This Should Be Written in the Present Tense

35

In February I ran into Hase at Scala. He was having egg and chips. I recognised him from the curve of his back, he reached out for the tomato sauce and gave it a good shake. I stood watching him. I was about to go on, but then he turned and saw me. He got up and we gave each other a little hug. I’d bought two hair slides, they were in a carrier bag that was far too big for them. He pointed at it.

‘Out shopping?’

‘Sort of.’

‘I’m just having some breakfast.’

‘It looks good.’

‘Do you want some? They do toasted sandwiches as well.’

‘No, thanks. I’ve just eaten.’

‘A coffee, then. They make a decent cup here. Have a seat,’ he said, and held his hand out towards the table. I put my bag on a chair and sat down.

‘What do you fancy? Cappuccino? Au lait?’

‘Olé,’ I said, and he nodded a bit awkwardly.

‘I’ll go up and get you one.’

He still had food on his plate, now it was getting cold while he queued up at the counter. He was taller than I remembered him, but just as round-shouldered. It looked like there was something wrong with the coffee machine, the girl had to call for assistance, people stood shuffling in the queue. He was reading a paperback, Madame Bovary, it was on the table with the back cover facing up and a yellow bookmark sticking out. His coat hung from the back of his chair. He looked down from where he stood and sent me a smile. He’d grown his hair since the last time I’d seen him. After a while they got the coffee sorted and he came down with it on a little tray.

‘That’s really nice of you. Your breakfast’ll be cold now,’ I said.

‘Ah, it doesn’t matter. What have you been doing with yourself, anyway?’

‘Not a lot.’

‘Do you see much of the Oldies?’ he said, and we had a laugh. I took too big a sip of my coffee and gulped some air down with it, I choked and had to swallow some more.

‘Not really. Do you?’ I said, and he shook his head.

‘No, I stopped, didn’t I?’

‘Did you?’

‘Did you stop as well, then?’

‘Yes, sort of. Or rather I never really started,’ I said, and we had a good laugh about that as well. He cut his fried egg and the yolk ran out. My throat felt funny after that mouthful of coffee that had gone the wrong way, I couldn’t control my voice properly.

‘It was a bit of a daft name for a reading group,’ I said.

‘I know, you’re not that old, are you?’

‘Twenty-one.’

‘I’m twenty-five, so it was all right for me. My birthday was yesterday, as a matter of fact.’

‘Was it? Happy birthday.’

‘That’s why I’m having breakfast now. Bit of a late night.’

‘Were you out on the town?’

‘No, just out for a meal with an old trumpeter friend and then a few drinks after that.’

‘Do you play the trumpet?’

‘You must be joking,’ he said, and we laughed again, he put his knife and fork down and pushed his plate away.

‘But you do sing in a choir,’ I said.

‘Not any more, not since I moved from Greve. I took on my brother’s cooperative flat on Enghavevej this autumn,’ he said, and I nodded. All I did was sit and nod.

‘Vesterbro,’ he said.

‘I know,’ I said.

He’d taken up smoking, it didn’t look right on him. He blew the smoke downwards diagonally, his exhalations were very efficient. He told me about the flat, it was above a bicycle shop, which was good because he always had a flat tyre. I couldn’t really see him on a bike. His share in the cooperative had cost eleven thousand, he’d had to think about it because he’d planned on going to Ecuador, he couldn’t afford to do both. I couldn’t see him in Ecuador either. He leaned across the table in his jumper and smiled at me.

‘Fancy a beer?’ he said.

‘Isn’t it a bit early?’

‘Who’s stopping us?’ he said, and went up to get two large ones. He took his dirty plate and cutlery back with him, it made him look like a regular. I wondered why I’d never come across him there before if he was. Perhaps he took his plate back wherever he went. The beers were huge, I didn’t know how I’d ever manage to get it all down, or what we’d have to talk about, but by the time I’d drunk half we were doing quite well. He told me about his brother and growing up in Karlslunde. He asked about where I’d gone to school. His father had been his class teacher, it had been awkward at times, but after year seven he changed schools. The headmaster’s name was Grauballe, they called him The Grauballe Man, after the bog body, even the teachers, as if it wasn’t obvious enough, but Hase didn’t cotton on until years later. How stupid could you get. His brother was a doctor now, he’d been a model student, he’d even done the flat up while he’d been taking his finals. He was the kind of person who sanded things down and used primer, it was sickening really. But now Hase was reaping the rewards.

‘You’ll have to come and see me sometime,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I’ll do a turkey stew. I’m good at turkey stew,’ he said.

I went to the bathroom. I had no idea what the time was. The good baker’s at Central Station had cream buns for Lent, I’d planned to get one on the way home and hoped I wouldn’t forget. I splashed water on my face, then remembered I was wearing foundation and dabbed myself dry with a paper towel. It didn’t matter about that bun. But I’d get the next train, if there was time, or the one after that.

Hase had got more beer in when I got back. There was no way I’d be able to drink it, I didn’t know how to tell him. I steered myself down onto my chair. Madame Bovary was gone, probably in his rucksack. He sat with his head in his hands, his hair flopped forward a bit.

‘Did you know I’m a poet now?’ he said.

‘A poet?’ I said.

‘Yeah, since November. The nineteenth, to be exact,’ he said with a small grin, and scratched his throat. He’d started going to a poetry club in the autumn where it was open mic, at first he’d just sat and listened to the others, but then in November he’d plucked up the courage and put his name down to read. His hands had been so sweaty the paper got wet while he was waiting for his turn. The poem was called ‘Fugue for Meat’. He was already out of breath as he made his way up to the little stage, he was on after an elderly man in a leather hat. It was a funny thing about those leather hats. Whenever there was something arty on there would always be at least one. Not that he’d call his own poem art. The organiser took the microphone and introduced him.

‘And now we’re going to listen to Poet Hase.’

‘Poet Hase,’ I said.

‘I know,’ he said, and we laughed. The reading had gone down well, everyone applauded.

‘I’d like to read that poem,’ I said.

‘No, you wouldn’t. It’s no good.’

‘But they applauded.’

‘They always applaud,’ he said, and took a slurp of his beer. I did the same, the afternoon went, and in the evening we had cajun food on the second floor, gumbo and pecan pie. After that we went to the Irish pub. We spent all our money, and somewhere along the way I forgot my carrier bag with the hair slides in it, but that didn’t matter much. I could buy some more the next time. They weren’t very expensive.