Tiny Crimes

by Lincoln Miche

  Every member of The Organization knows that it comes above any other loyalty, and that as soon as a Brother self-identifies, you must do him no harm; but there, before my eyes, was one Brother humiliating another. Baffled and keyed up, I grabbed my gun and cocked it under the table. This shouldn’t be happening. I decided that it had been my mistake, that I’d seen wrong and only one of them had made the secret sign.

  But which one. I had reasons to identify myself to either of them. Though diffident spiff seemed more the sort of man who formed part of The Organization, ugly thug could be the kind of Brother employed as muscle (the category I myself belonged to, distasteful as I might find it). This was the point at which I was to seek confirmation. I cleared my throat once, paused, then three times in a row.

  Ugly thug turned to look at me, not in curiosity or fear, it was a look of recognition; but he didn’t respond to my second signal. Diffident spiff, on the other hand, clucked his tongue twice in a row, then once more. I had no option, I got up and aimed at ugly thug, but at the last second doubt kept me from pulling the trigger and I raised the gun and clocked him in the temple with the grip. Ugly thug collapsed, I pulled diffident spiff from the floor, gazed wistfully at my breakfast, and we left.

  After a couple blocks in silence, diffident spiff caught his

  The Luser

  29

  Aprovechándose de la cercanía agarró la pistola que había vuelto a guardar en el pantalón y me apuntó.

  —¿Por qué interrumpió la operación?

  Más que por la amenaza del arma, me dejó frío la sorpresa.

  —Tenía que haber dejado que él me pateara y luego yo me resistiera —continuó—, para que el Hermano disparara y matara al hombre de la mesa junto a la cocina: debía parecer un accidente. ¿Por qué no obedeció la seña indicándole que había una operación en curso?

  —¿La seña?

  —Con el dedo meñique, me rasqué la oreja con el dedo meñique, no con el índice. Debía haber entendido entonces. Y después chasquée la lengua tres veces seguidas, luego otra, que es la señal de retirada. Me parece muy sospechoso que no haya entendido ninguna de las dos señales.

  —¿Tres veces? ¿no dos?

  —Tres —insistió— ¿Puede explicar su comportamiento?

  Resignado, suspiré y, para variar, decidí reconocer la verdad, aunque ello marcara mi futuro dentro de La Organización:

  —Sólo soy un músculo.

  Modesto catrín me observó detenidamente —creo que hasta con piedad—, y dijo “Claro”, pero no hizo ademán de devolverme la pistola.

  Yuri Herrera

  30

  breath and said, leaning in to my ear, “There’s something you have to explain.”

  Taking advantage of our proximity he grabbed the gun I’d tucked back into my trousers and aimed it at me.

  “Why did you interrupt the operation?”

  More than the threat of the weapon, it was the shock that chilled me.

  “You were supposed to let him kick me and then let me fight back,” he went on, “so the Brother could shoot and kill the man at the table by the kitchen: it was supposed to look like an accident. Why didn’t you obey the sign for operation in progress?”

  “The sign?”

  “My pinkie. I scratched my ear with my pinkie, not my index finger. You must have caught that. Then I clucked my tongue three times in a row, then once more, the sign to retreat. I think it’s very suspicious that you didn’t catch either of those signals.”

  “Three times? Not twice?”

  “Three,” he insisted. “Can you explain your behavior?”

  Resigned, I sighed and decided, for a change, to admit the truth, even if it marked my future in The Organization.

  “I’m just muscle.”

  Diffident spiff observed me carefully—I think even with pity—and said, “Right,” but made no move to give back my gun.

  The Luser

  31

  Hygge

  Dorthe Nors

  Så sad vi der, Lilly og mig, og hun havde lavet kaffe og bagt en chokoladekage af dem, der er bløde i midten. I løbet af eftermiddagen, havde hun også fået støvsuget, og tørret de døde blade af vindueskarmene. Undulaten snakkede ikke længere med fra sit bur, men var stedt til hvile under et viskestykke, og i fjernsynet var der noget, vi kunne gætte med på. Da jeg var forbi i eftermiddags, havde det ikke været så pænt. Vi havde haft et udfald om hendes facon, måden hun skabte sig på, når vi var i seniorklubben, hendes jalousi og hendes sødme, der stik imod hensigten virker forrående. Og så sagde hun det

  32

  Hygge

  Dorthe Nors

  Translated by Misha Hoekstra

  Then we were sitting there, Lilly and me, and she had made coffee and baked one of those chocolate cakes that are soft in the middle. During the afternoon she’d also vacuumed and cleared the dead leaves off the windowsills. The budgie was no longer chattering in its cage, it had been put under a dish towel to rest, and on the tube there was some show we could guess along with. When I’d come by in the afternoon, it hadn’t been so nice. We had a falling out about her manner, about the way she’d act up when we were at the senior club, her jealousy and her sweetness, which to me seemed vulgar. And then she’d said that business about

  33

  der med mit ansigt. At hun ikke kunne lide det. Dig og dit lektorfjæs, sagde hun, og vasketøjet havde ligget på gulvet i badeværelset og flydt. Hun havde ikke redt sengen, og der lugtede sødt af urin. Jeg kender den lugt fra tante Claras hjem, dengang hun ikke længere kunne se, og famlede rundt og væltede alting, særligt sig selv. Det var, som om noget dødt havde taget permanent ophold i kroppens celler, og nu løb ud sammen med toiletbesøgene. Den slags satte sig i tapeterne, og lugten var der, når vi skulle hygge os med det saftevand, jeg selv kunne blande ude i køkkenet. Disse lange eftermiddage med fad saft, pebermyntebolsjer og tante Clara, der ikke længere passede til sine tænder. Der er ting, man ikke glemmer; måden vi sang af sangbogen på og hendes transskriberinger af Kongens nytårstaler for eksempel, og jeg har aldrig forstået, hvorfor jeg skulle tages som gidsel af tante Claras ensomhed. Hvorfor krævede den min involvering. Jeg var kun en dreng, og mens jeg sad der og blev lagt Kong Frederiks ord i munden, var mine forældre velsagtens i biografen. Du er så dygtig i skolen, sagde de. Den slags skal stimuleres, sagde de, og så var tante Clara der med sine lærerindefingre i min nakke. Skålen med sukkerknalder op under ansigtet: Tag én min dreng, tag to, spis!

  Men nu havde hun lavet kaffe, Lilly, hun havde lavet kaffe, og hun havde dækket undulaten til og fundet sine pæne kopper frem. Der var ikke mere noget

  Dorthe Nors

  34

  my face—that she didn’t like it. “You and your big professor mug,” she’d said. The floor in the bathroom was littered with laundry. She hadn’t made the bed either, and there was that sweetish smell of urine. I know that smell from Aunt Marguerite’s home, back when she could no longer see and fumbled around and knocked everything over, especially herself. It was as if something had taken up permanent residence in her cells, and now it oozed out on her trips to the toilet and settled into the wallpaper. The odor was there when we sat down to enjoy the fruit drink that I mixed up out in her kitchen. Those long afternoons with flat fruit drink, peppermint candies, and Aunt Marguerite, whose teeth no longer fit her. There are some things you never forget: the way we sang from the songbook, for instance, and her transcriptions of the king’s speeches on New Year’s Eve. I’ve never understood why I should have been hostage to Aunt Marguerite’s loneliness, why it demanded my involvement. I was just a boy, and while I sat there and had King Frederik’s words placed in my mouth, I suppose my folks were at the movie theater. “You’re so clever in school,” they’d say. “That sort of thing needs stimulation,” they’d say, and then Aunt Marguerite would be there with her schoolmarm fingers on my neck, the bowl with sugar cubes up in my face: “Take one, my boy, take two, eat them
!”

  But now Lilly was making the coffee and had covered the budgie and gotten out the nice cups. There wasn’t any

  Hygge

  35

  med mit ansigt. Mit ansigt, mine hænder og mine knæ, alt fandt hun kælent. Hendes lille hånd var oppe i mit hår, inde ved min bukselinning, min hånd ville hun have fat i, for nu skulle vi hygge, vi skulle have det rigtigt hyggeligt, ja, og ikke snakke mere om det. Men siden jeg første gang mødte hende i seniorklubben er hendes ansigt blevet mere og mere en grød. Det er, som om én version er ved at vige for en anden, jeg kan stadig se den oprindelige, og det er ækelt, hvordan den ikke vil blive hængende. Det var Apotekeren, der fik mig med i klubben, han påstod, at vi skulle spille skak, men som ugift måtte jeg lægge krop til de aflagte kvinders forventninger. Så havde jeg en sok, de skulle ordne, så var der noget med mit kravetøj, og så fik de ondt i fødderne og ville gerne køres hjem. Blandt de desperate var Lilly en ener. Først prøvede hun sig på Apotekeren, men de andre kvinder var om ham som hyæner om et kadaver. Det var hans flotte skæg, sagde hun, og man kan sikkert sige en del godt om Lilly, men de fantasifulde bluser, kan ikke dække over det ufravigelige. Al den pynt, ja, selv undulaten, trækker hende kun ned, og så sad vi der, det var i lørdags, og der var jo fyrfadslys. Ovre på reolen havde hun stillet dem ud på kanten, og hun havde bukket stanniol omkring dem forneden, så de ikke kunne brænde ned i laminatet. Det var sket for hende før; at fyrfadslysene var brændt ned i laminatet, og hun havde også oplevet dem eksplodere. Væsken i de små

  Dorthe Nors

  36

  more talk about my face. My face, my hands, my knees—now she found everything cuddly. Her little hand up in my hair, inside the waist of my trousers, she wanted to grab hold of me, “Because now we’re going to enjoy ourselves, we’re going to have us a cozy time, yeah, and not talk about it anymore.” Since I first met her in the senior club, her face has gotten more and more porridgy. It’s as if one version has started to give way to another, I can still see the original, and it’s awful how it won’t stick around. It was the druggist who got me into the club, he claimed that we’d play chess, but as a bachelor I had to place my body at the disposal of the castoff women and their expectations. I had a sock they needed to see to, there was something about my collar, their feet started hurting and they wanted to be driven home. Among the desperate, Lilly stood out. First she tried to latch on to the druggist, but the other women were on him like hyenas around a cadaver. It was his fine beard, she said. No doubt you can say some good things about Lilly, but those fancy blouses can’t cover up what can’t be changed. All that frippery, yes, the budgie, too, it only drags her down, and now we were sitting there, it was Saturday and the tea candles were lit. She had placed them along the edge of the bookcase, with tinfoil wrapped around the bases so they wouldn’t burn down into the laminate. It had happened to her before—that the tea lights had burned into the laminate or exploded. The liquid wax could get to be as flammable

  Hygge

  37

  bægre kunne blive antændelig som benzin, så hun var mest tryg ved de lange lys. De statelige. Dem var man, hvis man ikke stillede dem op ad gardinet, mere sikre på. De er lidt ligesom dig, fnisede hun, så ranke og ordentlige i det, sagde hun og kantede sig op af sofaen og videre ud i køkkenet, hvor hun rumsterede. Men når bare vi holder os vågne, så går det nok med de små! råbte hun derudefra, og jeg har tit tænkt på, at Lilly er en af dem, der let kan komme til at falde i søvn med en cigaret. Hun kunne falde hen på sofaen, under billederne af de solblegede pårørende. Der hænger også et af Lilly selv fra engang i halvfjerdserne. Hun har håret bukket med krøllejern på den måde, mine studerende også bukkede deres dengang. Så kunne de sidde der og gøre sig attraktive, mens jeg sloges med deres sløset tegnede logaritmer. Hvis de da ikke dinglede rundt på deres alt for høje espadrilles, som havde de bundet halmballer under fødderne, herregud, og deres shampoo stank i klasselokalet, når den blev blandet med lugten af armhuler og skød. De savnede værdighed, men juleafslutningerne var trods alt de værste. Æbleskiverne og gløggen, for så skulle der hygges, og man skulle snakke om året, der var gået. Som om året kunne andet. Som om det ikke præcis er sådan, tiden er indstillet, og Lilly har også skolebilleder hængende af sin bedagede yngel. Der er noget med deres ansigter, noget melbolleagtigt, blødt. De har fået alt for meget slik, de børn, og nu bor de i en

  Dorthe Nors

  38

  as gasoline, so she felt safer with tapers. The dignified sort. So long as you didn’t set them up against the curtains, you could count on them. “They’re a bit like you,” she giggled, “so orderly and erect,” she said, scooting her way off the couch and out into the kitchen, where I could hear her rummaging around. “But if we can just stay awake, the little ones should be fine!” she shouted. I’ve often thought that Lilly’s one of those who could easily fall asleep with a cigarette in her hand. I could see her doing that on the couch, beneath the sun-faded pictures of her relatives. There was one hanging there of Lilly too, from sometime in the seventies. She’s got her hair crimped with an iron, the way my students crimped theirs back then. They would sit there, trying to make themselves attractive while I struggled with their sloppy logarithm assignments. That is, if they weren’t tottering around on those espadrilles that were way too high, as if they’d attached hay bales under their feet, good Lord, their shampoo stinking in the classroom, mixing with the stench of armpits and sex. They lacked dignity, and the last day before Christmas break was always the worst. The fried doughnut holes and mulled wine, because we were supposed to hang out and talk about the year that had passed. As if the year could do anything else. As if that’s not precisely the way time works.

  Lilly had school pictures of her aging offspring on the wall as well. There was something about their faces,

  Hygge

  39

  anden sidegade i det samme kvarter, med deres børn, som også er for fede, men det kan man jo ikke sige til Lilly. Hun føler ingenting det meste af tiden, men der skal ingenting til, så føler hun alt, og så kom hun sidelæns ind ad døren med en bakke. Vi skal have Bailey til kaffen, sagde hun. Bailey og nogle pebermynter, hun havde til overs fra jul. Vi skal have det lidt godt, sagde hun, og så klemte hun sig ned ved siden af mig i sofaen; hendes fingre med de hedengangne vielsesringe, og denne klirren af ametyst og andre former for simili fra hendes øreflipper. Vel er hun tilforladelig, det er varmeblus det hele, jeg ved det, og Apotekeren siger det også, men Bailey smager af tysk rasteplads og det hjørne af festen, hvor der ingenting sker. I øvrigt burde Lilly antage, at jeg var mere til whisky. Eller en tør cognac med en cigar. Jeg vil spille skak. Jeg er ingens efeb, og tro ikke, at jeg ikke ved, hvad hun har under håndvasken og ude ved elmåleren, Clara. Jeg kender alt til likøren nede fra købmanden på hjørnet, og den er ved at sylte hendes ansigt, den har lagt hendes tunge i lage. Mig kan hun ikke skjule noget for. Jeg har kendt hende i en menneskealder, og jeg kan ikke løbes om hjørner med længere. Men det var, mens vi begge sad i sofaen, mig med hendes løse hånd på bukseknæet, og hun med blikket på Baileyen, at hun sagde: Vi er da gode venner, sagde hun. Jeg ved også godt, jeg er dum, og det kan ikke være let for dig med din viden at trække rundt med sådan en som mig, sagde

  Dorthe Nors

  40

  something dumplingish and soft. They had too much candy, those kids, and now they’re living on another side street in the same neighborhood with kids of their own, kids who are also too fat, not to put too fine a point on it, but that’s not something you could tell Lilly. She doesn’t feel anything, most of the time, but it takes nothing at all to make her feel everything, and then she was sidling through the door with a tray. “We’re having Baileys with coffee,” she said, Baileys and some peppermints she had leftover from Christmas. “We’re going to have a nice little time,” she said, and then she squeezed herself in next to me on the couch, her fingers with the defunct wedding band, and the jingle of amethyst and other costu
me jewels dangling from her earlobes. I guess she’s harmless enough, it’s all just heat. I know that and the druggist says the same, but Baileys tastes of German rest areas and the corner of some party where nothing’s happening. Besides, Lilly should have been able to work out that I’m more one for whiskey. Or a dry cognac with a cigar. I want to play chess! I’m nobody’s pet, and don’t think I don’t know what she had under the sink or out by the electric meter, Marguerite. I know all about the liquor from the corner grocer’s, it was starting to pickle her tongue. She can’t hide anything from me. I’ve known her for a dog’s age, and I can’t be led around by the nose anymore. But it was while we were both sitting on the couch, me with her free hand on my

  Hygge

  41

  hun. Så skal vi nu ikke bare hygge os. Og det gjorde vi så. Vi sad der og hyggede os, og jeg kan ikke redegøre for passagen imellem, at hun tog den sidste bid af kagen, og så at hun lå dernede på gulvet, halvt inde under stuebordet, øjnene åbne, munden også, men selv der, da det hele var forbi, så det ud, som om hun var i gang med at nøde mig, ja, hun nødede mig, og jeg ville ikke.