“Must you do this hotel thing in Normandy?”
“Yes, there’s no point in doing anything here in this narrow-minded country.”
“Then I’m going to lose you again. Just now, when I’ve found you.”
“You could come along too, you know. France is the right place for an artist like you, isn’t it?”
“You know I can’t.”
“I know no such thing.”
“I’ve got Emma. She’s six, nearly seven. She’s at playschool now.”
“Don’t you think children can grow up in France too?”
“Of course, but she’s got a father as well.”
“But aren’t you the one with custody?”
“Yes, yes,” Eva gave a little sigh.
“You make everything so difficult,” Maja said quietly, “you’ve always done that. Of course you can come to France if you want to. You can work at the hotel. Five minutes every night, padding down the corridor in a white nightie and holding a five-branched candelabra. I want to have my own ghost. Then you could paint the rest of the day.”
Eva drained her coffee cup. For a while she’d forgotten about reality, but now it came surging back.
“Have you got any dinner plans today?”
“I never have dinner. I eat bread and cheese, I’m not that bothered about food.”
“I’ve never heard anything like it. It’s hardly surprising you’re in such poor shape. How can you ever produce anything decent if you’re not getting the nourishment you need? You need meat! We’re going to get some dinner, we’ll go to Hannah’s Kitchen.”
“But that’s the most expensive place in town.”
“Is it really? I don’t need to worry about that kind of thing, I only know they’ve got the best food.”
“I’m so full of cake.”
“By the time the food is on the table it will have gone down a bit.”
Eva surrendered and followed Maja. It was the way it had always been. Maja had all the ideas, Maja made the decisions and led the way and Eva trotted after her.
17
They left Glassmagasinet arm in arm and crossed the paved square, each feeling the other’s warmth, that it was the same warmth as it had been in the past. The door to Hannah’s Kitchen was something Eva had seen many times, but it had always been beyond her reach. Now, it was opened for them, and Maja entered with a poised smile, while Eva searched for some passably self-confident mien. The head waiter gave a smile of recognition, a courteous smile. If he was aware of the sort of business which paid Maja’s bills, he hid it well; his smile gave away nothing at all. He touched her arm very lightly and steered them across to a vacant table. Eva had to relinquish her coat in the cloakroom. Beneath it she was wearing a faded, mustard-yellow T-shirt, and it made her feel ill at ease.
“The usual, Robert,” said Maja, “for two.”
He nodded and left.
Eva sank back in her chair and looked about her wide-eyed. The restaurant had an exclusive hush that she’d never before experienced. Maja spread herself across the table, totally indifferent to her surroundings.
“Tell me a bit about what it’s like,” Eva said inquisitively, “working the way — the way you do.”
Maja cocked her head. “Ah, so you are curious. I thought you’d ask. People can never resist.”
Eva assumed a hurt expression.
“Well, it’s all pretty trivial really. I mean, it just becomes a matter of routine.”
Suddenly she was staring at the tablecloth as if she were embarrassed.
“Men’s sexual desires never cease to amaze me. How powerful they are, how very important it is to have them satiated, and how quickly they finish. Maybe they think that’s the best kind of sex there is,” she mused, “the intense, crude kind without foreplay or other refinements. No ifs or buts. It takes just ten minutes, then it’s over. There isn’t even time to think. In fact, I make strenuous efforts not to think. I just smile as prettily as I can when they pay the bill. But actually...”
“Yes?”
“I’m giving up soon. I’ve been at it a long time.”
“And the bill?”
“A thousand, give or take. Money first, goodies after. I lie still with my eyes closed and a becoming smile and I don’t give even the tiniest moan. No kissing or necking, I can’t be bothered to treat them like babies. Clothes off and condoms on. It’s like working a one-armed bandit, the money comes pouring out.”
“A thousand kroner? And how many are there each day?”
“Four or five, occasionally more. Five times a week. Four weeks a month. Well, you work it out.”
“At home in your apartment?”
“Yes.”
A waiter placed prawn cocktails and white wine on the table.
“So where do you live?”
“In the apartments in Tordenskioldsgate.”
“Don’t any of your neighbors suspect?”
“They don’t suspect, they know. Several of them are regular customers.”
Eva sighed faintly and chewed a prawn reverently. They were as large as crayfish tails.
“I’ve got an extra bedroom,” Maja said suddenly.
Eva snorted. “I can just see myself. Like some terrified twelve-year-old virgin.”
“Only for the first week, then it becomes a job. You could do a few hours while Emma was at playschool. Think of all the nice food you could bring home for her.”
“She’s way overweight.”
“Fresh fruit then, chicken and salad,” Maja said.
“I expect it sounds unbelievable, but I am tempted,” Eva admitted. “I’m just too scared. I’m not made that way.” For a mad second it irritated her. “We’ll see.”
The waiter cleared the table and returned immediately with fillet steak, baby carrots, broccoli, and Hasselback potatoes. Now he filled their glasses with red wine.
“But you’re not working tonight?”
“I’ve got a day off today, but I’ll do a bit tomorrow. Bottoms up!”
Eva felt the tender steak melt on her tongue. The red wine was at room temperature, and had little resemblance to her father’s Canepa. The first bottle was soon emptied, and Maja ordered another.
“But I can’t quite get over it,” Eva said in wonderment, “that you really sell your body.”
“It’s better than selling your soul,” she replied flatly. “Isn’t that what you artists do? If there’s one thing we ought to keep to ourselves and hide from others, it’s our souls. The body is merely a container we lug around with us, I can’t see anything so terribly venerable about it. Why not share it around and be generous if people can enjoy it? But the soul — displaying your dreams and desires, your own anxiety and despair in a gallery to all the world and his wife — and then taking money for it — that’s what I call real prostitution.”
Eva tensed, a baby carrot protruding between her lips. “It’s not quite like that.”
“Isn’t it? Isn’t it what all artists say? That you’ve got to have the courage to stand there completely naked?”
“Where exactly did you pick that up from?”
“I’m not a fool just because I’m a whore. It’s a common misconception.” She wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Another misconception is that prostitutes are unhappy women who’ve lost all self-respect, who shiver on street corners in thin stockings, and whose only reward is a drubbing from some brutal pimp, after which they spend most of the day lying there mumbling in some kind of drug-induced state. All that,” she said chewing her fillet steak, “is only a small part of the business. The prostitutes I know are hard-working, intelligent girls who know what they want. But then, I’ve got a soft spot for prostitutes. They’re the most decent bunch of women you could find.” She motioned to the waiter to fill their glasses again.