Milk(6)

            It was just getting dark when I got home. I parked the van in front of the neighbor’s house and tossed the key in his mailbox as we’d arranged. I went up the walk to my own house and saw the light in the living room. The TV was turned on.

            I let myself in the utility room and cast a glance at the day’s mail, which lay on the table just inside the door.

            I went into the living room to my wife and put the green chestnut on the table in front of her. She raised her head and looked at me questioningly.

            —Jakob said to say hello.

            I went upstairs into the bedroom and stood in the middle of the room staring into space for a while. Then I went downstairs again.

            —How’d it go? she asked.

            —All right, I said.

            I sat down beside her on the sofa. She glanced back and forth from me to the TV. Then she kept her eyes focused on the TV. The chestnut lay on the table where I’d left it. I reached for it. I pressed my thumbs into the narrow crevice and opened the shell, then set the green hemispheres on the table. The chestnut felt so unexpectedly soft and smooth in my fingers; it reminded me of something I’d once felt when I looked at my wife. I turned to her. Her stare was fixed on the television screen, the reflected image compressed and unclear on each lens of her glasses.

            I continued to look at her, but it didn’t help. At some point she must’ve noticed my desperation, because she said:

            —What is it, Thomas?

            Then I turned and looked towards the screen.





            Crossing



            You know who gave the shortest speech ever recorded?

            Sophus sat on a bench in the sun. The man who’d asked this question was about seventy years old, well dressed, and had sat down beside him only a few minutes earlier. He had carefully groomed white hair, a suntan, and a soft, bulbous nose that angled slightly up.

            —No, Sophus said. I don’t know.

            —It was Mao. He stood before the entire Chinese army on one bank of the Yangtze River, with the Japanese on the other side. When you cross this river now, Mao said, you will make history. Time will prove whether you are worthy. Then he bowed deeply to his soldiers and gave his general orders to start the battle. Isn’t that something?

            Sophus nodded.

            —Sure, he said.

            —You know what, the man continued. Sometimes I like to imagine that it’s me standing in front of all those soldiers. Thousands, hundreds of thousands of soldiers and every one of them facing me. Do you know what I mean?

            —I guess, Sophus said.

            —Once in a while, I like to imagine I’m Hitler. I’ve read everything there is to read about World War II, and sometimes I pretend that I handle the whole thing differently. I avoid all the mistakes Hitler made.

            Sophus stared at the briefcase the man had placed under the bench. Maybe he’s got a pistol in that briefcase, he thought.

            —Kjaerulf, the man said, extending his hand. Peter Kjaerulf.

            Then Sophus got up and left.



            That same evening, after they’d eaten dinner, Sophus asked Claudia if she’d ever fantasized about being another person.

            —During puberty, she said. I wanted to be a boy.

            —What about now?

            —I don’t know. Why?

            —I met this guy in the park. He talked about being Chairman Mao and Hitler. It got me thinking.