Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

“First of all, I’d like to thank Alice’s friend Ernesto for the beautiful music. Jacques loved jazz.” Like hell he did, Thomas thinks. “And I’d like to thank you all for coming out today to say farewell to him.” Thomas looks down at his knees. They’re quivering. And so are Jenny’s. She wobbles in her high heels. She braces herself against the casket for support. As if at any moment her fleshy body could collapse across it. “It’s not easy saying goodbye, but we need to. Dad was. . Dad was one of a kind. He wasn’t always easy to have as a father, but. . he was what we had. He. .” Jenny is overcome by a fit of powerful, wet sobbing, and tries desperately to control it. She clears her throat. “He was also — a good and loving — father. . No, I’m sorry. .” She wipes the tears from her eyes and stares at her paper. She looks up, out over the audience, squints. Time seems to stand completely still. Will she throw herself to the floor? Will she scream? But then a small smile spreads across her face; she locks eyes with Thomas. And then in a suddenly firm voice, she says: “There was no one else besides him, for us. Now he’s found peace, and I believe we should sing a song before we leave him. Or before he leaves us. But I guess he’s already done that, so. .” Jenny fumbles for her scarf, tugs on it. “Oh, yeah, I’d also like to let you know that Frank, Jacques’s friend of many years, is offering everyone a round of drinks afterward at his place, Café Rose. You can get the address from me after the ceremony.” She nearly stumbles as she walks back to her seat.

The twins sit leaning against Helena. One of the girls yawns. Patricia hands Thomas a sheet of light-blue paper. A cheap photocopy, just the sort of thing he despises. On it are the lyrics to the song they’re supposed to sing. At the very least she could have asked me to do that, Thomas thinks, and has already guessed what kind of song it’ll be even before he inspects the paper. Of course it’s the song about old grudges. Jenny has drawn some unhelpful hearts and stars around the words. And a sun, for crying out loud, in the upper left corner. At the organ, Ernesto’s having trouble finding the melody; he’s playing haltingly and too quickly, and it becomes a rather disjointed performance: Frank and Fatso’s voices boom, while everyone else adds their voices more tentatively, and in the center of it all, Thomas can clearly make out his and Jenny’s own subdued voices; they know the song by heart. Jenny’s voice hasn’t cracked, as he would’ve expected; she sings in tune and in a clear and vibrant voice. When the song’s finished, Jenny places a bouquet of orange flowers on the casket. Lilies, maybe. Tiger lilies. She waves him over. His steps are loud on the tiled floors, and he’s seized with panic: everything seems distorted and loud. He thinks about the huge body that squeezed him that night Jules and Tina visited, the hair in his mouth, the warm, sticky skin that pressed against his own. His chest hurts. He struggles to breathe. He feels a strong urge to flee. All the while there’s this sensation that, when he turns around, he’ll come face to face with something so frightful and awful that it’ll scare him to death. He doesn’t dare turn around. To support himself, he leans against the pews. He stops walking. But Jenny motions for him again, impatiently. When he finally reaches her, he forces himself to turn around, and all that he sees are people quietly gathering their things and shuffling toward the casket. And there the two of them stand, one on either side of the deceased — the silent white casket made of veneer — he with a powerful sense of unease, Jenny like a kind of hostess, seemingly cheerful now. She steps aside to let the prison guard lay a single red rose on the casket. Frank and Fatso fumble with a limp bouquet of carnations that look like something they bought at a gas station. Handshakes and nods. Frank pats Jenny on the cheek. “Yeah,” he says, “on this road we’ll all travel.” He sighs. He squeezes Jenny’s arm. Alice is already on the way out, followed by Ernesto. They are tiger lilies. And now Thomas notices that the modest decoration, with daisies, is from the city. Apparently it’s part of the package. A white banner made of a thin synthetic material: Rest in peace . All at once Luc is standing beside him. Carefully he lays a large bundle of blue hyacinths on the casket, near where the dead man’s face must be — as if the strong odor should go with him to the grave, right up through his nostrils. The funeral director addresses them discreetly, her cheeks flushed. “Usually we leave the flowers on the floor, but would you prefer them on the casket?”

“There aren’t many anyway,” Jenny says.

“That’s perfectly fine. We’ll just take the cards out.” The hyacinths’ scent is intense, at once nauseating and agreeable. The dress tightens over the funeral director’s hips and derriere when she bends forward to remove the tiny envelopes from the three bouquets. Thomas spins around; it feels as though Luc’s still standing right behind him, but he’s gone. Thomas glances about, but he’s nowhere to be seen. My ref lexes are delayed, he thinks, and again this fear spreading from his gut. Then, suddenly, Kristin’s smiling face is right in front of him. Now she’s up here, and she grabs each of their hands. “You did great, Jenny,” “Thanks.” Jenny whispers like a schoolgirl. Kristin places a small bouquet of twigs with red berries on the casket. “They’re poisonous,” she whispers to Thomas when Jenny turns her back. A wide smile spreads across Thomas’s face, and he feels a sense of relief running through him like a welcome breeze in the midst of something all-too warm and cramped. His belly flutters, his lips quiver, and his fear dissolves, vanishes. He wants to embrace Kristin and laugh. I want to laugh, that’s what I want. I want to howl for a long time. Or blubber in her hair. There’s a thick lump in his throat. Maybe it’s not tears but a scream, he thinks. A powerful roar. Maybe he’ll kick over the casket. I’ll kick over the casket. I’ll break him in two. He feels Kristin’s hands clutching his waist. “Thomas,” she says.” Now he sees that she’s also holding onto Jenny, now he hears Jenny whimpering loudly. “Come,” Kristin says. “Let’s get out of here. You two shouldn’t linger. That’s enough. Blow out the candles.” “The candles?” He hadn’t even noticed the wax candles, almost as tall as a man, on either side of the casket. Kristin counts: “One, two, three. Blow!” He looks at Jenny, she looks at him, she sobs, and in unison they blow out the small flames. Two thin columns of black smoke spiral upward. Kristin goes off to gather jackets. Then she leaves the chapel. Jenny’s cheeks are blackened with mascara. The chapel’s empty now, the air cloudy with tiny specks of dust, visible in the light from the open door. Sweeping light, floating dust. Again this silence in the room, mystical and endless, like outer space, or like a shed on a summer day when you’re a kid, when you sit dozing and sweating under a cardboard box, when you sit under a cardboard box with a parched throat and dry, warm hands, sucking small puffs of breath and letting your eyes roll all the way up under your eyelids without closing your eyes. To be so silent and absent that you’re almost dead. Thomas staggers. Jenny thanks the chapel officer standing at the door in his black suit. Thomas shakes hands with the funeral director. His own feels clammy and sweaty. She hands him an envelope with roses imprinted on it. “The cards that came with the flowers,” she says, smiling. “My condolences.” They go outside, but then Jenny turns and slips back inside. She tugs at the chapel officer’s sleeve as he’s closing the door. “Will he be cremated now? Soon? Are you cremating him now?” she asks breathlessly. “I can’t answer precisely, unfortunately. But yes, it’ll be either today or tomorrow, I would imagine. He doesn’t have to go very far, after all. You can ask the funeral director, if you wish.” He nods in the direction of the funeral director. “The woman over there.” But Jenny responds with uncontainable tears, loud and mournful. The door closes behind them. Thomas takes hold of her; she leans against him and dampens his shirt, a river flowing from her eyes. She hangs on his neck, sobbing.