Raw lust.
He’s violence. The directionless, original blow, the one who doesn’t know what flight is, the one who stands firm, obstinate, the one who has no voice or place in chocolate-land.
And tonight Kalle will dance with you, Rakel. Imagine, dancing with Kalle . . . Tonight it will be Rakel dancing the last dance with Kalle, the one who gets to smell the sweat on his shirt.
Then there is a break. The human mice stream into the evening; coloured lanterns and queues for sausages, quarter-bottles emptied, motorcycles over near the entrance, the almost tough guys and their broads, and Kalle walking past the queue, licking the mustard from the sausage and swallowing; the chocolate-fat girl by his side sways and now he sees me, breaks free from her and walks towards me but not yet, not yet. I turn round, head for the toilets, force my way into the Ladies and all the while I feel his steps, his eager, dark breathing behind me.
Not yet, Kalle.
I strut for no man.
‘Democratic dance’, says the sign. Men asking women to dance, women asking men.
And the women are at him, the man. The only one in the room who deserves the title.
But he denies them.
Looks over at me.
Shall I? I strut for no man. Then he is dancing again, it is someone else’s body in his arms but it is me he is leading across the dance floor.
Now it is the gentlemen’s turn to ask.
I turn down him, him, him and him.
Then Kalle comes.
I am pressed up against the wooden panelling.
He takes my hand. He doesn’t ask, takes it, and I shake my head.
He pulls me out.
But no.
‘Dancing, Kalle,’ I say, ‘is something you’ll have to do with all those common chocolate girls.’
And he lets go of my hand, catches her beside me and then round, round, until the music falls silent and I am standing by the entrance to the park and see him walking, see him pass arm in arm with her, her or her.
Kalle, I whisper, quietly so no one hears.
I linger, the sound of disappearing motorcycle engines, of drink fading into dreams and headaches. Lanterns are extinguished, the band pack their things in the bus.
I know you’re coming back, Kalle.
The canal is rippling quietly, it’s black now, night, and not starlit; high above veils of cloud have swept in across the sky and are hiding the light of the stars, the moon.
How much time has passed?
An hour?
You’ll come.
Are you finished with her, Kalle?
Because there you come, rounding the bend and you look so slight as you leave the yellow wooden facade of the bridge-keeper’s cottage behind you.
But you’re no boy.
That’s not why I’m waiting here in the damp, gentle cool of a June night, that isn’t why I feel so warm, so warm as you grow larger before my eyes.
Your shirt is unbuttoned.
The hair on your chest, your black eyes, all the power in your body directed at me.
‘So you’re still here.’
‘I’m still here.’
And you take my hand, lead me along the road, past the newly built villas and lead me off to the left along the forest track.
What do I think will happen?
What am I expecting?
Your hand.
Suddenly it is unfamiliar. Your smell, your shadow are unfamiliar. I don’t want to be here, in the forest. I want you to let go of my hand.
Let go.
But you squeeze even tighter and I follow you into the darkness, Kalle, even though I no longer know if I want to.
