This Should Be Written in the Present Tense

37

Hase sent me a postcard inviting me over for turkey on the Sunday evening, not stew, but a leg. It’s in the fridge and it’s huge, he wrote. We were going to eat early and then go to the open-mic night at the poetry club in town. He would expect me around six. He’d written his address down one edge, down the other he’d written WE’RE WAITING FOR SOMEONE in small capitals. There was a photo of an owl on the front, I thought it was quite exotic. I went to the bookshop and the supermarket to find a card I could send back with a reply, but all they had were novelty and birthday cards with pre-printed messages. I made my own instead, from the cardboard backing of an A4 notepad, I frayed the edges and used a black marker pen. Then I decided to shade the letters, but that only ruined it. I ended up finding an old Christmas card at the back of a folder, there was a little sparrow on it, so it was a good match for the owl. I wrote in pencil, casually and with a light hand, then more distinctly at the bottom: BUT FOR WHOM I WONDER. I thought better of that bit later on when I couldn’t sleep, and then I couldn’t sleep at all. It was Friday, music was coming from the pub, upbeat jazz and a chorus of raucous voices joining in on a repeated line, bitter-sweet something. It had me missing Knud. I tossed and turned, eventually I got up and went into the front room, but their flat was all dark. I cut a couple of slices off a cob loaf and listened to the radio. I sat by the lamp and tried to write a poem. I wanted it to be called ‘Novices’. Someone coughed heavily outside in the street, a rattle of mucus. It was a group from the pub, off to catch the last train. One of them caught sight of me and waved, a little man with a beard, I waved back on a reflex. They all waved then, and carried on until they disappeared round the other side of the station building. I felt uplifted, I sat there with a smile on my face. When I went back to bed I kept seeing all their waving hands in my mind’s eye and thought about the gesture. The fact that raised hands could make you feel wanted, special almost, even if you weren’t. Just as you were sitting there in your slippers behind a single pane, with a shaky stanza in your head.

It really was a huge turkey leg. He hadn’t got round to putting it in the oven when I arrived, he’d fallen asleep in the afternoon. He didn’t wake up until I rang the bell just after six, he could hardly get himself together. His hair was dishevelled, there was a red blotch on his cheek.

‘How stupid,’ he said.

We were standing by the worktop. It was a nice kitchen, he had plants in the window behind the sink, a fern and some chives, and a cuckoo clock above the fridge.

‘It doesn’t matter. What a funny clock,’ I said.

‘It’s kitsch,’ he said, and I nodded.

‘Oh right.’

Then I looked at the leg again.

‘Can’t we just put it in now?’ I said.

‘Yeah, let’s. I don’t suppose it needs more than an hour.’

‘That’ll be fine, then.’

‘Yeah. We can have some wine while we’re waiting.’

We sat down in the living room, he took the sofa and I got the old wicker chair with the blanket. He’d lit a candle in the windowsill, the flame flickered. Muffled sounds came up from the street, cars and a horn, a voice shouting, another shouting back. Then came a sharp hiss that stopped abruptly.

‘That’s just someone getting air,’ he said.

‘How do you mean?’

‘From the bike shop.’

‘Oh, I see. Aren’t they closed?’

‘Yeah, but it’s outside.’

‘Oh right,’ I said.

We drank the wine I brought with me. It was French, something with Michel in it. It tasted okay. I sat thinking I ought to stop saying oh right all the time. He drew his legs up on the sofa, there was a hole in his sock.

‘Are you writing at all?’ he said.

‘No. Are you?’

‘Yeah, but nothing good. I sit up half the night with it and never get to bed.’

‘I know how it is.’

‘Do you?’

‘No, I meant not sleeping.’

‘Oh right,’ he said.

The blotch on his cheek had gone, only now it felt as though my own cheeks were flushing like mad. My glass was nearly empty, I leaned forward and filled it up again. I filled his too, and we drank.

‘Are you cold?’ he said.

‘No. Just a bit.’

‘Put the blanket around you, if you want.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Nice floorboards you’ve got.’

‘My brother did them. Sanded them down, that is.’

‘Oh right. He did a good job,’ I said.

He found a packet of penne in the kitchen, we were both really hungry and the dinner was taking for ever. There was a good smell from the oven, but the leg was still raw inside, he’d just had a look. We tucked in to the pasta and had another glass of wine. I had a feeling it was late, but it didn’t seem like we were in a hurry.

‘Are you going to be reading tonight?’ I said.

‘No. I’ve got nothing to read. Are you?’

‘You must be joking.’

‘You never know.’

‘No, but I’m looking forward to listening. I’ve never heard anyone read before.’

‘Haven’t you?’

‘Only Ib Michael.’

‘Yeah?’

‘He came to our school.’

‘Oh right.’

‘Have you noticed we both say “Oh right” a lot?’ I said. He looked at me and smiled.

‘We do, don’t we?’ he said, and we had a good laugh about it, we couldn’t stop, and then we drank the rest of the wine. There was a really good smell of roast turkey now. He realised he’d forgotten the side dishes, we were meant to have a rice salad, but he hadn’t even started it yet. He skidded out into the kitchen on his sock with the hole in it. I went with him, but he’d only got brown rice, it needed forty minutes to cook.

‘Any idea what the time is?’ he said, and I shook my head. I looked up at the cuckoo clock, but it was only for show. ‘It’s quarter to eight,’ he shouted from the bedroom, we had to get going. I turned off the oven and took the leg out. I put it on the hob, it was spitting fat. We pulled our coats on, his keys jangled as we went down the stairs. When we got outside he took my hand and we ran left, zigzagging between some people with suitcases before crossing the road. Then he stopped. He didn’t know which bus we had to get, he was always on his bike and didn’t know the routes. The air was cold and damp, I thought it might rain.

‘We’ll get a taxi,’ he said, and stopped one almost straight away, all he did was hold up his hand. We were out of breath when we got into the back, we began to laugh again. I could smell the turkey on our coats. I told him, and he sniffed his shoulder.

Apart from us there were only five others there, including the man in the leather hat and the two organisers. They stood on the stage with Cokes in their hands, they looked just like each other, both of them short-haired and wearing jumpers. Hase went to get us some wine. The leather-hat man and a girl at the table nearest the stage sat hunched over their papers. A young couple in black coats came in at the last minute, each with a carrier bag. They sat down quickly. Then the lights were dimmed and a spot lit up the stage. Hase came back with two glasses of wine just as one of the organisers stepped up to the microphone and welcomed the evening’s readers and the audience. The girl at the front table was going to read first, she had ordinary jeans on. She adjusted the mic. Hase whispered that her poems had recently been accepted by a publisher. She had finely shaped eyebrows and said she was going to read a poem dedicated to a friend from Sweden. She stood and breathed for a bit, then she began. Her voice was deep and calm. My eyes filled with tears nearly straight away. At first I blinked madly, then I just let them go. She read three poems in all and used the word substance more than twice. I sat completely still in the dim light. When she was finished, she smiled and nodded and went quickly back to her seat and we all applauded loudly. I sniffed as we clapped. Hase leaned forward and looked at me. I took a sip of wine and when I put the glass down he stroked my arm.

Later, after the readings, we went somewhere else, to a cafe with big windows facing the street. We bought peanuts and a whole bottle of red wine. I could see myself behind his back in the mirror on the wall. My face was streaked, but it didn’t matter. We talked about living in Copenhagen and about writing seriously, he said next time I should read something for him. I said I might be able to remember something off by heart. As we walked along Vesterbrogade much later it started to rain. We stood under an awning outside a jeweller’s and then I recited some of what I remembered. Afterwards he put his arm under mine and led me across the street, my legs were a bit wobbly. We went back to his and opened another bottle of wine, we had the turkey leg with bread and butter. I fell asleep on his sofa with the blanket over me and didn’t wake up until mid-morning. There was a note on the coffee table, he’d gone to the dentist’s and I should make myself at home. Before I left, I wrote on the back of it: See you, lots of love.