Helle Helle: This Should Be Written in the Present Tense

The girl grabbed the one at the front with the tongs and put it in a paper bag. She held the bag open, the woman was still looking.

‘How much are your Napoleon hats?’

‘Six kroner.’

‘Six exactly?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case, I think I’ll have a Napoleon hat as well.’

‘Is it all right in the same bag?’

‘Is what all right?’

‘The bag. Is it all right in the same bag?’

‘I should think so. I don’t see why not,’ the woman said, and began searching for the right change. I went out with my carrier bag from the library and my pastry snail. The man from the council got into his lorry outside the chemist’s, tooted his horn and pulled away with the rubbish truck and the rest of the traffic, a pickup and a pensioner on a moped, following on behind. The procession moved slowly down Østergade. I walked home thinking about the girl at the baker’s and what kind of life she had, that and the word kerfuffle. When I came round the corner opposite the station my mum was getting out of the car in front of my house. I turned back quickly towards the pub and stood behind the fence at the back entrance. There was a voice in the kitchen talking about potato salad, the window was wide open. A man came out with an overfilled bin bag. He nodded politely. I walked over to the supermarket car park, then took the short cut round the side of the station. The car was still outside the house, but my mum was nowhere to be seen. I stood behind a tree for a bit, then scurried round the back of the station all the way to the end of the platform. I stepped behind the bushes. It was half past one. The trees on the other side had turned yellow and red, every little gust of wind sent leaves fluttering onto the tracks. I waited a quarter of an hour before going back. The car was gone by then. My mum had pushed a note through the letter box and left a pack of coffee in the shed.

I couldn’t enjoy that pastry snail. I sat in bed and nibbled at it while flicking through the magazines from the library. One of them had an article about lethargy entitled ‘slugs and snails’. I tried to remember the rest of the rhyme but couldn’t, all I could think about was the coincidence of snails. I made coffee out of my mum’s coffee. I’d run out of milk so I had to sweeten it more than usual.

In the evening I hung a big bath towel and a sheet up in front of the windows in the front room and tried on all my clothes. I carried the mirror in from the hall. I painted my nails and decided I needed a new look and a new way of thinking and walking. I even thought I might put a piece together for a newspaper, I just didn’t know what about. There was nothing in particular I was good at, except perhaps writing lyrics for party songs, but I didn’t even do that any more. Instead, I wrote a list of things I ought to see and do in Copenhagen. I was full of good ideas. For once, I fell asleep straight away, but then woke up again far too early. The front room looked like an explosion in a second-hand shop, and I’d got nail varnish on the lamp. I tidied up and got dressed. I was ready before six. I caught the five-past-nine.

Instead of going on to Copenhagen I got off at Ringsted and walked up to the smørrebrød shop. Dorte was standing on the step round the back having a fag. A smell of roast meat was coming from inside. She threw out her arms when she saw me.

‘Hello, love, what a nice surprise. What brings you here?’

She gave me a hug, holding the cigarette at arm’s length, and kissed me on the cheek.

‘We haven’t got lectures today,’ I said.

‘How come?’

‘We just don’t have them every day.’

‘Well then, come in. It’s lovely to see you. Are you in the dumps?’

‘Not really.’

‘Yes, you are. I can tell.’

‘No, I’m just tired, that’s all.’

‘I can see that. Your eyes are all wrong.’

‘I’m not sleeping very well.’

‘Is it the trains?’

‘No, I quite like the trains.’

‘You like the house all right, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Well, you look gorgeous no matter how tired you are,’ she said and kissed me again, then we went into the kitchen, she got a cup out for me and poured me a coffee from the Thermos on the table.

‘Do you fancy a cheese sandwich?’ she said.

‘No, thanks.’

‘Are you slimming?’

‘Sort of.’

‘What do you think of this, by the way?’ she said, extending her fingers towards me. Her nails were coral-coloured, they looked nice against her hands.

‘It looks nice against your hands,’ I said.

‘Yes, I think so too. That’s nice, though,’ she said, indicating my own fingers with their short, plum-coloured nails.

‘I’ve got fat fingers,’ I said, and fluttered them about.

‘You have not .’

‘I have too .’

‘Your hair suits you when you put it up like that,’ she said.

‘Above the ears, you mean?’

‘A bit piled up, with stray strands. I like that. How come you aren’t sleeping?’

I shrugged.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can you keep up with your studies?’

‘Mm.’

‘Do you like the course? Are you getting on all right with it?’

‘Yes, fine.’

‘Fine means not fine at all.’

‘No, it doesn’t. Fine’s fine,’ I said and gulped a mouthful of coffee. She did likewise, then wiped the outline of her lipstick with her finger.

‘Well, I’m pleased.’

‘Mm.’

‘Do you remember the time I lay awake in Lübeck?’ she said. I remembered it well and nodded. She’d been on a coach trip with a new man. He was tall and ruddy, she fitted under his arm when they walked along the street. She’d never had one as tall as him before, but fortunately he had a paunch as well. I can’t be doing with a man with no belly, she always said. The coach left from in front of the train station in Næstved, it turned out she knew some of the people who were going. They all stood with their luggage, chattering in the early-morning light. She had her cobalt-blue trouser suit on and a scarf that billowed nicely about her neck in the wind. They all seemed so happy and excited. Every time she said hello to someone new, her laughter increased. She threw her hands in the air and laughed and laughed at her own excitement. They’d booked a room with a balcony, she thought they might sit out with a bottle of prosecco and some Twiglets. She got the window seat on the coach, there was a little carton of juice in the pocket in front of every seat, she could hardly sit still.

‘Oh, look at this! There’s juice,’ she said. And then shortly afterwards:

‘Look at the roundabout there! Look at that girl!’

And the next moment as they left the town:

‘Look at all those birds. I’ve never seen so many!’

‘They’re called seagulls,’ said the woman in the seat behind, and some people began to laugh. Dorte laughed even louder then and twisted round in her seat half standing up. She put her hand on top of the woman’s on the headrest.

‘Are they really seagulls? I think I’m dyslexic with birds.’

After she sat down again and had been quiet for a second with a smile still on her face, her boyfriend leaned over and said:

‘I think you should settle down now, don’t you?’

It was as if all the life drained away from her. She couldn’t say how it happened. The corners of her mouth drooped. Her arms went limp. She turned her head away and looked out at the fresh green fields and trees and the roe deer as they ran. Nothing had ever seemed so sad to her. And they hadn’t even got as far as Mogenstrup. Her hands lay dead in her lap on top of her cobalt-blue trousers. She thought: I’m nothing but an empty frame. After Bårse, her boyfriend looked at her with a smile.