Baboon Page 4

  Then Bjørn arrives out of breath. Maria shakes her head with defeat and starts walking. Bjørn puts Torben on his shoulders.

  Bjørn is Maria’s brother. They’re all going to eat at the restaurant in the train station where you can get roast pork. Bjørn carries Torben the whole way through town.

  “Why are you so late, you asshole?”

  “Business.”

  “Business, my ass.”

  “Really. Cell phones. We made a killing.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Me and Rock.”

  “You better stay away from Rock.”

  “Chill the fuck out.”

  “Stay away from him.”

  “But he has connections.”

  “Like hell he does!”

  “Chill out. He doesn’t give a damn about seeing Torben. You know Rock.”

  Maria shoots him a furious look. Torben sings, “Bah, bah, black sheep,” as well as he can.

  “Stop SINGING, Torben!”

  “Why can’t the kid sing?”

  “Because he can’t.”

  Bjørn shrugs.

  “You’re insane,” he says and sings along. He doesn’t know the song, and sings both out of tune and way too loud. Torben looks frightened and keeps silent. Meanwhile, Maria crosses to the other sidewalk. Bjørn takes Torben under his arm and cuts to the other side.

  “Get your shit together,” he yells. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  They eat roast pork and drink Diet Coke. Torben has a hotdog and french fries. He barely reaches the table. They eat in silence. Then Maria notices the chewing gum stuck to Torben’s left palm.

  “You pig,” she hisses, trying to peel it off.

  It won’t come off. She turns red and grabs Torben’s wrist, squeezing it. Torben stares off into the distance. Maria yanks his arm so hard he bangs his head on the corner of the table.

  “Leave the boy alone,” Bjørn says with food in his mouth. “Maria!”

  She lets him go. Torben continues to stare off into the distance.

  “Do you beat him?” Bjørn asks, cleaning the meat and red cabbage off his teeth with his tongue. Maria narrows her eyes and looks at him.

  “Stay away from Rock, okay?”

  She pushes her plate away. She’s eaten everything, even the little sprig of parsley decorating the potatoes. There’s almost no trace of sauce left. Torben accidentally knocks over his Coke. Bjørn wipes it up with a napkin.

  “Chill the fuck out Maria, he’s just a kid.”

  “He’s going to be two in a month.”

  “That’s pretty fucking young.”

  “Retard.”

  Then they leave. Delicate pink clouds drift through the sky. Torben and Maria hold hands. They walk up the pedestrian street. Bjørn stops. He needs to go the other way. He’s going to meet Rock to buy some weed and talk business.

  “Fuck you, Bjørn,” Maria says, marching off with Torben.

  Bjørn stands there a moment watching them. That stout young woman in black pants and a white top. The blonde hair that’s dark at the roots. The boy in the red shorts and T-shirt. He shakes his head and turns around. He sticks his hands in his pockets and walks back around City Hall. He decides to walk all the way to the north end of the city where Rock lives since it’s such a fine spring evening. The light is amazing, almost blue and milky now; a black bird sings nearby.

  Maria hits her little child. Her son, Torben. She beats him. She hurls him into the wall. She kicks him when he crawls under the dining table. She slaps his face if he picks his nose. She shakes him when he falls asleep on the couch. She ties him to the bars of the crib. Though there’s no need to. He always lies there without moving.

  “You should hit him on the butt so he doesn’t get any marks,” her mother says. “Otherwise you’ll have the daycare people coming after you.”

  And she’s probably right. They’re beginning to wonder. Torben is so shy. But he’s also violent. He hits the other children when they come near him. He bites. And he often has bumps and bruises on his body and head. They’ve talked it over with each other. But on the other hand, Maria seems okay. You can’t be too quick to judge people. Children at that age are accident-prone, they’re always stumbling and falling and hurting themselves.

  But actually, Torben isn’t a likeable child. He’s not cute. He doesn’t shine. In fact, he’s completely graceless, ugly, and snot-nosed. He’s the kind of child you simply want to be rid of, if you’re being honest. There’s a difference between children, it’s just that way. And maybe that’s why no one in daycare really notices Torben’s bruises. No one really likes him. Maybe that’s why.

  Maria locks the door and turns on the light in the hallway. She rummages around for the remote and turns on the TV. The living room is dark. With a sigh, she sinks into the couch. Torben crawls up to her. She strokes his head absentmindedly, he snuggles up to her breast. They watch a program about Africa’s coastlines. Torben quickly falls asleep, and Maria carries him into the bedroom. Then she huddles on one end of the large caramel-colored couch with a soda and cigarettes and sits there until long after midnight.

  Ah, Maria.

  Bjørn is your brother, Torben, your son.

  I’m Rock.

  Do you remember when we first met? You told me about the flat fields at dusk, and you let me fondle your breasts. We walked up and down the pedestrian street for hours. And you let me touch your hair, while you sat with your back against my stomach on a bench by the fountain. We ate roast pork at the train station restaurant. That was a long time ago. You were so…fresh! It was the summer you turned 17. And I, well, I’m an older guy now. You were so restless, didn’t want to be tied down. Now you’ve gotten heavy. I know so much about you. And you shouldn’t worry about Torben. I don’t care. He’s nothing special. I never for a moment think he’s mine. Because he is yours, Maria. Do with him what you want. Little kids don’t really do anything for me. Bjørn says you’re mad at me. That’s fine. We’ve had our time together, and now I’m content just to follow along from a distance. Not an obsession, more for amusement. You’re going in circles, Maria, and it amuses me to follow you: the pedestrian street, the anger, the beatings you heap on the boy, all the cheap clothes, the drinking sprees at bars, and the one-night stands.

  The pedestrian street, the anger, the beatings.

  I know where I’ve got you now. It suits me fine.

  Torben is turning two years old. Maria’s mother is there, and Bjørn. They’ve bought candy and chips and straws for Torben’s soda. All four of them are sitting on the couch. The TV is on and Bjørn is helping Torben unwrap the gifts. Then he takes Torben into the bedroom to play with the new car. The women light cigarettes. They hear Bjørn making the sound of an ambulance.

  Torben lies on his stomach on the floor and drives the yellow tractor back and forth.

  “Torben. Look. I have something else for you.”

  Bjørn takes a small package from his pocket. It’s a snow globe that usually has a Santa inside it. But there’s no Santa in this one. There’s a little green fir tree. The background is dark blue with stars. Bjørn shows the boy how to make it snow. Torben stares with an open mouth at the fat falling flakes and takes it and tries it himself.

  “It’s from your father, Torben. Your father.”

  But Torben isn’t listening. He can’t get enough of it. He shakes the globe again and again, gaping with wonder at the miracle. Bjørn gets up from the floor and goes into the living room. The mother has made popcorn in the microwave. Bjørn stuffs a handful in his mouth while lighting a cigarette.

  “Rock fucking remembered it. I can’t believe it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The boy’s birthday.”

  “Oh, piss off.”

  “He likes the gift.”

  Maria stops chewing.

  “What?”

  “The gift from Rock. The kid’s crazy about it.”

  Maria gets up and
storms toward Bjørn.

  “Stop, Maria,” the mother says.

  Maria gives Bjørn a hard push when she passes him on her way out of the living room. She yanks the snow globe out of Torben’s hand, walks over to the window and opens it. The boy begins bawling. She throws it as hard as she can and watches the little globe smash to pieces when it hits the sidewalk. Torben clings to her pants. She tears herself from him and slams the door to the bedroom on her way back to the living room. She sinks down into the couch next to her mother.

  Bjørn gets his jacket and leaves.

  The next time Maria and Torben go out to the street, Torben sees the broken snow globe. He wants to pick up the fir tree, but Maria kicks it under a car. Take it easy, Maria, I won’t be sending any more gifts to your snot-nosed kid. It was just a little experiment. I wanted to see if I could make you break out of your circle. But that seems impossible. And you walk up and down the pedestrian street, you and Torben, up and down. You sit on the bench by the fountain. Torben runs under the chestnut trees. You talk to Bjørn on the phone. You eat roast pork and fight. At home, you lift up Torben and smash him into the sharp corner of the kitchen counter. The only thing I’m not able to say about you is what you’re thinking when you sit on the couch at night.

  Maybe you don’t even know yourself.

  STARRY SKY

  She bought oysters and fresh tuna and smoked salmon. She thought she might also like lobster, but changed her mind—she was so perky and rosy-cheeked and the fishmonger was flirting with her—and finally she settled on crab. It was windy and cold, her bicycle accidentally fell over and the fishmonger came running out to pick it up, and on top of this, he loaded all her bags into the bicycle basket; there seemed to be no end to his helpfulness. He smiled and she laughed, he waved enthusiastically when at last she walked off, reeling under the heavy load. She hurried. She dropped her keys. She saw beauty in the most ugly and dejected face. She threw money around: a huge bouquet of lilies, white wine, red wine, liquor, champagne, mangoes, beef, bread and cake from the city’s most expensive bakery. She hauled it all home and took a bath. But she didn’t stay in long. She was nearly out of her mind in love. She rubbed moisturizer all over herself, did her hair, and made up her face. She put on her new lingerie, ah, lacy and silky, then the dress and the midnight blue high heels, which she could hardly walk in, but she did, she could do anything, and all these objects were so beautifying, precious, cheering, and largely the reason for over-drafting her account.

  But there was also the visit to the hair salon, the dance lessons, the copper pot, and the organic duvet. Not to mention the couch and the whole collection of music, purchased to make an impression on him. Him. He came in the late afternoon, and they stood in the entryway for more than half an hour kissing. At last he was sweating so much it was dripping from his hair, he still had his coat and hat on. Finally she unzipped his pants. They rolled around on the floor in the narrow hallway, and he accidentally ripped her dress to shreds pulling it down over her hips. They were about to faint from excitement. But then it was over so quickly, they couldn’t control themselves. She moaned with pleasure, the tears streaming down her cheeks. He couldn’t stop kissing her face, her shoulders, her small soft fingers.

  Then they were hungry. He turned on the light. She was beaming. They drank heavily as they ate one delicious course after another, but it wasn’t enough, they were insatiable, it was nearly impossible to wait for the next time—as soon as they got up from the floor or couch or bed they wanted to do it again, and when they couldn’t drink any more coffee or wine, or eat another bite—they were almost unhappy that they had to wait until when they could again…

  But what happiness! They couldn’t sleep, work, think (except about each other), couldn’t eat (except with each other); they had cold sweats and shivered and called each other a minimum of ten times a day. He lost weight. She gained ten pounds. For no apparent reason he came down with three ear infections, she suffered with an itchy rash, then he broke out all over his face, she lost a lot of hair—but none of this worried them, as long as they could rub against each other like a dog humping its owner’s leg. They rubbed, they pushed and picked and caressed, they tore and scratched and squeezed, they opened like floodgates and unbelievable, enormous waves poured out of them, an old sorrow, a joy, the actual past surged out, while they lapped up the other’s water, letting themselves be flooded, filling themselves with caresses, kisses, and sweet words.

  Now they were really drunk. He fed her whipped cream from the cake. She got a sudden surge of energy, and jumped up to put some music on, shouting, “Now we’re going to have gin and tonic!” and they did, she crawled onto his lap, then suddenly he wanted to dance, and this was exciting, they hadn’t danced together yet, it was thrilling, a turning point, hot. In the middle of it they had sex again, this time she was bent over the kitchen counter, a large knife fell and pierced the floor an inch from his foot, the back of her head was resting in a little mound of parmesan cheese, his sleeves soaked up tomato sauce from the cutting board. The music blasted from the loudspeakers. She howled, he hummed. The semen ran thick and white down her inner thighs. She wiped some up with her finger and licked it clean. He was overwhelmed by joy and gratitude. Now it was his turn to nearly whimper. He lifted her up and carried her to the bed. They were drunk, she felt like throwing up, he had to pee, but neither of them wanted to spoil such an unforgettable moment, neither wanted to get up and abandon the other. They fell asleep with their shoes on. The next morning they had nasty hangovers. But then it was time for coffee. And that’s how it went. Lunch at one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. More coffee. Then to the movies, holding hands and getting turned on in the dark. Sex in the bathroom of a bar. More coffee. Sleep a little (they didn’t sleep). Everything all over again, nonstop, for almost five months.

  At work, he sat at his desk staring at the phone. He couldn’t concentrate, his colleagues smiled at him, he saw her in every face, heard her in all the pop songs, and whenever he closed his eyes, he saw an image of her head thrown back, her face’s violent beauty, her mouth open when the orgasm rolled through her body.

  It ruined them. They didn’t care. They bought a house. Then they wanted to go to Spain. Then New York. They drove through Poland on a motorcycle. They got married in Las Vegas. Then they had a child. And just two weeks after the birth, they were at it again, they simply fucked between the baby’s feedings, there were no problems with fatigue or sour breast milk, there was only them, wild and giddy, and now, as well, a deep, rapturous love, there was nothing they couldn’t do together, the world became a place they could easily conquer, lock, stock, and barrel, no expenses spared, or fear that it would all come apart. They felt transformed and continually reassured each other of it: We have transformed each other, miraculously, and there was no end to the blessings.

  But then, anyway, something happened. He met a man. And that man came closer and closer. Work took them around the country, they were employees in the same firm. It was late summer. They sat in the car listening to music. Closer and closer. All of a sudden his floodgates were opened. It poured. It unfurled. Vague fantasies were thrown into relief. The desire was inevitable. He had never thought that he actually would. But this man would. Then he was suddenly on his knees and took it in, there at the hotel. A starry sky, everything blinking. To be soft like that, almost round, giving, receiving, like a whore, a child, it nearly tore his mind in pieces, and that was exactly what was so good, so deeply, liberatingly good. He was astonished. He felt fulfilled, when he went from him to her, completely liberated, and the opposite direction, completely vital—he could freely shift between being her man (responsible, loving), the child’s father (tender, attentive), and then take his lover’s cock in his mouth and do everything he’s told.

  Pure happiness.

  And her. She feels it’s just getting better and better between them, and she didn’t really understand how it could get any better. She watched wit
h admiration as he dried himself after showering. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. He grabbed her buttocks and sniffed deeply into her hair. They laughed and opened the window so the steam could get out. They went for a walk in the forest. Their child tried to balance on a huge stack of stripped tree trunks. A pheasant ran across the path. It rustled and pulsed on the forest floor; a mild and gray February day. He swung her around, she laughed again. Her hands found their way to his bare back. He kissed her eyes. They were so happy. And for a long time, nearly three years, only better and better; the lover brought a friend, and now there were two men to serve; he was busy, but it was completely worth it. He didn’t feel in the least bit guilty. Because she inspired strength in him. They loved each other with such intensity that they could only grow together.

  But then the child saw her father kissing a man in a passageway. She was coming home from preschool with her grandmother. And the child saw that it wasn’t a completely ordinary kiss, because her father and the man went on kissing, but the most disturbing part was that the man was holding the nape of her father’s neck as if he were pushing him down. The child stood completely still.

  In the evening she told her mother, “I saw Daddy kissing a fat man.” Her mother laughed. “What kind of nonsense is that?” He was in the kitchen drying the dishes. He froze. “That was probably one of Daddy’s friends.” Then she tucked the child into bed. He was changing the bulb in the range hood. “Did you hear what she said?” “No, what?” “That she saw you kissing a fat man!” He smiled. “Were you kissing a fat man, honey?” She couldn’t stop herself from giggling. He shook his head laughing and began screwing in the bulb. “Kids! It must be some damn Oedipal complex!” They laughed. The bulb lit up white in the range hood. But she became quiet for a moment scraping her nail on the varnish of the counter. She looked at him with tear-filled eyes. “Honey, why are you crying?” He put his arms around her. “Honey, you’re crying over nothing?” He stroked her hair. She calmed down, and smelled the pit of his arm: pine forest, earth, warm rain.