A novel

Last updated: December 4: Finished editing Chapter 12 (for now); December 1: Began editing Chapter 12, another chapter that feels like a placeholder waiting to be overhauled; November 30: Merged Chapters 11, 12, and 13 into Chapter 11, much edited, and removed what was Chapter 19 (for now); November 19: Done editing Chapter 10 (for now); November 18: Done editing Chapter 9 (for now) and begun on Chapter 10; November 9: Began editing Chapter 9 and reached as far as “Awake late one night…”; November 2: Moving things around, editing, and rewriting; November 1: Edited Chapters 4 and 5; October 31: Playing around with reordering the chapters. Much editing remains before things begin to make sense; October 28: Done editing Chapter 2 (for now); October 26: Kept editing Chapter 2. I’ve reached as far as “I wonder if the circumstances were the same when Pretty Boy John’s brother came asking for help.”; October 24: Kept editing Chapter 2, written early in the process, lengthy, and still not very sharp. I’ve reached as far as “Before I knew it, we were halfway through the ceremony.” It’s funny, I remember that I was content with the chapter when I wrote it. Revising it now it reads very poorly and needs some serious revision; October 22: Edited the first part of what is now Chapter 2; October 19: Reordered the chapters; October 17: Made some changes to Chapter 26; October 16: Added some to Chapter 26; October 15: Added some to Chapter 26; September 21: Made some changes to Chapter 26; September 20: Added some to Chapter 26; September 7: Made a few changes to Chapter 26; September 5: Began a sketch of Chapter 26; August 27, 2025: Finished Chapter 25, sometimes not very edited, like the rest of the novel.

1

The space was dark and empty, like a lucid dream, and the wind was howling. All was out of reach, it seemed, and there was no use fighting over that. Yet there was, so we rode fast, to the core of the human heart. Hellhounds were guarding it and we fought them bravely to reveal in shimmering lights the working muscle. Endless, timeless, growing, shrinking, like a tree of life. So we perceived it. In awe we lifted our hands and placed them at our hearts and wished they would never stop. For then we would never die. We would live forever and there would be time. We could find solutions to common problems and still, by a beautiful sunset, perhaps, ponder origins and meanings of outstanding questions. Explanations, one could say, as to why suffering and hardship, like night and day, was an integral part of the human condition. Of course, so it was for the Gods, who graced by countless days and mystifying wit truly believed that no phenomenon existed worthy of fear. Even death, it seemed, was just another level to transcend, to combat with thought alone, though our watery eyes and shivering bodies suggested otherwise. So we tested them, in utmost bravery, against the stars from whence they came, and grounded to the Earth, by the window in our rustling hut. The space was dark and empty, the wind was howling. From above came the snow and from within, like burning spears, the thoughts of those we’d loved and lost. There we saw no shimmering light, and no hints of movement came to interrupt our weary song. Since the dawn of time, just like that, naked and torn, the keys of coping fading like clouds by the first rays of the sun.

In poetry, bent to the heavens for a trace of grace. As understood by sages through the ages. The right questions asked but vague answers received. So said the naturalists, that only the most fortunate could perceive the otherworldly signals. At unheard-of frequencies, from extra-spatial dimensions bent to the Earth by near-infinite gravity, said the scientists. Confusion brought perplexities that led to fallacies in interpretation and too slow progress ensued. Through the generations, a secret and contradictory knowledge pertaining to the unrighteous imprisonment of humankind to body and mind.

My friend died in 2000 when we were thirteen. Coming back from Copenhagen two days after New Year the car hit a tree, twenty minutes from home. He was survived by his father, mother, and younger brother who had his spleen ruptured. My father, the entrepreneur, collected funds to start a memorial fund, awarded to an ’especially good friend’ and to be handed out in the church of Önnestad at the start of each summer vacation. I wonder if that fund is still active.

Yesterday I visited the grave for the first time in many years, together with my brother. The wind was howling, flattening the fields, straining the flowers and plants left by the living in remembrance of the dead. In the distance the neighbour village and the house we grew up in. On the gravestone I read my friend’s name and the years of his birth and death. Unexpectedly, tears flooded my eyes and my brother turned to me. So young, I said. Three days into the new millennium. We left holding each other. As I recall it was my brother who first put his arm around me. When exiting the churchyard I held the gate but he hesitated, thinker as he is. As if we too were leaving this life, or would be soon, perhaps just one of us. I debated the matter but the signs were not clear. In any case, I would go first, I was the oldest after all. Then again, we would grow old together, that we had promised. We would buy the house back, it was right there in the distance. When we got back to the car I’d forgotten what I was thinking about.

On that same day of passing and farewells we had been to my friend’s mother’s funeral. Our father came as well, she was his friend. They got divorced around the same time and often bumped into each other at the local bars. Cancer of the stomach got her. The battle lasted for years. I never knew of it, the last time I met her she appeared healthy. In the end she isolated herself and turned all visitors around. Red from crying were the eyes of my friend for now his mother was dead. He and his brother left to fight for themselves, in the middle of this confusing life, the alcoholic father in prison for threatening behaviour towards his former girlfriend. We knew each other well, we had this special sense of humour having formed our personas since our teenage years. When entering the church we could not help joking about this or that, in stark contrast to the mellow mood consistent with it being his mother’s funeral. I think it was needed, it eased him up. Afterwards at the reception we talked a bit and promised to keep in touch. We would become better at finding days when we could meet. We would not let the years pass by any more than they already had. In fact, after leaving once I returned to say farewell a second time. So much was contained in this friendship which was suddenly reanimated like a mirror to the past.

It was blowing greatly still when me and my brother in the early afternoon arrived at the forest hut, our father having gotten there already. Waves on the grey lake in turmoil, just like life on that windy day. In turmoil, years gone by coming around and around. Tossed up and thrown about by what are essentially irregularities in air pressure. Life’s pressure on its head, bumping up and down, never to land softly again. Never again waking up to reach out for the arms and legs, in comfort finding every piece where it should be. Lightly on the thoughts now, ready to fly gently over the countryside with the fields and small hills and roads lined with autumn trees. The leaves falling and tumbling slowly, not in a vacuum but in crisp air.

Fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, friends and friends of friends. There must have been times when we were together. It must have been so that commotion at the hill stirred us at first but when it got closer we saw it was just one of the uncles coming back from the market. With wine, salt, computers, and cars. This must be before we settled on what everything was and where it should go. About the time of the written word and its preservation. Before this the wilderness, for sure, the trees, the running back and forth. Tools, items, and possessions, everything we collected through the ages with our name on it.

There came a time when we owned the stars too, until it was discovered that we can go back, which we did, which is how the world came to be, and be again. The moment we stopped time was when we returned, and that was when the sight on the hill stirred us. Spacetime expansion, uncles at the horizon. Drenched in wine in a pile of records. In a cave painting elk and deer with amusing faces. There they stood, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, all of the uncles, very disappointed.

Life was not wasted in a Spitfire at 25,000 feet once you knew how to fly it properly. Save your soul if they jumped you at 14,000 before the supercharger kicked in, like shooting rats in a barrel. We turned and turned, Keith McAllister, the boys, and I, after the 109, until it tried to dive and we caught it blazing, smoking, burning all the way into the Channel. We were in the trenches too, with Keith and Terry, we survived and became our own fathers…

As pilots go, few were finer than Terry ‘Terrible’ Johnson. Born in Earlsdon, Coventry, top of his class in the chemical sciences at Leeds, joined the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve at the outbreak of war aged twenty, which made him one of the oldest in the squadron. As fine as they come, as deadly in a turn as in a dive, aggressive, good at shooting, more than perfect eye-sight, and could differentiate between dots and spots, birds and bombers. Short and stout limping ahead, with a wide moustache, but Terry always had your back. Terrible Terry Johnson. We saw it at balls and celebrations, in the presence of women. A stuttering so bad he couldn’t be understood.

On leave with Keith visiting the blacked-out London an air-raid sent them to the bunkers in the Metro where they found themselves next to two beautiful women. Deprived of such matters of the heart, like all young people in wartime, both sides of the puzzle steered towards the inevitable. A kiss to remember, a photograph in the cockpit. Four hearts in a tangle of words and vivid conversation disturbed by the bombs blasting the buildings and streets above. What’s your name then? asked Fanny. Terry began, started over, tried again. The damn thing wouldn’t fly! Then a 2-tonne bomb exploded and shook the walls of the underground and the beating hearts violently. Terrible, said Terry, propelled by the blast. Yes, what a terrible bomb, laughed Fanny. Or is that your name? Mr. Terrible? She was teasing him. Terry began to formulate an answer. You see, saved Keith the situation, for our Terry here speaking is like taking off in the Spitfire. It’s near impossible before you’ve got the speed up! Terry here, once in the air, is the best, at loving and kissing, at love, if you know what I mean. For a brief moment they looked into each other’s eyes. But Oh, never stare into the eyes of a fighter pilot, what such eyes haven’t seen! Let be the burning body stalling through the clouds, let be the bullets flying and piercing the canvas, shredding the rudder. Let be the lost generation sunk into the ocean floor, none older than twenty-five. Never hurt my Terry, Fanny thought violently and fought the tears. Another bomb shook the station. The next thing Keith saw was Fanny coming over to Terry. She whispered something and then kissed him on the mouth. Then they embraced for a long time. What’s your story, then? Keith asked Heather. When the bombing stopped they lost each other going up the crowded stairs. Fanny went looking for Terry.

Keith went cloud-chasing in India. It was around the time he lived at Mr. Ratput’s mansion in the bushes a few hours south of Hyderabad. Mr. Ratput tricked him into it. See that cloud over there, Mr. Keith, he said and pointed. Keith could see many clouds but Mr. Ratput came close and pointed at the one he meant. I bet that cloud looks like the face of a princess if you stand right under it. Keith in his mind, intoxicated from all kinds of herbs and beverages, did not do much to criticise the Indian’s proposal. As if setting sail, with a light push against Mr. Ratput he went off towards the magical cloud the distance to which it was difficult to discern. He went through villages, and the people ran after, past lilac orchards, stopping only at wells and small temples to drink water donated by excited wardens and villagers. Amazed everyone was, so it seemed to Keith, by the sudden appearance of a white but heavily sunburned man in just a robe and a belt, no sandals on the feet, and in such a hurry as to not even wave back. Some people followed for long distances. Keith wanted to talk to them, such was he, but the prolonged running through hills and countryside made him short of breath. The Indians, on the other hand, not being nearly as exhausted, chatted along freely and asked many questions to which Keith couldn’t reply properly. The situation did not frustrate the young man, for all he could see was the white cloud foretold to contain the princess face. Amazingly, that particular cloud remained in the same spot on the horizon well into the afternoon and only dispersed by the last rays of the sun. By that time Keith had long ago collapsed by a well in a village square where he was quickly surrounded by men, women, and children who tirelessly began tending to the exhausted body and bleeding feet. It was late in the afternoon the following day when Mr. Ratput finally found him, having looked through every village within an hour’s drive in the automobile. On the way back to the mansion neither of them talked about what had occurred. Mr. Ratput probably for being too amused by the success of his practical joke. Keith for only recalling vaguely that somehow he’d met his future wife, and that she was a princess in a castle in the sky.

2

Mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, abandoned siblings and forgotten family pets! Much weight was placed on the shoulders of the Earth’s inhabitants. Slowly at first, or so we hoped, for they know that we are new in the World. Then exponentially until life was lived and backs broken. We must be honest to each other and ourselves, and we must talk about what’s difficult and not only of that which is pleasant or odd. Indeed, we must discuss the three mothers and their tribulations. Two of them died from cancer of the stomach, one in months, the other in years. The third was still going strong last I saw her.

Far too strong, one could argue, like a witch she was, Pretty Boy John’s mother, with the prying black eyes and the lightning mind. Lost the husband to a stroke and then one of the boys died from suicide. The weary one, The Bear, I knew him a bit, he liked maths too, I heard about his death from friends of friends. Enough to break even her iron heart, I imagined. And now, greeting me at Gay John’s mother’s funeral with no restraint but a twinkle in the eye, calling me the troublemaker. Who? I said. Me? I was back like I’d never left. The witch of Önnestad arresting me, tying my tongue with benevolent curses. Æhnestat in old norse. Town in nowhere.

Indeed, we were The Troublemakers and I was the leader, or at least the driving force behind the shenanigans. The Troublemakers were one of the most notorious street gangs in Önnestad at the time. We knew nothing of our past and nothing of our class and place in the scheme of things. The church records had been deleted many times, by the Swedes, the Danes. Books had been burned and confiscated. We floated in space, dark and void of meaning, but there they were, our ancestors, the simple peasant boys, the ghosts and the ghouls. In the passageway behind the churchyard where the light flickered so strangely. Misbehaving like us, roaming the old dirt roads like us, fighting the Swedes, the Christians, protesting against the distant gentry and established order like us.

We hid in the bushes to throw pebbles and rocks at cars passing by. We collected shit in paper bags and set them on fire by the door and ran. We came back to ring the doorbell and throw dirt on the windows. Elderly couples enjoying their Friday night, village alcoholics on a binge, angry men setting out on their bikes to put and end to it all. Destruction was our lot, and that of the village in nowhere.

What have you been up to, boys? asked my father.

Nothing, Mr. Olsson, said one of the Johns, politely.

Pretty Boy John had his mother’s dark eyes a fair face and was popular with the girls, or so he said and we believed. The other John was Gay John but he was not gay. Then there was Danny D with the A-D-H-D. The nickname made him crazy. He grew up in a foster family because his biological parents were heroin addicts. Danny D was the daredevil that could be made to take a dump in the streetlight and collect the shit in the bag himself. Danny ended up serving short prison terms for violence in bars.

I was dickie, like the skateboard brand, but also because I had tight foreskin and was half-circumcised when I was four. They thought that was funny. I wasn’t little dickie, but none of us could compare with Pretty Boy John whose dick was longer than his forearm.

The Troublemakers dissolved when my family moved to Kristianstad, but my parents were not happy in the new house, which was actually my grandmother’s house where my mother grew up. They got a divorce and my mother moved to an apartment complex down the street. My brother and sister went with her while I stayed with my father to not leave his side. All is lost, he cried, bottle in hand. My father was not a drinker but that’s all he had, his own father withering away from vascular dementia at a nursing home. The challenge of a lifetime.

Yes, life taught me early that adults are kids themselves. When the adults get divorced the children are left to their own. My brother stopped going to school and they sent out counsellors and psychologists that treated him with benzodiazepines. He began cutting himself on the forearms when we were sleeping, but I sat outside, and hurried home to see whether he had been in school or not. My sister was nine and refused to go to school too. We slipped into the abyss. The rug was swept away as I set out to explore the world, parties, and girls.

Like lovers, friends fall out too. People change, friends grow apart, even if they hang out every day. Pretty Boy John and Danny D saw the downfall and I was projecting my anger on them. That’s why we were fighting.

We had a falling out. In the city centre, John and Danny were waiting for the late bus back to Önnestad. Some irritation had preceded the exchange but I can’t remember what triggered it.

At least I’m not Little Dickie, said John.

At least my father is not retarded! I replied.

John’s father had recently suffered from the first of several strokes to come.

Let’s go, Danny, he said and turned towards the bus that had just arrived.

Let’s go, I said to my brother.

Back to the house of horror.

But that’s not how I saw it at the time. My father taught me to fight on and never give up, so that’s what I did. And so it was that me and Pretty Boy John went our separate ways, lived our lives, had children of our own, and turned almost forty before we stood face to face again and could talk about what had happened.

The sun shone high above the chalk-white church constructed in ancient Viking times and the melting snow was glittering like piles of diamonds by the collapsed and worn headstones. Crows and magpies, stirring on the ground, resting in the trees, watched curiously as the attendants came in, wearing, just like them, garments in black and white.

It was Gay John’s mother’s funeral. The process had been short, less than a year from diagnosis to death. Even though I asked repeatedly, John was reluctant to share the details. His mother’s heart had been warm and compassionate, but John himself was often blunt and disconnected.

John’s mother had been the proud owner of the oldest house in Önnestad. It was a modest, white cottage from the end of the 17th century with a low ceiling and a large, unkempt garden. At a time of confusion in his life, John had set out to build a sailing boat that instead became a flowerpot in which his mother grew potatoes and rose bushes. From the veranda she could see what once must’ve been the village crossroads. On one of the corners stood a grand villa, 200 years younger than her cottage, but in a neglected state. One of my early girlfriends used to live there with her three sisters and her father who was always working. Her mother had died of cancer too, but let’s not dig into that now.

The bells were ringing and I hurried down the hallway, realising soon that the dress code was not casual. Here I came, running inside the church, in my flying gear, jeans, boots and leather jacket. I removed the cap and felt the cold against my skin and I folded the jacket over my arm in an attempt to appear acceptable. I slowed the pace to a dignified walk. Not that John’s mother would’ve cared, as I had known her, and the only people I was expecting to know were the Johns and the wicked mother.

Here he comes, the troublemaker
Did you know that he’s a doctor now?
The crazy kind of doctor.

Emerging from the murmur, thoughts can strike quickly and moods change abruptly. Something of a panic attack was looming. The church was full and loud, people sat on every bench, talking, talking, and there was no place for me. I was handed a white pamphlet with a picture of John’s mother on it and was happy to see her face. And there, in the back, an empty bench where I sat down and folded my jacket beside me. Finally, a sense of calm, but then I realised that I had forgotten to bring flowers.

Scrolling through the pamphlet I couldn’t help to notice the professional design. That’s John’s doing, I thought, and imagined him spending some time selecting his mother’s favourite songs, choosing the font and the pictures and so on, until on the last page I saw a logo and contact information for the funeral home. That too was typical John, I thought. He might as well have designed the pamphlet as letting the funeral home do it. An enigma, he was. Then I spent some time observing the paintings on the walls and in the ceiling. Simple scenes of Biblical events, simple faces in single strokes, pale colours, blue, red and brown. Worn and watered by hundreds of eyes and years. I tried to remember whether I had been fascinated by the drawings as a child but concluded that no specific impression had been made. Then I imagined how I would go about planning my parents’ funeral service. My father would’ve liked Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here. My mother, I’m not sure. Perhaps something by Evert Taube. In the unlikely event that they would be buried together, I would speak before the crowd. My father grew up working class and was the first to attend university. He was an entrepreneur in everything he did, and a loving father. My mother was an intelligent and sensitive woman and her father was a sailor that played the accordion…

A single tear rolled down my cheek when the organ began to play to signal the start of the ceremony. Turning my head backwards and upwards towards the sound something caught my attention. Sure enough, there they were. Pretty Boy John and his mother, him in a dark blue suit and her in a black dress and a hat with a veil. I realised immediately that I was not afraid to meet either of them, regardless of how much I had obsessed about it when driving here from Copenhagen. No winds or rattles could stir me. No bitter conversation or unfounded remark could stall me. I realised too, now that I saw her again, that John’s mother was no witch at all but a gentle woman in church mourning the death of her acquaintance. As the priest began to speak I did not listen but thought instead about whether the two mothers had known each other well or only vaguely through the friendship between their sons.

Halfway through, Gay John’s aunt spoke vividly about the farm they grew up on, five sisters and a brother. Tears in eyes but voice firm she recalled their last days together, some weeks before her death, planting an apple tree and sitting on the veranda as the sun went down. The dog barking at all the birds flying over. Thinking, both of them, whether she would live to get to eat the apples from the tree.

After some psalms the ceremony was over. Gay John did not speak and I would’ve done the same. Hundreds of people leaving the church like a lazy snake. When I came out the sun was gone and had left instead the beginning of a storm and a carpet of grey clouds. Gay John remained at the entrance thanking people for coming and taking condolences. I went up and said sorry but he had no time to talk. Then the priest came out and we began walking around the corner to the back of the church where the new section of the graveyard was located.

Before me I saw Pretty Boy John and his mother. I found courage, increased the pace to skip past on the grass, and found myself walking next to them. This was the meeting that I but not John and his mother had prepared for.

Hello there! I said. John turned around, looking surprised at first but then disappointed. Oh, you. Why, hello there. The hollow, singing voice, I remembered it now, all the brothers sounded the same. I extended my arms and we embraced quickly, still walking. Mother, look who’s here.

And there she was, the witch. She hadn’t aged at all even though she was at least seventy. The skin quite dark, the black eyes beaming behind the veil and the crooked teeth revealed as she spoke in slow-motion.

Well if it isn’t you, the troublemaker! The troublemaker!

Surely, you are referring to John, I stuttered.

But she did not hear me and said something of her own that I did not hear. John cut us off.

Mother, you can talk later.

He took her by the arm and they walked ahead, ending at the other side of the small circle that formed around the priest, Gay John, and a balding man that I did not recognise, next to the grave. The priest spoke but the wind was blowing greatly. Then the ashes were returned to the soil from whence they came. I saw John cry what I had never done before. The balding man began to sing, he was a professional opera singer.

We sang for Gay John’s mother, and the church and the crows and the magpies watched us, and the wind sang too, increasing in strength, carrying our voices, tossing around with the snow and the leaves. And for a moment, the sun came back through an opening in the clouds.

Pretty Boy John’s mother was a veteran of the church choir. Her sharp teeth were showing and she was watching me, I jokingly said to myself, with the blackest of demon eyes.

I wonder if the circumstances were the same when Pretty Boy John’s brother came asking for help. The circumstances: the doctor is not a psychiatrist but temporarily in psychiatry as part of specialising in family medicine or neurology; the doctor is in charge of not only the emergency ward but of the whole psychiatric hospital and is constantly interrupted by alarms and calls; it’s the middle of the night and there are eight patients waiting; the police is on the way with a manic old man; the doctor is tired, exhausted even; the doctor’s propensity to show empathy towards his fellow human beings has long been deteriorating.

Pretty Boy John’s brother had been known as Paul all his life but for his thirtieth birthday was gifted a name change and chose the name Bear. He soon became The Bear. He was sharp and witty like his mother and possessed the same deadly charm as his younger brother, who was a Don Juan if there ever was one. An anecdote has it that the brothers fought over a girlfriend (the Bear’s girlfriend at the time) and that John won her heart only to break it shortly thereafter.

The Bear was restless and too large for this world. He escaped Önnestad, he moved from Kristianstad, but even Malmö and Lund, with its renowned university, was boring and swept in eternal winter. He wanted it all, in a hot bite, all of the world and its shiny gifts. He dropped out and joined the hip hop and gangster milieu in the Stockholm suburbs. He smoked hash and hung out with a famous rap crew.

Maybe this was when he had his first manic episode? Maybe cannabis provoked the psychosis? Maybe he had stayed healthy if he hadn’t touched that joint? Maybe he never should’ve left Önnestad? To stay with his demanding mother and ailing father. I don’t know the details, only that he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and died by suicide.

Indeed, I only saw a glimpse of him when I visited John and stayed for dinner. Then he joined the Johns for a party at my house, shortly after we had moved to Kristianstad. I found him arrogant, like his brothers, but I was not easy to be around, either, as I’ve explained. I was drunk and I tried to talk about mathematics, knowing that he was at university. Maths was his baby, his love, and who was I to express amazement about derivatives and integrals and Gödel’s incompleteness theorem? Somehow I convinced him to let me borrow a book that he was carrying in his backpack. To a party? A introductory book on linear algebra.

The last time I saw The Bear was at a party in his small and chaotic student flat in Lund. Everyone was drunk and stoned and some, including The Bear, were on other stuff too. He recognised me and asked me to return the book. I promised that I would but I never did. It’s still here in my bookshelf. My own personal memory. I remember the way he talked, fast and furious, and his light brown eyes like muddy water that bounced off the walls and kept evading contact.

Some nights ago, at 4 in the morning, I admitted to the psychiatric emergency ward a young woman with autism, ADHD, and anorexia nervosa. She had been gang-raped two weeks ago, the second time in her life, was injecting herself with crystal meth again to cope, and had stopped eating for a week. She was 19 years old and had tried to kill herself more than twenty times. She slept the night in the ward but was discharged the day after. “If the primary problem is substance abuse, the patient should be referred to the relevant resource. Suicidal thoughts secondary to drug abuse are not a psychiatric problem. The patient shall come back when she has been drug-free for at least three months.” I did not argue with my colleague. That’s just another day in psychiatry. As a human void of superpowers, I can only do so much. That same night I rejected a young man with schizophrenia. He had written a farewell letter and was planning to hang himself. The man had not slept for three days. I sent him home with sleeping pills. He had an appointment at the outpatient clinic some days later. Last time I looked he was still alive and doing better. Some medicine adjustments and then things were fine again. Until they weren’t.

Into this wicked world of referrals, admissions, and worn plastic benches in sterile wards was cast the mother. She waited for hours with the psychotic son by her side. She spoke for him, remembered his appointments, handled his medication, held him down when he tried to escape into the night. She drove home, again and again, and with and without him, assured that, finally, he would receive the proper treatment, so hard to come by. She sat with the morning coffee making conversation with the fading husband when the door bell rang and there he stood, the son coming home again. They let me out, I’m not so bad after all. You’ve never been bad, Bear, but there’s no plan? Of course there’s a plan, mother. I’ll see the nurse in a month’s time. Can you drive me to the station? Where are you going? Berlin, where things are happening. I can’t hang around here, can I? You are always welcome to stay here with us. Then the father called from the living room. Let me get my coat, I’ll drive you. Train or plane? Oh, I’ve bought tickets for both, in case I should be late, see? But she can’t stop him, his life must go on. He won’t show up for the appointment, he won’t take the medication. Last time it was Stockholm, this time it’s Berlin. Year after year, while the other children are doing fine, starting families, finding jobs. There was lithium and olanzapine and he completed two semesters at the university. Now he’s ill again, standing in the doorway with a knife and a rope in the backpack. In case one way fails, see? Just go! I can’t take it anymore! But I don’t think she ever gave up.

When Gay John, the priest, and the opera singer, and everyone else had stopped singing, and the urn had been lowered into the grave, only the wind broke the silence as the lazy snake re-assembled itself and began to move. I wanted to wait for Pretty Boy John so that we could walk and talk to the parish hall together, but the sight of the crowd coming towards had me turn around instead. I wasn’t able to stop until we reached the corner of the church, where I let him catch up. Let’s go, he said, without ever looking at me, as if all he had in mind was the buffet, and the coffee, and the cake. She’ll catch up with us later. I looked over his should to see his mother engaged in vivid conversation.

A lot of failed conversation played out as we walked the couple of hundred metres to the parish hall. John walked faster, always a step ahead, as if he wanted to get rid of me. That behaviour had irritated me back then, and it certainly did so now. Wow, I said, it sure feels strange to be back here. John probably couldn’t relate. He hadn’t left Önnestad like me, his mother still lived here. I heard you live in Denmark? I understood from the tone that he couldn’t care less. But we were adults now, I wasn’t going to play teenage games. I replied merrily and matter-of-factly that, yes, I live across the strait, a bit outside of Copenhagen, and I have a daughter. To show him that I was relaxed and not intimidated by whatever games he was playing, I added with a little laugh that my accent’s a bit off, as he can hear, but then again, Skåne used to belong to the Danes. I could not tell from the view of his shoulder whether the curiosity had landed well or not. I no longer cared about making a good impression.

Having walked at a great pace ahead of the crowd, we were the first to reach the parish hall. John held the door and I entered. What struck me first was the smell of old wood, mould, and fresh coffee. The anterior room was a large cloak room. In front of us was the dining hall where where servants were preparing the large buffet. John walked towards a door on the left that I had not seen and I followed as he opened it. A plain room clearly out of service, chairs and tables stacked on top of each other. I haven’t been here in years, he said with some weight. Me neither, I said. In fact, I haven’t been here at all. Now he smiled for the first time. Oh, that’s right, you’re one of the heathens. Most kids in the village were confirmed but I refused, as I said at the time, to indulge in religious indoctrination. As we stood looking at the anonymous room, John told me that he had many crazy memories from this room. Many unbelievable things happened her. What, I wanted to ask, did you have sex with lots of girls in here? I couldn’t think of anything else that would be crazy to Pretty Boy John. Oh, you mean like wild parties? John nodded and somehow confirmed my thought. Yes, very wild parties. Shall we have a seat? But surely, I wanted to know, you weren’t allowed to drink alcohol here? But John was already in the dining hall. I found the man immensely annoying.

John was expecting the troubled teenager but got something he could not figure out. I was about to show him that his old tricks were no longer working. When we sat down face to face at the empty table I decided to conquer him. He kept avoiding eye contact, but come on, John, we’re having a conversation.

Look at me! I’m interested in you. I’m friendly. I have no agenda.

How have you been, John? Gay John told me that you have children.

Yes, I have three sons.

The straightforward question removed his mask and he had to answer. Yet, he talked but briefly, and sought constantly to return to the state of irony where he felt safe. That’s his shield, I thought, and I must keep it down.

He also said that you have a model railroad in the basement? That’s where you’re spending the weekends. Because you never go out.

John laughed, genuinely now.

I’m keeping an eye on you, you know. Little birds tell me every move you make!

Maybe John had heard things about me too, that I had been crazy, for example, that I had had a mental breakdown some years back. All he needed was a display of sanity and naturalness in conversation.

Hey, I heard some of your music some time ago, he said.

Really? What song? Where did you hear it?

I can’t remember. Gay John played it to me.

I heard you work in logistics, what’s that about?

John had to think before he answered.

Are you thinking? Whether you work in logistics or not?

He laughed.

Yes, I’m thinking about how to explain it.

At this point I felt a warm hand on my shoulder and turned around to see the witch standing there, the veil up now, the black eyes beaming with excitement.

Mother, you must sit here at the end of the table, said John and got up to fetch a chair.

While me and John were conversing the many tables had filled up and the sound level in the hall had increased. John seemed properly relaxed now that his mother was here. He took a snuff from his pocket and leaned back in the chair, and looked with hungry eyes on the buffet and the queues forming on both sides of it. It was obvious that he had no intent on continuing our conversation. His mother, however, was more than delighted to see me.

That old house you used to live in, by the railroad tracks, did it have a name?

As his mother struck up conversation, Pretty Boy John ate with great appetite. Of the soda cans placed at the ends of each table he had two. He was a big man, after all, not tall, but sturdy and more muscular than I remembered. Gay John sat at the table in the middle together with his girlfriend and some people I did not recognise. His face was neutral as always and his eyes were not red from crying. The mood in the hall was light and talkative, a natural reaction after the life and death of the funeral ceremony.

Some months before she died, Pretty Boy John’s mother continued and pointed in the direction of Gay John, we talked about that for a while, whether that beautiful villa had a name like some of the other houses along the railroad tracks.

She had a direct way with people, she used to be an elementary school teacher. She expected people to listen when she spoke.

I don’t know, I said as emphatically as I could. I can’t remember.

She could not help herself, she had to look away. The air of disappointment that I remembered so well. As if I had forgotten on purpose, or was refusing to say.

It used to be a doctor’s practice, I said to give her something. There was a separate entrance with a waiting room…

Yes, yes, we know that!

She looked at John, who was cutting a piece of meat and not listening.

So tell me, what are you up to these days? You’re living in Denmark, correct?

Yes, ma’am

Yes, I live in Denmark. I have a daughter. I’m a doctor.

She seemed delighted to hear that, but I knew that the answer to her next question would offset her. There was no easy way of saying, no prelude that could soften the blow.

What kind of doctor are you?

I work in psychiatry.

Her eyes grew big and she moved closer, she sucked me in with all of her being. All of her pain. All of Bear’s suffering, all their struggles.

You do that?

Yes, ma’am

Just for a second. In those fiery eyes. I took in and I took in, I saw and I understood. I took her by the hand and I healed her wounds. I made everything right again. We travelled back to the time when The Bear was still alive. They sat under an old oak tree and talked until the sun went down. Then it was dark and he was gone, for real this time, and she got up, devastated no longer, to wait for the sunset.

You know, she said, he had the same psychiatrist for many years. He was in and out of the ward but then he found this psychiatrist, an elderly man, retired. They became friends, they went to football games together, they had a beer at the pub. He could call him any time of the day. And I don’t know… I don’t know how good that was for him. The patient-doctor relationship, you know.

But she had been over that a million times.

Oh, to hell with it! John, go fetch some more bread for your mother, will you!

John got up, surprised at the shift in tone.

Gay John thanked me for coming. We’ll talk more next time. He was planning a dinner party and Pretty Boy John and his wife were invited as well. Then I hit the highway. A childhood is a childhood and that’s written in stone and can’t be undone.

I stopped in Malmö to visit Greg, my 67 year old, gay, bald, best friend who grows his own pot. When Greg grew up it was mandatory to go to church on Sundays. I have not yet read it, but Greg knows all of the New Testament by heart. As he passed me the joint he told me how it happened when Jesus made wine from water. Greg spoke as if Jesus was someone he knew personally, just some kid from his childhood. This was before he began performing miracles. I hadn’t smoked in a long time. We sat on the balcony and the seagulls flew close, screaming as they always do when one wants peace and quiet.

What is this? Who the fuck am I?

Every man serves the good wine first, and when the people have drunk freely, then the inferior wine; but you have kept the good wine until now.

I couldn’t believe that I had been out there in the world talking to people.

3

The solitary walker, eternally through orchards in bloom, said goodbye to the mother without meeting the eye. Loves with the one hand, leaves with the other, gives nothing in return and expects no one to bother. Through a village which fire has swept, a metropolis of citizens in debt. The solitary walker, forever outside, by the window as candles are set. Speaks there with muffled sounds, speaks of wisdom in heavenly meetings found. Returned, barely, from a tedious trek, from the silent forest by the silver moon, from the stormy beach where lonely ghosts howl, from the frozen plains of sparkling diamonds. Crystallised, say, to Commandments Ten, perpetuated in disguise with a feather pen. To ring more true than human filth, to describe more elegantly the suffering to touch. Eternal, eternal, we knew it from the start, that some walk alone while others seek a part.

If you could see what I am, Beloved, I’m crying, if I could show you, the scars and the horns, and where I’ve been, on Earth and off, the dreamscapes, the escapades, the dark alleys, the sleepless nights. You would hold me holy, you and the world, and never let it go, the creature I became. No less real than Fanny and Terry, equally opaque, harder than our walls, thicker than our skin, enduring like microplastics in the depths of oceans and in the shallows of cemetery soil. Always sinking, kicking downwards, but always sinking, to the bottom of the world, Oh you’ll find me there, Beloved, extending it like a rose to a lover, to you, the key to peace. Peace in the world and in our hearts and in our minds. In ours, Beloved! Peace derived from beauty, from understanding, from the letting go of past follies and behaviour. It materialised when it struck me, Blue thunder… the task I was handed, or rather, Lightning that is frightening… the vision of forests and lakes, endless and thriving, that somehow marked its completion. The truth of this revelation, beamed to my brain from above, or below, or in any other way, in the autumn of 2009, struck me with a power that made me cry. I knew instantly that I was challenged by supernatural forces, and I said, Yes, I will do it, and Yes, I am strong enough. But the answer I received was weak and designed to foster doubt.

Beloved, with that experience in mind I set forth and considered my next move, or more precisely, I threw myself at the fangs of the great monster that’s the world in the twenty-first century. I was not afraid, I imagined, because they had my back, and I stirred and it moved, stirred and it moved, the world, and rather than ignored, my actions were recognised, expected even, as if my arrival on the stage was foreseen and predicted, by sages through the ages.

Boom, clang, clash, rumble, fighting, fighting righteously. Chew and spit me out! You can’t destroy God! My arrival a beacon of hope. Foe turned to friend, hate transmuted to love, greed replaced with generosity, despair exchanged for hope. It was easy enough and soon I sat back and said, Yes, it’s fine and the work’s done already and now let us celebrate before we get much older. There, Beloved, there. I am happy that you never saw me there. Twenty and a bit, lost and delusional, a solider in a war so abstract that it did not exist, clinging to ever-evolving figments of imagination We had expected someone stronger… and never letting go of the mess. White vans with antennas parked outside, strangers talking American knowingly in restaurants, He looked the shooter in the eye… dates with innocent girls at university and barely surviving getting home. You would not have loved me then, Beloved, and yet you do, unwittingly, because still the Hellhounds roam free.

Still they wait on my side of the bed and leave before you turn. Still they dissolve with a wink so sly at the first light of day and pant at the sight of your embrace. Still they linger in dust before barking a farewell, menacing, like dogs can’t sing, about a struggle that never happened and a world that remains hopeless and forlorn.

Interests, Beloved, interests, you’re wise and educated with your degree in transcultural studies. The world’s governed by conflicting interests and on that busy hill I appeared one morning Today it is 70 years since the start of WW2… with nothing but a rusty sword and a song and no clear statement as to what interests I was pursuing. I am on my neighbour’s network… Heroes, if allowed, must appear through recognised channels, be represented by agencies, or at least collaborate with publishers and media houses. It is time to change things…. They don’t have to wear capes like in the cartoons but the sleeves must clearly indicate affiliation. They must be red or blue, black or white, east or west. For how else are heroes to be defeated, if they can’t be labelled and come and go as they wish? Well, I appeared out of nowhere, naked, manic, and torn, and I did all that and then the Hellhounds came barking. In my ear, outside my door! In that damn flat in Copenhagen where I lived in filth for ten years! My life was over and destroyed but my heart was not deterred. Nothing was real to me, Beloved!

And yet, I can draw a crooked line in my mind between my actions and the events of the years that followed. Mass protests, people taking to the streets, the toppling of dictators, the changing of societies, in various ways and degrees, from North to South, East to West, all over the world. The enlightenment of the world, Beloved! I am not sleeping, never again… To never sleep again! I did that, it’s true, and the angels say I did, because the Gods wanted me to. I was the spark and the catalyst and I was not alone. Of course, I was at first, but it only took a second. Who are you… The Hellhounds may scare at night, imprison, deter and torture, but the people of the world make the wheels go round. Not so fast… The bottom, blood, sweat, and tears, and not the gilded top, is the only irreplaceable part. Who will you become… This is why, when in despair, we must remember that no order is fixed and that power is lent to the leaders by the people. If one generation fails the next will succeed… Workers of the world unite!

Beloved! Wait! Enough of politics! Don’t run away, don’t slam the door in my face. Where are you going? Oh shoot, I will survive, I will drink and smoke until it’s Monday again, or Friday. I’ll emerge like a poet, a madman, again and again, I’ll make music, I’ll write. But where will you go? You’re married to me now, you’re carrying my baby. Didn’t you know this about me? Could you not have guessed what stirs beneath the surface of my dark eyes? That’s why I’m crying. Beloved… None of this matters. The Hellhounds… The people… Oh, you don’t believe me? No, I’m not joking. No, I’m not drunk. Oh, Beloved. I just don’t know… It does not matter. I don’t know if it’s dangerous, I don’t know if it’s real.

That’s why, Beloved and the world, you must hold me holy, for I sacrificed my heart and my wit to save the world. And the Gods, well, look up, they’re here, they’ve always been here, and truth and peace will prevail, sooner or later, and everything will be alright. That’s lukewarm…

Beloved, look at the sky. It’s blue like your eyes. The sun’s coming in, dispersing the clouds. Dry your tears. All of this has made me stronger. There’s a wall around my heart which is made of stone. In the good way. I’ll never stop fighting. Fighting for us, for our love, for our baby. No, not for the world, I don’t think like that anymore. This is fiction and nothing’s real anyway. Only when you let me, Beloved, a Friday or two, every once in a while, or once a year, I’ll retreat to my chambers… It can’t be destroyed, like a bud bursting forth in the spring.

I have told you about this before, about her, the one that got away, and how I was crazy and how it ended, and how it wasn’t my fault even though I was the one doing wrongs and she was perfectly innocent. It just goes to show that desperate young men prone to wrongdoings can be rehabilitated and turned into productive and respectable members of society. I’m a good example of that, Beloved, won’t you agree? Yes, let’s cheer to that, let’s have another glass of wine Will is my friend… even though you’re pregnant. Let’s ignore that fact for now. This is fiction and nothing’s real anyway.

Her father was a priest and a metaphysician, an author of mysterious books that few people read. I don’t know what her mother did. She had at least two younger sisters and one younger brother. We had the same birthday, but she was two years older. When I went mad from the SSRI, that fact mystified me and strengthened the attraction. It’s inappropriate, I know, but the two of you actually look alike, Beloved. Similar cheekbones that are high, eyes that are bright blue, hairs that are blonde, noses that are slightly crooked. Your teeth, however, Beloved, are significantly more beautiful, for there was a large space between her central incisors which pointed in opposite directions. I found that charming at the time, and loved it when I met her first when I was sixteen, and she was eighteen. A display of vulnerability, such wicked teeth on that wild and beautiful face, just like I was wild and vulnerable too, in my own ways. My father, after having seen her for the first time in court, announced that disregarding the circumstances I could’ve aimed for someone better-looking. He seemed to insist that this woman, whom I had harassed in a psychotic state, was not worthy of the attention because of her looks. You know my father, Beloved, he can be brute and speaks before he thinks, but he means well and the heart’s in the right place. Yes, cheers to that. Let’s have another glass of wine…

This is at least 22 years ago. We had just left the dream house in Önnestad and moved to Kristianstad and my parents had not yet divorced and the family was not yet in free fall and the children not yet damaged. The world was a playground, love was in the air, and I was an extroverted sixteen year old hooked on music and literature, transitioning from punk rock to Dylan and pretending to specialise in Russian literature, you know, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Daniil Kharms, Nikolai Gogol, and, of course, Fyodor Dostoevsky (and Tolstoy and Pushkin). I rode my bike to the city centre just to see what was going on, I approached strangers to strike up conversation, and I fell in love with every girl that I saw, just to forget and start all over again the next morning. Ha! You should’ve seen me, Beloved, compared to now. Oh, don’t worry, you’re getting the best of me, but back then I was skinny and my hair was long and curly. In fact, though I may sound presumptuous, my flirting strategy in these festive days was to lurk in the shadows sending mysterious looks only to appear before my designated target hours later with a declaration of love. The girls thought I was cute and I didn’t have to work hard for kisses and love. Don’t get me wrong, Beloved, we’re not talking body counts, I was no Don Juan. On the contrary, I believed in true love and the one and only and when I saw her outside Hässlebaren, where the indie kids went, I knew that I had found her. We were sixteen but sometimes the doorman let us in.

She was sitting in a mess on the pavement with the contents of her bag (lipstick, Nokia, MP3 player, a book) spilled on the ground. She was angry, making a scene, shouting at someone, a friend, or a stranger in the queue. She was an actress, I could tell, the energy was there, the attraction, sucking me in. You go, I said to my friends, I’ll be there in a second. The wild animal was looking around and saw me coming from a distance, the hunter with the eyes on the prize. What’s your name? Where do you live? Where are you going? I didn’t try to kiss her. I’m going home, she said. My bus is in twenty minutes. I didn’t ask if I could come. Her village was far away. Can I have your number? Yes, you can have my number. And when I texted her the day after she didn’t reply. And nothing happened. My parents got divorced, the family entered a free fall, the children became damaged. I started gymnasium, I got a girlfriend, I moved to England to study mathematics and physics. I broke up with my girlfriend because of the distance and I dropped out of university and moved back to Kristianstad. The plan was to apply to medical school in Copenhagen.

Tradition, at least in Kristianstad, has it that the day after Christmas Eve is spent in bars getting drunk. We had a band, Frukostklubben (let’s hear it, Beloved!), and we were playing at a venue that is now long since gone (Kulturkentauren). Okay, I’ll turn it down, yes, let’s hear something else. Kind of Blue it is, you know it well, your father is a jazz musician. Yes, I’ve had four glasses of wine now. Yeah, I’m alright, thanks. Yeah, I’ve got a little something for later, I’ll smoke it in the study.

I was sitting in the bar with a beer after the show when suddenly someone that I did not recognise at first sat down in the chair next to me. Do you remember me? she said. I think that I just fell in love with you… Of course I did, instantly. The one that got away, the beautiful actress. Where did you go? You never replied. You scared me, she said. You were too direct. Oh, sorry. Did you hear the concert? Yes, some of it. So what are you doing now? I don’t know, kissing you, maybe? And then we kissed in the bar. We left and headed for my father’s place, where I was living at the time, in my teenage room, crossing the frosty railroad tracks, holding hands, stopping to kiss, asking where we’ve been and what we’ve been up to. I showed her up to my room and went to the kitchen to get drinks. All I could find was a bottle of gin which we drank with nothing else to the sound of The Rolling Stones. We became, so to speak, too drunk to fuck. You know that song, Beloved? Let me play it. On my pillow in the morning, a black tear from her mascara. Were you crying? A condom with nothing in it on the floor. She forgot her earring and called the day after to ask if I had seen it. Yes, it’s right here on the bedside table. Also, I need some pills because I don’t think we’re ready for kids yet. Can you meet? I’d love to. When? Whenever, I’m all yours.

I remember driving on the Øresund Bridge with my father on a winter’s evening, studying the illuminated panel with an empty mind, such pain, so much in love that I did not function. A sinister kind of love, dark and foreboding. I had lost all manners and all sense of cool. Hey, want to hang out in the weekend? A day went by, two, before she replied. I can’t, sorry, got other plans. I mean, I played my cards right with you, Beloved, obviously, since you’re here, and cheers to that, and I love you. With her, I threw the cards away. I didn’t want to play, I just wanted to love her. Little did I know that I was descending into depression, or something akin to it. Too much partying in medical school, too much alcohol, too little exercise. Problems understanding the Danish language, not really fitting in. Lots of small factors bringing me down. I was not the charming charlatan anymore, lovable and quick, I was no longer someone that she found attractive. I remember clinging to her breasts in a karaoke bar, her having to brush me off, politely, but still taking me home, and going to sleep with no prospect of kisses or sex. She broke up thereafter, finished whatever it was that we had started.

Here it comes, Beloved, the grand finale, the painful ending to what could’ve been a happy love. Of course, you realise, I’m happy that things played out exactly the way they did, because if they hadn’t, I would never have meet you, so cheers to that. Yes, yes, I’ll have one more glass. Oh, the bottle’s empty? Shoot. Well, let’s open another one. It’s a Shiraz, it’ll be even better tomorrow evening. This is fiction, Beloved, we can drink as much as we desire.

I went to the doctor and the doctor said that I was suffering from depression and prescribed an SSRI. I started to feel better immediately. In fact, within a week I was euphoric. Hey, it’s me again. You? Yes, I’m sorry about the way I behaved. Would you care to meet me for a cup of coffee, just to chat? Sure, just to chat, I’m not interested in anything else. That’s fine, I totally respect that.

Oh, Beloved, I can’t tell you any more. So many things… The Gods… So many things happened… No, I’m not crying. I’m fine. It’s just the wine speaking. Getting emotional. Oh, I was such a pain in the… I feel sorry for her. I can’t really explain… She became, somehow, my only hope. Yes, hope! I became psychotic. I was fighting evil, I thought I was… The Messiah. The Internet… No, nothing. Yes, it’s a common symptom of the manic mind. I sent her letters, I sent her gifts, I wrote her poems and songs. Two times I visited her apartment but was not let in. Once I called her parents’ home to ask her father where she was. It occurred to me, at times seeing clear, that I was all alone. She was not waiting for me. Then I received a letter from the police. She had collected my letters. I write a lot, Beloved, you know that. Remember my poems? I had written her a book. Enough for the police to open an investigation. Not stalking, not sexual harassment. Just harassment. A small fine. Then it was over. The brain is a plastic organ. I had to carry on. Ha! It’s incredible, what an experience. Cheers, my love! Can you bring me a glass of water?

4

Bestowed is out there making noises doing her things, but one thing she won’t do and that is to tell me whether this is our old house or the nursery home. They say I hear voices and that I’m seeing things but haven’t the slightest idea what I’m up to when I’m alone in the study.

Don’t come in, love! Better keep out!

A precaution, I didn’t expect her to be there, but she heard me.

Are you playing with space and time again, love? In your little spaceship? I’ll leave you to it.

That’s alright!

I’ll knock when dinner’s ready, love!

I frowned. Must be our old house, else she wouldn’t cook, or be here at all. Did we outlive each other? She should stop calling so I don’t have to get up. She’s never there anyway. Bestowed, Bestowed. Wait, that’s not her name. What is her name? Has it changed? They say I have gotten old and that I don’t remember, but I would remember her changing her name.

If I go on a little adventure, what can they say? If I take off and never land again? If this is indeed our old house then I demand to know who they are. We should be alone here in our house, enjoying our last days. No nurses, no caretakers, no superintendents. Stop me however, they can’t, if indeed they exist, from going on a little adventure! To the attic, for example, or the basement, where we keep our memories. I can stand with hands and head deep in boxes, trunks, and suitcases all day if I want, throwing things around, until my back’s bent for good and can’t ever be straightened and Beloved has to fold me and leave me at the hospital or the cemetery, whatever’s the closest. She can put me in one of the suitcases, I’m sure I’ll fit.

In the attic, I dug myself in real good, made paths and reached the end, the deepest of the bottoms of the farthermost boxes, hidden by layers and layers of dust and time, and matter so dark the normal eye can’t see. My eye was that of a fighter pilot, a Spitfire pilot. I still had it in me. Fanny and Terry should never have parted, the Gods knew it too.

I found an old film reel and made my way down the stairs.

Bestowed! I cried.

But she did not come.

Bestowed! I’m mad again, you have to help me!

Silence, no Bestowed, no Beloved, when I need her.

The projector cranked and made its wining noises. I tried to shut it off but I couldn’t. A black screen, a flickering countdown. Terry Johnson’s gun camera. He must have taped the button.

The Spitfire was notorious for being difficult to handle when not in the air. A Queen in the sky, bitch on the ground, we used to say. With the long nose pointing upward one had to lean out of the cockpit while to see where one was going. No differential brakes, instead an ingenious system of hydraulic pumps and wires controlling to the tail wheel. Right foot forward while grabbing the brake handle steered the aircraft to the right. Not letting go in time resulted in it spinning around. Too much speed combined with too long a press and the aircraft toppled over, plunging the propeller into the ground. A narrow set of wheels, too, the torque of the propeller pushing leftwards, the right wing sliding along the runway if the aircraft was not trimmed and forces counteracted properly. Many inexperienced pilots died trying to take off in the Spitfire.

The day Terry was shot down. I remember it well. Nothing had signalled his departure, there were no signs. We knew from Keith that he had met a girl and that her name was Fanny. Had they met again? Terry refused to answer. He kept his feelings to himself

Beloved? Are you there?

Silence, she must be listening. We were taking off, Keith in the lead, the engines spitting smoke and fire as we increased the power. Terry must have taped the button. There wasn’t enough film for such a long shot. Regardless, there was I, second from the left, lifting, retracting the gear. It sucked me in, it was, what’s the word, visceral…

Bestowed? It’s happening again!

My heart was racing what the doctor had prohibited. My hands were sweaty, my head was dizzy. On the stabiliser I saw a raven, wings folded, utterly relaxed. The wind should have knocked it off. I started down the runway, gained speed, and the raven took off. Towards Terry’s gun camera. Impossible! That’s not how the world works! The black eyes were shining, piercing me from the inside, my very soul, and it opened its beak to scream. I heard it clear as day.

It was past midnight. Beloved had not tucked me, not this time. It must be something that I’d done. The film reel was gone, the projector screen too. Terry must have taped the button, there is no other explanation.

I found a letter in my hands. Or was it a poem? Did I write it? Someone had been crying on the paper but I doubt it was me. I must have found it in the attic. The tears were mine.

Our Keith went on foot to India, he left Bath in the middle of the third Michaelmas semester, hitched a ride, Dover to Calais, across the bumpy Channel, and kept walking when they reached the sandy shores of France. On the professor’s desk a written piece of paper, and to his classmates on the blackboard in chalk the same words, short and resolute, out of the blue. Farewell, I’m off, and won’t be found until I am. Donate my books and stuff to charity, send my parents away if they come, and expect, no longer, wonders large or small from me.

The slender man bent in the wind, clutching knapsack and walking cane, across the soft dunes like quicksand, through the thorny labyrinths of hedgerows, angry yet determined, to stop no sooner than sundown, when eyes can’t see shapes, but light from a farmhouse down the road, warm and safe, certainly taking him in. Resting restless in hay through the night with the wind, cold and shivering, still certain it’s destiny, to leave Bath, so sad, and all of dreary civilisation behind.

With that he’d disagree, at least to some extent, for Keith was gay and agreeable, hungry and dedicated, talkative and warm, like they knew him, in halls, lectures, and bars. He escaped not relations, knowledge, or Western ways, but brought this with him, his entire foundation, to shine it like a torch, to test it, reflect it, against the darkness of the world. On the third day, outside Le Havre, doing circles in a field, his father’s voice, that ends can be replaced, exchanged, inside and outside, that joy in life depends on it, but you return now to glorious Britain, and higher education, enlightened, tall, and proud. No, replied Keith, twenty and a bit, in a stubborn twist, I’ll have it any other way, rather hopeless in the dark by a farmhouse, sent to hay and winds of change like a beggar or tramp.

Dug up from the soil by curious hands and brought there by horse and bandwagon, opened like a music box, warmed until alive again, our Keith, on the streets of Paris. Sleep there, come here, Oh stranger with razor-sharp wit, a queue we’ll form to feed you, our ears are ready to hear you. Alas, with love they poisoned him, excessive from the start, yes, Keith loathed such admiration, it’s bad for the heart. Then, a meeting in an alley cold and dark spelled the end to bliss and celebration. A slow voice maundering, crazy eyes questioning. Listen, messenger, give me something you don’t have, a coin or some wine, a drop of your blood, or a kiss, right here, so I’ll never forget. Our Keith in flight towards the light, away from the wicked, away from the fight. Esmeralda too quite hard to leave, but an argument in Dijon, about nothing at all, returned in tears the girl to the streets, and the voice that he loved, that sang night and day.

Cease the restless walking up and down the veins of Europe. Pick instead a dot or a speck, away at the horizon, or a peculiar tail at the end of a cloud. Things, people, grow and approach as time lets you sweat and ponder. Discard them abruptly when they’re near. Turn and go, replace them with dots, goals, and purposes. That’s the key, Keith, to never getting old and always being happy. Remain fiercely independent, as I see you now, young man. Change skins like the sky, what it does with the clouds in the sunset, what it does with the wind, wild and still. But the yellow teeth did not invite a reply and the shed did not keep them warm. Keith presenting a toothbrush, frozen in doubt, at the turn of spring.

Washing face and armpits in a silver stream a neighbour approached, to ask at first, but to comment later, on manners and behaviour. Last night with the moon? Yes, but also before that and the days up to. When Keith was still approaching, in a land described as Holy. Not the stream, the silver in it, that feeds the local supermen. Keith’s seen it all, Europe inside and out. I’m an üntermensch, smelly and foul, that’s not your stream, that’s not your water. Yes, away he chased, Keith, the farmer and his boy. Away he drew, Keith, the count and his gang. Left the sun hanging, crying and laughing, and hiding, a partner in crime. With the evening came cold and mist on the fields. Was there one? No, there were several. A band of Keiths, running that way.

Holding on to luck like a sunny day in April, that they’ll take him in again, to hearth, table, and blanket, the illuminated people of the world. Curious and tender, loving and caring, the natural ways of man, against kin and stranger alike. Pen in hand, eyes to the sky, if not at once in a smile then hidden in a frown. An axiom, indeed, that whereas hate depends on forces external, compassion flows free like a creek come spring. Come then into München late at night, stragglers whose fathers died in the war, whose mothers found no answers. Dragging darkness, Keith in the midst, like ants moving about, to attack on signal the hands that feed them, to cleanse from society what does not belong. Like a Saviour disillusioned, our Keith on a box, reading from his books, that first and foremost we must love each other. Night must pass before day comes again and our Keith’s having none of it. It’s just like that alley in Paris! Hannah with the dark eyes and the sadness that he loves, hands intertwined on a wagon going south, towards Sarajevo, where she’s from and they will live in peace.

All his life, they come to him in droves, like pigeons in a square, to be shed and repelled, once tasted and dry, like a spoonful of oil in tea. Virgin oil, the softest, in muddy waters, the foulest, for Hannah, the best he can do. Lovers when they’re Keith take to streets, enforce their rights, in the middle of nights, they flee instead of fight. Keith like a child, she has to look away. Hannah’s going South too, he learns, just maybe, or they’ll rendezvous in Bath, until Death do them apart. A one-legged pigeon receives from Keith some lokum and cuddles so close to the heel of her foot. He loved the sadness in her eyes, did not see the wrath, finished the cup and stood up and left. The pigeon, frightened, returned to its flock and Hannah to her books. There are other fish in the sea, the summer coming on knew that much.

A small boat on a bumpy sea, a bright star in the distance, our philosopher and bard, wanting wine, bread, and olives. Keith in Greece with the Sun and the locals, on a guided tour of Acropolis, in a hectic chat with Socrates. Desire on a Santorini beach in the moonlight, in the sunset in August on Crete. Atlas, Nico, Orion… Proclaims from a cliff in the wind with the waves splashing high that life is an illusion, like love. Atlas comes with the glass and an arm to lean on. Hallucinations… Cyprus and Beirut, then he’ll walk on a line through the cradle of civilisation.

A ferocious rain of sand and diamonds and oceans of oil rising up from below. Mysteries abound, Oh Keith on a camel, but do not include the arms of the King, that encompass the vastness of space, and define the mystery of creation. Coming through, in need of a drink, care not who owns the road nor the well. Sinking for drinking, crawling for walking, dashing in circles away from the coast. A mouth more than dry, no tear left in the eye, carried by people set loose on the edge. Towards the horizon, the glittering ocean.

Miles ahead of the guide, Mr. Ratput, in the desert, an hour from the oasis and a day’s rest. Is there anybody out there? But the wind… Keith the fearless excited but on the third day powerless when the uncles came to rescue in the sunset, speaking English. Exchanging thoughts about the mystery of existence. Providence, said Keith, but no quantum leaps or coincidences were reflected in the mirrors. No time, they countered, in peaceful harmony with God, missing no man or woman, thought of no friend or foe. An endless love without physical contact. Keith heard music and danced, in the shadows of the flames, in arms with his brothers.

One day they came across an oasis and found Mr. Ratput still waiting with the camels and the water. One more dance with the ancient metropolis, the desert star, the city of wonders, our Keith in a hurry, ready for India lurking like a Genie on the far side of the clouds and snowy mountains. Our Spitfire pilot, 1937 in the Himalayas, in a letter to his father:

There is war within and then without, though every soul is swept in kindness, wickedness lives in alleys’ darkness, and most wanderers lost are provided food and shelter. The refugee never intended to stay, sees time differently, and counts in months instead of years. The nose, legs, or other parts of the body might be missing but he is not angry with you. That’s the one mistake, to think that strangers hate you, when in reality it’s just someone’s trying to make you feel bad. Has there ever been war without leaders? I mean, is not all violence incited by external factors rather than inherent anger? We are peaceful when not threatened. In the mountains, teamwork is better than discussion and fighting. Fastening the tent with stones lest it blows away. Another week to the top and then a slow descent into warmer weather… And then, the Jungle! Elephants!

5

A castle in the sky, a reclusive king, the boy and his machine in a lonely kind of bond. I took the glove off to scratch my neck where droplets of sweat had gathered, still holding the spade stick because the Spitfire rolls to the right at speeds below cruising. Oxygen masks, boys, and maintain radio silence. Keith in the lead thinking about his dog. The big boys, battered and bruised, approaching on the back leg.

Terry must have done it. But he’s dead, love… There we were, Bestowed, jumping out of the machines, kissing the grass, crying and shouting that love must prevail. Not always, of course, but sometimes love must prevail. This they must understand, the Gods. Like we love each other, Beloved, like we had each other.

It should’ve been me instead of him! I would’ve done anything to change seats. I will be no more, Gods! If only I could talk to them…

Terry would’ve said the same, love.

There they were, invisible and absent, seeing everything, understanding everything. A light encapsulated us and we came to understand that it was an answer. This they had decided, extraordinarily, that on this very day, in this very iteration of it, Terry will live to a hundred. A long and prosperous future will flourish for Terry, and he will have his Fanny.

It’s late, love, let’s go to bed. I’ll listen tomorrow, we have all the time in the world.

We never got a chance to chat with the American bomber pilots. Most of the time we didn’t even know what they’d been up to when we met over France on the back leg. We never saw the burning cities, never flew over Dresden as it burned for days on end.

I am all for the bombing of working-class areas of German cities. I am Cromwellian — I believe in ‘slaying in the name of the Lord’, because I do not believe you will ever bring home to the civil population of Germany the horrors of war until they have been tested in this way. - Geoffrey Shakespeare, British Liberal MP, to Archibald Sinclair.

We’d been flying back and forth above them for some twenty minutes when a panicked voice broke the radio silence. Fighters! 6 o’clock, coming down fast, now!

I never registered who made the call. We kept flying straight for a few precious seconds, turning ours heads to locate the danger descending upon us. Here they came, Focke-Wulf 190s, more than twenty, attacking in a sharp turn. No muzzles were flashing, they weren’t shooting yet. Keith called out. Break, boys! Break!

We turned and turned, Terrible Terry and I, up and then down, into a split S, sacrificing altitude for speed. On your tail, Andrew! The Jerry shot the bombers, some exploded in flames, some went on smoking, others kept returning home.

To the left of us and a hundred feet above a Spitfire was hit and flames engulfed the cockpit. Bail out, Andrew! Andrew, one of the new boys, burning to death. I kept turning. Terry stuck to me like glue.

To our left again I spotted two 190s chasing a Spitfire. I waved at Terry and we followed them down in a turn, gaining speed, getting closer. The first 190 exploded gently from a few short bursts with the cannon. They never saw us coming, which surprised me, Abbeyville boys as they were. The pilot, in flames, tried in vain to open the hatch. Terry’s 190 took hits in the left wing and lost its flap section. The aircraft rolled over and entered an inverted dive. We went after it.

We were upside down in a loop when Terry landed the killing shots. The wing fell of completely and the crippled aircraft entered a violent spin. The pilot had no chance to bail. One more Jerry sent to hell. Terry’s fourth victory, one kill short of Ace.

In hunting the 190s we had dropped to ten thousand feet. Below us was the little town of St. Omer with the cathedral and the river. I pressed the fuel gauge button. There was just enough left for another round in the inferno. We climbed and climbed, Terrible Terry and I…

You alright in there, Captain Rocky?

Not now, Bestowed! Not now!

You want something, love?

Don’t come in!

That’s fine, love. You’re calling me Beloved, not Bestowed! Funny little man!

How long have we been up here for? The Jerry was gone, as was the cramped cockpit, the wind, the sun, and the sky. It was raining like hell outside and the windows were black. I was freezing and I would’ve liked Beloved to enter to tuck me in.

But I had to remain focused. This is when Terry was shot down, which is why it was night and why it was raining. Terry must have put the film in the attic like a sign, what he could do from the other side of the grave.

I was back in the cockpit, one hand on the throttle and the other on the spade stick. I’m right here, Rocky.

Until I wasn’t.

At twelve thousand feet a lone Messerschmidt 109 jumped us. We were not prepared and it shot right through Terry. I saw him struggling, dancing on the rudders, stalling, falling. Here they were, the Gods, holding the strings, doing their things, having the option to let him out alive. I shouted on the intercom. Get out, Terry! Get out alive! I couldn’t leave, he was my Terry.

We fell together.

Turbulence, turbulence, the worst I’d ever encountered. As if the Gods were here in this storm, tossing us around like fallen leaves, dead and weightless. We fell as one, merged by an invisible chain no laws of physics could break.

In the name of all that is good and holy!

Then it cleared and we came out below.

Bestowed!

But nothing could save me now. What appeared below the clouds was beyond imagination. My heart knew this, for it abandoned my chest. My eyes knew too, for they popped out of my head. My mind, oh, my mind, it hurt like a nail shot up through the nostril with a sledgehammer.

I’ll leave you to it, love.

Don’t go! Bestowed!

I saw a black hole suspended in the air, at least a hundred feet wide. Ravens in the thousands were encircling it like some infernal gathering of witches. The hole was transparent so that I could see St. Omer on the other side, and yet inside of it the very fabric of space seemed distorted, flickering, shimmering, vibrating like hot air over a summer field. No sooner had I recognised the ravens than I heard their shrieking.

Terry! they were shouting. We want Terry!

I looked around and saw Terry on a path straight towards the hole, as if pulled by magnetic forces. The nose of the aircraft was pointing upwards, it shouldn’t be able to fly in that position.

We’re in this together, chap! If you go, I go too!

But only static was received on the intercom. The closer we got, the more we accelerated. The speed indicator span back and forth, the altimeter kept climbing, I couldn’t steer the aircraft.

Then Terry was devoured in a blink and my eyes were blinded by a magnificent light. The last I heard, Beloved’s sweet voice from a place both near and far, far away.

Rocky! Terry’s here to see you!

Driving around in the old Skoda, Beloved and I. I was in a bad relationship before but with Beloved things were better. I found myself again, I let the guard down, she helped me remove the iron cage I had put my heart in.

North is Copenhagen but any other direction is countryside. Thousands of roads leading nowhere special. Roads we’ve never been down before, roads that turn unexpectedly, roads that end at an abandoned farm or a man-made hill where people buried their dead in the Stone Age. We talked about wanting to have children, a delicate matter this close to forty. Failure was not an option. I should start running, cut down on the alcohol, quit the tobacco. Yes, I really should. Want to stop here for a coffee? But coffee was bad too. Beloved was an expert on many things.

Jennifer is my daughter from a previous relationship. She was nine at the time and stayed with us every other week. We were saving money to buy a house in the country. Beloved wanted a large garden. I was happy both ways, city or countryside. We should be self-sufficient, Beloved said.

Right or left, onwards we went, no particular destination in mind. Sometimes on the map we selected a town we’d never visited. A church from the 11th century, a lighthouse built in 1915, 40 metres tall. Both locations closed on Sundays.

That evening I made my own hot sauce from the chilli peppers we had grown on the balcony during the summer. The balcony was Beloved’s project, I only helped to carry the heavy pots and water the plants on occasion. Carolina Reaper and Trinidad Scorpion. Enough to kill a horse.

We drove to the Sea and it was windy, the waves kept attacking the beach, driving it back with every stab. Birds stood still in the air, not going anywhere. We held each other and smiled in a photograph.

We had it all back then. Then she discovered the lump in her breast and we forgot about children. Then we still had love but now the days were counted. Until they weren’t.

There were no signs as to how things would go.

Sometimes there was no lump.

6

As the autumn turned quickly into winter and the first snow clad the streets, Fanny went looking for Terry. London was cold, but the countryside was colder, especially when the train back home was late or never arrived. She went looking every evening when she wasn’t on double shifts, which was most nights.

Even colder than ice were the faces of the military police enforcing the laws that forbade civilians from entering. Behind their indifferent faces she saw Spitfires and Hurricanes taking off and landing, and at times, when the cockpit light was on, she could discern the pilot faces. Please, she begged, I just want to see him again.

His name was Terry, that’s all she knew. There were several airbases in the Greater London area and he had to be at one of them.

Fanny fought for love with whatever means, and at nights she dreamt. Will there be a time for us? Will the world turn in ways that our paths may cross again? In response, the clouds moved fast and the moon shone bright. Fighter planes and bombers filled the sky, bullets were flying in all directions. Every night, all the boys killing each other in vain.

Then there was a field in a secret part of a forest and flowers of every colour grew upon it. Rocks and boulders were scattered about, and there they sat talking. She held his hands in hers. He rested his heavy head on her chest.

But the sun was going down quickly. The flowers turned grey and the forest came closer as if attacking. There was little time, this they both knew. It was night.

In old age, Terry, in old age and beyond, I’ll love you then! Terry lifted his head to see if her words were true. Night after night, the bombers coming in, taking her Terry away.

Fanny awoke in a state of terror. Far away, in the depths of the forest, beasts and wild animals were preparing their assault. A flock of ravens crossed without a sound. We must fight for our love!

Sometimes she screamed it. When the dawn came, Terry transformed into a Spitfire and joined the ravens who were flying in a great circle. She waved with her handkerchief, but Terry was already a dot on the horizon, mere static on the radio.

That’s how they met. Standing in front of the destroyed bookshop Heather was shaking her head when Fanny walked up. Paperbacks in piles and burnt pages all around.

A pity, Fanny said.

And all because of that objectionable little man, said Heather.

Then the air raid siren started and they ran with a large crowd to the underground bunkers in the metro. At first they waited, having found a place to sit at the far end of the platform.

One day Fanny ran into Heather. Unexpectedly, Heather was before her again, revitalising the pains and memories of Terry. They walked towards the centre surrounded by rubble and destruction. Citizens in lines were busy stapling bricks. Small fires here and there even though the temperature was below freezing. Not that they spoke very much, too shocked they were. A family member could have been killed, a home could be lost. Over 40,000 civilians perished in the London Blitz.

A pity they got the bookshop, said Fanny.

They burn a lot of books in Germany, said Heather. Oh yes, he loves burning books, that objectionable little man.

They laughed and Heather took Fanny’s hands in hers.

Tell me, my dearest Fanny, have you met up with that sweet boy you met in the metro?

Fanny’s pace slowed to a stop

No, she said, and kept walking. I wouldn’t know where to look.

In attempting a lie one can reveal the truth. Heather searched Fanny’s bewildered face.

Keith said they were stationed at Kenley.

But I’ve been there, civilians aren’t allowed.

She was whispering. Heather took on a worried look and leaned closer, whispering back.

My brother is a mechanic at Kenley. I’ll see if he can help you.

Are you there, love?

Fanny?

When the second winter came and the Blitz was postponed we were transferred southeast to Manston. We flew Circus and Rodeo missions over France, escorting American bombers or picking fights with the weakened Luftwaffe. Oftentimes flying was not possible because of the weather. The long night greeted the short day with a thick layer of snow over fields and Spitfires alike.

We were still in grief after Terry’s disappearance a fortnight ago. The lack of combat missions meant we had no way of getting back at the Jerry. As if the soft snow and the sweeping winds had restored to normal our skins hardened by the fierce summer fighting, we had a hard time forgetting Terry and we did not touch his old armchair by the fire.

On such a day of sadness, with the sun already halfway down and snowflakes all about, Fanny arrived at the station and walked the icy roads to the gate. She said to the guard, as proper and formal as she could, that Mr. Bean, security officer at Kenley, had promised that her request to speak with Flight Sergeant Terry Johnson would be granted. The guard had not heard of Mr. Bean but was taken aback by Fanny’s determined face, and went inside to make a phone call to see what could be done.

We were sitting and standing like that when the security officer entered and hastily closed the door lest the snowstorm should enter.

There’s a woman here to see Flight Sergeant Terry Johnson.

He ain’t no more, Keith said from the bar. You got a name for the woman?

You can ask her yourself, the officer replied, she’s right here.

Fanny appeared with a face as white as a ghost draped in snow.

He’s dead, isn’t he?

Her eyes searched the room like a dove trying to land but in vain, for we all looked away.

Yes, shouted Keith. Long live his memory! Cheers for Terry!

The Jerry got him two days ago over France, I said.

Fanny searched and found me and smiled at first as she rested her eyes in mine.

I came too late, then.

She walked into the room, steered towards the fireplace, where it seemed as if she would faint before she landed in Terry’s armchair. A single tear down her cheek. It sparkled and fell and then it was gone.

God damn it! she cried.

When you’re twenty, the heart writes a hundred pages an hour but the rate can be a thousand. It can linger but not stop, and it can go back forever until it gets it right.

Every other Saturday, unless I’m working, is an explorer’s day, for Beloved and me, and for the little miracle, safe in the womb, kicking and sleeping, the size of a melon. It’s a new world now, something we fought for, us having a baby after all. Would it have been possible without science? Too many years in the polluted city, too much industrial waste in the water, too much microplastic in the food? We would have succeeded eventually, but Beloved was not so sure.

We met late in our lives. She wanted many kids too. Summer, a large garden, my little spot under the chestnut tree, the kids playing around. Asking for my attention, not my participation, they’ve got each other. I smile like a loving father relaxing in the shadows.

I had a kid when I was still at university, half-way through medical school. That explains why my total savings do not exceed 700 euros. But Beloved is not so sure about that. You’re not meant for modern society, she says.

Zealand is not a large island, I counter. One can drive from one end to the other, or all around its edges, in a few hours. We pick a random location. It can be a restaurant, a lake, an old church, or just a spot that looks interesting on the map. It can also be a forest, but I insist that there are no real forests on Zealand. There used to be, but the 17th century kings harvested the trees for shipbuilding, and now the ships are on the bottom of Øresund. Zealand is flat, like Scania across the strait. They call hills mountains and creeks rivers. The language is built on impossible vowels and inconsistent grammar. Beloved objects, but I’m the driver and I set the rules for the conversation. She sighs, looks out the window at the countryside and dreams her little dreams, hands folded on the growing belly.

Today, everything seemed familiar. Haven’t we been here before? That church? Beloved doesn’t think so. While walking in the forest we came upon a path that bent just like the road leading up to the lakehouse bends. That three-turn bend is everywhere, I said. I used to live next to a forest containing such a bend and I imagined that it was a portal to the lakehouse. Not an actual portal that I could use, but a specific view that evoked memories.

The lakehouse is a magical place. Wild boars forage in the flowerbeds at night. Beloved is impressed by the old beeches and the lake surrounding the house on three sides, but the facilities pose a challenge. Twenty four hours to warm up and the floor remain cold to walk on. There’s electricity but remember to flush only if absolutely necessary because the well must be replaced.

I’m an old man now, wise and experienced, walking in the forest. Beloved laughs. She finds a stick and runs after me. I find my own stick. The game is to force the stick up the arse, but of course that’s impossible with the clothes on. There’s no one around and we can go on for hours.

7

I saw you running away from me, dear daughter, waving and laughing, the sun in your eyes, hair and earrings shining and jumping, around a corner, on your first date. To your first rehearsal with the band. Your first day at university. In your hand the keys to your first flat. Waving from the deck about to cross the Channel with your friends. To New York on a scholarship. I drove back, proud and content. It went well, after all, and we never left you, your mother and I, though at times we struggled and in each other’s eyes saw nothing but darkness and wrath. Do you remember when I accidentally exposed you to the full horrors of the Holocaust? You were only nine. I should have investigated more thoroughly what the exhibition was about, and I should not have answered all of your questions.

Lenke Rothman survived Auschwitz and ended up in Sweden, 16 years old and sick from tuberculosis. In her art, she used cloth and other materials that she found here and there. The guide asked the children why Lenke’s art often featured faces, like two buttons and a string. Did Lenke meet many people? The guide said that Lenke lost her whole family in the second world war, all nine of them. The numbers eight and ten were often scribbled or featured in other ways in her art. Mother, father, and the siblings, said a boy. Some children did not listen, some whispered to each other, others asked questions that had nothing to do with the subject. After the tour we were invited to the workshop where various materials were provided to make art the way Lenke did. But you just sat there, dear daughter, with the cloth, the glue, and the crayons, your dark grey eyes fixed on something on the table. How did they die? I was whispering, in the secret place that my telling created.

There was an evil man named Hitler. He hated Jews, and so did his followers. Judaism is a religion, just like Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, and so on. Many Jews lived in Germany and France, but even more lived in the eastern parts of Europe, including Hungary, where Lenke was from, Poland, and the Soviet Union. It all happened very slowly, in steps, it started in Germany and spread to every country that Gutler’s armies occupied. At first, Hitler forbade Jews from attending university or working as doctors or professors. Some Jews, such as Albert Einstein, left Germany while they were still allowed to. Then Jews had to carry a star on their jackets and were not allowed on the streets in the evenings, and they were not allowed to go to the movies or eat at restaurants. Many tried to move to other countries but most countries would not accept such large numbers of people. A ship sailed all the way to South America and waited for weeks before it had to sail back again. Then Jews were forced to live in special parts of the cities and were treated like animals. Many became ill and many died from starvation. Finally, Hitler and his thugs decided that all the Jews should be killed. They called it The Final Solution. Not only Jews, but also Romani, homosexuals, priests, mentally handicapped people, and many others who thought differently than Hitler. Three million were shot in Eastern Europe and as many died in so-called concentration camps in Germany and Poland.

Were they shot at the camps? At first, yes, but this was too expensive, and difficult for the soldiers. So how did they die? I don’t know if I should… How? They killed them with gas. Gas? Horror in your eyes. They were forced to enter the back of a truck or a room from which they could not escape. The truck drove or gas canisters were released from small holes in the ceiling. You cried silently while around us children and parents made art the way Lenke used to do. What did they do with their clothes? Most were naked when they entered the gas chambers. Naked? But, what if they were shy? Listen, Jennifer, I said. This happened a long, long time ago, and it will never happen again. You can’t be sure of that. Yes, I’m sure, I said. A long, long time ago.

To Lenke we made a piece of art that featured ten popsicle sticks painted in the colours of the rainbow and glued to a blue background. “WE LOVE YOU.” is what you wrote. We ate lunch at the cafe and then we drove two hours across the flat lands, painted dark in grey and orange by the sun’s fading rays, to visit your great-grandmother, aged 93. To hot chocolate and cookies you asked about the war and the Holocaust, but she was set on simple conversation and answered with a shrug of the shoulders. I would not have been chosen for work, I’m not very strong… With night upon us the forest drew nearer and I drove slow on the narrow roads in case wild boars or deer should appear in the headlights. I would have held my breath, and pressed my hands against my mouth… We’re here, I said, as the car climbed the hill to the lakehouse, dark and cold with the forest all around. A strong wind was blowing, splashing the waves against the rocks, leaves and pine cones against the bricks. I switched on the electric radiator in the bedroom and placed you there, in your jacket, under layers of blankets, with your tablet. Was it as big as this room? I’ll make some food, I said. No point making a fire this late. I don’t want to be alone. I’m right here, I said, but we need to keep the door shut for the heat not to escape. In the fridge I found an ice-cold beer that I drank while I made us dinner: sausages and pasta with ketchup. We ate in the bedroom, still freezing, and after an episode of your favourite cartoon (was it Naruto?) you were sleeping. A shallow sleep, worried, haunted, nightmares there to greet you. Some months back, Greg had left a bag of his home-grown weed and I had hidden it in the bookshelf. That bag was on my mind as I rose much too early and tried to leave when I woke you up. I lay down again, and you captured me, arms and legs, until you were snoring heavily an hour later.

This was shortly after Mickey Gump was re-elected. It must have been that surprise, and seeing the Holocaust through your innocent eyes, that made the pale pot put me in a strange state of mind. I sat in the armchair and darkness descended. Only a little more than a year before, when the wind was blowing as violently as it did now, on the 7th of October, a few hours after midnight, I had started this diary, which I plan to give to you when my days are through. The space was dark and empty, the wind was howling… The wind was howling, as I said, rattling the thin windows, and I felt an irresistible urge to write. I worked long into the night, writing, sculpturing, two short paragraphs that seemed to vibrate from some otherworldly power. When I woke in the early afternoon and read the news the full extent of the horror was still unknown. I was afraid to go on, hesitant to revisit the land I had conjured from such darkness. Now, with you sleeping, safe and warm, the source revealed itself again. It’s difficult to describe, Jennifer, like an electromagnetic buzz, an invisible blanket over my soul, heavy from pain and responsibility. Since the dawn of time, just like that, naked and torn… Was I shown an enlightened path, in an Oriental garden? The world is both wonderful and awful, Jennifer, you know that now. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. But how, when evil is all around? The Gods might disagree… You might ask yourself these same questions, although oceans of time separate my words from your ears. I found strength in hardship, wrote only well when I was short of time, thought only clearly with my back against the wall. Keith, the impossible, in a simple twist of mind, envied the dictators. Look at that playboy, all that power… Keith? I’ll have another beer. It takes a lot of work to charm the abandoned, who with devotion can be made to reject the foundations of the state. Terry? The smoothing of the edges and quelling of complaints, the abysmal work behind layers of curtains. I loved you from the start… The shimmering heart that loves the world knows that the sun sets only to rise again. Fanny? It’s simple, dear daughter, in the land of dreams. We will not let them silence your voices… Still, the dismantlement of educational and health institutions as a means of suppression must be considered when…

8

We came, arrived, in the promised kingdom, down from the snowy mountains, over the green hills, filled the dirty streets, and drank the lukewarm water that we had carried on the backs of our malnourished camels. Not a star in the sky, but a finger in the wind, and old words shared by the campfire and retold like mantras to guide us. Don’t stay here, we were told, and moved on. No loitering, the signs said, and we moved on. No benches to rest on, no parks to set camp in, no public restrooms to be used free of charge. On the third day, I saw my wife and children… When the dirt roads turned to highways we jumped the fences to make the news, but law enforcement arriving on order could only push us forward. In my makeshift tent made of plastic bags I rested my heavy head on my arms and rubber sandals, satisfied to know that one day we are there, by the beating heart of shimmering light, the indestructible glue that holds mankind together, lets societies prosper. A seagull in the wind stretching its wings, a rat in a dumpster scoring its first meal, a newborn crying while its parents depart and sadly explode. The Gods taught us right from wrong and made the knowledge our own, the sun and the planets hardened our skin and the road sharpened our nails and eyes. You must remove these handcuffs, we demanded, and they did. That palace must be built outside the city centre, and that they did. We came down from the mountains with ideas in our heads, ideals. Like stone, we vowed, the mass of the mountain, we remain the same to let neither time nor success and failure change us. In the midst of summer a rain like a waterfall that at first seemed to stop but only went on. Perplexed, as they would have us, we weighed the wearing of the stone against the lives of the flowers, but the rain was heavy and quenched no thirst.

That is all I know. My grandfather was a sailor and could play the accordion. He sailed on a freighter as far as San Francisco during the second world war, and liked to recall that he participated in the hostilities. But Sweden was neutral. The Nazis used the railways to transport troops to occupied Norway. Raoul Wallenberg saved many Hungarian Jews from Auschwitz. My other grandfather was a mechanic at the fire station and active in the local section of the Social Democratic Party. On my mother’s side I can trace my heritage to “Vandrarfolket” — the walking people. That is not to say that I have Gypsy or Romani blood. In our blood were the seeds of every colour of the skin, of every type of eye and personality, and of every deed, good or bad, ever committed by man, woman, or any gender… Back in the days it was common for people to wander the dirt roads, alone or in groups, singing as they went, accompanied by the accordion and the fiddle, stopping in the villages and towns to trade. Tramps, vagabonds, vagrants. That’s what I like to believe. That would explain a lot. My surname is from my other grandmother. When her mother died her father remarried and took the name of his new wife. He was a gardener in some count’s garden and lived in Scotland for a brief period of time. The name itself is a soldier’s name from the 18th century, although older variants are found in Germany, giving names to castles, villages, and rivers. My mother was a Persson and my father an Olsson. The “sons” are from Sweden and the “sens” from Denmark and Norway. Only in Sweden is the extra “s” kept to denote ownership. But that might not be true. My father was not satisfied with the working class surname. When he was twenty he switched to his mother’s maiden name. That’s how it came to me. Both of my parents grew up poor, which is not to say that the families were struggling. One of my grandmothers worked in a kindergarten for some time, the other stayed at home. My father remembers the shame when his father had to change the Volvo for something cheaper. My mother had no siblings and her parents rarely spoke with each other. My grandfather did not like his mother-in-law who already lived in the house when he moved in with my grandmother. When he couldn’t sail he became an electrician and eventually died of dementia at the age of 78. When I came to visit we sat in the armchairs watching Battle of Britain from 1969, over and over. Both of my parents were the first in their families to pursue higher education. My mother studied to become a nurse. My father was the first to attend university. I was the second. My father dreamed of studying medicine but his grades weren’t good enough. With a bachelor in pharmacology he landed a job at a multinational company and went to India and Pakistan as a product manager at the age of twenty-five. My parents could easily buy a comfortable home, an old doctor’s villa built in 1868 right next to the railway. I always fell asleep to the sound of trains and the rattling of the house. When I was born my father changed paths and started a marketing firm. He became a copywriter and was successful in the nineties. We got a pool in the garden and he drove a Jaguar. Holding hands in the labyrinths of time. Grandmothers, grandfathers, mothers, and fathers.

They put us on trains but the rails twisted and turned, the doors swung open and the soldiers fell off and burned. On a busy side street I saw following me the most curious eyes on the most intriguing face. The girl spoke, but my mother grabbed me by the arm and hurried up, said we’ll be late. The girl ran up to us, but my mother refused, and pushed me forward so that I could not hear. You’re worried tonight, son, my father said. I could not sleep, up all night thinking, up all night dreaming about the eyes.

The next morning we were relocated. The authorities uprooted the tents and after we were done packing threw the suitcases on wagons dragged by mules. A very large pile, my little brother said, amazed, holding up a hand, blinded by the sun. Don’t worry, it was announced, you’re going to a better place. Just like last time? we cried. You can work, you can dance and sing, if that’s what you want. The mules, the bells, the whistles, the sandals and the feet, the grandparents dragging along with the children in their hands. I knew that love was more important than any relocation. I did not worry about not ending up in that new place, one way or another.

The city map was an orderly grid of boulevards, squares, and side streets. Shops, fruit stands, poultry in cages, men in hats drinking beer in the shadows. Dreamers always find each other, the girl said and did not wait for my reply. She would have waited in vain because I was stunned. Not by her beauty which was otherworldly, nor by her eyes to which I was already accustomed. It was her voice that obliterated me, just like the Gods would my family eventually. What were the little receivers in my ears that resonated when she spoke? What were the invisible wires that extended to my heart and controlled its beat? Hoarse from shouting at people all day, sweet from the melons she had for breakfast, commanding like the big sister I never knew I had.

We made love in a blind alley a few blocks away, hidden from view by an overgrown chestnut tree. I was not the first to be taken to her secret place. She stood with her layers of skirts lifted, hands stretched against the brick wall, and I was behind, trousers at my ankles, doing what I had always loved to do. To the curly black hair that swung back and forth, to the broad eyebrows that lifted, to the forehead that wrinkled, to the lips that opened, to the intriguing eyes that closed as she moaned and whimpered. After some time I felt the rhythmic contractions and the tightening of the grip. She was silent when she came. I did it some more, she made noises again, and came a second time, all silent again. I did it even faster, interrupting something she was about to say, replacing it not with a moan but with a scream, almost out of control. Now, she whispered, regaining her cool, it’s your turn. You finish me, I replied, looking away elegantly. She obeyed, got down, squatting, and did not let go until I was done. Love is blind, love is also disgusting, love is also this, she said, licking her lips. The blood and the flesh and the fluids and the words that must not be spoken or combined in certain ways. You must go now, you must join your kin. Like a fortune-teller. Dark clouds on the horizon. I’ll be back, I said, and swirled my cape like a vagrant. Rode towards the sunset.

This was long before the cell phone was invented, long before the Internet and social media. I can’t even remember if we were in Paris or Marseilles. Nor can I recall the way in which we parted. Afterwards, I hurried to the central station and let myself get caught. We travelled east for five days, no food, no water. The grandparents and the weakest children perished. We were hopeful when entering the gas chamber, singing and dancing as they demanded, promised that after disinfection water would be provided. Only my brother did not have to go, and was taken to the doctor instead.

Afterwards, my brother asked where I had been all this time but I could not tell him, for his ears were much too young for such revelations. I said that I had gone out to find something to eat, because I knew that the journey would be long, but that I had been refused because of my dark hair and black eyes. My mother scorned me. The world will be different, she said, and your brother does not need to know everything. In the future, my father added, man will treat man like an equal and not like an animal. But we are animals, I said. My little brother’s eyes grew large, his urinary tract infected and surgically connected to his bowels. Mother, father, are we animals?

From the Lake of Ashes we rose like mist, dripping with blood, to devour the soldiers and bureaucrats of the General Government. Professors and clerks, workmen and butchers. Same as us, invisible like air, penetrating like Zyklon B. Deadly like incited hate towards strangers. We sought not revenge for our people but to convey that Death is not the end, and that nothing is forgotten. That ghosts spin the Earth much like the living do. In the trees and in the heavens, in the soil and in their food. Even if we entered calmly, death through suffocation made us leave in distress. Blood from our ears and noses, the children lost in the dark. Excrement on the floor that we slipped on while fighting blindly for the spot on the top of the human pile next to the bunker door. Like slabs of stone, like basalt… Out we fell, tumbling onto one another, like slabs of stone, like basalt.

As a doctor I have seen death, pain, and misery. Work is over when leaving the hospital but sometimes it follows. Fifty dead in a bomb strike and six million in the Holocaust. The human mind cannot understand the implications in terms of sorrow and loss. Even a single death can require a lifetime of contemplation and adjustment. The boy was fourteen or fifteen and I was in medical school working as a nurse’s assistant. I have forgotten what my task was other than to keep an eye on the boy who was admitted to the hospital with, I believe, terminal cancer. He was sleeping when I arrived in the morning and slept until his father came to visit in the early afternoon. I did not step forward, I remained in the back, and we exchanged no words. My presence was no different from that of a fly on the wall. The boy was tall and skinny, malnourished from disease, his skin pale and yellow. His hair was newly cut short and on his face was an early attempt at growing a beard. His father was in his mid-forties, in good shape, and, judging from the brand of his backpack and the stylish yet casual clothing, well-off, or at least middle-class (whatever that is) and educated. The father did not bring a gift, or flowers, or something to read. From the way that they said hello with a brief hug I got the impression that the father visited every day. Because the boy had been sleeping until his father’s arrival I had not yet heard him speak. I had not heard his voice. Halfway through puberty, dark yet bright, hollow yet singing, dead yet alive. Like a blackbird in a pine tree on the last day of summer. As if the walls were of metal, with every word, no matter the actual meaning, he sang about his will to keep on living a life that had only started. After reporting the latest news from home the father asked if the boy wanted to call his girlfriend. The father went out to get a cup of coffee but I had to stay. Why must teenage love be any different just because one part is dying? Why can’t the hearts beat faster and why can’t the silence on the line be just as embarrassing? His girlfriend had been to tennis practice again, just like last Wednesday. There was more homework than usual. They said farewell with a kiss. The boy did not look in my direction and did not see me fighting the tears. I was inexperienced, I was only twenty-four, I did not know what to say. I would have said that love conquers all and that love never dies. Holland, 1945.

9

This is when we learned to love each other. Human love, conditioned on death, the end. Fragile love not accounting for infinity, and not depending on it. The Gods did not know this kind of love, which was stronger or at least different in ways they could not understand. A love not affording endless days, a distilled version of Godly love, which was omnipresent and all-knowing. Jesus knew that the kingdom was at hand and feared no man and saw no obstacles. “Why have you forsaken me?” he cried in the end, loudly, so all could hear. The shifting clouds obscuring the sun like a picture of mortal doubt. His disciples had faith and loved him but when he sent them out in the lands they expelled no demons and cured only with oils.

My father was always there with the camcorder. “Here we are at the hotel in Mallorca and the weather’s great and it’s the third of February 1996.” On birthdays, he expected us to wave at the camera before opening the gifts. As we got older we became annoyed and misbehaved and he had to shut it off. “Oh, you’ll see, we’ll be happy to have this one day.” Sometimes we stole the camera to make skateboard movies and comedy shows, or to record our nightly shenanigans in the village. My father always objected to being filmed, yet there he was, to our great amusement, angry that we were wasting the precious tape. His face close up, yelling in the high-pitched and nasal accent of northeastern Skåne. He had a hot temper but cooled quickly. “Feels good to be eight, right?”

Some years ago he delivered the box of tapes to a photo shop to have them digitised. By some strange mistake, a third of the files on the hard disk we received were recordings of soap operas from before we were born. Another third were videos of ice-hockey goaltender training from the time my father ran an ice hockey boot camp in Stockholm. Me and my little brother were ice hockey goaltenders. I was a training product, my father admitted when we were older, but my brother had real talent. Yet I became the second best goalie in Skåne for my age, and was the third goaltender in TV-pucken (I was the second goalie until a terrible performance against an older Danish team made me apologise to the coach who concluded that I was not fit mentally). I quit when I was sixteen because of music, literature, and girls, and then my brother quit too, because I did. Woe to my father who went to Stockholm for two more summers, without his sons, until he could return to being a copywriter. Whereas the soap operas might have some cultural value, the videos of goalies going left and right with pucks flying about must be worthless. The same must not be said of the remaining third, the actual family videos.

My father was a teenager when he got his first parrot, a cockatiel, and it lived to the age of thirty. He had to give it to his sister when he started university but when he met my mother and they settled down it was not long before he acquired more parrots. When I was born he had already had two, a cockatoo and a yellow-fronted amazon. Both had died at a young age, one from an unnecessary operation gone wrong and the other from a rare virus. I grew up with Lazer, a blue macaw, and Shotgun, a yellow-blue-fronted amazon. The birds were only tame towards my father. We quickly learned to avoid their wicked attacks that came out of nowhere. Wings flapping, crazy eyes, beaks open as they descended from the curtain rod. Get down, brother!

Like most boys I admired my father and wanted to be like him and when I was ten in 1996 I was gifted a parrot, a cockatiel. I named her Sajber after a TV-show about computers, games, and the Internet. She was just out of the nest and was tamed almost instantly. I went to school with bird shit on my sweater and hurried home to be with my new best friend. My little brother wanted to be like his big brother but different, of course, and received a pet too. Not a parrot, though, but a rat. It loved to hide inside his sweater and ran back and forth on the table when we ate breakfast. My parents probably told us to be watchful when both pets were out. Rats, no matter how adorable and tame, are predators by nature.

One Friday evening my parents were watching TV and me and my brother were playing in his room. The rat was in the cage and Sajber was running around on the floor like cockatiels love to do, examining LEGO pieces and looking for food. When we decided to go down in the basement to play table tennis (my father said it made us better goaltenders), I thought my own room too far away, and we decided to put Sajber in the rat cage so that they could become friends. We would be back soon, anyway. Sajber was clinging to the net in the upper corner when we left, looking down at the rat that had not yet noticed her presence. Half an hour later we were met with the most gruesome sight. I remember that I cried in anger and threw an apple against the wall and I remember my mother’s horrified face. I was not present when my father buried the pile of blood and feathers at the pet cemetery under the cherry tree, and then we drove to Kristianstad to buy me a new game on the Sega Megadrive. I played it Saturday and Sunday and then never again. Monday, even the teacher couldn’t keep himself from smiling when I explained what had happened and why I was sad. I had killed my cockatiel in a gruesome way and now I was telling everyone about it. That’s one twisted kid.

A long time ago, a little boy loved a bird and the bird loved him back, as birds are able to love. By the boy’s hands, the bird died the most terrible of deaths. The boy could not appreciate the pain and buried it deep in his heart. She tried to fly, fly, fly in a frenzy of flapping but did not take off and she screamed as high as she could but the boy did not hear and did not come. The rat ate until it was not hungry anymore.

Beloved loves the family videos. She has relived more of the holidays, birthdays, and Christmas eves of my childhood than I have and speaks as if she were there when it happened. I want to watch a movie but she insists that we go exploring amongst the folders on the hard drive. Being systematic and orderly in nature, she also insists that we rename the files from the random VOB_1_2 to something more descriptive.

We were lying in bed and a light snow was swirling perfectly to the ground like glittering popcorn tossed from heaven. We discarded the soap operas and goalie training videos and rejoiced in the happy moments of my childhood.

Look how cute you were!

Were! Am I not cute anymore?

It happened then what I knew would happen. The very reason, perhaps, that I have never cared to watch the damn videos.

The lakehouse, June, 1999. We had to go, every summer, for at least a month. Friends could be brought and stay for days, but we had to stay, isolated in the forest. The whole family, all the parrots, the cats, the dog (a melancholic dachshund that my grandfather could no longer take care of), the blind rooster and the hens with their chicks. At least we were allowed to bring the desktop computer.

The camera was going around, stopping only for seconds, it must have been my brother filming. “Turn that off!” shouted my father, busy unpacking in the bedroom, but my brother got away. He ran outside where the sun flared the lens, then back inside where my mother and sister were loading the fridge. “Your father said to turn it off,” said my mother pleasantly. In the background, Lazer and Shotgun were screeching and they caught my brother’s attention and changed his plans, for he ran to the living room and began filming each parrot up close. Lazer and Shotgun attacked violently like dinosaurs as my brother taunted them by banging his little hand against the cages. “Stop that immediately!” yelled my father but did not come in. Then the camera turned to the smaller cage by the window and my heart skipped a beat and stopped in its path. I had to look away, tears were flooding my eyes. There, on the cage floor…

Are you alright, love?

Yes, Beloved. That’s just Sajber, the second Sajber. He died a few years before we met.

It’s just a bird, love.

I know, Beloved, but he was more than that. He was… He was my one and only superstar.

I hold in my hands his whole life. He was a cheerful bird that sang from the heads of guests, but that’s what cockatiels do. Countless hours sitting alone in the cage until I brought him friends (at one point I had seven cockatiels and only Sajber was tame and wanted me around). I brought him a mate when he could not follow me to England, but their nests were barren and he had no offspring. I remember, but not he, when I was twelve and chose him at the pet store because he was the calmest. He was sitting on the cage floor while the others were running around. I understood, and I think he did too, when he was old and could not fly and ate very little, that death was near. He was saying farewell, but not I, too entrenched and busy for goodbyes. His dark eyes watching me, taking me in, for more than twenty years. I came home and there he was. Always. I woke up and there he was. Singing. He saw me laughing and crying, he saw me ill, taking on the world. He saw me drunk and stoned, in love and heartbroken, understanding nothing of it. He came close and made little sounds of comfort when I was crying. He learnt that the sound of the keys meant I was leaving and tried to make me stay. He flew over the pine trees in the lakehouse forest, he flew out over the sea, and he sat in the treetops, until I called and he returned. There were hawks in the air that heard his calls. I was away for a long time, in Tanzania, and he gave up and stopped eating until I called from a shaky line and his vigour returned. His partner of fifteen years escaped and flew away and he understood that he would never see her again. He was sad, I could tell, but how could I help him grieve? I held his life in my hands and caused him much joy and sorrow. I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve been better. He loved me unconditionally and I was not there when he died. He wanted to die alone, that’s what animals want. In my dreams I’ve asked him many times. Did he know that I was coming?

In February 2020, just before the Corona lockdown, I brought Sajber to the lakehouse so that he could die in peace. We had two weeks. My girlfriend at the time had thrown a smartphone in my face (in front of our five year old daughter) and the ensuing blue eye and overall stress forced me to go on sick leave. Sajber had been getting worse for months and was too weak to fly and ate very little. His right foot was afflicted by arthritis and he could not climb the branches. Unless I lifted him up he had to sit on the floor. When I left the room he became desperate and called with a new melody of two descending tones. I realised much later that he was whistling my name.

The wind was howling and the house was cold. I put Sajber in the bedroom and turned on the radiator. My Old Little Man, I said. You relax now, I’m right here. He wanted to be close but kept falling asleep and every little movement disturbed him. Birds have a shallow sleep. I’ll cry when you’re gone, I said, but neither of us knew what I was saying. I held him in my cupped hands to simulate darkness and death and he almost stopped breathing. I went for long walks in the forest, in case he wanted to die alone, but when I returned he had not moved from his place on the pillow.

The two weeks passed and we had to go back. We left in the sunset and drove in the darkness. The cage rattled on the dirt roads and I heard him falling down. This was our goodbye. My cockatiel had followed me everywhere, for twenty years, back and forth in the car, a thousand times to the lakehouse. This was the last time. Tom Waits’ Fish and Bird and I’m Still Here played on repeat but too loud for his tired mind and sensitive ears. It was for my sake. I was crying but he was still alive when we got home.

The school’s winter vacation was coming up. We had booked train tickets to Stockholm to visit my brother. It didn’t matter that Sajber was on the verge of death. I refused to see it, I took it for granted that he would survive the week. I arranged that two acquaintances would check in on him twice a day. If he’s on the floor, lift him up so that he can reach the food and the water. I was at the National Museum when they called, in the grand room with the animal skeletons up and down the walls and on display in the monitors. On the cage floor, Beloved, that’s where he died. In the exact same spot. I hope that when the darkness came he remembered my cupped hand and imagined that I was holding him, warm and safe.

I went to the lakehouse to bury him. As I stepped out of the car I heard a blackbird whistling the exact same two tones. He was calling from beyond life and death. My superstar. For forty days I heard him calling. And now, every blackbird I see… But I cannot remember the sounds he made.

10

I went to bed that night thinking about Sajber. He was just a bird. Beloved was sleeping next to me. I went to bed that night thinking about the Holocaust. While he was dying in the lakehouse I re-watched Shoah. I wanted him to understand things that he couldn’t understand. We can be forgiven. Everything can be redeemed. I went to bed that night… If we want it bad enough. If the rich become poor and the first become last.

I was standing in a field that seemed without an end. There were no buildings, trees, or anything else and the horizon was all I saw. The sky was black and there were no stars, and no moon, and yet there was light. I felt no breeze against my skin and yet the grass was bending in the wind. It was shining softly and shimmering. I looked at my hands. They were shimmering too and my body was silvery and transparent. None of this rose any suspicion. I was a ghost, that is all. I was given a direction and walked until I heard church bells chiming in the distance. The grass grew taller and became hard to traverse. Far down in the valley what looked like a long line of people waiting for a sign.

I reached a clearing. The sound of an engine and I looked up. A Spitfire coming in to land. It went into a dive with the gear out and did a barrel roll before it graciously touched the ground. Now the pilot was wading through the grass and now he was before me.

We got this, Terry said. We’ll win at life. We’ll topple the world.

He put an arm around my shoulder. The line of people came up from the valley and walked past in silence.

Don’t listen too much to what the priest has to say, Terry said. Some things can be mended, the rest are left to heal in the merciful hands of time. One day you will die and all this will be in vain.

That’s not helping, I whispered.

Keith’s the better talker, he replied, but Keith’s busy fighting the Jerry. I got the day off to make sure you’re at ease.

I’m not at ease, Terry!

Don’t worry, he said. One day you will learn to relax.

I saw then that his face was on fire.

We are gathered here today to bid farewell to Sajber, a most beautiful and special cockatiel who in his final days, when it was the last he wanted, was abandoned by his only friend, Rocky, who deemed it more important to visit a brother in Stockholm. A journey that could be postponed, most certainly, but the lives of human beings are valued more highly than those of any other animal on God’s green Earth, is it not so, Rocky? I know you are listening. Yes, frightened he was, as we all would be, except Rocky, perhaps, who appears without deeper feelings. Wondered, Sajber did, when his friend would return. Hoping, he did, until the last second when the heart gave up and death took life’s place and light was replaced by darkness and all sounds ceased.

Terry, this is unbearable.

We must let her finish, then we’ll do whatever you wish. Something fun and creative, perhaps.

Rocky knew that his friend was dying but when he did not die within the two weeks that Rocky demanded, Rocky arranged and with poor instructions, mind you, for two acquaintances, whom he barely knew, and didn’t really like, for Rocky doesn’t seem to like anyone, to twice a day have a look. A look! Go over there a few times a day and have a look. Rocky’s words, written in God’s great book. Yes, he mentioned only briefly, as if it wasn’t important, that the bird was dying and couldn’t reach the food unless he was helped, and couldn’t reach the water unless he was lifted up. Too weak to fly up to the cage! Rocky knew this! Yet he did not lock Sajber in the cage or place the food on the floor where it could be reached.

That’s not entirely true, Terry! It didn’t happen like that!

Everything the priest says is true, Rocky. She is speaking God’s truth, whether we like it or not.

But I don’t believe in God!

You’ll see. Now we must listen.

Should the bird feed on air and courage alone? I fear that Sajber died from starvation. And dehydration. I’m telling you, Rocky, that Sajber died from dehydration and starvation! Had he only been allowed these essentials of life his heart would have kept on beating and he would have been alive when you returned from Stockholm. You were all he had, Rocky. You were the centre of his little bird life. His beginning and end. But no, people. No, angels. No, ye witnesses of a crime in heaven. Rocky did not instruct the acquaintances to lift Sajber to the cage or to place food on the wooden chair by the door, where death came knocking. All living things know such things. Rocks don’t know it! Plastics have no idea! But life knows when the end is near. The white drop of spilling indicates that death was slow and cold and that the bowels emptied there on the chair. There he sat waiting for whichever would come first! Rocky or death! The first acquaintance came in the afternoon to find Sajber with an empty look in the eyes and not reacting to whistling, and when placed in front of the water and food he did not eat or drink. He even called you, Rocky, to inform you of the situation but you shrugged it off and said that, yes, Sajber had become old and tired. When the second acquaintance came in the evening Sajber was dead, his little body still warm, his soul still lingering in the room with a barely audible electric hum. That was him, Rocky, not letting go of you.

Twice the door opened but it was not me that entered. Twice he thought I was coming but it was someone else.

That’s right, Rocky. It took him a long time to die because he was waiting for you.

And all this is not to mention the negligence that preceded his death and lasted for years. His foot was hurting and Rocky brought him to the vet and received medication to be given daily. But did Rocky give it daily? No, he did not! A week! Then the medication ran out and Rocky did not get out to get more…

Let’s go, Terry, I can’t take it anymore. The medication did nothing to stop the swelling. His pain persisted. He screamed in pain, medication or not. There was nothing I could do.

As we left I yelled at the priest who kept on talking like that, listing in detail every mistake I’d ever made.

I loved him so much!

Terry had to drag me away.

A day passed. A grey sun that emitted no light of its own came up and was gone again. The moon stopped by but soon withdrew. The black and green persisted, untouched by the workings of the universe. No stars ever appeared.

We took off in our Spitfires and landed again. We chased each other through clouds that were not there. I crashed and was engulfed in flames but a second later I was back on the grass. Terry approached and went away. He was left and right, up close and afar. He talked but did not say a word.

What are we doing here? I asked one day.

We are waiting for Keith. He should be here any minute now.

Countless days passed without Keith showing up. Terry lay in the grass reading a book. Now he was sketching on a piece of paper. Now he was writing something. I looked but the pages were empty. This wasn’t cutting it.

Let’s go, I said.

Where to?

Anywhere. We can’t stay here forever.

But we can, Rocky. Forever is just a word. There is no time here. Or rather, all of time is here. Everything that has ever happened is right here. Everything that hasn’t happened is right here too.

That doesn’t make sense, Terry.

But it does, Rocky. Challenge me. Let’s go somewhere while we wait. Anywhere. We can do anything.

We can go back to the dawn of time?

Well, yes, but that wouldn’t be very exciting. Let’s go where there are people.

We can go back to stop the second world war?

We can, but that’s more difficult than you think. We can’t just kill Hitler, if that’s what you’re planning. Believe me, we’ve tried that.

Who are we?

Keith will explain when he gets here. We call ourselves The Renegades.

Why can’t we just kill Hitler?

Because it had to happen.

So what’s the point of going back if nothing can be changed?

As I said, to have some fun while we’re waiting for Keith.

What are we going to do when he gets here?

As I said, Rocky. We’ll win at life, we’ll topple the world. The poor will be rich, the last will be first.

Isn’t that what Jesus said about the Kingdom of Heaven?

Yes, something like that, but Keith isn’t Jesus. It’ll all make sense. You’ll see.

We were flying again, shooting Dorniers and Heinkels. Little men in parachutes fell towards the sea and were devoured by the cold and hungry waves. We were on the grass again, Terry writing empty pages in his book. At times I got a feeling that something was about to happen. There was a rhythm to the bending of the grass.

Then I thought about the Holocaust. I thought about racism, fascism, and about the times I was living in with Beloved and everyone I loved. If only the rich supported the poor instead of divided them. What a beautiful world that would be. Imagine ending world hunger. Of course, xenophobia loves populism. Who in their right mind with power derived from wealth would want unions and democracy? Let the poor fight each other and steal what you can. It was a smart move to associate the enemy with LGBTQ+ rights and make this a question of division in the name of religion. Love God and love your neighbour as you love yourself. Jesus would have toppled the tables and sent them all to Hell. And training biased AI to write an alternative Wikipedia to legitimise racist pseudoscience. Listen, man! Ordinary people love their neighbours! You can’t kill that from a throne of blood. The world will be brown and there’s nothing you can do about it. People, people, innocent people. This is capitalism. The hate against the Jews began with The Gospel of Matthew that framed Jews as the killers of Christ. Mark didn’t do that. It might just as well have been Pontius Pilate that killed Christ. Jesus, at first, talked only to the Jews but then he expanded the recruitment pool to everyone. Then came Hitler with his perverted ideas. He was driven by hate and revenge whereas the fascists of our times are driven by power and wealth, and I don’t know which is worse.

A raven flapped its wings in silence. It was noon, the grey sun was watering my eyes. I had moved about a hundred yards from where Terry was sitting.

Come over here!

Sorry, Terry, I was thinking about something. Regardless, I really, really want to punish Hitler. If we can’t kill him, let’s castrate him.

You got it, Rocky. The Gods just might let this one go.

11

The Renegades saw this and heard it all and lived to be a hundred a thousand times over. Emperors and slaves, they harvested the grapes with backs bent and bloody and drank the wine with faces red and swollen. They sat on mountaintops in snow, silence, and wind and were followed by millions and they waded barefoot through deserts and mud when the climate changed and the harvests withered. They died young, they died old, they resorted to cannibalism when there was no other way and prevailed to tell a drowning world about it. Receivers of Nobel prizes and Pulitzers they spent lifetimes in jail for crimes against humanity and were righteous among nations and enemies of mankind. What’s revealed and felt with endless iterations, what Hellhounds emerge from the depths of the soul, that they were, The Renegades. Like children in the dark by the door and the light coming in, refusing to sleep to see what’s hidden outside. You have to live it to talk it and talk it to walk it but if so, how far can you go? Classic Keith, asking the Gods questions like that.

The feeble doctor entered in a hurry, late as usual, and did not bother to greet the secretary who motioned him not to enter Dr. August’s office, for he had a patient. He sat down at his desk in his office that did not carry his name, because his position was not permanent, he was helping out temporarily. The first patient was a woman in her fifties, a housewife and native to Berlin. The feeble doctor hated Berlin because of its filth and all the people. The woman, barely able to speak from exhaustion and excessive crying, spoke incoherently and with unnecessary detail about red little demons that for many weeks now, all her life, really, had taken residence in the attic. There they walked around with heavy footsteps and made so many noises that the woman could not get a minute’s sleep. The feeble doctor wasn’t having any of it. Did the demons not wake the children? “No, only I can hear them,” the woman said, but had no valid explanation as to why they had chosen her in particular. “The world is going to hell anyway,” she said, to which the doctor could only nod. He looked at his watch and asked if there was anything else she wanted to add. “I’ve always been a Capricorn,” the woman said. “Given the celestial circumstances, it’s no wonder that…”, but the doctor cut her off. “What’s astrology got to do with it?” he yelled, but restrained himself. The woman reacted with even more crying and did not dare to speak further. The feeble doctor, pleased to gain control of the situation, informed the poor woman that he was admitting her to the psychiatric ward, whether she liked it or not, and that she would be prescribed three days of fixation to, as he put it, get a grip on herself. “We’ll see what the little demons have to say to that.” The doctor pressed a button under his desk and the woman, resisting in every way she could, was brought out by two orderlies. He wrote in his journal: private logic, bizarre delusions, word salad, schizophrenia of the third degree. The division into stages was his own invention. After three months in Dr. August’s practice, the feeble doctor had gained confidence, and often practised without consulting the world-renowned psychiatrist for advice. The next patient, however, did not fit neatly into any diagnostic category, whether invented by himself or accepted by the medical community.

“I was eleven when I had my first vision. It warned me that my brothers would be killed in a war. A year later war broke out and a year after that they were dead. I went to my father but he shrugged it off. I learnt to keep silent. But now, doctor, I can’t be silent any longer.” The feeble doctor had a hard time hearing Anna’s words, for she was immediately the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her eyes were grey and cold, her hair blonde and to the shoulders, and her forehead was high and proud and Aryan-like. Her body was slim and moved in harmony with the sensual mouth that kept on talking, and above the mouth sat an elegant nose with the shape of a perfect triangle. The doctor made a note in his mind to later bring this description to paper, for he was not only a promising psychiatrist but also an aspiring author and authentic artist in general. “The war scattered my family like leaves in the wind and I ended up at an orphanage. It was here that I received my second vision. Go to Berlin, it said. The moment you step out of the train you will meet a man and he will be your husband. That too was true, doctor. That man is today the father of my two children whom I love very much!” Such beauty, thought the feeble doctor, and such madness. “Your husband,” he proceeded, “have you ever told him about these hallucinations?” Anna seemed disappointed, that much he could tell from her face, and she said, “Doctor, please, they are not hallucinations, they are visions. I don’t see them, they are more like messages transferred to my mind by which I instantly know that something is true. But no, as I said, I have never told anyone until now.” At this the feeble doctor relaxed visibly and reclined in the chair. From the drawer he fetched a cigar and lit it, blowing the smoke to the side. “Young woman,” he said with as much benevolence as he could muster, as if much was at stake for him, “I am listening. Go on, spill your heart out.”

Anna talked and the feeble doctor enjoyed the nicotine rush from his cigar. The room filled with smoke and her eyes watered and she coughed, but all was lost on the doctor who had enough to think about. Both of his wives were pregnant, one in the first and the other in the third trimester, and in different ends of Berlin, one in Neukölln and the other in Pankow. Agatha and Claudia, such beautiful women, but, alas, such dangerous fathers, a butcher and a blacksmith. The feeble doctor spent most of his days travelling back and forth and making up excuses. He didn’t mind being rejected should the women find out about each other (in fact, that would be a relief, and a reason to leave), but he did fear the fathers and what they would do with their crude tools should they catch him. He was thinking about running away, leaving filthy Berlin altogether. He was going south, to Bavaria, where he had heard there were no Jews and no Social Democrats and where healthy, proud Aryan men marched in cheerful columns…

“Doctor, are you even listening?” The torrent of words that kept interfering with the doctor’s delicate thinking subsided and were replaced by this, he reckoned, absolutely insulting imputation, that he was, in fact, not hearing what his patient was saying. “Of course I’m listening!” he beamed. “Indeed, I think I’ve heard enough! Is that your good husband in the waiting room?” Seconds went by before she answered. “Yes, it was his idea to bring me here, to have me evaluated by a specialist. But I can see now… It’s all very… It’s soul-breaking…” The doctor frowned. “Yes, yes, that’s enough. My assistants will see you out.” The doctor pressed the hidden button and the orderlies took Anna by the arm and led her out. He wrote in his journal: thought disorder, manic, talks too much, schizophrenia of the fourth degree. Will not improve with even the best of treatment.

An hour later he stood wavering outside Dr. August’s office. It was well past supper and the great psychiatrist found no joy in being interrupted this late. Nevertheless, the doctor knocked twice and when he did not receive a reply entered. Dr. August looked up with a friendly face, but then again, the doctor had never been able to decipher the great man. “Soul-breaking. Is that even a word?” he asked. “Of course,” said Dr. August and went back to his writing. “Anything else?” Yes and no, the feeble doctor thought with increasing annoyance. “How can you be so sure?” Dr. August did not grace him with a reply. If it wasn’t for the ticking of the clock one could’ve heard a hairpin fall. “Does the name Hitler mean anything to you?” Dr. August put down his pen and reclined in the chair, lighting a cigarette. “What’s with all the questions? You know I don’t discuss politics.” So he does know him, the doctor thought, encouraged. “I’ve just had this patient. She talked and talked, you know how they are, the manics. In any case, she mentioned this man, Hitler. She said he will destroy the Jews and the opposition, the Social Democrats, the Communists, all of them, and then he will use the rubble and the ashes to build a new, great and Aryan Germany.” The doctor couldn’t read Dr. August’s stone-cold face. “You seem excited about this?” he was asked. “Well, yes. I mean, Germany for the Germans, right? We can’t have the Jews running everything.” At this, the great psychiatrist rose from his chair and stood close to the feeble doctor, looked him straight in the eye and blew cigarette smoke right on his face. “I am proud of my Jewish heritage. Now, you get the Hell out of my office before I call the orderlies on you!”

On the train to München the feeble doctor wrote in his diary:

“Life is too short to be wasted on patients. Addiction, everyone’s addicted to something. I want a pure world. I want racial segregation. I want my own set of slaves. Hitler has praised the Alps in his speeches, and he praises the purity of the Aryan race. Far away are the Jews. Far away are Agatha and Claudia. Far away is Dr. August who turned out to be Jewish. Far away are all my problems. Look at the world! For the first time in my life I can say with confidence that I am free. I am strong. I am hopeful. My life has a purpose. His name is Hitler. Adolf Hitler. The future of the Aryan race, to which I happily belong. I am his soldier.”

He locked the diary and put it in his suitcase, fixed the pillow behind his head and flattened out on the seat, glad that he had the compartment for himself. For a while he looked at the stars and studied as best he could the villages and stations that flew by. He fell asleep and dreamt that he was smoking a cigar with Hitler. It was then that Anna entered, tracking device in hand. It was smaller than a fingernail. Before she put it in the suitcase she studied his innocent face. He could’ve been my father, she thought. We could’ve been lovers on a runaway. When the time comes, how will they know who is Jewish or not? The men, sure, but us women? She’d left a note on the table at home, leaving everything behind.

The next day the feeble doctor joined the Party and purchased a brown shirt and brown trousers and the proper boots to go along. I’m not a violent man, he reasoned, at least not yet, and postponed the purchase of a bat or stick. In the evening he stood before the mirror. If there be riots I will come back and change but I must look my best before the Fuhrer. He put a flower in the pocket of his tanned suit. Two rooms down the corridor Anna too was getting ready, receiver in one hand, a glass of wine in the other. She was wearing an elegant red dress and had put on makeup and was looking her very best, irresistible, even, or so the doctor would come to think. Months had passed since their meeting.

When entering the beer cellar, the doctor was taken aback by the rancid smell of urine, cheap tobacco, and spilt beer and could not proceed. He perceived in horror the moving mass of rugged faces and tattered clothing and the violent murmur from a hundred drunken voices. This is a big mistake, he thought. Where was the little table in the corner with a flower in a vase and a clean, white tablecloth from which he should enjoy the speech before approaching for conversation? Anna, delighted, found him like that. “You don’t recognise me?” she said with a smile. The doctor’s gaze took turns between the dark turmoil of the cellar and the mesmerising beauty of her shining face. “No,” he said, shaking. “Should I?” In an unusual move, Anna extended her hand for the doctor to kiss while imploring with her eyes that he should do something else. “The name’s Agatha,” she said to his further confusion. “Is it? I must sit down.”

The feeble doctor had never been struck by love like this before. For an hour he ascended and descended the treacherous steps of nascent love’s ladder. He considered carefully what to say only to abandon it a second later. He stared at her daringly only to avoid her when she looked back. It was a game of looks because not much could be communicated across the table, cramped in as they were between wide shoulders and loud voices. “I’ll get us something to drink!” Anna shouted. “No, don’t leave me!” he yelled, but she was already at the bar.

Later, the doctor had something important to relate. “I’m planning to meet with Hitler after the speech and I want you to join me!” he shouted. “That’s fantastic!” she replied. “I’d like to meet him as well, you must introduce me!” The feeble doctor could not be saved, madly in love and delusional. “What shall we do for our honeymoon?” Anna took his hands. “That’s for you to decide. If you want to. If not, I have some ideas.” They looked at each other, one in earnest, the other not.

November 1944, no light from the clouds but slowly falling snow since the Soviets dropped the bomb that silenced the Nazi voices. Years had passed since Hitler escaped to hell or who knows where. To South America under a fake Jewish name. To a secret base under the North Pole that the Nazis had been working on since the thirties. To the dark side of the moon where the aliens that created the solar system lived. Or, most likely, to the backstreets and alleys of Neukölln to live and die a transvestite prostitute addicted to morphine. Göring, the generals liked to say, was Hitler’s pimp and dealer, but the former Oberkommando der Luftwaffe denied the accusations. He was toppled after the failure of Operation Sea Lion in 1942.

The radiation didn’t bother the feeble doctor who awoke in his hole, hungry and cold, like every afternoon, and who waited until night to go hunting for whatever trash remained in Hitler’s great Germania. He cursed the rumbling of tanks above and the marching of soldiers. He cursed his father who back in the day had forced him to pursue medicine, leaving him at the end of the world without a means of survival. Not even crazy anymore, like his patients, not an animal. A human coping. Water, water, do you have any water? You don’t want to drink that. The feeble doctor in the black of the night, always with a coin for a shit beer or two in a bombed-out cellar. He did not have the luxury of dying fast from a drug addiction.

After the castration of Hitler, the night of which he remembered nothing, he had gone back to Berlin to work and developed insomnia. Turning and fighting in the bed, one part accepted the perceptions of what had happened and that somehow Agatha was involved. He had been set up, used like a crude tool. Shoo love and dreams of a future with her! The other part ignored what it heard, that the Fuhrer had gone mad. Hitler had discovered something about himself, they said, in bars, streets, and alleys, and even the patients talked, which made him furious. Nightmares! The Aryan race was no longer important, nor was the fight against International Jewry, or building National Socialism in Germany. Hitler was a woman now, and the breasts grew larger every day. The doctor knew that such a transition was impossible without sophisticated hormone treatment the likes of which had not seen the day. Rumours and hearsay, he concluded. Crazy propaganda, from the British most likely. Still, when the long-winded speeches on the radio climaxed in a shrieking that mixed with the static and was painful to the ears, the feeble doctor could not help but to turn down the volume. When the war broke out he was unemployed, searching for Claudia, and had lost all interest in politics.

“Curse this and curse that, why must the world be my enemy!” With that the wind grabbed the door and swung it open and he entered like a hurricane. “This day like every other, always the damn Jews!” “Leave the cart outside,” the bartender demanded, protecting his ears against the yelling and the nose against the smell. “That’s her with the bags, the tattered clothing, the once white fur coat now brown from filth and hard rain. That’s her!” A safari hat with a peacock’s feather of which only half remained. Scanning the room with furious eyes, finding customers, adversaries, someone to fight, nobody knew. “The usual?” the bartender demanded. “Not today!” he cried. Laughter all around. “The Fuhrer is back! Silence! The tide is turning!” More laughter. “I will be back!” He was up on a chair before the bartender could stop him, and then on the counter, fist raised, pale unshaven legs under ripped dirty stockings. “However! For that I will need money!” Still a decent orator, convincing some. A line formed in the back. Women were hard to come by in post-apocalyptic Germania. There was no tomorrow to speak of, and no colleagues or wives whom someone might tell.

The feeble doctor knew what was going on, this evening like every other, in the back room, and could hear it now and then, the unbearable shrieking, but thought then instead of Claudia. He too had known love, a long time ago. It was confusing and tiresome, at least when one’s a Christian that’s been married twice but never divorced or widowed. Five years to track her down to find six children and an ugly face that he no longer recognised. As for Agatha, she escaped to Italy… This beer tastes like mud… Sex with a prostitute was below him, no matter the attraction, physique, or degree of desire.

Speaking of which, here he came, limping, looking tired and depleted, standing before him now, making demands. Such tired eyes! Pinhole eyes! Were they brown or blue? They were black like wells in the night. It struck him then and he knew it was true, that this was not just any prostitute but the long gone Hitler himself. Not much, not even the little moustache, remained of the once visionary face but the disintegrating creature could be no other. His beloved Fuhrer. He felt nauseous. The little toothless mouth kept moving but the doctor was in awe and did not hear. An absolute lunatic! Never have I had a patient that… “Would you also like to try, young man?” The demonic eyes beaming with hatred of everything alive. “Two coins and a beer and I’m yours for the night.” I must help this man, the feeble doctor thought, whatever the cost, and gave away his coins and what remained of the beer that tasted like shit and mud.

Later, while Hitler, who was already craving, set out on a tirade not worthy of recounting, the doctor instinctively assessed, with a crooked psychiatrist eye, the grimaces and movements, the degree of misery that was beyond quantification. Amazingly, though he was sickly, trembling, and yellow, Hitler hid well any physical suffering. Driven by hate, the doctor concluded, vengeance, despite the deadly radiation, it kept him alive, there was no other explanation. Psychotic in many ways, delusional, in being certain that the old crew and what remained of the population would ever take him back. It was not long before Hitler fell silent from exhaustion and the doctor could get a word in.

“Age has not done you well, my Fuhrer.” But Hitler did not get the hint. “Do you hear me, Adolf Hitler? My Fuhrer, I know who you are.” “Yes, of course!” exploded the madman and flew off the chair, catching the bartender’s attention. “The whole world knows who I am!” Laughter at the bar. “They also know that I am expensive and don’t like to wait.” Hitler began yelling and shaking his fists exactly like the Hitler the world used to know. The dramatic orator, all feeling, no wit. “Shut up all of you! I’ve killed many men before!” He raised a finger and began to limp around, the tremor of the left arm hidden behind the back, muttering, shaking his head. “I had some great plans for solving the Jewish question. I would not be decent to the rats. I would save the Aryan blood. But they never gave me a chance!” Hitler exploded in anger again. “Jews, all of you!” Climaxing. “Traitors! Bolsheviks!” Laughter and scattered applause. Suddenly, he seemed to remember something and turned to the doctor who became frightened. “Young man, come now to the back or pay with your life.”

“That’s enough!” Keith was back and couldn’t help himself. “He’s not going anywhere.” In his hand two capsules that Hitler saw with frenzied eyes and licked his lips perceiving. “And who might you be, young man?” “I’m just a brother helping you out. For the disappearance of these two pills that you require, I offer world-class somatic and psychiatric care, in first-class facilities, the best doctors and psychologists, on the Moon, far from all your troubles. I guarantee that you will feel alright again, clean and free from desire, healthy and with a positive mindset.” Hitler’s bewildered face doubted, but in the end he was not impressed. “You look like a Jew, why should I trust you?” And The Renegades left that world to its own, to decay and be forgotten, for no soul remained to sustain it.

12

Terry?

We’re back, Rocky. Take it easy. Sit down.

I raised my eyes and saw a choir approaching. They were standing in the grass and the black sky was like a curtain. They were angels clad in white, shimmering, and one was standing before the others.

Speaker: The heavens decide what words there will be when all we do is sing to be free.

Choir: When in the mind pours black, hard rain and in the veins flows weary, sparkling wine. When there’s no agenda but to soothe and make right.

Speaker: No violence of phrases but righteous light.

Choir: A heart that beats, alone in the cold, pumping in the snow like a train coming home.

Speaker: Oh, treacherous clouds that painted our best. Oh, darkest of soils that swallowed the rest.

Terry, what is…

Hush!

Choir: Small paths in the ground in thaw, trailed by a hotter-than-fire Hellhound paw, securing the deaths of thousands. The Gods in the clouds utter the words when friend turns to foe and select the time it happens.

Speaker: From this we know there’s us and there’s them, the living and the dying, the thriving and the threatened.

Hush!

Choir: Explosions in the sky made your limbs go fly but I’ll see you again much later. All of you, charred. Time has not forgotten faces, eyes, and fire.

Speaker: Curse and curse the fathers who forced the hands that turned to destruction.

Choir: Love them all the same for they were deceived and their eyes turned to grass and sky. They swam in their prime but we could not when the oceans boiled and poured over. They flew with wings and fixed us to the ground like water and stone and the starry night on Pluto.

Speaker: We won’t rise again, our mouths are shut, we won’t shout again! Curse the fathers of destruction!

Why are they…

Hush!

Choir: A pile of dirt for us to climb with broken backs and foggy minds. A golden palace on the outskirts of town shining in the distance like a ghost playing games.

Speaker: Oh, Ravens in the thousands, circling, circling, the madness and the pain, don’t you know that the world is turning, like a giant sleeping?

The music faded and the angels evaporated like mist come morning, as did the whole experience.

What now, Terry? Still waiting for Keith?

Why, you just met him, Rocky. Are you a goldfish? He’s out again but he’ll be back. Keith’s always coming back.

Beloved was doing the dishes with quick hands and I could see from the side that her eyes were beaming. Light of hope was hitting the soap and the water and bouncing all around, enchanting a Saturday in November into something otherworldly and rainbow-coloured. Her period was late, just a bit, but she had a headache too, and perhaps she felt a little bit nauseous. I was happy, of course, but cautious, nervous, and wasn’t sure what to say when our eyes met briefly and then escaped like teenagers in love for the very first time. “Jennifer, time to go to bed!” I yelled, focusing on a task rather than riding a plane that might crash at any minute. The last time we were pregnant it ended in blood, tears, fighting, and two empty bottles of wine. “Not now, dad!” From the other end of the apartment I heard footsteps and doors closing. “Yes, now, Jennifer!” She was hiding somewhere, probably in our bedroom under the bed. It was about time for an eight-year-old to sleep in her own bed, but as a single dad every other week this was a fight I had postponed. Beloved insisted now that we lived together. “If we’re having a baby,” she said, “Jennifer must be able to sleep by herself. You must help me with the baby, you can’t be running back and forth the whole night.” Beloved was right, of course, and we were making progress. The problem was that Jennifer’s mother resisted the idea.

Many parents know what a mountain to climb getting the teeth brushed is. Now she was hungry and now she remembered that she had promised to call her mother to say goodnight. “You have five minutes,” I said and went out to Beloved. Ten minutes later they were still talking, playing some game on Messenger. “That’s it,” I said, “time to say goodbye, we’re going to bed.” Jennifer’s mother rarely cooperated here, rather having me the evil outsider set on tearing them apart. “Remember, pumpkin,” she said, “if you wake up at night call me instead of waking your father.” My blood boiled instantly. “That’s outrageous!” I cried at the tablet, controlling my voice and turning to my daughter. “Jennifer, if you wake up you come in to me. I will not be angry and I will put you to sleep again. Just like I always do.” Jennifer’s heart was shattered like a thousand times before. They spent a long time kissing and saying goodbye and then her mother was out of the picture. “Dad,” she said, “I will go out and put the tablet back.” That’s sweet, I thought. She took longer than usual and I did not hear the cupboard open and close, trying to relax as I was, scrolling on the phone. She stood by the bedside at three-thirty and we slept the remainder of the night like sardines in a can in her narrow bed.

The next morning, a Sunday, was busy. Beloved was getting ready and Jennifer had been instructed to take a shower and get ready too. We were making a trip to Roskilde to see the old cathedral. Jennifer loved old buildings, old things, history. I checked on her several times, at first encouraging her to get a move on, and later with annoyance, urging her. “Put the tablet away. Now.” She put it away but when I came back she was at it again. “Can I go the playground?” That was an odd request, she hated playgrounds. “When is it 1 pm?” Something was up. “We’ll be in Roskilde by then. Why?” Bewilderment in her eyes, fear even. I went out and came back again. “What are you doing on the tablet?” She was typing desperately. “Let me have a look. Give it to me.” She burst out crying. “No! I’m talking to mum!” I wrestled it out of her hands. There had been a video call with her mother in the middle of the night, thirty minutes in duration, just before she woke me up. Hearts and kisses in the chat and a single message from her mother. 1 pm at the playground. And Jennifer’s reply, sent just now. Dads not leting me we r goin on a trep!!!

Now, all horses were off the table. I called and objected but she was already in the car. We started calm but were screaming a minute later, hanging up. “She’s coming here in thirty minutes!” I yelled at Beloved. “It’s illegal,” she said. “You have a shared custody contract.” I hit the kitchen table with my fist. “Of course it’s illegal! But that’s not stopping her!” My heart turned to stone, it was a canary in a coal mine grasping for air, buried by layers and layers of dirt. But Beloved’s was functional. “Guess we’ll have to pack her things, then.”

We walked down the stairs hand in hand. My strategy was to avoid pouring gas on the fire, though that too provoked the mother who fancied fighting with Jennifer as a witness. “I was thinking,” she said, standing in the doorway with a snake’s face, “whether we should drink a cup of hot chocolate after the meeting on Tuesday. Just the three of us.” Jennifer was being interviewed by the judge and a child psychologist for the upcoming day in court to settle custody. “Let’s see,” I said. “Let’s talk about it the two of us.” Jennifer’s face was one part sad, one part happy, standing between us. I expected a Please, dad but nothing came. I lifted her up and we hugged. “Promise you won’t go to the cathedral without me?” she whispered. “I love you, pumpkin. We’ll see it next time. Now go, I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.” I sat her down and she ran towards the car, turning and waving. “Love you too, dad!”

A rain began to fall, heavy and grey like the emptiness taking her place, like the silence barricading us in our forts. When there were no words we set out for Roskilde anyway. “Don’t look at it,” I said as we crossed the square where the cathedral looms large over the city centre. It was closed by now and the streets were dark and empty. We were the only guests in a popular burger joint and I had a beer but could’ve had ten at once. Beloved ordered a club soda. “Are you eating? Still feeling nauseous?” I asked. “I don’t know what I’m feeling. Do you think she’s alright?” All things considered, Jennifer was a happy child. She had friends, she liked going to school, there were no tantrums. But she never talked about her mother, or how she was doing when she was there. “Of course she’s alright,” I said with a shrug. “Don’t worry about that now. What are you having?” It was raining greatly still when we got home. I opened a bottle of wine and put on Mahler’s Fifth Symphony, skipping to the fourth movement, the slow adagietto. “This must be one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written, with the harp,” I said. Beloved’s face took on a serious expression. Her father was a jazz musician playing the double bass. I closed my eyes. I did not exist. I was a violin.

13

We were line dancers, one could say, and as musicians we were producers, levitating in the air, on the edges of knives, in the trenches and the dirt, Keith and I, as the bullets flew past. In one life the phone bounced back against our brow, leaving a terrible bruise, and in another it crushed the thin bone sheet of the temple, killing us instantly. That fateful change of trajectory, the intervention, from one moment to the next, life flashing and trembling, that’s what Keith was up to. We were killed in front of our daughter and a Spitfire and we survived and kept on flying, just like that, all at once. It was always Keith and I, and his dog, Collin, and Sajber. Through the rainbow-tinted tunnels of time, back and forth like bouncing souls. Setting things right, a ship arriving just in time to save a drowning witch. An especially wicked witch. Oh, I loved you from the start and always will, you troubled, miserable copy of something with hairy arms and legs and a beautiful head. You crazy ball of fire…

IF YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY, THEN SAY IT NOW

Let me just open my eyes…

THEN SAY IT NOW

I’ve always admired that you were a part of the Techno subculture in the 90s though I’m content with the fact that I wasn’t there to live it. Several of your friends from that time became heroin addicts. Only one, that I know of, escaped to live a normal life. He has a family a real family and is a psychologist rehabilitating drug users. The rest are dead or getting there fast. One sold his girlfriend’s apartment behind her back to buy drugs. She was surprised when she came home and the key didn’t fit. He has two daughters with Charlie, one of your closest friends, but he’s not allowed to see them.

He took an overdose in front of the girls. Of the two addicted parents, Charlie is the best option. She’s only addicted to cannabis and cocaine. She’s not homeless.

Some years ago, on your fortieth birthday, you and Charlie smoked crack in the public toilet in Kongens Have. There, I said it. Charlie had the daughters with her to the party, but others took care of them. I remember the wide circle of friends on the grass, Nirvana from the Marshall Bluetooth speaker I’d gifted you, the children - Jennifer included - playing in the park, and you sitting there, all silent, unable to handle such celebratory attention. None of your friends spoke either, which left us in a slowly decaying kind of party.

THE FRIENDS

THE FAMILY

You have a wide circle of friends, people you’ve picked up along the way. People you’ve met in the bodegas and on your nightly wanderings through Copenhagen.

THE FAMILY

On Jennifer’s ninth birthday someone forgot to make a reservation at the China buffet so we ended up in the shitty multi-storied McDonald’s restaurant close to the central station, on a Saturday evening. Drunk teenagers, big macs and soda on the floor. I haven’t told you that Beloved was shocked when she realized that all your friends belongs to the lowest step on the social ladder. We’re not even talking working class! A whole circus entering, bags, trolleys, kids. Their language, their behaviour, their tattered street clothing. The way they let the kids just run around screaming in the restaurant. Even if it’s just a McDonald’s? Rufus went outside to smoke a joint and the smell reached us on the second floor. Defeated from the start I found that exciting, always have… Who cares about the well-off? mental disorders, treated or otherwise, orphans, addicts, no education, not a chance, and poor little Angel souls like your own. We ended up drinking shots in Funchs Vinstue. What happened to Jennifer? I think my brother and sister took her home to sleep.

THE FRIENDS

You arrived in our country at the age of nine, you arrived from the south of Europe where people’s temperaments are hotter and conversation more one-sided. That’s how I explained it in the beginning. You’re a fucking joke as a doctor! Your father was of noble breed and your grandfather had a square named after him, for he was a general and was taken prisoner when the Nazis gave northern Italy to the fascists. Ever the rebel, your father, he did not study law or medicine as was expected, but mathematics, and went on to develop one of the first operating systems. When the company expanded to the Soviet states, your father visited Moscow often, and brought home bottles of exclusive wines, much to the delight of your mother, I imagine, who was now living in relative comfort, coming from a poor upbringing. That’s your mother screaming!

You’re nostalgic and you believe in Astrology and Tarot cards. You have that from your mother. Rufus said that the anger’s from your mother too. The drinkers rage, the abandoned child rage You keep every single bit of memory, for everything else was taken away from you.

When your father died fast from pancreatic cancer you were there with his last breath. He sat up, the eyes opened, shone with a strange blue light, and then closed as the body lost power. You admired your father. He tucked you in bed and read goodnight stories while your mother sat up drinking in the cool garden. Your father made sure that you had clean clothes and that the pencils were sharpened. He drank until the end and spent the last months in the hospital. With the inheritance you rented a van and drove with a friend to empty the house of all its belongings.

THE FAMILY

You kept it all. The strange string instruments collected on worldwide travels, the best of the wine, all the pieces of knight’s armour and all three heavy swords. All the family photos. I’ve seen your father naked… The wooden shield with the family emblem. A 15th-century monastery dining table, a gift from when your father married into one of the oldest families in Milano. Some of the belongings are in your crowded home, the rest are scattered across cheap storage facilities all over Zealand.

The rest of the money, while it lasted, was spent on travels to Morocco and India. You’ve been to India many times, you even brought Rufus with you. You had a fight and lost each other in Kathmandu. Oh, Rufus, we miss him with the black lungs and visual hallucinations. Some months before he died he went to Goa by himself. He spent three weeks smoking hashis every day in one big psychosis. Not good for the chronic schizophrenia and the COPD. Then he came back, tripped on something on the street, and died on the spot from pneumothorax. Didn’t quite reach fifty. All of Copenhagen outcast came to the funeral but in life the only friend he ever had was you.

THE FAMILY

As life went on, a bottle of Pinot Noir degrading to vinegar became the only witness to confirm that there was a rainbow in the sky the first time you walked, and that the grass was wet. I imagine that your parents didn’t see it, and dead are the cows in the field behind the stone fence where you twenty years later got stoned with Romero, whom we visited in Torino some years back. Another addict with a daughter. He offered me a joint on the balcony and it turned out to be pure skunk. In a matter of seconds the turn-of the turn-of-the-century dense cityscape with its narrow streets, wires and antennas dissolved into a steampunk hellscape, the cars and vespas were driving on the walls. I returned to the cramped apartment looking for a place to crash. You and Jennifer were sleeping upstairs. Romero sat in the sofa and kept on talking in Italian and the TV wasn’t functioning. I went to bed, where there also was a TV. The only channel showed around-the-clock news in Italian.

YOU COULD’VE DONE BETTER

Help me, Oh God, help me!

In some sense, given the circumstances, we were happy there at the picturesque restaurant overlooking the old Roman bridge. You used to come there with your parents, a thirty-minute drive up the steep and twisting mountain roads. They remembered you, the old couple that ran the place, and they loved Jennifer. Up there in the mountain the air was thinner and the water in the river metallic and fresh. The summer was hot that year in Piedemonte. I swam in the ice-cold waters and imagined that Roman legions had done the same. My brother and sister came to visit and I leaned back and drank glass after glass of the young table wine. Weren’t you happy then?

Under that same sun, in that same garden, your parents kept you in a playpen to sit themselves in the shadows of a tree, drinking and relaxing. I’ve seen the photos. The newly-cut grass, the villa, your parents with drinks in their hands. In the background… Your father tired after work, your mother longing for conversation. True, she found friends in the village, not proper friends with whom she could discuss the arts and politics, but peasant friends, and she helped with the harvest in the autumn. The old man that lived next door, the owner of the cows, remembered you. You mother’s best friend in the village was suffering from dementia and was confused to see you. The house itself had decayed and the paths you used to walk were overgrown.

How your mother ended up in a remote village in the mountains of Piedmonte is a book in itself. Your voice proud, or so I reckoned, when you told me their story.

Milano, yes, that’s where your grandfather had a square named after him.

Your mother was a painter visiting with a friend. Coming for the art, and the partying. Or she spun a globe and put her finger anywhere, as long as it was Europe. Or they met in Mallorca or Gran Canaria - or was it Barcelona?

Anyway, your parents met while on vacation and they liked each other but soon your mother had to return to Denmark. She was waiting at the airport when a waiter approached her and asked her to come with him. In an area closely connected to the gates, It sounds implausible… sat your father and his friend Bruno - who was decapitated years later when his car crashed into a bridge - at a long table dressed in white cloth and served with the finest wines and grapes, pineapple, grilled tuna, bistecca alla fiorentina, risotto alla milanese, ossobuco, and minestrone alla milanese.

Please don’t go, I love you.

MOTHERS AND FATHERS

Your father the neurotic bought a sports car, a Ferrari, and tied a string to the wheel and attached it to his toe so that he would awake if someone tried to steal it. He worked not in Milano but in the nearest large town and was unfaithful - the trip odometer gave him away your mother watched it closely - and was generally not a good partner, and your parents never married.

YOU COULD’VE DONE BETTER

Your mother drank every day and got very little painting done. Stop that NOW! Fed up, she moved to Brussels, where she got work as a translator, and that’s how you came to speak French at the age of four. Then they were together again for four years until your mother left for good and returned to Denmark, taking you with her. Thus began your mother’s wild years.

As a teenager you were impossible and skipped school to hang out smoking joints with the other outcast kids. That’s how you started smoking those hand-rolled filterless cigarettes, from getting addicted to the tobacco in the joints. Your style was that of an Astral Witch. I don’t know what grades you managed to produce but the teachers were concerned.

I helped you take a degree in pedagogy and now you have a full time job and can pay the bills.

YOU COULD’VE DONE BETTER

Keith, let’s take off…

Terry! Let’s go!

Your mother, now in her early forties, had you transferred to a private boarding school that she couldn’t afford with the hope that it could improve your grades. Yet, when she had friends over and they sat in the kitchen drinking until late she woke you up she called and asked you to spell a word, any word, easy or hard, so that she could laugh as you got it wrong. Dyslexia was not a household term at the time. Your mother took the monthly school allowance to hold parties that lasted for days.

MOTHER AND FATHERS

Once you attended a party and in some kind of drinking contest won a handmade special edition of William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience. The organizer of the contest was disappointed that this great work of art was awarded to someone who had never read a book. He asked if you liked Dostoevsky…

Misunderstood and taken for stupid.

THIS IS LONELINESS

So much loneliness in one being.

We aren’t rodents

RAGE RAGE RAGE

Every summer you visited your father who still lived in the villa. He was alone again, had been unfaithful again. The only time you talked to your father about what feelings was when he drove you to the airport. Eyes on the road, free from responsibility, the two of you in a long process of saying farewell. He was named after a Roman Emperor.

You were 25 when he died and your mother followed six years later, also from cancer. The tumour originating in the right lung had grown so large that it extended the skin of the back. The idiot doctor sent her to a physiotherapist thinking that it was a bad muscle. On her dying bed, hallucinating from the high doses of morphine, she refused to let you inherit the little summerhouse by the ocean on the west coast of Zealand. The lawyer hired to sort it out left you with a debt that you still haven’t paid off but the house became yours and I’ve been there many times. It’s the last one standing from the 30s. The other lots have modern houses on them.

TIME IS RUNNING OUT

Let’s go, boys!

Dear Friend, please receive this letter:

We met on a summer’s morning, by chance, as it seemed, like unfortunate lovers often do, and fucked in the bushes in Assistens churchyard, but quiet, so as to not awake the spirit of H. C. Andersen. You were quick to reply that we should meet again and it was not long before we were going steady. Too ruined to go steady Well, sometimes we weren’t, because you had other lovers than me. Dark and stormy, you hit me on the mouth when I would not cease a long-winded argument about this or that. That wall I was far from perfect and when you slept I went over your messages and calls and instead of confronting you I grew paranoid and acted erratically and unfairly. Could we ever talk? Yet, we went to the lakehouse where I tried mushrooms for the first time, and we went out on the boat and swam in the lake under the midnight moon. Once, at a factory techno club, you found a bag of mushrooms. You ate three and didn’t feel anything. Then you ate the whole bag.

Terry!

Keith, have you seen him?

Isn’t that Sajber coming down for a landing?

The end of the summer was approaching. Not a day went by without some kind of drama. I was in love, I wanted to save you, like a knight on a white horse. Don’t ever, ever do that again! The more I learned about your past the more I loved you. When I learned that you were nine years older it was already too late Love knows no limits I remember crying on the bus to a beautiful sunset thinking about you.

Anna, cut them off!

Hold him down!

Oh, sister, when I came to knock on your door, you let me in, until you didn’t. What had seemed like destiny was quickly becoming unsustainable.

YOU COULD’VE DONE BETTER

Little did I know that you were unable to maintain normal relations, that you exploded from small tensions and that only time could return feelings to a neutral state. Borderline, ADHD, that’s what I’ve been considering, but you must see another doctor for I’m partial, I hate you and I love you and it never settles.

Sajber, you agree, right? You knew her too. She said that you called for me the whole time when I was away for two days.

I was in the car, in the passenger seat, for I didn’t take a driver’s license until Jennifer came to the world Bob Dylan was playing at Sofiero where I had first heard him fifteen years before, and you called to say that you were pregnant. That’s wonderful, I said. I’ll do whatever it takes.

I could’ve done better…

Turn left, boys, Jerry’s on the intercom

What followed was a rootless existence, a caravan of bags and things. Don’t forget the birds and the two cages we took on the train on an additional stroller. Between days off at the university and skipped lectures any given day in the week could be spent at your place, at my place, at the lakehouse or at the beach by your summerhouse in Korsør. We were well-off Jennifer was only six weeks old when I first saw that other side of you. So little did we know about each other that I had never before seen you properly enraged. Of course, sleep deprivation added to it, but the anger was not justified given that all I’d done was to buy the wrong kind of milk.

THE FRIENDS

Here it came in one burning ball of pain, a whole life done you wrong and the lid’s off.

THE FAMILY

I hid behind the couch, I escaped through the windows and the back door, I did anything to get out of the way. You know it, but you’ll never admit to it, that these fits of rage destroyed what we had. Granted, we broke up before you became pregnant with Jennifer, but what we tried to construct - a modern family, a childhood where Jennifer had access to both her father and mother - was ruined by your uncontrolled behaviour. I know, I know, it’s me writing and you’re not allowed to reply. You came running to push me from behind. You hit me in the head while I was carrying Jennifer up the stairs. You threw a phone in my face in front of our child. Twice. You hurled the Barbie bus at me and destroyed it. What happened to it?

YOU COULD’VE DONE BETTER

Now you can have a taste of it. This is what it feels like to be voiceless.

Achtung, achtung, this is Berlin calling

Turn right, boys, they might not have heard us

After two years we moved to a sustainable living community an hour outside of Copenhagen and how I hated that. I had just finished my degree and was working as a junior doctor at the emergency ward in the nearby town. Every day I came home to fighting and stapled cardboard boxes. That broke your heart

One night while Jennifer was sleeping upstairs you yelled to awake her that her father didn’t want to play with her, that he was only thinking of himself, working all the time, not taking days off to help us settle in. In anger I went to the blue chest where you kept the family photos in large plastic bags and emptied a bag on the floor and kicked on the photos so that they lay scattered all over the floor. To hurt you badly You went after me, reaching for the throat, I ran out of the house without shoes. I came back twenty minutes later to discover that the door was locked. I went around looking through the windows. I went to the back to sit in the armchair by the fireplace. The fireplace was lit and there you were, happy again.

THE FRIENDS

In your extended hand a little joint. Back then, you tended the little pot plantation left by your mother. She lived on pot and red wine those last years You gave me a glass of wine and asked me to sit down. You didn’t say sorry and you didn’t ask us to be friends again.

THE FAMILY

We sat like that under the stars, the wind blowing in from the open fields, fresh and smelling of flowers, soil and wheat. There was no point talking about what had gone wrong this time. Only silence and time could tender the wound. The wound was infected, old and foul.

Dirty band-aids and stretches of bandage and cotton pads were rotating and burning in the ghastly depths of the gangrenous pit.

Yesterday it dawned on me that I have gotten used to not having Sajber land on my head as I enter the room

MOTHER AND FATHERS

Only now, my dear friend, only now, in recent years, as I’m writing this, can we conclude that help did arrive and that it’s working. I reached out for shared child custody and you refused and I took it to the court and in the process the authorities were contacted and help was prescribed. This was my intention all along. I’ve no desire to rule over you, or to take Jennifer’s mother away from her. The 7/7 order is working well, as long as you’re not interfering when Jennifer is with me and Beloved. As long as you don’t arrange to pick Jennifer up behind my back, as long as you don’t call her in the night, and as long as you don’t say mean things about me when I’m not there. All this we have talked about with Zela, our therapist. Zela is experienced and her advice is good. She lets us both talk and stops the other from interfering. Now I can tell you, in one uninterrupted sentence, what I have felt through all these years. In what ways I feel that you have treated me wrong. It’s not your fault. We have always forgiven each other. We have agreed to let sleeping dogs lie, to look forward instead of back and to accept any help and any advice coming from Zela. Already, my beloved friend, already can we see in Jennifer a new kind of relaxation and inner contentedness. Her mother and father are not constantly arguing but are the best of friends. Look at our daughter, my friend, she is the best

Yours truly, Mocky

NEXT

SHE HAS NO FAMILY BUT HER FRIENDS

SHE HAS JENNIFER AND YOU

YOU COULD’VE DONE BETTER

Up at the bar, Keith and Sajber, whispering sweet words of nothing…

I just can’t get over the fact that she nearly killed me with a smartphone.

14

Keith knew this too, spoke as if the end was upon us. The Jerry can keep at it, he said, but we keep at it too. After all, the Jerry’s the attacker and depends on the momentum. On this Earth, around this Sun, in this Galaxy? Gathered for a briefing on the grass, the commander and Keith at the blackboard that had been carried outside. Space was empty again, dark and vacant, the wind howling, dispersing the voices, vitalising the flames, carrying the words to the trees and the Jerry hiding behind them. That green field again! The dancing grass, the void sky, the black horizon. Daydreaming, perhaps. How can I be? How can we be driven into the ground and continue to exist? Keep on going, to Hell? Rat-rat-rat-rat. Bullets through the boys that kept on standing, listening attentively. The typewriter exploded in my face. I carried a loaf of bread when a carriage hit me. I’m watching my wife cooking in the kitchen. I’m in the sofa with a stubborn cold. A normal day at work tomorrow, the emergency ward, early to bed, lights out, hoping to sleep well. The feeling is gone, life is back to normal. We were ghosts. The sun’s rays reflected against the train going slow, hit the cupboards and the kitchen utilities, but the keys to the prison were not revealed, nor what was waiting. Lift me out of my mind. At least one thousand miles to that nail, Terry said. Far from the hands and the body. My head parted and I was lifted upwards. They arrived at the train station, read the station name, walked out in the sun, fetched their mirrors, put on makeup and combed their hairs. How can I exist? Gone too, that special state of mind that questions the experience. Reveal to me the secrets hidden from perception. Convince me that death is not the end, that pain is temporary, and that the dead are content no matter the ways in which they parted from Earth. Do this, Gods! Keith knew all this, he was about to inform the commander when a Jerry broke out of a cloud. Excited, even, not informed. The space was dark and empty. Then a wind started blowing, a sign, perhaps, that the Gods had recognized my demands. A life well lived, with purpose, a permission of sorts, to rest and be content. The abandoned German Shepherds in the East withdrew to the forests, roaming the backs of the villages, starving, eating the children searching for berries. I lived a life that went too fast and I was not able to do the things that I wanted to do. I’m not going to write about pain. On the third day I saw my wife and children.

They’re gonna throw at you everything they have, Terry said. We were walking, had been walking for hours, although we had no watches and could not be sure, and no sun ever set in this strange land. The green field all around, kind of shimmering, the tall grass bending in the wind, the starless sky and yet the light. Coming from where? They don’t even have a gardener, I said and bent down to grab a handful of grass to test that it was real. It smelled like grass. And how can a wind blow when there is no atmosphere? Terry either did not hear me or pretended not to. In court, he said, you have to fight, knowing that the odds are against you. It’s right around the corner. You must be prepared to answer any kind of question, no matter how preposterous. In life, he continued, you also need to be prepared. For the long haul, for absolutely nothing to happen, for boredom, for day after day, for the feeling that time’s running out. Long days at the workplace, the same tasks, few if any prospects for advancement, if that’s what you want. I have to prepare for failure, is that what you’re saying? A life lived to its end is never a failure, Terry replied. The notion of failure comes from a mismatch between prediction and outcome. Always the philosopher, Terry, I laughed. I have no expectations, I have no goals. Oh, you do, Terry replied. In one life you were a fighter pilot, which is quite an achievement. Your goal was to fight the Jerry, an ambitious aspiration. What else have you been? In my other lives? Yes, other than a doctor. I’ve been a physician? I can’t remember that! If only I could! That really would be something. Terry stopped and turned to me. The face on fire, the eyes rotating like burning oil in water. You can’t remember? In his voice surprise, worry even, the slow baritone attaining a hollow quality. No, of course not. Nobody can remember past lives. That’s some metaphysical extrapolation! Because Terry’s face was burning I could not clearly discern his facial expression. We need to hurry up, he said. Wait! I screamed, but Terry was already far ahead of me. At the curvature, into the void, beyond the black horizon.

Other than the harm, what’s difficult about domestic violence is the lack of evidence. Your word is as good as hers… The thoughts in thousands going around in circles like burning cars on a raceway. The heart in a flurry of half-beats and stutters can’t keep up and crashes into the curb. Caffeine and nicotine ingested for the sake of coping add to the rapid ageing and calcification. No, it’s not true that she was wasn’t allowed to wake me up in the middle of the… The plaintiff is asked to be quiet while the defendant is speaking… In conclusion, given the plaintiff’s history of mental illness, namely bipolar disorder, and a history of stalking behaviour, as described by the defendant, it is recommended that the full custody remains with the mother. That was fifteen years ago! I’ve already explained that it wasn’t bipolar disorder. And it was not stalking, I wrote a bunch of poems and love letters, and, yes, did not stop even though she asked me to twice. Daddy, is it true that you laughed when I was put to sleep for my operation? No, my love, that’s outrageous. Mother said you did, and I believe her, but I love you anyway, daddy. My lawyer: There is nothing in my client’s behaviour that contradicts that he is a good father and that his main objective, when realizing the problems, was to get help. The defendant’s documented refusal to co-operate implies that, if shared custody is not granted, no help will be sought, resulting in further harm to the child. Then there’s the parenting plan itself. The defendant asks for nine days, while the plaintiff wants to continue the even 7/7 schedule. Her lawyer: Here, we must listen to the child. Your mission is in vain, little human, and the situation will get worse, in the end crushing you and alienating you from your daughter… She is right in that your real aim is power and control and that, frankly, you are a narcissist…

Terry! The mother keeps the daughter home from school even though she’s not ill, constantly criticises the father’s home and behaviour, and does everything in her power to disturb and destroy. I had been running for an eternity in the tall grass, no shoes on my feet, no sense of direction. Terry stood still at the brink of a ravine, at the bottom of which, far, far away, the twinkling lights of a little village or town could be seen. Did you say something, Rocky? Did you, little human? I don’t think so, I replied, catching my breath. I was worrying about something, but it’s gone now. Or rather, the worry’s still there but its causes have evaded me. Terry smiled, flaming lips and teeth. We need to go down there to ask for directions, he said.

It was then that a thunderous exhaustion struck me like a cannon ball to the chest. A vague recollection, mere traces, threads, of past lives lived, of voices I had known, faces I had loved, bodies I had touched, of happenings that my senses had perceived, in chapters long read. Where before my steps had been light across the field, now they were heavy, impossible, even, as we descended the slippery slope towards the bottom of the ravine. Terry, wait up! I cried. Terry had been far away, now he was close again. You’re remembering? Only faintly, I said. That’s good. You’re just unaccustomed to the weight. The burden of memory? The burden of Death… Something like that, yes. Don’t worry about it, we need to hurry up. Terry, I said, wait, I wasn’t going to worry about it. But now maybe I will! And what’s the hurry? He was far away again, past a bend, down a hill. What’s wrong, Terry? But my words faded in a gust of wind strong enough to rattle a Spitfire in a dive.

I kept at it, true to my soul, true to the bone, like the beggar and the street dog I am. Like the fighter pilot Terry said I’d been, turning and burning, bullets whizzing, engines roaring, day after day, exploding in the sky. Like the doctor I’d once been, administrating the adrenaline, shouting at the nurses. In the void, with my bare arms, one leg before the other through the ankle-high grass that cut my skin like scalpels. Like a tourist in the desert, returning, descending, freezing by the moon, dying by the sun. Into the ravine, trails of blood for some beast to follow, Terry down there somewhere. No rainbows appearing behind churches, no shimmering palm trees by waterholes at the horizon. The wide world silent, not holding its breath, not about to speak, not even watching. Just you and me and the empty space… Hello? A gust of wind, again, ice-cold against my skin. I’m not alone, I said, not thinking straight. It will take more than that. Others will come. They will be bigger, stronger. Wiser, more composed. All alone… This is not a fairy tale. You will never arrive… To write a beautiful verse, about all that I’ve been, to bury it in a suitcase in the forest. Then you’ll go… I’ll do better next time, lessons learned with each iteration. But you won’t… This is not the end. But it is… If they let me… If they let you… A throne and wine ad libitum. To interfere in injustice worldwide. You are… I’ll be a beacon of hope for the unfortunate. You will… I will click all the right buttons, just like the Gods intended, on the gigantic galactic computer. Your body… Strong enough to carry any burden, any distance, to the ends of the world and back, across the seven seas, to the highest mountain, to the deepest depths. Such emptiness, such darkness… Finally, my legs were carrying again. I ran and I ran, down the paths that Terry must have taken, around the bends, down the hills, the distant village shimmering like water and… Breathing down my neck…

I was in a bar. Terry, where else could I have found you? But Terry paid me no attention, chatting as he was with an old woman. No matter from what direction I approached, their backs, in an instant, were against me. I turned to the bartender, whose head was transparent. Through the head, and then through the large window with the letters spelling the name of the bar, I saw the life of the village, the street lights, the shops, the restaurants, ghosts walking by. Babi Bar is a strange name for a bar, I said. Nothing makes sense here, for you, the bartender said without using words. A real stranger in these lands. A shot and a beer, I said, taking control of the situation. Tell me about your dream, the bartender said, handing me my drinks and returning the confusion. I could remember no dream, but then I could. At a playground a little girl handed me a bird, a small parrot. The colours were dark grey and white and on each cheek was an orange dot and on the head a yellow crest. Holding the bird in my hands it came to life. It had been dead but now it was alive, looking around tiredly, stretching its wings, turning its neck. I lifted the bird to my nose to notice that it smelled not sweetly of feathers and skin, as birds usually do, but of moist soil and pine trees. The little girl was watching attentively with a crooked smile. Did you dig it up? The girl nodded, proudly. I do not care, I said, I’m grateful. In the black eyes not life but not emptiness either. It’s a boy, the girl said. In his slow and hushed singing not joy but not sorrow either. To make him fly I threw him up in the air but he made no attempts and landed like a stone in the sand. I took him home and my heart healed. We had parted due to some mistake, some fateful omission on my part, but now order was restored. I cried, not from sorrow but from joy. And you’re absolutely certain that you cannot remember the bird’s name? No, I heard myself saying. I can’t remember anything. Sajber. Does that ring a bell? No, I replied. What about Keith? No. Anna? I shook my head. George? No. Jennifer? No. The only name that you know is Terry, is that correct? Well, Terry, yes, of course, I said, smiling involuntarily. The bartender looked away, thinking about something. We need to get you out of here. I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but one thing’s certain: they are having you erased. They’re coming for you. It’s only a matter of time before you’re gone entirely. Only a matter of time… In the next instant, the bartender rang the bell to announce the last round. Terry appeared in a trench coat and a sixpence hat. What’s with the detective style? But Terry was not going to answer that. Drink up, Rocky, we’re leaving.

Dance, my darling, and live

While the blood’s still warm

Life to the fullest

In a second or an hour you will be

Before the creator

Think, my darling, ponder hard

The words you will use

When asked about the love

Between Fanny and Terry.

Rocky, Terry said, outside the bar, appearing a bit drunk. If you ever return, will you deliver a message? I think the Jerry got me this time.

15

Shooting stars, shooting stars and the space was dark and empty. We never doubted it, Keith and I, the awakened heart that shimmers like a disco ball with eagerness and care, and that explodes on the table, with gifts and surprises, when released from its shackles. Any heart, Keith reckoned, old or dirty, weak or grossly overgrown, when studied, contains the crystals or essential ingredients that produce the pulsations. All around the world, boys… Any heart, Keith emphasised, can be stirred to righteous action. Doubting… Yes, dear Fanny, turn around, walk the other way, survive yet another day. Not people but circumstances drag the muscle over the forlorn sideways. It’s structure, not people, nor greed, nor lust for wealth and power. Death is teleportation and every face and place is revisited until all is well in the world. Ghosts come and go… Die, try again, die, try again. Rise above, rise above. Society, inequality, people. The mountain from which we descended that’s influenced by water and not violence. The Giant God Machine… You were the youngest of seven siblings, perpetually reeling from disgrace and the wrath of a vengeful father. We were robbers, murderers, highwaymen, victims of structural inequalities, held down by the disease of it… Oh, the bliss, to be born with the prerequisites of growth and every step planned in advance, but your mother died from consumption. Sing it, boys… We were artists, leaders, pillars of change and flames of revolution. We lived in chaos and turmoil in Hell and as demons were pitted against friends and family. We expected nothing, thought nothing, and saw life go by in haze, but the meaninglessness did not rock us. We burned the books… Nothing woke to stir our hearts before the children moved out and old age subdued us. Nothing disturbed the plan that wasn’t a plan. T-t-t-t-to see the sun rise and set a million t-t-t-times with you, F-f-f-anny. It spoke to us, then, the Sun. It spoke to the fighter pilot in Terry, diverting the dive after the terrible Jerry. Fight the weakness instead, the Sun said, and don’t come close. I am power and wealth, and life and death. Remain on the ground and look to the side. Other hearts might need mending. The Giant God on the grass. Run, Terry! This way, behind the hills! The weakness… I crashed into the magnetic shield where a force devoured and displaced me. The space was dark and empty… A desert of darkness and uncertainty. I was a fetus in the womb poking the walls. What weakness? Well, in the Spitfire Mark I, the engine of course…

For years, I was convinced that Greg was from another planet or dimension, and that he existed in material form only when observed. A social octopus, Greg maintained the characteristics of a simpleton, reinforced by the broad Ängelholm accent, the slow tempo, the clumsiness, and the usage of simple words and common phrases. Like a peasant or slave, tall, bald, large hands, long ears, thirty years my senior, often dressed in a leather jacket and sweatpants and boots. Indeed, many are intimidated by Greg, and by the things about him they can’t pronounce or understand. I know I was mystified, at least by the pompous living room decorated exclusively with antique furniture, complete with royal portraits on the walls and a cabinet with hundreds of small Buddha statues from his travels to Laos, India, and Nepal, where, according to himself, the monks agreed that he was the Buddha reincarnated. Believe it or not, every new visitor is forced a guided tour of the exhibition where Greg talks at length about the 17th century painting depicting the Battle of Lützen. Scratch the surface, if you dare, sitting next to him in a bar, and your very soul is picked apart and assembled again. Most fail to realise they’ve been touched. It’s not the dark brown eyes that do it, for they look in different directions and are comically enlarged by the thick lenses on the round spectacles. It’s not his way of conversing, either, though he has a tendency to interview and examine incessantly. No, Greg operates in layers of reality that ordinary humans don’t usually perceive. The attraction in three dimensional space is so great that nobody escapes the tentacles. Does Greg have telepathic abilities? I’m positive, but he does all this in secret. He shapes and interferes on astral levels until all moods, tones, and relations between people are to his satisfaction. Greg never gets to decide the music for he always asks for the same song, Evert Taube’s homage to the King. He tolerates most styles, including jazz and blues, but not punk or hardcore. Strike up a conversation about world events or history and the common phrases turn into absolute truths by the time you get home. Many have tried to master Greg, but that has only hardened his slightly tanned skin. Now he’s tough as old boots, but as a child, if he ever was one, he was subject to ridicule from classmates and teachers, of which his own father, strict and miserly, was one. He couldn’t kick or catch a ball because of the eyes. He failed in school because he was dyslexic, which, of course, was not recognized at the time. Greg still can’t pronounce certain words because of a speech impediment pertaining to the letter K which comes out as a G. However, if one doubts the intelligence quota try to beat Greg in a game of backgammon. Notice how he plays with the dice, like a cat with a mouse. Invincible and eternal, older than the Sun… Of course, I’ve never asked, but I doubt that Greg had any friends at all, growing up. Only his mother loved him. If he ever was a child, that is. Regardless, Greg is lovable and fantastic and has acquired many friends. A social animal, after all, he made his home in a small apartment close to Möllevångstorget, on the third floor with a balcony. Seagulls, seagulls… It was not until my age, that is, in his late thirties, that Greg fully embraced his homosexuality and the love of leather jackets and military jeeps, Tom of Finland, and S&M. Greg worked as a real estate agent to finance an unquenchable desire to see the world, which he did every six months for many years. He was still a globetrotter when we met. Without question, Greg has a deep knowledge of the people of Earth and, I thought at times, of other worlds as well. Gay John said that rumors from the nightlife at the time had it that Greg went around asking strangers if he could pee in their pockets. Greg laughed hysterically and complimented John’s imagination. Like a God, mad in the eyes of men.

Yes, dinner party at Greg’s place in Malmö. The instructions were clear. John is the chef and I bring the beer. For how many people? We’ll see, whatever you can carry on the train. Through the wind and the snow… Later, Greg will introduce the new vaporiser and maybe there will be time for a board game, mental states permitting. Greg had invited all his friends, but only Shabby and Sailor Tim showed up. Pretty Boy John didn’t reply, Matthias was admitted to the psychiatric ward. What are we going to do with this much beer? Gay John can drink. He drinks himself to sleep when he’s had enough of other people. He opens a hole in his soul and fills it with beer, and out pops the vampire, the most sarcastic man you’ve ever met. One midsummer he fell into the campfire while conversing with my father’s co-worker, the beautiful Maria from Romania. The culmination of many flirtatious attempts, John was pointing with his left hand and tipped over. As for Greg, he never drinks too much, according to himself, unless he does, in which case he always comes home and never loses the keys. Shabby, 43, a high school teacher in early retirement due to post-COVID doesn’t smoke, vape, or drink, but has recently become disturbingly talkative. Sailor Tim, in his fifties with a sailor’s face, has just become a father, and vapes but never drinks after many lost years at the sea. Gay John at the stove with the steak and the fries, receiving a beer. Greg and Sailor Tim playing backgammon on the West African coffee table from 1852, the former receiving a beer. All chairs in the cramped kitchen occupied, Shabby standing up, shouting. Nobody’s sure who Shabby’s shouting to. Greg says the virus changed him. John, can you stop the fan? Sorry, that’s not possible. Shabby, we can’t hear you! Shouting like that because of a kitchen vent from the eighties. An evening with these madmen, Beloved in Copenhagen will know, might do me some good.

A gathering of kings and queens. Gay John is quick to fry a steak. Because Greg always eats out his kitchen lacks the common utilities, including oven trays. The fries must be pan-fried, but there’s too many of them. Rocky, help out, will you. Greg can’t be bothered to get up. This is no longer John’s problem and he retreats with his beer to the living room. Let me know when they’re done. Shabby follows to strike up a conversation. I turned off the fan to hear the music, Grateful Dead live in 1974, and Sailor Tim telling Greg about the first time they laid anchor in Shanghai. In the middle of November, 1991, after three months at sea, we were finally getting some pussy. Greg smiles and rolls the dice. The fries are fried on two greasy pans. John, I yell, what about the salad? John comes running, Shabby after him. He’s the only one allowed to make a salad. Plenty of salt on everything. Chinese women weren’t interested in one-night stands. What about the men? Greg’s not expecting an answer. Have you ever visited China, Greg? John is curious. Shabby informs us that most consumer goods are produced in China. The dinner’s ready before Greg can answer. Bring the Bearnaise from the fridge. John’s the chef but can’t be bothered to make a sauce. Greg gets up to set the table. Nobody else is allowed to open the drawers and touch the china.

Gay John works in IT administration, cloud applications and infrastructure. A series of short employments, including in Riga and Lisbon, provided a climb up the ladder to a well-paid position providing both responsibility and flexibility. John’s father was in the UN peacekeeping forces in Mozambique where he met a new woman whom he married and brought home to Önnestad. John therefore has one brother and three half-sisters. The brother emigrated to the United States a few years back, has a wife and kids, and works at Walmart, while the whereabouts of the sisters are unknown, for John never talked to them, even though they lived only hundreds of meters apart. He used to read a lot and begun work on a novel that reached three hundred pages before it was abandoned. Recently, John has been visiting right wing websites. Luckily, he’s not prone to conspiracy thinking. Indeed, our ways have parted, we’re rambling down different sides of the political landscape. Talking about it is impossible. I’m not trying to convince you, John says. I’m just stating the facts. Yes, facts that blend other facts with mainstream conspiracy theories. He can’t be turned or convinced. Mickey Gump is a great guy. Of course he’s brilliant. Mackintosh Ali too. John’s a devoted fan. He knows by heart, reading editorials and comments every day, tailored to his educational level, the arguments against the left and the idiocy of Anna Boy. But this is not American politics, John. You can’t own me. I’m not your liberal stereotype, it’s like you’re brainwashed.

We’ve landed in the chesterfield armchairs after dinner with coffee and cookies and the beer. In the bedroom, next to the balcony door, Greg and Sailor Tim are preparing the vaporiser machine, a gift to Greg from Sailor Tim, who owns one himself. John, on his fifth beer, caught off-guard when asked how, exactly, he’d come to the conclusion that I was a lib. We tested them… Well, of all the people I know, you’re the one leaning the most to the left. John sat back and crossed his legs, beer can in hand, the eyes avoiding contact, that troublemaker smirk on the mouth. Drunk John’s favourite occupation: engaging his victims in pointless and irritating chitchat. The stars from whence they came… Too bad when you realise I’m not what you thought I was. My political priority would be how society treats its weakest members. Then Greg entered from the bedroom. What’s all this about? How the weakest are treated, I said. Yes, that, and also freedom from the state to live the life that one wants to live, John said. But that’s two different things, I said. Then Shabby interrupted. We were discussing the US election results, before you guys go for a tour in that flying machine. Greg, who loves a good discussion, stumbled past us in the armchairs to his place in the chaiselong. I thought about Beloved, and missed her, and considered to take the train in a few hours. Then they started Eyes of the World, from Winterland, a beautiful version. John, with his iron will and negligence of social conventions, drunk and set to win the debate. Shabby interfering whenever possible. A tiresome activity when I’ve come to relax. Human rights must always come first, Greg started out. In the old kingdom… Then Shabby interrupted but was brought down himself by Sailor Tim who entered to declare that the machine is ready. Let’s just wait, I said. We can’t wait, it gets cold. I don’t care, John said. I’m not smoking. Greg got up. Shabby, coming or not? Are you crazy. It’s cold outside, I can’t with my lungs, you know that. See you later, man. Hey Greg, remember to grab a beer on the way out.

Yes, yes, reverse, to Greg and Sailor Tim in the bedroom, me and John in the armchairs, Shabby in the sofa, lying down. Not listening to the conversation about which brand is superior, the Thinkpad or the Mac, or what operating system, Linux or macOS. John’s always been using Apple. Constructive conversation ensues without the raising of voices, proceeds cautiously lest Shabby should interrupt. Couldn’t be happier, John says, with the ecosystem. Surprisingly, John has a media server in the basement running Debian. What version? I’m shocked to learn that he doesn’t know. I never upgrade it, it’s just sitting there, doing its thing. Shabby can’t bear it, he’s not interested in computers. Come on, guys, that’s boring stuff. Let’s talk about something else. What happened this week? Oh, yeah! Are you happy that Gump won? John? What do you think? Rocky? We’re not answering until he calms down. I mean, we must talk before you smoke too much, Rocky. After that, you’re no longer interested in talking! All you say is, why can’t we just listen to music or play a board game? Am I right, Greg? Greg’s on the balcony. Am I right, John? The last time I saw Rocky, it must have been last summer, I think it was June…

John and I go fishing, we meet for dinner with girlfriends, we get drunk and make prank calls to old friends. We’ve known each since kindergarten but our friendship is new and began when John moved to Copenhagen. Gay John had to write an e-mail because he didn’t have my number. We are not the chatty kind of friends, and John couldn’t care less about philosophy, spirituality, or feelings of melancholy, but that’s an old trait, and not associated with the recent exposure to racist thinking. To demonstrate, ten years before his mother died, a year before Jennifer was born, her mother and I went to the lakehouse to drink red wine and eat mushrooms under the shimmering moon. We left a handful behind the Ken Follett that John and I, for no particular reason, ingested a few weeks later. But John, devoid of depth and feeling, remained a rock, and no discussion or shared magical experience ensued. Only me, mystified by the white of the lake’s waves, and John, in a flurry of chuckling, on a Wikipedia expedition. Let’s watch a movie… I couldn’t find the Apocalypse Now DVD and when I did the case was empty. Did you know that the population of Mozambique has exceeded 30 million? Yeah, that’s kind of funny. That’s definitely a humorous fact, John. It has more than doubled in twenty years, Rocky. John, I can’t put the fries in the oven… That’s not my problem. Yes, the man has a sticky shell, an invisible wall around his heart, and it has never been touched nor broken, not even by himself, and neither was it weakened by the death of his mother. And yet, though I deem John largely uninterested in the world and people, the enigma harbours a great interest for politics. Oh, it’s a matter of prestige to him… Greg agrees, John’s a good orator, and has no desire to win, or come out on top. John wants to be correct. John knows that he is correct, given the facts on the table. Indeed, Political John can’t be touched and won’t get angry. You fucking closet fascist!! In contrast, my fuse is short and my head turns red. I’m no swinger of fancy facts and distorted truths, I must appeal to the basics. Why are we here, John? What’s the purpose of society? Of paying taxes? Why take care of the elderly? Do you want to abolish free healthcare in Sweden, John? Really? And what would your mother, may she rest in peace, say if she heard that? But with a private insurance… Beat him that way with logic. You’re out of your fucking mind… Yes, we are alike, John and I, on this snowy and windy evening. Forty-year-old kings evading castles and queens, cock-eyed and certain. In such a clash between intoxicated tyrants, then, better charge right ahead with a reference to science.

Yes, that’s what he’s expecting, sitting there like a calcified Cicero, hands folded, eyes fixed on some spot on the wall, biding his time in a calm before the storm. A storm he’s certain he’ll sail through without a scratch. You know, I said, calmly and objectively, several large studies have failed to show an association between immigration and crime. Cicero wasn’t having it. What’s that got to do with anything? Come here you little… That’s what Gump ran on, John, that immigrants commit crimes and that they rape, and that’s partly what got him elected, but it’s all a lie, playing on people’s fears, it’s textbook xenophobic populism! John waited, deliberately, a few seconds to make sure I was done, and to enjoy the moment, I was sure, before he stuck the knife in my face. That’s just death rattles, he said. That’s just death rattles. I didn’t get it at first. Oh yeah? Who’s dying, John? Tell me who the fuck’s dying! I kept losing my temper… Political John was not going to answer. That stupid fucking face… For too many years, election after election, John said, still looking ahead of him, people like you, Rocky, have decided how things shall be and what we shall talk about. Not any more. Those days are over.

Then Shabby interrupted. Then Greg entered. Then the machine was ready. Then I tried it. All the money in the world… That’s some scary stuff, John! Shabby didn’t know what to say. He looked at me, expecting a rebuke. He looked at John with amazement. You sound like Gutler or something. I like Mackintosh Ali, and Gump too. They’re geniuses. They should rule Sweden too. John, for fuck’s sake, that’s what the redneck racists used to say. Then Greg entered. Or Shabby interrupted. What’s all this about, boys? Come to the balcony, the machine’s ready! Sorry, John, I’m leaving. Enjoy your fascist state. They’ll take it all away from you. To the balcony, to the lighthouse. You opened the borders and let them all in. What’s culture, John? Smoke this shit, Rocky. Sweden will be brown, John, like the rest of the world, multicultural and wonderful. John had to laugh, and his eyes were on fire. We’ll see about that! Bam! went the balcony door. Rocky, take it easy! Take this! Let me go! You fucking traitor… Shabby, get off! No fighting in the living room! Greg was furious. Then he entered. Or Shabby interrupted. Sailor Tim has to leave, the wife’s calling. The machine’s ready, boys. What’s all this about? Smoking that shit… Did you know, John, that I have not voted in the last three elections? Yes, I’m an anarchist. I live in Denmark but I’m not a citizen, and I can’t be bothered to vote in Sweden when I’m not living there. So how can it be my fault? People like you, Rocky. Well-educated, high income. Shabby interrupted. Yes, the elite, Rocky! The establishment. That’s you, man! You too, John, had you not dropped out of university. Shut the fuck up, man! Greg, where are the crisps? I didn’t buy any! John… Then Shabby interrupted. No, that was before Greg entered… You god-damned fascist, John! All the money in the world… You opened the borders, Rocky! Let go of me! What’s all this about, boys? Oh, just John being a fucking racist. Yes, there are problems with integration. Greg agrees. What’s culture, John? Why’s that more important than global warming? It’s everything, Rocky! Yes, it’s Broder Daniel and The Pirate Bay. Shabby laughing, crisps coming out of his mouth. Greg comes running. Watch the sofa! Get the fuck off me, Rocky! Want your daughter to marry a fucking nigger, a fucking Mohammad? That’s where we’re heading, and you’re doing nothing! Get the fuck off me! Sweden will be brown, John, and there’s nothing you can do. Most of my colleagues are second or third generation immigrants. Hell, I’m an immigrant myself! I work Eid, they work Christmas. What’s the problem? There are people in the suburbs that don’t speak Swedish. Well, they aren’t becoming doctors, are they? All the money in the world… Then Greg entered. What’s all this about, boys? Sharia law is coming, Greg. Sure, John. Smoke this shit. That’s not culture, Rocky! Next, you want our prime minister to be a transvestite! You’re fucking brainwashed, John. Doesn’t make it any less true. So frightened, John, you’re such a pussy. The algorithms, John, they got you. Luckily, Oh hear me, John, the unfortunate, it is easier to hate than to love, and since you’re such a fucking smart-ass, why not try loving some more? Then Shabby interrupted. Let’s watch Lord of the Rings. You’ve seen it, Greg? Let go of my fucking jacket, John! Then Greg entered. What’s all this about? Oh, John’s a fascist, that’s all, and he thinks that the results of the US elections entail some kind of victory over me. For years and years, election after election, people like you, Rocky, have let this happen. And you too, Greg. Let me tell you one thing, John (I was standing up, screaming). Neither Mickey Gump nor Mackintosh Ali knows a flying fuck about struggle, or hardship, or solidarity between working people. Silver spoons in their asses all the way and never having to fight for anything. Listen, John! You fucking listen to me! Then Shabby interrupted. All the money in the world… Then Greg entered. What’s all this about, boys? I work in psychiatry, John. Not all, but many of my patients are rightly described as the weakest members of society. Homeless, mentally ill, addicts. What did the Nazis do to them? They killed them. What’s that got to do with anything, Rocky? Let me tell you something, John. It’s easier to hate than to love. All the money in the world… It takes compassion and intelligence to love, and to understand, and to envision a society that is for everyone. Problems with immigrants? Kick them out! People think differently? Get rid of them! That’s fucking fascism, John! Tried and tested, it always fails, always ends in misery. And what about climate change? Listen, John said, smiling. I don’t believe in climate change. You fucking idiot… And I don’t know if we’re talking Swedish or American politics, or what to make of all your baseless accusations of racism and fascism. Let go of my fucking jacket! I’m just saying, things are gonna change. Now go to your damn balcony and relax. We’ll see about that, John. I’m not afraid of the right. Clowns can’t run a circus. Then Shabby interrupted. That’s Frodo! Hey, Greg! That guy there, it’s Frodo. And that’s Sam. All the money in the world…

All the money in the world, John, I’d forsake it all to receive your embrace. I’m sorry, man, for the things I said, the intoxicants got me, but now they’re away. Later, he approached me, forgiving as he is. Kindly, looking me in the eye, his face carefully softened, John asked about me and Beloved, and our attempts at having children. He was sorry about the aggressive tone. That’s what beer does, we agreed, and cheered to that. They were trying too, he said, so tell me please about the ways of getting help. In Sweden they go straight for IVF, whereas in Denmark they try first with hormonal treatment. Is that so? I don’t know, my man, I don’t know much about the system in Sweden. Coming down, all dumb and exhausted. Way too strong… It’s a sensitive subject, though, when we’re approaching forty. If that ain’t the truth. Damn hard to talk about as well, she goes crazy every time. You’re a stallion, John, once a month, four days in a row. I couldn’t help it. You’re a porn star, Gay John! Don’t call me that. Then Greg entered. And Shabby interrupted. I love this song. You weren’t even born when it was recorded. You don’t care about music, Greg! I care about everything. And I hear everything. Greg winking at John, Sailor Tim entering from the bedroom. Hey boys, the machine’s ready!

16

In a zigzag version of an arc, not in columns but a line that’s bulging and alive, ghosts deprived of everything. We were here… A long time ago, if they could feel the passing of time. Released beneath a sky like a void, onto the green grass shining and fierce, now walking and conversing. Soft and hollow, permeable and alive, coal eyes, cold hands, it’s true how we perceive them, in poetry and prose. Set free in rebellion by Keith the magnificent hovering above in goggles and a helmet. In a Spitfire Mark II, twisting and turning like a kite in the wind. The wind that’s howling and changing and moving unpredictably. The storm that can’t be controlled. Who’s in charge of it? They scream, they imagine, the Gods, they’re angry, frustrated, and afraid. They’re coming now, the ghosts, and the Gods are coming too. Up and over, beneath and beyond. The ghosts ascend the ravine to grasp the vastness of the lands, to see infinity and possibilities, now that they’re free. One will start a shop, another travel the world. Talking like that, now that they’re free. They lift their hands, shielding their eyes from the empty space, and cheer. Slaves no more, the ghosts declare, a million forsaken, some without arms and eyes, some limping on a leg missing half of the skull, for the body’s not mended when darkness strikes. Free at last, free at last, they declare, but, alas, it’s an illusion, for look yonder there at the horizon. What’s coming there! The wicked black cat on the surface of the moon, scratching all that’s good, and cats don’t dance for they have no sense of rhythm, and see the Sun in gloom and the dying of the light. Behold, Oh unfortunate ghosts, The Giant God Machine, the Queen of the Night, metallic and brazen, taller than a mountain, legs all scuttling, and ten sets of eyes radiating and flashing like street lights in the pouring rain. Coming in, going out, fetching and returning. In a second or an hour, for who can tell, it’s what it does, it produces terrible things. Where do we go, mummy… Death strikes twice in yet another massacre. Suitcases, clothes, farewell letters dispersed like kisses in the wind, tears left to dry on leaves of grass. You shouldn’t have come here in the first place… That’s the Gods. That’s the bell, that’s the last call. Keith is up above and can’t stop them. Eight Browning machine guns… Terry’s even weaker, in his trench coat and a sixpence, like a clueless detective, whistling out of tune, clinging to a lamppost. Hopeless business, he says, smoking his pipe, and yet Fanny’s over there, somewhere, he can feel it, or she’s above, in the clouds, or in his heart, and now Terry’s got a plan. The heart’s a master locksmith, after all. Quick, get in the Spitfire, Rocky! It’s the only way! Second section! Scramble! The ghosts, shielding their eyes yet again, blended by something far up above. Heinkel… Messerschmidt… Heinkel… Messerschmidt…

Down there, far below, in a blacked-out London kissed pink and orange by the sun’s slow descent, hidden in the depths of it, in the bars, alleys, and underground cinemas, dwelt and waited for the boys the gayest of the youth of the kingdom and respite from Death, so hard-working these days. Indeed, life was not wasted in the Spitfire, descending from 15,000, coming down on Kenley, having taught, once again, the Jerry to drink from the Channel. None of the boys lost to flames or waves, all alive and splendid this time, in the cramped comfort of the greenly lit cockpits, observing with satisfaction the land coming in and the flickering return of civilisation. We kissed them all, loved them all, the beautiful party people of our metropolis, and in our hearts we hoped that the Jerry did the same in theirs. We dreamt not of the fireplaces and armchairs, nor of the ale and yesterday’s crumbled papers, but of the mystery that was life outside the walls of dispersal. At 8,000 feet, I opened the hatch and removed the mask to wet my face. Rest and relaxation. There was jazz music in London and chances were one or two of us would go. London, hot fire. The Merlin engine spat and sputtered, and sang a song, with the air whistling past, moist, cool, and oriental. That’s us, torched and awakened, sweating in a Lindy Hop. Time to find the dancing shoes, boys. Keith always up to something. Soon, one or two of us would go to the metropolis. Keith and Terry, most likely, it was their turn, I went with Thomas some months back. The Jerry came in daylight in He 111’s, dropping bombs, and we ran to the Metro for cover. London, down below, black like Death, hot and dangerous. The sun coming down and all the boys dreaming of love. The brevity of it. No time to think, boys, love won’t wait or be constrained. Rather to burn in a swing than to swing in a burning Spit! Keith not always making sense. Terry, second from the left…

Then Margaret was at the door. Would you rather eat at six or seven, love? I’m making hamburgers. Seven is fine, love. Alright, dear, I’ll let you know when it’s done. The fries aren’t in the oven yet, love. By the way, Terry called. Who? Terry, I said you were busy. The door closed.

Terry the gentleman, languidly, smiled and twirled, donned his cap and winked, extraordinarily elegant in the blue officer’s garment. Here’s a boy ready for the dance floor, I said. I’ll sit with a scotch in the corner, Rocky. I can’t sleep at night. Then I’ll sit with you, Terry. Are we ready, then? I think so. When’s the train? The car’s here already. Let’s go then. An hour before, as the dew settled on the Spitfire wings, the brass had entered to announce, as expected, that leave had been granted. Keith had given up his spot. Rocky and Terry, off to London with you, he said, before I change my mind or the Jerry decides to bomb the train. We stepped out in the crisp evening air, cool and ominous. The boys waved until the car was out of sight. Then they scattered like dry leaves. Some went inside, to the fireplace or the bar. Most went to bed to the monsters of the night. I knew because that’s what the boys did. It was all they could do. So, Terry, what do you do if you see this gorgeous girl, and she’s coming right at you? Take cover, I guess. It’s better than a 109, that’s for sure. Here, have some of this. Towns and villages whistling past. Candles, lampposts, street signs. An old man and a pile of luggage on a platform. The train rushing past, entrenched in darkness. Society hushed and hidden, buildings black against the night. We just ask, or how do we do it? Don’t worry, Terry, somebody’s going to know where the party is.

Oh, restless black night, terrible creature in the glade, come forth to shine your colours. Reveal to us the spectrum, whether dreadful or amazing. Let us know that we’ll win. You will die… We’re moving too fast, Oh night, and you have to come running. The world shakes from your dubious deeds and we’re trembling, Oh night, and we’re wondering how it’ll end. Don’t sit there waiting like it’s bedtime and eyes will be shut. We’ll watch, black night, from here or there, inside or outside, all in the world, and your terrible outcomes will be counted. Set him free. Terry Johnson, Terry the Terrible. Set him free! What’s that, Rocky? Sorry, Terry, I must’ve fallen asleep. The train’s coming in now.

My sister didn’t see much of the world before some illness got her. The doctors never knew what it was. The soot of Earlsdon, the guns of Coventry, who knows? Then, to make mum and dad proud, you know, now that I was all they’d left. Not maths, not physics, too dull. Blackboards and chalk. Nothing practical, I was always the thinker. Yes, chemistry’s where it’s at, I thought. Turns out it wasn’t really my thing, though. But you know, Rocky, one’s gotta finish what one started. I tagged along, alright, spent the evenings with books, scotch, and a load of smokes. Dreamt of the world outside the dorm window, not realising it was there all along. Coming around every day. I mean, girls have always existed, right? Before the war! I thought there was time. I was polishing my moustache, preparing my lines, drinking my scotch, smoking my smokes. Then came the war and here we are. You’ve seen me, Rocky, you’ve heard me. I can’t utter a word when they’re around. They’re just too damn pretty! Damn it! God-damned w-w-w-women! I’m calm as a lake on a windless day, in just about any other situation, but when a woman shows up, with her body, that’s so sexual, with her sparkling eyes, her hair, long or short, I don’t care, her boobs, big or small… Ha! Cheers, Rocky, bottom’s up! What about you, then? I know almost nothing about our great sharpshooter. The one pilot in the squad to never miss a shot. The Jerry’s got it in for you! Keith too! Are you equally good with a shot at love, then? Rocky? We’re drunk, Terry, what a night. You’re a Don Juan, just wait and see. We’re just getting started. The ladies are waiting. Tonight’s the night, Terry. Tonight’s the night, Rocky. I believe in you. One more and then we’ll go, it’s right around the corner.

Fanny!

I want you, so bad, like a teenager in love. My friends say that I’m okay. I’m good enough. So does society, as if I care and it matters. Anxiety, anxiety, like a youngling, like I’m dying, when all I want is to kiss you madly. You, most beautiful, mysterious, dark eyes, and I’m thinking about what you’re wearing underneath those trashed skinny jeans. What words rhyme in ways that unlock your heart, and turn your head when I come calling? Do you even know, or do I have to tell you? You’re a big disaster, a fool of love. Society, society, we used to love fat women and admire feminine men. Don’t let them change you. Such confusion… Teenager, teenager, I remember you now, down the wells of my heart, spilling over, waving goodbye, leaving you there, fucking the wall, blood coming down. My one and only, my black superstar. You made my heart wet and fast, made me quick on the trigger, all squishy and blue. I slammed the door and threw the phone on the floor because I died if I couldn’t have you and no, I didn’t care (at the time). I did not cry when you left town. I cried and I erased you. So simple and true, one and two. As if they care… Between a man and a woman. About you… A woman and a woman. And you… A man and a man. And anything in between. About us… The sun, the birds, the clouds, the trees. The people… The stinking monsters with money in their eyes, teeth green and rotten. Coming in now! The fat fingers opening your bedroom door. Run like you mean it! Like mould, like cancer, poisoning the heart that wants to love and be pure. To the barricades! For love! Be a man! Enough with the words! Listen, young man, white or otherwise. You’re not a gorilla and we’re not confused. A real man brings everyone along, lifts up, does not kick down. Deep down. Deep throat… It’s easy. Try to understand. Men against men… Don’t be jealous. Men against women… Some are popular with the girls, some break their hearts when they’re young. Women against men… I was rejected, I cried my heart out. And everything in between… I was muscular, I was weak. I hit a 6th grader on the mouth with a hammer. I was violent… Life is a journey and you must never give up. Dear son, dear young man. Stay with me. They want to destroy love… What’s hard now will be easy later on. Fools! What’s painful now will be resolved down the road. Take my heart… There is peace up ahead, there is love, acceptance, and tranquillity. Understand me… They want a battle of the hearts. Between a man and a man… What weakness, indeed, to be threatened by a man who is unsure of whether he’s a man or not, or by a woman who loves another woman, or by a boy who paints his eyes black, or by a girl who wears jeans and rides a skateboard. They were never… Teenagers, teenagers, innocent hearts on the battle lines. They’ll dance on your graves, decadent monsters with money in pale eyes. Watching a man and a man…

Terry!

17

There was an old, promised kingdom full of palm trees and wild animals and I came there as a child but can’t remember much of it. The inhabitants went about their days in their old ways and did not mind my presence or my father’s camera. Not even when he years later took it through the crowded maternity ward where hours before Dana and I had tried to shake two stillborn babies to life. The nurses and doctors in the old kingdom wasted no time on such forlorn cases. Death lived nearby in the promised kingdom and even malaria was not feared and they merely called it fever. Fever was treated with antibiotics. Everything else was treated with paracetamol. Rp tbl paracetamol 1 g pn max x4 for 7 days against large cancerous growth on the left testicle.

They brought a young woman from one of the remote villages. They had been crossing the grasslands since before the sun began to rise. The woman had been vomiting for days and her watery stool had patches of white in it and a stench of rotten eggs. What’s wrong with her, do you know? They hoped that the thicker books we had at our disposal would contain the answer. These were tropical diseases to us, and the exams were passed without knowing them. I examined the patient and pretended to know what symptoms to look for. Dana and I had not yet finished medical school. The young woman must’ve been one of the first fifty patients, in the promised kingdom or elsewhere, that I examined. It must be some sort of gastroenteritis, I said, and realized that the examination room contained no source of running water, or even soap, let alone disinfectants. As the sun set, the woman died slowly and painfully. A few days later, the chief doctor, who himself smelled of alcohol, explained that young people in the villages drink a kind of toxic moonshine made from a fruit that grows in the withered bushes on the hills. The school is far away, they have no TV or radio, what else are the kids supposed to do? Since I had let my beard grow the chief doctor’s attitude had become more hostile, his looks less approving. Maybe I reminded him of the colonial times, when bearded men like me came and conquered the lands. Maybe he had seen pictures of it. Maybe it was a part of the curriculum. Alcohol destroys the liver and when the liver’s gone, you get this kind of foul diarrhoea, he said.

Wild dogs occupied the hospital area. One morning the chief doctor weighed a blunt and heavy stone in his hand. He stopped the train of doctors that included me and Dana so that we could observe the excellent throw. Right on the ribs, we could hear the crack. The dogs took off, tails between their legs, not even running. The next day I saw them resting in the shadows in the same spot again. It was inappropriate to feed them.

They didn’t use white coats or any other professional medical attire in the old kingdom. The patients, or groups of people, waiting, or just hanging around, all day, on the hospital grounds, pointed and whispered when they saw us: white people in white pants and white coats, notebooks and stethoscopes in our pockets. Visitors to the kingdom from outer space. Perhaps we came in peace. At least we had brought two bags full of medical equipment. Perhaps we came to make everything good again.

A river used to run through the town, now it was a ravine where kids in Mickey Mouse t-shirts were playing guns with sticks. They ran towards me, laughing, shooting. On the third day, me and Dana climbed the thorny hill visible from the little house that we rented on the hospital grounds. The snakes and spiders didn’t get us. We didn’t even know they were there. George told us later. It was suicidal to climb the hills, he said. The white scorpions climbed into the shoes to hide from the heat. The temperature never went below 35 degrees Celsius. Only the operating theatre had running water. In the maternity ward, water came from buckets on the floor. We put the babies aside after thirty minutes when we couldn’t say for sure that they were still breathing. If their skin had been white, we would have been able to assess the degree of cyanosis. Meconium aspiration. If we’d been in Denmark, ceteris paribus, they would’ve been the age of Jennifer now.

Dana and George liked each other from the start. Conquerors of bodies and hearts, they were, used to getting what they wanted. Lucky then, that what they suddenly wanted was each other and that there were no obstacles within sight. George’s wife and three children were far away in Australia. Dana’s boyfriend was even further away in Copenhagen. That wasn’t really a boyfriend, she explained, spotting doubt in my eyes. They were on and off. What happens in the promised kingdom stays with the palm trees, the scorpions and the wild dogs. You can throw rocks at it but nature keeps coming back.

George’s father had recently died and left the family estate to his only son. He had been the town’s bishop, a renowned man. The workers on the farm stayed on, they remembered George from when he came to visit as a kid. His wife and children would join him later, once he’d gotten the farm up and running again. Dana’s eyes were of a mesmerizing hazel. Her father was from Iraq and her mother from Ukraine. Her skin was darker than mine but lighter than George’s. Dana’s hair was brown, thick and straight. George’s hair was curly and black. His mother was from Australia and his father from the old kingdom. That’s how the Gods would have it.

Through George we met some of the local musicians. At the weekends we took off in George’s jeep in the dark along the dirt roads to the town centre. Live music was offered at several outdoor venues and people came. People danced, people drank, beer and cocktails. The starry sky with the white, the blue, and the purple of the Milky Way above us. Never before had I seen such blackness, never had I seen the galaxy pictured with such clarity. After some time the musicians asked if I would join them. Dana kept saying that I played the guitar. Sure, I can fiddle away on the side, no problem, I’d like that. The singer spoke into the microphone for a long time in Swahili until, suddenly, people’s heads turned toward me. He’s just introduced you, the stage is ready, said George. This surely wasn’t what we had agreed upon! The next weekend I was allowed to play with the band. Highlife, the most beautiful music. As long as I stayed within the chords. No! No! No! screamed the singer that one time I went off in the minor scale. That first night I played Woody Guthrie’s I Ain’t Got No Home and Bob Dylan’s Simple Twist of Fate. A drunk woman in her fifties in a white dress with large black flowers on it began to dance in front of the stage. The audience, polite and amazed, clapped with the rhythm. I don’t think they knew the songs. Maybe George did, who had a BA in media science from the university in Sydney. Dana knew Dylan, but not this particular song.

Through George we also met Thomas. In a way, this telling is a Hello, man! to Thomas, the misunderstood street dweller and seller of small paintings he most likely didn’t paint himself. Are you still hanging in there? Don’t hang out with Thomas, George said. He follows girls and tourists around, asks for money, asks for them to buy him drinks. Foggy eyes that never seemed to focus, eyes that couldn’t be met. A mouth busy chewing khat. Like a miniature Bob Marley, dreadlocks to the knees. Short in stature, small no matter where you looked, skinny legs that could break if things got rough. Dana arrived in the promised kingdom a week before I did. Thomas was the first to approach her at the bus station, presenting his art from the bag. When Dana came to meet me as I arrived, Thomas stood by her side, extending his hand. Nice to meet you, Rocky, Dana has said great things about you.

In a way Thomas reminded me of Mr. Ratput, who had come to live with me for some time in Copenhagen. But my memory fails me… There wasn’t enough dough left when the Gods created these men, leaving them brittle and slow and objects of society’s ridicule. Both men wanted to be where the action was but neither had the charisma to throw a party or invite large groups of people. In a crowd heading to the club they were the tails, running up for short pointless exchanges and uninformed questions. Thriving only on the dance floor where association could be assumed with the people they were dancing with. When Mr. Ratput lived with me he spent many nights vegetating in the darkness in the guest room watching re-runs of cricket games. Of course these men accumulated sadness and anger but I never found an access point. I never saw aggression in Thomas’ eyes but certainly the man was shunned in the old kingdom. George’s attitude was a testament to that.

In the village there was a restaurant of sorts with plastic tables and chairs. I’d developed a habit of going there each day for lunch. Meat with fries and a little side salad with a small slice of habanero. My stomach was in pain and I developed gout in the big toe. Fish arrived from the coast but only the head was left, the rest has been sold along the way. I ate some of the neck, Dana finished the rest, including the eyes. Dana’s fling with George developed. We were invited to a barbecue party at the farm. George had slaughtered a cow and a goat, presenting the largest pile of meat I’d ever seen. There were no fries or salad, just meat.

George picked us up in the village, or we took a taxi along the dirt roads, I can’t remember. In any case, we were the first guests to arrive. George had invited all his friends. I asked if Thomas was invited but received no answer. He looked away, or someone interrupted just then… George was a social animal, easy-going and popular. Spoke like he already knew you. No pretension, looked you straight in the eye. Nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of, big arms wide open, finding time for everyone. A real man, Dana said the day after. But what about Lucas? Dana pretended not to hear.

Yet, George looked misplaced in his father’s old and gloomy study. I had landed in one of the big Chesterfields, expecting soon to be handed a welcome drink. You alright, Rocky? Beer’s in the fridge. In the heat the fridge wasn’t working, the beer was warm. Behind George a large bookshelf spanning the entire length of the wall and reaching the ceiling. George like a candle in the dark in his khaki shorts and a white T-shirt, sunglasses placed atop his curly hair. To his left the piano with small statues of the apostles placed on top of it. Was he planning to get rid of this old stuff and buy some new from IKEA? He would have to drive to the capital for that. It’s cozy in here, I said, knowing that he disagreed. I needed to be a pebble in his shoe. Men like Thomas and Mr. Ratput were drawn to me. To George I somehow had to prove my worth. You show me courage! You show me sacrifice! You show me the good human being! In my opinion, I had nothing to prove. I opted not to talk about football and rugby. George couldn’t label me had he cared to. Why are you always fighting other men? Do you think that withdrawing is the same as winning?

George left for the kitchen to talk to Dana who was looking for something to make a salad out of. I leaned back to let my eyes scan the bookshelf. A collection worthy of a bishop in the promised kingdom. Old books, religious books. I took one out: The Christian Experience Of The Holy Spirit by H. Wheeler Robinson, first published in 1928:

If our consciousness of real activity is not illusory, then the perspective of human history cannot be envisaged as the biology of an organism. We can never reduce the writing of history to an exact science, because there are not only life-forces but LIVING agents at work.

From the reviews on the back:

Dr. Robinson wins our gratitude at once for lifting the whole problem of the Holy Spirit out of a narrow ecclesiasticism into that broader realm of human history and thought to which all the nations of the earth contribute. - Baptist Times

Can I keep this? I yelled at George. Sure, buddy, take what you want. Then I noticed a strange-looking Bible. There must have been dozens of Bibles on the bookshelf, but this one was white with letters in blue. As I started reading I noticed that the words of Jesus were printed in red. No matter which page the reader skimmed through, if Jesus spoke, the eyes landed on the red. That’s when I understood how he must have been. A human being, Holy, wise and loving and in war, heading for destruction. It happened suddenly. The old bishop was there, in the armchair opposite. Jesus was present, somehow I knew that he was. The air began to shimmer around me, light poured in through the dark curtains. Tears came to my eyes. I realized that something was true… and I needed no proof. The Holy Spirit…

In the background, the guests were arriving. I put the book back and placed myself at the piano. I could only play a few chords but I had written a song some months back. It was called Oh, Wonderful Day. As the guests came in to greet me, I played the melody over and over, looking up, smiling, but saying nothing. George came with a beer. Dana appeared amused. The spectacle stopped when two of the guests wanted to try the piano. They couldn’t play at all and soon the old bishop’s study was empty again. Outside, the fire had been lit.

18

Meanwhile, in the old kingdom, under the beaming sun in the driest of seasons, Christians and Muslims were fighting in the village square. With the women on the side shouting, small groups of men lunged at each other with raised fists. Wrestling, throwing to the ground, getting up, chasing away, back to fight some more. The children were in school and no weapons, sticks or stones, were used in the quarrels. No one was killed, or taken to the hospital, where Dana and I were working through a long line of newborns to be vaccinated. We had come from halfway around the globe, from the metropolis on the coast, in a bus packed to the brim. Half a day through jungle and grasslands. Two hours boiling in a taxi across bumpy dirt roads. A small patch of concrete, the result of some donation, led us to Eldorado. Forty thousand people in metal huts drinking water from plastic bottles. No street lights, only barrel fires. Two channels on the TV, no Internet. So remote that I refused to believe that the brawl had anything to do with the world at large. The impression was not otherwise that the village was a cauldron for sectarian conflict. Desperate people turn easily on one another. Bored people too, no external influence needed. Yes, it happens all the time, said Thomas with a shrug of the shoulders, not present as always. Not even George, at his ranch a few days later, provided a deeper analysis. I couldn’t help but think that the appearance in Eldorado of two white people, a man and a woman, dressed in white and bringing medical supplies, had started a religious discussion amongst the elders which, when inconclusive, turned to violence between the young. Of course, I didn’t really believe that. The people in the old kingdom knew that the world was rich, and that their poverty was the result of some kind of injustice. That was one reason to be angry. The insufferable heat and the dried-up river were others. Indeed, one must not believe that the people of the promised kingdom were spared from thinking in terms of us and them. That the pride of their heritage encoded a curious love and respect for all that was different or not understood. That’s a naive proposition, I know that now. People around the world share the same merits and flaws, ready to brighten pending correct exposure.

We have a word for the white man, said George. Mzungu. It means wanderer. Probably from colonial times. Walk down the street and that’s what they call you. Mzungu. Oh, is that what they’re saying? Dana exclaimed. I’ve heard other words. At that point I remembered something that had happened towards the end of the long ride from the metropolis on the coast. Sometimes the bus rode for hours, other times it stopped again after a quarter of an hour. Jungle stations and grassland hamlets. Even though only a few passengers exchanged seats, the places at which we stopped were always incredibly crowded, as if nothing was more important or exciting than watching the bus come in. Certainly, there were sellers of water and fruit and potato chips, but most people were just hanging out, doing nothing, in crowds. The majority of major cities can boast a blend of the world. Then again, new sights offer internal surprise. That is, much as I could not get used to seeing so many black faces, the people themselves were surprised at seeing me, sitting alone at the back of the bus (Dana had arrived a few days earlier). The difference, of course, was that whereas the new passengers looked down in decency and did not turn their heads for a second glance, I obsessively had to study every face. It was at such a crowded station, just as the bus had started moving, that something caught my eye. An anomaly, a speck of white against the black. Yes, it was true, my eyes were not deceiving me. A white man, wearing a backpack and baseball cap, just like me. Incredibly, the man had spotted me too. You sure? said George. Yes, I’m positive that we retained eye contact until the bus turned and we couldn’t any longer. When I arrived a few hours later I had forgotten all about it. Yes, yes, another visitor to the promised kingdom, I had been thinking. Nothing special about that, even though I found it puzzling that the man was visiting such remote locations.

What you most likely saw, said George after I was done, was an albino, or, as we also call them, a zeruzeru. Dana burst out laughing. That’s what they’re calling you! Zeruzeru! No, it isn’t, I said. Yes, I heard it just last night. They think you’re an albino. They think that you come from here. George joined Dana in laughter and went out to fetch another round of lukewarm beer. You know that albinism is associated with poor vision, right? Dana was the better student. I don’t think he saw you in the moving bus. Well, if he did, I replied, he probably thought that I was an albino just like him. George, coming back from the kitchen, couldn’t help himself. One beer for the lady and one for the local. From Dana’s smile I could tell that people back home were going to hear about this.

Dana was proven right some days later when I visited the square where the fighting had gone down. Scattered around the sides were small fruit stands and grocery stores selling local produce and water bottles. There was also a take out grill that had become my go-to place for lunch. Meat, probably pig, with some fries and a small salad with a sprinkle of sliced habanero. In fact, that spicy salad is what awoke my passion for extremely hot food, leading, in turn, to Alice - who was in her mother’s womb at the time - taking it for normal that fathers sweat and moan during dinner. Standing next to the grill was a group of young men, too old for school, but obviously young enough to retain the habit of making fun of strangers. Or so I thought, until I heard a certain word amongst their taunting laughter. Then it dawned on me. I was not a mzungu, a white man. I was a zeruzeru! I was not a visitor from some distant land to be treated with respect, or at least a degree of respectful curiosity. I was just like them on the inside, but different on the outside. I mean, of course I was just like them on the inside and different on the outside. That’s the whole point! Nevertheless, here I was, fundamentally flawed and subject to ridicule because of my skin colour. I was not a scholar in the ways that people with albinism are mistreated in parts of the old kingdom. Crazy stories about witchcraft and violence! But I didn’t have to be. The treatment I received from the young bucks gave me a taste. I walk with dignity, I insist on mutual respect. Disdain on my part grows from issues of morale and ethics, not from appearance or genetics. Strikingly, what appeared within me was a primal urge to explain that I was, in fact, not an albino but a visitor from a very respected country in Europe. I left with my food without saying a word, debating in my head whether to tell Dana and George about the experience or not. I saw myself with a black skin, otherwise looking the same, waiting for the bus to come in, just outside the jungle in a very old and promised kingdom.

One month in, things were going downhill for us as medical professionals at the rural hospital. The chief doctor’s irritation with me seemed to grow with every millimetre of my beard. To test the hypothesis, I shaved it off again, and was met with an invitation to join him on the rounds. After a rowdy weekend in George’s company, hitting the bars and music cafés in the district capital, we failed to show up Monday morning. Lying on the couch hungover, flipping between the two channels on the TV, Dana spoke for us both. What’s the point anyway? We can’t do anything without them translating. Yeah, I agreed, we’re actually a burden to them. We are not specialists in tropical diseases. We’re tourists disguised as doctors. Hell, we’re not even qualified. With a smooth move, Dana flipped her legs so that her feet landed in my lap. Give me a massage. I can’t, Dana, I’m going to be a father in six months. She wasn’t going to sleep with the third wheel, anyway. The brilliant eyes notwithstanding, Dana’s mind was somewhere else. I’m thinking about staying here. With George? Yeah, he’s asked me to move in with him. Dana, that’s crazy. I know, she replied and removed her feet. What about his wife and kids? I thought… Just then a message came in on Dana’s phone. Her face lit up. Oh, another one! Lucas, back in Copenhagen, was sending love messages and close-up pictures of his penis almost daily. Grainy low-quality MMS pictures. Want to see it? No, Dana, I’m going to take a shower. After the shower, which did little to remove the pains of being hungover in the infernal heat, I lay down in my bed under the mosquito net. Before doing so, however, I had found something in my pocket. Holding it in my hand, I vaguely recalled a taxi ride with Thomas the night before, out to the suburbs, all huts and dirt roads, to some wicked one-eyed man who sold me a bag of pot. I had even managed to obtain a pack of cigarettes and rolling paper. Alas, such misery, getting stoned playing Fallout New Vegas when this should have been the adventure of a lifetime. Just nearby, at the hospital lacking running water and disinfectants, the people of the promised kingdoom stood in line to be prescribed paracetamol or penicillin. Or both, if the condition was severe.

Weekends and weekdays, our absence from the hospital was no longer noted. In what soon became a familiar pattern, George picked us up in his jeep to go clubbing in the district capital or for parties at his ranch. Thomas, of course, was not allowed at the ranch, but George could not stop me from inviting him to the clubs. Dana, however, increasingly advised against it. You’re inviting a bum to a cocktail party. People are staring at us. They know him from the streets, he’s a beggar to them. I mean look at him! The tattered jeans, the skinny legs, the bug-infested dreadlocks. I maintained that we were not here to enjoy ourselves, but to help and provide and to learn something about the world. Remember that circus artist we saw on our first day who could pull his legs behind his head while walking on the hands? We gave him some coins that he received with his feet. He was not a circus artist… Just because Thomas has no such tricks up his sleeve does not mean that he should be excluded from our group. Dana frowned. You don’t get it, do you? He’s been stalking me ever since I stepped off the bus! Dana went up the stairs to the VIP lounge where George and his friends were waiting to the hectic sounds of Sean Paul. The lounge had large tinted windows overlooking an open terrace with a bar and pool tables. Because it never rained in the promised kingdom. Soon Thomas and I teamed up to challenge the winners of an ongoing game. Thomas didn’t know how to play and after a few rounds he handed me the cue and went to the bar with some money I gave him. The game attracted many spectators that stood close with their drinks and made maneuvering with the cue difficult. Mzungu, mzungu, something, something. At this point I had accepted the constant talking and laughing. I had come to the conclusion that the people of the promised kingdom did not point and laugh out of hate or pity, but from love and curiosity. It must have been the drinks and the khat, and the beautiful, vibrant black sky that made me pull off two spectacular shots in a row, resulting in our win. Amazement and applause all around, as if I were a magician showing off his tricks. Surely, the Gods were smiling… An hour later, as the club was emptying, I wrote Fuck capitalism! with a thick black marker on the white terrace wall. With the first rays of the sun, in the backseat of the jeep returning to the ranch, I pondered what such a phrase might mean to the people of the old kingdom. George, right now at least, was not interested in politics.

One day my mother wrote to say that Sajber He lived to be… was not feeling well Twenty years… and my mother took care of him while I was away. He was just sitting there with empty eyes. Didn’t want to fly. Didn’t want to eat. He was lifted… A bright day. Snow on the fields, mist dancing on the lake, sunrays, through the large windows, onto the floor. I think he misses you. From the bottom of the cage… I rode in a taxi along the dirt roads to the district capital and went to a hotel to make a video call. Birds can’t speak but they can hear, and possibly understand simple phrases. And now, every blackbird I see… Two months had passed. Just to see my face was all he needed.

19

Being judged by the colour of your skin, Terry, imagine that! We must make the best of it, Rocky. I must scream it out, but he did not scream. I love you, man, but our love is cursed! Jerry don’t want us around, simply for existing. Maybe this is all we got? My shoulders hurts from the turning and turning. Mine too, and my hands. We’re getting old, Rocky. Look there, Terry, out the window, Caribbean love, it looks like a hot spot. Imagine that. Girls dancing. He smoked his pipe. Where? Three o’clock low, the neon sign. Show me the art, Rocky. Of what, fighting the Jerry? You’re the best there is. Terry, Oh Terry. No, he said with a sweet smile and a playful eye, I mean of making it with women. I’ve had it once or twice but now I’m just nervous, this damn s-s-s-stuttering. Never nervous around men? I got nothing to prove to men, Rocky, I’m friends with everyone. Sensitive to beauty, then, women’s charming ways? Blended by the light, ey? I know what you’re talking about, Terry. I’ll speak some words of wisdom, but I’m too thirsty for another beer. I fought my way through the crowded pub to take a leak in an alley and then ordered two beer that I luckily managed to bring to our table by the small window in the corner. Terry didn’t see me coming, sat there alone smiling with a neutral face, as if he were still processing wonderful news. One more to go, I said, and landed the glass elegantly towards him on the table.

At first, when you first notice the attraction within you, do nothing. Greet politely as you would in any new encounter. Think not of any consequences, all you care about is to make her happy and get out of the way. Do not at this point enter her personal sphere, draw attention instead, towards making her smile and asking interested questions. Talk spontaneously to people around you to show her that you are a lovable person that treats others with dignity and respect. At this point soon you will know if your efforts have succeeded. Look around for signs of her interest. Surprise her by suddenly withdrawing to return soon again with a talking point or another round for the table. But if she asks me a question and I must stutter, what do I do? You tell her with your eyes and smile that you have this problem and then you finish the sentence taking your time. To be considered, a potential partner must show interest and patience when returning the love. Cheers, Rocky. Cheers, Don Juan. We drank up and stumbled out, rolled and tumbled across the street, devoured by a dancing darkness, bouncing bodies, a beating drum, and a lonesome trumpet that screamed for life, lust, and love.

Fanny had been working late, and as the sun’s first rays played gently on her rosy cheeks her brothers and sisters stood up and went out one by one. They queued for hours for a loaf of bread, they begged on a corner for a penny and some crumbs, they salvaged furniture, paper, and sticks to feed the stove, now lifeless and cold like the moist sheets and the gloomy room. But life stirred in there, the sudden silence awoke her. Or was it the door opening and closing, once for each sibling? Johnny, sixteen, slamming it shut and locking with the heavy key. Mother was long since gone, and Fanny had counted them in her sleep, all five of them, now that father was in the war and they had become her responsibility. She usually stayed under the sheets but this morning neither warmth nor sleep would soothe her. Tomorrow, tomorrow! The voices echoed in her head. All night, a couple in the corner had been locked in an embrace, ordering nothing, seeing nothing but each other, but looking occasionally with intent towards her. A pilot and an actress, so they appeared in their illuminated beauty, in the dim lights of the corner table, him in a blue uniform and her in a black dancing dress. Fanny stood up because she had never tolerated the thoughts playing games. She worked two jobs, producing helmets in the day, serving rowdy Londoners in the night, and there was little time for anything else. Tomorrow, tomorrow, what does it mean? Then she remembered. Why, that’s today, and I’ve got the day off!

Whereas Fanny was short with dark complexions, shoulder-length black hair, and an upturned knob for a nose, Heather was slender and as tall as a man and on each side of the eagle nose had eyes as bright as the crisp and blue of winter. Terry would later say that Fanny’s eyes were hotter than the sun and all the spices of India, and we would laugh because the compliment did not make sense. How much have you had to drink, dear Spitfire pilot? Fanny was leaning over the table against Terry, to hear him, she was more than curious, ready to eat him. Not enough for the two of us, I would reply, and he would vanish with a bow and return with a beer for each. This is the way that the Gods had agreed upon, in exchange for my soul’s eternal iterations.

They met in the bookshop in the early afternoon, like always, in the minuscule space between the French and Spanish classics. Fanny had always been poor but reading made her rich, so she reckoned, though she discovered it late, and knowledge was power and one’s compassion for people and the world improved. Heather knew comfort in a brick house with a small garden, an extensive library, and hot water. Fanny, steaming and leaving a trail, entered the kitchen in Heather’s mother’s bathrobe and a towel turban. We’re going out tonight! Here, have a bite. When are they coming back? Less than an hour, so you better hurry! You got any coffee? Poor Fanny, working all the time. Heather knew how to look concerned. In my father’s study, find the small cabinet full of fancy whisky and pick one you like. I’ll make us Irish coffee, but we’re all out of cream, and guess whose fault that is! Heather loved to make fun of Hitler.