Helle Helle - This Should Be Written in the Present Tense

‘Oh, hi,’ I said.

‘Hi,’ she said, and took another drag.

I didn’t know what to pretend I was doing there on the garden path. I breathed in and out. My breath was white, the air was so cold it hurt inside my nose. I made to go inside again, but then she spoke to me.

‘I don’t smoke,’ she said.

‘Oh, right,’ I said.

A few moments went by. I looked up at the sky. There wasn’t much to see.

‘I can’t sleep,’ she said after a bit.

‘Me neither,’ I said, but she didn’t seem to be listening, she closed her eyes.

‘I’ve got to be at work in four hours, we’ve got performance evaluations, I’m absolutely knackered,’ she said.

She had pyjama pants on under her dressing gown and a pair of furry boots with suede laces, I’d got some the same that I’d bought on the Strøget.

‘That must be hard on you,’ I said, a bit indistinctly, I had to clench my teeth so they wouldn’t start chattering.

‘Anyway,’ she said as if she was about to go, only then she stayed put. She took a drag on her cigarette then tossed it away.

‘I’ve got the same boots as you,’ I said.

We both looked at them, she didn’t answer. She gathered her dressing gown. I was frozen stiff by this point. I ventured a smile.

‘Well, I’d better go back in where it’s warm.’

‘I’m sorry if I gave you a fright,’ she said.

‘No, it’s all right, you didn’t.’

‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘Don’t worry about it, really.’

‘Okay.’

‘Right you are,’ I said with a nod, then turned and went back in to what passed for warmth. I took the duvet off the boiler and scrambled into bed. After a long time the Gedser train came clattering through, so it was half past five. I got up and made toast and put some coffee on. I looked across at the flat. At half past six a light came on, first in the living room, then in the kitchen, then after that someone opened the bathroom window. At quarter past seven the light went off again and another one came on downstairs in the ticket office. I fell asleep at about half past eight and woke up well into the afternoon, but it didn’t matter. I had no plans.

Hase sent me a postcard inviting me over for turkey on the Sunday evening, not stew, but a leg. It’s in the fridge and it’s huge , he wrote. We were going to eat early and then go to the open-mic night at the poetry club in town. He would expect me around six. He’d written his address down one edge, down the other he’d written WE’RE WAITING FOR SOMEONE in small capitals. There was a photo of an owl on the front, I thought it was quite exotic. I went to the bookshop and the supermarket to find a card I could send back with a reply, but all they had were novelty and birthday cards with pre-printed messages. I made my own instead, from the cardboard backing of an A4 notepad, I frayed the edges and used a black marker pen. Then I decided to shade the letters, but that only ruined it. I ended up finding an old Christmas card at the back of a folder, there was a little sparrow on it, so it was a good match for the owl. I wrote in pencil, casually and with a light hand, then more distinctly at the bottom: BUT FOR WHOM I WONDER. I thought better of that bit later on when I couldn’t sleep, and then I couldn’t sleep at all. It was Friday, music was coming from the pub, upbeat jazz and a chorus of raucous voices joining in on a repeated line, bitter-sweet something. It had me missing Knud. I tossed and turned, eventually I got up and went into the front room, but their flat was all dark. I cut a couple of slices off a cob loaf and listened to the radio. I sat by the lamp and tried to write a poem. I wanted it to be called ‘Novices’. Someone coughed heavily outside in the street, a rattle of mucus. It was a group from the pub, off to catch the last train. One of them caught sight of me and waved, a little man with a beard, I waved back on a reflex. They all waved then, and carried on until they disappeared round the other side of the station building. I felt uplifted, I sat there with a smile on my face. When I went back to bed I kept seeing all their waving hands in my mind’s eye and thought about the gesture. The fact that raised hands could make you feel wanted, special almost, even if you weren’t. Just as you were sitting there in your slippers behind a single pane, with a shaky stanza in your head.

It really was a huge turkey leg. He hadn’t got round to putting it in the oven when I arrived, he’d fallen asleep in the afternoon. He didn’t wake up until I rang the bell just after six, he could hardly get himself together. His hair was dishevelled, there was a red blotch on his cheek.

‘How stupid,’ he said.

We were standing by the worktop. It was a nice kitchen, he had plants in the window behind the sink, a fern and some chives, and a cuckoo clock above the fridge.

‘It doesn’t matter. What a funny clock,’ I said.

‘It’s kitsch,’ he said, and I nodded.

‘Oh right.’

Then I looked at the leg again.

‘Can’t we just put it in now?’ I said.

‘Yeah, let’s. I don’t suppose it needs more than an hour.’

‘That’ll be fine, then.’

‘Yeah. We can have some wine while we’re waiting.’

We sat down in the living room, he took the sofa and I got the old wicker chair with the blanket. He’d lit a candle in the windowsill, the flame flickered. Muffled sounds came up from the street, cars and a horn, a voice shouting, another shouting back. Then came a sharp hiss that stopped abruptly.

‘That’s just someone getting air,’ he said.

‘How do you mean?’

‘From the bike shop.’

‘Oh, I see. Aren’t they closed?’

‘Yeah, but it’s outside.’

‘Oh right,’ I said.

We drank the wine I brought with me. It was French, something with Michel in it. It tasted okay. I sat thinking I ought to stop saying oh right all the time. He drew his legs up on the sofa, there was a hole in his sock.

‘Are you writing at all?’ he said.

‘No. Are you?’

‘Yeah, but nothing good. I sit up half the night with it and never get to bed.’

‘I know how it is.’

‘Do you?’

‘No, I meant not sleeping.’

‘Oh right,’ he said.

The blotch on his cheek had gone, only now it felt as though my own cheeks were flushing like mad. My glass was nearly empty, I leaned forward and filled it up again. I filled his too, and we drank.

‘Are you cold?’ he said.

‘No. Just a bit.’

‘Put the blanket around you, if you want.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Nice floorboards you’ve got.’

‘My brother did them. Sanded them down, that is.’

‘Oh right. He did a good job,’ I said.

He found a packet of penne in the kitchen, we were both really hungry and the dinner was taking for ever. There was a good smell from the oven, but the leg was still raw inside, he’d just had a look. We tucked in to the pasta and had another glass of wine. I had a feeling it was late, but it didn’t seem like we were in a hurry.

‘Are you going to be reading tonight?’ I said.

‘No. I’ve got nothing to read. Are you?’

‘You must be joking.’

‘You never know.’

‘No, but I’m looking forward to listening. I’ve never heard anyone read before.’

‘Haven’t you?’

‘Only Ib Michael.’

‘Yeah?’

‘He came to our school.’

‘Oh right.’

‘Have you noticed we both say “Oh right” a lot?’ I said. He looked at me and smiled.

‘We do, don’t we?’ he said, and we had a good laugh about it, we couldn’t stop, and then we drank the rest of the wine. There was a really good smell of roast turkey now. He realised he’d forgotten the side dishes, we were meant to have a rice salad, but he hadn’t even started it yet. He skidded out into the kitchen on his sock with the hole in it. I went with him, but he’d only got brown rice, it needed forty minutes to cook.