We arrived at the wine bar at around the same time, Alma, my ever dissatisfied bespectacled friend Kristian, lively Edward, and myself, from each our edge of the city, like ants where we were each the sugar, in our heavy coats (it was March and the winter eternal). When Kristian and Edward bent down to lock their bikes, it was as though they (the men) were fastened to objects that were far too big, like ants dragging building material many times their weight. I have to say I was satisfied with my outward appearance that evening, and the wine would polish my inward self, or perhaps sharpen is more accurate, so the words could drop like a machete: ‘zak,’ Edward said, with a karate chop in the air. That’s how they prefer me. Maybe I do too. Alma looks like the Statue of Liberty, I don’t know how many Russian men or Japanese men have come running to be photographed leaning against her over the years. A little later Edward took a picture of all of us, and I thought about all that bother I had had with the hairdresser. His name is Ulis. And when he had finished, my hair looked like a flattened sticky hat. He stood jabbing his fingers in and out in an attempt to make it rise. In the mirror the difference between our hair was striking, his stood up, mine lay down. He is from Guatemala and not very tall, but has an elongated haircut, his hair is brushed upward, he is small and sparkling, during the summer he wears a straw hat, something I cannot do myself because it does not suit me, but then I lack a pair of long grey ears. When it was Easter, he invited his friends to lunch, both hot and cold, his girlfriend was in charge of the hot dishes, it was quite the coordination, in and out of the oven, ‘I was so proud of her,’ he has told me several times. He is Catholic and likes to decorate with Virgin Marys, he thinks she is cute. His mum wanted to become a hairdresser, but never did. She forced him to cut her hair when he was a child.
‘There,’ he finally said – my hair looked like a black sticky hat.
‘No, Ulis,’ I said.
‘I know you are the one who understands hair,’ I said appeasingly.
‘No, no,’ he said defensively, and I was inclined to agree with him. Afterwards I explained to him that he should dry it while I had my head down, and crumple it a lot while drying it. He sighed and moved me over to the sink, ‘yes, that’s it,’ I said, ‘over and over again.’
Then it was good. Nearly as high and airy as his own.
There is a lot I cannot remember… Yes. As usual Kristian inveighed against everything, to hell and back. Very drunk, very quick. Billiards table. Young beautiful black man in grey clothes, American, surrounded by insignificant friends, from Sønderjylland, with caps, almost identical, I called them Huey and Louie. Intensely pursuing him. Howling after every good shot, I howled, I danced. He was going to be a lawyer. To establish contact I told him that Alma was a judge. That caught his interest. She denied it. I said she was shy. After I had swarmed around him for a long time, I went to the bar to buy a water. He came over to me. ‘What do you want from me?’ he asked. ‘I want you to kiss me,’ I said. Maybe he just had to discuss it with his friends, in any case he disappeared. Then he stood there again. ‘Do you still want me to kiss you?’ he asked. ’Yes,’ I said excitedly, ‘in here?’ (I meant the bar.) He shook his head. He took my hand. We went outside. He looked around. I felt like a pony, whinnying with overconfidence, tripping with expectation, and my mane was airy. Then he grabbed the door to a block of flats, it was open, and we went in and immediately started to kiss. I was very dizzy, really needed a glass of water. He stuck his hand down his pants, presumably to adjust his genitals, and I caught a glimpse of black crackling hair. Then a family with children and prams and grandparents showed up. We left the block of flats. We had probably been there around a minute. I was twice as old as him. It made me shy. He said that age meant nothing as long as you had a good heart (we spoke English). I wondered whether you could say that I had a good heart. He gave me his number. I said that he must have a lot of women, since he was so beautiful. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I have no women at all, you can ask my friends for yourself.’ He looked around for them, he was obviously so young that he was dependent on them. ‘You call,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to intrude, now be careful with it.’ Reunion with Alma, Edward, Kristian, Huey and Louie. Finding bikes, changing bar. All of that was unimportant. I felt really bad, a skin without stuffing, to spread out in front of the fireplace. He wanted to walk me home. We kissed on the street corner, and I moved my hand up to stroke him or touch (very carefully) his short trimmed black hair. He grabbed my hand in the air. His eyes were sad. He did not want me to touch his hair. It was goodbye. We went our separate ways. I noticed that he went in the direction of my place, and I walked away from mine. We had to swap directions. It could not seem as though I was following him. I took a side street which according to my calculations should lead me home, in a semi-circle. Suddenly he came towards me, flanked by Huey and Louie, all on bikes, I was growing to hate bikes. Without stopping he reached out a long arm and grabbed my head and kissed me, impressively well coordinated. He is far too young, I won’t call him, and I would get Huey and Louie with him.
I did not call him. I gave Camilla his number to cheer her up, to give her a nudge. She accepted it with a laugh that came from the bottom of the heart (down in the actual mechanics where it rattles and is heavy).