Milk

by Milk

  —Then sleep well.

  —Where are you going? she asks.

  —I’m just going to have a drink. Then I’ll be up.

  Frands goes downstairs and sits on the couch. The bottle of cognac is on the coffee table. He warms the glass in his hand for a while before he drinks. The liquid feels soft in his mouth. There’s a slimy gray clump in the center of the table, residue from the washing machine’s filter. He pulls a long black hair from the clump and lays it beside the others Mette has already pulled out. He drains his glass and refills it. It’s warm in the living room.

  He takes his glass and the bottle and goes out to his studio. He sits on a stool. Through the skylight he can trace the outline of the pear trees’ upper branches, which reach over the house. There’s no moon, yet a small glow of light is still thrown though the large window frames. He can see his granite towering in the center of his studio, unfinished, more stone than sculpture. And he can see all of the small figures—Mette calls them children—many of them just as unfinished.

  Frands stands and goes out to the yard. Yellow apples lie in the grass. He walks into the garage looking for something to sit on and finds an old recliner. With some effort he hauls it outside. He sits facing the house and takes a nip from the bottle. He lets his eyes wander over the house’s whitewashed façade. Even in the half-dark it seems stained and porous, and he can see spots where the plaster has been cracked by frost. The real estate agent had talked for a long time about how charming the house was. An artist villa, he’d called it. With space for children. It was exactly what they were looking for, Mette had said.

  Frands lets his eyes wander up toward the bedroom, sees the curtains have yet to be drawn closed. Just then there’s a noise in the shrubbery behind the garage. He glares into the tangled darkness. A short while later the neighbor’s cat pops out from the bush further up, near the house. He tries to lure the cat to him by hissing at it, but it crosses the yard and disappears in the tall grass on the other side.

  When he glances up again, he sees Mette in the window. She stands completely motionless, her arms resting at her side, gazing out as if she’s in a trance. Frands gets the feeling she’s staring at a point far in the distance. He considers getting up or waving, but the longer he waits, the more awkward it feels. Ten minutes pass, maybe more, then she steps back and draws the curtains closed. Relieved, he sinks back into the chair. He can hear the train rattle toward the city. He lifts the bottle and leans his head back.

  Frands has almost emptied the bottle when his eyes slide shut. Immediately, the image of his neighbor’s house appears in his mind. He sees the windows light up one after the other and hears the daughter humming while she walks through the house. Her humming rises in intensity as she walks, grows more disharmonious, uneven; halfway up the stairs she breaks into song. By the time she snaps on the light in the last room, she’s screaming.

  The sky is getting light when Frands opens his eyes. With difficulty he rises from the chair. He can feel the cold in his bones and makes his way, stiff-legged, toward the house. He grabs the doorknob and realizes it’s locked. He takes a few steps backward and looks up toward the dormer. The curtains are still closed. Then he remembers which way he came. He walks around to the side of the house where the door of his studio is ajar.

  Mette doesn’t react when he crawls under the duvet. He has kept his clothes on and stares up at the ceiling; the light in the room is pale and gray. Slowly he warms up.

  —Is it someone I know? Mette asks suddenly.

  Frands hesitates a moment.

  —No, he says.

  —What’s her name?

  —Kate, he says.

  —Is she beautiful?

  Frands hesitates again.

  —Yes, he says. She’s beautiful.

  Unsettled

  Tobias had sent five poems to his old teacher. They were very short and had been published in a literary journal. One of them was about the moon: a man had been unfaithful to his wife and he cursed at the moon because he felt guilty every time he looked at it.

  A few weeks later his old teacher called him. He had moved, he explained, and invited Tobias to come visit him.

  When the day arrived, Tobias borrowed his sister’s car and drove away from the city. It was in the afternoon. The sun was low on the horizon, and the cars cast long shadows. On the highway he drove west, and after twenty-five miles he changed direction heading north and continued on increasingly smaller roads. He had studied the map carefully and found his destination without great difficulty: it was a little white house that lay at the foot of a hill.

  He parked the car to the right of the house, and Erik came out and greeted him. They shook hands and remained standing a moment looking out over the fields. Erik was tall and thin; Tobias only reached his shoulders.

  —It’s beautiful here, Tobias said. His teacher turned his head and smiled at him. He was tanned. His eyes were narrow; his blue irises hung in a net of small veins.

  —Come on in, he said.

  In the kitchen the table was set, and they sat down. Erik poured tea and offered Tobias a piece of honey cake from an oval plate. Tobias caught a glimpse of his poems on the counter in front of the breadbox.

  Erik asked what he was up to, and Tobias explained that he’d dropped out of the university; that he was at work on a collection of poems. Erik told him he’d retired five years earlier.

  —I was lucky, he said.

  He’d retired because of back problems, but a year later he’d had an operation.

  —I got a chance to start a new life.

  He went on telling Tobias how he’d found the house, and how the deal was made; Tobias drank his tea and glanced now and then at the breadbox.

  After some time, Erik rose and placed his cup in the sink.

  —Let me show you around, he said.

  The house was sparsely furnished. In the living room there was a loveseat and a coffee table. The second floor was divided into two rooms of equal size. In the first a bed stood along one wall; in the other a telescope was set up under a skylight.

  Tobias put an eye to the telescope and looked up into the blue spring sky.

  —There’s too much light, Erik said.

  They put on their jackets and went out to the driveway.

  —I’m planting flowers.

  Erik made his way to the southern end of the house. There was a cardboard box with white and blue petunias inside, five of them already planted.

  —Pretty, aren’t they?

  —Sure, Tobias said. Absolutely.

  On the eastern side of the house was a little garden with a few fruit trees, and bordering the garden was a low stone wall. The grass was yellow, in some patches almost white. They went through an opening in the stone wall and walked along a path that ran near the foot of the hill. Tobias asked Erik what had happened to his book collection.

  —I’ve sold it, Erik said, calmly.

  He explained how he’d tried to donate it to several libraries, but none of them had any room for it. He’d made an offer to the county that they could buy his house and move the library there, but they’d politely declined. So he’d sold the collection to an antiquarian, and it had taken two men a whole week to empty the house.

  They came to a green building behind the hill; it resembled a garage or a barn. The path edged closely past it, and Erik stopped and shoved the door open. He turned on the light. The room was about twenty by twenty feet, and, in the middle of the recently swept floor, underneath fluorescent bulbs, there was a ping pong table.

  Tobias looked at his teacher.

  On either end of the table lay a paddle; under one of the paddles was a ball.

  —Do you want to play? Erik asked.

  Tobias went over to the table. He took up the paddle and felt its weight in his hand. Erik had taken position on the opposite
side of the table. He stood ready with the paddle and ball.

  —Okay, Tobias said.

  Erik played. His serve was short and low, and Tobias sent it directly into the net.

  —1-0, Erik said.

  He served again. This time Tobias struck the ball over the net, but it came back immediately.

  —2-0, Erik said.

  The third time Tobias managed to hit the ball a few times, but then Erik smashed the ball past him.

  —3-0.

  On the fourth and fifth serves Erik aced him, and then it was Tobias’s turn. Erik stood in the same place and returned his serves.

  —0-6.

  —0-7.

  —0-8.

  —0-9.

  —0-10.

  —10-0, Erik said. Before long he’d won the match. Then they changed sides, and the same performance was repeated. Once or twice Tobias tried to start a conversation.

  When they were out in the daylight again, Tobias was dripping with sweat. Erik closed the door, and Tobias looked at him.

  —It was here when I moved in, he said.

  The hill was behind them now, and they continued past the fields. Erik pointed at a utility pole where he had seen an owl. He pointed at a large farm a good distance away.

  —That’s my closest neighbor, he said.

  They passed a cluster of tall trees, and then they came to a small lake. On the bank was a boat landing, but no boat.

  They stood in silence and stared across the water.

  —Lay down, Erik said.

  Surprised, Tobias looked at him.

  —You’ve got to see between the second and third boards.

  Tobias glanced from the boat landing to Erik.

  —Go ahead, Erik said.

  Reluctantly, Tobias lay down on the cold landing. The green boards were slightly damp. He positioned himself so he could see between the second and third boards.

  It was like looking through a piece of clear glass. The bottom was covered in rotten leaves. There were tangles of vegetation, and Tobias could see a long translucent string with small black eggs inside. He could see a yellow-brown mussel. Where it had inched along, it had left behind a thin, white trail in the sand. He raised his head and looked at Erik. Erik stood on the shore of the lake staring beneath the dock; he didn’t look up, and Tobias sensed that Erik wanted him to be patient. So he stared at the water again.

  He looked at the mussel. It had not moved. He traced its trail across the sandy bottom and then looked at the black fish eggs. A school of tiny fish flickered through his field of vision. They hovered right below him; they were almost transparent and their fins were tinged with red.

  At that moment a huge fish glided beneath the dock. Tobias couldn’t see the whole thing at once: only its gills and part of its back. Its skin was light green and dotted with yellow spots. It moved a bit, and a large round eye the size of a quarter came into view.

  Tobias pulled back instinctively. He turned to get Erik’s attention, but Erik wasn’t there. Tobias got on his knees and scanned the lake. Then he bent forward slowly and looked at the water again.

  The fish was still. Tobias stared at the black iris and the yellow-green circle around it. The eye didn’t blink. He could make out a number of small, spiked teeth in the front of its mouth.

  He rose. He moved onto the path searching for his teacher.

  —Erik, he called.

  No answer. Tobias walked along the sodden path.

  He went to the other side of the lake and stood a moment looking toward the boat landing.

  He called out again.

  When he returned to the boat landing, the sky had begun to darken. He made his way back the same way they had come. He saw light in the neighbor’s house; he shivered a little when he passed the darkened barn.

  There were no lights on in Erik’s house. Moving swiftly, Tobias went up to the front door. He grabbed at the doorknob and discovered that it was locked. He tried again; then he turned and walked to the car. He leaned against the driver’s side door.

  He couldn’t have fallen in the lake, he thought.

  He remained standing. In a little while the moon rose behind the hill. It was almost full and seemed unnaturally large. The light was so strong that he could see the box of flowers at the end of the house. He could see the stone wall and the path that led to the barn. The moon spilled light into the car, and Tobias spotted something white on the front seat. He opened the door and gathered up the five pages. They hadn’t been touched. There were no corrections, no commentary. They hardly even appeared to have been read.

  He climbed into the car and sat down.

  He watched the house. Through the window on the second floor he could make out the telescope. He couldn’t see Erik, but he knew he was there.

  Then he started the car.

  Intercom

  Jess wakes up because Maria is talking in her sleep.

  —Yeah, she says, followed by a stream of words he doesn’t catch. He watches her turn on her side and then on her stomach. Now she clutches the pillow, her black hair matted and spread across the white pillow cover. Jess observes her in the dark. He can just make out her lips, which sleep has made big and soft. She swallows, and makes a barely audible lip-smack.

  —Oh, Markus, she mumbles.

  Jess drops his head on the pillow. Soon he throws off the duvet and sets his feet on the cold floor. He goes into the living room and sits in the green chair. Then he stands and goes into the kitchen. Maria’s purse rests on the table. He unclasps it and carefully removes its contents. He opens her date book, skims a few months back, and finally examines her list of telephone numbers. He studies a little compact with mirror and powder. He unfolds wrinkled-up papers and presses them flat, telephone messages, receipts, and a napkin with an impression of her lips. Then he puts it all back in the purse and goes into the living room and sits in the green chair.

  Jess remains seated for an hour. When he’s ice cold he crawls back into bed.

  Next morning he gets up before Maria and goes to work.

  Jess spends the morning at his office. He moves the stack of papers around and starts over on the same letter three times. At 9:30 he sees an older woman waving a yellow cloth from a window in the building across the street. A little while later, in the neighboring apartment, the curtains part to reveal a young woman talking on the telephone; when she opens the window and leans out, the light dazzles Jess for a moment. Still talking, the woman glances down at the street. In the apartment on her left, the older woman vacuums. At 1 p.m. Jess calls the switchboard and tells them he’s sick.

  When he steps out on the street, he notices that it’s still cold, even though it’s the middle of the day. It’s early spring; the light is sharp but brings with it no warmth. Two glaziers balance a shop window, and Jess stops to watch. He stands there until he’s emptied of feeling, completely overwhelmed by the light, and then he goes on.

  Jess walks into a café and finds a table by the window; the waiter walks past with a clinking tray filled with glasses, and Jess orders a beer. Two girls sit at his right; one has short, dark hair and gentle eyes; the other is blond, with sharp eyes. The blond girl has a little silver heart around her throat and leans over, confiding in her friend in a hushed voice. Jess opens the newspaper that’s on the table. The waiter serves his beer with a prissy smile, and Jess reads and drinks. Then he stares out at the square. He gazes at the bare benches and at a few transparent plastic bags lazily swept up in the wind; he watches as they’re emptied and filled with air and shot through with sunlight.

  Jess finds a shiny twenty-kroner coin in his wallet and puts it on the table. When he opens the door, he turns and casts a final glance at the two girls. The dark-haired one sits listening patiently, the back of her hand under her chin, while the blond leans so far across the table the little silve
r heart almost touches the surface.

  Not long after that, Jess is standing in front of his apartment building. The intercom is broken; he can hear it scratching and crackling in the speaker. He puts his key in the door, but pulls it out again. He puts his finger on the white button instead.

  —Yes? Maria answers a moment later.

  Jess presses his scarf to his mouth.

  —It’s Markus.

  —Who is it?

  Jess leans closer to the microphone.

  —Markus.

  The lock buzzes, and he pushes the door open with his foot.

  On his way up he meets his downstairs neighbor.

  —Hello, Jess, he says as he passes.

  —Hello, Anders, Jess says and squeezes his keys hard.

  When he finally reaches the third floor, the door to his apartment is ajar. Jess pushes it open and sees Maria in the kitchen; she turns and smiles.

  —Hey, baby.

  Jess notices that she’s wearing a new shirt.

  It’s a little small, and he can see a strip of her belly. She comes to him, plants a quick kiss on his lips.

  —There’s something wrong with the intercom. I couldn’t hear anything.

  Jess studies Maria for a long moment. Then he hangs his scarf and his jacket in the entryway, walks into the living room, and sits at the long table. Maria follows him.

  —Have you had a good day?

  —Yes, thanks.

  —Would you like coffee?

  —Sure, why not?

  Maria goes into the kitchen and puts on the water and returns quickly. She sets two cups on the table along with a little glass pitcher of milk. Then she gets behind him and runs her fingers through his short, bristly hair.

  —I didn’t hear you leave this morning. How did you manage not to wake me?

  He raises his shoulders and lets them fall.