Baboon

by Naja Marie Aidt

  He was more careful. No more kissing in the passageway. New meeting places. But still sex. At least once a week. He was dependent on it, he needed it. But then his lover called it off. He had found someone else and thought that their relationship had dried up. It was hard to hide his disappointment. He laid new flooring in the dining room. That helped. He made love with her frequently. That also helped. Time passed. After awhile their finances were secure. Another baby was born. They helped each other with chores at home, they enjoyed their children, they really made it work. Suddenly, one winter evening, when he was still awake working, it came over him. Strong and burning. He drove downtown and parked outside a bar that he knew from his teenage years. He and his friends would amuse themselves laughing excitedly and with condescension at the leather-clad men coming out of there—now he came out of the dark with a tall, middle-aged man, and went to a nearby club that the man was a member of, they undressed, they washed, they found a place to do it, around them were others doing it, there was panting and a smell of sweat, which made him completely delirious.

  By chance a few years later she finds the midnight blue shoes at the bottom of the closet while looking for something else. There are coffee stains on them. She caresses them smiling. That was the day I bought oysters, and he ripped my fancy dress to shreds. She’s naked, rummaging around on a shelf with underwear. It’s a big one, and she’s happy she has it. He bought it for her, but then realized he also liked having her put it in him. It surprised her, to be doing something like that. That she even enjoyed it. And it had surprised her that he let her do it. But, she thinks shutting the closet door, there is such a connection between us. We’re marked by each other. Then she puts the shoes on and looks in the mirror. Still beautiful. Her skin is dull and white in the dim light. He’s already lying in bed, settled and ready. “You’re so wonderful,” he whispers pulling her down to him.

  SHE DOESN’T CRY

  That’s Anika standing on the dusty platform with her doll in a light blue fabric bassinet lined with a thin blue-dotted plastic. With one hand she holds on tightly to her father’s gray flannel pants. With the other, she swings the bassinet back and forth. All the while she stares at a little girl on her mother’s hip on the opposite platform. The girl has laid her arms around her mother’s neck and is pushing her cheek into her face. Anika and her father have been standing there for a while; the father is reading the newspaper and gives her a distracted answer every time she asks him something. “Is that our train?” He nods. “Is it?” “No…” “Why are you reading the newspaper?” “Hmm…”

  They took a taxi to the train station, and Anika sat completely still looking at the back of the driver’s fat gray neck. The car smelled bad. Her father spoke in another manner, and laughed strangely when the driver said anything that was apparently funny. She had cried a lot when they were about to leave. The baby spit up down the mother’s back. Anika screamed when her father carried her out the door. They are going to see Grandma and Grandpa. Her mother is too tired to come. Anika doesn’t think she looks tired. It’s her baby sister who sleeps all the time. The father folds up the newspaper and smiles at her. “Do you know what we’re going to do when we get to the ferry? We’re going to get some ice cream.”

  A tall, strange man comes smiling toward Anika and her father, and it’s obviously someone the father knows, for they greet each other warmly with loud exclamations of surprise, and they both set their suitcases between their legs to shake each other’s hand. “This is my daughter,” says the father, touching her head, “This is Anika.” “Wow,” says the man, “the last time I saw her she was in a baby carriage.” “Three years old,” says the father, “she’s three and a half now, and a month ago we had another little girl.” The strange man lifts his gaze from Anika, to the father, and then pats him enthusiastically on the shoulder. “Congratulations, old boy, I’m so happy for you! And mother and child are well?” At this point in the conversation, Anika places her bassinet between her legs and puts her hands on her hips. Now she’s standing exactly like the two men. She looks up at the strange man’s face, and doesn’t long any more to return to her mother in the apartment with the yellow curtains and the cat that’s almost always lying in the sun on the kitchen floor with half-closed eyes. She has imitated the two men’s postures down to the smallest detail, and she looks over at the girl again who is still clinging to her suntanned mother. Stupid little girl. Anika can feel the bassinet against her legs. She makes a large spit bubble that bursts so that her mouth gets wet. She sticks her tongue out at the girl. She feels tall and wide. It feels a little like the time she was at the swimming pool with her mother, the water was cold, she shrieked, but it was nice, and she now shifts to her left foot, exactly as her father has just done, and a wonderful sensation floods through her, something velvety soft and dark, but at the same time, extremely bright. She: a person. She can almost not stand still any more, she wants to hop up and down, she wants to run all the way to the trash can at the other end of the platform, but when she looks at her father and the man, they’re saying something with deep murmuring voices, and she notices that they are both standing completely still, as if trapped in their old bearish bodies, so Anika stands like them, rubbing her chin with her thumb and finger, as her father was just doing. That’s when the strange man suddenly looks at her. He stops talking mid-sentence, and a smile spreads across his face. He sputters and covers his mouth. Surprised, the father follows his friend’s gaze, and then he too burst out in uncontrollable laughter when his eyes scan Anika, stopping first at her legs straddling the bassinet, and then her serious face. Anika hides behind her father. Something burns in her head and stomach. He bends down and picks her up. He tries to get his voice under control. “Don’t be sad.” He looks at his friend. More laughter. “It’s just because it’s so funny that you’re standing like us, right?” Now his voice begins to shake. “It’s funny, don’t you think?” The two men let go and laugh loudly. They can’t stop. The father with his enormous hand presses her cheek to his face. Anika cries woefully while looking at the girl who at that moment is being lowered down onto the platform by her mother and darts off to climb up onto a bench. Anika cries harder. The laughing ceases. “Sweetie, it’s nothing to cry over,” says her father. Then the big brown train pulls in between the children, making sizzling, hissing sounds. The father quickly says good-bye to his friend and climbs up into the train, Anika still in his arms. He puts her down on the seat in the compartment. Smiling, he shakes his head. She gets on his lap sniffling, and presses her forehead against the window. She looks at the light blue bassinet left behind on the platform. She doesn’t say a word. She can smell her father’s pipe tobacco. The window tastes sour. A little black seed that looks like the pupil in her father’s eye, the one that squints a bit when he doesn’t know what to say, is now planted in her. She feels it rumbling in her stomach, but she doesn’t cry. The train pulls out. Fields and woods fly by, far away and green. She doesn’t cry.

  CANDY

  Working our way down the long shopping list, we at last reached the shelves with sweets. We grabbed two bags of mixed candy. You placed them in the large woven market bag, which your mother had bought in Bali. We also grabbed a bar of chocolate, unwrapped it and broke it in half. We devoured the sweet sticky mass. Then we walked up to the checkout and began to unload the groceries onto the conveyor belt. You remembered to put down the chocolate bar wrapper. The young woman at the register threw it in the wastebasket for us. I paid. And then a skinny woman with glasses and gray wispy hair stopped you. “What do you have there?” she asked, pointing at the woven bag. “Oh,” you said, “I forgot to put them on the counter.” You smiled at the young woman. “I’m sorry.” “Sorry isn’t good enough,” the woman said. “What do you have there?” People watched. “What do you mean? It’s candy.” “Have you paid for it?” “No, that’s what I just said. We forgot to put them on the counter.” Red splotches spread across your neck and down your chest. “We�
��ll just pay for them now,” I said. “And you’re saying that it’s candy?” asked the woman. “Yes.” Her lips pressed out and down in a nasty smile. “It’s stolen goods,” she said, “and I couldn’t care less about what you’ve forgotten or not forgotten. You’re coming with me right now.” “What do you mean?” you asked, confused. “Just what I said,” said the woman, pushing her glasses up. “Excuse me,” I said, “we spend lots of money in this lousy store every day of the entire summer.” I was losing my temper. “And then you scold my wife like a child for forgetting to pay for two cheap bags of candy!” I waved one of the packages in her face. “Here!” I shouted, “Take the money!” and flung a handful of coins on the counter. The young woman at the register looked miserable. The money stuck in the conveyer belt where it fed down into the counter. A German man who was loading his groceries into a large box tried to wiggle the coins free. It ended with the young woman stopping the belt. The long line of people with full shopping carts were asked to check out at another register. Meanwhile the woman with glasses was saying, “Sir, this is not about paying now, it’s about theft, we have our procedures in this store, and your wife needs to come with me.” She grabbed your arm. You were on the verge of tears. “Thomas,” you whispered. “Don’t worry. I’m coming with you,” I said, gathering our things. “Let’s get this over with!” I shouted. “Right away!” “Sir, your wife will be questioned alone. Those are the rules.” “I want to talk to the manager!” I shouted. You looked down at the floor. She still had your arm, and was now walking off with you. You didn’t resist. I called to the woman at the register. “Get me the manager of this shithole!” I shouted. The woman looked scared. She rang the bell. I could neither see you nor the skinny woman. It felt like it took forever before the manager showed up. Meanwhile I got all worked up over the fact that the woman had taken great pains to humiliate you as much as possible by addressing you casually and calling me sir. The manager appeared to be a good-natured man in his mid-thirties. In a raised voice, I told him about the situation. The manager covered himself. “The store detectives are not my responsibility. We use the same procedure for theft in all our stores.” “It’s not theft,” I shouted and almost grabbed the poor man. “Bring me to my wife!” “Unfortunately,” the manager said, smiling apologetically, “I’m not allowed to.” Then in a rage I threw the bags of candy on the floor and pushed my way through the checkout. I ran down the produce aisle and banged open a metal door behind the meat section. Two men with bloody aprons looked at me surprised. They were putting hamburger meat onto trays. “Where’s the OFFICE?” One of the butchers stepped toward me. “It depends on which office you mean.” After I explained myself, he shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t help you with that.” I slammed my hand down on the table and raced for the door farthest back in the building. But that led out to the parking lot. So I ran back into the store. All the way in the back past the shelves of wine I found the door. It was locked. I pounded on it with all my might. I yelled for you. People watched, concerned. Then a security guard with keys jingling on his belt came toward me with quick steps. And when I didn’t follow him voluntarily, he grabbed me and pushed me through the store. I yelled. He was strong. He pushed me right out into the street. “Get lost,” he said. “You understand?” I kicked a parked car. “You’re not going to get away with this,” I hissed. “I’m going to report your fucking bullshit.” He looked at me arrogantly. “Unfortunately, it’s your wife who’s going to be reported. Get lost.” I stepped toward him and he shoved me and I stumbled over the curb. He hoisted up his pants, making the keys jingle, and went back into the supermarket. I was out of breath. I sweated. A muscular young man poked me on the shoulder. “Hey, did you kick my car? You’d better cut it out.” Two others towered behind him. A tall lanky guy and a dark-haired dumpling. “What do you say guys? Does he have the right to kick my Benz?” “Come on, nothing happened,” I said and turned to go. But the dumpling twisted my arm behind my back. “That’ll be a hundred bucks.” When the others circled me, and asked if they should find the money or kick my ass a little first, I gave in. With my free hand I took some crumpled bills out of my pocket. And the tall lanky one smiled with satisfaction when he took them from me and realized there were one hundred and twenty dollars. “Thank you very much. That’ll do.” The dumpling shoved me away from him, and that time I fell flat on the ground.

  There was a big bloody scrape on my knee. A woman asked if I needed help. The sun blinded me. I noticed a small group of people had gathered around me. I got up and limped away. A young woman muttered, “Look, he’s shitfaced,” when I passed her. The manager was waiting for me in the store. “Sir, I’ll have to ask you to leave at once. The customers are disturbed. We can’t take responsibility for that.” “Responsibility!” I shook my head and clenched my jaw. I made a show of taking out my phone and calling the police. “Police!” I hissed so that he’d know I wasn’t pretending. An impertinent police officer told me that they had already talked to the store detective who reported the theft. My wife would hear from them within the next few days. She might get off with a fine, but there’s a chance it’ll go on her record, as he said. The manager gently grabbed my arm. “It’s all going to work out.” I jerked my arm away with a lot of force. It swung backward and knocked over a pyramid-shaped display of cans of clam chowder. There was an enormous crash when the cans knocked each other down. They rolled all over the place. My hand throbbed with pain. A little girl tripped over one of the cans and began screaming. Her father came rushing over. “What the hell are you doing, you idiot?!” Standing a few inches from me, he lifted his fist as if to punch me in the face, but controlled himself when the girl pulled on his leg. “Fucking idiot,” he hissed, giving me the evil eye. Then he picked up the child, gave me the finger, and stomped away in his plastic sandals. People glared at me shaking their heads. Some began to restack the cans. The manager grabbed my shoulders. “That’s enough,” he said with a clenched jaw, “now you’ve got to go.” He gave me a little push. “And don’t you dare come back again.”

  Then you were suddenly standing in front of me, red-eyed and pale. Maybe you had been standing there for a while. In the background I could make out that scrawny woman’s strained gloating face. “That’s the way out!” The manager raised his voice. Your hand slid in mine. We must have looked defeated. Then we slowly began to walk, and when we got out to the parking lot, you broke down sobbing. I put my arms around you. The air shimmered with heat. We had forgotten to take our groceries and didn’t go back for them. A blue Mercedes roared by us, and with the horn going off they shouted and laughed at me through the open windows. I looked at you, and for a moment it was as though I didn’t recognize you. Your face reminded me of an old ball that’s been kicked to death and left at the edge of a large green field. Misshaped, gray, and flat. I left you standing there and got in the car. I suddenly had no desire to touch you. A little while later you crawled sniffling into the passenger seat. I accelerated and heard you gasp several times because of how fast I was driving as we headed out of town.

  THE GREEN DARKNESS OF THE BIG TREES

  Tuesday morning it became clear that autumn was now on its way. There was a new coolness in the air. Drizzles later turned into hail. But between showers there was also intermittent golden sunshine that made the withering leaves light up like copper. A strong scent of damp earth and rot pervaded my morning walk down the familiar walkways and paths. I was melancholic. I thought intensely about death. Summer passes so quickly and who knows if it’ll be the last. Because death is tugging at me. And I have to hold on tight with my arms and legs to not give in. It’s strange, incomprehensible, that I, who desire life with such strong intensity, have this fierce drive in me. I found myself in the green darkness of the big trees. In this instance, linden trees. They always make me sigh. I put a heart-shaped leaf in my pocket. I sat on the ground, dug my hands down into the loam and closed my eyes. What makes me drift around so restlessly in a world that I’m
unable to enter even though it gives me the greatest pleasure when it pierces me? I sat this way for a long time as it poured and the rain ran down my face and I tasted it; I sucked on my dirty fingers. Then, quickly, I made my way over to the old silver maple. My solace, my anchor. Crying, relieved, banging my tired head against the trunk. Leaves fall gently. The sun breaking through. In a flash, everything seemed interconnected as it’s meant to be; I watched the shadows of the trees’ canopies on the path, and noticed how the wind moved the leaves in the treetops, light falling, shifting quickly between shimmering sunlight and dense darkness, and the sounds of gentle rustling, whispering, and mumbling, all so soothing; my heart about to burst. I am warm and cold, and I was also warm and cold too when the church bells struck ten, and I pressed my mouth against a stray branch, and prayed for my life, and began to walk that Tuesday past the rose beds and the little pond with ducklings. A child lay on her stomach gathering twigs from the water. A young man was absorbed in photographing the greenhouse. The gardener carted manure in a small wheelbarrow. I squatted and stuck my greedy nose into a rose. When I stood up I saw you for the first time. You were leaning against the tool shed with closed eyes. Your skin was very white. You looked happy. Then you opened your eyes, squinting at me. I must have given you a thunderstruck look, because you smiled shyly and made this little movement with your hand, which later I would dream about with such longing, almost a wave but not really, a commanding movement, gracious, apologetic, awkward as a blush. I stood there boring my eyes into your back as you walked away. Your steps were light and springy. I sat down on a bench. And heard the clear incessant sound behind me of the oak tree’s acorns hitting the ground with small cracks.