‘The only interesting thing about Salerno is that Holberg visited the place in 1715. Was there a little brass plate on the wall outside number thirty on the Via Antonio Mazza? No, of course not, though there was a soft drinks machine, for want of anything better.’
‘Don’t you ever tire of all those old stories?’ Inger said.
Peter Borch-Jensen took his time before smiling.
‘There are no new stories,’ he said. ‘Only new people to tell the old ones to.’
I began to dread the sittings at dinner. Lea and Peter Borch-Jensen held their dumb audience in a vice of academic observations and clever puns, while I contributed nothing and excused myself with having come to San Cataldo to write, not to indulge in team-building with a group of dysfunctionals.
Many tyrannies have found nourishment in such cowardice.
Even the cloister director had become unsure of herself. She cleared her throat:
‘I’m to say from Inger that the work she’s been doing here will be on show tomorrow at four o’clock.’
Inger smiled like a beachball.
‘Furthermore, we shall be receiving a new guest. She’ll be in number eleven for a week. She, too, is a visual artist, with the rather striking name of Diana Kiss.’
I escaped outside on to the patio with a cup of robust coffee. The air was warm and aromatic, and Lea was wearing a rose-coloured cardigan.
‘Peter and I were thinking of going to Ravello and having dinner there tomorrow night. Would you like to come?’
A decent person would of course have declined.
After Charlie was born Helene and I began to talk differently. For instance, she was annoyed by the fact that all the new in-conversation books in which well-known people exchanged banalities were selling a hundred times better than Sartre, and of course I could only agree.
On the other hand, she agreed with me that the Irma supermarket chain, in spite of its volume, was useless when it came to finding interesting wines. We agreed that Once Upon a Time in America was a tacky Scorsese pastiche, and that Woody Allen might fruitfully cut down on quantity, and if by any chance there wasn’t a piece of theatre overdoing things even on the poster, a serious band whose lyrics were not utterly mundane, a TV host too full of himself, or some writer posing hand under chin, I still had my pet hates about the intellectual left and cocktail Buddhism, and Helene hers about the descent of Østerbro mothers into organic nappies and baking recipes, or the widespread degeneration of the language; all issues and heads-ups and touching base, etc. If we failed to reach consensus on these topics, we moved on to our circle of friends, which was a treasure trove: why did they go to couple therapy when the only thing he could think about was that it cost twenty-five kroner a minute? Why after ten years was she still threatening to leave him instead of finding a hobby? Why didn’t she like him being funny, and why did he stop talking every time she came back from the buffet table? Why did he get so annoyed over her always pausing to pick flowers when it was one of the reasons he fell in love with her to begin with?
Every day I made the decision to turn things round and be positive instead, but then Helene would come home with minced beef, and what had they done to the quality since now you couldn’t keep it from boiling in the pan?
Peter Borch-Jensen strutted about the Piazza del Vescovada with his hands behind his back and his semi-professional Canon slung over his shoulder. Lea was wearing a shawl, of all things.
Ravello was a trade centre back in the thirteenth century and we admired its imposing mansions, villas with soulful gardens and town houses with meticulously ornamented cornices. Wagner composed parts of his Parsifal there, and we had to see the Villa Rufolo before dinner. In the extensive park were a Moorish cloister, a tower and a multitude of flowers and shrubs in strict rows and formations. Dinner was taken at the Hotel Maria, whose restaurant looked to be of decent standard, though we kicked off with three rather pedestrian pasta dishes.
‘Diana Kiss,’ I said. ‘The name rings a bell.’
‘Diana Kiss is legendary,’ said Lea.
‘We used to love discussing her at the academy. She came to Copenhagen in about 2002, I think. She’s Hungarian originally.’
‘Sounds plausible,’ said Peter Borch-Jensen. ‘Kiss is a common name in Hungary. Much like Poulsen in Denmark.’
‘All of a sudden she had a piece in a group exhibition at Galleri Moritz. That was when he was still on Herluf Trolles Gade. Kaspar Moritz is known to be a very fastidious gallerist, so there was quite a stir about him taking a completely unknown artist in, and Minna Lund bought the piece at preview.’
‘Preview?’ I said.
‘The major galleries usually throw a dinner for collectors the day before an opening, where they’re allowed to reserve. Selling something to Minna Lund is a mark of quality.’
‘What does Diana Kiss do?’ I said.
‘She does tapestries, rather pornographic ones. I’ve never quite been able to fathom her work, but you have to respect the way she exploits her market.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She makes use of strategies that in my part of the art world are totally no-go. For instance, she cultivates an image.’
‘Which is what?’
‘She wears men’s clothes. Quite simple, really. But it works.’
‘She sounds like what used to be called a pseudo,’ said Peter Borch-Jensen.
‘Well, that’s been the subject of many a late-night discussion,’ said Lea.
‘So her stuff’s crap, then?’ I said.
‘It’s highly decorative,’ said Lea.
‘Did I hear a stag in the glen?’ said Peter Borch-Jensen.
‘She has tremendous aesthetic sense, and it’s definitely a brilliant idea commercially to bring porn into weaving.’
‘What was the piece she sold to Minna Lund?’ I said.
‘A girl with semen on her face.’
‘That’s quite sufficient for me, thank you,’ said Peter Borch-Jensen.
‘Her first solo had this tapestry of a man with semen in his beard. All the rich new buyers love her stuff, because it’s so decorative and yet so risqué.’
There was no need for the air quotes.
‘Diana Kiss has had four solos and sold the lot.’
The main was a sad lamb al forno. We ordered more wine.
‘You’re in for something when she gets here. She’s una bomba!’
We strolled around the piazza; they threw caution to the wind and held hands.
I suddenly wanted to encourage them and so I asked about Holberg, whereupon Peter Borch-Jensen dominated the three-kilometre walk home with miscellaneous considerations of Holberg’s divided self, on the one hand chancellor of the university, on the other a baron and manor owner. Only after two bottles of crude red on Lea’s balcony did we seem to be approaching any kind of conclusion, and I actually thought Lea had gone to bed.
‘Look what I found among my clothes!’ she said.
In her hand was a pair of black towelling knickers.
‘Have you got your camera, Peter?’
I had the most despicable hangover the next morning, the sort that comes of drinking without laughing.
I was sitting in the sunshine writing when Lea came out on to the patio. She nipped a leaf from a plant and began methodically to pull it apart.
‘Peter’s married.’
‘Are you surprised?’
‘Do you think he acts like he’s married?’
‘He’s a long way from home, and you’re beautiful and intelligent.’
‘And young,’ she said. ‘Peter’s sixty-four.’
Peter Borch-Jensen apparently had few scruples. He finally surfaced at lunchtime, prancing in with the Herald Tribune under his arm.
The director tapped a spoon against her glass.
‘In case anyone had forgotten, we are all invited to a little opening today. Watercolours, am I right, Inger?’
‘The view from the studio, as seen in
all weather.’
‘A cliffhanger, indeed,’ said Peter Borch-Jensen.
The exhibition was in the music room and Inger had put some rouge on. Quite a lot, in fact. A serving girl came round with prosecco on a silver tray.
At the window was a Steinway piano, and on the walls hung twelve pieces of paper that dissolved into the whitewash. You had to step up close to notice there was anything there. Clouds, the sea and gulls in the sky were painted with such caution it all resembled a suicide by sedatives. No one knew quite what to do with themselves, and Inger was visibly affected by the fact that Lea and Peter Borch-Jensen were the only ones who hadn’t come.
I was planning my retreat when I heard an unfamiliar voice.
The first thing I noticed was that it contained more than voices normally do. There was a way out in its melodious tone, the suggestion of other possibilities. Diana Kiss went up to everyone present in turn and introduced herself, carefully repeating each name as she moved on to the next.
It seemed as if she knew me, but the odd thing was I had absolutely no sense of her at all. I consider myself to be relatively analytical by nature, and yet I found myself unable to apply the usual references, for while Nordic in colour, with fair hair and bright blue eyes, she nonetheless seemed unmistakably exotic. Only her eyes were there to relate to, her words, her breathing and the broad smile that took up her entire face.
Oddly enough, I wasn’t scared.
Danes think you need to be great in number to change anything: you need an association with an agenda and a committee. Diana was on her own, and when Peter Borch-Jensen and Lea came striding in, she had already seized all the attention and passed it on to Inger’s pale brushstrokes, the vines and the director’s blouse. The oppressive atmosphere that had prevailed until Diana’s arrival was completely eliminated in less than half an hour. Even Peter Borch-Jensen became accommodating and wanted to know all about Diana’s passage by boat from Naples, and I noted how all the time he spoke to her she made sure to make eye contact with Lea and include her in the conversation.
Everyone talked at dinner, and the director had to ask for a moment’s attention:
‘In front of you, Diana, is a little sheet of paper on which you will find printed this evening’s menu. As you can see, it says Prosciutto e mozzarella di buffala, Italian dry-cured ham with fresh mozzarella cheese from buffalo milk, and here at San Cataldo we are to be taken at our word. Fresh means made today. Tomorrow it will be used only for pizza.’
Diana was wide-eyed; she giggled with delight and clapped her hands.
Everyone brought to the drawing room whatever they had stashed in their rooms: dregs of grappa, inferior red and unfamiliar dessert wines. Peter Borch-Jensen had got stuck in during dinner, and his second day pissed made him look older.
Diana poured spumante from Franciacorta, and Lea had a single glass before getting to her feet, whispering something in Peter Borch-Jensen’s ear and bidding the party goodnight with a finger kiss. Hardly had she closed the door behind her before her noble knight had settled down next to Diana and was offering her a grappa.
‘So, you’re Hungarian, I believe. The Hungarians have such an understanding of their own culture.’
He placed a hand on her arm.
‘We Danes do best to keep a low profile if we should ever presume to be knowledgeable. Are you from Budapest?’
Inger was thrilled about the day and needed to express how happy she felt about San Cataldo and its marvellous atmosphere, and I caught enough to nod in the right places.
‘What are you working on here?’ said Diana.
‘I’m writing about Holberg,’ said Peter Borch-Jensen. ‘He founded Danish literature. All of it!’
‘I know Holberg,’ said Diana.
‘You know old Ludwig? How refreshing to meet a person of refinement!’
He was staring stiffly at her breasts. She had taken off her grey suit jacket and had on a thin white shirt with a narrow, navy blue tie.
‘Have you ever been to Buenos Aires?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Lea tells me your art is highly passionate.’
He paused for a second to savour the word’s effect.
‘I’ve always had a weakness for straightforward girls, Diana.’
Now he was doing intimate. Now he was doing frank.
‘Academia is hell for a man like me. Buenos Aires would be more like it.’
Peter Borch-Jensen poured himself another grappa.
‘How about some music? Anyone?’
He got to his feet and began to hum ‘Køb bananer’.
‘Marvellous song,’ he said.
‘Kim Larsen, isn’t it?’ said Diana.
‘You know him too? You’re certainly assimilated, I’ll say.’
He took her hand and swayed. His eyebrows bristled.
‘If I were a young man, Diana Kiss, we two would be on the first plane to Buenos Aires, tucking into a pair of great, juicy steaks.’
He was holding both her hands.
‘It’s hot in Buenos Aires. Sweltering!’
He ventured a couple of tango steps, then lost his balance and careened sideways, cracking his head against the mahogony of the chaise longue on his descent to the floor. We got him laid out on the Børge Mogensen and he came to and started rattling on about a swimming pool when Lea poked her head round the door.
‘Can you carry him along to mine?’
She stroked his brittle, grey hair.
Inger was talking shop with Diana when I got back from Lea’s room, and I tried to engage in conversation with a thin professor who was researching the history of cartography. When Diana said goodnight she took all the energy from the drawing room with her, and I masturbated myself to sleep, ejaculating over the centre spread of Weekendavisen’s book supplement. An interview with Amos Oz.
At breakfast the director said Diana had gone to Salerno. I skipped lunch and spent the day writing about Søren and Signe at the opening of U-matic, the legendary eighties club in Copenhagen. I rubbed Kiehl’s into my skin from top to toe before dinner and selected a pair of navy blue Mads Nørgaard trousers, cigarette silhouette, a chunky sixties shirt in white cotton and the red cravat, endeavouring to leave my hair correspondingly casual.
‘So what do you think of Salerno?’ the director asked.
Diana talked about the cranes and the stacks of containers on the docks, the decrepit market behind the station and the thick black espresso she drank among toothless men in dirty striped shirts.
‘Yes, it’s a wonderfully uncomplicated place,’ said Peter Borch-Jensen.
Inger raised a finger in the air.
‘Did you want to say something, Inger?’
‘Where did these come from?’ she said, holding up the black towelling knickers.
‘Oh, they turned up!’ said the director.
‘Who hung them on my door handle?’
‘I did,’ said Lea. ‘They’d got mixed up with my own.’
‘What have you lot been doing with them?’ said Inger.
‘A slight error in the laundry department, that’s all,’ said the director.
‘They’re private,’ said Inger. ‘My cunt lives in them!’
Lea started to laugh, but this time she stopped herself.
Diana had bought wines in Salerno and was generous with them in the drawing room. All were from the region’s oldest grape, Falanghina, and she had even chosen the right wineries: Vinosia Campania and Feudi di San Gregorio. Intellectual leftists are reflexively sceptical of hedonism, but they set store by quality, and the fact of free alcohol of superior provenance added to the pleasant mood.
Someone put on Moondance by Van Morrison.
‘Can I ask you something, Mikkel?’ said Diana.
We went out on to the big balcony and shut the door. The sea could be heard down at Amalfi. A cockerel crowed, despite the hour.
‘What’s all that about her knickers?’
I told her abo
ut our photo session a couple of nights before, how Lea had stolen Inger’s knickers and put them on for Peter Borch-Jensen, posing in schoolgirl postures as he issued gruff orders.
‘They were the knickers Inger’s cunt lived in,’ said Diana.
She made it sound poetic.
I went to bed feeling bright about the future, with a vague sense that something new was about to emerge.
Diana waylaid Peter Borch-Jensen after breakfast.
‘I noticed you’ve got a professional camera with you.’
‘Rather inadequate, I’m afraid,’ he said.
‘I’m working on a new exhibition and need some photos of myself. Would you like to do me some, by any chance?’
‘Peter’s not a professional,’ said Lea.
‘I have spent a lifetime taking photographs,’ said Peter Borch-Jensen.
‘It’s pure documentation, that’s all,’ said Diana.
They agreed to meet in the music room at three o’clock.
‘Can anyone come and watch?’ said Lea.
‘I think I’m too shy for that,’ said Diana.
At a quarter past three I got myself settled on the patio with Grethe Zahle’s memoirs. At a quarter to four I was joined by Lea.
‘Peter and I are supposed to be going to Amalfi before dinner,’ she said.
She sat down on a marble bench and was too upset to hide the fact that she was biting her nails. At a quarter past four they emerged. Peter Borch-Jensen’s face was flushed.
‘Thanks for your help,’ said Diana.
‘I’ll send them in an e-mail,’ he said.
‘If we’re going to Amalfi, we’d best be on our way,’ said Lea, and strode off.
‘What about us, what should we do?’ said Diana.
‘I’m taking you to Capri,’ I said.
I tried to get a grip on what was tangible. The deck of the boat under our feet, the sea, a gull. Two gulls. The man on the seat in front, and the goosepimples on his legs. Diana was in a mint-green polo shirt and mousy-coloured trousers.
‘I’ve always wanted to see Capri,’ she said.
At the beginning of the millennium I wrote a lengthy article from the island and possessed a treasure trove of decadent tales, and I longed to tell Diana a few of them over grilled tuna.
Am I Cold Page 4