Free The Woman from Bratislava by Leif Davidsen Page B

across the small of my back warned me that if I proceeded with this manoeuvre it was going to start hurting in earnest. She slipped her keys into the pocket of her stylish jeans, bent down and hooked her hands under my armpits, making me squeal like the stuck pigs from the summer holidays of my early childhood, when my uncle used to slaughter the beasts in the farmyard.
    ‘What’s wrong, Teddy?’ she asked, seriously worried now.
    ‘I told you, it’s my fucking back, it hurts like hell. Grab hold of my hand!’
    I held out my hand and she took it. Her own were strong and slender and I noticed she was still wearing her wedding ring, which was always something. I asked her to pull. By this time she was looking quite alarmed and appeared unsure as to whether she dared use all her strength. But between us we managed it. She got me up in two stages: first into a sitting position – the four torturers from Bratislava had evidently followed me to Denmark, they were going at it hammer and tongs, boring their awls, knives and all manner of medieval instruments into my back as I slid my legs over the edge of the bed and then, with another burst of effort, eased myself onto my feet. But once I was standing upright the pain subsided a little. Still holding my hand, Janne regarded me with concern and genuine sympathy. She could tell that oldHypochondriac Teddy was not faking it, he actually was in genuine agony. I stood there for a moment with her hand in mine.
    ‘How do you feel?’ she asked.
    ‘Better, thanks. It helps to stand up.’
    ‘What did you do? How did it happen? Did you lift something the wrong way?’
    ‘Nope. I was just sitting on the toilet. It’s so stupid,’ I said.
    Then for a moment more we stood in silence, still holding hands. What a sight we must have made. My pretty wife in her smart clothes, clean skin and beautifully coiffed hair, and me, old Teddy, in a pair of somewhat crumpled boxer shorts with my hair standing on end.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You really don’t deserve this.’
    For a second I thought she was talking about my back, then it struck me that what she was actually apologising for were the plants in the kitchen sink, the newspapers and mail on the doormat and all the other signs which said that Teddy was a cuckold. I let go of her hand.
    ‘I need to take a shower,’ I said to break the silence. All of a sudden we were like strangers and no one wants a stranger seeing them the way I looked right then.
    ‘I’ll make us some breakfast,’ she said.
    ‘Coffee would be good,’ I said, and went on as if nothing had changed:
    ‘Are you going into the Institute? Or are you still off sick?’
    ‘Teddy, I said I’m sorry. You don’t deserve to find out about it like this.’
    ‘Who is he?’
    ‘Go have your shower. Can you manage on your own? Go have your shower and then we’ll talk.’
    And that is what we did. A shower helped, and the coffee did me good, but what she had to tell me, banal though it was, was anything but good. There was someone else: she had a boyfriend as the infantile parlance of today has it. It had been going on forsome time. She had to all intents and purposes moved in with him. The plan had been to break it to me gently over a glass of red wine when I got home. She had not meant me to find out like this. I said nothing, sat almost as if turned to stone, but my feelings were, in fact, somewhat mixed. I was angry and upset, but I was also strangely distanced from the whole thing. As if it had not really penetrated. As if I had actually known this was going to happen. It had merely been a question of when. I sat bolt upright on the kitchen chair, trying to keep my back still. My tooth was aching again and I was in real Poor-Old-Teddy mode.
    ‘Who is he?’ I asked again.
    ‘It’s Peter,’ she said.
    ‘Peter! He’s nothing but a lousy assistant lecturer! That’s a bit of a come-down, Janne. Shouldn’t you be working your way up the ladder? Nabbing