Part 3
One day, across from me at the fountain, a girl was drawing and I could not keep my eyes off her. She had short and sunny hair with bouncy whirls and a face full of carefree grace. We had a chat and that evening ate flamingly expensive Chinese grub.
Pot-bellied we walked through Copenhagen by night and Karen was easily willing to come to the park, although it rained and was not really warm. I helped her over the fence and felt her muscles moving in her jeans. We found a spot between the bushes and tried to huddle on my army coat, but that was rather cramped and lying on the wet earth was out of the question. I clumsily tampered with the top button of her trousers, but she brusquely shook her head; not sò, but só: she vigorously pulled both sides apart and as if my eyes jumped out of their sockets the buttons plop-plop-plopped loose.
I saw her belly arch in her drawers. Not fat, mind you, rather of voluptuousness so pure, that I was struck by a fit of hesitation.
Suddenly sirens began to scream everywhere and blue lights went flashing. ‘Police, it’s a raid, a razzia’, she said, ‘we have to run’. ‘No, we don’t, we just stay put, and they won’t be looking here’. And as the police did their job we kissed in mutual silence.
By the retreat we were dewed by the drizzle and decided to move inside the bike-shed. Thanks to our ‘best friends’ this was entirely at our disposal. We nestled on the flagstones and warmed ourselves by each other. When I wanted to try the trick with her jeans buttons a vague, long-haired figure stumbled into the shelter, brimming with excuses for a place to sleep. We fell asleep in each other’s arms and when we woke again there were seven more people. Dead-beat on the tiles and chilled to the bone, a bit later we drank hot coffee with Wienerbrød. Under the table our legs forked.
Meanwhile I had taken on a newspaper round and at peep of day ran up and down cabbage-vapoured staircases with ‘Berlinske Tidende’, ‘Ekstra Bladet’ and other issues beyond my comprehension. I also washed glasses for a while in the Tivoli- overshadowed fun park Bakken. And in the evening we went together with an international group of street people to Hovedbanegaden, the gigantic all-under-one-roof railway station. There we were sheltered and in public. There we sang the blues:
‘Bury me deep when I’m dead, Lord, bury me deeep when I’m dead, Lord. Bottle of whiskey at my head, Lord, pile of cigarettes at my feet, yeah, yeah, yeah.’
and wrote poetry:
‘People they don’t know my name, from where I am or where I go, oh no, they don’t know.’
And thought to understand Bob Dylan:
‘You’re the reason I’m trav’lin’ on, don’t think twice, it’s all right.’
How delightfully sad. But most important it was to laugh and have fun because but for the sky there were no fences facing.
When Karen’s folks came back we said our goodbyes and agreed to meet in a month and a half. She would then go to Israel and I would join her.
Jan Ploeg
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