“Fia? You’re Fia, aren’t you?”
Slowly it dawns on me that the person I’m talking to is not Sara.
“Come on, pass the phone to Sara. Or tell her that I love her. Yes, tell her that I love her and that I want her to come home. Tell that I’m not upset and that it’s my fault and mine alone that we argued last night. Would you? Please would you tell her? I can understand if she doesn’t want to talk to me. Tell her that I understand. No, tell her that I love her more than anything in the whole world.”
The woman I’m talking to, who must be one of Sara’s friends, heaves a deep sigh. She might be about to pass the mobile to Sara or tell her what I have just said.
“Ubgofsjfuofbwjnfjsbfjn sfjfou ofbosjkfbsobegjb ojefbkjbfjbf cnjfeojfbjbfdjgfnaoe,” the woman replies—and when I fail to understand her, I ask her to say it again.
“Rkfkgjbdkfjb kekhjbg efkjekgjuuenaljefkjebgaebug.”
“WHAT?”
I’m in agony, all my muscles tense up, and for some inexplicable reason, my heart starts to pound. I don’t want to listen to her gobbledygook any more. I feel dizzy and I want to throw up. The words align inside my head and take shape.
“She has been knocked down by a car and I’m afraid that she’s dead.”
The idiot woman’s words start repeating inside my head: knocked down. Dead. Knocked down. Dead. Knocked down. Dead. And all I can think of is San Francisco, SF…
Prussic’s song “Qarasat neri10ppoq, imaaru10lerpoq vakalerpoq” from my childhood returns. I wonder why that silly song is going around my head and when I can’t come up with an explanation, I just blame it on my messed-up brain.
Right… If I ignore my madness, then I think that I’m OK. I’m not sad. I’m not happy. I feel nothing. I don’t know if I’m alive or dead. I only realize that I have arrived in Denmark when I hear young, angst Danish teens talk: “It’s fucking sick, that’s what it is. Bitch nicked my iPhone, and she can’t even be bothered to admit it! I mean, what the fuck! Stupid slag, but she won’t get away with it if that’s what she thinks! Bitch!” It is like being on a bus full of teenagers in Nuuk on a Friday night. They remind me of Nuummiuts who talk just like that when they mess with each other, mixing Greenlandic and Danish and shit, but end up sounding like a bunch of fucking morons. “Shit, whorersuaq niaqulaaruloorpaat! Kalassuaq, utaqqilaar unatagaaruluussaatit! Arnapalaaq!” The Danish teenage slang takes me back to a period I can’t bear to think about, and it pains me so much so that I can no longer control myself. As they are in front of me and are still mouthing off, I run to catch up with them. I slap the boy with the big mouth on the back of his head, snatch his baseball cap and position myself right in front of him. I fling out my arms as wide as I can, shove my face up close to his and start screaming so loudly that the sinews in my neck stand out.
“Shut the fuck up! Learn to talk properly! I’ve had it up to here with you bloody kids!”
I turn my back on them and start to walk away, but then I spin around and erupt in one last roar.
“AARGH!”
I hurl the boy’s cap at him and stumble along, away from them. What the hell? What just happened? What do I think I’m doing? When I turn around to apologize, they are already gone; they have probably fled. Fancy me being in Denmark. I don’t even remember being on the plane.
There are people everywhere. Unknown women, men, children and elderly people block my path; I lean against a building to calm myself down because I feel like I’m suffocating. Behind all the people rushing about like ants, I spot a large, flashing sign: “Welcome to New York!” I experience a sense of urgency when I realize that I’m in America, and I join the ants to get to the exit. It is evening. The atmosphere is strange. Exhaust fumes from cars fill my nostrils and almost stop me from breathing. I look at the giant, luminous skyscrapers towering against the sky. I feel dizzy; I look down and I see a long line of yellow cabs. I walk up to the one at the front and a dark, heavy-set driver gets out. New York, USA. I wonder if I brought luggage. I can’t remember if I checked in a suitcase or if I remembered to pick it up. When I see the driver put a large rucksack inside the cab, I realize that I did bring it. Well, that’s all right…
“Where to?” the driver asks me with a smile.
“Midtown,” I say to him.
I get out of the cab when we appear to reach the city centre. Even though the city is fabulous and amazing, I can’t help staring at something dreadful that has caught my attention. I drag my heavy rucksack across the wide street and towards the thing I cannot help but look at. I reach it and see a poor man with a long beard sitting by a pedestrian crossing. His hair is grey and his face swollen from a red rash. Embarrassed, he looks humbly up at me and cautiously extends his begging hand. I find him bizarre in the extreme and I squat down and look straight into his eyes. I’m struck by a stench so sour that I almost throw up. Sweaty armpits, urine, shit, bad breath, mould, rotten fish. His gaze shifts from me; he bows his head and withdraws his begging hand. I cup his cheeks in my hands to raise his head and I smile at him. He frowns at me, trying to work out if I’m making fun of him. As I don’t fancy lugging around my rucksack, which might be crammed full of clothes, and because I need to get the scent of fabric conditioner which I recognize from somewhere out of my brain, I offer it to the abandoned wretch. The homeless man is stunned and hugs the rucksack. I feel so sorry for him that I almost kiss him, but his acidic stench makes me nauseous, so instead I get up and leave. My body is lighter now that I’m no longer carrying anything. The scent of freshly laundered clothes has finally disappeared. I want to escape the bright and busy streets so I slip in between two big buildings. It is twilight and silent. I walk past two large rubbish containers, spot an illuminated sign and go inside what I presume is a bar. A couple of elderly men are drinking beer. I order a large draught beer from a vile-looking bartender and sit down, well away from them. New York. I wonder where I’ll go next. What will I do? Why am I here?
I realize that I have finished my beer. As I still can’t feel it in my blood, I get up to order another. I return to my table and find a young woman, who wasn’t there before, sitting right next to my chair. I look at her in surprise as she turns to me, but when she doesn’t react, I sit down next to her so that my body brushes hers and I start drinking my beer. We sit in silence for a long time, drinking greedily. We don’t look or talk, but she is so close to me that I can hear her breathing. I place my almost empty glass on the table. She puts down hers, she has drained it completely. We sit quietly, doing nothing, making no sounds, making no movements. Suddenly she takes my empty beer glass and drinks the remaining foam and licks clean the rim of the glass. Her behaviour is so odd that I stiffen. She smiles and grabs the cigarette packet from the table. She takes out a cigarette which she sticks in her mouth, and takes out another which she offers to me. I take it. I keep it in my mouth, but I still need a light; meanwhile my companion is smoking like a chimney. She blows smoke in my face, lights my cigarette, and we sit smoking with our faces turned away from each other. When she has finished, she stubs out her cigarette on the table and stands up. She jumps up onto the table, crouches in a monkey position and looks right into my eyes. I stare back at her. Her hair, dyed orange, is styled in plaits like Pippi Longstocking. She looks very serious, but then she bursts into a smile so wide that she shows all her teeth, and I start to laugh. Her eyes are adorable, heavily made-up, but the visible gap between her front teeth makes her smile very comical. Without knowing it, she smiles like a stand-up comedian.