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  WHEN DEATH TAKES SOMETHING FROM YOU GIVE IT BACK

  Carl’s Book

  WHEN DEATH TAKES SOMETHING FROM YOU GIVE IT BACK

  Carl’s Book

  NAJA MARIE AIDT

  Translated by Denise Newman

  Minneapolis

  2019

  First u.s. edition published 2019

  Copyright © 2017 by Naja Marie Aidt

  Translation © 2019 by Denise Newman

  Cover art and design © Oliver Munday

  Book design by Rachel Holscher

  First published in Danish as Har døden taget noget fra dig så giv det tilbage: Carls bog (Gyldendal 2017)

  Coffee House Press books are available to the trade through our primary distributor, Consortium Book Sales & Distribution, cbsd.com or (800) 283-3572. For personal orders, catalogs, or other information, write to [email protected].

  Coffee House Press is a nonprofit literary publishing house. Support from private foundations, corporate giving programs, government programs, and generous individuals helps make the publication of our books possible. We gratefully acknowledge their support in detail in the back of this book.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Aidt, Naja Marie, 1963– author. | Newman, Denise J., translator.

  Title: When death takes something from you give it back : Carl’s book / Naja Marie Aidt ; translated by Denise Newman.

  Other titles: Har døden taget noget fra dig så giv det tilbage. English

  Description: First U.S. edition. | Minneapolis : Coffee House Press, 2019. | “First published in Danish as Har døden taget noget fra dig så giv det tilbage: Carls bog (Gyldendal 2017).”

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018058460 (print) | LCCN 2018060464 (ebook) | ISBN 9781566895682 (ebook) | ISBN 9781566895606 (trade paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Aidt, Naja Marie, 1963–—Poetry. | Bereavement—Poetry. | Danish poetry—21st century—Translations into English.

  Classification: LCC PT8176.1.I37 (ebook) | LCC PT8176.1.I37 H3713 2019 (print) | DDC 839.813/74—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018058460

  PERMISSIONS

  Excerpts from Nox by Anne Carson, © 2010, are reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.

  Excerpts from Quelque chose noir by Jacques Roubaud, © 1986 by Éditions Gallimard, are reprinted by permission.

  Excerpts from “Redemption Song” by Bob Marley, published by Fifty Six Hope Road Music Limited/Primary Wave/Blue Mountain Music, are reprinted by kind permission.

  Excerpts from A Grief Observed by C. S. Lewis, © 1961 by C. S. Lewis, are reprinted with permission.

  Excerpts from Time Lived, Without Its Flow by Denise Riley, published by Capsule Press in London, © 2012 by Denise Riley, are reprinted by kind permission of the author.

  PRINTED IN CANADA

  26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

  For Martin and Eigil and our children

  And higher, the stars. The new stars of the land of grief.

  Slowly the Lament names them:—Look, there:

  the Rider, the Staff, and the larger constellation

  Called Garland of Fruit. Then, farther up toward the Pole:

  Cradle; Path; The Burning Book; Puppet; Window.

  But there, in the southern sky, pure as the lines

  on the palm of a blessed hand, the clear sparkling M

  that stands for Mothers ……—

  —RAINER MARIA RILKE, FROM “THE TENTH ELEGY”

  WHEN DEATH TAKES SOMETHING FROM YOU GIVE IT BACK

  Carl’s Book

  I raise my glass to my eldest son. His pregnant wife and their daughter are sleeping above us. Outside, the March night is cold and clear. To life! I say as the glasses clink with a delicate and pleasing sound. My mother says something to the dog. Then the phone rings. We don’t answer it.

  Who could be calling so late on a Saturday evening?

  *

  He had his green jacket on. I know because I saw it myself. He walked in the green forest, and beside him walked a tiger. He walked in the green forest, and he looked up at the leaves. I see that the light shimmers in his hair, which is the same color as the tiger’s pelt. He walks alone. He doesn’t understand why he’s alone. But he has his tiger. He had his tiger. He lays his hand on its strong back, and I see that he’s untroubled. Now the road turns, he disappears around the bend, the path leads him deeper and deeper into the green forest. He was untroubled. He didn’t know why he was alone. Beside him walked a tiger.

  *

  Once, I was pregnant and I dreamed that the child inside me was a baby tiger. Playful, soft, and cuddly with light brown eyes and a golden pelt.

  That’s how you looked when you were born.

  *

  You were delivered by c-section, and I got sick after the birth. I had the most excruciating migraine, and the staff in the maternity ward thought I was hysterical. I cried and complained. I could hardly contain myself. I could hardly take care of you. I fainted as I was rolling you down the hall in the see-through plastic bassinet. That’s when they called in a nurse who was also a healer. I felt it when she sent a gush of warm energy toward me. That’s what it felt like. But it didn’t help. Finally they sent me down to a physiologist. He said air bubbles had entered into my spinal cord because the epidural was not put in right. He turned me upside down and manipulated my limbs and back. They cracked and popped. I felt like an animal in a slaughterhouse. I was simply bones and meat. The headache went away and they sent me home. This was at the National Hospital in Copenhagen. It was freezing out and I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to stand the cold. At home, you and your father fell asleep. I sat alone in the tiny kitchen. It was evening, dark. I got dressed and went out for cigarettes. “I’m a human being,” I thought. “Now I’m myself again, alone in my body.” Standing in the corner store I thought about how the cashier couldn’t tell that I’d just had a child. It was my secret and it delighted me. You were my secret. I was twenty-five years old. I smiled at the cashier and went home through the snow-lit streets.

  A secret:

  Born November 21, 1989, at 2:32 p.m.

  You weighed 7.2 pounds and were 20 inches long.

  You were ravenous right after your birth.

  A little friend

  *

  I wrote in my journal:

  Monday, May 1, 1989—a sunny day—I found out that in the winter I will give birth to another child. Little winter’s child, it’s so strange that you exist. I still can’t feel you; my body still can’t understand that you exist.

  So excited to see him

  Outside, the March night is cold and clear

  *

  A night full of terror

  A night so full of terror

  A night so full of terror, so full of terror, so full of terror, so full of terror, so

  I cannot form a sentence

  My language is all dried up

  *

  I raise my glass to my eldest son. His pregnant wife and their daughter are sleeping above us. The girl is exactly three years old. Outside, the March night is cold and clear. We’ve been together all day. We’ve been walking in the forest and playing with the little one. She said many wonderful things, and had lots of fun. We’ve talked about everything imaginable, and now we’re sitting at the round table in my mother’s living room. To life! I say as the glasses clink. We’ve eaten, and now we’re drinking wine, we’re talking about my next-eldest son: How he didn’t get into the Danish Film School, although he made it to the final interview. That was a big accomplishment. How he
seems to be getting over the disappointment, and will apply again next year. How he’s still enjoying his work as a chef. How he spends most of his free time editing films. How we miss him. I say: I miss him. Too bad he couldn’t be with us tonight. But I can’t wait to see him tomorrow, I say. The dog barks. I talk about my youngest son. We laugh at something. My mother tells the dog to be quiet. The phone rings. We don’t answer it. Who could be calling so late on a Saturday evening?

  Lilies of the valley, white roses.

  The earth, black and damp.

  The glass bells’ delicate clinking to

  night, to

  night

  *

  Frederik, Carl Emil, Johan, Zakarias.

  I have four sons.

  Do you have four sons?

  Yes.

  The language, empty, hollow

  White like white noise

  white nights.

  Bridal veil, grave cloth,

  milk teeth, mother’s milk

  I nursed you and you ate heartily

  You have a name

  *

  Carl: (see earlier 1.1; now esp. dial.) adult male (compared to boy); esp.: a young man who has passed boyhood but is still unmarried; adolescent.

  Emil: boy’s name, originates from the Latin word aemilius, meaning friendly. The name Emil has roots in the Roman family name Aemilius. The family name is possibly connected to the Latin word aemulus, meaning hardworking, eager.

  Carl Emil.

  Friendly young man.

  Friendly, eager young man.

  Friendly, eager, hardworking young man.

  We first settled on Emil only, but you were so broad-shouldered and strong that it didn’t seem sufficient.

  You are named after my grandfather and your father’s grandfather.

  Your older brother’s youngest daughter is named after you: Emilie.

  Your older brother’s daughter looks like you.

  She doesn’t call much attention to herself and:

  Your smile is unforgettable (a beautiful shape):

  You are part of your older brother’s daughter:

  We are part of each other.

  Are you part of me?

  Yes.

  *

  I wrote in my journal:

  November 8, 1994

  Carl Emil has become calmer and more in harmony, and he is unusually absorbed with drawing, painting, making masks, playing with modeling clay, etc. Writes letters and words, and has begun adding numbers and saving money. He has friends and is hardly as shy or taciturn as he was two years ago. A passionate boy, who still loves his pacifier, a kiss, and his bed.

  I kissed your hand and your hand was so cold that the coldness crept up into my face, my head, my skull. Nothing colder exists in the world. Not ice, snow. No fear, no anxiety, no heartbreak as cold as your hand; your hand, which I kissed with my warm, living mouth.

  I said: Little friend.

  You were twenty-five years old.

  It was in March 2015.

  It was

  It was

  Your young body in the coffin

  The earth, black and damp

  So strange that you don’t exist, I still feel you

  My body still can’t understand that you don’t exist

  *

  I wrote in my journal:

  December 4, 1989

  The little one has arrived! A fine little one. He sucks and sleeps and is still just a small animal. I can sense that he has a powerful personality in his own quiet way. He only cries (very seldom) if there’s REALLY a reason for it, and then he lets you know—it resounds. But he also makes the sweetest tiny sounds as if he were singing.

  I can say this about you: As if you were singing.

  I can say: You were singing.

  I can say: You sing in me.

  You exuded a warmth that fascinated people. You exuded a sensual warmth.

  But you were also withdrawn, remote, shy.

  But you were also full of joy.

  But you were also sensitive, perceptive.

  But you were also strong.

  But you were also inquiring.

  But you were also deeply rooted.

  You didn’t have much anger in you.

  There was something about you that I don’t have words for.

  Something transparent, that made you suffer alone, in silence.

  And when you cried over love, you really suffered.

  You didn’t call much attention to yourself

  You shined.

  Now that I have to describe you, my view becomes problematic. I see you in relation to myself. I see you in relation to my limitations. The limitations are part of myself. Therefore, I don’t see you clearly. It’s not possible. Nevertheless, I still see you clearly. Even though I don’t necessarily see you truly. Maybe I see part of you that no one else can see. Maybe the truth about a person is kaleidoscopic. All the views together make up a prism, which is you. The word kaleidoscope comes from the Greek and means something like beautiful-form-observer. To observe a beautiful form, to be a beautiful observer of a form, to observe a form beautifully, to form a beautiful observer.

  I see you, you are a beautiful form. You are a beautiful observer. I have formed a beautiful observer: you.

  *

  Once, when you were nine years old, we took a trip to the island of Frøja in Norway. From there we took small ferries to the outlying islands in the archipelago. It was the first time that you and I did something together alone, without your brothers. There was never time. I took a picture of you: You lying on the ground, surrounded by blueberries and lingonberries. The sun is shining. Your eyes are shining. You look completely relaxed and happy. You’re looking up at me, squinting to block out the sharp light. Your smile is unforgettable. We slept one night in the same bed in a little hotel on a little island whose name I’ve forgotten. That was the night before the photo was taken. When we ate dinner together that evening, we asked each other questions about our childhoods. It was as if we didn’t know much about each other. As if we’d never had the opportunity to have a private conversation. There was never any time. We were like strangers trying to get to know each other. But it was a lovely conversation, very civilized and respectful. You asked me about my childhood. I asked you about yours. You said that the divorce was hard on you, and that you missed your father a lot. I was well aware of this. I admired that you could tell me about it. You sat across from me eating french fries. We sat outside with a view of a small harbor. It was cold, but we both preferred to sit outside.

  *

  I wrote in my journal:

  May 20, 1998

  Carl Emil is going into third grade after summer vacation, a little reserved and without many interests. But I think it’s the age—wanting to be as ordinary as possible. With some time and space, he’ll unfold more.

  At a little hotel on a little island whose name I’ve forgotten, you unfolded. In the blueberry bushes, in the lingonberry bushes. With a view out to the little harbor. You look up at me.

  *

  I wrote in my journal:

  November 1, 1994

  Carl Emil, Joakim, and Johan are about to go to sleep. Suddenly, Joakim exclaims: My grandmother is watching over me; she’s an angel!

  She’s dead, says Johan.

  Carl Emil sits up in his bed: When I die I don’t want to be cremated, I want to be buried deep in the earth in a cemetery.

  The two young ones are a little confused. Then Joakim says, um, um … When I’m old I want to be roasted!

  He’s completely serious.

  Johan replies: When I’m old, I’m going to be reheated, yep, I am. Then they lie down and fall asleep.

  1994: Carl Emil 5, Joakim 4, Johan 3.

  Joakim: your cousin.

  Johan: your younger brother.

  When Johan was almost four, he said: “The soul is such a round white thing.”

  *

  On November 21, 2007, Carl turned eighteen, an
d he insisted on making dinner for all the many invited guests. There were at least twenty-five people around the table. Carl wanted to make Middle Eastern food. He’d never made an entire meal by himself before. The menu was ambitious. He gave me permission to help. We stood in the kitchen all day and most of the previous day. He made countless dishes and I was his assistant. Right before the guests arrived, we were both so exhausted that we lay down right on the kitchen floor. We started laughing and couldn’t stop. You looked at me, your eyes shining. We lay there in our party clothes on the wooden floor laughing. It was a magical moment. Your smile was unforgettable. Then we got up and Carl greeted his guests. That evening, he discovered he had a talent. He could create a meal.

  You could create a meal.

  And you ate heartily

  When you turned twenty-five years old, your grandfather made a speech for you. You, Joakim, and your friend N had made dinner for everyone who wanted to come.

  Your grandfather made a speech for you. He said:

  Today Carl turns twenty-five. There’s a silver medal connected with twenty-five, something glistening, glittering. Twenty-five years: a quarter of a lifetime. And here he stands like a Greek god with his saucepans and spices.

  That was November 21, 2014. Your grandfather was seventy-nine years old. It was about four months before you died.

  *

  I wrote in my journal:

  February 11, 2016

  All the spices you bought and used are still in my cabinet, and every time I touch them—smoked paprika, curry, cayenne—I think about how it wasn’t long ago that you touched them with your warm, living hands.

  He’s still enjoying his work as a chef

  He worked fast—eager, hardworking—in the kitchen.

  *

  I raise my glass to my eldest son. His pregnant wife and their daughter are sleeping above us. The girl is exactly three years old. Outside, the March night is cold and clear. We’ve been together all day. We’ve been walking in the forest and playing with the little one. She said many wonderful things, and had lots of fun. We’ve talked about everything imaginable, and now we’re sitting at the round table in my mother’s living room. To life! I say as the glasses clink. We’ve eaten, and now we’re drinking wine, we’re talking about my next-eldest son: How he didn’t get into the Danish Film School, although he made it to the final interview. That was a big accomplishment. How he seems to be getting over the disappointment, and will apply again next year. How he’s still enjoying his work as a chef. How he spends most of his free time editing films. How we miss him. I say: I miss him. Too bad he couldn’t be with us tonight. But I can’t wait to see him tomorrow, I say. The dog barks. I talk about my youngest son. We laugh at something. My mother tells the dog to be quiet. The phone rings. We don’t answer it. Who could be calling so late on a Saturday evening?