Baboon Read online

  She was lying on the sofa sleeping when he got home. He could see her back and the top of her crack.

  Late one afternoon he almost collided with the fat blonde across the street when she came stomping up from the basement. She hissed at him, “Watch out, idiot.” Then disappeared down into the depths again. He knocked on the door. Immediately, he had second thoughts and was already on his way up when the door opened. A young Thai woman with many clips in her hair stood in the doorway. “Come, come,” she said, motioning with her hand. He didn’t move. Another woman came up from behind to see. They said something to each other and began to giggle. “No afraid, come, come,” the one with the clips said. Now he could just make out the fat blonde in the dark. She was taking groceries out of the bags. When she saw him she came right over. She shoved the others aside. “Do you want some or not?” He shook his head and hurried away. “You better learn how to make up your mind,” she yelled after him. He was already a ways out in the street. “We can’t run to the door day and night!” He walked around the block before he went home. He met the super on the stairs, who smiled suggestively. “Well,” he said, “they’re a bunch of really sweet girls, huh?” He leaned forward. “And talented.” Now he was right up against his ear with his smacking lips: “And you can get it from them for hardly anything.” He shoved the super aside and stumbled up the stairs. The super yelled after him, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of!”

  He smoked one joint after another, but he still wasn’t able to calm down. The woman sat in the kitchen playing solitaire. She was wearing his bathrobe.

  He visited his parents. His mother had made pea soup. They sat in the dining room. His mother told him about his cousin who had probably had a child. His father cleared his throat several times. Through the open door to the garden, he caught a glimpse of his old swing moving ever so slightly in the plum tree. He said nothing about the woman back home. Then the cat came into the room and rubbed against his leg. His parents watched him silently, as if they expected something from him, but he couldn’t figure out what it might be. The cat purred delightedly, and in some way it was embarrassing, the animal’s open enjoyment, the golden sunshine hitting its fur. When he got back home the woman was sitting on the windowsill staring down at the street. One of her legs swung in the air. The kitchen was a mess. He ordered her testily to clean up. She obeyed with a sigh. He saw the girl with the clips put a piece of cake on a paper plate and a glass with orange liquid out on the sidewalk. She closed her eyes and raised her face toward the evening sun. It looked as if she smiled, but he wasn’t sure. He closed the curtain and took a joint from the desk drawer. He lay down on the couch and put on the TV. When she was finished in the kitchen she sat down next to him and lifted his head onto her lap. She caressed his hair with mechanical movements, and he let her do it.

  He met the redhead on the bus. He tried to hide, but when they were both about to get off, she noticed him and said hi, and a little while later when he was waiting at a red light, she came up next to him, said hi again, and when he felt pressed to look up, she asked if he had gotten a roommate; she had met the woman in the laundry room. He shook his head. But she continued: “Is she your girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s my cousin.”

  “Your cousin?”

  “My second cousin.”

  “But she doesn’t speak Danish?” He took a deep breath.

  “My uncle and aunt live in Malaysia.”

  “In Malaysia?”

  “Yeah.”

  The light turned, they began to walk, he picked up his pace, but she caught up. “She seemed sweet. How long is she staying?” He caught her glance and noticed that her eyes were gray, he had always thought they were brown. “Not so long,” he mumbled. Then she stopped asking questions, they walked in silence, after awhile she lagged behind. He turned the corner, and when he passed the basement stairs across the street, the four paper plates with cake and candy were still there on the sidewalk. She noticed that he had slowed down and she stopped and said, “It’s an offering. Those people must be Buddhist.”

  “Who?” he asked with a strong desire for her to say out loud what was going on in the basement. “The girls,” she answered, “haven’t you noticed them?” He shook his head, cut across the street, and unlocked the door. She slipped in with him. Loud music boomed in the entryway, and as they went up the stairs it became clear to him that the music was coming from his apartment. She found her keys in her bag. Then suddenly she turned toward him and looked him in the eye while she listened carefully for a moment, and then came her intimate, restrained, inquisitive question: “Is that your cousin’s music?” He hurried up to his apartment. She had wound his wool scarf around her breasts and a towel around her waist. She danced barefoot and wildly around the apartment. The music was earsplitting. The room smelled strongly of sweat. There was an empty bottle of rum on the table. She shrieked, yelled, jumped up and down, stamped, howled, swung her arms round and round. Her eyes were red. He turned down the music. She jumped up on his back and beat him with small weak fists, while bawling drunkenly. “Music, music! Idiot!” Her voice rose up to higher octaves, now in her own language, which he couldn’t identify. He grabbed hold of her and carried her into the bathroom. She grunted and became heavy. He put her in the shower and turned on the cold water. She tried to stand, but slipped, she cursed and threatened him. And it sounded as if she had swallowed her own howl as the water gushed down over her. He left the room closing the door. An hour later, she still hadn’t come out; it turned out that she was sleeping on the floor. On her back with her thin legs parted. She snored. He could see right up her red, shiny cunt.

  He sat at the kitchen table eating pizza, lost in thought about how a big coffee spill made the past week’s notes illegible. But there were no thoughts. He lifted the papers up and let them float down to the floor. Then she came slinking in. She crawled under the table, pulled off his socks and began massaging the soles of his feet. She took every single toe into her mouth and sucked on them. He looked up and stared ahead. She let go of the toes with a slurping sound and began pressing and squeezing. When she was finished she came out from under the table and stood smiling broadly at him, then stuck a finger inside her cheek, tilted her head, and went to put on a kettle of water. She suddenly laughed to herself as though she’d just thought of something very amusing. It was tremendously hot in his feet and legs; he’d never experienced such a burning sensation in his body before. He opened the drawer and lit a joint. Slowly he pushed the drawer closed with the palm of his hand, while saying, “If you’re still here tomorrow morning I’ll call the police.” She looked at him provocatively with her chin raised. She didn’t say a word. She continued to watch him while he smoked, she stood there completely still with the teapot in one hand, and a white cloud of steam rose up from the pot, slowly pulsing in the air. He went into the bathroom to study his face in the mirror. He looked up his nose. He let his hand glide over his chin. Then he took a cup from the kitchen and headed out. She sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. She still had the wet towel around her waist.

  He knocked tentatively on the downstairs neighbor’s door. Two pearls glowed on her earlobes. Now her eyes looked blue. He asked if he could borrow some sugar. When she disappeared with the cup, he stepped a little into the entryway and from there could see that she had a whole bunch of green plants both on the windowsills and floor. He thought he heard a bird chirping in there, maybe it was just his imagination. “Say hi to your cousin!” She smiled. On the way downstairs he poured the sugar into the left pocket of his jacket.

  She didn’t leave. She lay on the couch and watched TV all day. Neither of them said anything. He felt inspired. In the evening he called Claes, who was probably unpleasantly surprised and didn’t know what to say. He invited Claes out for a beer and said there was something he wanted to talk to him about. Claes hesitated. But he didn’t care, he pushed and persuaded, it was imp
ortant, he said, and in the end, the defeated Claes reluctantly agreed. It was warm out, a fine green summer light hung in the air until late evening. He touched the sugar in his pocket, letting it sift between his fingers, then collected it in a fist, opened his hand, and licked it off his fingers. The sugar melted on his tongue. Claes looked shy and uneasy about the whole thing. They had never been alone like this before. He told Claes that he had serious problems with a couple of women. They both wanted him and sought him day and night. They were clearly obsessed with him. He was at the end of his rope. He spoke loudly and with confidence. At first, Claes stared incredulously at him. Then he gasped in amazement and leaned forward. “But. But, do you want them?” he asked impressed, almost in awe.

  “No. Not really.”

  “But, are they hot?”

  “I guess so.”

  Claes grinned widely. His face softened. “What if I just take them off your hands?” A warmth like when she had massaged his feet spread over him. Now that he knew he was so sought after, Claes had clearly changed his view of him. He sensed the new respect, and it was easy for him to take it on: even the way he lit his cigarette was different now, with far more elegance and experience; he leaned back in the chair and slowly lifted the lighter, while Claes followed his movements with an almost voracious gaze.

  He threw the keys down on the kitchen counter and looked into the living room. She wasn’t lying on the couch. He turned on the lights and looked in the bedroom for her. She wasn’t in the bed, or under it, or under the table in the living room. He even looked in the large wardrobe in the entryway. But she was gone. He lay down naked on the floor and fell asleep. The next day he noticed that a few bills were missing from the desk drawer where he usually left his weed money. His passport was also missing. His toothbrush, a stack of CDs. He opened the refrigerator and noticed the curry paste and a little piece of dried up ginger. The next day he felt cheated and preyed upon, and kept going over to the living room window to look for her, but she never showed up. The paper plates looked so pitiful on the dirty sidewalk, the offerings, which apparently were left there for a deity to find between the dog excrement and the overturned bicycles.

  One morning, when she had been gone a week, he got more stoned than usual and knocked on the basement door. The fat blonde opened it. “Yeah?” she just said. He stretched his neck to look over her shoulder. But he couldn’t see anything moving inside. Then she obviously became tired of waiting.

  She slammed the door without saying another word.

  THE WOMAN IN THE BAR

  I didn’t see her come in, but suddenly she’s there. She’s walking on the polished floor in her heavy boots. She’s long-legged. That’s the first thing I notice. It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m drinking a cup of coffee, watching people; I had an errand to do in the neighborhood, to pick up some dry cleaning, but then I also bought a bouquet of tulips, some tea cake, and a watermelon. My grandchild is visiting tomorrow. I’ve been walking around the city for a few hours and I’m cold and my legs are tired. It’s pleasant just to sit here as it grows darker outside. I’ve always liked this restaurant. It’s large with tall ceilings, white tablecloths, and terrible acoustics. An enormous dining room. People are lingering over late lunch, others are just drinking wine or cocktails, and behind me a couple of children are playing with a small train under the table. The atmosphere is pleasant. I lean back relaxed and enjoy the view of the young woman. Now she’s standing at the bar. She’s tall and erect, her neck is long and white. It’s the end of November. This morning I was thinking about how long it’s been since the wall fell. I thought about how quickly time passes. Even though so much has happened. Now the streetlights go on. It looks like it’s started to rain.

  I like watching people. And this woman is remarkable. She’s nearly bald. Her head must’ve been shaved fairly recently because there’s just a fine dark shadow of hair. She drinks carefully out of a small glass, something strong, maybe cognac, or whiskey, I can’t tell from here. There’s something about her that reminds me of a young animal, perhaps a deer, the same watchful nervousness. She’s wearing a suit that’s both elegant and a little too large. It’s grayish-green, brownish, like mud and dried grass. I have a sudden urge to touch her neck. A flood of images runs through my head: I think about the canvas sacks, about my childhood, about the soldiers’ uniforms, and my mother, who, much later, is standing in front of our house outside of Leipzig. It’s plastered with thick mortar and has that color so common for East German houses: grayish-green, brownish. My mother is smiling. She’s wearing a red dress. My thoughts race. I watch the woman at the bar, this person, this creation, I can’t keep my eyes off her. Now I linger on her large meaty hands. I imagine she has a deep sensual voice. The rain is really coming down now, it beats against the large windows, and I notice the doors keep opening. Soaked people step in and wait impatiently to be seated. They shake their umbrellas, brush off their overcoats with their hands, and try to fix their hair. Then she turns halfway. And now I can see her face. It’s pale. Her eyes are large and dark, and she’s heavily made up with black and brown makeup. I think: dramatic and tasteful. She keeps an eye on the doors, and I can’t take my eyes off her face. It’s a fantastic face. Full of expression, almost theatrical. She keeps an eye on the doors. Maybe she’s waiting for someone. She smokes and runs a hand over the top of her head. She looks at her watch. She empties her glass, throwing her head back to get the last few drops. As she’s putting the glass down in front of her, her face lights up in a smile. I turn my head to see whom she’s smiling at. He nods and smiles back, raising his hand in an awkward wave. His glasses are steamed up. He walks over, passing close by me, now he’s right in front of her. They kiss each other lightly on the cheeks. He says a few words to the waiter who shows them to a table. He shakes his jacket and hangs it over the back of the chair. Suddenly I think about roses. I breathe deeply in through my nose and almost smell the heavy, perfumed scent. I close my eyes and think about all that precedes that scent: the buds of spring, aphids and beetles, heat waves, summer rain. Then, at last, the flowers swelling and unfolding. I don’t know why, but I think about roses, about fields full of roses, endless fields of roses, white and red and yellow. When I open my eyes again, they’ve sat down facing each other and are studying the menu. A moment later they order. She fidgets nervously with her napkin. Her eyes never leave him for a second. I brush some crumbs to the floor. Then he begins to talk, intently and at length.

  He does all the talking. She smiles and her eyes move over him like caresses: his face, his hands, his chest. She beams at him. Then suddenly I can’t see anything at all. I shake my head. A moment later my sight returns. He talks and talks, leaning forward, leaning back, the mouth going, hands gesticulating, taking off his glasses, putting them on again, then he leaps up and walks over to the stairs to the bathrooms. His corduroy pants divulge a wide ass. Over his shirt he’s wearing a leather vest. His glasses flash for a moment, though I can’t make out the source of light. He disappears down the stairs. She looks longingly after him. Then she starts tearing the napkin into tiny pieces. A moment later the waiter comes with tea. There are croissants and soup, and an egg as well. She gathers up the bits of paper in her hand and lets them float down over the table. A strange, stiff smile bares her front teeth, which turn out to be separated by a large gap.

  The soup is for him. The egg is too, apparently. He eats greedily as she smokes, speaking as he eats; she watches him full of admiration, and the hand she’s not smoking with moves closer to his arm, his elbow; without touching him, her hand rests on the tablecloth near the bend of his elbow, as if she were going to grab it, as if her hand were lying in wait. My vision fails again. My eyes burn and sting. I press them hard, turning my knuckles around and around. A moment later, I realize that the couple to the right of me has also noticed them. I’m sure of it. The woman whispers something to her husband.

  I see his rounded back under the vest. I see his face in profile, t
he vague contour of his chin, lost with age. Then she bends forward and kisses him gently on the cheek. He grabs her hand and squeezes it. Their hands encircle each other’s, resting quietly on the white tablecloth. I notice the taste of blood. I must’ve bit my lip, and with my tongue I find the piece of flesh and spit it out into the napkin. It’s bleeding surprisingly hard. I notice how dark it’s become. The rain’s calming down. It’s Saturday. Outside the cranes are glowing. I begin to think about something I read somewhere, “Berlin is a wound that no longer bleeds, but a wound that still needs to be scratched.” It made me furious, how horribly pathetic that sounds. I shake my head. I unzip my bag. The tea cake has an overwhelming scent of vanilla. I search anxiously for my money and keys. Then I put the bag down on the floor. I raise my empty cup. And now they get up and move across the polished floor, in and out of the tables. The sound of her boots. She’s really tall. He’s a little shorter and stooped, and it looks to me like he drags one of his feet behind the other. I have a clear view of his left ear. I feel an affection for that ear. He pushes the door open, and she glides by him. I gather my things quickly and place myself in the window. They walk through the red light. He puts his arm around her waist. He squeezes and presses with his hand. They stop under the streetlight and kiss each other. She bends down to make herself shorter so that she can reach his mouth. He squeezes and presses and sticks his hand under her jacket.