Ida Brandt (31 page)

The general’s wife rose: Mrs von Eichbaum must need some rest. There was a bouquet in the small drawing room. It was from little Brandt. Mrs von Eichbaum looked at it. It was lovely.

“But heavens above, my dear, all this courtesy,” she said, “it is just a little embarrassing.”

The general’s wife said:

“Yes, dear, but it is only quite reasonable that the girl wants to show her appreciation.”

And suddenly a new thought struck her. She said: “On her advice, I thought up some excuse to fumigate the Mouriers’ apartment with sulphur the other day…But, Mille, you need some rest.”

She held out her hand to her sister, and suddenly overcome with emotion, the sisters kissed each other with tears in their eyes.

Karl was in the office. He was thinking about the game of snap. The prize was a riding switch; and it had to be one with a gold knob. He nodded over his ledger. But he would wait until after the first, when his wages had been paid.

Ida had kept a report until the evening. When she arrived, Karl had his overcoat on and was standing beneath the lamp.

“Has your mother come?” she said.

“Yes,” said Karl. He had taken the report and put out the light.

“I’m sorry, chick, but I’m in such a hurry.”

“Do you think I should pay her a visit?” said Ida from in the darkness.

“Yes, why not?” Karl was groping his way in the dark.

“Well, I didn’t know.”

She was speaking so quietly.

“Can you find your way out?” said Karl, opening the door to the lighted corridor.

But on the handle, her hand touched his for a second, briefly, helplessly.

“Good night,” she said.

“Good night, chick.”

The gate out to the street opened, and there was the sound of bells from countless tramcars when Karl went out into the lights illuminating the throngs of people.

It could be seen that Ida had become thin when she reached the light from the lamps on her way back through the silent and almost dark courtyard.

Mrs von Eichbaum was taking a cup of tea together with the general’s wife. The lamps were lit, and they settled down to talk about things both old and new. Mrs von Eichbaum had changed the place for the picture of the Mouriers. She thought she would have it on the writing desk for the sake of the light.

“Do you know,” she said, “I sat there before dinner and looked at Kate’s picture for a really long time. She seems to me to have changed. It is as though she has acquired something more reflective in her expression.”

∞∞∞

Karl and Ida drove out towards Christianshavn. The lights out there had become few in number, and they could hear nothing but the determined trotting of the horse on the uneven cobblestones.

“This is such a dismal place,” said Ida who was quietly following the scant patches of light from lamp post to lamp post.

“And it’s cold,” said Karl. They shrunk each in their own corner.

The carriage rumbled on, and they fell silent again.

“But he’s driving as though he were going to a funeral,” said Karl.

And they sat in silence once more.

“I went to see your mother,” said Ida, from her corner.

“Oh,” murmured Karl.

“But she wasn’t at home.”

Karl chewed at his cigar and – presumably without thinking of it – he said:

“She damned well was at home.”

Ida no longer heard the horse’s hoofs. This was what she had thought and thought about ever since. She was at home; ever since she had stood there as the door closed in front of her, she had known: she was at home.

They heard the sound of some fiddles and wind instruments. “There we’ve got the whole menagerie, by Gad,” said Karl sitting up. There were crowds of people and noise and the light from gas-filled torches.

“Now we’ll have a look at what they’ve got to show us,” said Karl, stretching his legs in the gaslight and seeming to be at home.

“Two.” He handed the money to the girl at the entrance to the tent while – he had again acquired the habit of looking up under every woman’s hat – he looked up at her face.

“What are you sighing about?” he said, turning to Ida.

“Oh, I’m cold,” she said, seeming to give a start.

Karl took her by the arm at the entrance. “Oh,” he said – a lady wearing a flowered skirt was already diving through hoops and all the seats were full of people, some locals and some from Copenhagen – “The air from the stables will soon warm you up for heavens’ sake.”

“There are such a lot of people,” said Ida.

“Yes,” said Karl, shrugging his shoulders as the music blared out. “But it’s always a change.”

“It’s damned good by Gad,” he said after a few minutes, and with a nod and a single glance he scrutinised the nag, the floral-skirted woman, the seven musicians and the audience.

“It’s jolly nice here,” he repeated, rubbing his hands so vigorously that his seat creaked. (After the lone rides in cabs, he was usually overcome by a certain sense of wellbeing when he found himself among other people again).

A couple of clowns were gambolling around while the graceful lady was regaining her breath. They bounced each other on the ground and tumbled all over the place.

“They’ve got cushions on their bums,” said a gentleman behind Karl, and everyone around laughed and sniggered.

“People are out to enjoy themselves here by Gad,” said Karl, rubbing his leg and suddenly knocking his stick up on Ida’s chin (it was as though she was sitting so completely on her own).

She started; then she smiled, and for a moment, with her hand, she held the silver knob firmly against her chin.

“Yes,” she said.

A couple of musical acrobats had started to play “The Last Rose of Summer” on a
single
violin, and the audience settled and quietened down a little. Karl clamped his cigar between his teeth, rocking it up and down in time with the melancholy song.

“Well,” said Ida suddenly, in a quiet voice: “Perhaps I have been there too often.”

Karl turned to her: “Good God, are you still thinking about that?”

And, suddenly guessing her secret anxiety and thoughts, he tapped her hand cheerfully (he had in general sought to console her a lot recently):

“Mother never understands a damned thing.”

Ida held his hand tight. “Oh, my dear,” she whispered. But Karl sat up in his seat with his legs outstretched.

“Oh, there’s the baron,” he said, waving with his left hand.

The “baron”, the circus manager, led out two horses. They danced a waltz and jumped over an array of barriers; their brown skin was tense and shining as they sprang, and all faces turned towards them and followed them. Then, suddenly, a voice was heard from the back of the tent:

“Damned good, baron.”

And everyone laughed, hilariously, while the men banged their walking sticks against the chairs and a lady over on the other side laughed so much she was turning and twisting in her chair. “Just look, just look,” said Ida. But two burly men over by the side of the tent, mimicking the horses’ least movements, said:

“Wonderful.”

People started to laugh again so much that they shook their heads and laughed at each other because they were laughing at nothing.

“They do jump beautifully,” said Ida, holding her left hand to her breast and supporting her right on Karl’s knee.

Karl, who had been watching the show keenly, to the accompaniment of tiny puffs at his cigar, nodded and said reflectively:

“That’s a horse that would suit Kate.”

Ida had not understood him at first but now Karl rose: “I must just go and have a talk to the boss,” he said, and her hand dropped from his knee, down on to the chair arm.

Then she saw a lady up on a tightrope, a lady all in pink, and she again heard people laughing and saw Karl nodding to her from down by the entrance to the stalls (he never liked it when she was sitting in such a way that she could not move) and she smiled again as he approached her.

“What a wonderful lot they are there,” he said, putting his arm under hers.

Ida sat for a moment with her head against his shoulder: “It’s like at home down by the harbour,” she said in a voice that trembled a little.

“But Schreiber was damned good,” said Karl.

“Oh,” said Ida, “Olivia kept a portrait of him in her workbox.”

The impressive lady was brought back time after time. Finally she was given a flourish by the musicians, for the applause refused to die down.

“Goodnight, dear,” said the gentleman who had spoken before and gently waved the lady off the arena.

But the drums continued to beat as Ida grasped Karl by the arm.

“There’s Nurse Friis,” she said. She had grown as stiff as a corpse.

“Oh, what the hell,” and Karl turned his head rather quickly. “Yes, there she is,” he said.

But Nurse Friis, who was coming straight towards them, simply gave them a cheerful, familiar nod.

“Good evening, so you’ve come out to Amager as well?” she said and went on holding her skirt up. There was something about her carriage and gait as seen from the back that suggested she felt at home and was happy to be here. When she had reached her seat and sat down, she said to the small man with the large nose who had followed her:

“They are childhood friends.”

“Oh,” he said slowly, “then it’s criminal.”

“He’s a nasty piece,” murmured Karl as the couple passed them. He remained in his seat and stared at the tip of his cigar until he said – it was as though his hands had nevertheless shrunk further up into his sleeves – like someone who has just settled an unpleasant account:

“Well, she’ll probably keep her damned mouth shut.”

Nevertheless, he remained silent, sitting with an expression as though the cigar did not suit him.

Idea leaned forward – a gap had grown between their seats – and with a smile she whispered to him (through lips that were trembling slightly):

“Karl,” and this was the first thing she had said, “I don’t like this.”

And she started to talk, a little more eagerly and a little louder, surrounded by a buzz on all sides; the fat women from the tightrope had now entered on a horse.

“Couldn’t you sit a bit more still,” said Karl.

Ida suddenly had tears in her eyes, but she smiled at him again (she understood him so well, of course) and she whispered once more, turning her face to his:

“Karl, I simply don’t like this.”

“I don’t suppose it would be much use,” said Karl, still in the same voice. And suddenly making a move to get up, he added:

“I’m going out to see the boss, damn it.”

“Are you going again?” It came so quickly, and Ida perhaps raised her hand just an inch to stop him (and probably did not realise that it was ultimately also out of vanity).

“Oh, I can stay then,” said Karl.

“Your childhood friends are not enjoying themselves,” said Nurse Friis’ escort, who twice nodded to Ida.

There was a fanfare. “Here comes the jockey,” said Karl, sitting involuntarily up in his seat along with all the others as the rider galloped past. “He rides well.”

Ida was leaning forward and simply nodded – there was something about her reminiscent of a child stuffing its fingers into its ears when it is simply
determined
to read – and she did not take her eyes off the bare man taking a leap.

People clapped and clapped.

“He jumps well,” said Karl.

And Ida, who involuntarily went on watching the bare figure, said in a quiet voice, blushing before she had finished her sentence:

“He’s not as good-looking as you are.”

Karl suddenly looked down at her face.

“You’ re developing an eye for men by Gad,” he said.

And he laughed and suddenly stretched out his legs.

“Shall we go,” he said when the jockey had finished, and they got up. Not until they were over by the exit did they wave to Nurse Friis.

They drove again in silence. Ida had stolen Karl’s hand, though it was not particularly responsive in its glove:

“Couldn’t we go to the Dagmar today?”

“I suppose so,” said Karl, adding:

“One meets people everywhere in any case.”

And suddenly rubbing his hands, he said in a different tone, like a man who has taken a decision:

“Then we’ll
have a proper meal
by Gad.”

He said he wanted lobster. “But you’ll have to have a glass of stout along with it,” he said, and he became talkative and exuded a sense of wellbeing as though he was already sitting before the red delicacy and the salad accompanying it.

“We’ll have something to drink this evening,” said Ida.

“We’ll drink to Nurse Friis,” said Karl from his corner; and they fell silent again, each staring out of their own window.

“We’ve reached Højbro now,” said Ida.

“Oh, thank God,” said Karl, and he did not change his position until the carriage stopped and they had reached the restaurant where the waiters were running to and fro in the bright light among a large number of guests, and they were given a separate room.

“It’s the usual one,” said Ida in a strikingly bright voice, and she took off her coat.

“They are all alike, damn it all,” said Karl, already deeply engaged in perusing the menu. But when the dishes came, he woke up and threw his head back in physical wellbeing. “One needs food,” he said, and he started eating with his serviette tied around his neck. He talked about all manner of things. About Knuth: “He’s completely mad,” he said, winking at Ida: “But he’s a great chap.” And as for the admiral: he had gone off the rails again; he simply couldn’t leave women alone. And the bookkeeper: “God help me, he gets worse and worse,” he said, wrinkling his nose and continuing to eat.

But Ida, sitting watching him, said with a smile:

“You look so nice when you are eating.” And she inserted her hand under his cuff and up his sleeve.

“Yes,” said Karl with a laugh, “if I’m having a good meal. And he pressed his arm down on her hand.

Ida sat staring before her. “We’ll soon be able to eat at home now.”

“Yes,” was Karl’s only reply.

But Ida continued to talk about the flat: How lovely it was, now the carpets had come to cover both floors. Oh, the pattern was so beautiful, decorated all over simply with autumn leaves and the door curtains were in the same pattern.