Christian Jungersen - You Disappear

I try to laugh along with her, though I still have the sense that I’m completely alone in my new life.

There’s no way we can resolve our conflict with the preschool rapidity of the men, but we make an effort. And meanwhile I think about a brain-damaged man I once read about. He’d always been rude with customers in his small corner grocery, but he acted that way with warmth and a twinkle in his eye, so they patronized the shop in fact because of him. After he suffered a minor stroke, he still thought he could kid his customers affectionately, but he’d lost the fine motor skills he needed to be disarming — the brief hint of a smile at precisely the right moment, the way he turned his head and looked down after speaking. The customers grew annoyed. His wife kept telling him that he’d have to act like a normal boring shopkeeper, but that just made him furious. And the shop went bankrupt.

Which makes me wonder: why has Henning’s contracting business been running in the red these last few years? They’ve said it’s the financial crisis, but is that true?

I try to sound friendly and conversational when I ask. “Was Henning always so glad to go to dinner parties back when you first met?”

But Helena’s quick as lightning. “I know exactly what’s going through your head right now. But just because you force everyone else into that box doesn’t mean you can do it to Henning and me.”

“Of course not. I’ll make sure I—”

“That’s just the way men are.”

I object. “Not all men.”

She answers with a glint in her eye that’s supposed to indicate a joke, but it doesn’t come out very funny. “You must not know men very well.”

“But before Frederik got sick, he certainly wasn’t like that.”

We fall silent. The men are still shouting out in the kitchen.

Helena leans toward me. “Mia, I don’t know how to tell you this …”

“What?”

“Maybe Frederik wasn’t always the perfect man you remember.”

There’s no way I can have this discussion with her tonight. “But Bernard’s not that way either — and that’s not something I remember. That’s right now.”

“Oh, of course! I’d forgotten Bernard. Bernard, the great shining exception to everything in the whole world!”

I’ve got to be careful about what I say. One wrong word, one wrong pause or facial expression and she’ll know that Bernard’s a source of more than just legal deliverance.

“But other than the supernaturally magnificent Bernard,” she says, “that’s just the way men are.” She takes a large gulp from her wineglass. “Get used to it. Or be single.”

In the kitchen now, the men are laughing uproariously as they argue over which male politician in Denmark has the biggest nose. And it sounds to me as if there are three men’s voices in there. Has another guest shown up?

I get up, and Helena follows.

In the cold light of the kitchen, we can see Niklas sitting on the counter between Henning and Frederik. His large hairy hands upon the counter-top. He doesn’t look like my Niklas anymore.

His new deep voice roars with laughter. “Have you guys seen the schnozz on Bertel Haarder? Ha-ha-ha!”

I’m kissing Bernard in our new kitchen, which is both larger and better equipped than the one in our old place.

Farum Midtpunkt is a strange ghetto — and not just because, as an architectural experiment, the façades of its apartment blocks were fabricated from great plates of rusted iron. The Midtpunkt apartments are modern, with luxurious private patios and outdoor common areas that are green and well maintained. But the rent’s so high that the people who can afford it bought houses of their own long ago. Most of those left behind have all or most of their rent subsidized by the municipality: people on disability, immigrants, and single parents.

In the flat suburban idyll that is Farum, constructed from bike paths, yellow bricks, and thousands of lawns, the Midtpunkt complex towers over everything else. To judge from the crime stories and letters to the editor in the local paper, its apartment blocks are the tarry smoker’s lungs that make our young blond suburb gasp for air. I know from my job, though, that that’s not the whole story; lots of Midtpunkt kids come from well-functioning homes, and lots of parents are happy to live here. Their only problem with the place is that friends are nervous about visiting them at night.

Bernard presses his groin against mine, and I can feel his erection through his clothes. I prop myself against the counter with one hand, next to a high stack of dishes.

The front door opens. Niklas’s and Frederik’s footfalls move slowly toward the living room; they’re carrying something heavy.

Bernard and I release each other, and I step into the hall. “Super,” I say. “Wasn’t that hard to get up the stairs?”

“That’s why it took us so long,” Frederik says. “What have you two been doing?”

“We’ve been getting the kitchen sorted. It’s going to be nice.”

Niklas doesn’t say anything. I asked him if he could get some of his friends to help us move, but he didn’t want to.

Frederik is too sick to see through us; his suspicions come only in flashes. It’s not too bad, and I can generally maneuver him back into the naïve thought that Bernard’s our new friend who’s lending a hand to get things organized.

But does Niklas notice anything? Teenagers are so unpredictable; sometimes they see everything, other times it’s amazing how oblivious they are — especially when it comes to their parents’ love lives, right?

Besides Bernard, Andrea from the support group helped us pack things up two days ago, and Helena and Henning were here yesterday with a couple of other friends who haven’t defected yet. And then of course my in-laws have been here a lot.

Bernard and I have to pass each other in these unfurnished rooms without giving ourselves away. But if he raises his hand someplace in back of me, I notice; if he takes a step toward the bookcase, I sense it. I know when he’s about to take a breath before he lifts a moving box or calls out to my husband or son.

Back in the kitchen I tell him, “I was thinking we should put the globe glasses on this shelf.”

He leans back slightly, to counterbalance the box of plates and glasses he’s bearing. A cord of muscle bulges from the top of his forearm as he stands there holding it. “Do you use them more than the tall glasses?”

“Not really.”

“I could put them there, of course,” he says. “But if I put the tall glasses there instead, they’ll be easier to reach.”

I pull aimlessly at the dust rag I happen to have in hand. “Yes, that’d be better. Will they all fit on the shelf?”

“Hmm. What do you want on the shelf underneath?”

“Plates.”

He sets down the box and squats, holding the top edge of the cupboard door with one hand. A lovely hand, and so close.

“But the plates won’t take up all the space, will they?” He peers into the cupboard, and I know that he’s making an effort not to look directly at me.

“Then we can set the plates on the right,” I say, and I realize I’m speaking too quickly. “And the rest of the tall glasses next to them.” I’m blabbering, I need to pull myself together. “No, we’ll put the tall glasses over here instead.” It’s completely impossible to dial it down. “And the globe glasses here. And any glasses we don’t have room for, we’ll set all the way over there.”

“And then the small plates here?” He’s pointing to the side of where the large plates will go, but I find myself looking at his arm instead of where he’s pointing. I know what it’s like to bite into that bare wrist, to rub the thin pale skin on its inner side against the sensitive skin of my belly.