Ellen Parker stood in my doorway in an olive-green dress, smiling. She'd brought a bottle of Chablis. She kissed both my cheeks lightly. Her gold bracelets jingled. I made a show of stashing a stack of papers in the drawer. They were all blank. Then I ordered lentil soup and warm sandwiches from room service. I tried to open the bottle of wine but the cork was too tight. Ellen Parker took the bottle from me, and without any trouble, screwed the bottle opener into the cork and pulled it out. I was stunned. Where did she get all her strength? She smiled and poured the wine into our glasses. We looked at each other and made a toast. "To your work. May it be a success!" she said. We sipped the wine. It was cold and refreshing, like filling the mouth with summer flowers, and suddenly I felt a longing for home. Then a boy came with our food. She sat in the armchair, I, at the desk. We struggled to eat neatly despite the fact that we were both in awkward positions. Finally, I gave up trying to eat my soup with a spoon and instead lifted the bowl up to my mouth to drink. She glanced at me with shining eyes, and then started to crack up. "Oh my god, oh my god!" she kept saying. I also started to laugh even though I really didn't feel like it. And a moment later, when she slurped her soup, I slapped my thigh and threw my head back in wild laughter, while a deep darkness spread through me. I had completely lost control. And I heard myself shriek with laughter when Ellen Parker spilled soup on her olive-green dress and then drooled from her open mouth when a new convulsion of laughter rolled through her. She put her hand on my knee and, gasping, tried to speak, but it wasn't possible. She tried to wipe the spot with her napkin, but that also got us going again like delirious children, and soon I was crawling around on the floor trying to keep from laughing, my stomach muscles cramped up and tears streamed down my face. Ellen Parker lay face down on the bed shrieking hysterically and kicking her legs up and down. One shoe was off. At least ten minutes passed before we got hold of ourselves enough to control this fit of laughter; with red cheeks and messy hair, we tried to straighten out our clothes. Ellen Parker picked her shoe up from the floor and turned her back to me and put it on. I got up and filled two glasses with water from the bathroom. We drank greedily and, almost at the same time, set the glasses down in front of us. I sat in the armchair, and she, on the bed. Ellen Parker lowered her eyes. "You'll have to excuse me," she said almost whispering. "I don't know what came over me."
I grabbed her arm. "There's absolutely no need to apologize," I said, leaning toward her with a spontaneous tenderness for her that almost made me cry. "I started it." Then she looked up at me and smiled. Now she looked almost transparent. "It's been a long time since I laughed like that. Thank you." In silence we ate our sandwiches, which had become cold. She poured more wine into our glasses. "You see, it hasn't been easy since my husband's death. But I'm beginning to understand that it also wasn't easy when he was alive. I feel ashamed to say it, but it's almost a relief to be alone." She lit one of her thin cigarettes and leaned an elbow on the bed. She was nearly lying down. "I know exactly what you mean," I said, "exactly. It's nothing to be ashamed of." Then she suddenly got up, stubbed out her cigarette, and said that she should go so that I could work and that she had already kept me from it for too long. I took her hand, it was warm and a little moist. I watched her walk down the hallway. Her bracelets jingled. She turned and waved. There was a strong scent of her cigarette and perfume in the room. I thought about opening the window but didn't. She had pulled the cork out of the bottle like a man and succumbed to laughter like a little girl. I paced back and forth, emptied her wine glass, and felt like an animal in a cage.
* * *
The following days flew by. I no longer remember the order in which things happened. But one night I forced my way into Ellen Parker's room. I took off all my clothes. She stood paralyzed in the middle of the room staring at me in the dim light. "I thought. . it can't be true," she stammered. "I was certain that you. . were a man." She gasped, holding her pearls. Then she put her hand on my chest. Gently, she caressed my wounds. "I almost believed it myself," I whispered. Then I pushed her down on the bed. She trembled. We lay there with each other a long time.
From then on we enjoyed the city together. We climbed up and down the narrow streets, taking in the view from different angles. I gave her the red scarf I'd bought in the bazaar. She gave me one of her bangles. Once she asked me about my injuries. I didn't respond. Another time, about my work. I said that I'd finished it long ago. Ellen Parker was a shining light for me. The morning I left we exchanged tear-filled good-byes. She ran after the taxi as I drove away. I haven't seen her since. But a year later I went to London and wandered through Kensington, imagining her life there. Her daughters and the grandson. Charity work, perhaps. Another wealthy husband, perhaps. When you've taken the life of another person, you see those who are still living in a different way. I never get tired of looking around.
MOSQUITO BITE
MARCH
On Thursday, he'd been out on the town all night. He was drunk. A woman with shiny high-heeled boots came on to him, and he ended up going home with her. He can't remember if it came to anything more than some fooling around and sleeping. He simply can't recall—did they have sex or not — it's impossible to remember. When he woke up the first thing he heard was a strange scratching sound. Scratching and scraping and then a peeping sound as well. Something living was puttering around alarmingly near, and he froze. He opened his eyes. But it wasn't until he came up on his elbows that he realized where the sound was coming from: at least forty hamsters were darting around in their cages stacked in a high tower, one of them rested its front paws on the chicken wire and was staring him right in the eye. He shivered. Then he heard a flush in the bathroom and the woman, who looked clearly older than he, staggered across the room, white as a sheet, drying her mouth with the back of her hand; she had likely been throwing up. She fell on the bed groaning and pulled the blanket over her. It smelled stale and sour. He hurried to get up and dressed. On his way out he noticed that the apartment was a mess, completely filthy. When he got out to the street, he had no idea where he was at first, but then it became clear to him that he was on the outskirts of Copenhagen. He felt fine actually. He bought a cup of coffee and began to walk toward the center of town. His sister was arriving home from London that day and they'd made plans to go straight from the airport to the summerhouse. It was drizzling. Quiet rain. Nice on the skin. He looked at his watch and picked up his pace. His thoughts lapped gently in his head: It was good that he was in excellent shape, that's probably why he didn't have a hangover. It was good that he'd gotten lucky. It was good that it was raining, and good that he was so horny, that meant at least that he had something good to look forward to. He crossed the Town Hall Square. A flock of greedy pigeons picking at rice on the steps flew up in a fright when he walked through them. Fifteen minutes later he let himself into his apartment in Christianshavn. Twenty minutes later he had showered and dressed. He boiled two eggs and packed his overnight bag. Then he squeezed a couple of oranges and warmed some milk for more coffee. He only had time to skim through the newspaper and eat his fill before he drove to the airport.