"My second cousin."
"But she doesn't speak Danish?" He took a deep breath.
"My uncle and aunt live in Malaysia."
"In Malaysia?"
"Yeah."
The light turned, they began to walk, he picked up his pace, but she caught up. "She seemed sweet. How long is she staying?" He caught her glance and noticed that her eyes were gray, he had always thought they were brown. "Not so long," he mumbled. Then she stopped asking questions, they walked in silence, after awhile she lagged behind. He turned the corner, and when he passed the basement stairs across the street, the four paper plates with cake and candy were still there on the sidewalk. She noticed that he had slowed down and she stopped and said, "It's an offering. Those people must be Buddhist."
"Who?" he asked with a strong desire for her to say out loud what was going on in the basement. "The girls," she answered, "haven't you noticed them?" He shook his head, cut across the street, and unlocked the door. She slipped in with him. Loud music boomed in the entryway, and as they went up the stairs it became clear to him that the music was coming from his apartment. She found her keys in her bag. Then suddenly she turned toward him and looked him in the eye while she listened carefully for a moment, and then came her intimate, restrained, inquisitive question: "Is that your cousin's music?" He hurried up to his apartment. She had wound his wool scarf around her breasts and a towel around her waist. She danced barefoot and wildly around the apartment. The music was earsplitting. The room smelled strongly of sweat. There was an empty bottle of rum on the table. She shrieked, yelled, jumped up and down, stamped, howled, swung her arms round and round. Her eyes were red. He turned down the music. She jumped up on his back and beat him with small weak fists, while bawling drunkenly. "Music, music! Idiot!" Her voice rose up to higher octaves, now in her own language, which he couldn't identify. He grabbed hold of her and carried her into the bathroom. She grunted and became heavy. He put her in the shower and turned on the cold water. She tried to stand, but slipped, she cursed and threatened him. And it sounded as if she had swallowed her own howl as the water gushed down over her. He left the room closing the door. An hour later, she still hadn't come out; it turned out that she was sleeping on the floor. On her back with her thin legs parted. She snored. He could see right up her red, shiny cunt.
* * *
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.
THE WOMAN IN THE BAR
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.