The Second Stroke

By Tage Skou-Hansen

He emptied his glass. Intending to break up and go home to his empty house, even though he did not want to. And then the others got up together, all three of them at once as though it had been arranged, and they left with a nod to Anders, which probably meant that they had better meet him later in the evening at a pub in town or come again another day when the old fool was not around.

   Anders did not make any objection. He remained sitting on his chair with a concentrated, distant, completely introverted look. He smelt of smoke and stale booze as usual. Then he leaned forward to put his glass on the shop counter but misjudged the distance and dropped the glass. It fell to the floor without breaking and rolled under the table. He did not pick it up, he did not even look for it, just let himself fall back into the same stiff, expressionless position he had been in before. He was girlish in appearance, slight and long-limbed, with auburn hair that was straight and long and upturned at the ends.

   Sigurd asked whether he did not think he was drinking and smoking rather too much. He said it in a matter-of-fact way, the lad was sensitive, but he did not react at all. Sigurd tried once more. Why did he smoke so much hash? Had he ever asked himself whether it might be a bad substitute?

   Anders lifted his head and looked round the room as though it was only now that he realised that they were alone. Then he said very quietly that naturally it was correct. Intoxication was a substitute. What else. For freedom, liberty, and fraternity as previous generations had hoped for. And faith, hope, and love and all the other miracles that priests and prophets had conjured up using millions of words. The Garden of Eden and the coming of the Kingdom of God. Of course it was a substitute. Nothing in mankind had been changed by progress, therefore intoxication was the only happiness for those that did not fit in.

   Sigurd wanted to poke fun, but could not think of a quip that was good-natured enough. The comment was too surprising and hit too precisely. So he chose to ignore it in order not to get worked up.

   Anders turned his eyes towards him and observed him. He did not think that he had to be so entertaining. But maybe this was also a bad substitute? Could he not relax a bit? Drink some more? It suited him. Was it that he was worried about wasting time? One did anyway, every single day.

Translated by Ian Lukins