Ida Brandt (17 page)

The footlights were lit and bathed the curtain in their light. All heads in the stalls were bobbing about, and bright faces could be seen peering over the balcony rail.

Ida continued to smile.

“It’s almost like going to a ball,” she said quite quietly.

Karl sat with his legs wide apart, biting his moustache and looking as though it was something that tasted good.

The orchestra had been playing for some time.

“What’s that they are playing?” said Karl and asked to see the programme. But Ida made no reply; she was sitting with her eyes half closed, listening to the music. Karl looked down on her forehead from the side. It was so small and so narrow. He felt the urge to stretch his fingers over it – like that – from temple to temple.

Ida sensed his gaze and opened her eyes fully.

“It’s so lovely here,” she said. “Don’t you think so?”

The curtain rose.

People were pushing and shoving in the crowded rooms in the restaurant. Karl von Eichbaum went behind Ida Brandt, protecting her with his arms, but Ida was laughing all over her face as she turned round.

“We must sit where we can see people,” she said, and her eyes were radiant.

“I’ve booked a table,” said Karl.

It was in one of the small alcoves between partitions, and at last they reached it. But Ida remained seated on the sofa in there, with her hat and all her clothes on. She was looking at the ladies and gentlemen who continued to pour in.

Karl helped her off with her outdoor clothes and sat down.

“There,” he said, stretching his legs out and wrinkling his nose:

“Now we’ re going to have some French food.”

“Yes,” said Ida, throwing her head back quickly. She did not know what she was saying “Yes” to.

Karl ordered and the waiter brought dishes and Karl served. Ida merely sat and watched them, observing everything they did and smiling; and she was so curiously cautious in the way in which she touched things, her glass, the dish and her bread, as though she were wondering at it all, at every single thing – the table cloth and the lamp and the green bottle in the cooler.

Then she spread both her hands out on the sofa and said with a quiet laugh:

“Just fancy that I’m sitting here.”

Karl smiled happily at her and looked out at the people in the body of the restaurant who could scarcely find a seat at a table.

“Yes, we’ re sitting in the best place here, by Gad.”

Ida remained seated in the same position:

“Hm,” she said in the same voice, “it’s just like having a picnic in the woods.”

Karl, who ate slowly though with great appetite, laughed and said:

“Oh, I don’t agree, the food you get is always so miserable on a picnic.”

Ida continued to think of her excursions in the forest; the trips over there when a whole charabanc had gone to Stensballe and they had danced in front of the wheelwright’s house and had rolling races down the high mounds.

“Yes,” she said, “this is just like it was at home.

But Karl, who was beginning to feel he had had enough of this, said that she really must eat something and put a thrush on her plate.

“The food’s damned good,” he said; and as he thought of picnics in the woods, he sat there with his elbows on the table (and thought that by Gad she was good looking).

“I suppose you went on a lot of picnics in the woods?”

Ida sat for a moment staring up into the air.

“No, not all that often,” she said in a quieter voice.

Karl continued to look at her:

“Now let us two Jutlanders drink to each other.” He raised his glass to her with a smile.

Ida laughed and took hers.

“But you are not really a Jutlander at all.”

Karl wrinkled his nose.

“Of course I am: all we Eichbaums are Jutlanders. That’s where we once owned something.”

And they drank.

Karl continued to sit and serve her, all the time with his elbows on the table: cheese and celery sticks, which he twice reached over and dipped in her salt cellar.

“They were all so nice at Ludvigsbakke,” said Ida.

“Yes.”

He continued to chew his celery while looking at her, and then he said:

“Ida, you should always wear yellow.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said lethargically.

Karl went on chewing at his celery stick, and suddenly he thought of the Mouriers. He told Ida about them and how they might possibly buy “Ludvigs”. “He’s a butter merchant from Aarhus,” he said. He lengthened the first syllable in the name of the “capital of Jutland” to signal his scorn, and then said with some satisfaction:

“But then we can get the Recks out.”

“Why?”

“Well,” said Karl in his dry voice, “because they’ re simply rabble.”

“Yes,” said Ida without thinking. She did not know herself why she felt so happy or that her face was radiant.

“And then we’ll be able to go over there in the summer again,” said Karl. “Cheers, Ida.”

“Cheers,” said Ida, still with the same expression on her face.

And Karl, who had put his glass down and stuck his hands into his pockets, said happily:

“But it can be very nice in our capital city, don’t you think?”

They continued to chat happily and as it were came closer to each other. Ida spoke of Olivia and the villa and the Jørgensens – she always did this when she was happy – but suddenly she said:

“Oh, but he had such a loud voice…”

“Who did?”

“The suitor,” she said.

Karl laughed.

“Well, you’ve got to be able to hear him.”

Ida sat staring in front of her.

“Yes, but even so,” she said more gently.

There were not many left out in the main body of the restaurant, and the waiters were whispering to each other over their bills.

Karl sat smiling and looked at the neck of a bottle.

“Have you ever been in love, Ida?” he said.

Ida looked up and shook her head a little sadly.

“No,” she said in a tone that suggested that this was something that had passed her by.

“But” – and her voice trembled a little and she did not herself know why she said it or what she was really thinking of, if it were not the small house in Horsens and its three gloomy rooms.

“But,” she said, looking across the table and trying to smile, “I suppose I have been sad rather often.”

Karl had developed a kindly look in his eyes.

“That’s damned hard to believe,” was all he said.

And they sat silent for a while.

Ida looked out into the main restaurant, where it was half dark and most lights had been extinguished.

“But they’ve all gone,” she said and was afraid.

“Yes,” said Karl, sitting up indolently in his chair: “But we’ re damned well going to have a cup of coffee.”

They were served with it and with liqueurs as well, which Karl poured. He continued to have such a gentle manner and tender voice as they sat there a little longer. But the waiters were beginning to lose patience and extinguished the last gas lamps, so that darkness forced itself in on them. The sole light now was that from the candelabra.

Ida looked at the darkness now closing in on them.

“It’s all over now,” she said.

“It’ll be your turn next time,” said Karl.

“Yes,” said Ida quickly and happily.

“And that must be at home, in your room” said Karl as he helped her on with her coat.

“Oh no,” said Ida with a laugh.

“Why?”

“It’s not allowed.”

Ida continued to laugh, but Karl merely passed her hat to her and said:

“Oh, never mind about that.”

They went out through the hotel reception, and the porter made to close the door after them, when Ida, radiant with delight, said:

“Now, I must…” and put a krone in his hand.

Karl gave a hearty laugh.

“But, for God’s sake, Ida, do you think that is a proper thing to do?”

When they had gone a little further down the street, he offered Ida his arm.

“I suppose I may offer the lady my arm,” he said.

“Yes,” said Ida as she took it, pressing her shoulders a little together. “It’s night now, of course.”

Karl walked up and down in his sitting room, smiling, for a long time before getting up into his big bed. The light was by the bed, and a yellow book lay there. But he did not read.

He simply lay there, looking up at the ceiling and wrinkling his nose.

“No,” he said, profoundly reflective or wondering. “There’s no understanding a woman after all.”

And he stayed there and smiling amidst the smoke from his cigar.

∞∞∞

All was quiet in the block, and Ida went silently up the stairs. When she reached the first floor, she found Nurse Roed standing in front of the open cupboard.

“Good heavens, is it you coming home so late?” she said. “Where have you been, having a picnic?”

Ida suddenly smiled at the word “picnic”. “I’ve been out,” she said and made to continue. She was walking as though she was carrying some wonderful but invisible thing in her hands and wanted to bring it to safety.

“Good night.”

But Nurse Petersen, dressed in elegant fabric slippers for the night, had heard her from behind the door and opened it. There was nothing that interested her as much as a detailed account from someone who had been “out”.

“Ach, is it you,” she said. Her voice assumed a quite special meddlesome quality when she sensed news.

Suddenly, Ida turned Nurse Roed around twice in front of the cupboard. “I’ve been to the theatre,” she said so loudly that her voice suddenly resounded down the corridor and then she ran.

“Sshh, think of the patients,” said Nurse Roed. But the two nurses merely heard Ida laugh up above; and they went in to where their dinner awaited them under the gas lamp.

As they ate, they could hear the deep breathing of the old patients and a few broken words from Bertelsen as he talked in his sleep, as though he was both obstinate and angry. There was the sound of footsteps to and fro in Ward A.

Nurse Petersen went on eating, and in the ward Bertelsen continued to talk in his sleep. Nurse Roed got up to see to him; but as always he lay tossing and turning, with clenched fists.

Ida was up in her room. She set the alarm clock and undressed. She was not really thinking about anything; she simply hummed quietly all the time until she was in bed.

Well, yes, it might be possible for Eichbaum to come for coffee if he could come up very quietly…

Ida’s face radiated delight in the darkness.

But it would have to be a Tuesday when Nurse Roed was off duty…he could quite easily tiptoe up on a Tuesday, very gently.

Ida continued to smile as she thought about it. Then they would be able to use all the old things from “Ludvigs” and see whether he recognised them and set a real table…

Ida fell asleep.

It was midday a few days later. The four had come up from the basement and were walking round and round in the anteroom, alongside the walls as they waited for their meal (Bertelsen had developed a habit of constantly passing his hand over his eyes as though trying to wipe away something that prevented him from seeing). The jingle of keys was heard and Josefine came with the food.

“Good morning everyone,” she said. “Here’s your lunch.”

She went into the kitchen to help Ida with the containers, while Bertelsen ceaselessly washed his hands under the tap.

“It’s a shame about the head clerk,” Josefine then said.

“What is?”

Ida spoke quickly. Josefine always referred to Eichbaum as the head clerk.

“They are after him for one unpaid bill after the other,” said Josefine, “and everyone’s talking about it.”

“Here, in the office?” It sounded as though Ida had something stuck in her throat.

“Yes,” said Josefine, putting down the container. “And the superintendent will be on him like a ton of bricks if it goes on.”

Ida nodded mechanically.

“But of course, it’s those women that are after him; we know all about that,” said Josefine, proceeding to place potatoes on the six plates.

Ida made no reply; she simply went on to serve the food, while Josefine, who had finished her task, stood there with her hands on her hips.

“And he is certainly good looking,” she said, staring ahead reflectively.

Josefine had a sympathetic eye for all male creation. Otherwise, she remained completely faithful to her conductor.
She
never left a “friend”, and when
he
went off and she had shed copious tears, she then remained as it were in the same area. It was always a tram conductor. It was simply a different one.

“Yes,” she said, “I know all about it, for Andersen has been a bad one.” (Andersen being the current conductor.) “But now we’ve sorted it out.”

It could not be seen whether Ida was listening, for she simply stood there moving the six plates around.

“Well, and then we went on,” said Josefine.

There were always a few snatches of forbidden tunes, bits of variety songs, rather like a fanfare, when Josefine started.

Ida placed plates on the table in front of each of the four patients: “Now you must have something to eat, Holm,” she said. “Now then, Bertelsen, you just stay where you are and have something to eat.” She helped the two old men to get their food down, bit by bit, and she was finished and had cleared away while having but a single thought.

“That poor man, that poor man.”

Comprehension was never established in her mind all at once, but only slowly and little by little until it grew out of all proportion and was all that was there.

What was to be done?

She served the gentleman in Ward A. He was bent over his never-ending papers, and she heard his “Thank you,” and “Thank you,” as he raised his head and watched her.

Ida went out again and sat down on the chair by the window.

And she had helped him to spend his money.

Her thoughts went no further than this: she had helped him to spend his money. All Josefine’s words rang in her ears again and again, and suddenly she flushed scarlet. There was something she had only now understood. She did not herself know that she was not thinking about money any longer, but only about one thing, merely about that one thing…nevertheless each time skirting round it, skirting round that sentence.