From the moment she stood up, she didn't have a chance.
Just as she reached his chair, it tipped over backward. To the others in the room it looked as though she knocked him over. Only he and she knew that she didn't manage even to touch him.
He rolled onto the floor.
"Asta!" he pleaded. "No violence!"
She was in motion; she tried to avoid him, without success. His body was flung across the floor. To those watching it appeared that she had kicked him. He rolled into the bicycle; it fell on top of him. She grabbed for the bike, and what they saw was her lift him off the floor and sling him against the door frame.
She tore open the door. Maybe she wanted to leave, maybe she wanted to call for help, but now it looked as though she threw him into the front office. She went after him. Grabbed for his arm. He determined the doors' position by dead reckoning, and crashed into first one and then another.
The doors opened. Two men came out. More people emerged from other offices. Little Jack Horner was on his way too.
Kasper got to his feet. Straightened his suit. He took his keys out of his pocket, loosened one from the ring, and dropped it on the floor in front of the woman.
"Here," he said, "is the key to your apartment."
She felt the eyes of her colleagues on her. Then she lunged toward him.
She didn't reach him. The senior monk had gripped one of her arms, Moerk had the other.
Kasper retreated backward toward the door to the landing.
"In spite of everything, Asta," he said, "you can't pawn my body."
* * *
Access to the staircase was through a dividing wall of reinforced glass with one door, next to the booth. Little Jack had left the door open. He followed Kasper out to the landing.
Kasper felt in his pocket for a piece of paper; he found a one-hundred-kroner bill. He held it against the glass and wrote: "I got an unlisted number. I had my locks changed. I'll return the ring. Leave me in peace. --Kasper."
"This is for Asta," he said. "I'm breaking up with her. What's the name of this setup here?"
"Department H."
There was no sign on the door. He handed the bill to the young man. He was in his late twenties. Kasper thought sadly about the pain that lay ahead for such a young person. And you couldn't prepare him. Couldn't spare him a thing. At most, you could cautiously try to let him suspect your own bitter experiences.
"Nothing lasts forever," he said. "Not even a department head's love.
* * *
Kampmann Street was grayish white with frost. But bright sunlight fell on him when he stepped onto the sidewalk. The world smiled at him. He had dripped clear water into the poisonous well of mistrust, and thereby transformed it into a healing spring. As Maxim Gorky so aptly said about the great animal trainer and clown Anatoly Anatolievich Durov.
He wanted to start running, but was about to collapse. He hadn't eaten for twenty-four hours. At the corner of Farimag Street was a newsstand that also sold lottery tickets; he escaped into it.
Through the fan of porn magazines on the shelves he could keep an eye on the street. It was deserted.
A clerk leaned toward him. He still had a hundred-kroner bill in his pocket; he should have bought a sandwich and a Coke, but he knew he wouldn't be able to eat, not right now. Instead he bought a lottery ticket, the cheapest kind, for the Danish Class Lottery.
The monks emerged onto the sidewalk. They were running, but their bodies were still stiff, and they were still confused by the way things had gone. They looked up and down the street. The older one was talking on a cell phone, perhaps to his mother. Then they got into a big Renault and drove away.
Kasper waited until a bus stopped at the railroad underpass. Then he crossed Farimag Street.
* * *
The bus was almost full, but he found a place in the back and sank down in the corner.
He knew he didn't have a real head start. He missed music, something definitive.
Just as she reached his chair, it tipped over backward. To the others in the room it looked as though she knocked him over. Only he and she knew that she didn't manage even to touch him.
He rolled onto the floor.
"Asta!" he pleaded. "No violence!"
She was in motion; she tried to avoid him, without success. His body was flung across the floor. To those watching it appeared that she had kicked him. He rolled into the bicycle; it fell on top of him. She grabbed for the bike, and what they saw was her lift him off the floor and sling him against the door frame.
She tore open the door. Maybe she wanted to leave, maybe she wanted to call for help, but now it looked as though she threw him into the front office. She went after him. Grabbed for his arm. He determined the doors' position by dead reckoning, and crashed into first one and then another.
The doors opened. Two men came out. More people emerged from other offices. Little Jack Horner was on his way too.
Kasper got to his feet. Straightened his suit. He took his keys out of his pocket, loosened one from the ring, and dropped it on the floor in front of the woman.
"Here," he said, "is the key to your apartment."
She felt the eyes of her colleagues on her. Then she lunged toward him.
She didn't reach him. The senior monk had gripped one of her arms, Moerk had the other.
Kasper retreated backward toward the door to the landing.
"In spite of everything, Asta," he said, "you can't pawn my body."
* * *
Access to the staircase was through a dividing wall of reinforced glass with one door, next to the booth. Little Jack had left the door open. He followed Kasper out to the landing.
Kasper felt in his pocket for a piece of paper; he found a one-hundred-kroner bill. He held it against the glass and wrote: "I got an unlisted number. I had my locks changed. I'll return the ring. Leave me in peace. --Kasper."
"This is for Asta," he said. "I'm breaking up with her. What's the name of this setup here?"
"Department H."
There was no sign on the door. He handed the bill to the young man. He was in his late twenties. Kasper thought sadly about the pain that lay ahead for such a young person. And you couldn't prepare him. Couldn't spare him a thing. At most, you could cautiously try to let him suspect your own bitter experiences.
"Nothing lasts forever," he said. "Not even a department head's love.
* * *
Kampmann Street was grayish white with frost. But bright sunlight fell on him when he stepped onto the sidewalk. The world smiled at him. He had dripped clear water into the poisonous well of mistrust, and thereby transformed it into a healing spring. As Maxim Gorky so aptly said about the great animal trainer and clown Anatoly Anatolievich Durov.
He wanted to start running, but was about to collapse. He hadn't eaten for twenty-four hours. At the corner of Farimag Street was a newsstand that also sold lottery tickets; he escaped into it.
Through the fan of porn magazines on the shelves he could keep an eye on the street. It was deserted.
A clerk leaned toward him. He still had a hundred-kroner bill in his pocket; he should have bought a sandwich and a Coke, but he knew he wouldn't be able to eat, not right now. Instead he bought a lottery ticket, the cheapest kind, for the Danish Class Lottery.
The monks emerged onto the sidewalk. They were running, but their bodies were still stiff, and they were still confused by the way things had gone. They looked up and down the street. The older one was talking on a cell phone, perhaps to his mother. Then they got into a big Renault and drove away.
Kasper waited until a bus stopped at the railroad underpass. Then he crossed Farimag Street.
* * *
The bus was almost full, but he found a place in the back and sank down in the corner.
He knew he didn't have a real head start. He missed music, something definitive.
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