Am I Cold

by Martin Kongstad

  ‘How did he find out?’

  ‘I couldn’t conceal my happiness.’

  ‘You were happy about a child you’d made up?’

  ‘It wasn’t me who invented Nona.’

  ‘Who was it, then?’

  ‘You did.’

  I looked at the walls. They were Bordeaux red.

  ‘I needed a child to abandon,’ she said.

  ‘In defence of the mother who abandons the nest…’ I said.

  ‘I would never have got away without it.’

  Of course, it was ‘God Only Knows’ that I had sung into her answerphone. I told her I was finishing up the Søren T-shirt book and she said a number of galleries were showing interest in her drawings. It didn’t surprise me in the least that Mies turned up just before midnight, and as the clock struck twelve we were sitting arm in arm at the bar with a bottle of champagne, singing for Nona.

  ‘Why exactly did you go to Budapest?’ she said.

  ‘To say thanks,’ I said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  I went with them to Graefstrasse and the three of us slept together in the double bed.

  The way we held each other’s hands on top of the duvet felt so incomparably restful, and I woke up with violins in my arms and legs.

  COPENHAGEN, 24 DECEMBER 2008

  Søren knocks on the door as only he can.

  I’m already pressed and have spent fifteen minutes going through the old CDs without finding anything suitable. He’s wearing a tight-fitting black jacket which he refuses to take off and is very obviously in the kind of mood where nothing is good enough. He opens the fridge and there’s a jar of piccalilli, some rather bewildered pickled cucumber and half a packet of yeast.

  ‘Where’s the duck?’ he says.

  ‘We’re having dal,’ I say.

  ‘Dal? Dal?’

  ‘I just need a tin of coconut milk,’ I say.

  ‘I hope you can hear yourself.’

  ‘Have you even tasted dal?’ I say.

  ‘A goose would have done,’ he said. ‘But I’d rather have duck.’

  I put Skousen & Ingemann on to shut him up.

  It’s so hard to get through! It keeps on disappearing inside itself.

  ‘I knew I should have gone up to my mum and dad’s,’ he says. ‘She’ll already have the gravy on the go. She takes it very seriously. Which is the least you can expect. They always have a great big nosh-up first, with pickled herring and fried fillets of fish, then it’s flat out on the sofa with a glass of wine while the duck’s in the oven.’

  ‘Christmas dinner here was your idea,’ I remind him.

  ‘Have you got a beer?’ he says.

  He knows I haven’t.

  ‘I’ve got tea with ginger and lemon.’

  He puts on his black leather gloves.

  ‘I had hoped that this one day in the year I could avoid having to break the law, but someone has to do something.’

  He opens the door and is already on his way out.

  ‘Wait a minute, where are we going?’ I ask.

  ‘Irma on Borgergade,’ he says.

  ‘I’ve got no money.’

  ‘Who’s the prehab here, you or me?’

  He swears all the way along Klerkegade, stops outside Irma and gives me a handful of change. His nails are yellow and bitten down.

  ‘You buy a red cabbage, right? When you get to the check-out you ask a load of questions. Can you manage that?’

  It’s almost closing time and the few customers are spread about the shop: a pensioner with a Zimmer, a disturbed woman in a quilted dressing gown, a dad sent out for browning and a packet of almonds.

  ‘Should I pretend I don’t know you?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s not Robert de Niro. It’s ordinary shoplifting.’

  The red cabbage costs 14.95 and I take it to be a good omen.

  I’ve got exactly fifteen kroner and Søren is circling by the meat counter.

  ‘They’ve got quail breasts and seventeen kinds of chicken, but where the fuck’s the duck? It’s fucking miserable, this is. What are they doing out back, are they all stoned out there or what? I’m so livid I’ve gone blind. You look.’

  ‘Fresh duck’s sold out.’

  ‘We’ll have to get a frozen one, then, won’t we!’

  ‘It won’t have time to thaw,’ I say.

  ‘We’ll chuck it in the oven for a couple of hours first.’

  So Søren lifts this big organic duck from Lindebjerggaard.

  ‘Where are you going to put it?’ I say.

  ‘Just go away and let me get on with my work!’

  He glances about, to make sure there’s no detective.

  ‘Right, you go to the check-out.’

  I turn round to do as he says, only for female hands to stop me in my tracks.

  The Sisters of Mercy in form-fitting coats.

  ‘How come you weren’t at the Next Love meeting?’ the first one says.

  ‘I’m not in it anymore,’ I tell her.

  ‘There was only the Taarbæk crowd there,’ says the other.

  ‘Where was it held?’

  ‘Gammel Strand Gallery of Contemporary Art,’ the first one says. ‘You had to write a formal application stating your reasons for wanting to be considered. With a photo and curriculum vitae attached.’

  ‘We’re busy here, Mikkel,’ says Søren.

  ‘This is my best friend, Søren,’ I tell them.

  Søren shifts the duck over to his left hand for the introduction.

  ‘I’m making my way over to the check-out,’ he says.

  He loiters at the crisps, and the duck is so cold he has to change hands every five seconds. I’m number three in line, and when an elderly woman queries her receipt with the check-out girl I make a rash decision and change queues, only then I notice the little sign on the conveyor saying Till Closed.

  Back in line again and Søren’s biting his hand in rage.

  The Sisters of Mercy get behind me.

  ‘We could start our own Next Love,’ says one.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘We just threw our lodger out.’

  Søren moves towards the unmanned check-out. It’s my turn now.

  ‘Is your red cabbage Danish?’ I ask.

  A big bloke with a moustache wearing an Irma fleece jacket starts filling up the display cabinet to the left of the till with cigarettes. Søren picks up speed.

  ‘Is our red cabbage Danish, Peter?’

  A metre from the check-out, the duck slides out from under his coat, hits the floor with a hard clack and skids away to be halted by a metal display.

  The bloke in the fleece blocks the exit and a colleague comes to his aid from the other side. Half a minute later they’re leading Søren away.

  ‘What’s going on?’ a Sister says.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ I say.

  The lino on the floor is grubby and worn. Empty cardboard boxes stamped flat have been piled in a corner next to half a pallet of corn on the cob. Søren is sitting on a black chair in the opposite corner and the bloke in the fleece, the biggest of the two, is standing next to him with his mobile in his hand.

  ‘What do you want?’ he says to me.

  ‘I’m spending Christmas with my friend here,’ I say.

  ‘Not where he’s going, you’re not.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re calling the police. That’s what we do in these cases.’

  ‘Piss!’ says Søren, raising his voice. ‘Bollocks!’

  ‘You just stay calm,’ the bloke says.

  ‘Do you have to call them?’ says Søren.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘But it’s Christmas Eve. Please.’

  ‘You should have thought of that before,’ the other one says.

  ‘People like you always say that,’ says Søren. ‘Boneheads.’

  ‘I don’t think we need to discuss who the bonehead
is,’ the big bloke says.

  ‘All right, so it’s me,’ says Søren. ‘But if you let me go you’ll have one shoplifter less to be worried about. I’ll never steal from here again. Promise.’

  ‘You’ll just go on to our next store instead.’

  ‘I swear on my mother’s grave I’ll never steal from Irma again.’

  The smaller guy looks at the big one.

  ‘We’ve got a zero-tolerance policy here and it’s in force all year round,’ he says. ‘You’ll be back home in time to dance round the Christmas tree. They won’t keep you in for a minor offence like this.’

  ‘But they will!’ says Søren. ‘I know they will!’

  His voice cracks.

  ‘I’ve got previous. They’ll put me away. Please! Please!’

  ‘It’s not up to us,’ says the big bloke. ‘I’m calling them now.’

  The Sisters of Mercy enter.

  ‘You can’t come in here,’ says the smaller guy. ‘Everyone out!’

  The big bloke puts the flat of his hand against my back and moves me gently towards the door.

  ‘Can we ask why he’s being detained?’ the first Sister says.

  ‘He was caught trying to steal a duck.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘He was on his way out through the check-out with it. That’s why!’

  ‘It’s not theft until he’s passed the last chance to pay, and he hadn’t at that point.’

  ‘He had a duck under his coat,’ says the big bloke.

  ‘There’s nothing illegal about that,’ the second Sister says.

  ‘It was frozen,’ Søren says. ‘I was keeping it warm.’

  ‘So you were intending to purchase this duck, were you?’

  ‘Of course I was,’ says Søren. ‘I’m not going to go out stealing on Christmas Eve, am I?’

  ‘Would you care to show me what you were intending to make this purchase with? Would it have been debit, credit or cash?’

  Søren grimaces.

  ‘I’m the one with the money,’ the first Sister says, and produces a thousand-kroner note.

  ‘I always let her hold on to my dosh,’ says Søren.

  The Sisters are all smiles.

  ‘All right, let them pay,’ the big bloke says.

  Søren has been asleep on my shoulder since the gospel.

  ‘You can tell he’s a good boy,’ the first Sister says.

  The Ballad of Signe and Søren T-shirt is tucked between my feet in a carrier bag from the minimart and it doesn’t matter in the slightest that he’ll never get round to reading it.

  The organ strikes up and the Marmorkirken lifts in song: Dejlig er jorden.

  Fair is Creation.

  It’s almost a year since I lifted my arms above my head, and perhaps I shall never fly. But the others do.

  I can feel Søren’s breath against my hand.

  ‘You’re lovely when you cry,’ the first Sister says.

  ‘We know it’s not because you’re sad,’ says the other.

  I kiss their cheeks and clasp my hands, and sing as loud as I can.

  Tider skal komme, tider skal henrulle:

  Ages are coming, ages are passing.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For all the artists, gallerists, collectors, curators, journalists and auction-house staff who shared their knowledge and personal views with me.

  The Danish Centre for Writers and Translators at Hald Hovedgaard for repeated residencies and kindness.

  The Danish Institute in Rome for residency.

  Bente Clausen for support in good time.

  Mads Nørgaard for friendly encouragement.

  The Danish Arts Foundation and the Danish Public Lending Right programme for financial support.

  The Danish Writers’ Association’s Autorkontoen for financial support.

  Jakob van Toornburg for wanting to do his best and doing so.

  My mother, Elisabet Kongstad, and Uwe for all manner of support.

  Roxanna Anne Albeck for inspiration.

  Lars Worning for insight.

  Malene Kirkegaard Nielsen for excellent advice.

  Sørens Værtshus for noble hospitality.

  A particular thanks to Nicolai Wallner for putting me in touch with David Shrigley, and to David Shrigley for the Danish edition’s cover art.

  And most of all to Rufus, Alma, Coco and my beloved Linda for sticking it out.

  Copenhagen, June 2013