I only used the flat on Klerkegade when it was my turn to have Charlie, and my Burberry trench coat mouldered on its hook there. I took to wearing the army-green college jacket Diana had found in Naples.
On the table were nine almost identical drawings of her cunt. Labia closed, labia slightly open, clitoris at different stages of excitement. The ninth stuck out from all the rest: from the lower curve of her cunt-opening a droplet of semen dangled, about to descend and trickle down her inner thigh.
Sune, the wine merchant, stood in the doorway in his cloth cap, with two cases of spumante.
‘You’ve got cunts on your table!’ he said.
‘Are they any good?’ said Diana. ‘The cunts.’
‘Better, they’re gorgeous.’
He looked up at me.
‘So your jizz is going to be decorating the walls of Galleri Moritz, is it, Vallin?’
‘It’s not my jizz.’
‘Whose is it, then?’
‘An associate professor of Danish literature,’ I said. ‘He’s writing a monograph about Holberg.’
‘He photographed my cunt,’ said Diana.
‘And got paid in kind?’
‘His cock was surprisingly handsome,’ she said.
‘Not to change the subject, but I’m afraid you’ve got to pay this time.’
‘I’m getting an advance from Moritz today,’ she said.
Sune unfolded an order sheet.
‘It’s nearly eight thousand now.’
A woman came staggering in, drunk and on the brink of blackout. She clung to the pillar and spelled her way through the most proximate visual stimuli: floor, window, lamp.
Lisa was in her late twenties; her hair was cut short in a 1920s pageboy style, and her teeth were remarkably small and uniform. It would have been inaccurate to call her Diana’s friend, friend being another category with which Diana did not operate, but it was a fact that they saw each other often and enjoyed some form of interdependence. I had met Lisa twice, and she reminded me of a trip across the FM band: dance music, debate, opera, local radio. Moods that came and went.
It wasn’t hard to imagine where she was headed if she carried on like this: a small drinking establishment in the old part of town, a place with frosted windows, moderately good jazz and the house white, where now and then the odd fashion student would happen by and declare that she, Lisa Zöllner, had been their inspiration when applying to the school, and they would invite her out to dinner, an invitation that would be declined with increasingly slurred speech, because she would rather stay put on the round leather seat of her bar stool and forget that she had ever been worth looking up to.
But it had yet to go wrong for Lisa. In fact, it could hardly have been going better. The media had pronounced her to be the decade’s greatest talent, and though her own brand collapsed owing to irregularities in the accounting she remained out on her own and the air was thick with rumours about her being appointed new head designer for Jill Sander or Chloé, but until that happened she was her own model.
She stood swaying in her clingy, asymmetrical black dress and had finally recognised the place and us, when a square-built man came in and joined her.
He had bandy legs and was extremely short, in suit trousers of uninteresting cut, black shirt, black windcheater with leather patches on the elbows, over-designed glasses and cropped, football hair.
‘This is Stig,’ said Lisa.
‘Stig Nissen,’ he said, and shook hands.
‘And there we have the cunts!’ he said.
Diana got busy putting them back.
‘I’m from Brande,’ said Stig. ‘The town with all the murals, that’s us.’
‘We don’t know Brande,’ I said.
‘Of course not, what would you be wanting there when you can mooch around here in your bare arse with a glass of red, in a proper artist’s pad. Spitzenklasse, that is!’
‘We don’t mean to be impolite,’ said Diana. ‘But my gallerist will be here soon, and I haven’t spoken to him for quite a while.’
Stig Nissen produced a bottle of Dom Perignon from his black leather briefcase.
‘I’ve got a proposal for you, Diana. Have we time for a glass?’
Diana took champagne glasses from the plumber’s shelving.
‘I’ve got these two brands: Leader of the Pack for those with knobs, Cheerleader for those without. And they’re doing so well I have to keep rubbing my eyes. We just opened store number two hundred. Two floors on Ginza Street in Tokyo, escalator, the works. At this very second my people are handing jeans and sweatshirts over counters in Paris, Rome, Barcelona, Munich and London, and when we’re all snuggled up in bed they’re slogging away in Sydney, Kuala Lumpur, Singapore and Beijing.’
I knew all about his rubbish clothes. Stig Nissen had made a fortune fucking the life out of fine, all-American tradition. Thin sweatshirts in lifeless colours, shapeless T-shirts with ghastly prints, jeans of despicable cut and horrendous back pockets.
‘I’ve made so much money I could float about in an indoor pool and stuff myself with caviar from morning till night, but I’d rather be doing something worthwhile!’
He paused briefly for effect and looked about.
‘I’ve booked the suite at Hotel Petri, and by the time I get back to Jutland on Monday I’ll have my dream team, and then there’ll be only one way forward and that’s forward!’
‘Towards what?’ said Diana.
‘I’m going to create Denmark’s first high-fashion brand. Giant flagship on Østergade opening in time for fashion week, sexy gear in the right quality. We want tits and arse, but with edge and style. Lisa is finally getting the opportunity to show us what she’s made of. No holds barred!’
Lisa hiccupped and blinked slowly.
‘I’ve just bought an apartment in Prenzlauer Berg,’ said Stig Nissen. ‘Think Berlin! Raw and artistic, and what we need is a house artist. Lisa suggested you straight away, Diana. What do you say, are you in?’
Diana said nothing.
‘Nothing wrong with the money, is there, Lisa?’ said Stig.
Lisa reached for the champagne.
‘Nikolaj Krogh’s agreed to do the interior,’ Stig went on.
I couldn’t see it. Nikolaj Krogh was a man of impeccable taste and involved himself only in first-rate ventures.
‘I’d like to invite you for a bite to eat on Saturday,’ said Stig Nissen.
‘Come,’ said Lisa. ‘Please, please!’
‘Can we call you back in the morning?’ I said.
‘I was thinking of Noma,’ said Stig.
‘Have you booked a table?’ I asked. ‘It’s impossible these days.’
‘But you know them, don’t you, Mikkel?’ said Diana.
Why was she warming to this?
‘You’re on the Berlin bus, too, Mikkel,’ said Stig. ‘What does a bloke like you do anyway?’
‘I write,’ I said.
‘And you know everyone who’s anyone in this little goldfish bowl, I bet? Wait a minute, I’ve got an idea. We launch on the seventh of August. How about you coming over to Brande and telling us bumpkins a bit about what it’s like to be a front-of-the-bus Copenhagener these days? Fifteen large for an hour’s natter. What do you say?’
I was just about to open my mouth when there was a knock on the door.
Kaspar Moritz was in his mid-thirties, his curly blond hair was in a rockabilly cut, and his cobalt-blue jacket clung to his boyish torso. Tight jeans, moderately baggy-arsed, a T-shirt with some neon-coloured print and black clown shoes. Big black glasses.
Stig Nissen clasped his hand.
‘You look like the sort of man I’d give the sack. Did you go to university?’
‘History of ideas and civilisation studies,’ said Moritz.
‘What did I tell you!’ said Stig Nissen. ‘I’m from Jutland.’
‘Is that a mental condition?’ said Moritz.
‘He’s quick, this lad!’
‘Kasp
ar’s my gallerist,’ said Diana.
‘In that case he’s a shopkeeper like your Uncle Nissen here.’
It wasn’t what Moritz would have said.
‘Who the fuck’s Stig Nissen?’ said Moritz.
We were seated at the low tables of the Tokyo restaurant, eating udon noodles. Kaspar Moritz could easily have been from Virum or some other safe middle-class suburb. He didn’t bat an eyelid when Diana produced her drawings, and now he was talking practicalities.
Diana had her tapestries woven in Vietnam and the drawings had to be finished and ready within the fortnight if the weavers in Hanoi were to have the work done by October.
‘Is there any one of these drawings you’re unsure about?’ he said.
‘The one with the semen,’ said Diana.
‘I’ll get them to do that one first,’ said Moritz.
He made a note in his moleskin. Neat handwriting, of course.
‘Carlsberg Kunsthal opens in November and they’re kicking off with a big women’s exhibition. We need to get you in there,’ he said.
‘Women? Couldn’t they have done dwarves or spastics instead?’ Diana said.
‘Rumour has it they’ve got Gillian Wearing in, which will make an impact on the ArtFacts ranking.’
‘What’s that?’ I said.
‘ArtFacts compiles a list ranking all the artists in the world according to a very intricate points system,’ said Moritz. ‘Participating in a group exhibition with a highly ranked artist gets you good points.’
‘Who’s curating?’ said Diana.
‘Nynne Willer, Charlotte Breum and a girl who does video, Lea Winther Jensen.’
‘She hates me.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it while we’re eating.’
He had agedashi dofu for his main. We had sukiyaki.
‘I need a small advance,’ said Diana.
‘I’d like to purchase one of the tapestries up front,’ he said.
‘Forty thousand’s not enough,’ said Diana.
‘Forty-five,’ said Moritz. ‘We’ll put them up at ninety.’
‘It’s the summer,’ said Diana.
‘People are talking crisis,’ said Moritz. ‘I need to step carefully.’
‘You don’t believe in my cunts!’
‘Of course I do, they’ll sell.’
‘But you don’t like them.’
‘I’d been hoping for a surprise.’
‘Such as?’
‘Something surprising.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to encourage me, Kaspar?’
‘I’m behind you one hundred per cent, Diana. But you did ask, and I’m thinking this is your fifth solo and you’re doing pornographic tapestries as you’ve done four times already.’
It was the first time I had seen Diana in a bad mood. She was silent all the way to Jolene’s, and it annoyed her that Moritz tagged along when he so obviously would rather be at home tidying up his desk.
We arrived in the middle of a gig and the audience listened intently as only architecture students can. The women had dresses on over their trousers and the men wouldn’t have known what to do on a football pitch. There was a cello, the girl singer had a diagonal fringe and a guy fluttered his hands at some congas. The song was about getting lost in Husum and finding something completely other than a house, and it was all so twee and irrelevant.
Diana ordered three Elephant Beers with aquavit chasers, and Moritz sipped. Later, I found out he was actually from Lejre and had grown up in a lefty cult, all of which at least explained why he was so literal. I felt a clumsy hand on my shoulder.
‘Why am I not surprised, Vallin, as soon as there’s a bit of art pop going on!’
It was Levinsen, wearing a closely trimmed beard, lumberjack shirt and Acne jeans.
He hugged the life out of me.
‘Can I get you all something?’ he said.
‘We’re fine, thanks,’ said Moritz.
‘Who are you?’ said Diana.
‘Morten from Aarhus,’ he said. ‘Do you like the music?’
‘No. What do you do, Morten?’
‘Ask your husband.’
‘I haven’t got a husband.’
‘I’m in the same business as Kaspar Moritz. Major respect for your work, Kaspar! My gallery’s called Levinsen Open.’
‘What are you here for?’ said Diana.
‘The music.’
‘I don’t know who you are, but you’re lying.’
Moritz pulled Diana aside before he left.
‘I’m not asking what that Stig guy was doing at your studio, but promise me you’ll stay away from him, Diana.’
Levinsen laid his jacket on the bar stool.
‘How about welcoming the summer in,’ he said, and ordered a bottle of spumante, and with it all the rituals. The glasses, the ice bucket. The cork popped and Diana couldn’t help but join us in the toast.
‘Do you mind if I heap some praise on you, Diana?’ he said, and then seemed oddly shifting in mood. First he stared into the air for a bit, searchingly, then appeared almost submissive before a look of fanatical madness lit up his eyes and he cracked a smile.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I love the way you’ve reinvented tapestry, and I’m just totally owned by your presence.’
‘You’re owned by my presence?’
‘Have you ever noticed how much everyone at a V1 opening always looks the same?’
‘They look like you,’ she said.
He glanced up and down her pin-striped suit.
‘A lot of people get confused about your image. They see the suits, but what they don’t get is that the clothes are just the aesthetic expression of an attitude. You are so immensely important to the Copenhagen art scene, Diana Kiss. You generate latitude. All of a sudden we glimpse the sky.’
‘I can tell you’re from somewhere else,’ said Diana.
‘I’m way over the top,’ he said. ‘Everyone says so.’
It annoyed me somewhat that it was Levinsen who got Diana back into a good mood, and on the pretext of getting into the music I moved up closer to the stage. Miss Diagonal Fringe had been clapped back for an encore. ‘Letter from Uncle Bilegger’, a song about her schizophrenic uncle and his poetically distorted outlook.
When I returned, Levinsen was filling Diana in on his open marriage.
‘She likes girls. And so do I.’
‘How do you actually go about it?’ said Diana.
‘We throw small parties for friends. Good food, nice wine. People are dressed up and we hand out dance cards.’
‘What if no one puts any names down?’
‘That’s not an issue I’ve run into.’
‘So they like you, these wives?’
He chewed his lip.
‘They’re wild about my wicked Jew cock.’
Diana recoiled on her bar stool. Levinsen shrugged and emptied his glass.
‘Anyway, I’m off home for a shag. Besides, I’ve got a ZeZe meeting in the morning.’
‘It was fun meeting you,’ said Diana, and then they were hugging too.
On the way home we passed by Chicky Grill.
‘You’re not the kind who gets jealous, are you?’ she said.
A sign in the window said they had rolled pork loin on Thursdays.
‘No, I’m not,’ I said.
We walked along Sønder Boulevard and I wasn’t jealous, but I did start wondering about the question.
When she was a teenager, my friend Clara had grasped that her legs were her best asset, and ever since it had been my job to make sure she remembered this, and talk her down whenever she tried to wriggle into a pair of jeans that turned her arse into a flatscreen, or tell her that a full orange skirt that cut her off at the shins didn’t suit her any better just because it was Marni with fifty per cent off.
This time Clara ended up with a mini, and I assured her she was charting new waters by this time choosing navy blue over black. Afterwards we
went up to Illum’s cafeteria, as we always did, and she started asking me about Diana.
‘What’s her body like?’ she asked. ‘Boobs first!’
‘Round and firm. I’ve never seen any as gorgeous.’
‘She’s got a good bum, though, hasn’t she? Did she used to be a dancer?’
‘A bike rider. Road racing.’
Clara ignored this information so I wouldn’t feel embarrassed by it.
‘She’s got nice eyes and a really lovely smile,’ she said. ‘I was looking at some photos of her. Her jaw’s ever so slightly underhung, isn’t it?’
‘Just a hint,’ I said. ‘It’s sexy.’
‘And she’s from Hungary, isn’t she? Does she talk circus language?’
‘She speaks perfectly fluent Danish.’
‘It’s amazing how kids learn a language so easily, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think about her age.’
‘You didn’t laugh!’
‘It wasn’t funny.’
Clara leaned back and studied me.
‘Are her parents artists too?’
‘We don’t talk about the past,’ I said.
‘What do you talk about, then? What did you talk about this morning, for instance?’
I shouldn’t have been telling her.
‘We talked about something I’ve been thinking about for quite a while,’ I said.
‘Okay, explain.’
‘It goes back to the time I played samba in a carnival group.’
She started to laugh and apologised profusely.
‘We played these long sessions where we used to play the same figures over and over, and I discovered you stopped hearing your own rhythm in isolation. You listened to the bigger pattern.’
‘That’s what they call ensemble,’ she said.
‘But there’s more to it than that,’ I said. ‘The progression of the day, the seasons, birth and death. Take a leaf off a tree and look at it. It’s all patterns and repetition. Everything is rhythm.’
‘So you were all cosmic over your miso soup?’
‘Rice and beans,’ I said.
Clara was normally a refined eater, but now she was shovelling roast pork into her gob at an astonishing pace. A dribble of gravy ran down her chin. She put her cutlery down.
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