Milk (2 page)

 

Crossing

 

Y
ou
know who gave the shortest speech ever recorded?

Sophus sat on a bench in the sun. The man who'd asked this question was about seventy years old, well dressed, and had sat down beside him only a few minutes earlier. He had carefully groomed white hair, a suntan, and a soft, bulbous nose that angled slightly up.

—No, Sophus said. I don't know.

—It was Mao. He stood before the entire Chinese army on one bank of the Yangtze River, with the Japanese on the other side. When you cross this river now, Mao said, you will make history. Time will prove whether you are worthy. Then he bowed deeply to his soldiers and gave his general orders to start the battle. Isn't that something?

Sophus nodded.

—Sure, he said.

—You know what, the man continued. Sometimes I like to imagine that it's me standing in front of all those soldiers. Thousands, hundreds of thousands of soldiers and every one of them facing me. Do you know what I mean?

—I guess, Sophus said.

—Once in a while, I like to imagine I'm Hitler. I've read everything there is to read about World War II, and sometimes I pretend that I handle the whole thing differently. I avoid all the mistakes Hitler made.

Sophus stared at the briefcase the man had placed under the bench. Maybe he's got a pistol in that briefcase, he thought.

—Kjaerulf, the man said, extending his hand. Peter Kjaerulf.

Then Sophus got up and left.

 

T
hat same evening, after they'd eaten dinner, Sophus asked Claudia if she'd ever fantasized about being another person.

—During puberty, she said. I wanted to be a boy.

—What about now?

—I don't know. Why?

—I met this guy in the park. He talked about being Chairman Mao and Hitler. It got me thinking.

—He sounds like a loony.

—Yeah, he was. At least in a way. But what about you? Don't you ever imagine something along those lines?

—Um.

Claudia left the room to get her cigarettes. She had a sly grin on her face when she returned.

Sophus poured them each more wine.

—Sometimes I pretend I'm being interviewed on TV.

They laughed.

—How?

—Usually it's when I'm standing in front of the mirror getting dressed. It varies, the type of program. Often it's something like
This is Your
Life
. The host asks me how I like my job or my parents, or you. Could be anything.

—And how do you answer?

—It varies.

—How?

—It depends on the question. And how I feel that day.

Claudia smiled, but there was an almost imperceptible flicker of hesitation in her eyes.

—But you're still you. You don't pretend you're someone else?

—No, I don't think so. Not as far as I can recall. Well, wait a sec. Sometimes I do imagine, actually, that I'm a famous actress or television star, something like that. They show clips from all the things I've been in. I talk about my marriages, my children. Whether it's
me
, I can't really say. But what about you? Do you ever pretend such things?

—No. Sophus shook his head.

—You're sure?

—Yeah.

—Not even when you were a teenager?

He shook his head.

—Maybe you've just forgotten.

—I don't think so.

Sophus poured more wine, and Claudia went to the bathroom. In a moment she returned and sat down.

They drank in silence.

Then she said:

—I thought of something.

—Yes?

—I don't think I've ever told anyone.

—Go on, Sophus said. He'd run out of cigarettes, so he cadged one of Claudia's.

—This is back when I lived with Jens. You know, he wasn't very big and we fit into each other's clothes. He had a really expensive suit that he wore in court.

She pulled another cigarette from her pack. It was bent, and she straightened it out between two thin fingers.

—Every now and then, on some afternoon when I was bored, or if I missed him, I put the suit on. Sometimes I also put on his shirt, socks, and shoes. Even his aftershave. Then I walked around the apartment smoking cigarettes. Maybe opened a bottle of wine, too. It was like falling in love all over again. It gave me that same tingling and restless feeling. It was really odd.

Claudia sat with her cigarette still in her hand.

—And then what? Sophus asked.

—I would fantasize that I would keep the suit on until he came home, and then push him into the bedroom and tear off his clothes. You know, swap roles. I even went so far as to imagine putting a dress on him, and sexy underwear. But it was mostly a joke, of course.

—Did you ever do it?

—Once. But it wasn't very successful. It didn't turn him on. It's probably natural. Sometimes fantasies should stay fantasies.

Claudia lit her cigarette, and they sat for a while in silence, smoking. Smoke curled around their heads.

—This is your life, Sophus said. Good story.

—It's pretty far out there, isn't it?

—I'll say!

 

A
few days later, Sophus went to get a haircut. The barber ran
his hand through Sophus's shoulder-length hair and asked what Sophus wanted done.

—I don't really know.

—A page boy?

Sophus looked at himself in the mirror.

—I could also just trim it.

Sophus stared at himself.

—You know what, he said. Cut it all off.

—Super short?

—No, shaved.

The barber tousled his hair.

—Are you sure?

Sophus nodded.

The barber shifted his weight from one leg to the other and looked at Sophus in the mirror. Then he went and got the little black trimmer with steel teeth.

In one long, calm stroke he removed a strip of hair across Sophus' head. Then he moved slightly to the left and repeated the same motion.

Sophus looked in the mirror and watched his hair fall to the floor in long, feather-like tufts. Soon one half of his head was white and shaved.

The barber shifted position and Sophus felt a light pressure against his shoulder. He closed his eyes and imagined that it was Claudia cutting his hair. He imagined that it was the pressure from her vulva that he felt.

When the barber turned off the clipper, Sophus opened his eyes to his white crown.

—Now I hope you don't regret this, the barber said.

 

 

Kramer

 

I
n
the building on the other side of the square there's an apartment where the light is always on. A bare bulb hangs in one of the rooms, and it has been on for as long as Kaspar and I have lived here. When I wake at night, or if we come home late, I glance over there to see if it is still turned on.

Why don't they turn off the light? I always wonder.

The apartment is too far away for me to see who lives there; sometimes I'm not even sure anyone lives there at all. Yet I often find myself looking over there.

One afternoon as I stood by the window, I heard a strange noise in the hallway. I stepped over the creaky board in the entryway and leaned carefully against the door. With my fingers I pushed the little cap away from the peephole. At first I couldn't see anything—it was nearly dark in the hallway—but then I noticed a crumpled figure sitting halfway down the stairwell. It was our upstairs neighbor, Mr. Kramer. He sat hunched over, with his arms crossed at the knee and his white head resting on his arms. The sound I'd heard was a low, irregular snore.

I opened the door and stepped into the hallway, and stood looking at him. I don't know how much time passed, five minutes, maybe more. Suddenly he stopped snoring and lifted his head and looked at me.

—Oh, he said. Is it you?

—Mr. Kramer, I said. Don't you think you should go to bed?

—Yes, he said.

Then his head fell forward again. Some time passed. This time he didn't snore.

—Mr. Kramer, I said.

—Yes? he said, sleepily, surprised.

—You shouldn't sleep here.

—No.

Then he rose and I could tell he wasn't really awake. He stood swaying in the middle of the stairwell.

—Grab the banister, I said.

I turned on the light and kept my finger on the switch so it wouldn't click off again. I could see a wet stain on the stairs where he'd been sitting. I could also see a big, dark spot on the seat of his pants. He squeezed the banister with both hands and started up the stairs, one step at a time.

—You okay? I said.

—Oh yes, he said. I'm okay.

I went back into my apartment and filled a bucket with soap and water.

When I returned to the stairwell, he was sitting on the top step. He sat with his head between his long legs, and he looked as though he might fall over at any moment. I set the bucket down and climbed up to him; I jostled his arm lightly.

—Yeah? he said.

—Come on.

I extended my hand and helped him get up. He put his arm around my neck, with his other arm on the banister, supporting himself.

When we'd climbed a few steps, he stopped and looked at me.

—It's awfully nice of you to do this, he said.

—It's all right, I said.

—I mean it, he said. It's really nice of you.

We continued our climb. He felt heavier with each step.

—We're almost there, I said.

He stopped again.

—Can I ask you something?

—Sure, I said.

—How old are you?

—I'm twenty five.

—Oh, he said. So young.

After we'd reached the landing, he stopped and searched his pockets. He still had his arm around me.

—Can I offer you anything?

—No thanks.

—I mean it, he said.

—You need to get some sleep.

—No, he said. I can always do that.

I pulled away from his arm.

—Another time, I said, smiling.

I went back down.

I picked up the bucket at the foot of the stairs and began cleaning up. I dried the puddle halfway up the stairs, and as I was about to clean the mess from his wet pants at the top of the stairwell, I realized that he was still standing in front of his door.

—Mr. Kramer, I said. Go to bed now.

—Oh, he said.

—Mr. Kramer, I said.

That's when I saw his hand working the crotch of his pants. At that same moment he turned, and I met his triumphant stare as he ejaculated onto the stairs. He held my gaze. His eyes suddenly seemed yellow; it was a little like seeing into a cat's eyes.

Then I rushed down the stairs.

 

F
or a long time I stood by the window in the kitchen looking toward the apartment on the other side of the square. Above me, I could hear his feet dragging across the floor. Then I heard the sound of glass or porcelain shattering, followed by a thump, and then complete silence.

I stood listening for some time. I could hear a toilet flush somewhere in the building, and through the closed window I could hear the cooing of the doves on the roof.

Maybe he's dead, I thought, and wondered whether I should go up and check on him, but I didn't.

 

W
hen Kaspar got home, I told him what had happened.

—What a pig, he said and went upstairs. I could hear his knuckles rapping against Kramer's door. Soon after, he came back down.

—He won't open the door, he said.

—Maybe we should do something? I said a little later, when we'd sat down to dinner.

—We could turn him in.

—It sounded as if he fell. Maybe he's hurt.

—He probably just dropped something.

After dinner when Kaspar turned on the TV, I went into the kitchen. I stood by the window looking over toward the apartment on the other side of the square. The sharp light tinted the trees blue and left a vague reflection on the wet square. I remained standing, watching. I let the light and the emptiness from the apartment seep into me, until I felt completely empty and free. I don't know how long I stood there, but suddenly I saw something move, a shadow, an outline of a person. Nothing more than that, but it was enough that I stepped from the window and out of sight.

 

T
he next morning, after Kaspar had gone to work, I went upstairs and knocked on the door. No one answered and I opened the mail slot to have a look inside; I could see the entrance and a corner of the kitchen.

—Mr. Kramer, I said.

Then I caught sight of him; he lay on the kitchen floor. I could see his brown shoes and a small band of his socks. I could see shards of green glass on the floor. Carefully I closed the mail slot and went back downstairs.

When I heard the ambulance, I braced myself against my door and put my eye to the little round peephole. I saw a policeman, and then two paramedics and a man in overalls, who I guessed was the locksmith. The two paramedics carried a stretcher.

In a little while they came back down with Mr. Kramer. A blanket covered his body and they took their time.

—Well, the locksmith said, you guys have probably seen it all.

—Oh yes, one of the paramedics said.

The second paramedic added something that I couldn't hear, but I heard the men laugh.

The policeman came down the stairs and stopped in front of my door. I watched his hand rise toward the door, and I heard him knock, I stood completely still and pressed my body against the door. My heart thumped so loudly that for one moment I was afraid the policeman would hear it.

He knocked two more times, waited a moment, and then he left.

 

T
hat same evening I told the story to Kaspar. He sat on the sofa, and I was standing.

He said:

—You know, he probably would have died no matter what.

—You don't know that, I said.

—He was eighty years old.

—So?

—He was a pig.

I turned and went out to the kitchen. I stood beside the window and looked across to the apartment on the other side of the square.

Later, as we lay in bed, Kaspar said:

—Every second somebody dies somewhere. Now it just happened to be someone upstairs.

—So you're saying that I didn't do anything wrong?

—Absolutely nothing wrong.

—You're sure?

—Yes, he said. Of course I'm sure.

—I hope you're right, I said.

I huddled close to him, and that's how we lay for a while. He got on top of me, and I let him spread my legs.

When he came, I saw Kramer. I saw his sperm arcing out over the stairs, and I saw his eyes.

—Is something wrong? Kaspar asked afterwards.

I shook my head.

He wouldn't understand, I thought.