‘Shut up, you witch. You’re so full of shit. Go ahead and sleep with anyone you want, even your brother.’
The latter was sitting there on a bench, fidgeting. His wife sat next to him, staring angrily at the table, her cheeks red; she was breathing with difficulty.
Others turned to the Old Man, wanting him to act. He had to do something now, pound the table with his fist, put at end to all this. But not even he was capable of stopping the course of events.
‘I was there at that moment. Looking at him. Everyone was looking at him. I think he realised that it was over, right there, right then. It had turned into a hurricane party . . .’
Loki went over to Freja, and stood very close, much too close. She took a step back, he followed. She knew that she couldn’t escape. He had walked all over her, explored every inch of her, as a fly, as a flea.
No matter how much she scrubbed herself afterwards, the feeling had remained on her skin, the fact that he had been all over her, in every nook, pushing his way inside her, taking his pleasure, and no doubt boasting about it later on. He had undertaken a long journey in those parts, through the wild thicket of her hair, down the heights and hollows of her face; he had stood on the tip of her nose, tumbled over her chin and throat, out onto her bosom, down into the groves of her armpits, along her hips and up onto the desolate plain of her belly; he had sought shelter and rested for a moment in the pit of her navel, then continued down the mound of her abdomen and into the dense, almost impenetrable forest of twining lianas, climbing and falling, crawling and wriggling forward, making his way through that dark forest, enticed by the scent from the furrow way down inside a deep ravine, a water course from a sacred spring into which he had finally thrown himself from a warm, flat cliff, down into the exquisite must . . .
In the past she had once belonged to the Old Man and lived under his protection. He hadn’t been able to resist her beauty. That was long ago, but whoever looked at her now could fully understand it. She had preserved her assets well. The sorrow prompted by the decay that strikes a beauty over time was of more concern to the Old Man than to her. He was the one who would fight against it with furious wrath and be forced to give up and grow bitter. Not her. Freja had aged with dignity.
She was still irresistible. As soon as Loki realised this, when he stood so close and was about to be drawn into another, overpowering chain of events, he was forced to back away. He couldn’t yield now, couldn’t turn weak. He had to go on.
He now stood an arm’s length away, stretching out his hand towards her, towards her bosom where the necklace hung. That famous piece of jewellery. He took it in his hand. She stood motionless and didn’t stop him.
Everyone knew what base desire had once raged around that necklace. The desire to covet and possess, the urge to conquer.
It was an extraordinary piece of jewellery. Four dwarves had forged it underground. She had wanted it. The dwarves wanted her. A deal was struck.
She slept one night with the first of them, one night with the second, one night with the third and one night with the fourth. Everyone was satisfied.
Then she went home and didn’t say a word about the matter. When she looked in the mirror, she saw only the necklace. And an exquisite necklace it was.
In a roundabout way Loki heard talk of the acquisition and mentioned it to the Old Man, repeating the gossip. The Old Man didn’t feel threatened by four dwarves, but he had his honour to consider. Some sort of punishment was in order.
His blood brother was assigned the task of stealing the necklace. Loki was given a free hand, could employ whatever means necessary. Which would undoubtedly be required, since Freja lived in her own house, securely locked and guarded. She never let in uninvited guests, she kept herself and her possessions well protected.
On a cold night he flitted around the place. Every door was locked, every shutter was closed. He couldn’t find a single gap, but he was stubborn and disguised as a fly. It was cold, and flies grow drowsy in the cold. He warmed himself next to the chimney and continued his search. Finally he found an opening and crept inside the house. The warmth revived him.
All were asleep in their rooms. Quietly he flew over to Freja’s bed. She was lying there with the necklace on. The clasp was at the back of her neck. He buzzed around a few times, a big, fat, shiny fly. Too big for such a delicate task. And unable to bite.
So he attacked her as a flea. He bit her on the cheek. She gave a start and turned over, changed position so that he had access to what he sought, a clasp, a locking mechanism, a seal that he could prise open, calmly and cautiously.
She slept like a child, he might say. Noticed nothing. He was a skilful burglar.
No one could deny it. Least of all her, because no matter what she had lost, he had left her honour there on the pillow, whatever his motive might have been. Perhaps he preferred to be known as a master of thieves, rather than a seducer.
Sleep was as good a mantle as any other, a disguise, practical and comfortable. She had pulled it up over her, resting in its irresponsible warmth. She had recognised him, the henchman of the mighty man, and made herself comfortable, allowing him to do what he liked in the belief that she was asleep. In an unspoken agreement she had given Loki the illusion that he had the upper hand, if only because he was wide awake.
Then a moment of complete equilibrium arose, a perfect balance, when their relative strengths met on an absolutely level playing field; a position so sensitive that the least little breath would disturb the equilibrium. A state that was pondered for all eternity, alternately trivialised and blessed, leaving traces in the bark of the trees, in words and pictures on cave walls, school desks and draughty privies, extolled in ballads and chants, projected on screens as big as arenas, collected in documents and archives for thousands of years, and still it preserved its mystery.
In the morning both the man and the necklace were gone.
But she had slept well.
And now she wore that necklace around her neck again, standing there and waiting for Loki to let it go. She still had the sympathy of the others. They saw nothing of the shamefulness that had been hammered into the smallest detail, every little section of chasing, every little ornament. They saw only the splendour, the lustre of a masterpiece.
Then he let go of the necklace and heard Njord say, ‘Brilliant. Brilliant . . .’
Loki turned round and cast a glance at the Outsider. ‘Brilliant?’
‘That women fall for men, real men, their own men or others’ men, all of them shit. It’s brilliant.’
‘Hmm,’ said Loki. ‘Well, that’s one opinion.’
‘But it’s less brilliant when men do the same.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Like you, you faggot.’ He took a quick look around. Saw grins. Agreement. ‘Didn’t he get pregnant too?’ He turned to the others, noticing one person here, another there, enough to feel supported and encouraged. ‘How the hell did that happen?’
In that jumble of vying wills, impulses and malicious gossip there arose an image, like the remains of a shattered memory: a prison underground, a little boy, horns of bulls, assaults, rapes. An image of illicit rutting, a degradation that causes men to give birth: phantoms, demons, monsters.
‘Do we have to open that sewer again? Didn’t they use your trap for a shithouse over there in the east? You were held hostage by some bigshot over there, some bloody oligarch with lots of daughters who filled your mouth with piss.’
‘Yes,’ said Njord. ‘And you know personally how it tastes.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘But do you know what I thought?’
‘No,’ said Loki. ‘I have no idea.’
‘I’m aware of that. I’m aware that you don’t know. I could endure all that shit because I thought to myself: at least I have a son back home, a boy that everyone loves. And that’s more than you have.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Loki. ‘I don’t have a son with my sister. Those kinds of kids usual
ly turn out simple-minded.’
The Outsider glared at everyone, dumbfounded. He had revealed too much by talking, standing there wrangling with an impossible opponent. He moved away and sat down.
Tyr the One-Handed stepped forward in his defence. ‘Not a bad word about Frej. Is there anyone who has anything bad to say about him?’ There was none, neither man nor woman.
‘Don’t get involved in this. You can’t keep apart a couple that’s quarrelling. For that you’d need two hands,’ said Loki.
‘I may have lost a hand, but you lost a son. And he’s going to suffer torment until the world comes to an end. If you happen to care.’
‘I do care.’
‘I can’t tell.’
‘Because I’m the only one who does.’
That merely provoked laughter, derision and ridicule. The fact that he, the upstart, would care – he who had trod on corpses to make his way forward, or back.
He had moved unhindered between the chaos out there and the order in here. He’d had free passage, knew the codes on both sides of the border.
Out there they took him for one of their own, so giant-like he was, so unscrupulous and raw. A raging, rational folly. A man fit for a life of lawlessness.
Loki had a whole life behind him out there. With a woman who belonged in that place. Together they’d had three children that only a mother could love. Three offspring who had become famous, notorious, feared.
The children took turns being worse than the others. They were wild, ill-bred, impossible to discipline, more at home among the forces of nature than in any furnished room.
It was apparent early on, for anyone who cared to listen or took the time to see: minor disparities, in the way one of them walked, the way another spoke, in the third child’s tendency to bite.
And it got worse with each year that passed. The kids fought and clawed, scratched and bit, lashing out at everyone and everything; they were kept apart, on a leash, so as not to injure each other. They were beasts – they ate like beasts, slept like beasts, were easily roused, became quickly agitated, sniffed the night air for dangers; they never bathed, preferring the rough swipe of the tongue, or they rolled in the sand.
Over time their father gave up. He was in despair; life out there was hopeless. He wanted to see grander vistas; he fled from that home, changed sides, crossed the border and became blood brothers with the Old Man. In the world of order all his connections proved to be a significant asset. Rational folly could be easily masked as irrational reason. Dressed in new clothes he looked like anyone else in there.
But there was one requirement. Subordinates were not tolerated if they had children out there. Children were unreliable; they could become future avengers. A deceitful father could never feel secure.
It was decided that the kids would be taken in hand and removed from their mother, since she was unable to manage them anyway.
The daughter was found to be so ugly that no living soul would even look at her. She was put in charge of death. A sad but secure occupation.
One of the sons was so ungovernable and wriggly that he was tossed into the sea to cool off. He never resurfaced. Yet no one believed that he had drowned; he was still out there, making the sea more threatening than ever.
The other son they tried to control. He was difficult and unruly, yet still only a whelp. He grew and grew and finally, after many frustrating attempts to train him, they gave up. He was a hopeless case. They called him the Wolf. He had powerful jaws.
It was foretold that he would bring misfortune with those jaws. The simplest thing would have been to kill him, but no one wanted to sully the earth with such evil blood. They decided to tie him up with a chain. A very strong chain.
The Wolf gave a yank of his neck, and the chain was shattered.
A new, thicker cable was made, twice as strong as the first. The Wolf, who had no desire to remain tied up, was persuaded to put it on because he would win renown if he then managed to get free.
The prospect was tempting. After a great howling and rooting about, the new chain was broken as well. Pieces were flung about like projectiles. The wise men scratched their heads.
They decided to consult the dwarves. They presented the problem; the purpose of the chain was described, and the dwarves accepted the challenge. They had to mobilise all their professional skills in the art of forging. They produced an alloy from six ingredients: the yowls of a cat and the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain and the sinews of a bear, the breath of a fish and the spittle of a bird. The chain was as sleek and soft as a silk ribbon.
The Wolf was lured to a remote islet. It was a summer evening. The sun was on its way down, mosquitoes and gnats were buzzing and biting at everyone’s skin. Gulls shrieked from the nearby archipelago. The rock slabs on the islet were warm from the sun and rough with lichen that tore at the soles of everyone’s feet. Dried kelp and drifts of seashells gave off a stench as they lay on the shore.
All the men cast long shadows across the Archaean rock, across the crevices filled with sedge, bird’s-foot trefoil and bulrushes. They felt like leaping and jumping over deep clefts, from rock to rock, chasing each other like children, like boys again.
They grew hot and sweaty, swam in a warm cove, lay on their backs and floated in the water with the North Star between their toes.
The Wolf stood on the rock, shaking off the water. Like one of them. The men had brought along a ribbon, a soft, thin ribbon, and they amused themselves by pulling on it, trying to snap it in two. But it held. Not even the strongest of them could break it. Did he want to try?
The Wolf was not at all disconcerted. He argued that if the ribbon was as pitiful as it looked, he would hardly win renown if he snapped it in two.
But then he was told that if he couldn’t break it, no one would be afraid of him any longer and he could go free.
The Wolf took this to mean that his courage was being questioned. And he wasn’t pleased. But fair’s fair, so one of the men would have to place his hand in the Wolf ’s mouth as a pledge that no duplicity was involved.
What an idea. They could understand his reasoning, but no one had any desire to volunteer. After much hesitation, Tyr stepped forward.
The ribbon was placed around the Wolf ’s neck, and he began to tug and pull for all he was worth. The ribbon held. It just got stronger and tougher the more he strained.
The dwarves had done a good job, and everyone was pleased. Except for Tyr. He lost his hand.
The Wolf struggled until he was almost dead. When they left him on that distant islet, the Wolf was shackled to the ribbon, beneath huge boulders, badly wounded, with blood gushing from his jaws.
His howls could be heard far and wide.
That was the price Loki had to pay to be included in the group; he had to denounce a burdensome past, break former ties, purify himself through fire and blood.
Demonise old love.
Turn a deaf ear to the cries of his abandoned children.
Start over, find a new woman and set up house, see the old light fall across new floors, acquire household goods, set a new table for new acquaintances, all the bastards that came along with the bargain; unpack utensils and pretend to be unaccustomed to such things, line up glasses to find matching pairs, polish silverware that had never been stabbed through warm and bloody meat, uncork and sniff and gargle and nod and look ridiculously pleased, talk shit, make up lies about a suitable background, drink sweet liqueurs with dessert, watch how the smiles begin to go askew, the lipstick smears, hands begin to grope; watch how the elegant façades crack like masks from their calves all the way up to the crotch; shuffle about to dreary music with some superior’s old woman, arrange for rides home, stand in the chill of the night and look at the stars and hear more shit and then straighten up the mess, wash the dishes, stand there wearing an apron and kiss the new woman goodnight and repeat a joke as if he’d never heard it before.
And all the matching pairs in the cabinet back home. Pl
ates and glasses fly around in the night, night after night, until only the odd leftovers remain. A collection of singles.
They are better suited to the table that he, the upstart, wants to set: for the irregulars, the misfits.
He fulfils his duties, ravages, abuses and flattens all opposition. He is a berserker when obliged to be one, a cavalier when that is required.
But it’s only when he falls that he recognises himself. When everything collapses and goes to pieces, when glasses are shattered; when hearts, confidences, relationships, agreements and deals, hopes, teeth, furniture, nasal bones, strings, knee-caps – when they all break, fall off, fall apart, fall to pieces.
In the midst of the whole mess he might stand there sweating, with battered knuckles and torn clothing and feel utterly cleansed. Somehow liberated. On a private battlefield, a disaster area, unknown to the general public. Everything has been levelled to the ground, not a stone rests on top of another. Every purpose is gone; every idea, concept, vision about life has been swept away.
A desolate, empty and tragic site for the foolish. But not for him. Everything is there, standing where it has always stood; whatever is supposed to shine is shining; life continues as it has always done, but in a greater, larger, more intense manner now that sorrow, pain and loss have struck, leaving an enormous, wide-open crater right in the middle of the heart of the orderly world, an entire district, the antithesis of the ‘pleasure district’, entirely devoted to the mystery of the meaningless.
He knows this, is fully aware of it, now that he has made himself the object of the others’ disdain. He has asked for it, dragging it out of each one of them. He has succeeded.
‘I took your wife,’ he said. ‘With her I had a son.’ The one-handed man faltered, reeled back a step. ‘And what did you get out of it?’ No answer. ‘You didn’t get shit, not a damn thing!’
The Hurricane Party Page 17