on my hands—they burned inside, you know.”
I hear myself shouting, and I hold my hands out to him. Bent takes them and says:
“Well, for a start let’s go and put something cold on them.”
He opens the door and pulls me inside.
“Sit down there,” he says and wraps, wraps, wraps, and cools.
“What were you just talking about?” he asks. “What did you say? There wasn’t anyone in the house? Oh hell, there wasn’t anyone, was there, Justine?”
“No, no, no,” I say. “Who said that?”
“Well, you did.”
And then he wraps some more and nods.
Avery young policeman takes down the report about the fire and the house. It’s all minutiae. He’s only asking the standard questions, he says, and then he explains the investigative process. It’s important, he says, to find the cause of the fire so that they can rule out criminal activity. Generally, though, that’s just important for the insurance, he tells me, and asks do I understand? Yes, I understand. Am I insured? I am. Who owned the house? I did. Where was I when the fire started?
I sit on my side of the table and look at him and wonder if he knows it was Grandpa’s house that burned. How would he know that? He definitely doesn’t know that I have an exhibition in September, and that the artworks I was going to show were in that house, packed away in the plastic and cardboard that burned so beautifully. Actually, I was just waiting for the movers to come and pick everything up.
“I was at the pub and came home and saw it burning,” I say.
I wasn’t there celebrating, there hasn’t been anything to celebrate in a while, Vita doesn’t want to be with me anymore, and so I left. I just left, it’s been a while, a couple of weeks at least. Or was it just the other day? Last night? What’s happening? She was right there, now she’s not, and anyway, I think she was there this morning.
I watch the officer, he’s so blue. He watches the paper and the pen as it wanders the spaces. He flips the page over and continues writing on yet another clean surface.
Vita didn’t want to go to Iceland with me. She didn’t want to go anywhere with me, she said. Why should she? Hey you, it’s over. Now she’s sitting at home and waiting.
The policeman has finished writing, there are no more questions. He says:
“Well, that’s it then. Goodbye.”
She’s not here.
And every last bit is burned. I try to remember whether I locked the door before leaving. Why should I? I never do. Anyone could’ve waltzed in and poured out a gas can and set it ablaze. She could’ve grabbed a bottle of alcohol of the shelf, and then voilà: fire. But who the hell would come up with that idea? Am I losing it?
I feel something in my pocket that sends a tingle through my gut, a key. No. Two of them.
Vita still isn’t home.
Jens and Lisbeth and Peppe are sitting beneath the flagpole in the Society’s park. They’ve raised a T-shirt that’s currently flying half-furled and they call:
“Justine. Hey girl. What happened to your place? Grab a beer, tell us all about it.”
I grab a beer from the cooler on which Peppe sits. They’ve figured out how it’s all connected, they’ve just been discussing it, Peppe says. They’re certain someone’s after me, and I’m pretty certain of it, too. That’s what I say somehow or other.
“You can always come down here,” Lisbeth says. “I remember your grandfather well.”
Her legs are swollen, taut and glossy with a bluish tinge.
Peppe cuts in. He says that he also remembers Grandpa. Actually, he owes Grandpa a favor. I can stay with him and Jens.
They haven’t seen Vita. They don’t notice when I leave either.
Beneath a piece of particle board at the fire site is the door to the small earthen cellar. There’s still a package of butter, a chunk of cheese, and an open milk. I wander around and try to comprehend it, find a banana-shaped sneaker, sink down under the apple tree, puke. Never again will I hear Grandpa growl his irritability about this, that, or the other, snap at him, apologize and sympathize and move on.
I inherited his burned house. He wanted it that way.
“It’s mine,” he said. “Hell, I built it. And now it’s yours. Basta. And yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that it’s worth millions out here, but you just go on and try to sell it, my girl. You just dare to.”
He died and it still isn’t right. Not on the inside.
Grandpa built the house for Grandma. They had a little apartment in the city and needed some fresh air. All the Amager Allotment Society had was a tool shed. Grandpa worked the earth. Good, slow vegetables, he said. Healthy. And free.
He got the land right before the war, but he only built the house after the war was over. A wooden house. Forty square meters. With mullion windows and a blue door. Ample, he said, big enough. When Grandma died, he moved out there, and after he had emptied the house, he converted the place to a studio. All the furniture and miscellany disappeared. Paintings and siccative and French turpentine moved in.
I did the extension myself. After he died. Now he’s died all over again. The extension became a workshop, which ate up a good part of the garden, though he would’ve been fine with that. He would’ve had a good laugh if he’d known just how much being insured meant. After all, it’s just clean air and a good idea some suit dreamed up, just a swindle, what a humbug, he’d say. You’re responsible for what’s yours. Why invest in misfortune? No. You’ve got to be careful with fire, that confounded woodeater.
I know it. A bitter experience dripping with syrup. If the house burns, you can always build a new one, right, Grandpa? It’s not the easiest thing in the world, and certainly not the cheapest, but in any case you can get it done. That’s how you’d look at it. “Don’t come here blabbing about money,” you would’ve said. You’d do it yourself for nothing, your muscles all supple, just nail some boards and go to town on the rest, and saw, hammer.
She’s such an ass. No. Not an ass. She’s the hole. The asshole. No, that’s way too kind. A shit. The shit that comes from the asshole, that’s her. Schluck, she hits the floor, splat, and, god, what a stench.
Maybe she’s back now? She’s obviously been at work in the herb garden. There are the tools leaned up against the side of the house. The straw hat hangs provocatively on the pitchfork and wants to lift off in the breeze, but it’s still here. Vita really is no place at all.
She lives in the Society’s sole brick house and that amuses her. To be suburban amid sub-urbanites.
I piss on the potatoes outside the bedroom window. That’ll make them stink.
She hasn’t put the extra key back in its usual place beneath the pot on the steps. I’ll check again. Nope. She’d already removed the key the day after we quit. She said that’s what happens when someone splits up. What
