Politiken Literary Agency
Morten Pape
THE PLAN
Translated into the English by Caroline Waight
Politikens Forlag
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Part One
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‘Scum’
When his head struck the ice, a tremor ran through Amager from end to
end.
The island’s tectonic plates shifted, sparrows were startled from their
frostbitten branches, and somewhere far away from the leaden misery
of the Project there were people who lost everything they held dear in
the earthquake that followed.
A tyrannosaurus rex could have come tap-dancing through the ghetto
in that moment, and not even the drunks glued to the floor would have
noticed.
I’d always admired my father’s size and bulk, but all at once he was a
beaten man. A human colossus with a fighting weight of a hundred and
forty kilos, painstakingly honed over nearly forty years of smoking,
poor nutrition and an endless stream of booze, he crashed back-of-thehead-first into the elements and his own hubristic unwillingness to
disappoint his playful son, who’d just wanted a game of football.
Winded, he lay in the snow as silent as an angel.
A few odd snowflakes hung in the air as if on invisible strings, Dad’s
nicotine-heavy breath freezing into clear, pure crystals of tar, and with
a nimble little flick of my heel I lobbed the ball over him and sent it
skittering between the rusty goalposts.
It was only when the earth began to turn again some seconds later that
I noticed the pool of blood slowly expanding across the icy asphalt pitch
like a self-inflating cushion beneath my dad’s bald head.
He was dead. Fuck. Right before my eyes – and it was all my fault.
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Prologue
The sun rarely makes its way into the Project; it’s hiding from everything
that lurks just around the corner. The enormous concrete apartment
blocks cast long, rectangular shadows across uneven pavements,
potholed carparks and asphalt paths half-heartedly patched up, like a
wounded body someone’s tried to stitch back together without
anaesthetic, out of thick flaps of skin and a needle and thread. The
thousands of tiny pebbles in the concrete stare at you like the pupils of
an army of ossified spiders, until you daren’t look any longer, for fear
that they’ll blink back. The shadows fall across the many trees that were
once planted here, across the bushes once used to hide drugs, the swing
sets and playgrounds where people once brought children. Dark and
unyielding, they unfurl across the Centre, a ghost town where the people
are as hard done by as the buildings. No one will do anything about the
bullet holes by the pub, or the protection money the owners have been
made to pay several times over. The shattered glass in the baker’s
window – right where the cinnamon rolls and the cheap, cheerful cakes
with the sprinkles used to sit, waiting for schoolchildren to come at
lunchtime and stare at them with hungry eyes – is boarded up with three
magazines, a bit of gaffer tape and a few planks of wood from the
builder’s. Heading into the corner shop to buy sweets for a krone, you
can take your chances either with the seagull droppings or the splashes
of drunks’ vomit as you step into the dark space, where empty shelves
and marked-down multi-packs sit beside rows of magazines filled with
naked women, all sold by a spaced-out Pakistani with a crumpled shirt, a
candy-striped paper bag in his hand and a wooden bat under the
counter. The drunks, swaying and grunting like a pack of zombies as they
weave among us, wander back and forth from the bench by the school to
the corner shop, fetching empty bottles to exchange for a few new ones.
They don’t like them too cold; they’d rather have them lukewarm, so
they’re easier to knock back. On rainy days the horizon looks like two
slimy, monochrome planes slotted together, as toneless and grey as the
concrete itself. On the benches in front of the school sit the winos and
junkies and people on the dole, while the younger pupils throw stones
and broken glass at the drunks, just to make them stagger up in a fit of
rage and chase the little bastards five yards before tripping over their
own feet and level of inebriation, so high it breeds overconfidence in a
split second. The first time I saw a dead man, he was lying on his
stomach with his head veined in blood, crushed flat against the ground
like mincemeat, his pale hand gripping a shopping bag full of broken
beer bottles. He’d shat himself. Raindrops slithered off his pockmarked
skin, greasy even in death, which seemed at once premature and
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overdue. The words embroidered in yellow on the back of his dirty
beanie read World’s Best Granddad.
A battered car, its wheel rims and number plate missing, swings
sharply round the corner and pulls up in the middle of the street. Smoke
and loud music from a crackly sound-system are the only signs of life
within it. A couple of guys in puffer jackets, black baseball caps and
shoes that were once a shiny white head towards the car. One of them
fetches a sports bag from the boot while the other keeps glancing around
as he chats to the driver through the rolled-down window. A hand
gesture, a few transparent baggies and an Arabic greeting are exchanged
before the car is jerked into gear, nearly mowing down an alcoholic
carrying gin in a milk carton over by the post office. It’s closed now, and
no longer sells stamps to masked men with guns.
The door to the schoolyard has scarcely opened before the substitute
teacher realises he’s walking straight into hell. I catch sight of him as
soon as he steps outside; he’s already given up. His legs won’t work
anymore. They won’t take him any further, and he stops mid-movement.
He’s got to keep going, however, so he takes three more strides over the
metal grating and plants his trainers on the ground as the door slams
shut behind him. He’s now on his own for the next fifteen minutes in
Dyveke School’s chaotic playground.
Many years ago they used to dump all the city’s junk and litter in
this part of town. They called it Shit Island, and it was where they hid all
the ugliness. These days it’s impossible to ignore the symbolism. It’s a
place you don’t want your children anywhere near, a zone of infinite
disorder where the offspring of the proletariat whirl madly around in a
frantic dance of war, their skin-tones worn like uniforms. Pasty white
boys like myself are in a minority. There are more headscarves than
tutus and more Arabic songs than hopscotch. The grown-ups say it’s
because we go to school in the middle of a ghetto. That means there are
lots of migrant workers in a specific residential area. But it doesn’t
matter, they say, because we’re all here together. The sight of the chaos
in the schoolyard this Tuesday, a little after nine thirty, bears out that
particular point.
Over by the entrances to corridors one and two, where the little
kids have their classes, an army of children in snowsuits, their stomachs
full of sugary breakfast cereals, are charging around by the battered and
faded playground with its wooden castles and the rope bridge that ends
in a low slide, its surface rusted over like a rotten tongue and loose nails
sticking out of the sides. There’s a resounding bang from this half of the
schoolyard each time one of the boys slams another one against the
surface of the slide before letting him roll down towards the other crying
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children. A few further crashing sounds by the old bus stops in the
corner of the yard are succeeded, predictably, by a shriek or a howl, then
crying, and after that laughter, all of it drowned out by the other screams
competing with the boys’ shouts and swearwords to rise above the whole
hopeless, hysterical inferno.
The substitute teacher’s fingers are gripping the handle of his
coffee mug, a cheap porcelain thing with a faded print of the local
council’s logo. He examines the fluorescent green reflective vest with
helpless eyes as he tries to work out how to put it on without setting
down the mug and abandoning all hope of looking like an adult. The
coffee confers authority, indicating that here is a person whose word is
law in this schoolyard. He can discipline the children and separate them
when they get into fights. He reminds himself of that, taking a sip from
the mug. The coffee is already cold. He’s not yet learned to like the bitter,
chalky taste of the staff-room brew. His mind returns to the stupid
fluorescent vest. A new initiative, it’s supposed to make the staff member
on duty more visible among the students. He stands there like a little boy
lost in a changing room. No mother, no help. With a little wriggle of his
neck he manages to get the vest on, but it makes no difference. Every
hesitant movement – his whole being, in fact – radiates vulnerability,
beads of nervous sweat forming on his skin, and in this schoolyard that’s
something you can smell at thirty paces. This will be the longest fifteen
minutes of his life. Until the next time the bell goes, and the
neighbourhood children need to be supervised once more.
I know how he feels.
I’m sitting on the bench that runs along the building opposite, a
substitute player in our game against the kids from 3.x. It’s gradually
turned into a proper derby, a grudge match between the players from
both classes whose wizardry with a ball is undisputed. And then there’s
me and Thomas. They call us the Two Spazzes. We’re only good for
standing in goal, just getting in the way, and we’re not even very good at
that. Being first and second goalie, respectively, for the class team is the
only experience we have in common with the other boys at school. Apart
from that we’re left to our own devices and each other’s company, which
we’ve had since we were very young and suddenly discovered one day
that we lived opposite each other. The ball comes rocketing over the
asphalt. I can hear the sound of grazed skin when it gets close enough. It
hits me square in the middle of my glasses, and suddenly I can’t see a
thing. The right lens has fallen out. Always the right one. Tinnitus is
ringing in my ears, the beautiful, monotonic sound of failure. Now I’m
searching, my whole head down by the asphalt, half-blind, scrabbling
around for the lens in hope and desperation as my heart pounds
violently but irregularly beneath my slightly too-thin autumn jacket. My
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hands grope around, finding a half-disintegrated slice of tomato and
mayonnaise. I jerk back my arm, instinctively wiping the unwelcome
gunk on the edge of the bench. With my other hand I try again, scanning
the ground with my still-functional left eye, and then at last I catch sight
of the round piece of glass, hidden in relative safety some distance
underneath the bench.
My guts contract like a hedgehog when I’m unable to hold my
breath any longer and have to inhale the stench of the school toilets. The
pungent potpourri of smells – notes of ammonia and old honey
sandwiches – nearly makes me throw up into the discoloured sink in
front of me. No wonder nobody uses this place. No wonder we sit in class
all day, squirming with stomach cramp. But it is a wonder that I don’t
take more advantage of it. For the first time, I realise how nice it is to be
alone in here. The rest of the world can take care of itself, hustling and
bustling to its heart’s content, so long as it doesn’t see me. The stalls are
covered in scribbled pen and graffiti, and some of the locks to the gappy
wooden doors have been smashed, but you can’t see straight off which of
them still work, so you have to try your luck. The soap dispenser is
whitish where it isn’t rusty. Everyone in school knows you shouldn’t try
and get soap out of the soap dispensers. As a rule they’re always empty,
and if you do manage to get something out if them, it’s not going to be
anything that makes your hands clean. The lens clicks smoothly back
into place; I’ve done this a hundred times before. There’s a new scratch
now, though. If I’m lucky, maybe Mum won’t see it. I rinse the glasses in
lukewarm water, place them back on my nose and let them drip onto my
face as I involuntarily end up staring at myself in the mirror. When I
look at my reflection I see a boy I don’t want to be. He’s pathetic, with
pudgy cheeks, thin, mousy hair and glasses that make him look exactly
like the nobody he is. There are tiny bits of gravel embedded in his
forehead – decoration left by the ball. He seems like the kind of kid who
might burst into tears at the drop of a hat. I gaze at him, and I can’t feel
anything but sympathy. I want to grab his arm and make a run for it. He
looks like a fellow comrade, like he’d understand everything.
I catch another glimpse of the fluorescent vest as I leave the toilets.
The substitute teacher is sipping at his coffee, but I can see that he’s not
really drinking it. For him it’s just nicer to stare down into the mug than
out into the world, at least the world of this neighbourhood. Perhaps
that’s why he doesn’t notice the five small boys encircling him until it’s
too late. I recognise a few of them from the youth centre. Rashid, Ali and
Jehanzeb. The other two I don’t know, but I think they’re part of the
same family as Duygu. The substitute teacher’s eyes suddenly fly wide
open and he’s forced to engage with the world once more. The boys stand
there expectantly, gazing up at him with smiles I haven’t seen before.
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The first gobbet comes from Rashid, who’s standing behind the
substitute’s back. It gets him right in the neck, and the substitute spins
around to face his assailant. The next gobbet, Ali’s, hits his left ear. Again
he whirls halfway round before the third gobbet sticks to the hollow of
his throat. The substitute teacher’s lukewarm coffee strikes the icy
surface of the schoolyard, the handle still firmly hooked in his shaking
fingers. After hit number four he starts shrieking blue murder at the
eight-year-old sharpshooters, but Jehanzeb darts behind his back and
spits one final time.
I look up at the big clock. One minute left. My lips taste salty. I
close my eyes and see nothing anymore; all I hear are other people’s
lives, amid my own darkness and the stillness I’m drawn to. I squeeze my
eyes shut as hard as I can, trying to withdraw as deep as possible into my
own skull. I wish nobody could see me. I curse my own existence,
refusing to belong here. The longer my eyes are closed, the more clearly I
can see what I need. Mum, bending down and hugging me tightly. Dad
lifting me up in the hall, so that the top of my head brushes the ceiling.
Both of them are smiling, both of them care about me, and wordlessly
they reassure me that it’s all going to be ok once more.
I open my eyes to an empty schoolyard and Miss Bahnsen sticking
her head out of the doorway, furious because I didn’t show up to her
class.
‘Now, please, Mr Pape!’
8
1
As a general rule, Dad sits by himself on the long leather sofa while Mum
knits on the slightly shorter model next to it. He smokes one fag after
another, when he isn’t rolling next day’s supply with his red machine,
which can conjure a brand new cigarette out of paper and tobacco, ready
to tap into shape. Every now and again his practised dexterity lets him
down, and he brushes the wayward pieces of ash from the gradually
disappearing fag off his T-shirt and sofa with the flat of his hand. They
float down towards the rest of the dust on the living room’s unsanded
parquetry, as I lie on my stomach, clad in pyjamas, exploring the long
cracks between the wooden boards. It’s no longer possible to distinguish
between the dust bunnies, cigarette ash and dead skin cells. I lift my
head a fraction, just until it begins to pinch, mainly as a way to pass the
time, and sneak a furtive glance at my father and his enormous legs,
exposed in football shorts. His calf muscles are disproportionally huge,
like Popeye’s forearms from the knees down. His thighs are of similarly
swollen dimensions, especially at times like this evening, when he rests
them on the edge of the leather sofa, his legs spread wide as if he’s trying
to give his cock and balls some air while he’s got the chance. I wonder
what could possibly be irritating him down there, since he spends so
much time sticking his hand down his underpants to have a good
scratch. Afterwards he’ll rub his moustache with the same hand, taking
two quick sniffs, one after the other, through his broad nostrils, which
are filled with small, sturdy black hairs that are always curling out
towards the rest of his face. When he digs around deep inside his nose
with his finger, inspecting his wispy snot before removing it from his nail
with his bottom teeth after a brief moment of appraisal, I always look
away as if nothing had happened. Instead I gaze at the action figure that
lies blanketed in dust and cobwebs in the filthy grotto beneath the sofa.
Dad is watching the prime minister’s New Year’s speech. Mum’s just
knitting. It’s the first day of 1993.
New Year’s Eve was conducted, as usual, with modest enthusiasm.
I didn’t really understand what was festive about it, all those rituals, the
anticlimactic indoor fireworks and ugly-smelling party blowers I could
never figure out how to unfurl to their full potential, let alone my
parent’s champagne-tinged breath. I just didn’t get it. The whole New
Year’s thing. It faded little by little, the outgoing year, like a dying runt,
and meanwhile the neighbours let off cheap fireworks they’d got from
over the border, holding them in their hands as usual, mailboxes were
sabotaged by skyrockets, the sound of whistling bathed the whole
concrete jungle in perpetual tinnitus, and at least one kid I knew would
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inevitably wake up in the new year pet-less, because his rabbit hutch had
got blown to smithereens by a chrysanthemum firework.
By the time my Mum had put her glasses on the coffee table as
usual, taken a hand-rolled Prince from the box and begun bawling her
eyes out at the Queen’s Speech, I had already given up hope of any
change or deviation from the relentless predictability of tradition. Out by
the dining table next to the kitchen, my dad was busy fastening Pernille
into her high chair, while the potatoes boiled in the cast-iron pot they’d
saved up for when they were young and had only just met. Dad cleaned
his hands with washing-up liquid and lit a cigarette, prodding at the
contents of the pot with a fork. He couldn’t give a shit about the queen,
the royal family or the fatherland. He was only interested in hearing
what the prime minister had to say in his speech the following day. And
in eating. There was nothing he wouldn’t shovel into his mouth,
preferably all in one go. He ate as much in a single evening as the rest of
us consumed across a whole day. He loved steaks and chops, and bacontopped mashed potatoes were his favourite. He could eat that every day
no matter what, he said with his mouth full of mash. Instead we had
oven-baked cod with waxed lemons and a generous pinch of dried herbs
from the spice rack in a seldom-visited corner of the kitchen cabinet.
Boiled white potatoes that steamed all the way up to the ceiling light,
where my name was still written in dust on the surface. Frozen
baguettes, made edible in the blink of an eye, after less than ten minutes
in the oven. Mum had broken them up into small pieces, passing them to
my little brother Jonas and me with a sharp reminder that the bread had
reached dangerous temperatures. The table had been laid with a paper
tablecloth printed with exploding rockets and party hats. A framed print
of Monet’s purple-and-bluish waterlilies hung by itself on the otherwise
nicotine-stained walls. White wine for the grown-ups and kids’
champagne for Jonas and me. Before Pernille had managed to get the
first spoonful of baby food into her mouth, we were pretending to be the
winos who sat on the benches opposite our school. We were frighteningly
accurate and convincing in our roles.
‘Cheers, you old bastard!’ I yelled in a voice as dry as dust, and
clinked my glass against my brother’s so hard that the liquid sloshed
around with the impact. He laughed in short gasps as he tried to come up
with an answer inside his five-year-old head. ‘Cheers mate, bugger it all!’
‘That’s enough!’ Mum slammed her fist down on the table so hard
the cutlery leapt off the paper cloth and the cod’s heart nearly sprang
back to life. There was silence at the table until an ear-splitting boom
from a firecracker just outside the front door gave us all a fright, not least
Pernille, who dropped her food as she opened her mouth to squeal.
When I was in a mood like this I could get so insanely sick of staring at
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the half-bald little squirt, who could do nothing but eat and cry, or
sometimes the other way round. She sat there at the foot of the table like
she owned the place, drinking and eating and spitting up then crying
some more, then sleeping and waking and wailing all over again. She was
much better at acting drunk than me or Jonas could ever hope to be, no
matter how much kids’ champagne we knocked back.
‘What the fuck?!’ shouted my mum, reaching for the kitchen roll to
wipe the sobbing little monarch around the mouth. Dad heaped a few
more boiled potatoes onto his plate.
‘Are you just going to sit there while they burn our shed down?!’
she continued. Pernille’s crying was swelling in intensity, and Jonas and
I picked at the cod with our forks as if we were looking for gold among its
thin bones. Dad sighed and heaved himself to his feet, sliding the chair
back so that it grated in my ears. As he struggled to stand he exposed his
hairy suitcase of a stomach, which had long since won the battle with his
shirt’s lower buttonholes. His heavy tread as he manoeuvred past the
table and out towards the hallway, his feet in white tennis socks, made
the parquet flooring creak even more than normal. From around the
table we could hear him unlock the front door, shout something in the
peculiar way he always did, with a shrill, high-pitched whine, which was
answered only by the fireworks’ indifferent inferno. Then he shut the
door again, gave the handle an extra tug to make sure it was locked, and
plodded back to his seat, picking up the bowl of potatoes. All that
remained was the sound of fumbling cutlery and snivels from the end of
the table. Calm descended once more, a sorely needed hush which I
would later come to learn was the silence of repressed rage.
New Year’s was shit. The new year wouldn’t be a single fucking iota
better or different than the last. And with each passing day Mum and
Dad looked more and more like two people who didn’t have the guts to
confess that they’d discovered much too late they couldn’t stand each
other.
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