just couldn’t help it. He graduated from the academy of arts about a year ago, and before that he was already selling his paintings. I was actually there the night it began. Olsvig owed a gallery owner some money, and instead of taking his money, the gallery owner told him he could display a couple of paintings and see whether or not they sold. Before half a day was gone, the gallery sold the first one and the second one shortly thereafter. The owner was beside himself. A mass of drinks were had at Kluden. He wanted everything in Olsvig’s studio, all that came from Olsvig’s fingers was pure gold, at least for a while. Until it stopped.
Bo left a coffee cup and a stain. Vita notices of course. She notices everything, but acts like it’s nothing. Right there, that’s where she entered. Wait, didn’t she just wander in through the wall?
“Why didn’t you use the door?” I ask.
Obviously, she’s not going to answer. She’d rather talk about something else. That’s unusual. She wants to talk about “sex . . . you know exactly what I mean,” she says. “You head to the sack as soon as you meet someone. Do you even think about anything else?”
“What do you mean by sex? He was just sweet,” I say. “I didn’t do anything. Where’s all this coming from?”
“Who isn’t sweet?” she asks. “Who isn’t sweet and lovely in your eyes? Who isn’t so unbelievably wonderful that you just can’t help ripping their clothes off? And you know exactly what I mean.”
“That’s the way people meet,” I say. “To claim otherwise is wrong. First there’s sex, the naked and the raw. And everything else comes after that. Besides, he knows he’s sexy.”
“Oh right, you’re so smart. So in touch with yourself,” she says.
“Could be. But do you really have to spit like that?”
“Hey, I thought you liked secretions.”
“I don’t get you.”
“Obviously, he knows he’s sexy,” she says. “He has you right where he wants you. As usual, you think you’re in complete control. But you don’t control anything. You’re so transparent. So is he, of course. I give it two days before you’re swapping spit.”
“Nothing happens. Sometimes it just up and happens,” I say.
“Don’t go thinking that you’re the only person capable of being attracted to someone else. Actually, we’re all capable. But that doesn’t mean that we just run around and do it with anyone. We stop ourselves before it comes to sex.”
She walks through the wall.
“That’s pretty smart,” she says, looking down at herself.
“Smart.”
Ane came all the way out here while I snoozed, right through the door, no slipping through the wall like Vita. Her timing isn’t the best, I was in the middle of a party at some other allotment society, Våren, I think it was. Bo was also there, in shorts. His legs stuck out the bottom with crinkly hair and large, well-trimmed hooves. He was confiding something and was leaning over me with his entire weight when Ane came bursting in with the baby in a sling on her chest.
“How wild, Justine. You got a haircut. It looks wild. Why did you do it?’
I shake my hair.
“Well, it’s weird. But somehow it fits you.” She unfastens the child and puts him in the stroller. “I just came by to see if you had enough room.” Her gaze sweeps the space, moving from paintings to work table. “You can stay here as long as you want.” In one smooth motion she’s at the table, rummage, rummage. “So, is there anything new on the fire?” She flips papers, takes something out, covers it up, rolls it all together.
“Do you need the studio?” I ask.
“No, not at all. I’ve already told you that.”
She gives me a look that implies both consideration and vexation.
“How are you doing?”
She turns her back to me and tries stuffing the roll into a cardboard tube, but it’s too loose and bursts apart.
I make for the elsewhere of the kitchen and wait a bit before returning.
She’s finished packing. The baby is awake and the pacifier slides wetly in and out of his mouth.
“I finally got him to take it. Did you see?”
She bends aside so I can see the baby’s face.
“It’s funny,” she says. “It really does seem to help a bit.”
Now it’s choking him. She pulls on the pacifier to persuade him to take it again, but he refuses. So she steps over the mattress, takes a seat at the table, and starts liberating her breasts.
“There’s been a lot of turnover out here lately,” she says.
The boy’s big irises scream: Help. With a hand she supports his head and forces it onto her breast. He has no choice but to accept the nipple that’s swollen and pearled white. The boy coughs and milk streams out.
“But you’re next to Trine Markhøj. You know Trine pretty well, right?”
Burp. Ane holds the baby out from her, milk splatters the floor.
“Take him,” she says.
She tucks her breasts back into place. The boy’s a disaster, a baby elephant that’s shat itself.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say.
He goes back in the carriage and Ane starts rocking.
“You have to do it with some force. That makes him fall asleep faster,” she says.
Back and forth, back and forth, she doesn’t take up much space without the kid. Her gaze makes a final sweep and lands on me.
“I should go.”
Good.
When did the whole thing with Ane and Torben start? Let’s see, it was probably back during the Berlin trip with Ole Willum, a teacher at the academy of arts. We were staying in the academy’s apartment on the attic floor of a large estate out by the Spree. The gable fronting the water had two large glass doors, but the balcony itself was missing, all that remained of it were the iron fittings to which it was once attached.
Torben leaned carefully out and groaned. He was afraid of heights, he said, and didn’t want to get too close to the windows. When it came time to choose where we’d sleep, he chose one of the other rooms.
Ole Willum had a show at a small gallery in the city and we were supposed to head out there after unpacking. Torben, a couple of other guys, and Rose, she was always hanging out with the boys, turned up quite a bit later than the rest of us. They were already in high spirits, and were carrying two bags of Weißbier bottles. Ane and I each grabbed
