Am I Cold

by Martin Kongstad

  ‘Right, let’s have some food, shall we?’ said Nikolaj Krogh. ‘It smells absolutely delicious.’

  My defeat was so comprehensive it didn’t seem to matter much. We gave Jan and Diana and their slow-roasted lamb a well-earned round of applause, and everything was oddly okay.

  ‘Pass the potatoes, would you, Diana?’ said Andreas Møller.

  She handed him the dish.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What did you say?’ said Diana.

  ‘I said thank you,’ said Andreas Møller.

  ‘Get out!’ she said.

  ‘What?’ said Mille, and giggled.

  ‘I want you all to go, now!’ said Diana.

  ‘Whatever for?’ said Jan.

  ‘Put your cutlery down and get out!’

  She snatched the fork from Andreas Møller’s hand. ‘I knew you were a bastard.’

  Nikolaj Krogh and Mille stood up. Andreas Møller was the first one through the door.

  ‘Don’t we get some sort of explanation?’ said Mille.

  ‘Later,’ said Diana.

  The roasted baby potatoes with rosemary were still steaming.

  ‘What was all that in aid of?’ said Jan.

  ‘He said thank you,’ said Diana.

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Andreas Møller said thank you after he fucked me at Levinsen’s party in Tisvilde,’ she said. ‘It was him! He was the second guy who fucked me.’

  I drew her towards me, but she wrestled free.

  ‘It’s best you go, too, Mikkel.’

  She took my hand.

  ‘I need some space, is that okay?’

  I nodded.

  ‘See you Friday,’ I said.

  Bernhard’s secretary had been calling and I couldn’t put it off any longer. I took a long soak, washed my hair, shaved, and decided on the dark blue suit, white shirt and a tie.

  The secretary out front announced my arrival.

  ‘They’ve been waiting for you, Vallin,’ she said. ‘Bernhard’s got a little surprise for you.’

  I passed through the mahogany; he was in a pullover the colour of egg yolk.

  On the desk was a bottle of champagne and three glasses.

  ‘Our golden goose, at long last!’ he said.

  Mark knocked and came in.

  Bernhard uncorked the bottle and poured the bubbly.

  ‘The booksellers have given us the most amazing response,’ said Mark.

  ‘Skål!’ said Bernhard, peering over the the rim of his raised glass in cultivated fashion.

  ‘The book’s off,’ I said.

  ‘How do you mean?’ said Bernhard.

  ‘My relationship’s on the rocks.’

  ‘So what?’ said Mark.

  ‘And I want to save it.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bernhard. ‘I’ve got my fortieth anniversary in the publishing business coming up next year, Mikkel. The problem that you’re outlining is one of the most frequent of all, and it is especially common in the case of authors coming out for the first time. The vast majority find separating the writer from his words to be a cause of great anxiety, to say the least. You are not your book, Mikkel. Your words are your book.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Mark. ‘It’s only a book, for Chrissake!’

  ‘I’m trying to live my thoughts. I don’t want them broadcast.’

  ‘I thought you had balls, Vallin,’ said Mark.

  ‘I hope you realise that you are not merely letting yourself and us down, Mikkel,’ said Bernhard. ‘You are letting down your entire generation. And here I was, thinking it finally had something to say.’

  The day before Diana’s opening began with Rie Becker’s article on the front page of the arts section. A big portrait photo of Diana in a Marilyn pose with flirty eyes and a pout, and the caption:

  Kiss-ing the boom goodnight.

  Followed by:

  ‘Diana Kiss, feted during the contemporary art boom, now cast aside as crisis separates wheat from chaff.’

  They made her out to be the very symbol of the ‘fashionable middle’, a group of artists who, according to Becker and her team of experts, had emerged through the symbiosis of the financial boom and greedy gallerists. Demand had pushed prices skyward, in Diana’s case they had trebled, but art purchases among the well-heeled middle classes had plummeted with the financial downturn and the fashionable middle were left to adorn the gallery walls at prices no one was prepared to pay anymore. The first of the Valby galleries had shut up shop and more would follow. Artists would be without an outlet and gallerists were already displaying the first clear signs of desperation. The piece had obviously been vetted by the paper’s legal department, and the story of Diana’s surprisingly high auction price at Bruun-Rasmussen teetered on the brink of libel, littered as it was with phrases such as ‘puzzlement all round’ and ‘several recent examples of artificially inflated auction sales abroad’. The conclusion could hardly be misunderstood: Galleri Moritz and Diana Kiss had been greedy and failed to see the signs, and the italicised information at the foot of the article seemed almost sneering:

  Diana Kiss, ‘Runaway Girl’, Galleri Moritz, 17.10–16.11.

  I went over to the house on Ceresvej before the opening and found Helene and Tue Nissen in a tight embrace in the kitchen. He had started doing cross-fit and his chest and cheekbones looked chiselled. He was in town to meet up with his editor. His new novel would be called Carrer Es Clot, after the lane on which he and Aurelien saw each other for the first time.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about you,’ he said.

  ‘What have you been thinking?’

  ‘Diana could be just a transition for you, Mikkel.’

  ‘A transition towards what?’ I said.

  ‘Why don’t you move in here?’

  I could tell from the look on Helene’s face that the suggestion had not come out of the blue.

  ‘How strange that the thought never occurred to me,’ I said.

  ‘There’s plenty of room, for a start,’ she said.

  ‘It mustn’t be for Charlie’s sake,’ said Tue. ‘It would have to be because you want to. Will you think about it?’

  ‘I’ll take it with me to Rome,’ I said.

  My mind was racing as I biked off towards Galleri Moritz.

  It had been raining and the street lights reflected in the puddles.

  The exhibition had stood between us ever since we first met, and in twenty-four hours we would be sitting on the Piazza Madonna dei Monti drinking Pinot Grigio. Our tickets for Rome were tucked inside my pocket and the keys to Maurizio’s apartment were waiting to be picked up at the Caffé Il Cigno. The name was enough on its own.

  I assigned myself a single task: to help her over the final hurdle of this evening.

  Moritz was pacing about in cobalt blue and two girls in black uniform were opening champagne and lining up glasses. ‘Just go with some Latin the first hour,’ Moritz instructed the DJ.

  ‘What about that article?’ I said.

  ‘Sod it,’ said Moritz, handing me a glass. ‘The art world doesn’t care about journalists.’

  The eight tapestries were beautifully set off by the space around them. Diana herself was all in white.

  ‘I’m proud of you,’ I said.

  She tried to smile.

  ‘Tonight I’m your dad, Diana.’

  Her laugh was a snorted spray of saliva.

  ‘You can ask anything of me,’ I said.

  Minna Lund and Goldschmidt arrived on the dot with a big bouquet. The collectors fell into two groups: an older crowd who were familiar with the menu at Søllerød Kro and knew Florence better than Aarhus, and a younger lot, a number of whom I recognised from various nightclubs, the kind who navigated the gates of Frankfurt airport with world-weary detachment and spent far too little time in their Bulthaup kitchens.

  The division of the creative class who had au pairs, so to speak.

  Nikolaj Krogh and Mille air-kissed the majority.

  �
��We’re in town to buy up some art,’ said Nikolaj Krogh.

  ‘I think we’ll have to be quick,’ said Mille.

  She turned casually and indicated the half-open cunt in the corner.

  ‘I’ll get hold of Moritz,’ said Nikolaj Krogh.

  ‘What on earth got into you, darling?’ said Mille.

  Diana told her about Andreas Møller crossing a line and I caught sight of Moritz and Minna Lund. Judging by their gestures something interesting was going on. They had stepped out into the office area and I positioned myself at the champagne buffet and managed to catch enough of what was said to piece together a scenario. Minna Lund was offering a hundred thousand for two tapestries, almost half-price.

  I sidled closer.

  ‘We both know the others are awaiting my move,’ she said.

  ‘Is that a threat?’ said Moritz.

  ‘I won’t pay more than they’re worth.’

  ‘I can go down to a hundred and twenty. That’s thirty-three per cent!’

  ‘Careful, Kaspar. If you persist in being stubborn you will sell nothing.’

  ‘I’ve just sold one for the full asking price, Minna.’

  ‘May I remind you that we were the only bidders at Bruun-Rasmussen. Diana’s work no longer sells itself.’

  Five minutes later Minna Lund left the gallery without saying goodbye.

  Moritz busied himself pouring champagne to keep hold of those who remained, but the effect was the exact opposite. The creative upper class, ever in search of that exclusive experience, shunned failure in its every form. The DJ struggled blindly to find a foothold: jazz was too spacy, and anything with a groove served only to remind those who were still there that it wasn’t a party.

  At seven the exhibition opened officially, and it was neither the sight of Inger’s slightly stooping frame, her bony cheeks reddened with splodges of rouge, or the dandruff on Peter Borch-Jensen’s collar that prompted the winner types to beat a retreat: it was the cheap plonk Inger cradled in her arms, and specifically the red cellophane that was wrapped around the bottle.

  ‘We’re staying,’ said Mille.

  ‘Are you pleased with how it’s turned out, Diana?’ said Inger.

  ‘Thanks for the wine,’ said Diana.

  ‘It’s Argentinian,’ said Peter Borch-Jensen. ‘The grape is Malbec and originates from France.’

  Diana maintained her smile.

  ‘You’re on the champagne, I see,’ said Peter Borch-Jensen.

  ‘Sorry, I forget to get you some,’ I said.

  ‘I won’t claim the honours,’ said Peter Borch-Jensen, ‘but I am rather gratified by the small part I played in the creation of these magnificent works.’

  ‘Nonsense, Peter Borch-Jensen!’ said Inger. ‘He’s been boasting his head off about it this past hour and a half down at Vinstue 80.’

  ‘90, actually,’ said Peter Borch-Jensen. ‘Odd that it calls itself a wine bar when everyone goes there for the beer.’

  ‘What part was it you played?’ said Mille.

  ‘That would be rather indiscreet of me to divulge,’ he said.

  ‘He photographed the cunt!’ said Inger. ‘I would never have the guts to paint mine. It’s not sufficiently photogenic.’

  Diana wasn’t smiling anymore.

  ‘But I did paint my cat once!’ said Inger.

  ‘And what was the underlying message there?’ said Peter Borch-Jensen.

  ‘There wasn’t one,’ said Inger. ‘It was just a pussy cat.’

  ‘Peter Borch-Jensen is one of Denmark’s foremost Holberg scholars,’ I said, and Nikolaj Krogh picked up the cue in cultivated fashion.

  Diana tugged on my arm and we went over to a corner.

  ‘Is it too much for you, Inger and Peter Borch-Jensen being here?’ I said.

  She put her hand on my arm.

  ‘Am I cold?’

  I smiled and she didn’t.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Do you feel cold?’

  ‘Just tell me,’ she said.

  By half past seven it was just an ordinary reception with students from the academy and the university, curators, architects and hangers-on who drank whatever was swilled into the trough while doing their best to combine being utterly unique with not saying anything out of place.

  Mille and Nikolaj Krogh adjourned to Karriere Bar along with the more upper echelons of art-world aristocracy, while Peter Borch-Jensen was becoming bolder.

  I placed Diana at a small table and did not move from her side. It was, I felt, less stressful for her to be stationary.

  Peter Borch-Jensen pulled up a chair and sat down.

  ‘How’s your csardas coming along, Mikkel Vallin?’

  ‘Csardas?’

  Diana reached for her glass.

  ‘Hungary’s answer to the tango,’ he said. ‘Liszt was hugely inspired by the csardas in his Hungarian Dances. You’re familiar with Liszt, of course. All pianissimo to begin with and then all of a sudden your heart leaps out of your chest: vroom! The scales explode and syncopated torrents rain down.’

  ‘I thought the mazurka was Hungarian,’ I said.

  ‘Did you really? Well I never.’

  ‘Mazurka’s Polish,’ said Diana.

  Borch-Jensen reeled over to the DJ and a tango struck up.

  ‘We never did have our dance, Miss Kiss. May I?’

  The lumberjack shirts made space and Peter Borch-Jensen didn’t see the indulgent smiles. He placed his right hand against her upper back and his dark brown lace-ups glided across the floor with purpose and determination. Diana let go of her inhibitions after some sixteen bars and Borch-Jensen didn’t seem to care about anything in the world apart from leading her in the dance. His long hair stuck to his cheeks, the tails of his jacket flapping and swaying.

  Diana came back blushing.

  Peter Borch-Jensen produced a leather-encased hip flask.

  ‘Our history extends beyond time and geography, Diana.’

  He tossed his head back and the cognac ran down his chin and dribbled on to his sweat-soaked shirt.

  ‘You mustn’t bask in the glow of your potential, Diana Kiss.’

  I saw no reason to hide my smile.

  ‘You must never succumb to being realistic! Elevate your ambition and throw caution to the wind! Mediocrity’s path is paved with ill turns and questionable services.’

  The thought occurred to me that he might be addressing me through Diana, but it wasn’t the case. I was just a piece of furniture with fingernails.

  ‘What are we even doing here, Diana Kiss?’

  I was outclassed, not by his wit or his sonorous articulation, but by the sheer force of his words. How often do you meet someone who fearlessly embraces the power of language?

  ‘Diana, how I sense you! You may be untruthful in action and in thought, but against the heart you stand defenceless.’

  He was invincible until his next swig of cognac.

  He leaned forward and put his hand on her thigh.

  ‘You are as yet one photograph short!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

  ‘The consummation!’

  He removed his hand and glanced up at me.

  ‘I saw you through the lens. I saw you tremble as I entered you.’

  ‘I don’t need this,’ said Diana.

  ‘Have you told him how much you enjoyed it?’ he said.

  I handed him his coat.

  ‘It’s time you were going!’

  He gave my cravat a look of disgust.

  ‘Once a pleb, always a pleb.’

  I led him through the gallery by the scruff of the neck and he was anything but the leading man as he stood there outside trying to find his sleeves. He’d have a long journey home.

  Diana and I went for a walk and had Peking soup at the Chinese by the main station, and when we got back to the gallery we were met by an insane conceptual artist and had a drag of his spliff. Galleri Moritz was bouncing now.

  Jan stood in the doorw
ay kissing right and left. His poncho was bright turquoise. A photographer from one of the fashion magazines stopped us in front of the entrance and I could feel how good the picture would be. The music stopped when she entered, and two hundred people whooped and applauded.

  Who was Rie Becker to say whether Diana was a success or not?

  The crowd were the kind who had first met on the skater scene and had gone on to become designers, feted architects, producers, artists and actors, and all still stuck to the old rule of capitulating totally to the party.

  ‘You were a good dad,’ said Diana.

  The DJ played Tone-Loc and a flock of sirens pulled Diana on to the dance floor.

  I leaned my head back and for the first time in what seemed like an age my calf muscles untensed.

  ‘That was it, wasn’t it?’

  Levinsen in a Hawaii shirt.

  ‘What was what?’

  ‘The art business. You need to move on, Vallin.’

  The DJ was mixing Kurtis Blow.

  ‘I’m off to Istanbul,’ he said.

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Content.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Content.’

  Diana came back perspiring and I licked her armpits.

  In the little room behind the office were three orange nylon sculptures and an archive of smaller canvases. We clashed teeth and my lip was bleeding as she contracted. I came so forcefully I had to support myself against a mountain-bike version of Duchamp’s bicycle wheel. Moritz had stashed two bottles of champagne at the back of the little fridge. We drank straight from the bottle and shared with everyone around us.

  Jan was giving his flabby arms some air in a chalky tank top.

  ‘It’ll turn out all right, you’ll see,’ he said.

  ‘As the actress said to the bishop,’ I said.

  ‘What will?’ said Diana.

  The old hip-hoppers were battling and people crowded round and clapped their hands.

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’ Jan said. ‘I got a friend of mine to play the interested buyer.’

  ‘And?’ I said.

  ‘He could take his pick. There’s only one been sold.’

  ROME, OCTOBER 2008

  We gazed up at the pink sky, facing away from each other. The cupolas and spires didn’t matter, and the Pantheon was at our feet. On a little glass table was a bottle of Pinot Grigio and the air was just warm enough not to be noticed. I always wanted to sit on the rooftop terrace of the Hotel Minerva, and the mood was hard to describe. There was no passion, but no reproaches either. Nor was it much like staring into the sink after two days on speed and noticing the congealed toothpaste. It wasn’t at all as dramatic. It was more like Blegdamsvej, perhaps, on a Sunday in July, when everyone else is out of town. I might have known she would hate Rome.