Anne’s entry ticket to the commune was that she wrote poetry, like Bjarne, but she composed hers as riddles, made up of newspaper, cartoon and magazine cuttings. They were hard to decipher because the reader had to solve them first, but as a result you tasted every single word and were rewarded with a feeling of having uncovered a secret once the entire poem was clear. It wasn’t until then that you could appreciate it in its entirety and, at that point, the meaning of the poem would change, like a thriller with a surprising twist. It was so satisfying that the reader would often start unravelling the next poem immediately.
The girls got on well and the four of us met up regularly for extravagant dinner parties where Bjarne and I were reduced to washing up and telling jokes.
With Anne’s entry into Bjarne’s life, Mortis once more found himself playing the part of gooseberry. He didn’t turn his back on Bjarne as he had with me, and he was fine with Anne, but I think he found it hard to witness all this happiness from the sidelines. He had a tendency to compare himself unfavourably to others and he also resented the pity he detected from his two flatmates. After a couple of weeks he had enough and moved to a studio flat in Vesterbro.
It turned out that Anne was fairly wealthy, even though she tried to conceal it. Her money enabled her and Bjarne to take over the whole flat and stop looking for lodgers.
The Scriptorium had become a thing of the past, but I didn’t miss it. It was only at dinner parties that Bjarne and I would retell the old stories and remember the special atmosphere that had reigned in the flat. Occasionally we might hanker for the inspiration, the free life and the parties, but we always knew that things could never be the same again.
With my invasion of Line’s flat, it soon became too small for us. I was meant to write there and Line needed room to exercise. Fortunately we were able to swap to a four-room flat in the same block, but it stretched us financially. I earned nothing from my writing and very little from my casual jobs. Line worked in different theatres and was offered better and better roles, but at the start there were times where she had no work at all. For the first year we survived on Line’s inheritance from her mother and even with that we both had to find extra jobs. However, having four rooms was a gift. I got my own study with books from floor to ceiling and we had a separate living room, dining room and bedroom. Apart from my study, all rooms were sparsely furnished with second-hand items we were given or bought cheaply at flea markets. This left plenty of room for Line to do her stretching exercises on the living-room floor with me as her always attentive audience.
Despite our modest surroundings I thought the flat was cosy. Line had a talent for getting a great deal out of very little and she never minded getting stuck in if she had to. If we needed a picture she would paint one herself, if a lamp needed hanging she would do it before I came home, even reupholstering soft furnishings posed no challenge for her. It was very much Line’s home, but I enjoy it and felt settled.
I made only slow progress with my next novel, however. I juggled several jobs that left very few hours each day for writing. It took me more than two years to write my second book, The Walls Have Ears, and it was, to put it mildly, awful. It had a hopelessly constructed plot about a hotel room which told the story of the events that had taken place within its four walls, ranging from suicide to drunkenness and fornication. To this day, I have no idea why my publisher accepted it, but he did and was left holding most of the first edition. Only one hundred copies were sold across the country.
Still, I made some money out of it. It wasn’t much, but the advance was big enough for me to take Line on a night out. We treated ourselves to a trip to Tivoli, dinner at D’Angleterre, the ballet and a club. All transport was by taxi until it was time for us to go home. At Line’s suggestion, we walked. It was four o’clock in the morning, but it was summer so it wasn’t cold and the sun was coming up. At Islands Brygge we sat down on the quay, embraced each other and looked across the water at the Copenhagen skyline. Line kicked off her shoes and snuggled up to me. Her breathing was steady and I thought she had fallen asleep. I was starting to get uncomfortable, but didn’t want to stir for fear of waking her.
‘Now would be a good time to propose,’ she suddenly said.
I grinned, but soon stopped when I realized she was right and that I really wanted to. At that moment, I couldn’t think of a single reason not to propose; on the contrary, I simply couldn’t imagine life without her.
I gave Line a hug and pulled her to standing. Then I went down on one knee and told her how much I loved her. She said nothing, but she smiled. She knew perfectly well the effect her smile had on me and it gave me the courage to carry on, tell her all the things I loved about her, every part of her body I worshipped, every one of her actions I admired. It must have been a dreadful load of sentimental nonsense, but we were both tipsy and it felt right.
I had no ring, of course, but I pulled out the Penol 0.5 felt-tip pen I always carried and drew a ring directly on her finger. It tickled, she said, and giggled while I finished the ring with the outline of a large stone in which the letter ‘F’ was embossed.
Line accepted my proposal with the words, ‘Of course, you idiot.’
* * *
Due to our hard-pressed finances, I had to borrow money from my parents to afford the wedding Line wanted. I had never liked asking them for help, but they were surprisingly willing. No doubt they were hoping I would finally get myself a ‘proper’ job to support my wife. I didn’t care what they thought; I just wanted to give Line her dream wedding, a wedding fit for a princess, with a church, a wedding breakfast in a hotel and the whole shebang. The total cost was close to 60,000 kroner, but the result was perfection. Her family outnumbered mine by far and their cheerful presence rubbed off on the rest of the guests, so even the most vociferous opponent of the tradition had to admit they had enjoyed themselves. Bjarne clearly fell under the spelclass="underline" a few days later he plucked up the courage to propose to Anne.
So much for our attitude to the institution of marriage.
After the wedding I was convinced we would be together for ever and everyone who knew us was of the same opinion. We suited each other, they said, and we were both invited whenever her or my circle of friends held a party. I wouldn’t go as far as to say we were inseparable. We gave each other space and did many things independently of one another, but it was in the certain knowledge that at the end of the day there was always someone to come home to.
There was no jealousy between us in those days. Line’s work was much more sociable than mine; she worked in practically every theatre and came into contact with countless people. Being a dancer is a very sensual profession and viewed from the outside dancers may seem more uninhibited than most people, but I never feared she might be unfaithful to me. A couple of times I forced myself to imagine it, mainly as an exercise to inspire myself to write about that very feeling, but had to shake my head every time. The idea of Line involved in a secret affair just didn’t seem plausible. The wedding ring might have played its part. Even though I didn’t believe in the ritual, I had to admit it made a difference. We had given ourselves to each other and this declaration of trust bestowed a certain serenity on our relationship.