Baboon

by Naja Marie Aidt

  “Hell of a husband,” he mutters. I lean over the counter and grab the cell phone. But he must have snuck up behind me because when I go to press the numbers, he tears the phone out my hand. He’s right up close, his eyes narrow with his upper lip pulling back a little.

  “I should beat the shit out of you,” he hisses. Sebastian pulls my hair. “Just call,” I say, exhausted. Out of nowhere, Anne lets out a yell. I reach for the phone again and try to pry it out of his hand. He lets go and it drops down to the ground and he lays his big hand on my shoulder. “Give me the boy and piss off.” I lose my balance and nearly drop Sebastian. He must have pushed me hard. “Dad?” says Sebastian. His voice is weak and well-behaved, he’s scared. I turn around and look at Anne.

  “Who is this person?” I ask. She gives me a grim look.

  “It’s Sebastian,” she says, and I can tell that this startles the boy, who’s still on my shoulders. “Do as he says. Get the fuck out of here.”

  Sebastian takes hold of my head with both hands, I feel his warm breath all the way down my ear canal. “I want to go home,” he whispers.

  “Come here, Seba,” says Anne getting up. “Come here.” She moves closer with outstretched arms. “Come and get an ice cream from Sebastian, he’s the one you’re named after.” Her face is twisted into a crazed grimace.

  He looked a lot like an ape, standing there with his broad chest and hairy arms. He stepped forward and pointed suddenly, threatening me with his short fat finger. I walked backward, then started to run. He didn’t follow us. When I looked back a little later, I thought I saw him standing in the middle of the road kissing Anne deeply, pulling on her ponytail. I also thought that I could hear her mooing like a cow, maybe it was him, I’m not sure. We reached the main road. Sebastian was silent and stiff. I didn’t say anything either. Tine’s white breasts and the small dark nipples. The fat finger pointing right at the soft spot between my eyes. I was sweating heavily and was startled when I heard myself gasp.

  It was nearly dark before a car finally picked us up. Sebastian was for the most part fine. The doctor examined him, the nurse tried to make him to laugh. He didn’t say a word. They glued his wound together, and sent us home. You were sitting in the dark by the window when we got back to the summerhouse late that evening. You hadn’t even fetched the dog.

  SUNDAY

  It was completely still on the terrace in front of the house where Iben was sitting on a bench with her back against the wall enjoying watching the children bounce on the trampoline. She could hear Peter shouting something, making the children squeal with delight. It was such a beautiful day. The September sun crashed down from a cloudless sky. The cat snuck under the bench. They had all sat there eating breakfast a little while ago, and now Kamilla was inside doing the dishes with the girls. Iben closed her eyes and leaned her head back. She remembered a sad and pretty song that always made her cry with joy when she was young. She whistled the opening lines to herself. Then someone was pulling on her sleeves. It was her son wanting to go down and throw stones into the pond at the far end of the yard. She got up and took him by the hand.

  Mosquitoes swarmed over the water. She threw a stick in and told the boy that it was now sailing out into the wide world. But the boy replied that it would never come up from that mudhole again. The girl bounced light as a feather up and down on the trampoline. Peter stood near them smoking. Then Kamilla came out on the balcony with a camera. “Smile!” she shouted. Iben and the boy went over to the others, and then all four of them looked up at her. Peter made the children say cheese. Kamilla suggested that they go to the bakery to get some pastries.

  They put both children in the carriage. The neighborhood was abuzz with Sunday and late summer; people were busy with garden work and afternoon coffee, a group of teenagers played ball, and some younger boys sat in an apple tree and threw rocks at a small group of girls playing hopscotch. The strong orange afternoon light made everything look clear and almost surreal. Peter’s brown eyes shone like illuminated stained glass, and she began to wonder about the yellow spot she thought he had in his left eye, which he definitely once had, but that she hadn’t noticed in a long time.

  “What a day!” he said, pushing her to the side so he could take over the carriage. “And here we are taking a stroll,” she said. “Yeah,” he said, “here we are taking a stroll.”

  The bakery was closed so they had to go to the gas station at the other end of town. They walked in step side by side. They talked a little about the older girls. Iben said they should probably start thinking about birth control for the oldest one. “For Christ’s sake, she’s only fourteen!” Peter said, raising his voice. Iben told him that the youngest one was still lagging behind in school and was getting terrible grades. “You have to go over her homework with her more,” she said. Peter snorted, “Birth control!” She looked up at a poplar tree and caught sight of a squirrel. She counted to ten slowly to herself. A large BMW was parking in front of them. “They’ve got too much fucking money around here,” said Peter, stepping testily to the side as the car backed over a large puddle. “We’ll never have that problem,” she said. Then he stopped at the hotdog stand and got the children hotdogs with ketchup and relish. He bought a hamburger for himself. She had a bite, and he wiped ketchup from her cheek. They shared a pint of chocolate milk. “Like the old days,” he said, with his mouth full of relish, “before we learned how to cook.” “When we lived on fried cod roe,” she said. “With mushy potatoes,” he said. “Yeah, and that was because you insisted on cooking them in the down comforter, like your mother taught you, but you can only make rice pudding that way.” Then the girl began to cry and he pulled her out of the carriage and swung her around. That scared her and she gulped down most of her hotdog. Iben hurried to walk ahead. It was such a beautiful day.

  They stood in the convenience store at the gas station, each with a child in their arms—he wanted a lemon pound cake and she, a marzipan cake. They ended up buying both. On the way back, he wanted to have a cigarette. “Why didn’t you buy some yourself?” she asked. “I didn’t think of it,” he answered, as she rooted around in her pocket for a match. She sighed. He began to hum an old pop song, and soon he was screaming it at the top of his lungs. People in their gardens turned to look at them. The girl fell asleep. The light grew deeper in color, redder, and she said she heard that at some point people who are dying blaze up, become their old selves again, full of energy, so that their loved ones almost think that they’re about to come around, and then suddenly they die; this feels unexpected and so it comes as a big shock. Peter threw his cigarette over the wrought iron gate. “That’s what they deserve,” he said. “Did you hear anything I said?” she asked. “Rich bastards!” he yelled. The man passing them on the path in a polo shirt and tan trousers stared condescendingly, first at them, then at the worn carriage, which they had bought for the older girls.

  When they got back to Kamilla’s house, the girls came bounding up the garden path. The eldest smacked the garden gate into Peter’s stomach. Kamilla came walking across the lawn with a coffee pot. “They’re going down to get the dog at Madsen’s,” she said. “What the hell is the dog doing at Madsen’s?” Peter asked. “They used to have a dog salon, Peter. You know that Mom and Dad always got Bonnie trimmed there.” Peter looked at Iben with an expression that made her laugh hysterically. “Peter! It’s a terrier,” she said, miffed. “It needs to be trimmed once in a while, and Madsen does it on the cheap.” Iben took the boy out of the carriage and walked a little ways away. “A terrier!” she heard him say, and she began to titter and pushed herself forward in order not to laugh outright. She could feel that Peter was watching her. She heard him laugh loudly. “You two!” said Kamilla, who was disappointed about the pastries. She had been looking forward to cream puffs. And it was cold now, even though all three of them were wrapped in down blankets. Iben still didn’t dare to look at Peter. Laughter stirred in her throat, for a moment she was afraid she’d begin
to cry. The boy stuffed a large piece of lemon pound cake in his mouth. The girl sighed in her sleep. Peter said, “Can you take the girls next weekend? Dorte’s parents are coming to stay with us.” “Poor you,” said Iben, wiping the boy’s mouth. He was busy pulling apart a dead flower. A cold wind blew the petals onto the grass. She had finally gotten control of herself. “I thought you were coming to Aunt Janne’s birthday on Sunday,” said Kamilla. “Sorry,” said Peter, shooting Iben a look, who suddenly had to put her hand to her mouth to hold back the laughter. Kamilla leaned back in the chair. “How long have you two been divorced?” she asked. “Seven years in November,” said Iben, looking at Peter. “Isn’t that right?” He nodded. “Seven years in November,” he repeated. The sun shone right in his eyes, and she finally caught sight of the yellow spot in the brown. She felt strangely relieved. She knew it was there somewhere.

  THE HONEYMOON

  It was Tim’s eagerness and boundless spontaneity that got them to set out up the mountain in the midday heat. The Greek landscape, which Eva never cared for, appeared more hostile and parched than ever. The stone pines and wild olive trees dangled out over the steep slopes like helpless mourners, and the pervasive smell of thyme made her nauseous. But Tim wanted to see the women’s town, Olympus, which lay at the top of the mountain. And so they drove up in the old, beat-up car he had rented from an American woman who reminded him of his mother with her flowing robes and wrinkled, sun-ravaged skin. The muffler rattled over the gravel road. Eva kissed Tim on the neck. He looked at her. Their faces lit up in radiant, knowing smiles. He let his hand glide up under her yellow cotton dress. Her thighs were warm and damp from sweat. But a little while later, when Eva insisted they pull over, Tim took a picture of her bare bottom as she squatted to pee; she jumped up and ran after him, trying to pull the camera out of his hands, she was furious, but he just laughed and ran up the road, managing to take another picture: She’s standing, legs apart, shouting with her mouth wide open as she points menacingly at him. Behind her you can see a silvery-green wild tangle of vegetation and the dusty black car. The left side of her face is lit up by the sun. One of her straps has slid down her shoulder.

  She got in the car, slammed the door, and swore that starting now she would not talk to him for at least half an hour. He shook his head and sped up. He laughed and said she was a Fury. He said he loved her. But Eva would not give in. They were both thirsty, but they had finished their water long ago. Small stones from the road kept shooting up and hitting the car as they drove and after a while she began to feel crazy from the racket.

  Then suddenly a man stepped out of the bushes and stood in the middle of the road with his arms raised over his head like a priest calling for prayers and devotion. His voice rose and fell, almost as though he were singing. His full beard was impressive. Long matted hair stood out like a lion’s mane around his reddish-brown, dirty face. His eyes shone wildly from their deep sockets. He was tall and dressed in rags. He had obviously been living out in the wild for a long time. A savage. Eva had read somewhere that you can find out everything about a person by how he or she reacts in a panic situation. Tim did something strange: he sped up and drove right at the man. The man just stood there. Eva thought she heard herself scream. Then Tim slammed on the brakes and the car swerved to the side. The man was hit, but apparently not seriously; he raised his voice and moved toward the two in the car.

  “And they inclos’d my infinite brain into a narrow circle.

  And sunk my heart into the Abyss, a red round globe hot burning.”

  Eva rolled the window up and locked the door. Something fluttered in her field of vision. She thought she heard herself whimper. Tim tore his door open and got out, agitated. He walked toward the man, who continued to stretch his arms toward the sky. Tim screamed in his face. The man then started to move. And now the fluttering was right in front of her, his ragged sleeves, the hands gesticulating madly, and then that terrifying face, the burning insistent eyes that were almost ice blue. He pressed his nose against the windshield. She turned her head away. He scratched on the glass with his long curled nails.

  “Stampt with my signet are the swarthy children of the sun;

  They are obedient, they resist not, they obey the scourge:

  Their daughters worship terrors and obey the violent.”

  Eva could see that Tim had gotten ahold of him and was trying to pull him back. The man shook him off with the same ease a cow swishes a fly away from its anus, and she freed herself from the seat belt and crawled over to Tim’s seat, but in the next moment, the door opened from the outside, and she saw that the man was now shoving himself, torso first, into the car, shoving her in front of him, squeezing and pushing. An acrid, disgusting smell of unclean human being, of excrement and urine, filled her nose. She fumbled desperately with the lock, but he got ahold of her cheeks, forcing her head right up against his. He rested his forehead against hers. She shook her head hysterically, and now she was completely certain that she heard herself howling.

  “By gratified desire by strong devouring appetite she fills

  Los with ambitious fury that his race shall all devour.”

  He pumped and hissed the words out of his stinking mouth. She could hear Tim yelling something incomprehensible in the background, and she caught a glimpse of his eyes; now the rage was replaced by an empty anxiety. The man groped her all over her body.

  He felt her with his hands, grabbed her thighs and squeezed them, shook her shoulders, pulled on her earlobes, scratched her scalp, stuck his thumbs up her nostrils, his stiff dry hands went all over while she howled and lashed out and tried to break free of the colossally large person. And then suddenly he let go of her. He let her go and looked at her almost tenderly. “Follow me O my flocks we will now descend into the valley,” he whispered. He lifted his index finger up in front of her, in warning, or simply to mark the stillness. Then he gave a slight arrogant nod and pushed himself snorting out of the car. His gaze burned in her eyes. Tim stood glaring with a stick in his hand. The man straightened himself up, breathed in deeply and noisily, then exhaled lightly into a slouch. He walked away from the road and up the mountain until he vanished behind a yellowish-gray, jutting cliff. They both noticed that he limped. Eva could not move. One thought stood still in her head: She was certain that the man recited William Blake, the English poet. As a teenager, she had learned some of his poems by heart. She recognized a couple of stanzas from “Visions of the Daughters of Albion.” But, she thought, and her thoughts were clear and cool, he had quoted randomly and out of sequence. When she lifted her head and looked, Tim had thrown the stick away and was rushing over to pull her out of the car. When he got hold of her hands and called her name, she forgot about the thought she’d just had; hysteria crashed over her like a tall, dark wave.

  She hit him in the face when he tried to hold her. She uttered small sounds of despair that made him think of young birds, chicks, and mice. She headed back to the car, hunched over with her arms dangling from her body. He stood puzzled in the middle of the road, noticing how distorted her face looked. From where he stood he couldn’t tell if it was because she was crying. Her hair was a mess. He gasped. A stab of pain ran up through the back of his head. Then he got in and sat down next to her. He eased the car back onto the road, and drove on in silence. The man’s smell still hung in the air. She kept on brushing off her clothes and rubbing her skin. Tim put his hand on her knee. A powerful inner shaking made her start to tremble. Tim quickly figured out that it would be longer to go back to the coast and the hotel than to Olympus, and so he continued on upward. The car rumbled and grumbled, and small rocks hit the car with a noise that to her now sounded like a volley of gunfire. She stuck her fingers in her ears and doubled over. Tim glanced nervously at her. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound foolish. He was relieved when at last he caught sight of the town. A large parking lot functioned as a sort of city gate. Relaxed tourist
s sauntered between the souvenir stands eating ice cream. “We’re here,” said Tim, gently removing Eva’s hands from her ears. He had to lift her out of the car. She didn’t resist. He could not help noticing how compliant she was.

  The town was smaller than he thought it would be, and it had a strange atmosphere. He felt they were being laughed at from inside the dark restaurants, whispered about and pointed at behind their backs. He asked Eva if she wanted anything to drink. She shook her head. They walked like sleepwalkers through the town, he with his arm around her back, she with a bent head and slack arms. They passed a small, whitewashed church and were suddenly at the town’s outskirts. A flat area of sun-dried grass opened out in a half circle toward the bright horizon. And suddenly he could see the sea far below. Primitive houses and huts were scattered further down the mountain, and then it suddenly dropped off. A herd of goats grazed with tinkling bells around their necks. The light was sharp and white. And it was dizzyingly steep. She sat down in the grass. She lay down. She closed her eyes. He shook her lightly. She didn’t move. A little while later, she looked like she was sleeping, her mouth was open, she had turned her head to the side, and bent one knee. Small sweat beads broke out on her forehead, she was ash-gray. He shook her. When she didn’t respond, he let her rest and decided to go find something to drink. He found his way back to the small gravel road that was the main street of the town. The restaurants and taverns stood side by side. The town was slowly waking up after the siesta. Clearly the women had all the power here. He and Eva had read about it. The whole island functioned as a matriarchy; the order of succession went from mother to daughter. The women owned everything, whatever was worth owning. And here he saw it in practice; in any case, that’s what he thought. The women ran the businesses with an iron fist. They gathered outside the shops and bars, standing in small groups with their hands on their hips, and, with agitated hand movements and loud shouts, they bossed around the older boys and men who had snuck in to take a break from working. Old men with little children on their hips, boys in the middle of sweeping or carrying in goods, men dragging heavy bags home from the shops, men sweeping the stone steps, men washing dishes in the kitchens of the restaurants, whose eyes he met through the open windows. The women frightened him. There was a self-confidence in their eyes when they looked at him that he’d never seen in women before. A clear strong energy, a power, and the deep satisfaction that that power gives. Without undertones of either anger or vindictiveness. No disdain or cloying sweetness. No hint of a wish to be accepted, acknowledged, or liked. Now he was completely sure that they were laughing at him. He was starving and went into a tavern. He ordered wine, bread, and small sour dolmas. A few children played noisily at the back of the bar. The waiter was apparently their father. Five or six elderly women sat on the veranda facing the valley, drinking coffee. They spread themselves over the chairs, one had her legs up, and they chatted away. Tim could not stop himself from scowling at them. They stared back unabashed. He felt strangely exposed. The oldest one yelled to the young waiter. He chased the children out and brought cake and ice water to the women. Tim ate his food quickly and left a good tip. It was a relief to get out in the warm air again. He bought a bottle of water, a postcard of the church, and a package of crackers. Three young women stood in the middle of the road with a screaming baby in a stroller. They looked him up and down shamelessly as he walked by. One of them gave a low whistle, and when he turned, all three smiled lewdly at him, pointing and laughing out loud. He suddenly had the feeling that it was a kind of play the whole town performed in honor of the visitors, putting on this performance about the matriarchy, everyone playing their parts so that the gaping tourists got what they came for. The exotic. Women over men. It was simply a lie. The men thrashed their wives in the evening when the town was quiet and dark, the girls made dinner, cleaned, allowed themselves to be impregnated, allowed themselves to be worn. The men gambled their money away at the card table at night. The thought reassured him. And filled him with shame. He walked back to Eva.