My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time (17 page)

Instead, everywhere, I saw signs of Herr McCrombie's life, quite chaotically displayed: paintings and coloured daguerreotypes
of a most accurate nature adorned the walls, & all about stood glass cases containing artefacts of great fascination: animal
skulls & bones, & small sculptures & pots fashioned from clay & bronze & many plaster of Paris moulds of objects whose shapes
I could not determine: it seemed my Man of Leisure enjoyed collecting things, or was perhaps an amateur explorer. Seeing the
amazement & curiosity on my face, he waved at it all & said something & laughed, & I shook my head for the thousandth time
& repeated that I was sorry, I no speak English, I from Croatia, & he repeated a many-syllabled word several times, that began
with A, but I knew it not, and did not have a dictionary with me.

And then instead of discussing the practicalities of getting shot of his child (which, having shed its costume & mask, appeared
to have changed sex & become a pretty girl, of the short-haired & tomboyish variety), & perhaps settling my fee in advance,
he gestured to ask whether I was hungry. Puzzled, for I had not yet learned the sexual etiquette of that era, I nodded yes,
& soon – to my amazement – he was motioning at me to peel & chop, whilst he cleared the table & took out a recipe book with
many an illustration of the succulent fare one might manufacture from the ingredients we had to hand, viz one chicken. My
lesson with Dogger quite forgotten, we then set about cooking in a most hyggeligt-domestic manner while Josie prattled in their language & made elaborate & most impressive drawings of a fantastical semi-human figure
that much resembled her earlier costumed self, called ‘Spiderman'. As preludes to erotic encounters go, the evening was veering
a long way from the normal, but the meal was nevertheless accompanied by much laughter, for Josie was a girl who liked to
pull faces, & as it happens I am also rather good at pulling faces, not to mention walking on my hands, & this I did to amuse
the child, whose English was easier to follow than her father's, for she cried, ‘Again!', a word I knew, & ‘Look at me!',
a phrase I could also decipher, & then she demonstrated her skill at somersaulting on the bed & I joined in, despite a small
worry that it might make me look unfeminine & thus diminish my air of womanly mystery, a bad start for an ambitious mistress.
Later, while Herr McCrombie was bathing Josie, I explored the house more, with a view to doing a little light pilfering, but
I got no further than the child's bedroom, for there I was waylaid by the sight of many shelves of books, one of which caused
me to cry out in a bright shock of delight, for the name on its spine was none other than Hans Christian Andersen, so when
the bath was done, seeing that our own bed-time must wait until after the child's, I waved the book & pointed, urging Herr McCrombie to read Josie
The Ugly Duckling
& the three of us settled together on the sofa, Herr McCrombie next to me, & Josie straddled easily on my lap, as though this
were the most natural place in the world for her, & if she were a cat, she would purr, & soon I was stroking her dark head
& feeling (most odd, for I hated children!) that if I were a cat, I would purr too. And as Herr McCrombie read about the duckling
who looked at himself in the water & saw himself to be ugly, & grew apart from his siblings who scorned him, but then found
himself to belong to another breed, far more beautiful, & hatched from a swan's egg, I strained to catch words I might identify,
& then & there made a silent vow to learn this foreign patter faster than you can say
røgrød med fløde,
for speaking it would surely be the key to my new patron's bank account.

Though later that evening, when Josie was sleeping, I found a much swifter method, which began with me dropping a plate to
the floor and smashing it, & both of us stooping to pick up the pieces, & banging our heads together, & laughing, & then hugging,
& thence making our way to the bedroom, the better to explore & enjoy one another's anatomy. And most happy & joyful it was,
for we were like two greedy children at a bottomless jar of sweets, & in the heat of the moment I quite forgot that it was
a means to an end, & I will confess that I enjoyed the act, as performed by our two most well-fitting bodies, in a most unprofessional
manner. And when we had done & were quite ravished & exhausted, he kissed me & murmured sweet things in his language, & I
lay there in a great state of contentment until I suddenly returned to my fiscal senses & explained in my own tongue what
my terms, fees & conditions were, & that I would keep a tally in a notebook so he could pay the final bill when we were finished,
but I would be happy to take on the role of his exclusive mistress for as long as I stayed in London.

Tick, tock. The days passed, & I spent much time in Herr McCrombie's company. I would not normally take the liberty of calling
a client by his first name, for I have always considered it an intimacy too far, but after our first night together my new
provider became most insistent upon the matter, & so I finally succumbed to the exigencies of his era & culture, & began to
address him as ‘Fergus'.

‘So what's Croatia like?' he asked me one morn, as I fingered a beautiful Roman horse. ‘You've hardly told me anything. I
know the Balkans a little bit. What city do you come from? Were you there during the war? Did you follow the trial of Miloševic?'

And so, not knowing anything of Croatia (for I had never heard of it), let alone its wars, while I dressed to return to Professor
Krak's apartment, where I was still occasionally lodging for fear of arousing suspicions, I summoned the courage to tell him
in my halting but increasingly serviceable English that I was not from that country at all, but from Denmark, & that there
were reasons for my small deception which I could not go into now, but I would recount my full story as soon as my teacher,
Herr Dogger, had supplied me with the necessary words.

At which he looked at me quizzically. ‘You are quite a mystery, Lottie,' he said, Lottie being his pet name for me. ‘But I
will solve you. Remember, I'm an archaeologist: I'm good at removing layers.' Upon which he grabbed me & set about undressing
me again, & I never left the house after all.

‘Where your wife?' I asked him when we woke the next morning, for I had by now assumed she was away visiting sick relatives
or somesuch, which is one of the things wives seem to do, but would be coming back soon to spoil our fun, & the prospect of
this interruption had been working on my psyche in a most discomfiting manner. But he seemed most puzzled, & I fancied I even
detected shock on his face.

‘Lottie, if I had a wife, do you really think you'd be here?' he asked. A question I was at a loss to answer, for the fact was, I did indeed think I might be here if he had a wife, for
he was a man like any other, & indeed more so, in his enthusiasm for my body. (And here I will confess, dear one, I was much
enamoured of his too, & had been from the very first moment I was in his arms.) In my sudden embarrassment (I, Charlotte Dagmar
Marie of Østerbro, normally immune to such feelings!) I merely laughed, but in the silence that followed I realized that now, if any, was the
time to set out the terms and conditions of my mistresshood, & show him the little book in which I had been noting down our
transactions. But to my own bafflement, I said nothing.

‘Actually I don't have a wife,' he said. ‘So lucky you.'

‘But Josie's mother?' I asked, for suddenly I was curious. ‘Where is she?' But at this he looked grave.

‘Dead,' he said, & I quickly struggled to reassemble my face into a shape that represented sorrow, though secretly I was most
pleased, for Rigmor had told me about such things as divorce settlements & alimony, & I knew them to be a drain on a man's
resources. Fergus smiled at my perplexed look. ‘I was digging in Peru, & I found Josie one morning sleeping in a hole, wrapped
in a blanket. She was cold & hungry & all alone. I made enquiries. It seemed the father abandoned her after the mother died.
So I adopted her & brought her home. Her name's Josefina, but I shortened it and lengthened the rest, so she's now Josie Prudence
Rosenberg McCrombie. The Prudence is after my grandmother, who was anything but prudent. She died in a hot-air balloon accident
when she was eighty. And Rosenberg after Professor Rosenberg, who taught me archaeology. Now she's my daughter.'

What a story! I thought, unable to fathom it entirely, but somehow it caused something animal to stir in me & I kissed him
again, & was just beginning to feel another urge to explore his anatomy when the alarm-clock sounded & Josie Prudence Rosenberg
McCrombie came in and tumbled on to the eiderdown, so we played an English game called Crazy Frog Pillow Wars instead.

But after that conversation something had shifted within me & I felt unaccountably perturbed, almost as though I had a brain
fever coming on, for there welled in my breast a confusion whose origins I could not place, but which seemed to underline
the notion that the thing I most desired – Herr Fergus McCrombie's money – was somehow incompatible with the means of getting it.

‘You must tell him the truth forthwith,' said Rigmor Schwarb firmly when I explained the situation. ‘For I fear he has misunderstood
the nature of your relationship. They do things differently here, Charlotte. Women of the future commonly lie with men out
of neither duty nor financial gain, but merely for the pleasure of the act of love, & society does not frown on them for it
as it does in our era.' We were using the computer at the Halfway Club: she had logged on to the ‘Crotchware Inc' website
&, having taught me to manipulate the ‘mouse', got me busy ticking boxes placing orders for Hotel Charlotte. ‘If Fergus is
unaware of the need to reward you for services rendered, how are you going to pay for all these wares?'

I smiled, & waved Fergus's credit card at her, which I had lifted from his wallet earlier. ‘I'll tell him later, when my English
is improved,' I said.

‘But what about all this merchandise you're ordering in his name?' she cried angrily, gesturing at the screen. ‘How are you
going to explain that? Whatever story you dream up, he's going to have trouble believing you – gullible though he sounds.'

‘He is not gullible!' I snapped. ‘He is simply a – ‘

‘A what?' she asked, her tone changing to curiosity.

‘A good man,' I said, suddenly in a rush to talk about him. ‘He is a good man. He thinks I'm good too. He has a daughter called
Josie. He cooks meals that taste like a chef has made them. He's an archaeologist & has been all around the world. And he
calls me “darling" &
"hen”.
Hen is Scottish for
skat!
At which she gave me a long look, & slowly nodded, but said nothing.

Hen,
I thought as I wandered back through the park where I had first met Fergus. The lilies were in full bloom now, and I wanted
him to see them with me, but he was at a ‘conference' where they were discussing the contents of an Egyptian mummy's stomach.
Hen
is a beautiful word. I had been called many affectionate names by clients before, such as
Lotte-pige
&
drømmerkvinde
&
tuttenutte,
but
hen
awoke something new in me & unidentifiable, a nameless feeling that was neither longing nor solace nor pleasure nor lust nor
hope nor joy, but more a mixture of all, mingled with something that one perhaps might call comfort or contentment, & the
word kept ringing in my head like a soft & lovely bell: hen, hen, hen.

And when he returned home with Josie I had fabricated a meal for all of us, & it did not taste too inferior at all, despite
my lack of skills, & that night after we had rolled around together on the bed & had much fun, we slept locked in one another's
arms, & in the morning he turned to me drowsily & said, ‘Lottie, what would you say if – I told you I love you?'

At these words I snapped awake, instantly in a state of extreme anxiety, for this was not in the scheme of things at all!
I grabbed the bedclothes & covered my body, all at once shy as a virgin.

‘What?'

‘What would you say if ‘

‘I say no! You can't!'

But he was smiling.

‘I can and I will, because you're the most lovable Croatian-Dane I've ever met. A wee bit eccentric maybe, but it suits you.
And what you lack in basic knowledge – because my theory is you are a woman who actually
does
come from Venus – you make up for in basic sexiness. Plus you have the most gorgeous breasts I've ever set eyes on, and I've
seen a few in my time.'

Upon which he reached for me and gave me a long kiss.

‘But you can't love me!' I cried, tearing myself away with some reluctance, for his kisses were like honey. ‘And I can't fall
in love with you!'

He smiled & shook his head in amusement. ‘But you already have, hen.'

‘Not true!'

‘Why else do you reach for me in your sleep and say
Fergus,
in that funny accent of yours? We're made for each other. Why fight it?'

‘Because it is not part of the plan!'

‘What plan?'

‘My plan!'

‘Oh, my wee Venutian has a plan! That's news to me!'

‘Yes! I have a plan.'

‘Well,' he said, pulling me down to the bed. ‘If this plan of yours doesn't involve me and Josie, and making lots of babies, you'd better change it'