Salinger's Letters (11 page)

It was childish, it was embarrassing; it was his problem in a nutshell. Even well educated adults went slightly berserk when they were in the presence of Leif Panduro.

Everything in the Botanical Gardens was surrounded by a special glow as we wandered around in silence reading the plant labels. I had Panduro's full attention because he was waiting for my answer. I gave myself plenty of time. He knew as well as I did I had no idea how to help him.

He said, ‘Rumour has it that you're the only Danish writer that likes bad reviews. Is that true, Dan?'

‘Yes, that's true.'

‘Want to know how I feel about reviews? My wife reads them aloud to me. She reads them at night when we're in bed. When we've drawn the curtains and it's dark outside. She reads them aloud and makes comments. ‘Is that really what they say about Panduro?' she says.'

‘You've never read a review yourself?'

‘Never! I'm much too self-centred!'

‘You only get good reviews.'

‘Yes, except for the ones that mention my antiquated view on women.'

‘What does Esther say about that?'

‘Esther? You know Esther?'

‘Leif, LEIF LOVES ESTHER is written in capital letters on all the buses. Everybody knows your wife's name. Esther is as well known as a soccer player or a rock star.'

He stood stock still on the path and took hold of both my hands. ‘Esther, for Chrissake! Esther has the answer to my problems! Esther! Why didn't I think of that before?'

Leif Panduro always looked worried in photos and in person. Now I saw him really smile for the first time. So that's what he looked like when he was happy. ‘The solution was right under my nose the whole time. Esther tried to explain it to me but, idiot that I am, I didn't understand. Leif, that's me! Panduro is that writer fellow, the guy with the outdated view on women. My own view on women, Leif's view on women, is called Esther. And there's nothing old-fashioned about it! And if there is, Esther will take care of it herself.'

‘What should I do about Puk?' I inquired.

‘Give her a kiss for me. Puk Bonnesen, I'm not scared of you anymore. Watch out, Puk! Go tell your own stories, but be careful your view on men doesn't become outdated! When it does I'll come after you!'

 

 

The person at the Factory who had the most powerful antidepressant effect on me is Puk. Puk was the only one of us who wrote essays.

It was no secret that I was extremely self-absorbed, in fact I advocated it as a kind of self-defence against depression. My self-centredness was so enormous that I was convinced that most of Puk's essays were about me.

On the surface they appeared to be cultural criticism, but I saw myself lurking beneath the surface. When she wrote about the modern, narcissistic personality I felt I was the target. Narcissism to her was tantamount to the erection of a false self, capable of dealing with kaleidoscopic modern life.

When she wrote about stupidity as a defence against chaos she used examples from my life.

To Puk boredom was a layer of grease, a shock absorber, that many people needed between themselves and the threatening real world. She always wrote about me, I thought.

It was always a comfort to meet people who felt the same way I did; they were sure she was writing about them. The reviewers usually claimed Puk was describing a generation.

People are always on their guard around Puk. Even Amanda, my depression, keeps a wary eye on her. Amanda is always on her best behaviour in Puk's presence and maintains a low profile.

What is it about Puk that's so intimidating? She's always perfectly civil, and it would never occur to her to scream or shout or use foul language.

Nobody ever comes right out and says they're afraid of Puk. How can you be afraid of a small, polite woman with large round eyes and a quiet voice?

Without Puk I would probably be dead today. I would have committed suicide. That statement is much too melodramatic for Puk's taste, but it's the truth.

Puk organizes. Puk arranges. Puk brings people together. Puk solves problems. Puk knows all the right people. People become the right people because they know Puk. She does it so easily and elegantly that it looks as though she's doing it for fun. She probably is, too.

Puk doesn't mind having fun, but it's not at the top of her wish list. Number one on her list is the desire to understand. She wants to understand everything.

Puk writes her novels and essays as though it was child's play. Every time she publishes a book there's a photo of her on the front page of
Politiken
. She was the youngest member to be elected to the Danish Academy.

I meet people everywhere who ask me what the
real
Puk Bonnesen is like. The answer is that she is precisely the person she seems to be. She has a good head, a sharp tongue and she's always courteous and friendly.

Puk gets an idea and before long she's carried it out. In my case she had the idea that it would be interesting to learn everything about my depression, about Amanda. She's never told me why and I've never asked. It makes my blood run cold to think that just one thought, one idea in the mind of a woman I didn't know, changed the course of my life. It's frightening and soothing at the same time. Or secure, as Puk would put it. Secure is her favourite word.

Puk created the Factory, our collaborative venture. She also decreed that we, the four proprietors, should never be friends in private. Friendships come to an end; the Factory must never end. Our mutual relationship had to last for the duration of our lives. When Puk speaks we don't just nod mechanically; we nod because we usually agree with her.

I can only guess what Puk thinks of me. What I think of her I keep to myself.

The reserve between us broke down one spring night thirteen years after we had founded the Factory. The living room phone in our apartment on Nansensgade rang and kept on ringing. I stumbled out of bed, half asleep, and answered it.

‘Hello?'

‘Dan?'

‘Yes, who's speaking?'

‘It's me,' whispered an almost inaudible voice.

‘Who's me?'

‘It's me. Can you come?'

I didn't recognize the voice. My immediate reaction was that it was a wrong number.

‘Dan? Dan?'

‘Yes, this is Dan.'

Then someone started crying on the other end.

‘Hello?' I said. ‘Who's calling? Are you sure you want to talk to Dan Moller?'

‘Yes,' came the whisper.

‘What do you want?'

‘Help.'

Suddenly I was wide awake and fully alert. ‘Puk?'

‘Yes.'

‘What happened?'

‘Can you help me?'

‘Of course I can help you.'

‘It's so awful.'

‘What's so awful?'

‘Dan, come and help me.'

‘Are you at home?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm on my way.'

It took me less than a half-hour to get by taxi to Frederiksberg Allé where she lives with her husband and two young daughters.

Her apartment is near Sankt Thomas Square.

I rang the bell downstairs and she buzzed me in.

There was blood all over her face. One of her eyes was swollen shut. She didn't say a word when I saw her. She knew I knew what had happened.

I wrapped her up in some clothes and carried her down to the street as though she was a rug.

We went back to Nansensgade by cab. Beate called Puk's brother Michael, whose practice is on Osterbrogade and lives close by. He came at once. He examined Puk. She had received multiple fist blows to the head. He advised her to go to the hospital. At 5 a.m. she was admitted to Rigshospitalet to be examined for a fractured skull.

Michael and I remained with her. Puk's children were at her husband's parents'.

Puk was heavily medicated and fell into a deep sleep.

Michael was the first to point out that he and I had been in a similar situation many years ago. It was long ago but we both remembered it clearly. It was when we had run into each other in the psychiatric ward at Rigshospitalet when we were both students living at Nordisk Kollegium on Strandboulevarden. I was a dental student back then and heavily medicated.

Groggy from the medication I had told him about my depression, how one night on an acid trip the depression had become a person, a woman, Amanda. That conversation completely changed the course of my life.

There are many encounters that do not take place by chance, but that meeting in the corridor of the psychiatric ward was as random as it gets. In spite of my drugged state I remembered every word we said. This was also because I later concluded that chance encounter was the turning point of my life.

Before we turned to the subject of Puk he wanted to hear how Amanda was doing. Amanda told Michael about the Salinger Syndrome. Michael was a neurologist. Depression is frequently considered a neurological disorder, an electrical-chemical signal imbalance of the neurones. He had no trouble understanding Amanda's account of the Salinger Syndrome: visual and auditory stimuli; difficulty processing all outside signals; imbalance of the how-to-please function. I didn't need the post office image to get Michael to understand.

Michael was now a physician-in-chief and I had become a writer. We had known each other a long time.

He wanted me to tell him the truth about Puk.

I snorted. ‘The truth? How should I know the truth?'

Michael said: ‘She's always kept a certain distance, you know that. Puk divides her world into compartments, separated by silent shutters. You know that.'

‘Yes, I do know that.'

‘Listen, Dan, it was no coincidence that you were the one she called.'

‘No,' I sighed deeply.

‘I know Puk would hate this, but I need to hear what you have to say, truth or not. She looks like someone almost killed her. A man she loves. Give it to me straight. Are you going to talk to me or not?'

‘Michael, considering the fact that you once more or less saved my life I'll try to help you out.'

‘Thanks, Dan, I would be very grateful.'

Before I told him anything I had to make a slightly embarrassing confession. It came as no surprise to Michael. ‘You understand, Michael, I have no special views on your sister that could be of any interest. Apart from generalities I'm completely empty. Amanda's the one who knows everything. She has ideas. She's saved up countless experiences we've had with Puk including our own reactions. She can rewind the film and blow up every single detail in our life with Puk. Amanda never forgets a thing.'

‘So you have to ask her?'

‘Exactly.'

‘Take your time. Both of you.'

‘Puk is the person who's helped me most in my work with the Salinger Syndrome.'

‘How so?'

‘Because her
modus operandi
is so unequivocal. She divides all external signals into two categories: ‘Useful' or ‘Not useful'.

‘Sounds like Puk,' muttered Michael. ‘She saves every piece of information that might be relevant and catalogues it. Later on when she needs it in that little mafia organisation she's got going, she can pick and choose.'

‘Exactly. She's the Marlon Brando of literature, the Vito Corleone of Danish letters.'

Michael nodded. ‘So far so good. But that was no rival Mafia boss that smashed her face in.'

‘No. She did it herself.'

‘You mean she did that to herself?'

‘No, not me. Amanda thinks so.'

‘Tell Amanda she has to talk to me loud and clear. The world is complicated enough already.'

Michael wants Amanda to tell him about Puk.

‘What can
I
tell you about Puk?' I asked. ‘You're her brother. You know her much better than I do.'

Michael nodded. ‘I know this is the third time she's been knocked around by a husband or a boyfriend. I just have no idea what goes on or how to keep it from happening again.'

‘Why don't you call Nora? She's a woman and she knows Puk far better than I do.'

‘Look, Dan. You and Amanda, you're the one Puk called.'

‘What about Boris? Boris has known Puk much longer than I have, too.'

‘That's it? You're telling me to call up all her friends, her admirers, the whole damn entourage? Puk and all the little Puks?'

‘Yes, that was precisely what I was about to suggest.'

‘Come on, Dan. It's up to you. You and Amanda.'

‘Stop trying to dump this in my lap.'

‘You and Amanda, buddy.'

There was no way out; Amanda and I had to pull ourselves together.

Puk was so well organised that she knew she'd need Amanda one day. Puk's talent was bringing people together and watching how they brought out the best in each other. This meant she needed to collect information and be willing to see things as they are. Amanda is more than competent at both these tasks.

Sitting with Puk's brother by her bedside at Rigshospitalet it was time to pay my debt.

All those years ago Puk had chosen Amanda and me. Puk had transformed my life; she may even have saved it.

A mafia boss had done me a favour. A debt was owed. The time had come to return that favour.

The favour consisted of doing what Puk did in her books. She deconstructed the world. She took the world apart, explained it and put all the parts together again. One of her most famous essays dealt with stupidity and boredom. Stupidity was not lack of intelligence. Boredom was the opposite of having fun. Stupidity and boredom were instruments people created as buffers between themselves and the world, a distance. She quoted Andy Warhol: ‘My greatest wish is to become a machine.'

Now I had to deconstruct Puk. Take her apart, study all the parts and then put them together again. Two or three hundred things I know about Puk Bonnesen.

To be eligible for the deconstruction process a fact had to be relevant to the current situation. The current situation was that she had been the victim of severe abuse. Blows to the head and body. Furthermore it was not the first time. The unpleasant truth was that virtually all of Puk's lasting love relationships terminated in violence. The best brain in Danish literature had had more concussions caused by violence than her friends and family could bear to think about.

Michael listened patiently to our ideas, Amanda's and mine. What we actually thought of Puk.

We recalled all the times people had asked us: ‘What's the
real
Puk Bonnesen like?'

The question was actually implied in the answer. There was no discrepancy between the Puk one met and the Puk behind the façade. There is no
real
Puk.

She's a successful author. She handles her talent and her career brilliantly. She's a master of organization and thinks it's fun to know everybody. She's the brain behind the Factory. As she says herself she has two children with four different husbands. She loves appearing on television on entertainment programs as well as cultural ones. She takes pleasure in being called the most powerful woman on the Danish intellectual scene. Her newspaper articles are studied thoroughly by everyone with power and influence. She's always obliging and friendly. She has friends everywhere. If she has any enemies they keep a low profile.

But now her brother and I were setting by her hospital bed as we had done several times before. The unofficial queen of the Danish intelligentsia had had her face bashed in.

Michael needed to know why. He had a hunch the only one who could provide an answer was Amanda, Amanda in collaboration with me.

Michael and I had played indoor soccer together for hours at Nordisk Kollegium. I knew how stubborn he was.

‘I think you owe me a better answer than that,' he said finally.

‘Why's that?'

‘If it wasn't for me you wouldn't have had the brilliant literary career you enjoy today.'

‘What kind of answer do you want?'

‘You know.'

‘No, honestly, I don't.'

‘Remember you told me about the enzyme? That you spend your whole life in a little room in a laboratory studying the Salinger Syndrome?'