Now, it had come to the point where she paid virtually all the bills and expenses, even if they were no longer lovers. She knew that the bank did not care whether he had money or not; they would just take the money for the mortgage when there was any. She had given up all hope of escape.
They had not been intimate for a long time, and she missed it about as much as she missed the smell of dog shit on a hot summer´s day. The last time he had opened up to anything was when he was lying on the couch with a hand on his cock and said he wanted her, and if only she would come and sit on him. He would never win any awards for being this year’s romantic.
At one point she had demanded that he get a job that brought in some money, but he was full of excuses for why that was not realistic.
“I’ve just had a meeting with this guy who works at Novo. He was really positive about coaching, and the effect it can have on the bottom line. It looks really promising!”
His face was earnest, and he looked like a school teacher who wants his students to listen carefully.
“He´s going to present it to his boss. Honey, you have to understand - it wouldn’t be fair, to say yes to a crappy nine to five job, and then quit when I get the really good job at Novo. You see? This is going to be huge. I can feel it in my gut. Don’t ask me how, but ‘huge, will it be!’”
Lotte forced herself to smile at his Yoda-esque sentence. She had never seen Star Wars, but he had patiently explained all about the character, the little green man who was very wise and always spoke backwards. She didn´t think it was funny and you probably had to have seen the movie to get it, she thought.
“You just wait and see. This is it!” He had a big smile on his face and tried to look very convincing.
Yeah, right, Lotte thought, but she didn’t say anything.
But weeks passed and when she presented him with the reality that the meetings he had with people actually didn’t lead to jobs, he argued—as she had expected him to—that she couldn’t possibly understand it because she didn’t have her own business. Furthermore, he said, the simple fact that it takes time for a firm to get established, and a coach needs time to build a reputation, so people will want his help, seemed totally lost on her. So what it came down to was: would she take the blame if he was forced to close down his business?
But she held her tongue while thinking about the fact that it was hard to establish himself and build his reputation while lying on the couch most of the time. Instead, she paid the bills and made sure there was food in the house. She bought a small whiteboard and hung it in the kitchen, and on it she wrote what she spent on food and expenses, so he could see what he owed her. But she was convinced that she would never see that money.
The apartment was for sale, but prices had gone down and it would be sold at a loss. She would just have to accept that. Actually, she couldn’t really afford to pay the mortgage and everything else by herself, but by working overtime and making every penny count she managed to make ends meet. Her closet was no longer filled with fashionable clothes and nice shoes, but with clothes from the thrift store, shoes bought on sale and hand-me-downs from friends. Everything was more than one season out of fashion, but she wasn’t that worried about it. She was neither a snob nor above wearing unfashionable clothes. What bothered her more was that her money was being spent on something that offered no return; that she was stuck in a situation and in a place where she did not want to be. In short, Lotte wanted her life back - a life without The Ruminant.
3
On the day that Verner died I had wandered through the city, still feeling a little restless after a bastard had recently gotten away from me in Barcelona. After a visit to my hairdresser, I walked across Kongens Nytorv, my hair waving gently in the breeze and a cup of chai in my hand; I was on my way to a therapy session. I walked up Strøget, the main shopping street in central Copenhagen, to have a look at the stores at the more fashionable end. I paused for a moment, taking a deep breath and gazing at the Royal Theater with its big arches watching over the beautiful square like giant eyes.
The theater is an unusual building, having been transformed over the last 150 years from an impractical, disharmonious eyesore into a beautiful temple of art and entertainment. To me, it´s a symbol of how people can create things that inspire other people. I continued walking along Strøget, already feeling a little more positive. Two things can make me happy: the smell of a new pair of shoes, and therapy.
Therapy had been beneficial to me for many years, but not in the way people usually benefit from it. The psychologists, many of them naive, never found out that I used them as a manual, a simple textbook of reminders and rules on how to social norms so I could appear normal.
I could not really feel much, had not felt much since I was twelve when my mother and father died. Now, I have a pretty good idea of what ‘normal’ is, thanks to a good deal of therapy, but not where I have cried with remorse, and tried to take myself through the emotional trauma of redemption and gain the ability to feel. I have just used it as a way to learn the social rules, so I could fulfill my mission: exterminating abusive men. There are many of them out there, men like my long gone father, the types who are so afraid of women that they have to punish them severely. But I punish the men even harder.
A lot of women know what it’s like to love a man who doesn’t appreciate them, who never listens, who abandons them, lies to them and takes them for granted. Being in such a relationship is a traumatic experience. I had listened to the psychologists talk about it, and read about it in newspapers, magazines and books. When violence also enters into such a relationship, everything gets even worse.
I know that women put up with it, often because of the experiences they had when they were little girls which taught them that they don’t deserve anything better. I am one of those girls, but society never took action or interfered. Society never helped me, never protected me, never cared for me; it never saw my pain. But someone had to do something about that and that ‘someone’ was me, with Verner playing the lead this time in my meticulously rehearsed act of retribution.
That day, for Verner, there was one final act to be played. One last show where he, who had participated in several reality shows in his life-long hope of fame, would be the star of the drama. But this time he had to play the role of the victim, the one who was voted out of the game. Today, his exit would be the final one, and there would be no curtain to open for an encore with a standing ovation.
“It´s going to be your best Verner, your best performance ever! And the easiest one, for I can clearly see that you´re a natural. This is your finest hour. You were simply born - to die…”
I laughed a little at the thought, sighing slowly as, for a moment, I just enjoyed the sight of the dead man in my mind and dwelled on the idea of never having to hear his voice again. In a short while I’d start putting it all behind me.
I had met Verner one late night at a bar in the center of the city, where he was eating slices of fried pork, with potatoes and parsley gravy - a gross version of the Danish national dish - entertaining anyone who cared to listen.
I had strolled through the streets close to the new gray, lifeless and a little too square Metro stations in the inner city. Hungry for something. The kind of hunger that isn´t physical, but makes your body feel restless.
For a while I stood and listened to a guy sitting on the sidewalk, playing the harmonica with a hat in front of him, hoping that someone would help him buy his supper. He looked up at me, and I recognized the shame and powerlessness as his eyes met mine, even though his lips tried to smile. It was very early in the spring, and even though the pale sunlight had lured everyone outside during the day, the temperature dropped drastically in the evening, making most people flee the streets and seek shelter in their warm and comfy homes.
A spring day in the sun makes Danes optimistic and hopeful for a great summer. They had been out in the par
ks, sitting on the green wooden benches, where the most optimistic ones licked at ice cream cones, while the rest of them drank coffee and chatted, as people do, social creatures that they are. A sharp contrast to the man with the harmonica and me, we were on the outside, whether by our own choice or not.
On the benches and in small groups on blankets on the ground, people sat, shivering, trying to saturate their winter-cold bones with warmth in the bleak sunlight. As Danes often do, they talked about the weather, how it had been, how they hoped it would be, and laughed at every opportunity. Their cheerful and meaningless voices floated lightly in the cool spring breeze.
When the chill of the night began to seep through my clothes, I went into the nearest place I could find, to get something to eat and there was Verner. Sitting with his back to the door, but talking in such a loud and boasting manner that you couldn’t help noticing him. He was pontificating about how Danish TV, in his opinion, should be restructured to make room for the reality stars who could actually think for themselves. Anyone could see, he said, that the current programs suffered from pettiness and conformity. Obviously, he had misunderstood the whole idea of reality shows.
Even as a child, I didn’t think the clowns at the circus were funny. Watching people get into trouble because of their stupidity didn’t make it less corny, or more entertaining. After all, most of them were not clowns, they were just not too bright, or just lazy, hungry for the tiniest bit of attention.
Something about Verner caught my attention, perhaps the way he moved his hands and his obvious narcissism turned me on; he reeked of it. He had a slightly worn and used look about him, but also, still had a certain charm. I judged him to be in his mid-fifties and the wrinkles around his eyes indicated that he often smiled but in reality they very seldom did. They told a story of a man who had suffered defeat and felt like a victim in his own life, a man who lived in defiance of the world around him and, unlike the man with the harmonica, looked with contempt at all that he saw. Now, he saw a woman at ease with herself; me.
I had just recently turned 37, and had celebrated by treating myself to a hunt for big game in Africa. But it wasn’t at all about the game, or the hunt, for that matter; mostly I wanted to explore my feelings about firearms. It was a good thing that I did it since I found out that guns were certainly not my style. They were primitive and coarse, taking all the refinement from the killing. Too bad, since the refinement is actually what really appeals to me; a girl’s gotta have a little fun. But when I looked at the dead animals, something was missing - that feeling of connection and closeness with the dying animal. I wanted to look deep into their eyes, in that moment when it dawned on them, that their lives would be over and gone in the blink of an eye. But, at least I had gotten a great tan and looked like a million dollars!
So, there I stood at Verner´s table at the restaurant and looked at him with lust in my eyes, asking what I had done to deserve running into a reality star like him. I had never seen the shows, but I had seen the headlines with his name. He bought it completely, eating it up. His eyes met mine, and he looked flattered.
“Does such a beauty like you really have to go around begging at tables?” he asked, with a smile that resembled a snarl. The predator showed his fangs at the very sight of prey.
He looked provocatively at me, challenging me to a fight, and I instantly recognized the type. He felt that the fight was his God- given right; he was already smelling the sweet smell of victory and seeing himself as the conqueror.
“Are you sure you can handle a woman like me without any help?” I teased him back.
His friends sitting at the table gasped and laughed. Verner got up, pushed his chair back with a growl in his throat, but also with a twinkle in his eye. Even though he had never met me before, he pressed his hand firmly against my throat to show his dominance. He was a little drunk; I could smell it on his breath.
“I could break your neck in a second, like a twig. Are you sure you want to fight me?” he challenged.
I put my hand ever so softly on his, and said that fighting was probably the last thing I intended that we should do. I laughed a little, coyly, and looked him straight in the eye. He didn’t have a chance. He was probably thinking the same thing about me, in that moment, but didn´t realize that he was playing with the cat who was playing with the mouse.
We ended up at his house after a long night where he tried to impress me and the others at the table. Sometimes he was funny, but otherwise he alternated between complimenting me and domineering me. So predictable. So exhilarating.
In his living room, the last cigarette had been smoked and he had begun to touch me. I had called him ‘Magic Fingers’ as I always did with all my men who thought they were so skilled in the use of their hands. But like some of the others before him, it seemed more like he wanted to inflict pain and punish me, instead of wanting to pleasure me.
Now he was dead. I felt a tingling excitement in my spine at the thought that I had tricked him into showing me all his weaknesses, while I meticulously collected enough evidence to unequivocally justify his murder to myself.
4
When I was quite sure that Verner was really dead and there was nothing suspicious about the scene, I began to scream - loud, desperate and pervasive. My screams were thrown back and forth between the concrete walls and they went on and on. Even I was impressed and listened, fascinated to the sound, it seemed like it was transported through the material, like water through sand. The screams echoed around the room and beyond so that they could reach the neighbors; they cut through bone and marrow, and probably all the way into their rooms like a hammer drill at full speed.
While I continued to scream, I tried to get in touch with grief and despair, to seek deep within me. There were not emotions that usually appeared in my life, they were, like other emotions, rare guests. This was not about revenge. I was just the hunter, and lifted the fist of justice without pity or remorse. It was just a job to be performed and to complete this task I needed grief. Basically the world is a sorrowful place and, in just a short time, I was able to move myself into the world where other and more ordinary people live.
I watched their grief in my mind and made it my own while I slowly counted to ten. Following yet another double check of the still warm corpse, for good measure, I smeared a little tiger balm under my eyes; now they immediately began watering. Through my fake tears I looked down at my clothes to make sure that all was in order; every actress must make a well-prepared entrance.
So tearful and howling, I now rushed out of the apartment while I screamed again and again, only interrupted by long gasps for breath. My body writhed, as in deep pain and despair, and I began to shout:
“Help! Help! Is there anybody? Help me! Will you not help me?!”
It worked. A moment later one of the neighbors hurried over to me, and then another, and a third; my fan club grew rapidly.
One of the most fun parts of the preparations this time had been watching lots of movies with all the greatest actresses where they lost someone they loved. During many late nights I used to imitate their reactions. Moaning and rolling my body around on the carpet (which was neither beige nor shag) as I cried and whimpered, but not too loud since it was not yet the time for raising the alarm.
In my rehearsals I tried to find the release button that could make my sorrow credible and sometimes I thought of when my mother died. It took an infinitely long time to find grief and sometimes I got myself into hysterical laughter at the thought of how useless grief really is. One day I got a stomach ache so bad from laughing that I had to take a break from my practice for the rest of the day.
“What’s going on?” asked the shocked neighbor from the apartment next door.
“Are you okay?” said the other. Not really a stupid question if my portrayal had gone as intended.
“Is It Verner?” asked the third; finally the right question.
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br /> Now even more people came out of their apartments and stood around, their arms passively hanging by their sides like mannequins. Confused, helpless and almost paralyzed, it was probably typical of most people; in a crisis they wait for someone to come and tell them what to do. With tears streaming down my cheeks I tried to make eye contact with the neighbor who had asked about Verner; while I was sobbing I pointed into the apartment,. Finally, he understood what I meant and went through the open door and into the apartment. I heard his gasp of shock when he saw the corpse.
“Oh God!” he said, as if he could help Verner now.
Another neighbor followed into the apartment, and soon I could hear one of them talking on a cell phone with the emergency services, I assumed. A woman who had appeared from the stairwell – my screams must have been really loud - figured out what had happened, and came over and put her arms around me. I was disgusted by the touch, the false comfort and care, but I remembered the films and knew my role.
I leaned toward her and my tears moistened her blouse - tiger balm stings incredibly - so that the fabric was darker as if she had spilled wine. While I held on to her shoulder the image of spilled wine on my mind almost had me breaking into laughter at the worst possible time; I’d just realized that I would never again clean Verner’s fucking precious chairs.
Dead Men (Marie and Lotte Book 1) Page 3
