When they got back to Kamilla's house, the girls came bounding up the garden path. The eldest smacked the garden gate into Peter's stomach. Kamilla came walking across the lawn with a coffee pot. "They're going down to get the dog at Madsen's," she said. "What the hell is the dog doing at Madsen's?" Peter asked. "They used to have a dog salon, Peter. You know that Mom and Dad always got Bonnie trimmed there." Peter looked at Iben with an expression that made her laugh hysterically. "Peter! It's a terrier," she said, miffed. "It needs to be trimmed once in a while, and Madsen does it on the cheap." Iben took the boy out of the carriage and walked a little ways away. "A terrier!" she heard him say, and she began to titter and pushed herself forward in order not to laugh outright. She could feel that Peter was watching her. She heard him laugh loudly. "You two!" said Kamilla, who was disappointed about the pastries. She had been looking forward to cream puffs. And it was cold now, even though all three of them were wrapped in down blankets. Iben still didn't dare to look at Peter. Laughter stirred in her throat, for a moment she was afraid she'd begin to cry. The boy stuffed a large piece of lemon pound cake in his mouth. The girl sighed in her sleep. Peter said, "Can you take the girls next weekend? Dorte's parents are coming to stay with us." "Poor you," said Iben, wiping the boy's mouth. He was busy pulling apart a dead flower. A cold wind blew the petals onto the grass. She had finally gotten control of herself. "I thought you were coming to Aunt Janne's birthday on Sunday," said Kamilla. "Sorry," said Peter, shooting Iben a look, who suddenly had to put her hand to her mouth to hold back the laughter. Kamilla leaned back in the chair. "How long have you two been divorced?" she asked. "Seven years in November," said Iben, looking at Peter. "Isn't that right?" He nodded. "Seven years in November," he repeated. The sun shone right in his eyes, and she finally caught sight of the yellow spot in the brown. She felt strangely relieved. She knew it was there somewhere.
BLACKCURRANT
As long as there were berries on the bushes, we'd continue to pick them. That's what we agreed on. Helle didn't say a word, and so I was silent too. The sun baked. You could see the cows in the field beyond the garden. We sat on the ground surrounded by shrubs, it was the middle of the day and I was afraid of getting a tick. Our hands were blue and we had already filled an entire pail. There were enough for many jars of jam, and I thought about how wonderful it would be to stand in the kitchen, in the sweet scent from the blackcurrant jam, taking turns skimming it. We'd talk then. There was so much we hadn't had the chance to talk about. I wondered how I should prepare the chicken we bought at the grocery store. I wondered if Helle would soon be tired of picking berries and we could go in and have coffee. But she wasn't getting tired. She dried the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, squinted her eyes toward the sun, but then continued. I looked at the tattoo on her upper arm. A faded rose. She got it a long time ago. I was with her that night, we were drunk and she yelled out in pain each time the tattoo artist pricked her skin with the needle. But afterwards we had a beer with him; Helle dried her tears and gave him a kiss right on the mouth.
I remember thinking that it didn't seem like her at all, either to do something as wild as getting a tattoo, or to kiss a man right on the mouth like that. But of course we were drunk. We were often drunk back then. Afterwards, we bought some fresh morning buns, and rode our bikes to the beach and sat there watching the sun rise, and I tore off all my clothes and ran into the water and pretended I was drowning, but Helle was already walking away. I yelled after her, but she didn't stop, and I saw her stagger up over the dunes and disappear. Then I cried. I sat and cried and shivered and got sand in my eyes and under my dress. But of course I was drunk. I don't remember how I got home, and a few days went by before Helle called, but we never spoke about it, why she left without saying good-bye.
* * *
Helle pulls the pail toward her and crawls over to the other side of the bush. I attempt to pull a handful of berries off the stem to get around picking them one by one, but they just smear in my hand and I lose most of them. I'm thirsty. I can hear the neighbor driving the tractor back around the barn. He's probably going in for lunch now. There's a sheep that bleats somewhere. I pick at a scab on my knee and look over at Helle's dark head. Her hair is matted. "I'm thirsty," I say. But Helle doesn't answer. A bit later I get up; my legs hurt from having squatted so long, and one of my hands is asleep. It is really boiling hot. Red spots dance in front of my eyes, and for a moment I'm so dizzy that I think I might faint. I turn to look at Helle, but she's still bending over the bush; I can see her hands working fast and steady, the berries nearly flying through the air as she tosses them into the pail.
* * *
Once I loved a man passionately. It was a couple of years after Helle got tattooed; he was red-haired and had close-set eyes. He was so gifted that when he spoke, I thought I was the luckiest person in the world: his words were like colorful pieces of gum wrappers floating inside my head, and my heart lifted up, and I was so light, and I looked at him and I could almost feel my pupils enlarging so I could suck him and his whole brilliantly colored language right in. I begin thinking about this as I walk through the house. And as I drink water from the faucet in the kitchen, I think about him, about his soft fingertips running over my face. Although his fingers never ran over my face — I don't know if he even loved me — anyway we never got that far. I open the refrigerator and look at the chicken. It's big and pale, I have no idea what to do with it. I wonder what became of that man. But we have onions and tomatoes so I can simply throw the whole thing in the oven. I sit down on a stool, and at the same moment I hear Helle come in through the door to the garden. She puts down the pail on the kitchen counter and goes into the bathroom. It sounds like she's splashing water on her face. "Helle?" I shout. She doesn't answer. She turns off the water, it's quiet. I start removing leaves and small twigs from the berries, while listening to figure out what she's doing. But I only hear the neighbor on the road driving by on the tractor, or it could be his son because the neighbor usually rests after lunch. And suddenly I too am overwhelmed by fatigue. On the way into my room I carefully open the door to Helle's room. She's lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. I see her chest rising and falling, but otherwise she looks like she's dead.
I slip under my blanket. I think about the man's eyes, the light that shone from them. I see the faded rose on Helle's arm clearly in my mind. And then I must have fallen asleep.
The next thing I remember, Helle is standing in the doorway. She has the chicken in her arms. When I look her in the eye, she turns on her heels and walks away. She looks confused. For a moment, I think it's a dream. But when I stumble into the kitchen, she's standing at the window looking at the neighbor's son. He's walking down the dirt road pulling a black sheep with him.