Part 5
To fund all this I had acquired the position of ‘cassarolier’ at restaurant ‘Regnbuen’, clearly the ultimate ‘chic’ of the entire city. There I ate royally and for free, though I did contract dropsical digits. Some unintended incident occurred: the chefs had worked the whole afternoon on a gigantic salad in the shape of a fish. Tish was no ordinary salad all agreed as we stood nearly at attention to take leave when it was wheeled into the restaurant. Nearly half an hour later it came back mutilated, slightly gnawed and with a few fag stubs sticking out. That evening there was significantly less laughter and it totally blighted our evening.
In Oslo I met Paul, Hungarian by origin and a student in Delft, Holland. A genuine womanizer, equipped with a forelock, plenty of immoral charm and an exceptionally attracting repertoire. We had found two girlfriends who were willing to escort us through Oslo by night. Paul had immediately opted for the most voluptuous one so I was left with the red woollen dress. I was more than happy with Marianne but saw my fresh delight wing away when Kirsten out of the blue pushed off upon the doorstep of her parental home and with a sprightly ‘hey’ closed the heavy 17th-century front door behind her. Virtually without pause Paul started launching Eros’ arrows at Marianne and just when I sought to resign with an excuse to save the last shred of honour Marianne wrapped her arms around me and kissed my startled lips. A little later we walked up to the camp-site while a disillusioned Paul legged it back to the centre for a second chance. This delicious version of justice touched me profoundly. And of course also because the next morning I had to hammer all the tent pegs back into the ground.
Of the way back to Copenhagen I only remember that from Norway into Sweden we had to drive on the left again and that this went well. For the rest I only lived in the frightening enchantment that soon I would go to Israel with Karen, or not, to be sure. On the appointed day and the appointed hour I was waiting at the appointed bench in Hovedbanegaden for Karen who did not show up. When hours later I had eye-sculpted infinite figures from afar into my fatal femma morningana-we-go I laced up my boldest sneakers and went to her parental home. An overly skittish brother came to the door and told me Karen had left a few days before, for Israel, to be sure. No reason, no letter, only an embarrassed kid brother who could not help it anyway. As a man alone you understand, although maybe there was more to it, on account of that brother.
Nearly inconsolable I took to the tarmac and drew sunsets. A Dutch dime dropped into my gratitude, but she was Danish and offered me coffee with my favourite pastry. Marie Violetta Munch from Gentofte, the softest name in my atlas. She claimed to be the granddaughter of the Norwegian painter, as mad as a hatter, but one who had trotted the globe and she opened many a door. I was all ears. We decided to remain friends for life and I went back to Groningen.
Jan Ploeg
print version