The Woman at 1,000 Degrees

2 Feu de Cologne 2009

The hand grenade is an old Hitler’s egg that I acquired in the last war. It’s accompanied me over the rivers and fjords of my life, through all my marriages, thick and thin. And now, at last, would be the time to use it, had the seal not broken off many years ago, on a bad day in my life. But it’s an uncomfortable way to die, of course, to embrace a firestorm like that and allow it to blow your head off. And to tell the truth, I’ve grown quite fond of my blessed little bomb after all these years. It would be sad if my grandchildren weren’t able to enjoy it, in a silver bowl inside an heirloom cabinet.

Meine geliebte Handgranate is beautiful in its deceit, fits nicely in one’s hand, and cools a sweaty palm with its cold iron shell crammed with peace. That’s the really remarkable thing about weapons: although they can be unpleasant for those who get in their way, they provide their holders with a great deal of comfort. Once, many cities ago, I left my golden egg in a taxi and couldn’t put my mind to rest until I’d recovered it, after countless frantic calls to the minicab office. The cabby hovered awkwardly on the stairs, trying to work it out.

‘That’s an old hand grenade, isn’t it?’

‘No, it’s a piece of jewellery. Have you never heard of the Imperial Fabergé eggs?’

At any rate, for a long time I kept it in my jewellery box.

‘What’s that?’ my charming sea bear Bæring once asked me, as we were about to set off for a ball.

‘Perfume: Feu de Cologne.’

‘Really?’ the old sailor gasped in astonishment.

Men have their uses, but quick-witted they sure ain’t.

And it never hurt to know that the hand grenade was there in my handbag when the night was over and some jerk wanted to take me home.

Now I keep it either in my bedside table or between my rotting legs, lying on the German steel egg like some post-war hen, in the hope of hatching some fire – something that is so sorely missed in this dreary thing that society has become, totally devoid of violence. It can only do people good to lose the roof over their head or to see their loved ones shot in the back. I’ve always had problems with people who’ve never had to clamber over dead bodies.

Maybe if I throw it on the floor it’ll go off? Hand grenades love stone floors, I once heard. Yes, of course, it would be wonderful to exit with a bang and leave them to pick through the dust and debris in the hope of finding some morsels of my flesh. But before I explode, permit me to review my life.