Salinger's Letters (16 page)

When she finally found her tongue her response rang out over Rosenborg castle courtyard and the King's Gardens.

‘Hansen. It is my considered opinion that not only are you right, you are 100%, unconditionally right, to which fact I would gladly testify on a written document duly certified by a notary public, in duplicate should you so desire. Immediately!'

That was the end of that discussion and the beginning of Puk's and Hansen's friendship. On Hansen's next trip to New York to see Andy Warhol he took Puk along.

Puk told the rest of us at the Factory that she had been present when Warhol painted a portrait of Kierkegaard. Only two other people apart from Warhol himself had seen the painting: Hansen and Puk. Warhol had laid careful plans for what was to be done with his work and his other personal effects when he died. He had built a hundred large containers he called time capsules. On every container he had written a year. After his death, once a year, a time capsule was to be opened. The Kierkegaard container was to be opened on May 5
th
, 2013, the date of the two hundredth anniversary of Kierkegaard's birth.

The connection between the New York Factory and the Copenhagen Factory was so obvious that it came as no surprise to either Amanda or me to see Andy Warhol emerge from the crowd on Broome Street.

I had met Warhol once and shaken his hand. We had never exchanged more than a hello and goodbye. Just like everybody else at the Factory Warhol was much more interested in Amanda than in me. So he greeted Amanda first.

I was standing so close to them I heard every word they said.

‘Amanda, baby. So nice to see you,' said Warhol squeezing in among the photographers and journalists.

‘Hi, Andy. Thanks.'

‘Everything ok?'

‘Yes, I'm fine, Andy.'

‘That's wonderful, I'm so glad.'

‘So nice of you to come.'

‘Does he know?'

‘He doesn't know it's your plan.'

‘Will he do it?'

‘Sure he will.'

‘Have you told him about it?'

‘Only a little bit.'

‘You want me to tell him?'

‘Yes, Andy.'

‘OK, Amanda, I love you.'

‘I love you too, Andy.'

I was busy answering questions on the Salinger Syndrome when Andy elbowed his way over to me and breathed in my ear: ‘Pssst, Danny.'

‘Hi there, Andy.'

‘You understand what's happening here, don't you?'

‘I think so.'

‘You're in my world, Danny, in Andy Warhol's wonderful, magic world.'

‘Great.'

‘Danny, when I'm dead I'll be remembered for just one thing.'

‘I guess so.'

‘Tell me, Danny.'

‘No, I want to get it from you Andy. From the mouth of the sphinx.'

‘Ok. Here goes. This is Andy Warhol on Broome Street talking to Danny T. from Denmark. In the future everybody will be famous for 15 minutes. Danny's fifteen minutes started a couple of minutes ago.'

‘So these are my fifteen minutes of fame? I'm famous now?'

‘You got it, baby.'

‘Thank you, Andy.'

‘Enjoy, Danny.'

Everyone around us was asking the same question. Did I have a cure for depression? How could they get an appointment? How much did I charge for a TV interview? How could they reach me?

Andy Warhol ushered us into the back seat of his car. Before he got in himself, he turned around and proclaimed to the journalists at large: ‘This is a work of art. The whole word is a work of art. In future everyone will be happy.'

Amanda was squeezed between Warhol and me in the back seat and the limousine began to crawl through the crowd. Everyone was calling to us outside the window. It was always the same story. Either they were suffering from depression themselves, or they knew someone who was. How and when could they get more information?

Andy Warhol said, ‘I've arranged a little trip for you. A trip that takes 11 minutes and has four stops. I've got four depressed colleagues who've begged me to let them meet you both.' The car drove into Chinatown and stopped in front of a dilapidated building.

Warhol pointed to the third floor.

‘My fortune teller lives up there. I've used him for years. He's never wrong. His specialty is depressed artists. He was the one who advised me to become a machine. He says I'll be dead within the year.'

Andy held me by one hand and Amanda by the other. ‘This is Andy Warhol, and this is the first stop on the journey. When I die, make sure I don't sizzle away for years in Purgatory like a barbecued hotdog on a flame, but let me go straight to the land of the dead.'

‘How?' I asked.

‘Use the syndrome and the cure,' was his reply.

I did as Warhol asked. It wasn't hard. I had spent my whole life studying it. What was Andy's post office like?

I told him: ‘You have millions of admirers, Andy. They'll hold you over the fire forever, they'll never let you go. Your greatest admirer lives in Copenhagen, Puk Bonnesen. When you die I promise Puk will let you go. She'll allow you to disappear and pass over into the land of the dead.'

Amanda asked: ‘How do you die, Andy? Does another admirer of yours stab you with a knife or shoot you because you have too much power over her?'

‘No, this time I die of kidney failure. My kidneys cease functioning because of all the drugs I've been taking for years.'

Warhol instructed his chauffeur to drive on. We drove north to 85
th
Street. A small figure was standing on the sidewalk in front of a white brick apartment building waiting for us. He was wearing dark glasses and a soft grey hat. It was Woody Allen, the movie director, comedian, actor, author, the world's most famous professional depressive neurotic. Woody got into the front seat and turned to face us.

Amanda glanced at Andy and Woody in turn, and asked: ‘Same story? Woody doesn't want to burn in Purgatory either?'

Woody piped, ‘No, no, I'm just a garden variety depressive with great connections. Salinger and my friend Andy here got me an in with you guys. I suffer from anhedonia, I'm incapable of enjoyment. I'm the greatest admirer of Soren Kierkegaard in town, so can his cure help me?'

Amanda and I whispered to each other in Danish. What was Woody's post office like? How did he get attention, friendship, love?

Amanda and I agreed on what to advise Woody: ‘First, we'll put you on a diet. Only a small number of jokes, gags and punchlines a day. You've got to bring down your poodle-begging-for-attention levels to moderate, no more than once or twice a day maximum. Come back in a month and let's see how your post office is doing then.'

Woody Allen didn't look too happy. He got out of the car and we drove on. As we approached Central Park it suddenly went from being virtually empty to overflowing with people. What appeared to be at least a million people were pursuing one lone figure running as fast as he could.

Andy Warhol got out of the car and held the door open for Elvis Presley who jumped into the back seat and sat on Amanda's lap. Andy Warhol sat on the front seat next to the driver, and told him to drive faster before we were swallowed up by the sea of people.

Elvis looked at me . ‘Hi Dan.'

‘Hi Elvis.'

‘Do you know why I'm here?'

‘You died, what is it, 12 years ago? 11? 10? Yes, 10. Now you're stuck in Purgatory and can't get out, is that it?'

‘Yup.'

‘Elvis, do you know how to pass over into the land of the dead.?' ‘Yup, sure do, and so do you, Dan.'

Elvis knew Amanda. Elvis had suffered from depression for many years when he died of a heart attack in his home Graceland, in Memphis in 1977. The cause of death was too many pills. He was overweight, depressed, and was on all kinds of medication.

Elvis asked. ‘Should we do it, Dan?'

I nodded. Elvis had been with me since 1956. I had been rowing in Hellerup Harbor when Buster Bach, the coxswain, started bawling out
Tutti Frutti
.

‘What's that?' I'd asked.

‘Oh, this singer that was always on the radio when I was in America.'

‘What's his name?'

‘Elvis Presley.'

‘Is he black?'

‘No, but he sings like he was.'

‘Do you have any of his records?'

‘Seven.'

‘Can I borrow them?'

‘Only if you promise to give up rowing.'

‘Why?'

‘You're always out of sync. I‘m sorry to tell you this, but everybody hates being in your boat.'

I borrowed seven Elvis Presley 45 rpm records in return for promising to give up rowing. Elvis entered my life and stayed there. He sang to me directly from Memphis, Tennessee. One evening when I was lying in bed with Beate in the commune in Studiestræde there was a knock on the door. Two of the others, Torben and Pia, wanted to make a date for the next day. Just before they left, Pia said, ‘Oh, by the way, have you heard the news? Elvis Presley is dead.'

I burst into tears. In terms of music I've been crying ever since. That's what Elvis pointed out to me in the car driving through Central Park. Ten years later he was dead.

‘Dan, you're keeping me a prisoner in Purgatory as long as you cry. Of all my millions of fans you're the one that makes the difference. Dry your tears and set me free so I can pass over into the land of the dead.'

I dried my musical tears. He was dead but I still had his music, I consoled myself. No more childish dreams; the King would not return.

Amanda opened her window and Elvis floated out. He beamed down at us on his way up. He was becoming fainter. Before he was gone completely he called down to us, ‘So long, my friends. We'll meet again in the land of the dead.'

The car drove out of Central Park at a rapid clip. Everywhere there were Elvis fans looking up into the sky where he had disappeared.

A voice boomed out: ‘Elvis has departed this earth. God save Elvis. There is no cause for alarm. Elvis has finally arrived where he wishes to be. Elvis has departed this earth.'

The car turned south again and stopped in front of the Empire State Building. Long lines of people were waiting at the entrance to tell me about their depression, their own depression or their friends' or families'. Guards were called to protect Amanda, Warhol and me. We were taken by elevator to the observation deck from where we could survey all of New York.

We circled the viewing area until we reached what we had come to see. Far above us there was a figure suspended in the air. Squinting, we strained to see who it was. It was Ernest Hemingway, author, Nobel Prize winner, deceased 26 years ago.

He called down to us. ‘Help me. I've been stuck in Purgatory for an eternity. Help me cross over into the land of the dead.'

Hemingway had committed suicide in 1961. He had shot himself in the head with a shotgun. His father had committed suicide the same way. After his father had shot himself Hemingway's mother had sent him the weapon his father had used to kill himself.

I called up to Hemingway: ‘What can I do to get you out?'

He called back: ‘Make that guy who has me by the balls let go of me. So long as he's hanging onto them I can't move on.'

‘Who is it?'

‘Your pal, Boris Schauman.'

Andy Warhol handed me a pair of binoculars so I could make out what was going on up there.

Underneath Hemingway, half hidden by a cloud, hung Boris. He was trying to use Hemingway's balls as a lever.

‘Boris!' I called to him. ‘It's me, Dan. Let the man go for God's sake so he can get out of Purgatory.'

Boris didn't answer; he was too busy hanging on.

Hemingway shouted: ‘Dan, do something. Call off your friend. I've been waiting for you for so many years.'

Hemingway was right, of course. I was the only one who knew how to make Boris loosen his grip.

I summoned all the members of the Danish Academy to New York from Rungstedlund. Forming a squadron they took off from the top of the Empire State Building in two ranks, women in one rank, men in the other, aiming straight at their respective targets. The female members of the academy grabbed hold of one of Boris' testicles, the men the other. The weight of the entire Danish Academy was so overwhelming that Boris was forced to loosen his grip on Hemingway's balls. As the Danes drifted off over the Hudson, Hemingway floated upwards and disappeared. He nodded, smiled and disappeared into the land of the dead.

Andy Warhol checked his watch. ‘Three minutes to go before your fifteen minutes of fame are up, Dan. You have one last meeting.'

Darkness had fallen on New York. Below us the city lights were coming on.

Andy Warhol whispered: ‘Who's the most famous person in town?'

Somewhere up in the sky above us someone called to us. ‘Amanda? Dan? Can you hear me? Up here!'

We looked up. Hovering in the night sky above Manhattan was Marilyn Monroe. She was wearing a white dress. A breeze was tugging at the bottom of her dress, lifting it so you could see the edge of her panties.

She waved to us. ‘Amanda? Dan? Can you see me?'

‘Yes.'

‘Help me. Get me out of jail.'

‘What jail?' called Amanda.

Marilyn pointed to her dress that had now blown up even higher, exposing her rear end. ‘The jail of being a sex queen. I'm the biggest inflatable jerk-off doll in the world. More men jerk off on me than anyone else in the whole world. Dan, I beg you. I'm not just tits and ass. I've met your Karen Blixen. She knows I'm spirit and intellect too. Give me back my body. Release me!'

‘But how?' we called.

A faint whisper drifted up to us from all the houses and streets. A woman's voice was sighing, ‘Dan and Amanda, Amanda and Dan, help me, set me free.'

It was the voice of a million small faces down below. Faces on posters, on coffee mugs and T shirts, on can openers, jewelry, on any marketable commodity. It was the face of Marilyn Monroe who had committed suicide after a long depression in 1962. She killed herself by taking too many pills.