Copenhagen Noir - Bo Tao Michaelis [87]
“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.”
Along the way I took the opportunity to explore the apartment, the rooms. The bedroom was no exception to the strange sense of disintegration that filled the apartment: clothes were scattered all over, shirts, suit jackets, wardrobe doors stood wide open revealing rows of suits, the big double bed was unmade. A large ceiling fan whirled around for no reason, weekly magazines and pages of dialogue lay on the floor. The office was a cave of relics from a long, successful life. A big framed film poster from one of his most famous roles, a few small paintings from a wild, well-known Danish artist, and high shelves, completely filled up. But the shelves held more than books: photo albums, piles of gossip mags, scrapbooks, a pith helmet, bits of kinky eroticism, including an enormous phallus. In one corner, a southern French village of wine in unopened gift boxes and solid wooden crates. A desk globe inside of which I envisioned a cosmos of liquor bottles, a brand-new set of golf clubs parked against an easy chair. A couple more Bodils stood in a windowsill. Despite everything, it hadn’t amounted to more than that. A gigantic desk with a laptop. Along with a horde of photos framed behind glass of Rützou alongside diverse beauties and famous colleagues, the desk was flooded with manuscripts, invitations, bank statements. I picked up a random letter from the bank—he was loaded, the bastard. Then I found another letter. The sender’s official name and logo was up in the corner. I picked it up …
When I returned, he abruptly