More Coffee?

I’m the one who notices him. He is sitting down by the carport, dressed in something green like a hunter would wear. He is sitting in the old garden chair, leaning back comfortably. He is rubbing his hands against his thighs. The sun is about to come up.

– Martin. There’s a man down by the carport, I say.

Martin turns with his coffee cup in his hand. He looks out the window, swivels back and puts his cup down. He reaches for a slice of bread.

– Isn’t that Ole Hansen? I say.

Martin nods. Then shakes his head. Then nods again.

– Yes. It’s Ole Hansen, he says then.

– What do you think he wants?

– He doesn’t know that himself.

Martin places two slices of cheese on his bread. As he chews, he brushes the crumbs from his sweater.

– Shall I take a cup of coffee out to him? I say.

– No, don’t do that. You shouldn’t go out today.

– No.

I spread some honey on my toast.

– Do you think there’s something wrong with him? I say.

– No more than usual.

Martin knows what he’s talking about; he works up at city hall. Almost every day, Ole Hansen comes and sits in their cafeteria, even though he has no business there. He sits and rubs his hands against his thighs, back and forth. His trousers are worn thin where he rubs against them. He is not unintelligent. He was once a practicing physician, an ear-nose-and-throat man. But then he was hit by a virus that settled in his brain, and at almost the same time, he lost his only son. You don’t go through something like that unchanged. That’s why they let him sit in the cafeteria. He doesn’t talk to anyone, he just sits there. After a while, he leaves again.

– Why do you think he’s sitting here in our yard? I say.

– By chance. He’s gone to some of the others’ houses, too.

– He has?

– Yes. Allan’s. And Ursula’s. Even somebody from down in accounting.

– How does he find out where you live?

– He doesn’t. He just wanders around.

– How sad.

– Yes.

Martin goes out to brush his teeth. I can hear him, the sounds he makes. I stay seated at the table, looking down on the yard. The trees are bare, even the hedge is completely transparent. Some sparrows light on the bird feeder.

I nod to Ole Hansen. He doesn’t react. He probably can’t see me in here.

Martin is sitting on the stairs, tying his shoelaces. The scent of toothpaste hovers about him.

– At any rate, I’ll get him to leave, says Martin.

– I’ll just tell him to go, and he’ll go.

– He can stay there as far as I’m concerned.

Martin looks up.

– Of course he can’t stay, when you’re here alone.

– I’m not afraid of him.

– You have no reason to be. But I don’t want him down there.

He gets up and puts on his coat.

– Feel better, he says, kissing me on the cheek.

I close the door after him and watch through the pane as he walks down the path to Ole Hansen. He stands in front of him for a bit with one hand in his pocket. Then he goes into the carport, opens up the car and gets in. He starts it. At the same time Ole Hansen gets up from the garden chair. He goes out through the carport alongside the car backing up. At the sidewalk, he turns right and disappears. Martin swings out onto the road, turning left. He honks and makes a sign to me that Ole Hansen has gone. I nod.

When I can no longer see Martin’s car on the road, I put on my rubber boots. I walk out of the house, through the yard, and turn right, the same direction as Ole Hansen. I don’t see him anywhere. I look in all the yards and driveways and behind the hedge along the bicycle path.

He is sitting on a bench in front of the boy scout lodge, rubbing his thighs.

I remain standing on the sidewalk.

– Hello. Ole Hansen, I say, smiling. My name is Betina. It was my yard you were just in. I’m married to Martin from down at city hall.

Ole Hansen does not react.

– It sure is nippy, I say. I wondered if you might like a cup of coffee? I could bring you a cup.

Then he looks directly at me. He says nothing.

– Well. I’ll get a cup for you, then. Just stay there.

I walk backwards down the sidewalk, still smiling to him.

– Just stay right there, I say.

I turn around and hurry home. I put on Martin’s old coat: it’s hanging right there in the entrance. I put on a scarf, too, and gloves. I get the thermos from the dining table and take down a cup, putting it in a coat pocket. Then I lock the door with my free hand. I walk quickly down to the scout lodge.

He is still sitting there.

– I’ve got some hot coffee here for you, I say, walking all the way up to him. I place the cup on the bench and fill it. He stops rubbing his thighs, he reaches for the cup and drinks. He sits with the cup between his hands. I stand in front of him with the thermos.

He blows on the coffee between each sip. Steam rises from the cup into his face.

– So, you’re out making your rounds? I say.

He doesn’t answer; I hadn’t expected him to.

– I work as lab technician, I say. But today, I called in sick. I’ve got a bit of a cold. Martin thinks I should stay home.

The ground in front of the bench is covered with rotting leaves. I poke about in the leaves with the muzzle of my boot.

– Sometimes, it’s good just to get out of the rat race. Especially on a nice day like this.

I clear my throat and look at Ole Hansen. He has put the cup down on the bench. At once, I step towards him.

– More coffee? I say, with a bit more enthusiasm than I had intended.

He gets up with a sudden movement and shunts me aside. He turns left down the sidewalk and walks away quickly. I trot along down the street after him, the arm with the thermos stretched out in front of me.

– What’s wrong? I say. Is there anything I can do?

He continues on his way, taking large steps. We are all the way down to the corner lot by now. Bente comes out into her yard with a broom. She stops and calls my name; I ignore her. I reach out to Old Hansen from behind, touch his shoulder.

– Can’t we sit down someplace? I say. We could sit to-gether for a little while.

He wheels around, puts his face up to mine. We are standing very close. He smells of wool. Since then, I have always connected these two things: the smell of wool and what he says.

– Your husband is cheating on you with Ursula Steen, he says.

He has a thick sweater on beneath his green jacket. It’s only now I see it. I wonder whether it is hand-knitted and, if so, who knitted it for him.

– That’s a nice sweater, I say.

He turns around and walks on. I follow after him, I say nothing more, I just walk a few feet behind him. We walk past the assembly hall and the sugar factory, all the way into the center of town and through its narrow streets. He unlocks the door to a red half-timbered house. Apparently, that is where he lives. He goes in and smacks the door shut without saying goodbye. I keep on walking down the street over to the square. I walk past the fountain and stop a little way from the city hall offices.

My arm is sore. The one carrying the thermos. I let the arm drop down and rub the sore muscle. A little coffee drips onto the sidewalk from the nozzle of the thermos. That’s how I stand.

Asleep.