, and narrows his eyes. He presses buttons, steps back again, and studies the screen.
He says: “Look at the colours.”
He says: “Isn’t that picture a little blurry?”
At last my dad takes out a white envelope from his pocket and empties it. The television we buy is big, my dad carries it home. A lock of hair falls in front of his eyes; he blows it away. I’m sad there are so few people in the street today. People who’d have to move out of our way, who’d have to step out into the bicycle lane. I wish they could see what we’ve bought.
I decide to watch TV all summer. I want to be ready for the school playground. I’m convinced that other children watch a lot of TV, that they watch TV nearly all the time.
I make rye bread sandwiches while my dad reads the manual. I hand him a liver pâté sandwich; he presses the remote control and mutters why won’t it work? He doesn’t get the television to come on until late that night.
From then on the television is on all the time. Mostly with the volume turned down, but when the news comes on, my dad turns it up so it’s just as loud as the televisions of the people who live around us. I could shout “Fire!” and he wouldn’t hear me. When the weather forecast begins, he drains his coffee cup and smiles at me as though he has just come in the room. He turns the volume down again; I ask him why he doesn’t turn off the television completely.
“Emergency broadcasts,” he says. “If something important happens, they’ll interrupt the programme with an emergency broadcast.”
He tells me to look out for them as well. Then he carries on with today’s newspapers.
I thought I’d enjoy watching children’s TV, but now I’m expecting every programme to be interrupted by a man in a suit announcing an emergency broadcast. I’m scared of sitting very still and not being able to call out to my dad if it happens, like in those dreams where the bear comes closer and closer and I’m rooted to the spot.
I practice. When my dad goes down to the kiosk for more newspapers, I shout “Emergency broadcast!” out into the room. When I go to the bathroom, I whisper it to myself. Just before I fall asleep, I say it into the blanket, Emergency broadcast.
My dad starts to tape his newspaper clippings to the wall. He rearranges them. He draws lines with a black ballpoint pen, arrows going both ways and winding their way across the wallpaper.
In nearly all the clippings I see the woman whose name is Monika, the woman we heard speak in the park. Her name is in big letters, she smiles down at us.
My dad says: “Just give me a couple of days . . . I could be wrong.” He draws another line with the pen across the wallpaper. “Perhaps the devil isn’t as black as he’s painted.”
“I’m hungry,” I say to him.
“Right.” He swaps two clippings around. “Why don’t you have a go at cooking today?”
“But what if . . . ?”
“Just give it a go. And if something catches fire, there’s water in the tap.”
I find saucepans and take out food from the fridge. The margarine sizzles in the pan. I drink a glass of water and pretend it’s beer. That night I cook spaghetti with fried raisins. We eat in front of the television. It doesn’t taste very good, but my dad clears his plate. “Delicious,” he says, never once taking his eyes off the screen. Tomorrow I’ll try adding some spinach.
I never cook the same dish twice. I cook rice with fried onions. I cook potatoes with cod roe.
I tell my dad that the fridge is nearly empty. He points to the coffee can on the kitchen table which has money in it.
I’ve been to the corner store before; a couple of times my dad has waited outside while I’ve gone inside on my own to buy an ice cream.
Now I stand there looking at packets of gravy powder that you mix with water. I see cans of fruit, peas, and carrots. Jaka Bov Pork Shoulder, it says on one of the cans. If I buy it, I won’t be able to carry much else, it’s that big. And it’s quite expensive. But you can fry the meat and eat it cold in a sandwich. I stare at the can for a long time until the grocer in his coat comes over to me and asks if he can help.
I jingle the coins in my pocket, afraid he might think I’m going to steal something. He merely smiles and moves on.
I stand by the till trying to count the money. I sweat on the one-krone coins; I’ve never had to count anything with other people watching me before, no one except my dad.
“Would you like me to help you?” the grocer says.
My dad has always said never mix money and people. Money makes people strange. And yet I put the coins on the counter. The grocer counts them slowly so I can keep up.
I fry the pork on both sides and put peas and carrots on top. Today I have dinner on the table before the news begins.
When they show something about Africa, my dad tells me to look away.
When they show something about the politician whose name is Monika, he holds a finger to his lips. The reporter asks people in the street what they think of her.
“I haven’t voted for years, but Monika gets my vote next time.”
I notice how most people call her “Monika” as if they’ve just been to her house.
Other people call her “the Swede” because her parents are from Sweden. It sounds like a nickname, but some people snarl as they say it: “That Swede thinks she can save the world.”
Monika doesn’t get cross, she laughs. “I don’t care, as long as they listen to what I’ve got to say.”
I like her voice.
I tell my dad that she seems like a nice woman.
“Yes,” he replies. “Yes, she does.”
He makes a note on a pad in front of him and then he turns his attention back to the television.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?”
The librarian seems to think it’s funny that I’m standing next to the bookcase labelled 64.1. The cookbook section. I feel like kicking him in the shin and running away.
“I cook dinner at home,” I say, but it doesn’t make the librarian stop smiling.
“We’ve some nice cookbooks over in the children’s section with really great pictures. Perhaps My First Cookbook would be . . .”
“Are these proper cookbooks?”
“Er . . . yes.” He
stays where he is, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “If I can be of assistance, just ask.” Then he’s gone.
I take the first five cookbooks on the shelf and carry them to the nearest table. I flick through them. I quickly discover that I prefer books with colour photographs so I can see what the finished meal is supposed to look like. I make notes on a piece of paper: how to fry a good steak, how to make a basic white sauce. I’ve made up my mind to be a good cook. I’ve tried putting too much salt into my dad’s food. So much that I couldn’t eat it myself. But he just shovelled it into his mouth without looking away from the television or up from the newspapers.
I’m not going to do that again. Now I’m going to cook good food from a real cookbook. “Cooking to make the angels sing” — an expression my dad sometimes uses when we’ve been out for dinner. It tasted so good it made the angels sing.
I return the books to the shelf. I take another one; it’s bigger than the first five and so heavy that I nearly drop it. I drag it over to the table. I’m only a few pages into it before I know that this is the book I’ve been looking for. It contains every dish I want to make: pork meatballs, beef stroganoff, sausage rolls, and onion soup. All with big colour photographs.
My dad’s sitting in the reading room surrounded by newspapers from the last couple of years. A small cave of paper. When I put the book on the table, he looks up from the newspaper he’s reading.
My dad turns over the cookbook so he can read the title, then he looks up at me. “You know we don’t have a library card, don’t you?”
Since we arrived people have gone up to the counter, boys and girls my age, grown-ups, and very old people clutching books with big letters. They’ve taken out books, lots of books.
“I can give you some money for the photocopier if you want to copy some of the recipes . . .”
“I really want to take this book home.”
I try not to cry. I don’t want to cry in the library. I can feel the tears coming, my eyes start to blur. I want to go to school like everyone else; I want to borrow this book. I try to say this to my dad, but only manage loud sobs.
He gets up. “Of course you can take this book home. Wait here.”
He picks up the book and disappears behind the bookshelves.
My dad’s gone a long time, I wonder if he’s getting a library card. Perhaps he’s talking to the librarian right now. Holding her hand.
When he comes back, he doesn’t have the book with him.
“Done,” he says, taking his denim jacket from the back of the chair and gathering up the newspapers. “Let’s go.”
When we pass the counter, the book isn’t lying there waiting for us. I’m about to say something, but my dad drags me out.
We leave the library and my dad rummages around the pocket of his jacket. I half expect him to produce the book like a magician, but all he takes out is a crumpled packet of cigarettes.
He carries on walking. I follow him around the library. My dad looks into the bushes and then he sticks his hand through the leaves. The cookbook appears. My dad brushes leaves and soil off the cover. Above us I can see the open window from which it must have come. My dad hands me the book.
I rummage around suitcases and cupboards; I even search odd places like the freezer compartment in the fridge and my dad’s boots in the hall. I keep looking, but I can’t find my lunchbox, my drinking bottle, or my ruler. None of the school supplies my dad once bought me.
“They’ve probably been misplaced,” he says.
“Misplaced” is code for things we’ve lost in between moves.
I wanted to lay them out on the kitchen table so they’d sit there every day to remind my dad of his promise that I can start school at the end of the summer.
My dad looks up from his clippings. “We’ll just buy some new stuff,” he says. “You should have new things, since you’re starting at a new school.”
We walk from shop to shop and I point out the items I want. We buy a new pencil case and pencils. We buy binding paper for the books I’ll be given on my first day. Today we don’t take anything without my dad paying. We buy a lunchbox and a metal drinking bottle. Then we move on to the next shop.
The lady shows us the shelf with school bags: green, yellow, red, and blue. I choose a blue one with space for my lunchbox and my gym clothes.
“We sell a lot of those,” the lady says. “It’s a really good rucksack.”
She takes it down so I can try it.
“Is that the one you want?” my dad asks.
I can tell from his face that he wants me to say no. I ask him if there’s anything wrong with it.
“Well, everyone will have one just like it.”
He makes it sound as if that’s a bad thing. A whole playground full of boys with identical blue school bags. The girls have red ones. Write your name on it so it won’t get lost. I keep my mouth shut and nod. I know he could easily talk me out of it. I adjust the straps: the rucksack feels good over my shoulders, I could fill it up with books and it would still be easy to carry. I don’t take it off until my dad has paid and we’re back outside in the street.
“It’s very nice,” he says. He zips it open and puts the items we’ve bought inside.
“Only one thing missing now,” my dad says. “If you’re going to continue cooking for us, you need the right equipment. If you want to bang nails into the wall, you need a hammer.”
The assistant in the kitchen shop unlocks the glass display cabinet with the knives for us. “If you look after them properly, they’ll last a lifetime.”
The shop assistant’s hand becomes a knife that slices smoothly through meat, vegetables, and fish. Then he leaves us alone with the knives. My dad takes them out, weighs each of them in his hand in turn. He shows me how you can feel their sharpness by running your fingertip very carefully along the blade. I can’t imagine myself with a knife like that in the kitchen; I’d be terrified I might chop off both my hands. My dad just laughs and says that dull knives are far more dangerous than sharp ones. With a dull knife you have to put all your weight into it, you end up leaning over the knife and that’s when they slip. That’s how they end up in your thigh.
My dad takes a bus ticket out of his pocket. It looks like a magic trick: one moment the ticket is whole, the next it’s cut in half. It barely touches the blade before it’s sliced apart.
This is the right knife; this is the one for us. The handle is made of dark wood, it’s broad and not quite as long as the others. He hands it to me. Even though the knife frightens me, it feels good in my hand, like a small sword I could use to slay a dragon.
The knife comes in its own dark wooden box. The shop assistant also puts a piece of cloth in the bag. It’s very soft and is the only thing you should ever use to dry the knife with.
My dad buys the smallest apron they have. All the chef’s hats are too big and fall over my ears.
He takes out his wallet and pays. When we bought the school supplies I was proud, but now I can’t help feeling a little nervous. The knife is expensive and I’m starting to see the bottom of the coffee can at home; it now contains only coins.
“I’m looking forward to my packed lunch,” my dad says as we leave the shop.
I forgot to bring something to drink so we go into a kiosk and buy a beer for my dad and a soda for me. We walk past several benches before my dad finds one he likes. I’ve wrapped our lunch in paper with an elastic band around it, like they do in sandwich shops. My dad’s salami sandwich has lots of mustard on it; apart from that they’re identical. He eats it in big bites and drinks his beer with it.
“Delicious.”
He licks his fingers. In front of us lies a palace fit for a king and queen.
“Christiansborg,” my dad says. “That’s where the politicians decide everything.” He wipes his mouth. “Or they think they do. We could go there on
e of these days and have a look around.”
There’s a knock on the door. I’m about to open it when my dad pulls me down with him on the floor. I sit on his lap.
“Don’t ever open it,” he whispers in my ear. “Don’t let anyone in unless you know who they are.”
There’s another knock, harder this time.
I point to the stove and my dad lets me go. I rush over and turn off the gas for my casserole with potatoes, sausages, and cabbage. My fingers are on the stove’s round knob when there’s another knock. It’s not a ghost, it’s just another human being, I’m almost sure of it. Fingers, hands, knuckles hitting wood. Even so, I rush back to my dad. He hugs me.
“I know you’re in there,” we hear through the door and I recognize Sara’s voice. “No, I don’t know if you’re in there. But if you are . . . just open the damn door . . .”
I can feel my dad’s arms around me.
“Open the door so we can talk.”
My dad covers my mouth with his hand. “She wouldn’t understand,” he whispers.
The words keep coming through the door, I can’t turn them off.
“I just want to talk to you. I do understand . . . no, I don’t understand anything. Please, just open the door.”
I can feel my dad’s muscles through his clothes; his breath is warm against my neck. “She won’t understand now. Later, perhaps.”
Sara continues to knock on the door.
“It’s never easy,” my dad whispers. “Remember Jonah? He kept on running and what happened to him?”
“Was he the one with the whale?”
My dad nods; I can feel it against my body. He holds me tight and we both nod, we rock back and forth on the floor.
Sara says: “I don’t care about the theatre, if you’re there or not, whatever the hell you’re doing now or if you’ve just decided to walk away from it all.”
A Fairy Tale Page 15