Baboon

by Naja Marie Aidt

  Baby B doesn’t calm down until ten minutes after they’ve been driving, and Signe and Andreas hold their hands over their ears and stare accusingly at Mia as he screams his head off. She has a bland taste of fat and weak coffee in her mouth. It’s going to be dark soon. She thinks about how she’s looking forward to lying close to Nikolaj’s body. How nice it’ll be to get there, and how they’ll all have a good vacation after all. She thinks that they’ll have to get a doctor to look at Andreas’s foot. She looks down at her white folded hands. And she feels her heart skip a beat when she lifts her hand and puts it on Tobias’s shoulder. She gives it a squeeze, he turns halfway and looks at her confused with his dark eyes. That’s when her phone rings. A voice says it’s about her mother. She’s dead.

  CONFERENCE

  It’s strange to meet you here, after so many years, and to still feel disturbed just being near your body. The way you’re settled in the chair like a big contented animal, like a large wild cat licking itself in the sun, or an elephant bathing in a river, like a person resting on top of another after pleasurable sex, it has an intimidating and shameless effect on me. My complete attention turns toward you and I’m unable to relax. It’s as if I am overflowing my banks.

  The rhythm of my heart became irregular. I froze. I sweated. I was unable to control my facial expressions. A thin man, who kept taking off and putting on his glasses, lectured, apparently about economic growth in the Far East. You were sprawled in the armchair in front of me and I could see the nape of your neck, the light skin of your throat, your strangely rounded thighs pressing against the black fabric of your pants, and your thick wide hands relaxed in your lap. I could see your breathing in your back, how it blew you up a bit, how your shoulder blades slid away from each other a little before coming together again. And the whole time I saw you in front of me naked. It frightened me, like a kind of obsession, something inevitable: a clear image of your whole body standing in my bedroom, a smile slowly spreading across your face and then your head sliding back at an angle, really enjoying it, while your red and blue prick shines wildly between your legs. The whole time I saw you naked, sitting in that armchair in front of me reflected in the mirror hanging on the wall in front of you, when I saw you smile at something someone said, or when I saw you close your eyes, pressing them shut in an odd grimace. That’s also disturbing: the way you take up so much space; the way you always make those grimaces whenever you’re with complete strangers. But I’m no stranger. And I am a stranger. It’s been so many years that we’ve definitely become strangers to each other, but we’ll never be complete strangers to each other. That’s what makes it so unbearable. It made me sick just looking at you, and yet I can’t look away. Then you slide your hand up and rest it on the back of your neck, lightly supporting your large head, completely relaxed. You turn your face so that I can see your nose, a little of one eye, half your mouth, the wrinkled but surprisingly moist skin over your jaw. And in the mirror on the wall I see the other side of your face, where the skin of your jaw is tight and smooth because you’re turning your head slightly to the other side. Perhaps someone has said something funny. Because now you laugh out loud, hoarse and unabashed, your mouth opening, and even your teeth I know, every one of them, the wet gums, and the brown discoloration at the back of your bottom teeth. I’m shocked. Your laughter shocks me. It feels like an animal has snuck up on me and suddenly it’s close, ready to attack. I accidentally utter a peculiar sound from deep within my throat. I adjust myself in the chair, pressing my hands between my thighs. You’ve thrown your leg up over the armrest, and now you swing your foot and shin rhythmically back and forth. Your shoes are black and shiny. I can see your socks. The leg is swinging. Your hand leaves the neck and reaches for the coffee cup on the table in front of you. Your lips purse together as if to kiss and slurp from the cup. You bend forward, putting it down again. Loudly you clear your throat. A muscle begins to twitch just above my knee in a painless spasm. And now I suddenly notice how cold my feet are, almost numb, at least the toes are, way down in my thin boots. And now I notice how warm my face is, it must be red and blotchy, there’s throbbing behind my eyes, and my mouth is dry. When there’s a break a little while later, I get up carefully, noticing how stiff my legs are when I walk the few yards to the table with water. I spill some as I pour it. Your gaze on my back. No doubt unintentional. I stumble out of the room and sit on the toilet breathing fast for a long time.

  During lunch you come over to me and ask a few simple questions. It’s been a long time. How’ve you been? Your gaze searches in all directions as if you were dreaming with your eyes open. I hear myself answer. I pour some whole milk in my glass. You say something else and laugh. You lay your hand on my shoulder and give a little pull before going over to your seat at the other table. I drink all the milk. It stings where you had placed your hand. As if you had made an imprint on my skin. And that’s exactly what you’ve done. Like no one else you have made an imprint on my skin. I’m covered in scars. I’m not ungrateful to you. It’s one of my life’s great experiences. It’s hard to explain. It’s chemistry. And I remember it as a situation without willpower, which was certainly so full of will. For your flesh. Back then. The white cloth of the sheet clenched in my fist. Your hand lifting the cigarette to your mouth. The sound of water sliding down your throat. My own wide-open eyes. The skin on my back. When you bend over it. And this scent from you hanging in the air even though you’re now sitting several yards away eating quickly with concentration, quite civilized, but with a hidden, unruly greediness: the scent of dry tobacco before it’s rolled into cigarettes, the scent of perfume that’s nearly washed off, the scent of booze digested long ago, ecstasy that burned out long ago, and all that’s left is a little prickling nausea. That scent. Which I was drawn into. Which I adore. But not without resistance. Because I know so well that you bring imbalance. I know this deep within my body. Just like I know that I can’t tolerate milk. And that’s what made me so desperate and angry. There’s only you. And I vanished. It’s physics. It’s like a tree that moans when the branches rub against each other but they can’t move away. One of them wears out and it falls down, only to decay on the ground. It’s physics that determines which branch must surrender. I fell long and hard. Now you put the fork and knife down and suppress a burp. I glide my tongue over the slimy membrane the milk has left in my mouth. My hand lies heavy and relaxed on the table. You bend toward the woman next to you and say something to her. She smiles, confused, and looks at you with large eyes. I have a violent desire to cough. I fall long and hard, a gorge has opened in me down through the throat, rib cage, stomach, I tumble with the racing blood and see my entrails sweeping by. I come to the sizzling stomach and it whirls around in a maelstrom. Dissolving acid around and around. My eyes wide open. The hand squeezing the white cloth. I will shout something hurtful and inappropriate at you. And then I feel at last I can cough. But it turns out that I throw up. I straight out throw up. All over the table and myself, it must’ve been the milk. I hear a loud ringing in my ears, and then I breathe in with a wheezing whistling sound. Then it gets completely still. You wipe your mouth with your napkin and turn your head slowly slowly to look at me.

  INTERRUPTION

  When the doorbell rang in the middle of the day—it was a Wednesday, it was drizzling, he was listening to the radio and was about to start reading—he felt strongly that he was being interrupted with something important. It rang again. He got up, irritated, opened the door, and a woman forced her way into his apartment. She shoved him aside with a lot of force and before he knew what was happening she was in his living room, where, out of breath, she dropped down on the corner of the couch and began crying loudly in distress. He’d never seen her before. She looked like she might be from Thailand or maybe the Philippines. At first he spoke kindly to her, asking her what she wanted, what the matter was. When she didn’t respond he took her carefully by the shoulders and tried to pull her up. She slapped his face, yelled
something incomprehensible, and wailed as if in great pain. He stepped back in shock. And then grabbed her again, this time by the arm, harder, with more anger than shock; she gasped when he pulled. She bit his thumb. He grabbed her hair and pushed her to the floor. She flailed her arms and legs, he lay on top of her, she tried to stick her fingers in his eyes. She kneed him in the groin. He doubled over and let go of her hair and she crept back to the couch, where she again broke down and cried, now more like moaning and whining. He went into the kitchen. Down in the alley the super was sweeping. The pretty red-haired downstairs neighbor came up from the basement laundry room and stuffed a bulging garbage bag into the trash can. He closed the window. His fingertips tingled. It had become quiet in the living room. He stood in the doorway and watched her. His temple pulsed and it felt like everything was swelling up inside him. She had neither socks nor shoes on. She was slumped over and her eyes were closed. He thought she was sleeping and approached her carefully, wanting to get her out. She jumped up and pointed to the window. He followed her gaze. A fat blonde woman stood there looking up and down the street and then headed downstairs to the entrance of the basement and slammed the door shut. The woman gave him a confused look. “Bad woman!” she yelled, tapping on the window with her index finger. He resisted the sudden urge to grab her by the neck and squeeze hard by taking a deep breath. Then she flung her arms around his neck. She smelled of cheap perfume and sweat. He blocked his nose and tried to push her away. But she held on tightly. “Please help,” she whispered, “please help, big problem.” He went slack, feeling almost listless. Then she let her head rest on his chest a moment. She sat down. Her jaw fell open. Her teeth looked as if they had been flung into her mouth. Her feet were unusually small. She scrunched up her toes, as though she were going to pick up a pencil off the floor. “I go home,” she then said, staring in his eyes. “Yes,” he replied and sunk heavily onto the other end of the couch, “get the fuck out of here.” But she didn’t move. “Go home,” he said, nodding toward the door. She lay down. He could hear her breathing. Her shin brushed against his. A heavy truck drove by rattling the windows. Then he was unsure, maybe it was a bus.

  He went back to his books. He turned off the radio. He looked over his notes. He got up again and drank a glass of water. Headache. His eyes wanted to close. He felt dead tired. He looked over at the couch, and there she lay motionless on one side sleeping. He went in the bedroom, which was quiet and cool. He lay on the bed, but was unable to relax.

  Some time later he lay down on the bare wood floor. When he woke up he could hear banging in the kitchen. His back was stiff. The woman was in the middle of doing the dishes. Some water was heating in a pot. She gave him a big smile. He noticed that she had washed the floor and hung up clean dish towels. “Very nice,” she said, and nodded and smiled again. He shook his head in defeat. Then he pulled himself together, and with determination nudged her toward the hall. She didn’t say anything, but it was almost impossible to budge her. He didn’t get it, she was so small, he used all his might, and still there was an incomprehensible resistance from her; he huffed and puffed. When he at last got the front door open, she clung to the doorframe, and as he struggled to pry her hands loose, his upstairs neighbor, a real hefty guy, came down the stairs, and she began shouting. He couldn’t see any other way out, so he pulled her back inside and shut the door. She went right back into the kitchen and continued doing the dishes. He stood by the window. His stomach felt like a huge trembling hole. A stout bald man came up from the basement in the building across the street. He scratched his groin and unlocked his bike.

  The hole in his stomach now felt like hunger. He grabbed his jacket and went to buy some groceries. When he returned, she clapped and shrieked with joy; she took all the food out of the bag and started to cook dinner.

  Later in the evening he went out and got a good chunk of weed. He sat down on a bench by the lake and smoked. He went over what he would say if he called the police. He wondered if he could ask someone to help him get rid of her. The thoughts drifted away just as they arose. One duck swam around in the middle of the lake. The rain had stopped, the cloudless sky was bluish-green and light. When he got back, she was lying on the couch watching TV. She didn’t look up when he walked into the living room, and he didn’t say a word. He locked the bedroom door behind him, spread out on the bed, and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

  The next morning he had completely forgotten about her. The curtains fluttered a little. He had dreamed about the redhead—that he was fiddling with her ears—and he had felt calm and relaxed. He went into the living room to find his cigarettes. There she stood with one leg flung up on a chair. She was slathering herself with his moisturizer, and one of his towels, clearly wet, lay on a chair. “Good morning, sir,” she said with a huge smile. Her stomach was thick and she had short legs. A long scar twisted up from her pussy and continued past her navel. He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. The toothbrush was wet. He made do with rinsing his mouth. When he went to make coffee, he burned himself on the pot. It was full. She came running in with a wet cloth for his hurt hand and poured him a cup. She had also cooked rice and some egg concoction that had a smell that nauseated him, but she on the other hand was hungry. “You buy good curry, I make good food,” she said, nudging him. Then she laughed out loud. He went right up to her. “Listen,” he said intently, “today you will go home. I don’t want you here, do you understand? You have to go home.” “No, no,” was the only thing she said. A glimmer of a smile flashed in her eyes and disappeared again. “No, no, no.”

  It felt like ants were crawling in his veins. He had a hard time breathing. Down in the street the super was sweeping.

  He crossed the street and tried to look in through the tinted window in the basement. A “Closed” sign was hanging on the door.

  He met with some of his fellow students to compare notes, and as usual he was quiet, chain smoking; a great uneasiness paradoxically made him sit motionless, locked in the same position. He had to go to the bathroom but didn’t get up. On the way home after they were finished, Claes caught up with him. He heard him say something, but it wasn’t until Claes grabbed him and looked directly into his eyes that he understood what he had said. “What’s the matter with you, are you sick?” he said. “Are you sick?” But he couldn’t get any words out. He couldn’t say a foreign woman had moved into his apartment against his will. It sounded completely ridiculous. So instead he mumbled that he had stayed up reading most of the night. Claes kept staring at him. “You are sick,” he said smiling.

  When he got home, she was washing his clothes in the kitchen sink. She worked like mad. The clothes that she had already wrung out were hanging here and there from the furniture dripping. He saw that she had washed all the windows. And she’d put on a pair of his socks that were way too big. He came close to picking up a chair and smashing it right in front of her face.

  He bought curry. She was a pretty good cook. He taught her how to use the washing machine in the basement. He got her to be quiet while he was reading. But he still couldn’t concentrate. He got a blanket from the attic so that she had something to cover herself with at night. She cut her hair with the kitchen scissors. One morning he saw her grooming her pubic hair with his razor. And it was not until one Friday evening when Claes and Jakob dropped by unannounced and quite drunk, a complete surprise because they had never done that before, to see if he wanted to go out drinking, that it became really complicated. “You fucking better come out for a beer with us, you nerd.” “Hallo!” she chirped, waving the dish towel. He grabbed his jacket, and hustled them out. She followed them into the hallway and watched with sad dewy eyes. Then suddenly she turned on her heels and closed the door behind her. They stared at him mystified. “What’s going on? You have a girlfriend?” Down at the local bar, after they had ordered beer and were sitting at a table, Jakob said, “I didn’t know you liked foreign pussy,” and then Claes sprayed beer out of his mouth at him,
and they both lay over the table, screaming with laughter. He laughed with them. They ordered more beer. A couple of young women sat down next to them. He thought about the red-haired neighbor. One of the women pressed her thigh against his under the table. When Claes and Jakob got really drunk, a fit of vulgarity came over them. But then he also got drunk. “She could be my mother,” he yelled, “but I sure as hell don’t want to suck those sagging foreign tits!” The two women looked at him horror-struck. He saw himself clenching his fist and hammering down on the table so that glasses and bottles tipped over.