Copenhagen Noir

I swore silently. The words had just jumped out of my mouth. I hadn’t meant to reveal myself, but the situation had gripped me, it was almost like standing on stage again, or in front of the whirring cameras. With a firm grip on the role. But the feeling was short-lived and empty. I drank greedily, as if I could somehow swallow the words back again.

“We were? Sorry, but I know a million people. And vice versa,” he added, not without a certain satisfaction.

I seethed.

“After filming, you say? Are you a soundman or something? Give me a hint…”

“Forget it,” I mumble.

“Okay, let’s forget it. Such are the times, and the people. Forgetful, and I must pee.” He stood up, brushed back his dark mane, more from old habit, I thought, sent me one of his impish smiles, and then I heard his steps dwindling down an apparently endless hallway.

I don’t know. I could have taken off. He was gone a long time. I could have grabbed his Bodil and smashed everything in sight and continued through the double doors into the dining room, I could… Instead I finished off the whiskey and poured another. I spotted a pack of Marlboros on the coffee table, mine were all gone, I fished one out, stuck the pack in my inside pocket; when I thought about how many he had bummed from me in his time, he’d survive…

Finally I heard the thin sound of a toilet flushing far away, a door slamming open, steps approaching. More steps.

I stuck my head out in the long hallway.

“Did you see where I put that idiotic Bodil?” he blustered, from somewhere. The kitchen, I thought.

“Out in the entryway. The hallway.”

“That’s right.”

He tottered out from a doorway, floundered past me, came back.

I sat down in the living room in a wing-back chair, sniffed the whiskey, drank. Could already make out the bottom.

“It could be I do remember you. Faintly. Søren, isn’t it? I remember being out on a drinking binge with a soundman once after a shoot. Think we ended up at a hooker bar in Vesterbro. Was that you?”

“Yeah, let’s say that.”

“And now you drive a cab?”

“You got it.”

“Do you recall us fucking any women that night, Søren?”

“Till they couldn’t walk.”

“Which is how it should be. Let’s drink to that.”

“But… now you’re finished with women?”

Rützou hesitated a moment, then smiled modestly. “Absolutely finished, you can never be; they’re standing in line. But this woman here,” he cast one of his knowing glances around the room, “I am thoroughly finished with.”

“Yeah,” I said, “luckily new women keep showing up, new roles. I mean, for someone like you…”

He coughed. “Sorry?”

I repeated what I had said, word for word. As if I were learning it again. Acting. For it may have been half an eternity since we had seen each other, since we, well, had acted together. Together from morning to night at rehearsals. Hit the town together, bent some arms, chased women. All of that. But if he really couldn’t remember me, he’d have had to be suffering from advanced Alzheimer’s. And despite everything, that didn’t appear to be the case. But something was wrong. He seemed to be a shadow of himself. We actually resembled each other. Again.

“Pouring in,” came the delayed response, as if he didn’t really care to tune into the conversation’s wavelength.

“But maybe it’s dangerous when a guy thinks he can walk on water,” I said softly.

“What do you mean by that, Søren?”

“Cut the Søren shit. I nearly fell for it, but… how stupid do you think I am?”

“I wouldn’t know. But you look like a half-brained overweight cab driver, I can see that much.”

“And you look like a sick cream puff. But I’m disappointed in you, Erik. Overplaying this way. Even if I’ve put on a few pounds since back then.”

“What could he be babbling about?” he emoted, speaking to the stucco rosette on the ceiling, hamming it up. Then breaking out in a horse laugh, bending over, slapping his knee. “Of course, Klaus, damnit. It’s you. Now I remember you! But I thought you were dead and gone…”

“You recognized me the first second. And you still didn’t say a thing…”

“Let’s say that, then.”

“Yeah, let’s.”

“Listen, my friend. That girl who biked right in front of you. I just wanted to get home. I couldn’t get a cab, I didn’t want to go into town with the others. Tap on the window, see a middle-aged fat guy who looks familiar. What’s his name? I’m thinking. But I meet people all the goddamn time. I’m sorry, Klaus, but you’ve been out of the picture for fucking twenty years!”

“Fifteen,” I replied childishly. “And now I’m the one who has to piss.”