by Liz Jensen
‘I was just like you in the beginning,’ she recalled on the second day, whilst demonstrating how Fergus’s ‘white goods’ were to be operated. ‘Quite confounded by modernity, & marvelling at its ingenuity, yet critical at the same time, for do we not all come to believe that things were best “in the old days” – whenever they were? Still, skat, you will habituate yourself in no time. For all our complaining about this life, & our nostalgia for home, I often wonder how my husband & I will cope in the days of yore, when we return.’
There was a silence for a short while, for we both knew that it was now more ‘if than ‘when’.
‘We planned to settle by the sea in Gilleleje,’ she sniffed, taking out her handkerchief ‘We visited it once in modern times but it is not the same, & we prefer it as it was before, even though we must cook on a wooden stove & use candle light. Oh, Charlotte, it was just so hyggeligt-cosy in the old days!’
‘We must get Herr Dogger working on the building of a new Time Machine,’ I insisted, as Fru Jakobsen, pulling herself together, now supervised my loading of the washing machine. I poured lilac-scented powder & pearly-whirly ‘fabric conditioner’ into the little receptacles as instructed, & studied the controls while I continued: ‘We cannot rely on Professor Krak to manage it from Copenhagen.’
She looked up sharply.
‘Especially as we do not actually know that he is there,’ she said.
‘But –’
‘Professor Krak entered the machine, did he not? Along with Fru Schleswig?’
‘Yes indeed,’ I answered.
‘Then there is a strong chance,’ she said slowly, putting a gentle hand on my arm, ‘that he did not stay in Copenhagen at all, but was instead catapulted–’ she lowered her voice, ‘elsewhere in time & space! I am sorry to tell you this, min kære pige, but I fear that Professor Krak & Fru Schleswig could be anywhere on this planet, & in Lord knows what era. The machine had been adjusted, had it not? And malfunctioned as a result?’
‘But they fixed it! After Professor Krak’s misadventure in Spain, they stayed up all night making sensitive adjustments to remedy the disconcerted thingummybob!’
But a chill had settled on the back of my neck, like a clammy Swarfega’d hand. I had not thought of this, but of course Fru Jakobsen was right Professor Krak & Fru Schleswig could be anywhere on the meridian – & therefore at this very instant facing the slime-vat horrors of the Basilica of Our Lady of Pilar in Zaragoza – or dismally stranded in a warehouse full of molasses in some godforsaken Afric port, or screaming into the chilly wind on a chunk of Antarctic rock packed with squawking sea-parrots, their only missiles the very eggs that the hysterically maddened birds were protecting with their lives! I gulped.
‘But in that case, it is all the more imperative that we do what we can here, lest I go mad!’ I cried. ‘I know Professor Krak left the plans here, & Herr Dogger is familiar with them. Meantime, Fru Jakobsen, please let us not consider the worst scenarios, for the sake of my sanity! Instead, I shall assume – nay, I do assume, nay I insist on assuming– that Professor Krak is this very moment (if such a thing exists in this befuddled universe) reconstructing the Time Machine in Copenhagen, & with Fergus’s help, we shall all be reunited soon.’ As I pressed ‘Start’ the washing machine’s power hummed & swelled, & I felt a sudden warm surge of optimism. Yes: at the touch of a button, all would be well!
But Fru Jakobsen, folding clothes from the dryer, was not ignited by the flare of enthusiasm I had generated in myself, & instead looked all the more worried. ‘My husband & I have already raised the matter of building a new Time Machine with Herr Dogger,’ she said uneasily. ‘And I’m afraid there are … awkward impediments.’
‘Impediments of what nature?’
At this, she looked flummoxed, & blushed a deep scarlet. ‘Well, Herr Dogger declares himself willing to construct it according to the plans, which do indeed exist (though only in partial form, he claims), but he is insisting on payment.’
‘Payment?’ I gasped, quite perplexed. ‘Payment? After all Professor Krak has done for him, he’s asking for –’
‘You had better speak to him yourself,’ she said, reddening further. ‘For it is not a completely straightforward matter, it would seem. If it were simply a question of money, the club could raise the funds. But – well. It is … rather unwholesome, I fear, min pige. I am sure that you will be as shocked as I was by Herr Dogger’s terms & conditions. I have not mentioned any of this to the club committee, and … well. To be frank, I am not keen to.’ At which she fell into silence, & folded more clothes in a flustered fashion, while my mind turned rapidly, assessing all I had just learned. Fru Jakobsen’s embarrassment hinted clearly at what Dogger meant by ‘terms and conditions’, for was he not a prime example of that breed of middle-aged man whose eyes cannot resist sliding greedily towards the breasts, & thence buttockwards – with a groping hand never far behind? I remembered his binoculars: it was he who had betrayed me to the club. What private intimacies had he witnessed when he spied on Fergus & myself in our stolen hours of passion – & how much had he enjoyed the view? I shuddered. So Dogger’s price was sex. Something I once gave away almost for free, in days of yore, as alms to a beggar or bones to a dog – but that was before I knew the meaning of Love. Could the Charlotte of today pay such a price, now that she had learned the most vital of life’s lessons? Would it lose her the one thing that mattered more than anything in the world to her, in her new existence? Would Fergus understand & forgive her, if he knew the cost of their reunion?
So join me now in my whore’s garb, preparing for a session with my tormentor in an upper room of the Halfway Club, cleared for me by poor Fru Jakobsen, who still cannot hide her genteel horror at what I am prepared to do for Love and country. Out of her own ladylike decorum, she will not tell club members of the ‘indignities’ I face: Dogger, too, has signed the confidentiality agreement she insisted on, ‘for your own sake, my dear,’ she whispered to me, tears dancing in her eyes. ‘I have some knowledge of legal matters & this should cover most eventualities. I will also make him agree to demonstrating steady & tangible progress on the Time Machine as he is building it, & to this end he must plan each day’s work, & stick to it, & construct it on the premseis, so he can be supervised.’
The bargaining was tough, but in the end, with Fru Jakobsen acting as madam (a role she did not relish, but which she performed with much elegance, being a natural businesswoman), a settlement was hammered out: every day, with the exception of weekends, Dogger would spend six hours on the construction of the Time Machine, then share a cup of powerful Lapsang Souchong tea with Fru Jakobsen, over which he would update her on his plans & progress. After this, he would be entitled to exactly one hour (timed by Fru Jakobsen’s stopwatch, & ended with a sharp toot on a professional sports whistle) in my exclusive company, to use in whatever manner he wished.
As a working girl I had learned from an early age how to hide my distaste for those clients who held no physical charm, & to camouflage my amusement at those who were unwittingly hilarious – but as you may well imagine, sweetness, something had recently changed in me, rendering all that had gone before null & void: an internal earthquake had riven my soul apart, re-mapping my psychic contours, & (if I may abandon one family of metaphors to pursue another) the effect on my heart had been to close off certain harsh arterial routes, while letting the softer ventricles pump to a different & tender rhythm, gushing the rich blood of yearning through my whole being. Do you follow me, when I try to explain it thus? Can you begin to fathom in what subtle ways my intense feelings for Fergus had reconstituted my perception of that intimate act, which I had never before associated with Love & passion, so much as with fun (on occasion) & cash? What is more, Dogger was no ordinary client: he was the man who had taught me the full meaning of the English word ‘tedium’ in the classroom, & also he who had spied on my private activities & betrayed me to the club with his vile binoculars: a double villain! So now, as I enter
the upstairs boudoir for the first time, I feel like a condemned prisoner bound for the scaffold, & hold but one thought in my mind: to get the wretched business over with quickly. I will close my eyes & think of Denmark.
Let us share a moment of thoughtful silence together, dear one, as we contemplate what I am about to do on the navy brushed-cotton sofa-bed made by that Swedish home-furnishing store whose full household range I have come to know so well in England! See it as a moment of mourning for an innocence long lost, then magically regained, & now about to be lost again – for no sooner have I found something that is more precious (& all the more so, for its invisibility) than diamonds & truffles conjoined, than I am about to pollute it for evermore! O, my heart is in such a state of despair that I feel close to the epicentre of madness itself! I am no expert on morality, but – well, let me ask you, my dear sugar plum, being far cleverer than I, what might you do, in this situation? A foolish question, no doubt, for you would never land in such a rémoulade-pickle as I have. But would you – could you, consider handing over your lovely body (I hope that you can take a compliment!) to a lascivious tormentor, for the sake of higher things?
That, reader, is the dilemma I have faced & seemingly resolved as I await his heavy step on the stair, & the handle’s turn on the door.
But O, by way of escape, let us freeze time for a moment! And in this fraction of calm before the storm, let me present you with a small poem that illustrates the dismal mood in which I find myself before my born-again virginity is defiled. A poem which I know will touch you to the core, as it has touched all Danes since the day Christian Knud Frederik Molbech penned it in his notebook. Do not be ashamed if it makes you weep, sweetest: you will not be the first, nor the last, neither! Its title is ‘Rosebud’, & you will quickly see why I identify with its tragic eponymous heroine.
‘Ha ha!’ laughed Rosebud, wild & free.
‘The fountain will run full of sweet apple-juice before I blush for any man,
And every tree in the garden will sprout golden flowers.’
But wily Peter sat in hiding & overheard her words.
‘He who laughs last laughs loudest,’ said he.
When dawn broke, he came to Rosebud.
‘Come, beautiful virgin: let us stroll together.’
And so she walked with him, straight into the maw of Fate.
For there in the herb-garden, he’d hung golden rings from every tree.
And there in the flowered spring dyed the waters yellow as apple-juice.
And Rosebud blushed deep as blood, & stared numbly at her feet.
Peter greedily kissed her lips. ‘He who laughs last laughs loudest,’ smiled he.
O, how I shudder for little Rosebud when I recall these verses, which I have translated for you here with the greatest accuracy I can muster! And how I know her pain – for can you see how similar we are? And is the wily Peter not cast from the same ugly & predatory mould as Herr Dogger? Rosebud & I – both tricked into trickery by a trickster!
Woe, woe, woe!
Bang, bang, bang He approacheth! Tremble for me, dear one! O, you cannot know how much it means to me to know you are at my side, come Hell or high water!
And so like Bluebeard, the leering, white-bearded Dogger enters, red-faced & all a-grunt from his exertions on the stairs, bringing with him a whiff of Lapsang Souchong & an odd chemical I cannot identify.
‘A deal’s a deal, little girl,’ he smiles, baring teeth stained with tobacco. Upon which, slowly, with the methodicalness of an executioner, he lowers his Marks & Spencer trouser-ware, shuffles off his greyish underpants, & bares the flaccid sausage that hangs sorrowfully between his meaty, hairy thighs.
‘Meet the boss. Say hello to Big Chief Bongo,’ he grins.
Weakly, feeling vomitatious, I nod my appalled greeting.
‘Now pay attention, little girl, while I instruct you as to his requirements. The Big Chief is very particular, & I expect you to have learnt his ways thoroughly by the end of the lesson.’
The time had come. I draw a brief veil.
But just as in the poem, he who laughs last, laughs loudest. For now let me whip back that veil I drew a moment ago, & inform you that in the space of five minutes’ huffing & puffing, Big Chief Bongo & the man attached to him have delivered me a most unexpected & happy surprise! Yes! For tra-la-la & hallelujah! Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way! I am saved by a single word, which you can look up in the dictionary, as I have done, under the letter I. You will find it somewhere between ‘importune’ and ‘impostor’.
Have you found it yet? Well, hurry, we haven’t got all day! In fact, we only have an hour – which, as we are about to discover, isn’t long enough for anything. Especially if you are afflicted by –
IMPOTENCE!
Yes; Big Chief Bongo’s stubborn recalcitrance soon renders my duties much less revolting & burdensome than I feared, & they even, as the days pass, become the source of some gaiety. Watch: this will be a typical session, I assure you – for apart from the costumes, there is little variety. Dogger is a man of fantasies, but limited imagination. A creature of high ambition, but negligible prowess, for praise be, it seems he is allergic to that so-called miracle drug Viagra &, much to his distress, can only maintain the feeblest of erections when visually stimulated, reaching a mere ‘Niveau Un’ of the would-be Tour Eiffel that is his member. As you may imagine, this news reassures Fru Jakobsen mightily, & she feels instantly less guilty: all the more so when I confide to her that I was actually a whore in my previous existence information I have kept from her out of respect for her delicacy (I assure you), rather than shame at my past. And that resourceful woman in turn confides in me that she has been lacing Dogger’s Lapsang Souchong with a chemical called bromide, known to have a dampening effect on the male libido.
But hark! He knocketh. Watch, sweet one, as I assume the role Dogger has assigned today with a languid, ‘Come in, you naughty boy.’ He enters, his piggy eyes aglint, fingers already unclasping the belt that holds his paunch in place. ‘Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?’ I quip in English, as American as I can make it, for today I am Mae West, of whom I had never heard until yesterday when he made his demand (the oilskin-clad Eskimo Girl having failed to adequately stimulate the Big Chief, he was after more regular fare), upon which Fru Jakobsen looked the woman up on Google & noted down some famous lines, before heading for Malarkey’s Costumes on the high street, whose most regular clients we have suddenly become.
‘Huhh,’ he grunted. ‘Sexy Hollywood star.’
Our encounters follow a pattern. Some men favour a girl’s impressively upholstered upper chest, while others will naturally gravitate to the twin peaches of her bottom; some declare themselves Leg Men who eloquently fetishize the well-turned ankle, the smooth calves, or the ‘nice hunk of thigh-meat’ one might be endowed with, if one were me. Others, of a more risqué disposition, prefer to cut direct to the chase, savouring the most intimate flesh above all, like specialists of wine or cheese: connoisseurs who can spend hours describing textures, scents & flavours. What Dogger’s predilections were in this matter I never discovered, for he grunted rather than spoke, & was a watcher rather than a doer: indeed, his new-found intimate shame prevented him from touching anything other than his own member, aka Big Chief Bongo, to my great relief. In order to speed up his self-stimulations to the maximum (which as you can guess, dear one, was very much my goal – for as much as he liked to gawp, did I prefer to turn my eyes inward), it was vital that I come over most coquettish, & awaken his fantasies.
But thanks to my costumed endeavours, the Time Machine now comes along apace, its building much speeded by the surveillance of Herr & Fru Jakobsen, those two grim custodians of hope, who supervise Dogger most unrelentingly as he works, determined that he should not slack. Insisting that whatever materials he should require, they shall supply themselves, they have ensured that he does not leave the premises, & he grumbles that he is being ke
pt a virtual prisoner. Ha!
But yet, the faster the contraption approaches completion, the more I smell a rat in the world of the Halfway Club, but figure out what form it takes, & where it is hiding, I cannot. Even when I clap eyes on the modern version of the Time Machine that Dogger has constructed, combining (as Herr Jakobsen demonstrates) antique & modern methods & materials, & thereby securing a marriage made in technological Heaven – nay, even when I clap eyes on that, down in the community hall of the Halfway Club, where it stands, almost complete, squatly in the centre of the room, a great gleaming box with a little door of wood & glass, an unquiet murmur swells inside me, whispering: hold your horses, Charlotte – pige, for something is askew.
