Salinger's Letters (12 page)

‘You want me to explain to you why Puk always ends up getting beaten up by her lovers? Based on the Salinger Syndrome?'

‘Well, I'm a neurologist. I could explain the world by means of neurology, couldn't I?'

Michael gave a knowing smile. He was a scientist and was fully aware this didn't require a great deal of effort on my part. I had it all wrapped and ready on a shelf in the lab. All I had to do was reach up to the top shelf and take it down. To be sure it was not a full-blown theory on Puk and physical violence, but it was a contribution to a theory.

The Salinger Syndrome model can be applied to anyone. All human beings constantly receive impressions from the outside world. How do they react? How do they process the impressions they receive? What signals do they transmit to the outside world in turn? Such signals are crucial in determining other people's reactions to the individual. People need to transmit certain signals in order to receive what every human being longs for: kindness, attention and love.

How does Puk Bonnesen go about getting what she needs from the surrounding world? What she wants is kindness, attention and love and what she gets is a face beaten to a pulp.

What does Salinger Syndrome theory have to say about that?

I knew the secret of Puk's talent, as a writer and as an organizer. Her receiving/transmitting mechanisms worked perfectly. She was able to receive and process external information to an extraordinary degree. Her information filter was in perfect working order. Anything that could be used was neatly catalogued and set aside for further use. All superfluous information was immediately bounced back into space. She was in no danger of being weighed down by useless knowledge. No one can use her as a dustbin for all the problems they want to get rid of. I've never met anyone so many people want to confide in. She's considered extraordinarily gifted. Countless times I've heard people say, ‘And then I told Puk . . .' They think what they say remains within Puk, that she thinks about it, that it makes an impression on her, but I know what really happens. Puk examines what she hears for its nutritional value, its utility value. If she can't find any she gets rid of it as soon as possible before it becomes a dead weight. Other people are weighed down by information rotting inside them. Not Puk.

Puk's receptors are always up and running and she has no trouble transmitting, back to her surroundings, out of herself. Just like everyone else, she transmits a signal that will get her what she needs: friendship, attention and love.

What's special about Puk, from the perspective of the Salinger Syndrome, is her balance. All the individual components that make up the Salinger Syndrome are in perfect balance. All the information she's gathered and catalogued is transformed into outgoing energy. She uses the information to do people favours, to combine people, bring them together in combinations they would never have imagined on their own. It's Puk's way of showing kindness, of being attentive. Everyone who's on Puk's receiving end is happy, and is doubly friendly in return.

Michael was demonstratively quiet, staring at me fixedly. I knew what I had just said about Puk wouldn't satisfy him. If there was any way for me to sneak out of the hospital ward without saying another word it would be a relief, as he knew. I felt such strong affection for Puk lying in bed beside us and moving uneasily in her sleep that I couldn't make myself go on.

Michael took pity on me. ‘Ok, is this what you're saying? That the Salinger Syndrome is brilliant when you apply it to your work? But the same system applied to your husband and children is a disaster?'

‘Yes,' I whispered.

‘When Andy Warhol wishes he were a machine he's talking about art, right? When you're in love with a machine it arouses emotions in people that drive them to violence in desperation.'

‘Yes, that's pretty much it. If I wasn't ashamed of thinking such things about my good friend Puk.'

Michael raised his voiced. ‘She's not your friend. Puk has no friends, just a large number of acquaintances. All her acquaintances know they're only acquaintances. But we, her family, we're desperate and unhappy because we're only pawns in Puk's great life work. And her life's work may end up getting her killed some day.'

‘We all use each other, don't we?' I muttered.

‘Spare me your psycho-babble!' Michael exploded. ‘I need to know the truth if I'm to keep Puk from ending up dead some day.'

‘Look, Michael. The Salinger Syndrome isn't the truth. It's my own hypothetical explanation of a narrowly defined type of depression. Puk isn't even depressed. It's just a theory and it may not apply to Puk at all. I could be wrong, although I don't think I am.'

Michael asked: ‘Are you in love with Puk?'

That was easy. ‘My feelings for her are very strong and clear. I admire her, I'm in love with her, and I love her. I am simply physically attached to her. Almost dependent on her.'

‘Thank you, Dan, I needed to know that.'

‘I needed to say it, too.'

 

 

A portrait of Boris is a portrait of success. Boris Schauman is far and away the most successful author in Denmark. No one can touch him when it comes to media coverage, rave reviews, literary prizes, early membership of the Danish Academy, etc.

The author he's most often compared to is Ernest Hemingway. Boris had an aunt who was a friend of Karen Blixen, or Isaac Dinesen, as she called herself. As a child Boris frequently met Karen Blixen at the home of a clergyman in Helsingborg, a cousin of Bror Blixen, Karen Blixen's husband. Boris read and admired Hemingway. Karen Blixen had met Hemingway many times when she was living in Africa. She told Boris tales of Hemingway, as she put it. Hemingway did his best to come across as a Real Man, the embodiment of masculinity. When Blixen was in the presence of Hemingway she always pictured him in a dress. Everything Hemingway wrote had to do with being strong, brave, invulnerable. Beneath the façade he was an anxious woman who drank too much to dull his sensitivity. At the end he suffered from paranoia and depression. He was treated with electric shock therapy and committed suicide by blowing his brains out.

Wide-eyed, Boris sat in the rectory listening to Karen Blixen's stories about Hemingway.

He later found out that everything she had told him was true; it was no African fairy tale, as she might have said.

Boris can write in any genre and has. Is he best as a poet, a novelist or a dramatist? It's a moot question. However, there is universal agreement that he's the darling of the gods and has been since his literary debut at the age of 21. The gods gave him talent, looks, charm, good health, an even disposition. Physically he's built the way a romantic poet should be, tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick head of hair that he used to wear down to his shoulders when he was young. He was in the front ranks during the student uprising of 1968 and subsequently. He became a symbol of his generation. Compared to him poets who till then were said to represent the
Zeitgeist
suddenly became obsolete. To make sure no one was in any doubt he always wore floral trousers. He knew he too would become obsolete one day and looked forward to it. ‘When I meet my successor I'll kill him.'

When the media wanted a statement from the world of Danish letters they would often turn to Boris. He could always be counted on to express an opinion that would create a stir.

When Boris walks down the street all heads turn in his direction. He's always friendly and affable so it can take a long time to reach the end of the street. People stand in line to greet him. They can't wait to comment on something he said or wrote. Some want his autograph or to have their picture taken with him. He's that rare phenomenon, the literary superstar. This he enjoys to the full.

Puk was right when she decided that the four of us at the Factory should keep our personal contact outside the office to an absolute minimum. Boris is successful and success breeds envy. Boris' personal friends pay a price. For some it's a small price to pay, but not for others. Being friends with Boris is like being a member of a clan or a clique. You're in danger of ceasing to be an autonomous individual; you're merely a friend of the famous writer.

Boris did all he could to defuse the situation. He was not arbitrary, he was not self-absorbed. Nevertheless he was the flame that attracts moths and moths get burnt.

This posed no threat to the rest of us. We were careful never to be seen with Boris outside the office. We never went out for a coffee or to a restaurant with him, we never attended the same social events. When we met we always greeted each other pleasantly but slightly formally.

Puk had got it right. Our joint collaboration had to last a lifetime. Envy is a lurking pitfall. If any of us were envious of Boris' success it had to be kept under strict control. The same rule applied if one of us was struggling with a problem the others could help with. No psychological ambulance service. No confidences. If we occasionally succumbed to the temptation to ask, ‘How are you?' the answer was invariably, ‘Oh, just great. Thanks.'

That was why it took me so long to find out what was underway in the spring of 1981.

It began when a number of my fellow writers started lining up for an appointment with me in the Botanical Gardens. The first was Dan Turell. We were the same age and had met here and there. We had our first name in common. He was the real Dan. When people heard I was a writer and my name was Dan, they always said, ‘Oh, like Dan Turell.' The real Dan was a highly sensitive, shy man. He had resolved not to be anonymous; he was going to be a famous poet. So he decked himself out in a wide-brimmed hat, brightly coloured clothes and nail polish. When he walked down the street people noticed him. It didn't change the fact that he was an excellent poet and it didn't make him any less shy. I myself have never been in the least shy. What did Dan Turell want to talk to me about? We strolled around the Botanical Gardens for three quarters of an hour. He smoked 7 cigarettes and I never found out what he wanted.

The same thing happened a few days later. Another colleague of the same age, Hans Jorgen Nielsen, wanted an appointment in the Botanical Gardens. We had met many times before. I was a great admirer of his. I didn't tell him though. Like Dan Turell he was very shy. He was wearing a beautiful red jacket. We spoke a bit nervously about sports, pop music, haiku poetry and the Gastronomic Academy of which he was a member.

I never found out what he wanted either.

The third time was when Ebbe Klovedal Reich called to make an appointment in the Botanical Gardens. Another shy colleague hiding beneath a colourful façade. Another stroll in the garden, the conversation flitting between politics, architecture and mutual friends.

Not until we turned a corner and ran directly into Hans Jorgen Nielsen and Dan Turell did I realize anything was in the offing. I had no idea what direction it might take.

‘This is an ambush,' said Dan Turell making a revolver out of his right hand.

The three colleagues looked at each other. They had agreed that Nielsen was their spokesman.

They had come because of a mutual friend, Boris.

‘What about him?' I asked. ‘Did he send you?'

The three musketeers shook their heads. Boris didn't know they had come. I had to promise not to tell him.

I promised.

Then they told me. They were here at the request of a woman they were all very fond of, Majken Suenson, Boris' wife.

‘Why didn't she just call me herself?' I asked.

‘You're the one that knows Boris best,' said Ebbe Reich.

‘Me?'

Turell and Nielsen nodded. ‘That's what Majken says.'

‘So? What's up? Are they getting divorced?'

‘No, worse than that,' said Dan Turell.

Then they took turns telling me what it was about. Majken had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She would tell Boris herself, of course, but there was something else she also had to tell him. While Boris had had a large number of mistresses over the years he could always count on Majken being at home. She was his anchor, his safe haven, mother of their three children. Boris loved Majken, no one was ever in any doubt of that. Now three of the husbands of Boris' many women had taken an initiative. They wanted Boris to know that for all those years his wife, Majken, had had what they called a ‘friend.' Boris had to be told that his wife had cancer and he also needed to hear that his wife had had a secret lover for all those years.

‘How do I come into the picture?' I said. Even though I knew perfectly well how I came into the picture.

The picture was that Majken wanted to protect Boris. So she asked her good friends Turell, Nielsen and Reich for help.

I had stopped smoking many years before. The three colleagues were chain-smokers. They offered me a fag and we stood there on the path in the Botanical Gardens, puffing away.

My three fellow authors all talk very fast and I myself speed up in many situations. We were all talking at once, but we could hear what the others were saying.

We were sorry Majken was ill, but the idea of Boris and his loving wife, who even now wanted to protect the poet genius, made our collective blood boil.

To reveal what my colleagues said would be a breach of privacy as well as professional confidentiality. I can, however, relate what I said myself:

‘You devious sons of bitches! In a few minutes you'll just walk out of the Botanical Gardens with a clear conscience. You've dumped the whole thing in my lap. You really are a bunch of assholes! I feel like shit!'

They completely agreed. They smiled, embraced me and hurried out of the Gardens.

Majken was right. I was the right man for the job. Majken is a realistic woman. She has a shop where she sells imported kitchen equipment with her sister and cousin. Being the wife of a lionised author is not easy. Being the wife of a man who's always falling in love with other women doesn't make it any easier. What Majken knew or didn't know, or chose not to know, is something nobody knows, at least I don't. The only reason I regret not being a personal friend of Boris is that I never see Majken.

Majken had now sent me a message through complicated channels. She knew of course I wouldn't refuse. For one thing, as she well knew, I was such a big fan of Nielsen, Turell and Reich that I would pay good money just to be in their presence. Any one of them could persuade me to do anything. And all three of them! I didn't stand a chance!

I am a fairly cold person, at best my character is temperate. The situation did not cause me any great agitation or leave me in any doubt. I knew immediately what I had to do.

Many depressed people keep depression at bay by confronting the realities of a situation head on.

I returned to the Factory and did something I'd never done before. I knocked on the door to Boris' office and went in. He was bent over his desk, his back to me.

‘We need to talk,' I said.

He turned around. I could tell he knew I didn't bring good news.

I told him then what I had come to tell him, what our three fellow authors had told me.

He looked at me and blinked. He kept looking at me and blinking.

Then he got up and put on his coat which was hanging on a hook on the wall. Before he left he waved the index finger of his right hand at me a couple of times in parting. We know each other so well he didn't have to tell me what he was thinking.

For the next three weeks Boris and I met every evening in the neighborhood where Frederiksborgvej intersects Rentemestervej, in the northwest section of Copenhagen.

Boris and Majken had lived in a commune there during their first years together. We wandered the streets and always ended our session by having coffee in a café.

When people know each other as well as Boris and I do the most important thing is not what's said but what's not said. He knows what I think and I know what he thinks. We skipped the preliminaries and went straight for the jugular, the solution.

He said what he always says when he has a problem: ‘What does Amanda think?'

I knew what Amanda thought but, considering the state Boris was in, I had to discuss the whole thing with her thoroughly before presenting it.

Boris did the hard work himself. He knew what I would refuse to listen to: I didn't want to hear the story of his life. I didn't want to hear one word about the turmoil raging inside him. I didn't want to hear how ridiculous he felt, like a spoiled child, a pompous writing fool. I offered him not one drop of understanding, empathy or forgiveness. I was my usual dry, unpleasant self, myself in fact.

He didn't write a word during that time. He also became sexually impotent.

I refused to listen to that too. There were only two things I wanted to hear: What did he think of Amanda's theories? How was he going to apply my theories on the Salinger Syndrome?

Both Amanda and Salinger caused him pain, I could see. He suffered and I let him suffer. Especially because Amanda and Salinger said pretty much the same thing.

They both raised the subject of Boris's genitals, his cock and balls. Boris has written so much about his genitals that they're a recurring element in the Danish Teachers Association's notes to Boris' work. Boris writes about sex. Sex is the source of his creative energy. One of his early mistresses called his genitals Fido and the Twins. Several times in the 1970s Boris appeared in films produced by his friends. Nude scenes were fine with him. That way everyone could admire Fido and the Twins, Laurel and Hardy.

Boris could only write when he was in love, sexually involved in his newest conquest. Everyone knew that.

Now Fido and the Twins had taken a hit. There was no need to bring Puk and Nora into it. They were red-blooded, red-stocking feminists. We knew what they thought. They were fond of Boris, but when it came to sexual politics they thought he was a jerk.

Amanda and the Salinger Syndrome had to find a way forward and out, instead of downwards into the hell of self-contempt towards which he was heading at high speed.

Amanda said Boris should unscrew Fido, put him in the freezer and wait for better times.

This was unmitigated cruelty, I felt.

Amanda pointed out that Boris used sex as a drug and should go cold turkey immediately.

But what if that meant Boris never wrote another word?

Amanda said: ‘Does he have to spread his seed over the whole town for his name to go down in literary history?'

Boris didn't answer.

Amanda continued: ‘He who has sex with a thousand women has sex with no one.'

Boris mumbled something Amanda didn't hear.

Boris did most of the thinking himself, Amanda restricted herself to raking him over the coals.

I brought up the only subject that really interests me, the Salinger Syndrome. Boris could see it coming. We both knew that was why we were spending hour after hour together around Rentemestervej.