If there was any kind of jealousy between us, it was rooted in money.
The bigger flat was more expensive and Line’s income was the more reliable. I had various casual jobs, but I never earned enough to pay my fair share of the rent. It wasn’t something we discussed or made a big thing of, but there were times when my vanity reared its ugly head. It didn’t help that I found it very difficult to write in the years that followed our marriage. My jobs often involved antisocial hours or were physically so demanding that I didn’t have the energy to sit down in front of my computer or think creatively in my spare time.
The failure of The Walls Have Ears lingered at the back of my mind and my frustration at not producing anything grew day by day. For the first time in my life, I started to doubt if I was cut out to be a writer. Perhaps I had burned out before I had even begun? When I wrote, it was at odd hours fitted in between casual jobs and doing things with Line. I would often be under the influence of alcohol, a habit that had followed me from the commune and did nothing to improve the quality of my work. The next morning I would frequently delete everything I had written in a whisky haze the night before and yet I still convinced myself that I needed alcohol to get started. The only effect it had was to make me so drowsy that I struggled to hold down my casual jobs and found it even harder to sit down at my desk.
By contrast, Line’s career was taking off. She was in constant demand, she was cast in roles where she had solo performances and she was praised in several reviews. I attended as many of her performances as I could and I could see that she was good, not that I knew anything about dance. It provided me with an excuse to get out of the flat, away from my desk and it meant I visited theatres in Copenhagen I would probably not have gone to on my own. Sometimes Bjarne and Anne would come with me and afterwards the four of us would go out. Despite having danced the whole evening, Line was happy to carry on dancing and she always manage to drag me out on the dance floor, even though I often didn’t feel like it. It was her smile that did it. She knew how to smile – and I surrendered.
Every time.
11
FINN HAD GIVEN me some complimentary tickets for the book fair.
Over time it had become a ritual that I would visit my parents and present them with two. They expected it. Not because they were short of money. They were both retired, had generous pensions and considerable equity in their bungalow in Valby and their holiday cottage in Marielyst. Even so, they refused to pay the modest entrance fee to the book fair and at times felt the need to remind me of this several months in advance. They also expected me to deliver the tickets in person as I was in town anyway, a tradition we had observed for many years. It was now the only occasion I saw them, once a year for dinner, red wine and conversations about books, the safest topic we could think of.
My father, Niels, used to teach and his interest in literature stemmed from that. My mother, Hanne, had carried on the family tradition and qualified as a doctor at a relatively young age. They read many books in her family. I remember my grandparents had a large library in their villa in Hellerup with hardback classics from floor to ceiling, deep-pile carpets on the floors and soft leather furniture we children weren’t allowed to play on.
It was my parents’ interest in literature that brought them together. They met at a poetry reading at Regensen Hall of Residence in central Copenhagen. They were both students and as far as my mother was concerned choosing my father was probably an act of rebellion. My mother’s family were most unimpressed by Niels. They had hoped their daughter would meet a fellow doctor or a professor, an intellectual kindred spirit who could join in dinner party conversations. Niels was the first person in his family to have undertaken more than compulsory education and it took several years before his in-laws accepted him. His knowledge of literature helped, but the turning point was when he provided them with grandchildren.
My parents’ interest in books didn’t extend to mine. I always gave them a signed copy of every new book I wrote, but they never read it. ‘Not really our thing,’ they would say if I was dumb enough to ask if they had had a look at it. They had made an effort to read my early works, of course, but their only comment was that they thought they ‘were a bit too old for that kind of thing’. They may well have been, but I think the rub was that they always regretted I didn’t have a ‘proper’ job. As my first two books were so poorly received, they had hoped I would give up. This resulted in numerous clashes, and matters finally came to a head one evening some months after my wedding when Line and I were visiting. When my parents yet again hinted that a career change was long overdue, I stormed out in anger. I had no contact with my parents for a long time after that, despite Line’s attempts at reconciliation. If she hadn’t become pregnant and insisted on resuming the relationship for the sake of the child, I would probably never have seen them again.
I took a taxi to Valby. It was late in the afternoon and the sun hung so low in the horizon that the driver had to put on sunglasses. I always sit in the back. This usually signals to the driver that I don’t want to talk, but this driver didn’t take the hint and chatted away about the weather, sport and the latest headlines. I didn’t need to say very much, he managed the conversation all on his own, but still I found it a little irritating. When I arrived at my parents’ bungalow, I wasn’t in the best of moods, and the prospect of spending an evening with Niels and Hanne did nothing to improve it. I didn’t tip the taxi driver.
My mother’s welcome was profuse and Niels handed me a very dry martini almost before I had time to take off my jacket. They had aged considerably in the past year. Hanne’s hair was now completely white, the wrinkles around her eyes were more deep-set and the skin of her face looked slacker. My father’s bald patch had spread. Only a band of hair at the sides and at the back of his head remained, but it actually suited him. It struck me that I might not have them for very much longer and I decided to make sure tonight was a good evening.
The reason for their ebullient mood turned out to be that they had booked their dream holiday to Thailand. Six weeks, leaving just after the New Year, with boat trips, temple visits and elephant safari all included. Since their retirement they had spent a considerable amount of their money on travelling. They had lived much of their lives through books and I was delighted that they now got to see the world for themselves while they still had the chance.
The most bizarre feature of visiting my parents is that they’re still in contact with Line and their grandchildren, my children. I’m always stunned when I see photographs of them on the walls. I know their lives don’t stand still either, but I sometimes forget and the sight of Line and the girls jolts me like an electric shock. It’s unreal to see the change from year to year. People I had once been so close to are transformed. The girls grow with terrifying speed and Line ages with infinite grace. They always look so happy in the photographs and my heart feels heavy. Sometimes Bjørn, Line’s new husband, features, and every time it makes me wonder if the girls call him Dad, a thought that feels like a punch to the guts.
The first few years after the divorce my parents would hide the pictures when I visited, but there were clear outlines on the wall where they had been. In time I think they forgot and later they might have expected me to have got over it. I suppose I did, but I always felt sad when I saw the photographs and wished that things were different.
And this year, too, they had new photographs, ones taken at their holiday cottage in Marielyst this summer, only a month or two ago. One photo was particularly successful. It showed the two girls with Line in the middle. All three wore white summer dresses and the younger, Mathilde, is crowning Line’s head with a home-made garland. The older, Veronika, is grinning at the camera. She has grown so big. Thirteen, or is it fourteen now? She has her mother’s smile.