My fast-talking brother-in-law had a proposition for me. The whole family had gathered round the table as he carved the Christmas duck and announced what an outrage it was that two nights per week I was staying up into the wee hours to stick a tube down the throat of some handicapped guy out in Gladsaxe. Consequently, he had a proposition for me, he repeated, an opportunity. One of the guys he played squash with, Alex, was a realtor, he explained as he served up the duck together with small, steaming portions of apple and prune stuffing.
Most likely he was just trying to impress my sister and the rest of the family with his network and his enterprising spirit, I thought, not really listening to him as he explained what this job with Alex entailed. Alternatively, he was taking pity on me because I was in my seventh semester of Religious Studies and in his eyes didn’t have any kind of future ahead of me. But it was all just talk, I never expected anything to come of it.
We ate the duck, followed by the risalamande pudding. My brother-in-law yakked on about other subjects, and I did in fact begin to mull over my prospects for the future, feeling a slight pang of awkwardness as Christmas Dinner pushed on.
A full three months passed before I actually heard from him.
I stood at the very back of the queue in the canteen, waiting to pay the twelve kroner for a cup of coffee from the vending machine. I was sleepy; I had come to college straight from a graveyard shift in Gladsaxe. My brother-in-law, on the other hand, got straight down to business the second I picked up.
“Hey, lil’ brother, what’s up? Job’s yours! You ready?”
“… ready for what?”
“For the job I told you about, remember? You only just rolled out of bed or what? Listen, I’m pretty damn swamped right now and my phone’s about to die as well. All you gotta do is …”
My brother-in-law was interrupted by a voice blaring over a Tannoy. He was at an expo in Poland, he explained, as the voice faded again.
“Anyhow, I need you ready to go tomorrow morning.”
“Ready to … the, uh … what was it again?”
“The real estate photographer! Come on, lil’ brother, get your head in the game. I told Alex you’re a student at the Academy of Fine Arts, doing fine art photography and all that. Throw an oversized scarf round your neck, sling a camera bag over your shoulder, that kind of thing. The money’s good, plus …”
The Tannoy cut him off again. A militant female voice rattled off a long list of numbers, first in English, then in German. I looked up at the clock. Five minutes until my lecture. I yawned and ran a hand through my greasy hair.
“I don’t actually have a camera,” I said as the Tannoy voice let up.
“I’ll tell you what brand to buy. The apartments need to look big and sexy. Just find yourself a nice position in a corner of each room and take some pictures with a fisheye lens. Then ping them over to Alex and you’re good to go. Think of this camera as an investment, you know?”
There was real fire in his voice as he uttered the word “investment.”
“So, you ready or what?”
“Mhm … how much did you say it paid?”
“500 per apartment. Cash. And you can do ten of them in a day easy.”
I stepped away from the queue, leaving my coffee behind. It was possible that my brother-in-law was just some mercantilist fool buttering up my family, but I could really do with the money.
He continued talking at length as I made notes on a paper serviette. He mentioned a brand of camera followed by some numbers. He repeated the phrase fisheye lens a full three times, and I underlined it twice. I wrote down the address of the realtor on Gammel Kongevej where I was meant to pick up the keys. My brother-in-law also lectured me on my prospects, but he was drowned out by a man chastising him in Polish. To my surprise, it sounded as if my brother-in-law was answering back in Polish but he hung up a second later.
I looked at the scribblings on the serviette. I’d had my fair share of student jobs but on paper, this was the best yet. All I had to do was take photos of a few apartments.
Real estate photographer. Was that a real job title?
I skipped my lecture and cycled the short distance down Njalsgade to the camera store.
*
Alex dropped a mass of keys into my hands.
“Don’t forget to transfer me the pictures this evening. These properties have been sitting vacant far too long now.”
I maneuvered the keys down into my shoulder bag. I had taken my brother-in-law’s advice and dressed the part of an art photographer. Or more accurately, my brother-in-law’s idea of a realtor’s idea of an art photographer: an open jacket and a loose scarf.
Alex checked his watch.
“You should have been long gone by now. Gotta make the most of that light.”
“Of course,” I said, nodding fervently. A young woman handed Alex a stack of A4s which he handed to me.
“Let’s call these eight properties a test, shall we.”
The numbers on the very top sheet gave away that it was a listing for a penthouse. Alex looked me up and down as I wrestled the ream of paper in behind the cluster of keys without crumpling them.
“Academy of Fine Arts, huh?”
I nodded. Alex grinned as if I had just made some terrible joke. His jaw was astonishingly heavy-set.
“Michael told me you once dressed up a bunch of bums in tutus. We don’t need anything quite that creative. Money’s a lot better, though.”
Alex laughed, and I couldn’t help but laugh along with him.
I was well aware that I needed to get a move on and shook Alex’s hand goodbye. He held onto my hand just a touch too long; for a moment, his expression reverted to one of skepticism.
“The buyers have got money, but they’re not interested in art. These properties need to look classy.”
As I walked down towards my bike, I leafed through the listings and mapped out a route through town. I would start in Østerbro, then work my way south, around The Lakes, down towards Lavendelstræde, before finally passing by Christianshavn where I would find a single property to photograph. Alex would get all eight by the evening. My only concern was that I wasn’t confident I could photograph. I had practiced at home the night before and the result was perfectly fine when you took into account the fact that it was a college dorm room.
The Planetarium loomed before me as I looked up from the listings, but where was my bike? I had parked it a little way away from the realtor’s but not that far. I headed back towards Gammel Kongevej but still no rusty men’s bike with a green bell. I looked at the cyclists cycling by. I half-walked, half-jogged up and down the road, along the same short stretch, the camera bag thumping against my back. But no bike. My bike was gone.
Twenty yards away, the sign for the realtor’s jutted out from the façade. I thought about going back in, dumping the keys on the table and calling it quits. Explaining that I was too busy with an art project. That I didn’t have time to work for petty bourgeois capitalists like him. But then I pictured my brother-in-law, the way his nostrils flared when he wore that self-satisfied smirk. When the world had once again confirmed his worldview.
I turned round and headed down a random side street. I had already wasted twenty minutes at the realtor’s, and now another twenty minutes on Gammel Kongevej. I raced off. Fifteen minutes later, I stood at the crossroads of Rantzausgade and Kapelvej, drenched in sweat, and realizing what an idiot I was. It was nearly midday and I couldn’t exactly walk all the way to Amerika Plads and back through the rest of the city if I was going to photograph all eight apartments before the sun went down.
On Griffenfeldsgade, I found myself a bike shop. No point taking an e-scooter or a hire bike, I thought, not if I’m going to need a bike for future assignments. The salesman had a jaded expression on his face as I asked him if he had any bikes for 500 kroner. He hauled out a red women’s bike. It was a bit on the small side and I had to shell out 700 for it, but soon I was bombing my way down towards Blegdamsvej, taking advantage of the fact that I knew the rhythm the traffic signals played to on this stretch of road. I sat in the outside lane, my finger working the bell constantly.
Once I eventually found myself in the apartment in Amerika Plads, up on the seventh floor, I managed to calm down a bit. It was ten after twelve. I had around six hours until it got dark. Forty-five minutes for each property. I shucked off my jacket and sweatshirt in one smooth movement and tossed my clothes onto the floor. My t-shirt was clinging to me and I placed it at the top of the pile. I took a few slurps of water from the faucet.
The apartment was empty. There were no signs that it had ever been inhabited. Not even the smell of cleaning products. The name on the doorbell, however, revealed that there was in fact an H. Svendsen who, according to the listing, was looking to sell the place for 6.7 million kroner. There were two balconies overlooking the city, and an imposing kitchen. And yet, it was utterly devoid of life.
This was the time for me to get creative. This was the time for me to prove myself as a photographer. I read through the stack of papers for a bit of inspiration. The first two properties were both in Amerika Plads and the descriptions for each began with the same three sentences:
Always dreamed of living on the waterfront? Then look no further. This light, spacious and unique property will make you feel like you’re living the high life.
The waterfront. The water needs to be in the pictures, I thought.
But the window in the bathroom was the only one from which you could just about make out a pale blue strip of the Øresund Strait between the office blocks. And the pictures I did manage to take through this narrow window were hardly going to attract buyers.
I checked the time. I’d already used up a half-hour.
Screw the water, I thought. I’ll go looking for the high life instead.
I took a photo of the large refrigerator and a large, empty wine rack. I found a folding chair in a cupboard and schlepped it around the apartment with me, standing on it to take photos from every corner of the property using the fisheye lens. But the way the pictures came out reminded me more than anything else of surveillance cameras filming an empty parking garage.
The next two apartments in Østerbro were thankfully furnished. I took detailed photos of the candles, the designer furniture, the cheery magnets on the refrigerator and an arrangement of cuddly toys on a child’s bed.
These pictures were better, more alive, beautiful in fact.
Real estate photographer. It’s definitely a proper job, I thought, as I cycled along Sortedams Dossering. I even had something of a talent for it.
I crossed the Dronning Louise Bridge and decided to propose to Alex that in future I also write the texts for the listings. That way, the photos and the texts could play off one another. I was a good writer, if I said so myself. Plus, taking the photos and also writing the listings would make it more or less a full-time job. I’d seen online that they were a small chain of realtors and also had offices in Vesterbro and Hellerup.
The next three apartments were spread out around The Lakes. My photos were getting better all the time. I was nearly keeping to schedule.
Soon, it was that time of day when people came home from work. I tiptoed around, constantly listening out for the sound of a front door opening. I stood on sofas and tried to capture the entire lounge with my fisheye lens, at the same time mentally preparing a statement for the defense that could explain my presence. Maybe Alex had given them a heads-up, though. I never ran into any residents. Maybe they were doing some decorating or building work in their new houses and apartments.
By the time I got to the penultimate apartment, an old period property in downtown, I’d really got to grips with the camera. I was really rather proud of myself as I browsed through the pictures. The specks of dust dancing in the sunbeam that struck the bureau. The small shadows from the cherub trumpeting away on the stucco. There was a harmony in the compositions and the golden afternoon sun gave the whole ensemble a luster of nostalgia. I really had captured the mood. I should go back and photograph the first properties again, I thought, but then the grandfather clock chimed. Five thirty. I’d spent a full hour in this apartment. I slung my camera bag over my shoulder, jumped down the steps and onto my bike. The sun had started to set but the apartment on Prinsessegade was my last one. It seemed that everything was falling into place beautifully.
Maybe I genuinely did have a real photographer in me, I thought, as I passed by Thorvaldsens Museum. I stood up on my bike and overtook a few other cyclists. I had often felt like there was an artist inside me, maybe by some coincidence my talent had now shown itself? The photos I had taken in the period property were too good for some property listing. They were art. I had always seen college as something of a stopgap, and as I cycled the last few meters over Knippel Bridge, I thought about applying to the Academy of Fine Arts.
But did art college actually have anything to offer? Weren’t the students that came out of the Academy a bit dull? I was much more of the self-taught, rough-round-the-edges type. I wanted to forge my own path. My studies could probably come in handy too. Yes, my art would depict both the real and the divine at a single stroke. Metaphysics and religion in the midst of the most raw and realistic motifs.
The traffic by Christianshavns Torv was hellish, as always, and kept me on my toes. Drunk, blitzed or hustling people tumbled this way and that between the sidewalk and cycle lane. The buses thundered past. A homeless man staggered out into the cycle lane and I nearly ran him over.
Maybe my brother-in-law’s fabrication with the homeless people wasn’t such a dumb idea after all. I could even dress them up as religious figures. Mohammed and Jesus as the drunkards in the square at Enghave Plads. That would certainly create a buzz.
A few more days working for the realtor. By that time, the camera would have paid for itself and I could set about unleashing my artistic side. I pedaled hard.
The property on Prinsessegade was a loft apartment in an old townhouse and was only half the size of the ones in Østerbro. The kitchen was run down and smelled faintly of rot. None of those taps with instant boiling water here, no grand wine racks. All there was here was shriveled cloves of garlic, brown stains on the floor and nothing in the way of good motifs. It definitely needed cleaning first, and I didn’t have time for that.
I entered a long and narrow lounge that had wooden beams and high ceilings, but not very much light. At the other end of the lounge stood a bookcase, two wicker chairs and a dark-wood piano that was missing two of its keys. I had to photograph it from a distance so that it didn’t look like the result of a decent uppercut. My belly was rumbling. I’d ignored my hunger for several hours but there was hardly time to think about that right now. I shuffled around for a bit as I thought about how to get even three good pictures out of this apartment.
But then, my eye was caught by a door half-hidden behind the bookcase. I walked straight over and opened it. Inside was a sofa. Lying on the sofa was a large body, covered by a blanket. Gray tufts of hair were sticking out at one end, a foot at the other. It reeked.
I stood perfectly still. Four or five seconds passed with thumping heartbeats.
Then, the foot moved ever so slightly.
“Turn off the light, fuck’s sake,” said a gruff voice.
I looked around for a switch but there were no lights anywhere in this room. The only outlet in the room was connected to a little amplifier that was hooked up via a red cable to a semi-acoustic guitar lying on the floor. The body on the sofa shifted again, shoving the blanket aside, and a man with bushy, dark-gray hair looked up at me with bloodshot eyes. He coughed out another sentence.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m taking pictures of the apartment … for the realtor.”
I patted my camera bag a few times.
“Come back tomorrow. I’m sleeping.”
“But if I hurry, it’ll only take fifteen minutes, tops.”
The man rebuffed this idea with a growl and pulled the blanket over himself.
I looked out the window at the dwindling daylight. The fear of not managing to do all eight properties was welling up inside me. I cleared my throat.
“And what if I promise I’ll be quick and …”
“Beer,” said the blanket, “we’ll be alright so long as you go grab me a beer from the kitchen.”
Behind a half-eaten kebab wrapped in aluminum foil, I found a few cans of Tuborg Gold. I cursed myself for not photographing the lounge right away. The light was vanishing by the minute. But I couldn’t very well photograph the bedroom with the man lying on the sofa.
“Take one for yourself too,” said the voice from the bedroom, “and two for me.”
He sat up as I handed him the beers. His belly and his chest were thick with hair. White boxer shorts that weren’t entirely white. It was hard to say how old he was. Fifty, maybe?
“Well then, cheers.”
I took a symbolic gulp, put the can to one side and opened my camera bag. I took a few photos of the bedroom anyway; from the door so that I kept the man out of shot. He followed my movements as he alternated between drinking his beer and scratching his belly. I went into the lounge, unfortunately with him in tow. He even dragged the guitar with him and sat down in one of the wicker chairs.
“You photograph apartments? That’s no way to spend your life, you rube. Don’t you do anything else?”
I pretended to be having trouble getting the lens on.
“Huh? Don’t you do anything else besides this?”
“Well, I’m also … kind of an artist,” I said.
“Yeah, sheesh, I was kind of an artist too, once upon a time.”
He strummed a minor chord on the guitar and chuckled.
“And I’m doing Religious Studies,” I added.
He played a new chord.
“And I read philosophy back in the day. I’ve got a philosophy joke, wanna hear it?”
I didn’t reply. Instead, I went about photographing the lounge from all the angles that weren’t defiled by the body in the wicker chair.
“Two behaviorists sleep together. After they’ve had sex, they share a cigarette and one of them asks the other, ‘Was that as good for me as it was for you?'”
The man let out a chuckle which ended in a coughing fit. He downed the rest of his beer, tossed the can on the floor, and opened the next one. I picked up the can and disposed of it.
“This one’s about Sartre at a café. Sartre orders a cup of coffee, no cream. A moment later, the waiter turns back to him and says, ‘Sorry, Monsieur Sartre, we don’t have any cream but you can have a coffee, no milk.'”
The man laughed again, let out a belch and carried on playing his guitar. It was hard to hear whether what he was playing was an actual song. The amplifier wailed from the bedroom. Bit by bit, I had photographed the entire lounge. But the end wall with the wicker chairs, the mighty beams and the piano, that was the most important section. Meaning I needed to get rid of him.
He must have read my thoughts.
“I ain’t moving,” he said.
“One minute, that’s all. I need to get the window section in, it’s the best motif.”
“Can’t you take bad pictures so I can stay here a few more weeks instead?”
His grin evaporated quickly this time, ending in a tired grimace.
“Isn’t this your apartment?”
I don’t know why it was only just dawning on me.
“It’s the surgeon’s. I just live here until … until it’s sold.”
He faded into his own thoughts, or so it seemed. A darkness had fallen across his face when he looked up at me again.
“Though come to think of it, the hell would I even do with another week here? You smoke?”
I shook my head.
“Alright, go get us a couple more beers though.”
He sounded more subdued now and I complied, in the hope that beer number three would further pacify him.
I had just opened the refrigerator when a cacophony rang out. A highly complex piano piece. Violent, racing, wild. I went back to the lounge.
Sat in front of the instrument, every inch of his body was oscillating. His back was as shaggy as his chest. I took a photo of him and then sat down in the wicker chair. I pulled my feet up under me and closed my eyes. The sound of it was hauntingly beautiful.
Until a moment later, when he slammed down the lid over the keys. He looked at me with a cool stare.
“Come back later tonight if you want more … and if you want to learn a thing or two about life and art,” he said and cleared his throat. “A kind of ‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine’,” he added, downing his golden beer.
It was pitch black outside as I sat down in front of the computer. The rain was hammering away on my skylight. I’d bought myself a six pack and a snack pack of pigs in blankets from a 7-Eleven which I consumed as I sorted through the photographs. I gave the photos I picked out a quick once-over, adjusting the light and the contrast, before uploading apartment after apartment to the email address Alex had given me. It was a little after ten when I sent off the final property.
I opened a new beer and took my laptop with me to the bed. I put on some chilled music, checked Facebook and read some news.
Then, I closed the browser and instead pulled up the picture of the man in front of the piano. There was something demonic about him. And wasn’t that a word with more positive connotations in the art world, demonic? There are many words that are usually negative but which take on a different meaning in art criticism and reviews. Demonic, manic, fearful. “She wrestles with the demonic”. “His artistic expression is manic and devilish.”
I opened another beer and took a few greedy glugs. The alcohol was unleashing my ideas, that’s what it felt like. Or was that not just the way it was? I dug out the cheap vodka I had lying around and poured out a glass. I flicked through the pictures from Prinsessegade. The half-empty, washed-out apartment. The man in front of the piano. The pianist. The Pianist of Prinsessegade. Maybe I could use him for an art project? I mean, he was practically a work of art by himself. I drank one more shot of vodka and opened up Paint for the first time in years. I drew two red horns rearing up from the pianist’s head. I played about with his back hair, erasing it into different patterns. I ended up with a pentagram with a little heart in the middle of it.
For a moment, I considered sending the picture to Alex. And so I did. What did I care? I was done slaving away for capitalists.
I opened the last beer and felt amazing. I should go and pitch the idea for the Pianist of Prinsessegade right away! Because maybe he would leave the apartment if he believed it was good as sold now, after my visit. And now that I thought about it, he had invited me back later tonight. Later tonight was precisely what time it was.
I put on my coat. I also slung my camera over my shoulder; I felt as if it had already become a part of me. You never know when you might stumble onto your next project.
It was still raining and I was cycling as hard as I could. I swung by a 7-Eleven and bought another six pack. Gold Label, this time. A gift, or rather an investment. I smiled to myself in the dark. Soon I was rattling my way over the cobblestones in Christianshavns Torv before continuing towards Prinsessegade.
I let myself in through the main door, went up the stairs and was about to knock on the door to the apartment when I noticed it was already ajar.
I nudged it open a little further. It was dark in the corridor and in the kitchen. But there was a dim glimmer of light coming from the lounge. I rapped my knuckles on the doorframe a few times. When no response came, I tiptoed inside anyway. A gloomy, hypnotic shadow hung over the place, pulling me in. Uncompromising art were the words that came to mind as I walked through the kitchen, snapping open my bag and easing out the camera.
The source of light was at the far end of the lounge; it was the little lamp on the piano. Hanging from the crossbeam by a red cable was a large body.
En slags kunstner af Viggo Bjerring
Min hurtigtsnakkende svoger havde et tilbud til mig. Vi var samlet hele familien omkring bordet, da han skar juleanden for og kaldte det for en skandale, at jeg to nætter om ugen holdt mig vågen for at stikke et dræn ned gennem halsgruben på en handicappet mand i Gladsaxe. Han havde derfor et tilbud til mig, gentog han, en chance. Ejendomsmægleren Alex var én, han spillede squash med, sagde han og fordelte anden og de små dampende portioner af æbler og svesker.
Min svoger ville vel imponere min søster og resten af familien med sit netværk og sin handlekraft, tænkte jeg og hørte ikke rigtig efter, mens han forklarede, hvad jobbet hos Alex gik ud på. Eller også havde han medlidenhed med mig, fordi jeg studerede religionsvidenskab på syvende semester og i hans øjne ikke havde nogen fremtid. Under alle omstændigheder havde jeg ikke forventet mig noget af hans snak.
Vi spiste anden og risalamanden. Min svoger talte videre om andre emner, og jeg begyndte selv at gruble over mine fremtidsudsigter og blev lidt utilpas, som julemiddagen skred frem.
Der gik da også tre måneder, før jeg hørte fra ham.
Jeg stod bagerst i kantinekøen og ventede på at betale tolv kroner for en kop maskinkaffe. Jeg var taget direkte fra nattevagten i Gladsaxe til universitetet og var søvnig. Min svoger gik derimod lige på og hårdt, så snart jeg tog telefonen.
– Hej nevø! Jobbet er dit! Er du klar?
– … klar til hvad?
– Ja, jobbet jeg talte om, ikke? Er du ikke stået op eller hvad? Jeg har sgu lidt travlt, har heller ikke for meget strøm på telefonen. Du skal bare …
Min svoger blev afbrudt af en højttalerstemme. Han befandt sig på en messe i Polen, forklarede han, da stemmen forsvandt igen.
– Anyway, du skal være klar i morgen.
– Klar til … som … hvad var det nu?
– Boligfotograf! Kom nu ind i kampen, nevø. Jeg har sagt til Alex, at du går på Kunstakademiet og laver fotokunst og sådan. Tag et stort tørklæde på og en kamerataske over skulderen, noget i den stil. Pengene er gode og …
Højttaleren afbrød ham igen. En militant kvindestemme opremsede en masse tal, først på engelsk og så på tysk. Jeg så op på uret. Der var fem minutter til forelæsningen. Jeg gabte og kørte en hånd igennem mit fedtede hår.
– Jeg har slet ikke noget kamera, sagde jeg, da højttalerstemmen holdt inde.
– Jeg fortæller dig, hvilket mærke du skal købe. Lejlighederne skal virke store og sexede. Du stiller dig bare op i et hjørne af hvert rum og tager billeder med en fiskeøjelinse. Så mailer du dem til Alex og job done! Kameraet er en investering, må du forstå.
Der var en stor varme i hans stemme, når han udtalte ordet investering.
– Er du klar eller hvad?
– Mmh … hvor meget sagde du, at det gav?
– 500 kroner per bolig. Sort. Og du kan sagtens nå ti om dagen.
Jeg trådte ud af køen og efterlod min kaffe. Det var muligt, at min svoger var et merkantilt fjols, der fedtede for min familie, men de penge kunne jeg virkelig godt bruge.
Min svoger talte videre, mens jeg tog noter på en serviet. Han nævnte et kameramærke efterfulgt af nogle tal. Tre gange gentog han ordet fiskeøjelinse, og jeg satte to streger under det. Jeg noterede mæglerens adresse på Gammel Kongevej, hvor jeg skulle hente nøglerne. Min svoger talte også om perspektiverne for mig, men så blev han overdøvet af en mand, der skældte ud på polsk. Til min overraskelse lød det som om min svoger svarede igen på polsk, men så blev der lagt på.
Jeg betragtede den overtegnede serviet. Jeg havde haft en del studiejobs, men på papiret var dette det bedste. Jeg skulle bare fotografere nogle boliger.
Boligfotograf. Var det en rigtig stillingsbetegnelse?
Jeg droppede forelæsningen og cyklede forbi fotohandleren på Njalsgade.
Alex hældte et nøglebundt ud i mine hænder.
– Du skal huske at overføre billederne i aften. De her boliger har allerede ligget alt for længe.
Jeg manøvrerede nøglerne ned i min skuldertaske. Jeg havde fulgt min svogers råd og klædt mig ud som kunstfotograf. Eller rettere sagt som min svogers idé om en ejendomsmæglers idé om en kunstfotograf. Åbentstående frakke og et løsthængende tørklæde.
Alex så på sit ur.
– Du burde være gået i gang for længst. Du er nødt til at udnytte de lyse timer.
– Naturligvis, sagde jeg og nikkede på livet løs. En ung kvinde rakte Alex en stak A4-papirer, som han gav videre til mig.
– De her otte lejligheder er en test, lad os sige det.
Tallene på den øverste salgsopstilling afslørede, at der var tale om en penthouselejlighed. Alex så op og ned ad mig, imens jeg kæmpede med at få papirerne om bag klumpen af nøgler uden at krølle dem.
– Kunstakademiet?
Jeg nikkede. Alex smilede som om nogen havde fortalt ham en dårlig vits. Han havde en umådeligt bred kæbe.
– Michael fortalte, at du har klædt nogle hjemløse ud som balletdansere. Vi har nok ikke brug for helt så meget kreativitet. Til gengæld er pengene sikkert bedre.
Alex grinede, og jeg kunne ikke lade være med at grine med.
Jeg kunne dog godt se på det hele, at jeg havde småtravlt og gav Alex hånden til afsked. Han holdt fast i den lidt for længe; et øjeblik så han igen skeptisk ud.
– Køberne har penge, men interesserer sig ikke for kunst. Boligerne skal se prangende ud.
Mens jeg gik ned mod min cykel, bladrede jeg salgsopstillingerne igennem og planlagde en rute gennem byen. Jeg ville begynde på Østerbro. Så ville jeg arbejde mig sydpå, rundt om Søerne, ind til Lavendelstræde og til sidst forbi Christianshavn, hvor der lå en enkelt bolig. Alex skulle få alle otte i aften. Min eneste bekymring var, at jeg ikke vidste, om jeg kunne fotografere. Aftenen forinden havde jeg øvet mig derhjemme, og resultat var vel okay, når man tog i betragtning, at det var et kollegieværelse.
Planetariet knejsede foran mig, da jeg så op fra papirerne, men hvor var min cykel? Jeg havde parkeret et stykke fra mægleren, men ikke så langt væk. Jeg gik tilbage ad Gammel Kongevej, men stadig ingen rusten herrecykel med en grøn ringeklokke. Jeg så på de forbipasserende cyklisters cykler. Jeg småløb op og ned ad vejen, den samme korte strækning, med kameratasken dunkende mod ryggen. Men ingen cykel. Cyklen var væk.
Tyve meter fra mig hang mæglerens skilt ud fra facaden. Jeg overvejede at gå derind, lægge nøglebundtet på bordet og sige op. Sige at jeg havde travlt med et kunstprojekt. At jeg ikke havde tid til at arbejde for småkapitalister som ham. Men så så jeg min svoger for mig; måden hvorpå hans næsefløje udspilede sig, når han smilede selvtilfreds. Når verden endnu engang havde bekræftet hans forestillinger.
Jeg drejede omkring og gik ned ad en tilfældig sidevej. Jeg havde allerede spildt tyve minutter hos mægleren og nu også tyve minutter på Gammel Kongevej. Jeg stæsede afsted. Et kvarter senere stod jeg gennemsvedt i krydset mellem Rantzausgade og Kapelvej og indså min dumhed. Det var næsten middagstid, og jeg kunne jo ikke gå til Amerika Plads og bagefter gennem resten af byen, hvis jeg skulle nå at tage billeder af otte lejligheder, inden solen gik ned.
På Griffenfeldsgade fandt jeg en cykelhandler. Ingen grund til at tage et løbehjul eller en lejecykel, tænkte jeg, når jeg alligevel også skulle bruge en cykel til arbejdet fremover. Ekspedienten så meget træt ud, da jeg spurgte, om han havde en cykel til 500 kroner. Han fandt en rød damecykel frem. Den var lidt lille, og jeg måtte betale 700, men lidt efter pumpede jeg i højt tempo ud ad Blegdamsvej. Jeg udnyttede, at jeg kendte lyskurvenes rytmik på denne strækning. Jeg lå i ydersporet og havde konstant gang i ringeklokken.
Da jeg endelig stod i lejligheden på Amerika Plads i syvende etages højde, faldt jeg lidt til ro. Klokken var ti over 12. Jeg havde cirka seks timer, før det blev mørkt. Tre kvarter til hver lejlighed. Jeg krængede jakke og trøje af mig i én bevægelse og smed tøjet på gulvet. T-shirten klæbede til mig, og jeg lagde den øverst i bunken. Jeg drak et par slurke vand fra vandhanen.
Lejligheden var tom. Man kunne slet ikke se, at der havde boet nogen. Her lugtede ikke engang af rengøringsmiddel. Ifølge dørskiltet fandtes der dog en H. Svendsen, der ifølge salgsopstillingen ville sælge stedet for 6,7 millioner. Der var to altaner, som vendte ind mod byen, og et imponerende køkken. Men her var fuldstændig livløst.
Det var nu, jeg skulle være kreativ. Det var nu, jeg måtte vise mig som en fotograf. Jeg læste i papirerne for at få lidt inspiration. De to første lejligheder lå begge på Amerika Plads, og beskrivelsen af dem begyndte med de samme tre sætninger:
Ligger din drømmebolig også ved havet? Nu behøver du ikke at lede længere. Denne lyse, rummelige og unikke lejlighed giver dig følelsen af luksus.
Havet. Havet skal med, tænkte jeg.
Men det var kun fra toiletvinduet, at man kunne ane en blegblå strimmel af Øresund mellem kontorbygningerne. Og de billeder jeg fik taget gennem det smalle vindue var næppe noget, der lokkede købere til.
Jeg kiggede på uret. Jeg havde allerede brugt en halv time.
Fuck havet, tænkte jeg. Jeg går efter luksus i stedet.
Jeg tog et foto af amerikanerkøleskabet og en stor tom vinreol. Jeg fandt en klapstol i et skab og slæbte den med rundt i lejligheden, mens jeg tog fotografier oppe fra alle hjørner med fiskeøjelinsen på. Men resultatet fik mig mest af alt til at tænke på overvågningskameraer, der filmer en tom parkeringskælder.
De to efterfølgende Østerbrolejligheder var heldigvis møblerede. Jeg tog detaljebilleder af lysestager, designermøbler, livsglade køleskabsmagneter og en opstilling af bamser i en børneseng.
Billederne var bedre nu, mere levende, flotte ligefrem.
Boligfotograf. Det var jo et rigtigt job, tænkte jeg, mens jeg cyklede langs Sortedams Dossering. Jeg havde endda talent for det.
Jeg krydsede Dronning Louises Bro og besluttede mig for at foreslå Alex, at jeg i fremtiden også skrev annonceteksterne. Så kunne de spille sammen med fotografierne. Jeg skrev godt, hvis jeg selv skulle sige det. Og med både fotografi og tekst var det vel nærmest en fuldtidsstilling. På nettet havde jeg set, at de var en lille kæde af mæglere og også havde afdelinger på Vesterbro og i Hellerup.
De næste tre lejligheder lå fordelt omkring Søerne. Fotografierne blev stadigt bedre. Min tidsplan holdt næsten.
Nu var det ved den tid på dagen, hvor folk kom hjem fra arbejde. Jeg listede rundt og lyttede konstant efter om hoveddøren gik. Jeg stod i sofaerne og forsøgte at indfange hele stuen med min fiskeøjelinse, mens jeg i tankerne forberedte en forsvarstale, der kunne forklare min tilstedeværelse. Men måske Alex havde varslet dem. Der dukkede ingen beboere op. Måske var de i gang med at male eller bygge i deres nye huse og lejligheder.
I den næstsidste bolig, en gammel herskabslejlighed i indre by, havde jeg virkelig fået tag på kameraet. Jeg var ligefrem stolt, da jeg bladrede billederne igennem. Støvkornene dansede i solstrålen, der ramte chatollet. De små skygger fra stukkens basunengle. Kompositionerne var harmoniske, og den gyldne eftermiddagssol gav det hele et nostalgisk skær. Jeg havde virkelig indfanget stemningen. Jeg burde tage tilbage og fotografere de første lejligheder igen, tænkte jeg, men så slog bornholmeruret. Halv seks. Jeg havde brugt en hel time i herskabslejligheden. Jeg tog kameratasken over skulderen, sprang ned ad trapperne og svang mig op på cyklen. Solen var begyndt at gå ned, men lejligheden i Prinsessegade var den sidste. Alt så ud til at løse sig på smukkeste vis.
Måske havde jeg endda en rigtig fotograf i mig, tænkte jeg, da jeg passerede Thorvaldsens Museum. Jeg rejste mig i sadlen og overhalede et par andre cyklister. Jeg havde ofte følt, at jeg havde en kunstner i mig, og nu havde mit talent måske vist sig ved et tilfælde? Fotografierne jeg havde taget i herskabslejligheden var til mere end en salgsopstilling. Det var kunst. Universitetet havde nok altid været noget midlertidigt for mig og mens jeg cyklede de sidste meter op over Knippels Bro, overvejede jeg at søge ind på Kunstakademiet.
Men havde kunstskolerne egentlig noget at tilbyde? Var eleverne der kom ud fra Kunstakademiet ikke lidt kedelige? Jeg var nok mere den selvlærte, upolerede type. Jeg ville gå min egne veje. Mine studier kunne vel også bruges til noget. Ja, min kunst skulle skildre det realistiske og det guddommelige på én gang. Metafysik og religion midt i de mest rå og realistiske motiver.
Trafikken ved Christianshavns Torv var som altid djævelsk og krævede min opmærksomhed. Fulde, skæve eller travle mennesker væltede ud og ind mellem fortov og cykelsti. Busserne dundrede forbi. En hjemløs væltede ud på cykelstien, og jeg havde nær kørt ham ned.
Måske var min svogers påfund med de hjemløse ikke engang så dumt. Jeg kunne jo klæde dem ud som religiøse figurer? Muhammed og Jesus som drankere på Enghave Plads. Dét ville skabe omtale.
Et par dages arbejde mere for mægleren. Så var kameraet tjent ind, og jeg kunne komme i gang med at udfolde mig kunstnerisk. Jeg trådte hårdt i pedalerne.
Boligen i Prinsessegade var en overetage i et gammelt byhus og kun halvt så stor som dem på Østerbro. Køkkenet var nedslidt, og der lugtede lidt råddent. Her var ikke haner med kogende vand eller en stor vinreol. Her var kun indtørrede hvidløgsfed, brune pletter på gulvet og ingen gode motiver. Det krævede i hvert fald en rengøring først, og det havde jeg ikke tid til.
Jeg trådte ind i en aflang stue. Her var der træbjælker og højt til loftet, men ikke så meget lys. I modsatte ende af stuen stod en reol, to kurvestole og et klaver i mørkt træ. To af tangenterne manglede. Jeg var nødt til at fotografere det på afstand, hvis ikke det skulle ligne resultatet af en uppercut. Min mave rumlede, jeg havde ignoreret sulten i timevis, men det var der slet ikke tid til at tænke på nu. Jeg trippede lidt rundt, mens jeg overvejede, hvordan jeg skulle få bare tre gode billeder ud af lejligheden.
Men så fik jeg øje på endnu en dør, der var halvt skjult bag reolen. Jeg gik straks hen og åbnede den. Her stod en sofa, og på sofaen lå en stor krop med et tæppe over sig. Grå hårtjavser stak ud i den ene ende, en fod i den anden. Her lugtede grimt.
Jeg stod helt stille. Fire-fem sekunder gik med tunge hjerteslag.
Så bevægede foden sig en anelse.
– Sluk lyset for helvede, sagde en rusten stemme.
Jeg så mig om efter en kontakt, men her var slet ingen lamper. Rummets eneste stikkontakt var forbundet til en lille forstærker, der via et rødt kabel var sluttet til en halvakustisk guitar, som lå på gulvet. Kroppen i sofaen bevægede sig igen, slog tæppet til side, og en mand med et stort gråsort hår så op på mig med blodsprængte øjne. Han hostede endnu en sætning op.
– Hvad laver du her?
– Jeg fotograferer lejligheden … til ejendomsmægleren.
Jeg klappede et par gange på kameratasken.
– Kom tilbage i morgen. Jeg sover.
– Men hvis jeg nu skynder mig, det tager højst et kvarter?
Manden brummede en afvisning og trak tæppet over sig.
Jeg så ud af vinduet på den sidste rest af dagslys. Frygten for ikke at nå alle otte boliger brusede op i mig. Jeg rømmede mig.
– Hvis nu jeg lover, at jeg skynder mig og …
– En øl, lød det nede fra tæppet, – hvis du henter en øl i køkkenet, er det okay.
Inde bag en halvspist kebabret i foliebakke fandt jeg nogle Tuborg Guld. Jeg ærgrede mig over, at jeg ikke havde fotograferet stuen med det samme. Lyset svandt for hvert minut. Jeg kunne alligevel ikke fotografere soveværelset med manden liggende på sofaen.
– Tag også en til dig selv, lød det derindefra, – og to til mig.
Han satte sig op, da jeg rakte ham øllene. Maven og brystet var tæt behåret. Hvide boxershorts der ikke var helt rene. Det var svært at vurdere, hvor gammel han var. Halvtreds måske.
– Skål for fanden.
Jeg tog en symbolsk slurk, satte dåsen væk og åbnede kameratasken. Jeg tog alligevel et par billeder af soveværelset; henne fra døren så jeg undgik at få manden med. Han fulgte mine bevægelser, mens han skiftevis drak af sin øl og kløede sig på maven. Da jeg gik ind i stuen, fulgte han desværre efter. Han slæbte endda guitaren med og satte sig i den ene kurvestol.
– Du fotograferer lejligheder? Det er da ikke noget at bruge livet på, dit fjols. Laver du ikke andet?
Jeg foregav at have problemer med at få objektivet på.
– Hva”? Laver du ikke andet end det der?
– Joh, jeg er også … en slags kunstner, sagde jeg.
– Ja, jeg var sgu også en slags kunstner engang.
Han slog en molakkord an på guitaren og grinede lidt.
– Jeg studerer også religionsvidenskab, sagde jeg så.
Han slog en ny akkord an.
– Og jeg læste filosofi engang. Jeg har en filosofisk vits, vil du høre den?
Jeg svarede ikke, men gik i gang med at fotografere stuen fra alle de vinkler, der ikke var skæmmet af kroppen i kurvestolen.
– To behaviorister går i seng med hinanden. Efter de har haft sex, deler de en cigaret, og den ene spørger den anden: ”Var det lige så godt for mig, som det var for dig?”
Manden grinede, hvilket endte med et hosteanfald. Han drak resten af sin øl, kylede dåsen fra sig og åbnede den næste. Jeg samlede dåsen op og fjernede den.
– Den her handler om Sartre, der går på café. Sartre bestiller en kop kaffe uden fløde. Lidt efter vender tjeneren tilbage og siger: ”Undskyld monsieur Sartre, vi har altså ingen fløde, men du kan få din kaffe uden mælk.”
Manden grinede igen, slog en bøvs og spillede videre på guitaren. Det var svært at høre, om han spillede en egentlig sang. Forstærkeren skrattede inde fra soveværelset. Jeg havde efterhånden fotograferet hele stuen. Men endevæggen med kurvestolene, de kraftige loftsbjælker og klaveret var det vigtigste. Jeg var derfor nødt til at få ham væk.
Han må have læst mine tanker.
– Jeg flytter mig ikke, sagde han.
– Bare lige ét minut. Jeg bliver nødt til at få vinduespartiet med, det er det bedste motiv.
– Kan du ikke gøre billederne dårlige, så jeg får et par uger mere i stedet?
Hans grin slap hurtigt op denne gang og endte i en træt grimasse.
– Er det ikke din lejlighed?
Jeg ved ikke, hvorfor det først slog mig nu.
– Det er kirurgens. Jeg bor her kun, indtil … indtil den bliver solgt.
Han forsvandt i sine egne tanker, så det ud til. Der var kommet noget mørkt i hans blik, da han så op på mig igen.
– Men på den anden side, hvad fanden skal jeg egentlig bruge en uge mere til. Ryger du?
Jeg rystede på hovedet.
– Nå, men hent lige et par øl mere til os.
Han lød mere afdæmpet nu, og jeg adlød i håbet om, at øl nummer tre ville formilde ham yderligere.
Jeg havde netop åbnet køleskabet, da det buldrede løs. Et meget komplekst klaverstykke. Voldsomt, hurtigt, vildt. Jeg gik tilbage til stuen.
Hele hans krop var i bevægelse foran instrumentet. Hans ryg var lige så behåret som brystet. Jeg tog et billede af ham og satte mig så i kurvestolen. Jeg trak fødderne op under mig og lukkede øjnene. Det lød forbandet smukt.
Men efter et stykke tid smældede han låget over tangenterne i. Han så på mig med et køligt blik.
– Kom tilbage sidst på aftenen, hvis du vil have mere … og lære noget om kunsten og livet, sagde han og rømmede sig. – Vi kan vel gøre hinanden en lille tjeneste på den måde, tilføjede han og tømte sin guldøl.
Det var bælgmørkt udenfor, da jeg satte mig foran computeren. Regnen trommede på mit skråvindue. Jeg havde købt en sixpack og en pose pølsebrød i 7-eleven, som jeg åd, mens jeg sorterede fotografier. Jeg gav de udvalgte billeder en hurtig beskæring, justerede lys og kontrast, hvorpå jeg uploadede lejlighed efter lejlighed til den mailadresse, Alex havde givet mig. Klokken var lidt over ti, da jeg sendte den sidste bolig afsted.
Jeg åbnede en ny øl og tog den bærbare med over i sengen. Jeg satte noget chillet musik på, tjekkede Facebook og læste et par nyheder.
Så lukkede jeg browseren og fandt i stedet billedet af manden foran klaveret frem. Der var noget dæmonisk over ham. Og var det ikke et plusord inden for kunsten, det dæmoniske? Der var mange ord, som normalt var negative, men fik en anden betydning i kunstkritik og anmeldelser. Dæmonisk, manisk, angstfuld. ”Hun tager livtag med det dæmoniske”. ”Hans udtryk er manisk og fandenivoldsk”.
Jeg åbnede endnu en øl og tog et par grådige slurke. Alkoholen frigjorde idéer, sådan føltes det. Eller var det ikke bare, sådan det var? Jeg fandt den billige vodka, jeg havde stående, frem, og hældte et glas op. Jeg bladrede gennem billederne fra Prinsessegade. Den halvtomme, gustne lejlighed. Manden foran klaveret. Pianisten. Pianisten i Prinsessegade. Måske kunne han bruges til et kunstprojekt? Han var jo nærmest et værk i sig selv? Jeg drak endnu en vodkasjus og åbnede Paint for første gang i årevis. Jeg tegnede to røde horn, der rejste sig fra pianistens hoved. Jeg morede mig med at viske hans rygbehåring ud i forskellige mønstre. Det endte med et pentagram og et lille hjerte i midten af pentagrammet.
Et øjeblik overvejede jeg at sende billedet til Alex. Og så gjorde jeg det. Jeg var ligeglad. Jeg var færdig med at slave for kapitalister.
Jeg åbnede den sidste øl og følte mig på toppen. Jeg burde jo pitche idéen for pianisten i Prinsessegade med det samme! For måske ville han forlade lejligheden, hvis han troede, at den nu blev solgt efter mit besøg. Han havde jo sådan set inviteret mig tilbage allerede i aften, kom jeg i tanke om. Sidst på aftenen, det var vel nu.
Jeg tog min frakke på. Jeg tog også kameraet over skulderen, det var allerede blevet en del af mig, synes jeg. Man vidste aldrig, hvornår man stødte på sit næste projekt.
Det regnede stadig, og jeg cyklede så stærkt jeg kunne. Jeg svingede forbi 7-eleven og købte en ny sixpack. Guldøl, denne gang. En gave eller rettere: en investering. Jeg smilede for mig selv i mørket. Lidt efter raslede jeg hen over brostenene på Christianshavns Torv og fortsatte ned mod Prinsessegade.
Jeg låste mig ind ved hoveddøren, gik op ad trappen og skulle lige til at banke på døren til selve lejligheden, da jeg opdagede, at den stod på klem.
Jeg skubbede døren lidt længere op. Der var mørkt i både entré og køkken. Men inde fra stuen kom der et vagt lysskær. Jeg bankede knoerne et par gange mod dørkarmen. Da der ikke lød noget svar, listede jeg alligevel indenfor. Der var noget dragende og dystert over stedet. Den kompromisløse kunst var de ord, der meldte sig i min bevidsthed, mens jeg gik gennem køkkenet, lynede kameratasken op og lirkede apparatet frem.
Lyskilden var placeret i den fjerneste ende af stuen, det var den lille lampe på klaveret. Fra hanebjælken hang en stor krop i et rødt kabel.
VIGGO BJERRING made his debut in 2016 with the short story collection Balancekatten (The Balancing Cat). Later that year he published the novella QWERTY, which was nominated for “Den svære Toer” Prize by the Danish Literary Writers’ Association. His first novel Verdenshjertet (At Its Heart) was published in Denmark in 2021. A sequel, Hjertets Geometri (Geometry of the Heart), will be published in early 2024. Instagram: viggobjerring.
ROB MYATT has been working as a translator since 2014, primarily from Danish, German, Polish, Swedish, and Russian into English. He has had translations published in The Dodge, Your Impossible Voice, and Turkoslavia. He was shortlisted for the John Dryden Prize 2021 and longlisted for the same prize in 2023. Twitter: @robmyatt2; Bluesky: @robtranslates.bsky.social; website: www.polyglotliterature.co.uk.
DANIEL ROMO is the author of Bum Knees and Grieving Sunsets (FlowerSong Press 2023), Moonlighting as an Avalanche (Tebot Bach 2021), Apologies in Reverse (FutureCycle Press 2019), and other books. He lives, teaches, and rides his bikes in Long Beach, CA.
