Baboon

by Naja Marie Aidt

  I grabbed her arm. “There’s absolutely no need to apologize,” I said, leaning toward her with a spontaneous tenderness for her that almost made me cry. “I started it.” Then she looked up at me and smiled. Now she looked almost transparent. “It’s been a long time since I laughed like that. Thank you.” In silence we ate our sandwiches, which had become cold. She poured more wine into our glasses. “You see, it hasn’t been easy since my husband’s death. But I’m beginning to understand that it also wasn’t easy when he was alive. I feel ashamed to say it, but it’s almost a relief to be alone.” She lit one of her thin cigarettes and leaned an elbow on the bed. She was nearly lying down. “I know exactly what you mean,” I said, “exactly. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Then she suddenly got up, stubbed out her cigarette, and said that she should go so that I could work and that she had already kept me from it for too long. I took her hand, it was warm and a little moist. I watched her walk down the hallway. Her bracelets jingled. She turned and waved. There was a strong scent of her cigarette and perfume in the room. I thought about opening the window but didn’t. She had pulled the cork out of the bottle like a man and succumbed to laughter like a little girl. I paced back and forth, emptied her wine glass, and felt like an animal in a cage.

  The following days flew by. I no longer remember the order in which things happened. But one night I forced my way into Ellen Parker’s room. I took off all my clothes. She stood paralyzed in the middle of the room staring at me in the dim light. “I thought…it can’t be true,” she stammered. “I was certain that you…were a man.” She gasped, holding her pearls. Then she put her hand on my chest. Gently, she caressed my wounds. “I almost believed it myself,” I whispered. Then I pushed her down on the bed. She trembled. We lay there with each other a long time.

  From then on we enjoyed the city together. We climbed up and down the narrow streets, taking in the view from different angles. I gave her the red scarf I’d bought in the bazaar. She gave me one of her bangles. Once she asked me about my injuries. I didn’t respond. Another time, about my work. I said that I’d finished it long ago. Ellen Parker was a shining light for me. The morning I left we exchanged tear-filled good-byes. She ran after the taxi as I drove away. I haven’t seen her since. But a year later I went to London and wandered through Kensington, imagining her life there. Her daughters and the grandson. Charity work, perhaps. Another wealthy husband, perhaps. When you’ve taken the life of another person, you see those who are still living in a different way. I never get tired of looking around.

  MOSQUITO BITE

  March

  On Thursday, he’d been out on the town all night. He was drunk. A woman with shiny high-heeled boots came on to him, and he ended up going home with her. He can’t remember if it came to anything more than some fooling around and sleeping. He simply can’t recall—did they have sex or not—it’s impossible to remember. When he woke up the first thing he heard was a strange scratching sound. Scratching and scraping and then a peeping sound as well. Something living was puttering around alarmingly near, and he froze. He opened his eyes. But it wasn’t until he came up on his elbows that he realized where the sound was coming from: at least forty hamsters were darting around in their cages stacked in a high tower, one of them rested its front paws on the chicken wire and was staring him right in the eye. He shivered. Then he heard a flush in the bathroom and the woman, who looked clearly older than he, staggered across the room, white as a sheet, drying her mouth with the back of her hand; she had likely been throwing up. She fell on the bed groaning and pulled the blanket over her. It smelled stale and sour. He hurried to get up and dressed. On his way out he noticed that the apartment was a mess, completely filthy. When he got out to the street, he had no idea where he was at first, but then it became clear to him that he was on the outskirts of Copenhagen. He felt fine actually. He bought a cup of coffee and began to walk toward the center of town. His sister was arriving home from London that day and they’d made plans to go straight from the airport to the summerhouse. It was drizzling. Quiet rain. Nice on the skin. He looked at his watch and picked up his pace. His thoughts lapped gently in his head: It was good that he was in excellent shape, that’s probably why he didn’t have a hangover. It was good that he’d gotten lucky. It was good that it was raining, and good that he was so horny, that meant at least that he had something good to look forward to. He crossed the Town Hall Square. A flock of greedy pigeons picking at rice on the steps flew up in a fright when he walked through them. Fifteen minutes later he let himself into his apartment in Christianshavn. Twenty minutes later he had showered and dressed. He boiled two eggs and packed his overnight bag. Then he squeezed a couple of oranges and warmed some milk for more coffee. He only had time to skim through the newspaper and eat his fill before he drove to the airport.

  He noticed right away that Charlotte had bought new perfume on her trip. He couldn’t figure out if the dominant scent was jasmine or orange blossoms. She looked good, fit. They hugged and he kissed her on the cheek. She laughed at his bloodshot eyes, and he told her he’d been out with the guys from his office and they had forced him to do shots. She stroked his cheek. He sped up. It looked like it was going to be nice weather. They talked about how he needed to cut the grass, and about their mutual friends who were coming for dinner and would stay overnight. They decided to make curried lamb with the meat they had in the freezer.

  She had bought new sheets in London. Sateen. And three pairs of shoes. The show had gone well for her. He turned up the soft, ambient music, she stopped talking and relaxed. Suddenly he remembered that the woman had been wearing a garter belt. Now he remembered that he had stripped her panties off her. It was going to be a wonderful Easter. Their brother and his children might come on Sunday. Then he’ll hide Easter eggs in the garden and be fun and avuncular. He smiled and looked for his sunglasses. The sky was cloudless and the spring light was so bright it almost blinded him.

  That evening they got cozy on the futon couch with their blankets. She had made cardamom tea. He watched the news on three different stations, she read magazines. They gossiped about their mother and laughed. He felt tired and warm.

  The next morning he went for a run on the beach. There was nearly no wind. The sand was wet from the rain during the night. He enjoyed the cold salt air, he felt strong and at ease and decided to sprint the final leg; lyme grass and sand as far as the eye could see.

  When he got back, Charlotte was setting out lunch on the patio. He did his exercises on a yoga mat in the hallway, stretching at the wall bar. They ate. He put more logs in the fireplace. She hummed in the kitchen while kneading dough. He rested. Then he went to cut the grass. The neighbor looked over the fence and greeted them. Charlotte waved from the kitchen; now she had a towel on her head and her face was covered with a white facial mask. She looked like a clown. When he was finished with the lawn he drank a cold beer. It’s useless to rake up clippings when they’re wet. Then they started to make dinner, and at six o’clock Stine and Jakob arrived with Emily in a bassinet. They both knew Jakob from elementary school, and he had also gone to high school with him. Charlotte had hung small gold and silver eggs from a bouquet of birch branches. The meal was well prepared and the wine, delicious. The women talked about Charlotte’s boutique and how difficult it was to find a good au pair. He told Jakob that he had to hire two casting directors for a new TV show on homes of the rich and famous. Jakob asked if people weren’t tired of such programs but he said that they’d found a whole new spin on the subject. At around midnight, when Stine and Jakob retired to the guest wing, Charlotte also went to bed. He relaxed in the living room with a glass of cognac and noticed the light from the kitchen pouring out the open door onto the wall bar in the entryway, illuminating it so that it shone, red and warm. And suddenly he saw Maja, his ex-girlfriend, leaning against it, one evening when she had been lying seductively on the bed, but he had wanted to take her standing. And so she held onto the wall bar with both hands,
and it was only because his thigh muscles were so strong that they could do it in that position. The thought had crossed his mind right before he came, and was maybe even part of the pleasure. He laughed at the thought, emptied his glass, and got up to do the dishes.

  The next morning was the first time he noticed the mosquito bite. It itched on his left buttock. He must have gotten it when he was cutting the grass. They waved good-bye to Stine and Jakob and went for a long walk. Charlotte said that it was so wonderful to take time off. She really needed it, moving the shop to a better and larger location had really taken its toll on her. She looked sweet in her green rain jacket, like when they were children. He could smell himself. They went through the pine forest, where it was dark and slate gray, the dampness rose from the ground, Charlotte looked at him and said something, but her eyes had changed to dark holes, she looked like a skeleton, he thought, stopping to take a piss.

  In the evening he noticed there was an opening in the mosquito bite. He had obviously scratched it. It was Saturday. They watched a movie and drank the rest of the wine. Charlotte fell asleep during it, snoring lightly with her mouth open. Suddenly he remembered that the woman with the shiny boots had rolled a joint in bed. But he still couldn’t remember if they’d had sex. He shook his head, irritated.

  But the bite was really tender and swollen when he showered on Sunday morning. He got Charlotte to look at it. She washed it with some rubbing alcohol and he winced and she said he was a baby and slapped his behind; he pretended to faint, then sprang up and howled like a wild animal and she hunted him down through the house; they laughed. A horn sounded in the driveway loud and long, then the door opened and Pete, their brother, sauntered into the living room, ruddy-cheeked and loud. The children had already run out to the yard to climb the trees. He went outside to bring them in for lunch, one in each arm, both of them squirming and squealing with delight.

  They had herring and schnapps. Charlotte made an effort to be friendly to the children. But they were out of control, running from the table constantly, peeling the painted eggs, knocking over a beer, crawling up on his lap and pulling at his beard. He thought it was pleasant to have a little warm kid sitting on his lap, but Charlotte was clearly not amused. As she used to say, she didn’t like children, and now she looked obviously put off. In contrast, Peter didn’t seem to notice the commotion. He talked about the divorce, getting himself all worked up, until finally he was forced to signal to him that children with their big ears were nearby. Charlotte got up and helped them into their jackets and they ran right out and started throwing the newly cut grass at each other. As Peter was talking, he realized that he’d never hid Easter eggs. If he left right now, maybe he’d still be able to buy some. But he didn’t feel like it, and it really didn’t matter now. Peter poured some more schnapps. He’d always been so damned impulsive. He was never in control of anything. And now his wife had had enough. Peter’s eyes looked wild, he pushed his chair back, stretched his legs, and hit the table with his fist, “It’s fucking bullshit that she’ll only let me see the children on the weekends!” And then at last it came out that she’d already met someone else. To top it all off, it was an old geezer with a shitload of money, as he put it. Charlotte seemed like she was going to give him a lecture, then suddenly she looked bored. She went into the kitchen to make coffee. The mosquito bite was fucking painful now. He felt around and noticed a large bump. It had evidently not helped to clean it. Peter calmed down, then began to cry. Charlotte came in the door rolling her eyes and shaking her head as she was drying a green glass bowl. He promised that he would try to help Peter find a better apartment. Maybe there was someone in the office who knew of something. He’d make a few calls. Peter blew his nose in the napkin. Then the children came bursting in completely covered in wet grass and mud.

  In the middle of the night he woke up feeling miserable. His buttock was throbbing. He woke up Charlotte, who reluctantly got out of bed and turned on the light. She could see that there was an infection and the bump was hard and red. “It looks like it’s turning into a boil,” she said, yawning. Then he made her get a pin, hold it in the flame of the gas burner, and prick a hole in it. She pressed out the puss, shouting, “Yuck, disgusting!” He clenched his jaw. She told him he could get some aspirin in the bathroom, and then she turned off the light. The next day they cleaned and locked up the house. He carried their bags out to the car and closed the trunk. A blackbird belted its song from the tall birch tree near the driveway, and he caught sight of a whole bunch of snowdrops shining white on the wet black ground. An unusual feeling of loss, emptiness, sadness—he couldn’t put his finger on it—welled up in him. But there was also joy. The blackbird, the flowers, and the sun, which was already low in the gray sky, hidden behind passing clouds. Then Charlotte came out and began to talk about how he should hire a man to lay the paving stones she had ordered for him from Italy. “You’ll enjoy the house more if you have a proper terrace,” she said. When he got home there was a message from their mother. She really wanted to see them on Easter, but maybe next week? He erased the message and put on the Red Hot Chili Peppers, turning it up and opening the door to the roof terrace. The gold cupola atop the tower of the Church of Our Savior shone dimly in the dusk light. His buttock throbbed. It’ll pass, he said to himself, it’s nothing, it’ll soon pass. Then he took a shower, got dressed, and went down to the local bar and got a couple of pints of draught beer, and his spirits quickly lifted talking to the bartender and some guys from a rival production company, and then he saw Heidi come in the door, loaded, accompanied by a fat girlfriend, and this suited him because the last time they were together was wonderful. So he got up from his rivals’ table and shouted, “Hey gorgeous!” and she threw her arms around his neck. He could smell the liquor on her breath, an angel must’ve sent you.

  Later they stumbled into his apartment, took off their clothes and threw them on the floor. He turned his back to her to turn on the light and she bent over to wrestle her feet out of her tights, then she got up and caught sight of his butt. Terrified, she let out a scream. He turned toward her. “Turn around again. What the hell is that?” He had almost forgotten about it. She walked over to him. “Turn around,” he just stood there shushing her, grabbing her and kissing her throat, and she searched with her hand for what she had seen and then froze and pulled back, “Have you gotten the bubonic plague? No, stop it! Stop it! There’s no fucking way I’m having sex with you when you’ve got that…what is it, it must hurt like hell!” He persisted. “It’s nothing, come on, Heidi.” But Heidi wanted to wash her hands. And she wanted to go home. She forgot her tights. He was pissed. He wanted to screw her so badly, he really needed it.

  A few days later, while he was in a meeting with a Swedish colleague and his partner Stig, it began to hurt so badly that he couldn’t concentrate. He squirmed uneasily around in his chair. As the day went on the entire cheek swelled up more and more. In the evening he had a fever. He called Charlotte. He lay on his stomach freezing, and Charlotte said, “Christ, you should see yourself, you look like a baboon.” She sighed deeply and carefully laid her hand on his lower back. She said it looked like there was a whole bunch of small boils around the large one. She called their uncle, who was a doctor, and he laughed, joking that he always knew he was a bit of a pain in the ass. Their uncle called the doctor from the emergency room, and when the doctor came at 10:30 and took one look at him, he asked why in the world he hadn’t gone to his own doctor a long time ago, and sent him to the emergency room. The boils needed to be cut away.

  And they were. He threw up into a paper bag. The pain was beyond words. Afterwards the nurse put a compress of gauze on it and told him that a home-care nurse would come and change the bandage once he got home. He thought about old people needing to be washed and their diapers changed. They kept him in the hospital for two days, and gave him a round of antibiotics. He lay on his side in the bed, tried to work, dozed, and watched TV. The fever subsided a bit. He insisted
on going home. His mother picked him up and he lay in the backseat, quiet and drained. “You just need to concentrate on getting better, honey,” his mother said. “Will you please stop it. I’m not SICK,” he said. “It’s just a mosquito bite for Christ’s sake.”

  He called Stig and told him that he’d be out the next couple of days. He took his pills. Every morning the nurse came, a meticulous, straight-backed woman who looked like she’d been very beautiful once; she pulled the bloody gauze off, washed out the wound, and put on a new bandage. But then the fever went up. He called her Gorgeous. She smiled and shook her head shyly as she took his temperature. He had no appetite, only a constant headache, and in time, pain in his sinuses. After he’d been home eight days, the nurse arranged to have an ambulance bring him back to the hospital for new blood tests. It turned out that he had contracted a staph infection while he was in the hospital. More antibiotics. Then home again. Charlotte came over with soup and red wine. But in the middle of the night he woke up because he couldn’t breathe. He roused Charlotte, who had fallen asleep on the couch in the living room with all her clothes on as she usually did. She got up, dazed, and turned on the light. Then she screamed, clapping her hand over her mouth. He was swollen up beyond recognition, his torso, his throat, his face—red, thick, and deformed. Charlotte ran to the phone to call an ambulance, whimpering, hysterical. He tried to get up, but she yelled, “Don’t move! Don’t move!” In the ambulance they immediately gave him an injection. They took his vitals. Then put on the sirens. He could hardly see out of his eyes. They raced him down the long corridors, and at last they arrived, a sea of anxious faces gathered around him, becoming one gray, blurry mass.