The tomato salad floated in its own juice.
‘De Unge Vilde were the first major new departure after the Cobra movement,’ said Mosbeck. ‘Painting was dead throughout the seventies, but then all of a sudden these extremely talented and visionary artists appeared and claimed it back. Kathrine was part of that.’
‘I met some of them later on,’ she said.
‘Being an artist then was all about creating works of art,’ said Mosbeck. ‘These days all artists seem to care about is creating themselves. Or am I too far out of line?’
‘You’ve been saving that up, haven’t you?’ said Kreuzmann.
‘I like anyone who creates a scene,’ said Diana.
‘Perhaps Kathrine’s mistake has been that she has always concentrated on her art,’ said Mosbeck. ‘On the other hand, she can paint.’
‘She’s certainly competent,’ said Erik Brinch. ‘Fine sense of colour.’
‘Enough about my art!’ said Kathrine.
‘Get to the point, for God’s sake!’ said Kreuzmann.
‘What does one of your tapestries cost, Diana?’ asked Mosbeck.
‘The new ones are priced at ninety thousand.’
‘Well,’ said Mosbeck. ‘I can tell you that Kathrine puts just as much energy into her work as you do into yours, Diana, and she has rather more experience. And yet your works cost more than three times as much as hers. Food for thought, I’d say.’
‘Don’t your paintings sell, Kathrine?’ Kreuzmann asked.
‘I’ve never sold anything, really.’
Kathrine poured herself some wine and spilled some in the process.
‘People are starting to look for quality again,’ said Mosbeck.
‘You can’t get anywhere today without a gallery,’ said Clara.
Mosbeck straightened his shoulders.
‘Do you think Galleri Moritz would be interested in an artist like Kathrine?’
‘There we go!’ said Kreuzmann.
‘What’s Diana supposed to say to that?’ said Kathrine.
‘She might be able to put in a good word.’
‘She hasn’t even seen what I do!’
‘We could have a little walk down to the studio,’ said Mosbeck.
‘First dessert,’ said Clara. ‘I’m stuck in the eighties, as you know, so we’re having baked figs. What would Mikkel and Diana say to popping over to the convenience store with me for some cream?’
Children were playing hide and seek in the street. Clara looked back over her shoulder.
‘It was a mistake inviting Mos and Kathrine.’
‘She’s obviously uncomfortable being forced to be the centre of attention,’ I said.
‘It’s his guilty conscience. Mos was away working in Norway all winter. Doctors can make a packet there, and Kathrine accidentally read a text message from a Norwegian nurse.’
‘What did it say?’ asked Diana.
‘Something lovey-dovey and shaggy-shaggy.’
‘He’d been bonking a nurse in Norway?’
‘Kathrine’s not exactly Mae West, is she?’ said Clara. ‘More like a mouse on a treadmill.’
‘What are her paintings like?’ I asked.
‘Imagine. That’s what they’re like.’
Erik Brinch put some salsa music on after the fig dessert and swayed about, sloshed and full of food. Clara cleared the table and had blotches under her eyes. She was no longer in a position to insist on status and refinement in her relationships, and Erik Brinch only just made the cut: he had fallen asleep while watching Kurosawa, he may have known that Miles recorded Kind of Blue before Bitches Brew, and he might have been able to tell a Burgundy by the sloping shoulders, but as a future prospect he clearly fell short. On the other hand, they seemed to have a sex life.
But what about Kathrine and Mosbeck? She became grey in his company, and they seemed more like friends than lovers. Perhaps neither of them had the courage to go it alone.
Clara was drinking red wine now, which she never used to.
‘Anyway, I must hear about this open relationship of yours!’
‘What do you want to know?’
Thankfully, Diana was talking to Kreuzmann.
‘Diana and Mikkel don’t want to be a couple. Isn’t that modern?’
‘I’ll say!’ said Mosbeck. ‘We’re in 1967, right?’
‘My conscience isn’t cut out for more coupledom,’ I said.
‘What are you after instead?’ said Clara.
‘To try what I want.’
‘So you don’t want to be tied down as a couple?’ said Clara.
‘Animals are tied, tethered so they don’t run away,’ I said.
‘What’s it actually like having an open relationship?’ said Clara.
‘Are all other relationships closed? That doesn’t sound appealing.’
‘So you keep all your doors open,’ said Clara. ‘That must be draughty.’
‘All my relationships died because they couldn’t get enough air,’ I said.
‘Aren’t you too old to be spouting such banalities?’ asked Mosbeck.
‘Letting go of the banal makes you old,’ I said.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ said Mosbeck. ‘Pathetic.’
‘That sounded old,’ I said.
‘I am old,’ said Mosbeck. ‘I’m past gallivanting. I’ve got experience and I draw upon it in my work, in my dealings with others, in my relationship.’
‘And you both live out your potential and are happy together?’
‘I live within it. Happy and not. I live within it.’
‘Do you bring other people home with you, Mikkel?’ asked Clara.
‘So far it’s just been us.’
‘And what if all of a sudden Diana wants to go to bed with someone else instead?’
‘Instead?’ I replied.
Mosbeck laughed excessively. It wasn’t that funny.
‘You’ve got nothing to laugh about,’ said Kathrine.
‘No, I must take something for it,’ he said. ‘What do you do to stay miserable?’
‘I live with you.’
‘It’s not forbidden to think before you open your mouth, Kathrine.’
‘You live in an open relationship yourself, Mosbeck. You just forgot to tell me about it, that’s all. You shag around.’
Mosbeck got to his feet.
‘Perhaps we ought to go home and be old,’ he said.
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Kathrine.
‘I said we on purpose, meaning including you.’
‘Poppers, anyone?’ said Diana, shaking the little bottle in the air.
‘I’m sick of being included by you,’ said Kathrine.
‘So you want an open relationship, too, do you?’ Mosbeck asked. ‘Well, I can tell you that opening up only makes sense if someone else wants in. Otherwise it’s just you, wide open.’
Kathrine took the bottle of poppers, took a snort and was gone for a minute.
‘You fucked my friends, Mosbeck! They’ve admitted it.’
‘Drunken nonsense,’ said Mosbeck.
‘Clara didn’t want to. Otherwise you’d have fucked her, too.’
‘You’re humiliating yourself, Kathrine,’ said Mosbeck.
‘Did Mosbeck ask you if you wanted to go home for a shag, Clara?’ asked Kathrine. ‘Come on! Did he ask you if you wanted a shag?’
‘We were drunk, and it was three years ago,’ said Clara.
Mosbeck put his jacket on and came over to me.
‘Are you satisfied, Mikkel? Do you enjoy tearing people’s relationships apart?’
His breath was dense from the wine, and droplets of spit sprayed into my face.
‘Time for Doctor Jollycock to go home and sleep it off,’ said Kreuzmann.
‘You stay out of this,’ said Mosbeck.
‘Fuck off!’ said Kreuzmann.
Mosbeck turned and wrestled off his jacket.
‘Why don’t you make me, you shabby little backstreet broker?’
>
Kreuzmann stepped towards him.
Mosbeck took a step forward and lashed out with his right fist. Kreuzmann ducked and punched him clean in the solar plexus. Mosbeck stood for a second, eyes wide, then crumpled up, gasping for breath. He lay on the floor for five minutes before cautiously getting to his feet. We could hear him throwing up in the toilet.
It was half past one by the time we staggered out of the door. The desirable residences of the Kartoffelrækkerne lay dead, but the rest of the city was alive.
‘That was my past,’ I said in the taxi as it drove us to Jolene’s.
‘Kreuzmann’s good,’ she said.
I put my arm around her delicate shoulders.
‘Just the two of us now,’ I said.
Jan was standing at the bar with that peculiar perplexity in his eyes a person can only experience by anaesthetising the body with booze and keeping the mind awake on coke cut with speed. His arms hung like a marionette’s and his black shirt glistened with sweat. He smiled slowly as he finally managed to focus and haul himself up to the surface. The music was simplistic and pedestrian, the place as humid as Sumatra.
‘I’ve been offered a publishing contract,’ I said.
‘Why haven’t you said anything?’ Diana replied.
‘You two don’t half go on,’ said Jan. ‘What are you rabbiting about now?’
‘Mikkel’s been offered a contract for his book!’ said Diana.
Levinsen appeared in our midst. He’d lost the beard and was all in black, apart from a red knitted tie.
‘Are we going to Tisvilde this year?’
‘Mention of Tisvilde’s prohibited here,’ said Jan.
‘Aren’t you Jan Minetti?’ Levinsen asked.
‘You’re not supposed to know me,’ said Jan.
‘I’m mad about your work,’ said Levinsen.
‘Who’s this?’ enquired Jan.
‘That gallery owner from Aarhus,’ said Diana.
‘The one with the dick?’
Levinsen and Diana air-kissed.
‘Well, get it out, then!’ said Jan.
‘Only if you’ll all come and dance afterwards.’
Levinsen began to unzip his pants, and though I turned away on the pretext of getting something from the bar, it was impossible not to hear Diana’s shriek of laughter.
‘It’s like something from a cash-and-carry!’ Jan exclaimed. ‘I don’t like them that big.’
When I turned back with four superfluous beers in my hands, Diana and Levinsen had gone off for a dance.
‘Diana’s not going to Tisvilde,’ said Jan.
‘We’ve been invited.’
‘She’s going to Berlin with me. I’ve already bought the tickets.’
‘Fine by me,’ I said.
Diana and Levinsen danced well together. They were showing off, coming on to each other with no inhibitions, staring into each other’s eyes.
‘You’ve not got Diana under control!’ said Jan. His eyes were narrow and yellow.
‘How do you mean?’ I asked. Why was I kidding myself?
Ten seconds later, I was outside in the summer night’s air and I resolved to read Marcel Proust as soon as I sobered up. I failed to notice Istedgade, failed to notice Rådhuspladsen and the seamless alliance of Peruvian pan pipes and Burger King, stopping only when I found myself outside Floss. Inside, they were singing along to ‘Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again’, and Søren was seated at the bar with the Faroese scriptwriter.
‘I’d quite like to go to Tisvilde this year,’ he said.
‘You hate Tisvilde!’
‘It’d do me good, eating fish and relaxing. Do you reckon your new girlfriend will like me?
You know I’ll come presentable, and I know more about art than the lot of you put together.’ A young gnomish-looking guy with a pointy beard, fashionable drug habit and tight black Acne windbreaker enticed Søren outside. The spirits shelves were lit from behind, presenting an array of bottles of all shapes and sizes, each with its own alluring label. There was a surprisingly wide selection of grappa and a good stock of whisky and rum. I started thinking about Helene and Charlie. Maybe I ought to suggest to Helene I pick Charlie up from the kindergarten more often. Once a week? Twice? I felt a hand on my waist and the Faroese scriptwriter proceeded to pitch me a story. The beginning was original, but that was it. Søren came back to scrounge the usual two hundred, and when he encountered no resistance he put it up to five and assured me I wouldn’t regret it.
Twenty minutes later we were sitting in the gnome’s flat, plexiglas furniture, street art on the walls, expensive clothes on the floor and a couple of girls who seemed to never finish putting their make-up on. A mirror went round and Søren told the girls that I, his best friend, was writing a book about him. ‘I’m a goddam hero!’ he exclaimed in English, and flexed his biceps.
Three lines later, Søren and I found ourselves amid a group of ladyboys at Cozy Bar, dancing to Madonna. Someone put their arms around me from behind.
‘You mustn’t leave me like that!’ said Diana
We French-kissed our way through ‘Tainted Love’. She had been looking for me all over town. We went to the toilets, and I loved the reek of cheap aftershave.
The Internet has altered our psychology. What started out as a technological revolution, a sharing of knowledge, has now become an integrated part of our lives and has added a whole new dimension to the concept of community. Social networks have made it completely normal for us to share our lives online. We converge and diverge at will and without resistance. At the same time, we are forced to make choices quickly, we click yes or no, responding to one thing at the expense of another, and must keep our wits about us: wrong decisions online can be ruthlessly exploited, or generosity returned tenfold.
This new way of constructing our lives has already impacted on the way we experience love and relationships. The pursuit of unselfish, impassioned intensity is a driving force of life in the modern age – we are both freer and more accountable for the choices we make.
While I’d been working on the book, Diana had been down in the Haslev area, cycling through the country estates. When she got back she lay like a starfish on the mattress as I licked the salt from her. Her armpits made me insane and I ordered her to lie still while I went to work on her pussy with my tongue and fingers, and then my ferociously insistent cock.
I asked her whether she’d be willing to read what I’d written so far.
‘If it’ll help,’ she said.
It would, for I was constantly battling with myself as to whether I was being a parasite, feeding on her way of life and exploiting her by writing about it for my own gain.
‘It’s ended up being a lot about coupledom,’ I said.
‘Couplet is a nice word,’ she said. ‘But coupledom sticks in the throat. Isn’t there anything better to call it?’
‘Pairing off, alliance. Too vague. Relationship, yuk!’
‘Maybe we should invent a new word.’
‘I’d rather invent a new way of being together.’
We went into the kitchen, where Jan was in a thick, white towelling robe, sipping ginger tea and making a noise about how he couldn’t remember anything from Jolene’s, which might have been his awkward way of saying sorry.
‘I’ve got a present for you, darling,’ he said, and handed Diana a ticket to Berlin.
‘Why don’t you come to Berlin with us, Mikkel?’ she said.
I told them I needed to focus and spend a couple of days with Søren in order to make headway with the book, not admitting that Berlin, and its entire mythology, had annoyed me ever since the eighties on account of all the phoney depressives who went there to cultivate darkness and misunderstand Joy Division before plucking up the courage to do their degrees in librarianship. Also, I didn’t want to go with Jan.
I kneeled down and shouted through Søren’s letterbox. Even at Floss they were concerned. Occasionally he wouldn’t turn up for a day o
r two, but never a whole week.
The neighbour opened his door, a flabby bloke with tits in an undershirt.
‘Have you seen Søren?’ I asked.
He shook his head and closed the door again.
Søren T-shirt had been in mortal danger at least fifty times, including three occasions on which he’d actually been dead and had been brought back to life with adrenaline.
I stopped by Camilla White Wine’s place and she blushed.
‘You must think I’m never decent.’
She was in her see-through robe again.
‘Have you seen Søren?’
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘He’s starting to feel better now.’
A sickbed had been rigged up in the bedroom: puke bucket, moist compresses, painkillers on the bedside table. She opened a window. ‘I found him asleep on my doormat,’ she said, shaking her head.
Nothing animates an alcoholic more than a fellow boozer in deep shit. ‘How long’s he been here?’ I asked.
‘Four or five days, I suppose,’ she said. ‘He’s been completely out of it. Sleeping and crying like a little boy.’
Søren turned in the bed. ‘Shut the fuck up!’
His hair was pressed flat against the back of his head and he’d got one of Camilla’s T-shirts on. Fruit of the Loom.
‘Do you want me to make you some mint tea?’ she asked.
‘What do you think?’
‘It’ll do you good, Søren.’
‘I’ve been having nightmares. They’ve been after me, and I don’t blame them. Really, I don’t.’
He sat up in bed.
‘It hasn’t all been a dream, though.’
Camilla drew the robe around her. Søren pointed a finger.
‘She’s been rubbing herself up against me, the horny cow. I ought to report her for rape.’
‘I’m sure Mikkel will agree that it’s hard to rape a man who isn’t aroused,’ said Camilla White Wine.
‘There’s always life in the old trumpet, and you’ve been taking advantage,’ said Søren.
She smiled overbearingly in my direction.
‘I would have said thanks if someone had been looking after me for a week.’
‘Shove it!’ said Søren.
‘Tell Mikkel about the soup yesterday.’
‘Delicious,’ said Søren. ‘Unforgettable!’
Camilla White Wine’s cheeks shone.
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