Milk

by Milk

Ihad just lit a cigarette. The flame didn’t really take, so I pursed my lips and puffed. As I puffed, I happened to emit a small whistle. Wanting to hide that it was by accident, I added a few notes. It was the beginning of a theme, I repeated the notes a few times, and suddenly the rest came by itself. I couldn’t quite remember which piece it was. The melody grooved back and forth across my lips. There was pizzazz in it, the kind that could put you in a good mood. I let the cigarette smoke itself and whistled away.

  I was standing beside the window and suddenly felt the need to take a walk. It was gray and windy outside, and I had no errands to make, but I felt such an urge to get out. I turned to Emma sitting at the dining table reading a magazine.

  —I think I’ll go for a walk.

  She glanced up quickly, then down again.

  —It’s raining, she said.

  —I know, I said.

  —You’ll get wet, she said.

  —Yeah, I said.

  I’d stopped whistling, but the melody hung on the edge of my lips.

  —What’s wrong, Olaf? You’ll get sick if you go out, you know that.

  I turned back to the window.

  —Yeah, I said.

  Ihad my coat on, ready to go, when Emma stepped into the hallway.

  —You’ll catch pneumonia, she said.

  —Give it up, I responded with a sharpness in my voice that surprised us both.

  Iwaited a bit for the elevator. As it crawled up from the first floor, I could see the numbers light up one by one. It made a rusty clang, and the doors opened. I stepped on and pushed L, but the elevator continued upwards. At the 12th floor it came to a stop, and a short, fat man stepped on. He smelled ripe, of body odor and beer. I’ve not grown handsomer with age—I’ll admit as much—but I maintain a certain level of hygiene. I could see that my disgust was reciprocated; he was just as annoyed as I was at having to share the cramped space. As the elevator lowered us down the shaft, we didn’t exchange a single word. About halfway down I thought of my theme. I hummed it carefully, and after a few irritated sideways glances from my companion, I began to whistle. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and cleared his throat, and I simply whistled louder. Six floors down the doors opened, and we got off. The little man hurried away.

  Outside, rain fell lightly. The cars in the lot were gleaming, their colors clean and sharp. Large puddles of water lay on the lot; here and there were grates in the curb, and I could hear the water gurgling beneath my feet. The weather was good for a walk, the risk of meeting someone minimal; for someone my age the risk is minimal to begin with, but in this kind of weather it’s as good as zero. I followed the sidewalk along the parking lot, past the neighboring block, past the playground, and past the supermarket with the red signs.

  I’d reached the last block when the rain started coming down hard. I walked along a narrow drainage ditch; there was a bank on the other side of the ditch, and on the other side of the bank was the freeway. Through the rain, I could just hear the cars whizzing past. The path I walked on was muddy, and I moved forward in short steps and with my vision focused on the ground. The rain made my neck and back cold. When I stopped to orient myself, I discovered something strange. The water in the ditch had changed color. It had a white sheen. At first I thought it was because of the stream, but as I continued along the path, I noticed how the water became increasingly murky.

  After I’d walked around 300 feet, I came to a pipe poking out of the bank. The white liquid was spewing here; the liquid running from the pipe resembled undiluted paint. I managed to squat down and put a finger in the water. I held it up to my nose, and because I couldn’t smell anything, I tasted it cautiously. It was milk. I bent forward and put my hand under the pipe, pulled it out, and drank. I don’t usually drink milk, not since I was a child have I done so—not even in my coffee—but it tasted fresh and good. I stood and continued walking. My knees ached, but I ignored the pain. I didn’t feel like going home.

  The noise grew progressively louder the farther up I went. I climbed the broad steps one at a time, making short pauses along the way. The railing was slick with rain, but it was better than no support. I reached the top and moved out along the narrow bridge. There was no one here, no one except me. From here, I had a complete view of the freeway. A number of emergency vehicles were parked there: two rescue vehicles, three ambulances, and a police car. Lying across both lanes was a sixty-foot tanker truck. Its oval, steel tank was leaking in several places, and milk was gushing out. A smaller car had driven into the overturned tanker, and two rescue workers were cutting passengers out of the car. A passenger of a third vehicle was quickly covered with a blanket and rushed to an ambulance.

  I had only stood there a few minutes when I heard footsteps from the other end of the bridge. My mood grew no less hostile when I saw who it was. It was my brother Albert. I cursed at myself: I should know better, I thought, Albert has always had a nose for accidents. I looked away, stiffly ignoring him when he came over and stood right beside me.

  Down on the freeway, the rescue team had taken a few steps back with their cutting torches, and the ambulance crew began lifting the driver from the vehicle. I saw a woman lifted out and put on a stretcher. There was not a drop of blood anywhere; her clothes were coated with a dull, wet film. Her face and hair were white as a sheet or a statue. I started whistling. It soothed me. I could tell that it made Albert uncomfortable, but that didn’t stop me from doing it. I whistled the same theme as before, a splendid piece, it gave me air, gave me an unaccustomed strength, an unaccustomed feeling of freedom. Meanwhile, I stared at the milk gushing out onto the road, and at the rescue workers who now stood smoking, their welder’s goggles pushed up on their foreheads, wet, completely soaked with milk and rain.

  —I know that piece, Albert said suddenly. It’s Mozart.

  I immediately stopped whistling.

  —No, I said.

  Albert waited for me to be more specific, but I had nothing more to say. It was apparently impossible to keep anything for yourself in this world.

  Then he changed the subject:

  —It doesn’t look good, eh.

  The last of the ambulances drove off under a sky of gloomy, blue-black clouds.

  —But they’re in God’s hands, he continued. That’s a consolation.

  —Do you still believe in that crap?

  The words rushed from me.

  —Yes, Olaf, I do. Even you are in God’s hands, whether you want to be or not.

  I stared out over at the freeway and tried to control myself.

  —Tell me, he went on calmly. Don’t you hope for a life after this?

  The water dripped from my nose like a tap. My coat was heavy with rain, but I barely felt it.

  —No, I said. I’m hoping for a place to be alone. A grave, for example.

  Albert put a hand on my shoulder.

  —You’re all too proud, Olaf, that’s no good.

  I removed his hand from my shoulder.

  —You don’t know me, I said.

  Then I walked away.

  Fling

  They drove in silence. Martin glanced at Anne, who looked out the window at the countryside. Her hair was a little blonder at the tips, she was suntanned, and he could see light traces of salt on her skin. Close by the fields flitted past, farther away they formed patterns of yellow and green. He gazed at the car’s clock and then at the road again.

  They were driving back to the city.

  Martin slowed down and signaled for a left turn.

  —There’s something I’d like to show you, he said.

  They turned onto a narrow country road that led between hills. Martin smiled and stared at the road, Anne looked at Martin, then at the clock.

  The rye-covered hills rose up on both sides and forced the road into large, winding turns. Anne put a hand on the back
of Martin’s seat then let it drift up his neck and into his hair, which was stiff from the salt.

  After a few miles the hills disappeared from the road, and a flat area of fields and small orchards spread out before them. They drove over a creek, past a cornfield, a pine farm.

  —This is it, Martin said.

  He turned left down a narrow gravel road. The grass was high between the tracks and brushed the car’s undercarriage.

  They coasted into the driveway and parked next to an old truck with crates of fruit stacked on the trailer bed. On the right was a whitewashed farmhouse, to the left a shed with a rusted pipe sticking up from the roof.

  Martin and Anne got out of the car. The air smelled of apples and smoked fish.

  —We used to come here quite often when I was a kid, Martin said.

  He went up to the farmhouse.

  —Let’s see if anyone’s here.

  At the side of the house there was a little garden and behind that an orchard. The grass was tall and green, even though it was late summer.

  Anne remained standing in the middle of the driveway.

  Martin knocked on the door, which had a square window shaped like a diamond. He peered in, but the room behind the door lay in darkness. He waited a moment, then returned to Anne.

  —Let’s look over here, he said.

  Martin walked towards the shed. The door was ajar, and he looked in. Long rows of trout hung under the ceiling. The walls of the little room were smeared black, and the light from the door opening didn’t reach the back wall. The fish gleamed with oil, the skins golden and brown, the fins almost black.

  —Have a look. This is where they smoke them.

  Anne came over and stood next to Martin. She put her arm around his waist.

  —That’s trout, he said.

  —Is it?

  —I hope somebody’s here. Maybe they’re in the back.

  Martin turned and worked himself free of her arm.

  They walked down a short path that began to the right of the shed. The ground was damp, and there were nettles on either side.

  At the end of the path were the fishponds, five of them constructed in rows with several feet of grass between each. Martin and Anne could see all the way down to the end.

  They moved to the edge of the first pond and looked into the water. The surface was calm, mirroring the sky’s moving clouds; it was only after their eyes had adjusted to the light that they could see down into the dark water. The fish stood still. Once in a while there was one that moved, and the silver-colored fins and white belly shot a spark of sunlight back up through the dark-green water.

  —Trout, Martin said. Let’s see what’s in the next one.

  Anne stayed where she was and looked down into the water.

  —Martin, she said.

  —Yeah?

  —Let’s go. I don’t like this place.

  —Hold on a minute.

  Martin walked to the edge of the next pond. Here the fish were packed in tighter. He strained his eyes to see the bottom, but he couldn’t.

  Then he went back to Anne.

  —That was trout too, he said.

  —I don’t know what it is, she said. I think it’s too quiet here.

  —That’s all right, he said.

  They walked back along the path, and this time she walked ahead of him. Martin snapped off a long blade of grass and tickled her arm with it just above the elbow. Anne drew her arm back. He tickled her again, and again she moved her arm away. Then he tossed the grass down.

  They came out on the driveway and walked over to the car. Anne stopped suddenly. There was something on the hood of the car: a plum, a fat purple plum. Martin walked over. He picked up the plum and looked around. There were no trees nearby. The door to the farmhouse was closed, and the door to the smokehouse stood half-open, as before.

  —Come on, Anne said. Let’s go.

  Martin set the plum on the truck’s running board and unlocked the car. They sat down and closed the doors.

  —Must’ve been some kids, Martin said.

  They drove back along the gravel driveway and then onto the asphalt road. They drove past the pine farm, past the cornfield, and over the creek and in between the hills. Finally they were on the main road.

  —Martin, Anne said, after they’d driven for a little while.

  —Yeah?

  —I don’t think I can keep this up much longer. We’ve got to do something soon. We’ve got to make a decision.

  —Yeah, Martin said.

  He looked at the dashboard clock and then again at the oncoming road. A moment later he turned and looked at Anne.

  —Yeah, he said.

  Albatross

  My brother sat on the couch reading a magazine. I aimed at him with my lighter pistol and pulled the trigger. The flame rose straight up, almost five inches high, but he didn’t react.

  —Catch!

  I tossed the lighter at him over the coffee table. He dropped the magazine and threw himself toward the lighter in order to save the couch and curtains and wall-to-wall carpet. He couldn’t find it and started pulling the pillows down on the floor.

  —Jeppe, you dick. Where’d it go? You’ll burn the house down.

  The lighter lay on the floor right at his feet. I stood and walked over. The flame had gone out as soon as I’d let go.

  —Here, I said and handed it to him.

  —You’re an idiot, he said, refusing the lighter.

  I stuffed the lighter in my pocket and left the room. I put on my boots and jacket and walked through the empty stalls and out the other side. We’d not been outdoors for two days. The afternoon sky was clear and blue, and I tromped toward our neighbor’s place. Svend the Hen was scorching his field; he’d lit rows of straw on the opposite side, and the fire now ran in parallel tracks over the crest of a hill. He was busy plowing a security barrier so the fire wouldn’t leap over onto our field, which hadn’t been harvested yet. He brought the tractor to a halt and opened the cab door.

  —Get in.

  I grabbed the handrail inside the door and hoisted myself up. Svend the Hen had his shotgun across his thigh, the barrel snapped open and draped over his leg. I sat on the wheel guard, and the tractor started with a jerk. Svend the Hen’s short silver hair poked out of the corner of a green cap. He didn’t say anything. He plowed another row along the barrier to our field.

  —So, he said.

  I could see how the effort of talking stretched his cheeks, how his lips twitched in the attempt, and how he sat chewing on what he would say. As if he had to put his tongue and lips in order first. As we reached the end of the row, he turned the tractor and began a third row.

  —So…They’re on vacation or what?

  —Yeah, I said.

  —What about the other hen?

  —He’s at home.

  —Well, well, then.

  He always called us hens—maybe because he didn’t have any kids of his own. Some said he fucked his cows, but I had never believed it.

  —Well then, he said again after a minute.

  He smiled for an instant. Not because he liked to, but more because he couldn’t help himself, I think. Or maybe because he was proud that he’d managed to get his tongue in the right position in his mouth, moved his lips and all that. His teeth didn’t look too good, and you couldn’t mistake the smell. Maybe everything’s going rotten in there, I thought. He turned the tractor up near the shrubbery and drove with the plow raised in the direction of the fire. He took two bullets from a box on the front window and stuck them in the shotgun, still with one hand on the steering wheel. As we reached the first burning column, he turned the tractor so we were driving along the front. He opened the door and asked me to steer. The air was heavy with black dust, and it was hot as hell. We’d almost reached the end
of the field before anything happened. He aimed and fired in almost the same instant. I barely registered what had happened.

  —God damn, he mumbled.

  I saw a hare leaping away.

  —God damn, I said.

  At that moment I saw another hare. Svend the Hen fired and this time he got it. The hare rolled a somersault, then lay completely still. He stopped the tractor and opened the door on my side, and with a nod of the head let me know what he wanted me to do. I hopped down and ran over to pick up the hare. I grabbed its legs and swung it around high over my head. The flames came closer; it was a wall of heat moving in my direction. I ran back to the tractor and tossed the hare to him.

  —Get in, he said.

  I shook my head.

  —I gotta go, I said.

  He closed the door, touched his fingers to his cap, and a moment later he was off in a cloud of black smoke.

  I looked around for a place where I could get through the fire. I found an opening then made a running start and leaped through. When I came out on the other side, my face felt stiff and my hair smelled charred.

  The ground was black and scorched.

  At the end of the field, I found a smoldering chunk of a tree. It was a branch from an oak that stood near the border of our land. I picked up the cold end and went toward our side. Near the track separating the two fields, I stopped and looked around. The rye should’ve been harvested a long time ago; in many places the stalks lay horizontal to the ground. Ours was the only field, as far as I could see, that didn’t have stubble, or wasn’t already plowed up. I stood there a moment considering the pros and cons. They can kiss my ass, I thought. Then I threw the branch as far as I could into the field.

  I hiked across Svend the Hen’s field. I headed down through the bog, followed the railroad tracks a short distance, and then walked through a small stand of spruce.

  I’d reached the main road when I heard the first fire truck. It drove toward me at high speed, and a moment later the second one followed. I could see the firemen putting on their gear. I tramped along the road meeting one car after another—curiosity-seekers following the fire trucks, I think. I also saw someone on a bicycle. I could hear the sirens approaching from every direction.