The next day he came home with a large brown bottle of medicine. I’d better pour it for you, he said. It’s easy to take too much. A few minutes after drinking it I was feeling good, not like after Demerol, more like I had had too much alcohol. I blabbed on about our house, how it would be furnished, and the baby we were going to have. Then in the middle of this I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until the next morning. Can I have that every night? I asked. Sure, of course, he said. It can’t do any harm. Then he thought of something. Let me feel behind your ear, he said, pressing on my skull. Does that hurt? he asked. Yes, I said. Lying to Carl had become such a habit that I couldn’t resist. He bit his top lip pensively. I’m going to talk with Falbe Hansen about that operation after all, he said. I asked if I would be anesthetized with Demerol. He said no, but that afterwards I could have as much as I wanted to numb the pain. After he left, I walked to the bathroom and stared at my face in the mirror for a long time. It was true. I didn’t look good. My face was drawn, and my skin was dry and rough. I wonder, I said to my reflection, which of us is crazy. Then I sat down at my typewriter, because that was my one remaining hope in a more and more uncertain world. While I wrote, I thought: all the Demerol I want; and the operation, which would be the prerequisite for entering that paradise, didn’t matter to me one bit.
3
But the doctor wouldn’t do the operation. After the X-rays were taken, Carl and I rode to his office on the motorcycle he had just bought. He stood next to Falbe Hansen in his leather jacket, which flared out in the back like a duck’s ass. And with his helmet in his hand, he stared at the pictures the doctor held up one after the other. There’s nothing abnormal, said Falbe Hansen. I walked over and stood next to Carl, and while the ear doctor spoke, he stared at me the whole time with a cool look in his gray eyes. If she’s in pain, he said slowly, then it must be from rheumatism, and nothing can be done for that. It usually goes away by itself. Then Carl talked about bones, hammers, anvils, stirrups and God knows what, while I felt the earth burning beneath me, because this man knew I was lying. Falbe Hansen’s attitude got even more icy. You won’t get anyone to operate on it, he said, sitting down at his desk with a distracted expression. That ear is completely healthy. I have had it dried out, and your wife doesn’t need to come back and see me anymore.
Don’t worry, Carl said gently while we walked back through the hospital grounds. If the pain keeps up, we’ll find someone else to operate. Maybe the conversation did make some kind of impression on him, because when we got home he said: I’ll write a prescription for you for some pills called methadone. It’s a strong painkiller; then it won’t matter if I’m home or not. He wrote the prescription on a piece of my typewriter paper, and then he cut the edges carefully. He admired his work with a smile. He said, It looks kind of fake. If they want to check on it, you can just give them my number at the institute. What do you mean fake? I said. It looks like you wrote it yourself, he chuckled. That’s how some real addicts do it. He often used the expression ‘real addicts’ when making comparisons to me. Then I realized that I thought I saw a real addict once. I told him about the day I was sitting in Abortion-Lauritz’s office and a woman was pacing adamantly and begging to go into the office first. Then when she came out, just a few minutes later, she was completely changed, talkative and lively, and with shining eyes. Yes, said Carl, that probably was a real addict. When I was alone I looked more carefully at the prescription and I thought he was right: anyone could have written this. Then I went to the pharmacy and got the pills. When I came home I took them right away to see how they worked; maybe they would take away my nausea. It was a Saturday afternoon. Lise was free early and she came over to pick up Kim, who played with Helle almost every day. Our relationship had cooled since that day when she asked me if Carl was strange, but I asked her to stay for a while, so we could chat, like in the old days. I felt happy and positive and accommodating, and she said she was glad to see I was my old self again. I said, That’s because I’m writing. That’s the only thing that really works for me. I made us coffee and while we drank it I asked how she was. I was feeling guilty for neglecting her for so long. Not so good, she said. Married men are a load of crap, but I can’t get away from him. Ole had had a jealous neurosis, and he went to a psychoanalyst named Sachs Jacobsen who Lise thought was incompetent. Then last Sunday morning Lise had bought nice rolls, since Kim was sick, and Ole made a big stink about it. The next day Sachs Jacobsen called Lise on the phone at work. She was German. Well your husband must doch need his warm buns, she said. We had a good laugh about it, and our old friendship was quietly being restored. I wanted to tell her something private too, so I told her about Carl’s obsession with my ear and his plan to get me an operation. That’s terrible, she said, visibly horrified. Don’t do that, Tove. You can get deaf from an operation like that. That happened to one of my aunts. And you never had an earache before you met Carl. No, I said, but I get them now sometimes. Then I thought about the important letter that Carl had received a few days before. It was from a girl in Skælskør who was informing him that she was going to have a baby of his in a month or so, and that she hadn’t written before, because she thought it was a tumor. The baby was going to be given away for adoption in consideration of her very respectable family. Carl had suggested to me that we adopt it, and I had tepidly said yes, since I didn’t think one child more or less made any difference. Besides – but this I didn’t tell Lise – it would be very difficult for him to leave me if I adopted his child. That sounds like a good idea, said Lise, who, like Nadja, made a habit of saving people, helping them, and relieving them of their burdens. You’ll have plenty of room when you move out to your new house. Then I’ll do it, I said, as if I were talking about taking a walk in the woods. And Carl has promised me house-help too. I can’t write and also take care of three children. Lise thought that sounded sensible. Then you’ll have someone to make food for you too, she said, tapping absent-mindedly on her front teeth with her index finger. You need that. Look how thin you’ve become. Then she fetched Kim from the yard and went back to their place. I went into the bathroom and took two more pills. Then I sat down to write, and for the first time in a long time the words just flowed, just like in the old days, I forgot everything around me, including the reason for my peace of mind, which was inside a bottle in the bathroom.
In October of 1945 we brought home the newborn girl from the National Hospital. She was tiny and only weighed about five pounds. She had red hair and long golden eyelashes. That day I had taken four pills, because they didn’t have as strong an effect on me anymore. I thought it was wonderful having a newborn in my arms again, and I promised myself that I would care for her as if she were mine. She needed a bottle every three hours, night and day, and at night Carl got up and fed her. I couldn’t wake up from my chloral-sleep. When my mother came to see the new baby, she glanced in the crib and said: Well, you couldn’t call her pretty. She thought it was insane that I would take on more children than absolutely necessary. My mother-in-law came to visit too. She just about fainted with emotion. Dear God, she said, putting her hands to her heart, she looks so much like Carl. Then she went on at length about how her cook had left her, and how difficult it was to find another one. She was always having trouble with her cooks. What should I do for my hot flushes? she asked her son, who always had to get tipsy to be able to endure her visits. He smiled. That sounds nice, he said, with this cool summer we’re having. He never took her seriously, and when she went to kiss him, he did a little skip to avoid her embrace. Then at the last second he turned his cheek, so she could give him a kiss. Whenever she came over, he had me put on a dress with long sleeves to hide the needle marks on my arms. Not that it matters that much, he said, but it doesn’t look so great.
Jabbe was installed in our apartment, and for the moment had to sleep in the kids’ room. Her name was Miss Jacobsen and she was from Grenå, but since Helle called her Jabbe, the rest of us did too. She was a large, strong, skil
led girl who loved children. She had a simple, reliable face with protruding eyes that were always a bit damp, as if she were constantly moved to tears. She woke up early in the morning to bake rolls for breakfast, which she served me in bed, while Carl slept beside me. You have to eat, she said. You’re too thin. My appetite improved a little, now that the food was being served to me, and it seemed that everything was getting better. I worked well on methadone, and I was happy to get a shot just once in a while. Ebbe called me frequently when he was drunk. He wandered the bars with Victor, whom I had never met, although many of my friends knew him. Ebbe really wanted me to meet this Victor. But whenever I said to Carl that I was thinking of going over to visit Ebbe, the syringe came out and he went to bed with me in his coarse, careless way. I love passive women, he said. When he acknowledged that Ebbe had a valid reason to see his daughter, we arranged it so I could drop her off at Ebbe’s mother’s once in a while, and then she brought her back after the visit.
I gave birth to Michael at a clinic on Enghave Street, and Carl helped bring the child into the world. Afterwards, while I lay in the private room with our infant in my arms, he gave me a shot and sat by my bed for a long time, observing his child, who was immediately put back into the crib. This is going to be an incredible child, he said proudly; the son of an artist and a scientist – a good combination. I’m looking forward to the house being finished, I said sluggishly, while the familiar sweetness flowed into all my extremities. We will always stay together, Carl said with conviction. It won’t be like with the others. Viggo F. and Ebbe didn’t understand you like I do.
A short while later we moved out to the finished house which was located on Ewaldsbakken in Gentofte. It was a completely custom-built brick house with two stories. On the ground floor was the children’s room, the maid’s room, the dining room, the bathroom and the kitchen. Upstairs, Carl and I each had our own room. Mine was large and bright, and from my desk I could see down into the beautiful yard with many fruit trees in the lawn, which Carl mowed every Sunday morning. That summer was relatively happy. We had created a civilized frame around our life, a dream that I had always harbored deep down. Whatever I earned I gave to Carl, who managed our finances skillfully and economically as far as I could tell. But one day that fall when I asked him for a new prescription for methadone, he said, while pacing the floor with his tentative, careful steps: Let’s stop for a few days. I’m afraid you may be taking too much of it. Later that day I felt very sick, which I had experienced a few times before. I was shaking and sweating and I had diarrhea. On top of that I was gripped by severe anxiety, which made my heart pound in panic. I knew I needed to have some of those pills, and I soon found a way to get them. For some reason I had kept one of Carl’s old prescriptions, and I quickly copied it. I sent an unsuspecting Jabbe down to the pharmacy, and she came back with the pills, as if they were only a bottle of aspirin. After I had taken five or six of them – that’s what I needed to have the same effect that two gave me at the start – I realized with a vague dismay that, for the first time in my life, I had done something criminal. I decided never to do that again. But I didn’t hold to it. We lived in that house for five years, and, for most of the time, I was an addict.
4
If I hadn’t gone to that dinner, my ear wouldn’t have been operated on, and maybe from then on a lot of things would have been different. That was a period when Carl was only giving me shots once in a while. I stayed high on methadone, and the marks on my arms were getting fainter. My craving for Demerol was fading too. Whenever it reappeared, I reminded myself that I couldn’t write under its influence, and I was completely preoccupied with working on my new novel. Life on Ewaldsbakken had taken on a nearly normal character. During the day I was with Jabbe and the children quite a bit, and in the evening, after we had eaten dinner, Carl and I went up to my room where we drank coffee, and Carl read his scientific books without saying much. A strange void stretched between us, and I realized that we were unable to hold a conversation. Carl had no interest in literature, and didn’t seem to be interested in anything but his line of work. He sat with his pipe gripped between his uneven teeth, sticking out his lower jaw so it looked like it was supporting the rest of his face. At times he would raise his eyes from his book, smile to me shyly and say, So Tove, are you doing okay? He never told me about his childhood, as other men had, and if I asked about it, he gave me an empty, meaningless response, as if he couldn’t remember anything about it. I often recalled Ebbe’s evening ramblings, his recitations of Rilke poems in German and his dramatic Hørup passages. Lise, who made her way over to our place once in a while, told me that he was still grieving over losing me and that he was going to the Tokanten Pub and other places with Victor instead of doing his coursework.
Ester and Halfdan came by sometimes as well, when Carl wasn’t home. They lived in an apartment on Matthæusgade. They had a little girl who was a year younger than Helle, and they were incredibly poor. They asked me why I had deserted all my old friends, and why I never came to the club anymore. I said that I was busy, and that it wasn’t good for artists to socialize. Ester smiled sadly and said, Have you forgotten when we were at the Neckelhuset? But I was suffering from isolation and I longed for someone I could really talk to. I was a member of the Danish Authors’ Association, but every time there was an event or a meeting, Viggo F. would call me to ask if I were going, because then he would stay away; so I never went. I was also a member of the exclusive PEN Club, whose director was Kai Friis Møller, one of my most effusive reviewers. He called me one day leading up to Christmas and asked if I would come to a dinner with him, Kjeld Abell, and Evelyn Waugh at Knights Restaurant. I said yes. I wanted to meet all three of them, and when Carl asked me, as usual, if I wouldn’t rather have a shot, I said no to his tempting offer for the first time. That made him strangely ill at ease. If it gets too late, he said, I’ll come and pick you up. But I said that I was sure I could get home on my own, and he could just go to bed. Well, he said quietly, make sure you cover up your arms. And put some cream on your face, he added, brushing my cheek with his finger. Your skin is still quite dry, and you might not realize it.
During the dinner I sat next to Evelyn Waugh, a small, vibrant, youthful man with a pale face and curious eyes. Friis Møller helped me gallantly over any language difficulties, and he was so attentive and kind in general that it was hard to believe he possessed such a sharp pen. Kjeld Abell asked Evelyn Waugh if they had such young and beautiful female authors in England. He said no, and when I asked what brought him to Denmark, he answered that he always took trips around the world when his children were home on vacation from boarding school, because he couldn’t stand them. To excuse my conspicuous lack of appetite, I said that I’d had to eat with my kids before I left home. But I drank plenty, and I had also swallowed a handful of methadone pills before I left, so I was in a happy state and talked at length, making the two famous men laugh again and again. We were about the only guests in the restaurant. It was snowing outside, and it was so quiet that we could hear the thumping from ships’ motors far out on the water. While we were enjoying our coffee and cognac, Friis Møller and Kjeld Abell suddenly stared in surprise at the exit, which I couldn’t see, since I had my back to it. Who in the world is that? said Friis Møller, patting his mouth with his napkin. It looks like he’s coming over here. I turned and saw, to my horror, Carl approaching in his high leather boots, his snow-covered leather jacket, his helmet in his hand, and that shy smile as if it were painted on his face. This … this is my husband, I said, confused, because he looked more like a Martian in the presence of these three elegant men, and it struck me that I had never really seen him in the company of others. He walked right over to me and said shyly, I think it’s time for you to come home. Let me introduce myself, said Friis Møller, rising and pushing back his chair. Carl shook all their hands without saying a word, and an ironic smile appeared on Kjeld Abell’s lips. I stood up, angry and miserable. My eyes were nearly b
linded with embarrassment. In silence, Carl helped me put on my coat. When we were outside, I turned to him and said, What do you think you’re doing? I said that you shouldn’t come and get me. You embarrassed me. But it was impossible to fight with Carl. I wanted to go to bed, he said apologetically, but I couldn’t without giving you your chloral. He opened the sidecar for me, and I sat on the seat while he closed the hatch again. During the ride home I cried over my humiliation. When he opened it up for me to get out, he saw my tears and exclaimed, What’s the matter? Like in the old days I put my hand on my ear, because now I wanted to be truly comforted. Ow, I cried, this ear has been hurting me all evening. What do you think it could be? It looked like he was really worried. But there was also a faint glint of triumph in his eyes as he gave me a shot in one of the veins that was still open. I thought Falbe Hansen was wrong, he said. He went to bed with me, even more roughly than usual, and afterwards I lay limp and blissful, letting my fingers glide through his thin, reddish hair. He lay on his back with his hands under his head, staring up at the ceiling. We have to do something about this, he said. That bone has to be shaved down. But don’t worry. I know an ear specialist who can’t stand Falbe Hansen.
The next day he came home with all the fattest books the library had about ear illnesses. He studied them while we drank coffee, mumbling to himself, drawing red lines around the schematic drawings in them, feeling behind and around my ear, and saying that if I kept getting pain there, he would go to the doctor he suggested, and try to get him to do an operation. Is it hurting now? he asked. Yes, I said, making a face. It’s hurting a lot. My craving for Demerol had returned with an uncontrollable force. The next day I wrote the last chapter of my novel, packed it in a neat cardboard cover, and wrote on it in capital letters: For the Sake of the Child, a novel by Tove Ditlevsen. Then I put it inside the locking cabinet in Carl’s room, and I felt as I always did, a kind of mourning over not having the novel to occupy me anymore. I felt physically ill, and I took the bottle of pills from my locked desk drawer, which Carl couldn’t open. I swallowed a handful without counting them. I had been very careful with my prescription writing. Sometimes I wrote Carl’s name at the bottom and sometimes I wrote John’s. He had gotten his degree from Avnstrup Sanatorium. Jabbe and I took turns having the prescriptions filled, and I’m convinced that the naive girl was never suspicious of me or of any of the secretive things that went on in that house. The syringe, the ampoules and the needles were locked inside the cabinet together with my papers, and only once – but that was much later – Jabbe said: That sure is a huge pharmacy bill, when she brought it to me. At that time it was several thousand kroner per month.
The Copenhagen Trilogy: Childhood; Youth; Dependency Page 28
