“You should at least organize yourself better, otherwise you’ll never be able to cope with having a child,” I hear him say to the broom cupboard.
If one really put one’s mind to it, it might be possible to develop the ability to read two pages of a book in a row. The child has grown suspiciously silent, the cookie is probably stuck in its throat, which is why you have to check on it every four lines, you’re always either putting a child into a sweater or pulling it out of one, shoving Barbie into her stockings and high heels, groping for your keys outside the front door with a sleeping child in your arms. No, it’s not my style. I try to regurgitate an entire paragraph from a manuscript I once proof-read:
“One of the things that characterizes a bad relationship is when people start feeling an obligation to have a child together.”
I have to confess that’s something I read somewhere, because we can’t experience everything in the first person. Nevertheless, I throw in an extra bit of my own.
“But maybe we could adopt, in a few years’ time, a girl from China, for example, there are millions of surplus baby girls in China.”
“That’s exactly it, when you’re not talking like a self-help manual, you behave as if you were living in a novel, as if you weren’t even speaking for yourself, as if you weren’t there.”
“At least I’m not Anna Karenina in a railway station.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t necessarily absorb the content of all the text that I proof-read, you know, nor do I emulate it.”
“But just remember this: not all men are bright and chirpy in the morning, and you can’t expect them to appreciate the nuances of linguistics over their morning porridge.”
He has straightened his back and randomly presses his thumb against the window pane, just beside one of the butterfly’s wings.
“What do you mean?”
“It isn’t always easy to figure out what you’re on about. Other people just chat when the bread pops out of the toaster. Maybe, for example, they say things like: the toast is ready, would you like me to pass it to you? Would you like jam or cheese? They talk about cosy, homely things like laundry detergent, for example, things that mean something in a relationship. Have you ever asked yourself if I might like to talk about laundry detergent? Somehow you’re never willing to talk about laundry detergent. Last time you washed my shirts it was with your red underwear. It’s true that I was the one who gave it to you, but I don’t remember ever seeing you wear it. And that’s not the only thing.”
“No?”
“No, I just want to let you know that I’ve spoken to a marriage counsellor and he agrees with me.”
“About what?”
“About you. He had a similar experience. With his first wife.”
As I’m calmly sitting there on the stool and sip on the glass of water, I realize that he is now about to say something that I’ve somehow sensed he would say, something that has crossed my mind before. And the thought is accompanied by a feeling that I’ve also experienced before, although I cannot for the moment remember where it will lead, to something good or bad. I know what he’s going to say next.
“And then there’s Nína Lind.”
“Who’s she?”
“She works at the office, handles the switchboard and takes care of the photocopying for now. She’s planning on studying law.”
His voice vanishes into the collar of his shirt. Some hairs protrude through his buttonholes.
“She’s actually expecting… a baby.”
“And?”
“Yeah, and so am I, with her.”
“Isn’t she the one you said was coming on to all the guys at that Christmas punch party in your office last year?”
“Not any more. You should also know, with all your vaster knowledge,” he says with a touch of sarcasm, “that when a man is unjustifiably critical of someone, it’s often to conceal a secret admiration. Men quite like women to have a bit of experience. I have to confess I’ve sometimes wished you had vaster experience in that area yourself.”
I note that he’s using the word vaster for the second time. If I were proof-reading this, I would instinctively cross out the second occurrence, without necessarily pondering too much on the substance of the text.
“You don’t even know how to flirt, don’t even notice when men are looking at you. It’s not much fun when the signal that a man’s wife gives out to the world is that she is completely indifferent to the attention the world gives her.”
I can’t control myself and note that this is the second time he has called upon the world as his witness in a single sentence.
“Besides, she’s changed, pregnancy changes a woman.”
“When is the baby due?”
He hawks twice.
“In about eight weeks’ time.”
“Isn’t that a rather short pregnancy, like a guinea pig?”
“This is something that has evolved between us over a period of time, not just an accident. I just want you to know that this wasn’t a decision on the spur of the moment, or just a whim, even if you think it is.”
His face has turned crimson, with his hands dug deep into his pockets.
“How did you get to know each other?”
“In the photocopy room or around there.”
“When?”
“You could say the relationship turned serious sometime after the Christmas party.”
He fumbles around the refrigerator, takes out a carton of milk and pours himself a full glass. I didn’t know he drank milk.
“Christ, how old is this milk? It’s the 25th of October today and this is from September.”
“What does she have that I don’t have?”
“It’s not necessarily that she has something you don’t have, although in many ways she’s more feminine, has breasts and stuff.”
“Don’t I have breasts?”
“It’s not that you don’t have breasts, but she’d never been to Copenhagen, for example, I had the feeling I could teach her something.”
“Did she go to Copenhagen with you the other day?”
“Yes, she did, as it happens. Like I said, it’s been evolving.”
“And Boston too?”
“She was visiting a cousin there as well.”
He has started to nurse the plant on the window sill, and fetches a glass to water it, and then massages the soil around the stem with his fingers. I’ve never seen him care so much for a plant.
“Do you love her?”
He gives himself plenty of time to readjust the plant and wash his hands in the kitchen sink, after his labour in the soil, before answering.
“Yeah. She says she loves me and can’t live without me.”
In retrospect there had been a number of signs in the air. He had suddenly started to plant clues in various parts of the apartment and wrote “I will never forget you” on the back of an unpaid electricity bill, knowing that I was the only person in the house who ever does chores like paying bills. I actually didn’t notice the inscription until I got to the bank and the cashier blushed and double-stamped the bill. And then there were the home-made crosswords he left by the phone: love, nine down, longing six across, coward seven down. Affection, desire and chicken.
“I want you to know I’m very disappointed things didn’t work out between us,” he says.
I’ve shovelled down two mouthfuls of the spinach lasagne and am preparing to stab the third morsel with my fork. Once I’ve swallowed it, I adjust my garter-stitch scarf, wrapping it around my throat.
“Thanks for the dinner. When are you leaving?”
“Nína and I are looking for an apartment and we’re going to see one tomorrow. In the meanwhile I’ll stay at Mom’s.”