The air was cooler, the asphalt had been rinsed clean and glossy when I finally exited Pussyland - after having nodded goodbye to the Buddha with the harelip, sitting inscrutably on his barstool while counting the take of the night. A girl was lying up in a room, waiting...No, if that were only the case; but she would not be lying sleepless or turning over under the blankets. Not at all. No, she would have fallen asleep a long time ago, safely assuming that I had only gone for a walk and would, like a good boy, come back home afterward. Sure of me and my love, of my tiring tender words. New York had fallen asleep. Somebody had turned down the city's volume on a control panel in some CIA-bunker, from where everything was controlled by serious, unrelenting men wearing identical suits. No longer were the pillars of steam ascending from the sewer covers on 8th Avenue. The winos lay there curled up on newspapers in front of the facades, most of the Pam Griers had vanished from the sidewalks and even the traffic had thinned out around the bus terminal, so that you could plod across the street without looking around or waiting for the light to change. Inside the Korean deli, the young guy was sitting with his head on the counter, sleeping, as if someone had knocked him out cold. He had turned off the lamps over the buffet, though. I suppose I could have turned around halfway. There were tons of possibilities for repenting: could have just turned left on Broadway, cut across Times Square, said hello to Marilyn and turned back to the hotel on 49th Street with a clear conscience. Without having looked over my shoulder even one single time at the black girls on 8th Avenue or the red neon sign in front of Pussyland. But then, I just kept walking, and that was it. Yes, I had just continued walking down a street that I would find again in many other cities, in the years that followed. A street where words and money, caresses and secretions were exchanged out of necessity. A street where the language was the same no matter what continent you were on. A street where I knew the pathway through the night without ever having to look at a map. A street where love didn't cost anywhere near as much as in the life that I returned to later on - without anything in the pocket but telephone numbers which there was not even the faintest notion that I should ever really call... The concierge slipped me the key to the room, with raised eyebrows and a grudging "goodnight, sir", as I - overheated and out of breath - leaned up against the counter, while the hotel's refrigeration system froze the perspiration to a film covering the skin. Wondered whether he could smell the perfume in the clothes, the juices on lips and hands, whether he was standing down there, imagining his own scenario as I rode on the elevator up through the sleepy yellowish light. Louise was sleeping on her back with one thigh extended out over the blanket and the hands folded together at her breast, like in a silent prayer. Her breathing hummed through the half-open mouth, competing with the climate control's buzzing and the cheek was grazed by rays of neon light emanating from the hotel across the street. Marilyn had turned her attention toward other windows in between the skyscrapers, after having waited in vain for me for such a long time, but the coffee mug was still steaming between the legs of her jeans. Soon it would be daybreak. Contemplated my mirror image in the bathroom's blue light; inhaled deeply, fingertips gathered around the nostrils. Washed myself thoroughly until the fragrance disappeared down the drain with a sigh from a thousand black girls with lazily spread legs in New York's summer night. Pissed, flushed the toilet, brushed my teeth. Hesitated a moment with the slip of paper with Jackie's number in my hand, then crumpled it up, at last, resolutely into a ball, and chucked it out the window. Down into the abyss... Louise turned over with a sigh. But luckily, she didn't awake, as I lay down ever so gingerly on the mattress. In a fraction of a second, I was just about to wake her up and confess about everything and tell her what kind of man I really was. But she looked almost like a baby with her body protected under the white sheet and the locks of light-colored hair pressed up against her brow. I just couldn't get myself to do it. "I really love you", I whispered with the lips close to her ear - knowing full well that she was in no position to rebuke me. No, that wasn't going to happen. I was tired now and later on, in the early morning, we were going to go up and look at Andy Warhol's pictures at the Museum of Modern Art. After all, it was our honeymoon.  Henrik List translated by Dan A. Marmorstein & Henrik List Buy the book(in danish) at: "www.ibooks.dk" |