Three of Swords
The only romantic hero I have ever met is a brawling Dane named Kenneth. He lived in an apartment one floor below me, when I was young and studying to become a psychologist. He was the best friend I never had, a peculiarly noble soul with the kind of old fashioned ideas about loyalty and masculine pride you will almost exclusively find in the lower social classes of any society.
Being myself of middle class upbringing, bestowed with all the riches and privileges of a harmonious nuclear family and subsequently somewhat limited in my perspective and timid in the presence of rogues and outlaws, I was honored by the way he greeted me and introduced me to the harder elements in the area.
It all began with a rather innocent conversation on the staircase, beginning with an inquiry about marijuana since he had been unable to get hold of anything all day. Somehow we proceeded to discuss music, and he happened to be a big Led Zeppelin fan, and soon we were sitting in his apartment drinking canned beers he had bought cheaply in Germany, listening to The Immigrant Song and, after a couple of more tracks, watching the cult seventies classic Warriors on VHS.
In the following months we would spent time together several times a week, most often smoking a joint, drinking beer and eating pizza, as we watched cult classics like Deliverance and Midnight Express, as well as a number of martial arts movies, from Bruce Lee to Kurosawa’s Japanese samurai epics Yoyimbo and Seven Samurai. Kenneth also tried to get me to watch Cannibal Massacre with him, but I had to admit I did not have the stomach for all this gore.
Most importantly, Kenneth shared his connections to the people he knew who dealt marijuana, which was a guilty pleasure of mine as well as of many of my fellow students. My sudden ability to produce cheap grass of unarguable quality was an easy way for me to become popular in this group, so all of a sudden I saw my list of acquaintances grow at an exponential rate, all of which I owed to Kenneth.
I still recall the only time he took me to see Allan, a small time dealer who nonetheless bragged connections to Hells Angels, who in this country for long was the sole distributor of drugs, until immigrant gangs and Eastern European rivals moved in to challenge the position.
This, in itself, made Allan a notability in the apartment complex in the projects, where I was forced to live due to the limited means available to me during my school days. Other than this Allan had no assets calling for respect, so the respect I paid him was the kind you achieve by installing fear. I considered him a detestable creature: On his wall in the living room, which also served as the centre for distribution of drugs, he had the Battle Flag of the Confederate States of America and other paraphernalia meant to reinforce his image as a tough guy with unmistakably racist leanings.
When I entered the lion’s den they were partly watching, partly listening to Pink Floyd’s The Wall; the VHS was connected to the amplifier, so the soundtrack from the movie was heard from the tower speakers rather than the television. It is an interesting album, because it was an album owned and revered by both my fellow students at the university and by the local rednecks. In fact, no matter where in the world I went I always found people playing this all time classic, regardless of background and income level. On my first night in Delhi I had trouble sleeping, because someone was playing The Wall very loudly, and in Delhi in the summertime you do not want to close your window.
So, they were listening to Pink Floyd, completely disregarding the subtle meanings of the work. To what extent they ignored the intellectual content testified particularly one comment, a comment that will often ring in my ears and particularly rose to my attention in the years after the collapse of the unification of Germany:
“When they form patrols like this, I will be the first to sign up”, Allan said.
There is a track on the album and in the movie The Wall, where a gang of Nazi skinheads assault a biracial couple making out in a car, dragging the African man out of the car and beating him badly. It is filmed in a style resembling that of a documentary, and the director Alan Parker allegedly had trouble in the local community, where he shot the scenes, because he hired real skinheads for realism; they would terrorize and vandalize the neighborhood in return for his favor.
So, those were the aspirations of Allan, would spend a great deal of time speaking derisively of immigrants and on occasion also of women, a habit which was all the more inappropriate since he particularly delighted in this type of jive while his girlfriend was present; she was an assimilated Brit with a significant portion of gypsy running through her veins, or at least she liked to claim so.
The very first time I visited their apartment at the top of the staircase where I lived we were invited to sit with Allan, his girlfriend whose name was Sandra and a gigantic sidekick whose name I never learned, but I called him The Tower, an appropriate name for the silent henchman of a wannabe kingpin. Both Allan and The Tower sported black leather vests over their t-shirts, which was the preferred way of signaling gang affiliation.
On the glass table in front of us laid, aside from the blocks of hash and the remedies for smoking – pipes in various shapes and materials – a piece of cellophane paper with at least 50 grams of amphetamine, remote controls for the expensive television, video and hi-fi systems in the room, a handgun, a marine combat knife, two sets of darts for the dart plate in the opposite end of the living room and a considerable number of beer bottles, some empty and some still unopened.
I do not know what startled me the most, the hard drugs, the weapons or the hospitality of the host:
“You are always welcome”, he would say as he looked at me with the sparkling eyes and the stiff grin of a psychopath trying to come off affable.
I had the feeling his mood could change at any provocation, so I tried to limit my conversation to the essentials. I had come only to purchase a few grams of skunk marijuana, but his invitation had the ring of a command, and Kenneth seemed completely at ease.
“Throw the ganja over here. I will make the mix”, he said.
In Denmark it is customary to mix hash or even marijuana with tobacco, toasted to make the smoke more pleasant to the lungs, making the process of preparing the smoke a rather intricate affair and often an almost religious ritual. On occasion it will even spark contest or heated debate about the quality of the mix, just as arguing about the quality of the product or the proper way to smoke or other details is a favorite topic among ardent smokers.
“Don’t toast it all dry”, Allan said, as he grabbed the darts and began tossing them at the plate. He missed horribly, which caused giggles from his girlfriend.
“Shut the fuck up”, he said.
To my surprise she did. That was, apparently, the nature of their relationship. Even if she was a very attractive girl with slender limbs and very delicate joints, she seemed perfectly content to submit herself to the will of what can only be described as a slightly overweight, maladjusted brute with the manners of a wild boar.
Before getting admission into the apartment I had passed Allan a couple of times before and also noticed the traffic of hard boiled men and loud girls on the staircase, but I had always steered clear of his door and purchased my marijuana elsewhere, instinctively staying out of the way of him and his friends.
Until I got to know Kenneth we had hardly greeted each other; we belonged to very different worlds and recognized that fact by simply ignoring each other’s presence, as it is customary in urban environments.
Kenneth, however, formed a kind of bridge with his strange combination of unquestioned proletarian machismo and charmingly cavalier manners. He was a student of martial arts and as such considered indispensable in fights, but he was neither prone to bragging of his skills or particularly aggressive by nature.
He was a reader, a young man whose literary interests may be limited to old fashioned adventure novels from the sea, war stories and crime fiction, but nevertheless interested in expanding his horizon. On his book shelf I had seen both titles by Ernest Hemingway and Jack London, and he was an avid fan of Aubrey-Maturin series by Patrick O’Brien. Also, through this acquaintance I learned of the existence of an excellent author of short stories from the American Civil War, a contemporary and friend of Mark Twain named Ambrose Bierce.
Kenneth’s interest in the sea and the wilderness may have been rooted in the fact that his father, an incurable drunkard, had taken to the sea in his youth. I fancied the notion that Kenneth would, if circumstances had willed it, himself have been some kind of naval adventurer.
In fact, had Kenneth lived in another age, the golden age of the Norse civilization, he would likely have been a young Viking sailing the seven seas in search for new lands to colonize or villages to plunder.
He was tall and lean, naturally muscular and unusually handsome with clear blue eyes and blond hair, all features which would have undoubtedly been a valuable asset to him in clubs or at the golf court, but now appeared to be at best a misplaced favor from the gods.
I suspected that such looks were considered more of a handicap in his social circles, and derisive comments about it was likely the secret reason to his prowess in hand to hand combat, a skill he constantly worked to perfect.
When I visited him – he preferred to come and knock on my door, spend a little time there, ranging from a couple of minutes to half an hour, and the invite me down to his place – he would often wander restlessly about, gazing out of the window, lighting one cigarette after another and shadow box or perform other martial arts moves in the empty air.
Once he confessed to me that he was always hoping for something to happen, and by “something” he meant something violent, something that would require a man with his particular skills and fearless attitude.
A few days later the papers wrote about the second rape in the neighborhood in a week, and the papers wrote that the police suspected it was the same perpetrator. Kenneth responded by getting some guys together and cruise the area at night in their cars, around the time of the night, where the rapes had occurred. Nothing happened; they weren’t able to catch the guy in the act, but Kenneth swore to me he would have beat him to a pulp if they had, and he is one of the few guys I have met whom I would trust to carry out his word.
Neither of those characteristics, the natural alpha male characteristics and the martial arts training were wasted on Sandra, who was troubled to conceal the delight she took in his presence.
She too seemed like a girl who had once been destined for better, but by some sleight of hand by fate or inherent flaw in her character had settled for less than what would be acceptable to most intelligent beings.
Kenneth would not only monopolize the glass table, handling the lumps of hash and pipes as they were his own, but he would carelessly joke with Sandra and pay her quite a bit of attention, as if he was genuinely unaware of how it rubbed Allan the wrong way or simply did not care.
I wondered a great deal about this, first of all why Allan accepted it, and secondly if there was some sort of past history or emotional link between Kenneth and her.
I also always thought he would have been a much better choice for her, but then again people do not always choose what is best for them in this department; in fact many people, I have learned, seek partners below their expectations out of lack of self-esteem, feeling they do not deserve what makes them happy.
After we had smoked the mood shifted, and Kenneth suggested we change the music to something more upbeat. Alan turned off the television set and put on Judas Priest album British Steel, and the boys started headbanging to Breaking the Law:
“You don't know what it's like, you don't have a clue; if you did you'd find yourselves doing the same thing too. Breaking the law, breaking the law…”
Kenneth was in a boisterous mood and became very free with Sandra, grabbing her knee like he was teasing a little child, making her wiggle in the couch and giggle loudly, just before he passed her the pipe.
“Are you sure you want to smoke? I don’t know if I should let you. You’ll probably just spill it all.”
“Come on, it’s because you are tickling me”, she laughed.
“I am not tickling you”, Kenneth said and repeated his assault, squeezing her knee once more. She cowered behind her legs, waving both her feet and hands in front of her in a futile attempt at sending her assailant on the run.
Allan looked on with feigned disinterest, until he was about to burst with anger; finally he roared:
“Just pass on the damn pipe, will you.”
“Oh, relax”, Kenneth said. “You’ll get your turn”.
“It’s my hash”.
“I’ll pay for it, if you like”, Kenneth said and demonstratively reached into his pocket.
“Don’t be an ass.”
“No, seriously, if you want money…”
“I don’t want your money, just calm the fuck down”, Allan said and continued in a low voice: “I don’t want to have to smack you over the head.”
“Smack me over the head? What for…?”
“For acting like an idiot”, Allan said. “I don’t need to have a reason to kick your ass. It’s my home.”
“Somehow I don’t think that is how it would go down”, Kenneth said.
The CD-player was still spinning the same song, a couple of notches on the volume too loud for me, repeating the same beastly lines:
“Breaking the law, breaking the law. Breaking the law, breaking the law.”
Allan put his hand on the table, somewhere between the marine knife and the gun, and I could see The Tower tense up in his corner as well. If I had not regretted sitting down to get stoned with these people before, I did now; somehow I could not find occasion or courage to make my escape.
Finally Kenneth just shrugged and passed on the pipe as he was told, and both Allan and his big henchman seemed to be more at ease. Perhaps Allan was just irritated he had to wait for his turn to smoke, or at least the interruption of the smoking ritual was a convenient excuse for his outburst.
Nothing more happened that afternoon. The tensioned evaporated, as Kenneth changed his mode, but in doing so he also seemed to lose interest in the party. He emptied his beer rather quickly and proceeded to excuse himself. His departure automatically meant that I was leaving as well, as my welcome was infrangibly tied to whatever goodwill he had with Allan.
I was standing in the hallway eager to get back down to my own apartment with my small lump of grass, but had to wait for them to settle their differences, before we could leave.
“Why would you say you want to hit me over something this silly?” Kenneth said.
“I didn’t mean it like that”, Allan said. “You were just getting on my nerves.”
“Just don’t threaten me. I am sorry I pissed you off, I really am, but I was just fooling around.”
“I am just in a bad mood today. I don’t even know what it is. I am just in a bad mood. Sandra has been getting on my nerves as well. We have been arguing all day. Sometimes I just feel like hitting someone.”
“Just don’t hit me, man.”
Allan took a friendly swing at Kenneth, who took a step forward and pushed him slightly off balance. They tangled for a while and then let go of each other, giggling.
“I don’t give a shit about your karate”, Allan laughed. “I can still take you down.”
“I don’t think you can.”
“I had you right there. I could have punched your lights out.”
“If it was for real, it would go down so fast you wouldn’t even discover what happened”, Kenneth said.
“Yea right”, said Allan. “Get the fuck out of here.”
They shook hands and hugged. Things seemed to be all right between them again, even if Kenneth did seem to still harbor some resentment over the reprimand. I don’t think he liked the fact that I saw him submit. He was brooding as we went down the stairs to our respective apartments, and I could tell he was no longer in the mood for company.
At the time Kenneth must have been in his early twenties like me, but he was far more streetwise than I and in many ways more knowledgeable about life in general as well, which had to do with his working class upbringing. But there was also something innocent to his nature, which I suppose is an element to any person who enjoys flirting with danger and has no concept of backing out of a fight.
His only comment to me was:
“Phew, that was kind of crazy. I don’t know what came over him, but he can be like that sometimes. I thought he was going to shoot me right there. I mean, just put a bullet between my eyes.”
Like most men who are unfettered by danger and comfortable with violence, he did not seem to pause to think about what the cause of the conflict, but merely considered it one of those unfortunate things that may happen between guys. And even if he confessed to having feared for his life, he gave no thought to the fact that he had acted completely opposite to the instincts he confessed to, refusing to stand down as the conflict was escalating.
I don’t think he would have even understood it, if I had explained it to him, or at least he would have denied it. His flirtatious behavior was simply second nature to him, almost innocent like the behavior of a boy teasing his sister, and his masculine bravado was his primary mode, the state of mind he needed in order to feel good about himself.
The storm seemed to have blown over, but the little incident was the seed to a war. I visited the drug nest a couple of times since then, but was cautious to avoid getting in too deep, and I did not sit down to smoke with the guys again. One time Allan asked me if I wanted to buy a gun or some hand grenades, and another time he offered me a free sample of amphetamine, and in both cases I politely declined and left with my humble bundle of pot.
Then, less than two weeks after my first visit to the drug nest, I came home from town late one evening to find Kenneth sitting with Sandra at the bottom of the staircase, holding her in his arms from behind while she was sobbing loudly.
Her face was swollen and bloodied, and bruises showed on both her legs and her arms, and I figure the rest of her body was in a similar condition. Allan had beaten her up badly, kicked her out of their apartment wearing only a pair of shorts and a tank top, and left her to go drinking somewhere else.
Kenneth kept rocking her gently, holding her as if he was about to apply a chokehold, with one arm around her neck and a hand on her head, whispering:
“Hush, calm down now, calm down, baby. It’s all right. It’s all right.”
Even in her battered state, with one eye closed and blood streaming down her mouth from her nose, and her tank top soiled with splatters, I could not help but giving thought to how pretty she was, and what an enviable position Kenneth was in.
As I stood in front of them, still holding the door, Sandra began to wail, and within seconds the sound escaping her rose to a shriek consisting of both fury and agony.
She also began to kick and toss her body from side to side so wildly that Kenneth, for a moment, lost his grip. Without support she rolled forward like a rag doll bent on the middle, almost bouncing her head off the concrete floor, but Kenneth managed to grab her and pull her back.
Even if Sandra continued to struggle – sometimes madly and sometimes faintly as if she was using the last energy in her body – I was somewhat comforted that her injuries seemed to be limited and her trauma mainly psychological.
Otherwise, I concluded, she would not have been able to react so fiercely for pain.
Quietly I squatted down on the cold concrete floor in front of them, feeling an almost religious awe at the sight of her. I had never before seen a woman beat up, and I would never have known how to handle the situation like Kenneth did.
“What happened?” I finally said when Sandra seemed to regain her senses.
“Isn’t it obvious”, Kenneth said, only affording me a quick glance.
“He beat me up, the fucking bastard, that’s what happened”, Sandra shouted.
She tried to loosen herself from Kenneth’s grip, but he held on to her and instead she ended up accepting that he helped her on her feet. She staggered, as she tried to climb the stairs, and her hand shivered as she reached for the banister.
“We have to go to the hospital”, Kenneth said.
“No, I am not going to the hospital”, she said.
“We have to check if you are okay”, Kenneth insisted.
“I’m okay. I am okay.”
“Come on. I am taking you to the hospital.”
“I don’t want to”, she complained. “What’s the use? He will just beat me up again.”
“He won’t beat you up again”, Kenneth said.
“Ha! I know he will. He is crazy.”
“He won’t beat you up again,” Kenneth repeated in exactly the same tone of voice. “I promise you…”
“You promise me? How can you promise that? Are you going to do something about it? Are you? You are shit scared of him. You are all afraid of him!”
In the end she accepted to be taken to the hospital. I watched Kenneth help her to his car and drive off, wondering if it would end up with a police report, or with Sandra leaving Allan.
The next day was uneventful, but the day after the incident Kenneth knocked on my door as it was his custom, when he was looking for company, either to drink some beer and smoke a joint or to just shoot the shit for a while.
This time, however, our conversation revolved around Sandra.
"I slept with her..."