Naja Aidt - Baboon

* * *

He sat at the kitchen table eating pizza, lost in thought about how a big coffee spill made the past week's notes illegible. But there were no thoughts. He lifted the papers up and let them float down to the floor. Then she came slinking in. She crawled under the table, pulled off his socks and began massaging the soles of his feet. She took every single toe into her mouth and sucked on them. He looked up and stared ahead. She let go of the toes with a slurping sound and began pressing and squeezing. When she was finished she came out from under the table and stood smiling broadly at him, then stuck a finger inside her cheek, tilted her head, and went to put on a kettle of water. She suddenly laughed to herself as though she'd just thought of something very amusing. It was tremendously hot in his feet and legs; he'd never experienced such a burning sensation in his body before. He opened the drawer and lit a joint. Slowly he pushed the drawer closed with the palm of his hand, while saying, "If you're still here tomorrow morning I'll call the police." She looked at him provocatively with her chin raised. She didn't say a word. She continued to watch him while he smoked, she stood there completely still with the teapot in one hand, and a white cloud of steam rose up from the pot, slowly pulsing in the air. He went into the bathroom to study his face in the mirror. He looked up his nose. He let his hand glide over his chin. Then he took a cup from the kitchen and headed out. She sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. She still had the wet towel around her waist.

* * *

He knocked tentatively on the downstairs neighbor's door. Two pearls glowed on her earlobes. Now her eyes looked blue. He asked if he could borrow some sugar. When she disappeared with the cup, he stepped a little into the entryway and from there could see that she had a whole bunch of green plants both on the windowsills and floor. He thought he heard a bird chirping in there, maybe it was just his imagination. "Say hi to your cousin!" She smiled. On the way downstairs he poured the sugar into the left pocket of his jacket.

* * *

She didn't leave. She lay on the couch and watched TV all day. Neither of them said anything. He felt inspired. In the evening he called Claes, who was probably unpleasantly surprised and didn't know what to say. He invited Claes out for a beer and said there was something he wanted to talk to him about. Claes hesitated. But he didn't care, he pushed and persuaded, it was important, he said, and in the end, the defeated Claes reluctantly agreed. It was warm out, a fine green summer light hung in the air until late evening. He touched the sugar in his pocket, letting it sift between his fingers, then collected it in a fist, opened his hand, and licked it off his fingers. The sugar melted on his tongue. Claes looked shy and uneasy about the whole thing. They had never been alone like this before. He told Claes that he had serious problems with a couple of women. They both wanted him and sought him day and night. They were clearly obsessed with him. He was at the end of his rope. He spoke loudly and with confidence. At first, Claes stared incredulously at him. Then he gasped in amazement and leaned forward. "But. But, do you want them ?" he asked impressed, almost in awe.

"No. Not really."

"But, are they hot ?"

"I guess so."

Claes grinned widely. His face softened. "What if I just take them off your hands?" A warmth like when she had massaged his feet spread over him. Now that he knew he was so sought after, Claes had clearly changed his view of him. He sensed the new respect, and it was easy for him to take it on: even the way he lit his cigarette was different now, with far more elegance and experience; he leaned back in the chair and slowly lifted the lighter, while Claes followed his movements with an almost voracious gaze.

* * *

He threw the keys down on the kitchen counter and looked into the living room. She wasn't lying on the couch. He turned on the lights and looked in the bedroom for her. She wasn't in the bed, or under it, or under the table in the living room. He even looked in the large wardrobe in the entryway. But she was gone. He lay down naked on the floor and fell asleep. The next day he noticed that a few bills were missing from the desk drawer where he usually left his weed money. His passport was also missing. His toothbrush, a stack of CDs. He opened the refrigerator and noticed the curry paste and a little piece of dried up ginger. The next day he felt cheated and preyed upon, and kept going over to the living room window to look for her, but she never showed up. The paper plates looked so pitiful on the dirty sidewalk, the offerings, which apparently were left there for a deity to find between the dog excrement and the overturned bicycles.

* * *

One morning, when she had been gone a week, he got more stoned than usual and knocked on the basement door. The fat blonde opened it. "Yeah?" she just said. He stretched his neck to look over her shoulder. But he couldn't see anything moving inside. Then she obviously became tired of waiting.

She slammed the door without saying another word.

I didn't see her come in, but suddenly she's there. She's walking on the polished floor in her heavy boots. She's long-legged. That's the first thing I notice. It's Saturday afternoon and I'm drinking a cup of coffee, watching people; I had an errand to do in the neighborhood, to pick up some dry cleaning, but then I also bought a bouquet of tulips, some tea cake, and a watermelon. My grandchild is visiting tomorrow. I've been walking around the city for a few hours and I'm cold and my legs are tired. It's pleasant just to sit here as it grows darker outside. I've always liked this restaurant. It's large with tall ceilings, white tablecloths, and terrible acoustics. An enormous dining room. People are lingering over late lunch, others are just drinking wine or cocktails, and behind me a couple of children are playing with a small train under the table. The atmosphere is pleasant. I lean back relaxed and enjoy the view of the young woman. Now she's standing at the bar. She's tall and erect, her neck is long and white. It's the end of November. This morning I was thinking about how long it's been since the wall fell. I thought about how quickly time passes. Even though so much has happened. Now the streetlights go on. It looks like it's started to rain.

I like watching people. And this woman is remarkable. She's nearly bald. Her head must've been shaved fairly recently because there's just a fine dark shadow of hair. She drinks carefully out of a small glass, something strong, maybe cognac, or whiskey, I can't tell from here. There's something about her that reminds me of a young animal, perhaps a deer, the same watchful nervousness. She's wearing a suit that's both elegant and a little too large. It's grayish-green, brownish, like mud and dried grass. I have a sudden urge to touch her neck. A flood of images runs through my head: I think about the canvas sacks, about my childhood, about the soldiers' uniforms, and my mother, who, much later, is standing in front of our house outside of Leipzig. It's plastered with thick mortar and has that color so common for East German houses: grayish-green, brownish. My mother is smiling. She's wearing a red dress. My thoughts race. I watch the woman at the bar, this person, this creation, I can't keep my eyes off her. Now I linger on her large meaty hands. I imagine she has a deep sensual voice. The rain is really coming down now, it beats against the large windows, and I notice the doors keep opening. Soaked people step in and wait impatiently to be seated. They shake their umbrellas, brush off their overcoats with their hands, and try to fix their hair. Then she turns halfway. And now I can see her face. It's pale. Her eyes are large and dark, and she's heavily made up with black and brown makeup. I think: dramatic and tasteful. She keeps an eye on the doors, and I can't take my eyes off her face. It's a fantastic face. Full of expression, almost theatrical. She keeps an eye on the doors. Maybe she's waiting for someone. She smokes and runs a hand over the top of her head. She looks at her watch. She empties her glass, throwing her head back to get the last few drops. As she's putting the glass down in front of her, her face lights up in a smile. I turn my head to see whom she's smiling at. He nods and smiles back, raising his hand in an awkward wave. His glasses are steamed up. He walks over, passing close by me, now he's right in front of her. They kiss each other lightly on the cheeks. He says a few words to the waiter who shows them to a table. He shakes his jacket and hangs it over the back of the chair. Suddenly I think about roses. I breathe deeply in through my nose and almost smell the heavy, perfumed scent. I close my eyes and think about all that precedes that scent: the buds of spring, aphids and beetles, heat waves, summer rain. Then, at last, the flowers swelling and unfolding. I don't know why, but I think about roses, about fields full of roses, endless fields of roses, white and red and yellow. When I open my eyes again, they've sat down facing each other and are studying the menu. A moment later they order. She fidgets nervously with her napkin. Her eyes never leave him for a second. I brush some crumbs to the floor. Then he begins to talk, intently and at length.