Читать книгу Justine - Iben Mondrup - Страница 23

When did the whole thing with Ane and Torben start? Let’s see, it was probably back during the Berlin trip with Ole Willum, a teacher at the academy of arts. We were staying in the academy’s apartment on the attic floor of a large estate out by the Spree. The gable fronting the water had two large glass doors, but the balcony itself was missing, all that remained of it were the iron fittings to which it was once attached.

Torben leaned carefully out and groaned. He was afraid of heights, he said, and didn’t want to get too close to the windows. When it came time to choose where we’d sleep, he chose one of the other rooms.

Ole Willum had a show at a small gallery in the city and we were supposed to head out there after unpacking. Torben, a couple of other guys, and Rose, she was always hanging out with the boys, turned up quite a bit later than the rest of us. They were already in high spirits, and were carrying two bags of Weißbier bottles. Ane and I each grabbed a beer and went outside. With a loud laugh, Rose swung her bottle so that it splashed Ane.

“Oh, sorry, little Ane,” she said, giggling again and shoving Torben who shoved her back.

Inside the gallery the rest of the students were walking around and experiencing the installation. Willum had created three universes that he’d taken from Björk songs, a red space, a blue one, and a white, each equipped with diverse effects, furniture, and some curtains.

Ane gave Rose a dirty look.

“So, aren’t you going in to see the exhibit?” she asked.

Rose didn’t hear her, but kept fooling around with Torben and the others.

Willum said our task during the trip was to create a book. The actual content could be whatever we wanted, but the point was to translate an art project onto the books’ pages, just like he’d translated Björk’s “All Is Full of Love” to the show’s white space and her “Come to Me” to the red.

That evening Willum invited two of his friends, an artist couple, to the apartment. The woman, her name was Leise, had done several art books. She showed us her latest, a print series that more or less gave the identical impression of being somewhat dark, somewhat moist, somewhat hairy, somewhat bulbous. The book was entitled Durch. Leise explained that the impressions had been taken the moment a baby emerged from its mother’s womb. She’d attended twenty-five births, and the instant the baby bubbled forth from between its laboring mother’s legs, Leise had pressed the paper to its bloody cranium.

Torben, who was well plied with Weißbier by that time, bent over and inspected the book.

“Does it smell?” he asked.

His nostrils vibrated. Rose snatched the book from his hands and tossed it onto the sofa. He headed for the bathroom and Rose followed.

After Leise and her husband left, Willum and some of the others sat in a circle around a candle on the floor. Outside was blue black. A tall girl lay with her arms hanging out the terrace doors.

Suddenly, someone was shouting: “It’s Torben, it’s Torben.”

Rose pointed out the slanting roof window and we took turns peering out. There on the neighboring roofline a figure was hunched against the sky. It was crawling along the roof’s long ridge.

“No fucking way, that can’t be Torben,” Ole Willum said. “How the hell did he even get up there?”

“He crawled out one of the attic windows,” Rose shouted.

She forced her way to the window and opened it.

“Torben! Come back in! Right now! You’re going to fucking fall from way up there! You’re drunk!”

The shadow that was Torben continued along the roofline until it reached a point directly above a window bay and stretched itself to full Torben height. Abruptly, it slid out and down, landing on the bay. Rose shrieked and raced through the attic to the window out of which Torben had first disappeared, flailing and kicking to get her shoes off, and was on her way out when Willum intervened.

“I’d never actually tell anybody! I’d never do that! I was just talking!” she yelled to Torben.

Torben was slumped against the bay window. People on the floors below were hanging out of their windows, some hollered that they’d call the police if it didn’t quiet down. Willum shouted back that it was all under control, just some performance art.

Two hours later Torben was back. Rose had finally persuaded him to crawl in and climb onto the sofa with her. She lay there with a beer. After announcing that he wasn’t taking responsibility for someone getting hurt, especially not while they were plastered, Willum went home. Torben sat nodding with a cup of coffee in his hand, and Rose fell asleep on the couch. The others went to bed. Ane and I had planned to sleep on the floor next to the doors facing the river, where it glistened, but Ane wanted to help Torben climb into his sleeping bag first.

The next day Torben was up first, he poured coffee into two vases. Rose was still asleep in her clothes on the couch. Ane wanted to head out immediately. She was going to do something with animals in her book and had bought herself a weekly zoo pass. Before I’d even finished brushing my teeth, she’d left, and she’d taken her sleeping bag with her. Rose woke up and called for Torben, but he was already gone. He’d taken both his sleeping bag and his backpack.

Rose popped open the last beer and lay back down.

“Fuck, he’s not too bright,” she said. “He has no idea what he’s doing when he’s drunk. One time he almost jumped from his workshop at the school.”

“I thought he was afraid of heights,” observed the tall girl who hadn’t started on her book yet.

“I have no fucking clue what his deal is,” Rose said. “But anyway, he can’t control himself for shit. Did he say where he was going?”

I packed my bag with a camera, some India ink, and a pad of paper. The only thing that came to mind when I thought of my book’s pages were bloody cunts and bloody craniums. That’s the exact project that I wanted to create. Unfortunately, my ink was way too blue. I made a mass of doodles, sheer nonsense.

That evening Willum asked how our first day in Berlin went. Rose said that Berlin was boring, and she thought she could work at home as well as here.

“So work here,” Willum said.

Rose snorted and lit a cigarette, apparently unconcerned that we’d all agreed to smoke only in the kitchen.

It got dark and still Ane wasn’t home. Rose lay on the couch with a cigarette stub hanging from the corner of her mouth. Torben wasn’t back either.

“Wake me up when he gets here,” Rose said and fell asleep.

On the water the sky sailed past in gleaming patches.

Ane finally turned up on the third day. Torben, too.

“We were in the Tiergarten,” she said.

Torben flipped through the pages that would eventually make a book.

“Show them to Justine,” Ane said.

Rose, who’d decided her book would just be an ash tray, lit a cigarette and stubbed the previous one out on a piece of paper.

Torben handed me a pile of drawings.

“Assholes,” he said.

“And eyes,” Ane added.

They were done in pen, hairy, wrinkled, protruding wreaths.

“Gross,” Rose said, standing up from the couch and leaving.

Willum flipped through the pages.

“What the hell’s wrong with her?” he said. “These are really great. Just stylized assholes.”

“And eyes,” Ane added.

She collected the sheets and tied a string around them, readying them to be glued and covered.

“Can I see what you did?” she asked.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You didn’t do anything?”

Of course I did. For instance, I wondered where the hell she might’ve gone. I’d gone to Tiergarten, and naturally there was no Ane, neither the kiosk woman nor the people standing at the entrance had seen her. It was all a load of crap. Berlin. Willum and his installation, too. And myself. I was also a load of crap.

“Those are some fat assholes,” I said, pointing to the elephant’s iris.

“We slept in a forest,” Ane said.

Torben and Ane stayed in the apartment that night. They put their sleeping pads on the floor beneath the window.

Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, an extremely drunk Rose appeared. She kicked the kitchen chairs and shouted at Torben.

“What do you want?” Ane asked. “Can’t you just leave him alone?”

“What the fuck do you know about it, little Ane? Why are you getting involved anyway?”

“Well, I know he doesn’t want to be with you.”

“He doesn’t want to be with you either, you idiot. You insane little idiot. Sweet, stupid little Ane with all her sweet little stories. If you think he wants to be with you, you’re completely fucking wrong. You don’t know shit about him, do you? No, why should you? One woman’s not enough for him, capiche? He can’t keep his dick in his pants. Not that he goes around bragging about it. At least he’s smart enough for that. And that’s a whole lot smarter than you are.”

“Yeah. Well, and you, too,” Ane said, vanishing into the attic and slamming the door.

On Friday we set out our books on the floor and went through them. In terms of melancholy, Rose’s book was the best, and Willum admitted it was good, even though he thought it’d been an arrogant way to complete the assignment. Willum was also extremely pleased with Ane and Torben’s book. You just couldn’t tell, he said, if it was an eye or an asshole staring you down.

Torben is big. His body, his mouth, all of it. He majored in graphic design with a group of guys who sought, sought, sought toward the extremes. It has to be about men, they said, and established an artist group.

Their first show featured some paintings they’d schlepped to a barracks out in Slagelse. Once there they’d laid them in a pasture so a private could drive over them with a tank.

The exhibit was held in Kolding. At the opening, they sat in the gallery around a card table playing poker, drinking whiskey, and smoking cigars. Torben got so drunk that he shit his pants. In the wee hours of the morning he traipsed around the city wrapped in a T-shirt with shit running down his legs. The rumor made it around the whole school, but Ane, of course, didn’t believe a word.

After that it was exclusively about pushing limits. At one point the group ingested everything it could get its hands on, everything that could be introduced into the human body with reasonable ease.

One guy got addicted to some particularly hard stuff, and eventually he was thrown out of the academy for putting the fancy chairs in the banquet hall up for sale on eBay. After he left, the other guys started shooting at themselves with various implements or cutting themselves. Or they had the others cut them while they taped it on video.

Ane could watch an entire self-torture video to end without blinking, and there was one episode she found especially appealing. It featured Torben sticking a nail in his hand. He did it over and over again, even after he’d made a large, bloody hole.

“I don’t know why,” she said. “I can’t seem to get it out of my head.”

She considered switching to graphic arts, since she thought it would be fun to be a girl surrounded by that sort of guy. I asked:

“What sort of guy?”

“Uncompromising,” she said. “Wild.”

However, then she attended one of the department’s get-togethers and the professor didn’t so much as acknowledge her presence. There were other new students that he questioned about this and that, including their interest in graphics.

One of the other aspirants had brought along some photographs that he’d taken the liberty of hanging around the room before everyone arrived. The pictures were taken one night when, returning from the city drunk, he’d danced around his bedroom before the camera in a pair of ridiculous underpants. The guy was chubby and pale, anything but a Chippendale, and the harsh flash only made a hapless situation worse. Despite the fact that there were some really raw pictures, and much was said about loneliness, self-exposure, and sex, the professor failed to see the quality in them. The guy, who was as deft at clarifying his work as he was at being his work, couldn’t make any headway. It was unbearable, Ane thought.

At first Torben wasn’t particularly interested in Ane, who bustled around in her rather overlarge smock and talked shop. However, his indifference, which persisted even after our Berlin trip, actually attracted her. He didn’t want to tie himself down, she said, and you know, she liked that. It was only following the Christmas party during our second year that she seriously managed to pin him down.

Some girls from one of the painting departments had transformed the party’s setting into a three-dimensional work of art. Cheeses hung against a black wall like pock-marked planets. Torben got extremely drunk after bragging that he could down a flask of schnapps in less than half an hour. In the middle of an anthem he fell off the table and split his chin.

Later he tried kicking out the DJ because he thought she was playing shit music, but before he could accomplish the task, a pair of the DJ’s friends came along and threw him out instead. They dragged him out the door and down to the plaza and only let him go when they’d gotten quite far away from the party. When he made his way back to the academy, Ane was there to collect him. She found him in the courtyard and put him in a taxi and and took him back to her place. Right after that he moved in with her.