Naja Aidt - Baboon

* * *

Maria hits her little child. Her son, Torben. She beats him. She hurls him into the wall. She kicks him when he crawls under the dining table. She slaps his face if he picks his nose. She shakes him when he falls asleep on the couch. She ties him to the bars of the crib. Though there's no need to. He always lies there without moving.

"You should hit him on the butt so he doesn't get any marks," her mother says. "Otherwise you'll have the daycare people coming after you."

And she's probably right. They're beginning to wonder. Torben is so shy. But he's also violent. He hits the other children when they come near him. He bites. And he often has bumps and bruises on his body and head. They've talked it over with each other. But on the other hand, Maria seems okay. You can't be too quick to judge people. Children at that age are accident-prone, they're always stumbling and falling and hurting themselves.

But actually, Torben isn't a likeable child. He's not cute. He doesn't shine. In fact, he's completely graceless, ugly, and snot-nosed. He's the kind of child you simply want to be rid of, if you're being honest. There's a difference between children, it's just that way. And maybe that's why no one in daycare really notices Torben's bruises. No one really likes him. Maybe that's why.

* * *

Maria locks the door and turns on the light in the hallway. She rummages around for the remote and turns on the TV. The living room is dark. With a sigh, she sinks into the couch. Torben crawls up to her. She strokes his head absentmindedly, he snuggles up to her breast. They watch a program about Africa's coastlines. Torben quickly falls asleep, and Maria carries him into the bedroom. Then she huddles on one end of the large caramel-colored couch with a soda and cigarettes and sits there until long after midnight.

Ah, Maria.

Bjørn is your brother, Torben, your son.

I'm Rock.

Do you remember when we first met? You told me about the flat fields at dusk, and you let me fondle your breasts. We walked up and down the pedestrian street for hours. And you let me touch your hair, while you sat with your back against my stomach on a bench by the fountain. We ate roast pork at the train station restaurant. That was a long time ago. You were so. . fresh! It was the summer you turned 17. And I, well, I'm an older guy now. You were so restless, didn't want to be tied down. Now you've gotten heavy. I know so much about you. And you shouldn't worry about Torben. I don't care. He's nothing special. I never for a moment think he's mine. Because he is yours, Maria. Do with him what you want. Little kids don't really do anything for me. Bjørn says you're mad at me. That's fine. We've had our time together, and now I'm content just to follow along from a distance. Not an obsession, more for amusement. You're going in circles, Maria, and it amuses me to follow you: the pedestrian street, the anger, the beatings you heap on the boy, all the cheap clothes, the drinking sprees at bars, and the one-night stands.

The pedestrian street, the anger, the beatings.

I know where I've got you now. It suits me fine.

* * *

Torben is turning two years old. Maria's mother is there, and Bjørn. They've bought candy and chips and straws for Torben's soda. All four of them are sitting on the couch. The TV is on and Bjørn is helping Torben unwrap the gifts. Then he takes Torben into the bedroom to play with the new car. The women light cigarettes. They hear Bjørn making the sound of an ambulance.

Torben lies on his stomach on the floor and drives the yellow tractor back and forth.

"Torben. Look. I have something else for you."

Bjørn takes a small package from his pocket. It's a snow globe that usually has a Santa inside it. But there's no Santa in this one. There's a little green fir tree. The background is dark blue with stars. Bjørn shows the boy how to make it snow. Torben stares with an open mouth at the fat falling flakes and takes it and tries it himself.

"It's from your father, Torben. Your father."

But Torben isn't listening. He can't get enough of it. He shakes the globe again and again, gaping with wonder at the miracle. Bjørn gets up from the floor and goes into the living room. The mother has made popcorn in the microwave. Bjørn stuffs a handful in his mouth while lighting a cigarette.

"Rock fucking remembered it. I can't believe it."

"What are you talking about?"

"The boy's birthday."

"Oh, piss off."

"He likes the gift."

Maria stops chewing.

"What?"

"The gift from Rock. The kid's crazy about it."

Maria gets up and storms toward Bjørn.

"Stop, Maria," the mother says.

Maria gives Bjørn a hard push when she passes him on her way out of the living room. She yanks the snow globe out of Torben's hand, walks over to the window and opens it. The boy begins bawling. She throws it as hard as she can and watches the little globe smash to pieces when it hits the sidewalk. Torben clings to her pants. She tears herself from him and slams the door to the bedroom on her way back to the living room. She sinks down into the couch next to her mother.

Bjørn gets his jacket and leaves.

The next time Maria and Torben go out to the street, Torben sees the broken snow globe. He wants to pick up the fir tree, but Maria kicks it under a car. Take it easy, Maria, I won't be sending any more gifts to your snot-nosed kid. It was just a little experiment. I wanted to see if I could make you break out of your circle. But that seems impossible. And you walk up and down the pedestrian street, you and Torben, up and down. You sit on the bench by the fountain. Torben runs under the chestnut trees. You talk to Bjørn on the phone. You eat roast pork and fight. At home, you lift up Torben and smash him into the sharp corner of the kitchen counter. The only thing I'm not able to say about you is what you're thinking when you sit on the couch at night.

Maybe you don't even know yourself.

She bought oysters and fresh tuna and smoked salmon. She thought she might also like lobster, but changed her mind— she was so perky and rosy-cheeked and the fishmonger was flirting with her — and finally she settled on crab. It was windy and cold, her bicycle accidentally fell over and the fishmonger came running out to pick it up, and on top of this, he loaded all her bags into the bicycle basket; there seemed to be no end to his helpfulness. He smiled and she laughed, he waved enthusiastically when at last she walked off, reeling under the heavy load. She hurried. She dropped her keys. She saw beauty in the most ugly and dejected face. She threw money around: a huge bouquet of lilies, white wine, red wine, liquor, champagne, mangoes, beef, bread and cake from the city's most expensive bakery. She hauled it all home and took a bath. But she didn't stay in long. She was nearly out of her mind in love. She rubbed moisturizer all over herself, did her hair, and made up her face. She put on her new lingerie, ah, lacy and silky, then the dress and the midnight blue high heels, which she could hardly walk in, but she did , she could do anything, and all these objects were so beautifying, precious, cheering , and largely the reason for over-drafting her account.

But there was also the visit to the hair salon, the dance lessons, the copper pot, and the organic duvet. Not to mention the couch and the whole collection of music, purchased to make an impression on him. Him . He came in the late afternoon, and they stood in the entryway for more than half an hour kissing. At last he was sweating so much it was dripping from his hair, he still had his coat and hat on. Finally she unzipped his pants. They rolled around on the floor in the narrow hallway, and he accidentally ripped her dress to shreds pulling it down over her hips. They were about to faint from excitement. But then it was over so quickly, they couldn't control themselves. She moaned with pleasure, the tears streaming down her cheeks. He couldn't stop kissing her face, her shoulders, her small soft fingers.