Eva was already tipsy. “I’m not right for it even so,” she mumbled. “You said I was too thin.”
“Hah! You’re absolutely fantastic. A bit different, perhaps, even a little unusual. But what you’ve got between your legs, Eva, is a gold mine. A real gold mine. And that’s where they want to go. Men are straightforward like that, at least the ones who come to me are.”
Eventually the pudding arrived. A mixture of ice-cold strawberries and blackberries on a base of hot vanilla sauce. Eva pulled off the leaves. “Greenery in the dessert,” she muttered, “I don’t see the point of it. Anyway, I’ve never understood men,” she continued, “I mean, what do they want exactly?”
“Well-rounded, warm-hearted women with a zest for life. And there certainly aren’t many of those about. Women have quite impossible ideals in my opinion, I don’t understand them at all. They don’t seem to want to have a good time. I was looking at the autumn fashions just recently on TV, where the supermodels were parading the latest thing. Naomi Campbell — you’ve seen her, haven’t you — she appeared in something thigh-length and minced out on to the catwalk on the skinniest legs I’ve ever seen. The woman looks as if she’s made entirely of PVC. When I look at those kind of girls, I wonder if they ever go to the toilet and shit like normal people.”
Eva exploded with laughter and sprayed vanilla sauce over the tablecloth.
“You shouldn’t take yourself so seriously,” she went on earnestly. “We’re all going to die anyway. In a hundred years everything will be forgotten. A bit of money would help things along. You’re dreaming of becoming a great artist, aren’t you?”
“I am great,” she slurred. “It’s just that no one realizes.” She snuffled a bit, she was becoming very drunk. “And I’m thoroughly sloshed as well.”
“Good for you. The coffee and cognac will be here soon. And stop that whining, it’s time you grew up.”
“D’you believe in God?” Eva asked.
“Oh, come on.” Maja wiped vanilla sauce from her mouth. “But now and then I save people from despair and do a good deed, that’s the way I like to look at it. Not every man finds a woman. I was once visited by a young boy whose thing was decorating his body with rings and pearls. They were all over him, in every conceivable place, he sparkled and glittered like an American Christmas tree. The girls wouldn’t have any more to do with him.”
“So what did you do?”
“Gave him a really good time and charged a bit extra.”
Eva sipped the cognac and lit the wrong end of a cigarette.
“Come back with me and see the apartment,” Maja said. “Give yourself a chance to get out of the rut. It’s only an episode in your life. Look on it as a new experience.”
Eva made no answer. She seemed paralyzed by something completely unreal, something that scared her rigid. But there could be no doubt: Maja’s suggestion was in the process of taking root within her, and now it was up for assessment.
They were lying on Maja’s double bed and Eva had got a bad attack of hiccups.
“Maja,” she said, “what exactly is the Mariana Trench?”
“The deepest bit of ocean in the world. Eleven thousand meters deep. Just try imagining it, eleven thousand meters.”
“How do you know about it?”
“No idea. I probably read it somewhere. By comparison, our mucky river flowing through town here is only eight-point-eight meters deep under the bridge.”
“Goodness, the things you know.”
“What little spare time I have isn’t spent reading Cocktail, if that’s what you think.”
“It used to be.”
“That was twenty-five years ago, and you were quite keen on it, too.”
They both cackled.
“Maja, the paintings on your walls are simply ghastly. That’s what real prostitution is, let me tell you, painting just to sell. With only that in view.”
“Do we need food or don’t we?”
“A bit of food, I don’t really need all that much.”
“But electricity and telephones are useful, aren’t they?”
“Hmm.”
“I’m going to give you ten thousand kroner when you go.”
“What?” She propped herself up on her elbow, swaying with alarm.
“And you bring along a picture when you come tomorrow. A good one, which you’d price at ten thousand. I’ll buy a picture from you. I’m curious. Perhaps you’ll be famous one day, perhaps I’ll make a killing.”
“One can always hope.”
Maja smiled contentedly. “We’ll get things going for you, Eva, just you wait. When is Emma coming home?”
“I don’t know yet. She usually rings when she’s had enough.”
“In that case you might as well begin tomorrow. Only a try-out, of course. I’ll help you get going, there are a few little things you’ll need to know about. I’ll send a taxi for you, what, about six? Tomorrow evening? I’ll take care of the clothes and stuff.”
“Clothes?”
“You can’t work in what you’ve got on. I’m not being rude, but the clothes you wear aren’t the slightest bit sexy.”
“And why should I go around looking sexy?”
Maja sat up and looked at her in astonishment. “You’re not all that different from other women. I dare say you want a man, too, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Eva wearily, “I suppose I do.”
“Then you ought to stop dressing like a scarecrow.”
“You really know how to dish out the compliments.”
“Oh, I’m just jealous. You’re elegant, I’m nothing but a chubby bitch with a set of spare tires and a double chin.”
“No, you’re a well-rounded, warm-hearted woman with a zest for life. Have you any self-respect?” Eva inquired suddenly.
“About twice as much as you, I should think.”
“I only wondered.”
“I can envisage it already. The rumors about the leggy artist will run like wildfire through the town. Perhaps you’ll steal my clients from me, perhaps I’m just about to give away my entire livelihood.”
“If you’ve got almost two million, I don’t feel sorry for you.”
Eva went home in a taxi paid for by Maja. At the same time she took the opportunity to order a cab for the following evening at six. She fumbled with the key and staggered into her studio, and began scrutinizing her paintings with a critical eye. Because she was pretty drunk, they made a huge impression on her and, feeling content, she lay down on the sofa and fell asleep with her clothes on.
18
Just as she awoke, in the instant before the hangover made itself felt, she recalled her dream. She had dreamt about Maja. Only when she opened her eyes did reality return clearly, and she got up, alarmed. She found to her amazement that she’d slept in her studio, and fully dressed at that.
She tottered into the bathroom and approached the mirror with some misgiving. Her mascara was water-resistant, it hadn’t run, but her lashes stuck out from the rims of her red eyes like singed straws. The pores of her skin were large as snakebites. She groaned into the basin and turned on the cold water tap. What had they been talking about? It came back to her slowly, and her heart gradually beat faster as she dredged up more of the conversation. Maja, the Maja of her childhood, her very best friend whom she hadn’t seen for twenty-five years, was a prostitute. A rich prostitute, she thought with horror, as she vaguely recalled how they’d discussed her own prospects for getting out of financial straits. It was incredible that she’d even contemplated the possibility! She splashed cold water on her face and groaned again, opened the door of the medicine cabinet and took out a packet of paracetamol. She washed a couple of tablets down with some water and pulled off her T-shirt and underwear. Maybe I’ve got a beer in the fridge, she thought. Then it struck her that she was feeling far too fragile to work and that yet another day would pass without any progress. She showered and scrubbed herself for as long as she could bear, felt the tablets working slowly, and got into a dressing gown, black with Chinese dragons on the back. Then she went out into the living room to search her bag for a cigarette. She opened it and found herself staring down at a bundle of notes. For an instant she gawked at them in surprise, then she remembered. She counted them. Ten thousand kroner. Enough to pay off all the bills in the drawer. She shook her head in disbelief, then went into her studio and looked at her pictures again. One of them had been pulled out on to the floor, when had she done that?