Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

“Of course I do! Everyone does!”

“Not me,” Alice says.

“Me neither,” Thomas says, fishing a black olive out of the ceramic bowl.

“Well, it goes like this: ‘ Butterfly / sleeping / on the temple bell .’”

Helena ecstatically twirls a lock of hair around her index finger.

“Because there are winged creatures in each poem? Is that why you think they’re similar? I don’t get it.” Alice sits cross-legged, hands around her feet. “But I think I could definitely write those kinds of poems. It wouldn’t take longer than a few minutes to write those, tops. Hey, maybe I can be a poet!”

“Basho said that haiku is what happens at this place at this moment,” Luke says, and Helena nods, understanding. “That’s exactly right,” she says, her index finger twirling faster and faster around her lock of hair.

“What’s happening right now is that we’re piss-drunk in this house!” Alice says, throwing herself back onto the couch. Thomas stifles a laugh. She’s right. But Helena continues enthusiastically: “That’s what it’s like working at the loom. Basho had this theory about the clash of the eternal with the transient. He said that each element should be present in every single poem. .”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Alice covers her ears. “No more haiku for me.”

“Especially no more haiku theory,” adds Thomas. Helena laughs, winking at Luke. “Okay. We can talk about it tomorrow then.”

Kristin raises her voice: “And the winner is Luke! But he didn’t say the name of the poem. So he won’t get any points for that.”

“We need special rules for haiku. They don’t have titles and it’s hard to know precisely when they were written, or where they were published.”

“Luke’s absolutely right,” Helena says.

“Of course you can,” Patricia suggests, “if you’re an expert.”

“But Helena and Luke apparently aren’t,” Thomas blurts triumphantly. They all laugh, and Helena shakes her head, smiling at the boisterous, ignorant lot. Thomas stands, roaring: “I HATE HAIKU!” Which causes Alice to get to her feet and hop up and down on the couch, so that the pillows slide to the floor as she howls: “Hi-ya! Haiku-Helena!”

“That’s enough!” Kristin cries. “STOP!!”

Helena decides Luke should get ten points for knowing the poet’s name, birth year, and death year — though everyone else protests vociferously. Helena also suggests that he should get a special bonus for his “surprising knowledge of haiku,” but that’s shot down immediately, with boos and foot-stomping. Kristin’s about to leave the room, scowling at Helena. “It’s undemocratic,” she hisses, standing with her arms at her sides. “You can’t just introduce an absolute monarchy!” Helena pulls her down beside her, then plants a kiss on her cheek. “The children are here, you can’t just leave.” Luke preens at hearing Helena’s praise. He stretches his arms toward the ceiling and cracks his knuckles, and for one moment that’s the only sound they hear. Then the wind whooshes outside. Like a storm. The wind blows and whistles and drives a branch against the roof, clawing it. Helena walks to the window. “Some weather. .” “Who are you going to pick, Helena?” Luke asks. Kristin, no longer agitated, fills everyone’s glass. They toast. The heat in the living room is intense; it feels as if it’s coming from inside themselves. Though he’s a little dizzy, Thomas’s mood improves; he lights another cigarette and exhales long, blue spirals, columns of smoke , he thinks woozily, a fucking skylark pips , and then he’s overcome with such a forceful laughter that he swallows his own spit down the wrong pipe. With her flat, strong hand Kristin repeatedly claps the coughing, half-choked man on his back. “What was so funny?” Alice giggles when he’s finally more or less himself again. She takes the cigarette from him and pulls at it until the cherry glows red. But before he can answer, Luke repeats in a firm voice: “Who do you pick, Helena?”

Helena points at Patricia, and Patricia sits bolt upright in her chair. Her hair is untidy, tousled, and she’s a little unsteady. While lying on the couch her dress has slid up her legs, and now she tugs it down, so that it lies smoothly over her hips and thighs. She’s fetched a book from the shelf. Holding her hands over the title and the author’s name, she says, “Ladies and gentlemen! Listen to this music!” She giggles, doubling over. She rolls her eyes. Then she reads aloud, hesitantly, clearing her throat from time to time; the tequila sings all over her Ss. “ Saxifrage, the great horned owl, milk, / irrefutable as lightning, the rock, / thick with doves, the southerly wind, / yolk, bromine, why not, / and as far as I’m concerned, lightning, yes, / whale and lightning, they stand firm, / let us build upon them, / they are worthy of an ode. ” Patricia inhales and holds her breath, then she smiles and curtsies, but as she leans forward her chair tips and she screams in fright, flapping her arms, and Thomas barely manages to grab her before she falls. The book thumps to the floor.

“Enzensberger,” Luke says mechanically. “‘Ode to Celery.’ First published in The Local Language , 1960.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Patricia says, impressed. She sits down. “You’re not a newbie at this, are you?”

“Are you hurt?” Helena asks worriedly. Patricia shakes her head.

“It’s totally cheating to read from a book. Anyone can do that!” Alice is upset.

“Normal people can’t remember every possible poem by heart, can they?” Kristin says. “We’ll just have to bend the rules.”

“I didn’t know you read poetry, babe?” Thomas says, his voice still rusty following his coughing fit.

“I don’t. But I did once. You know that. I was very into Enzensberger at one point. For a long time.” Patricia stares dreamily at the night-darkened window, which mirrors her image like a veiled angel or a ghost.

“Sounded a little like haiku to me,” Alice sniffles.

“But it isn’t, my dear,” Helena says with a sigh. She stretches her legs.

“You’re all so smart and well read. All these old poems. . Why isn’t anyone reciting new poems? Some recent poems? It’s sad.” Alice groans. Then she yawns, so that everyone can see her reddened uvula. “Oh, how sad. .” She crumples into a fetal position and watches the group, her eyes half-closed. From time to time they glide shut.

“You’re the one who should know new poems, Alice. You’re young. You should teach them to us,” Helena says gently, touching Alice’s ankle.

“What I like about the poem,” Patricia interrupts, straightening abruptly, “is. . the celebration of life, you know? The earthly life with egg yolks and southerly wind and owls and celery. You know what I mean?” There are red blotches on her cheeks now. She crosses her legs.

“That’s how the other poems were too,” Alice mumbles. “Southerly winds and midfields and soft-boiled eggs. .”

“Twenty points for Luke. You’re in the lead.” Kristin picks up her nearly-empty glass.

“He’s led the entire time,” Helena smiles.

“Do we have any candy?” Alice asks sleepily.

“We’re here now, aren’t we?” Patricia looks at Thomas, narrowing her eyes. “You and me.”

“That’s right,” he says. “You and me. We’re here right now.” And then he adds, “No matter what. Right?” He holds her gaze, wanting her to give him a sign. But she lifts her head, tilting it all the way back, a mysterious smile etched onto her lips. Then she stands and wobbles out of the room.

“The big question tonight,” Helena says, “must be how in the world Luke knows so much about poetry. You should study literature, man!”