Justine by Kerri A.; Iben; Pierce Mondrup Page B

and frolicked about, barking. Back on land Balle got the camera equipment in place, and I climbed up to the highest rock and surveyed the landscape. A hefty sea dog yelped, rolled over to one side, and fell asleep again. Anders stood behind the camera’s eye and yelled that I should play a hunter on the way home with my catch.
    Ahh. I turned my weather-beaten face to the sun. It had been a bountiful day. In a pool surrounded by ice, the water still seethed with animals. On the ice, a bearded seal flock lay gliding along in the afternoon sun. Time to set for home before it got too dark and cold. The dogs jumped for glee at the sight of the catch and pulled impatiently at the sled’s traces, they knew they would get a share of the spoils, but they had to wait until they’d delivered it safely home. I tied the three seals securely to the sled. In the distance a snowstorm was brewing. Time to be off.
    â€œThat was a good catch we made there,” Balle said on the way home in the car. “It’ll make for a good photo series. How will you show them?”
    â€œI can provide for an entire settlement if it comes to it. There aren’t many women who could catch three seals in one afternoon.”
    â€œNah, you’re a cool artist.”
    â€œI’m hungry.”
    â€œI damn well bet you are.”

Six
    B o chews in his sleep. He’s back from a concert in Femøren. He bashed his forehead on the closed door. He collapsed onto the mattress. He was very drunk and very silly, he laughed and laughed and got stomach cramps and gasped: Oh, oh, make me stop, and then he laughed himself to sleep.
    That gold, taut stomach. The skin glitters beneath the pubic hair in a soft band up to the navel up to his chest. The slack body, the hard body, it rises, it sinks, the nipples float, come to rest beside his chest. Flesh. The carotid’s nervous pulse, thud, thud, thud.
    I’m Inngili. I can perch atop him and ride. In my hands he’s an animal I’m bringing down. I’ll ride him like he’s never been ridden, until he spurts, until he dies. I unzip his pants. There’s softness in the warmth between the hairs. I ride him with my hand. I transform him to a fountain that shoots high into the air.
    Oh yes. Rock that cunt, driver, bundle me tight, wolf.

N ow it’s morning. He scratches himself. Gives me a lewd look.
    â€œKeep your pants on,” I say. “Nothing happened.”
    Yelp.
    He groans, scratches himself a hundred places at once. Then he steps out and whistles while he washes.
    Aren’t you sticking around, man? Else, I’ll have to work.
    I don’t say it too loud. He doesn’t hear anything and leaves. I stick around.

T here’s a floating fuzz. It hovers, ascends, and moves straight to the right, ten centimeters, I think, maybe twelve, and then it hovers again. All of it. No matter how I approach things, it’s the wrong way. I blow the fuzz that takes a decent flight of more than a meter, and then I need to drink more. Thinking makes me so thirsty. I think so much I’ve perpetually got to pee. Yet again. Every time I sit a moment and am about to have an idea, that’s it . . . off to pee.
    I find my telephone in my bag and call Marianne Fillerup at the National Gallery.
    â€œKeep your pants on,” Inngili says in an authoritative voice, putting a lot of space between her words. The works are safe. They’re currently up in my friend’s attic. Fortunately. Marianne Fillerup groans.
    I hate the telephone, that shitty apparatus, and switch it off before I end up dialing someone else. I need to pee.

A ne sits on a bench in Enghave Park. She was pushing the baby in the stroller, but every time she’d let go, he’d wake up. She didn’t get to do her shopping. Now she’s tired of walking and parks the stroller in the shade where she can keep an eye on it. Soon he’ll wake up, but that’s