Matilde in the World of Media & Art

Anyway I gave the young couple stuff to think about and discuss. I button my shirt, stuff my trousers' legs and my socks into my backpack and tie my boots to it by the laces.

"So I'll leave you to it. Will you watch my backpack while I pick up my phone at the bar?"

"Sure," Mikkel says, seemingly relieved to get a chance to finally be alone with his girlfriend.

I pick up my phone and charger and return outside. The rain has stopped. I pick up the backpack and my cigarettes from the table, lighting one and placing two others on the table in front of Sofie:

"For practice," I say with a wink.

She accepts them with a "Thank you" and a smile.

I hug both of them and walk toward the metro stairs of Copenhagen Central, enjoying the cool water of the puddles around my tattooed, naked feet and the delicious smoke from my cigarette while scrolling the messages on my phone.

First I notice five missed calls from my boss, Birgit, and several messages on my voicemail. Also from Birgit.

I listen through them, standing on top of the metro stairs where I hear Birgit's increasingly alarmed voice in the messages.

She talks about e-mails that she and others at the school have received with a link to a video showing me on the tattooists' catwalk in Amsterdam last month. She urges me to call back at once.

Having listened to her four messages and looked through some very similar text messages from her, I vaguely remember an e-mail that I got Monday before leaving for Jutland. Some kind of blackmail threat of distributing a nude video of me if I didn't pay some large amount of money.

Like most people I have received a lot of such amateurish stuff. And as always, I deleted the e-mail immediately.

I scroll through my e-mails that I haven't managed to catch up with during this busy field trip week and find five from the same sender, received Monday through Friday.

It occurs to me that the e-mails may not be that amateurish. And do contain a link to footage of me that might, by some, be considered problematic.

I click on the link in one of the e-mails and I'm directed to a five minute video of myself walking the catwalk in nothing but high heels, thong and yellow stickers. But not only that. There is also close-up footage from the smokers' lounge where I'm chatting with Lidia, a Romanian with a full-body tattoo inspired by the universe of J.R.R. Tolkien, stretching even across her face. Lidia is a talkative, funny and, in more than one sense of the word, colourful woman, who has stripped for a living in Bucharest night clubs since she was 15. I only won a very narrow victory with marginally more points than her, who ran fourth in our category. But there are no hard feelings on her part. We're friends on Facebook now.

I wonder if she has also received e-mails this week? But due to her profession she might be harder to blackmail with this kind of video than a schoolteacher.

Lidia and I seem to have fun, sharing a cigarette as we play with the yellow pineapple stickers on my areolas, attaching and detaching them. But right now I don't find it funny. At all.

I call Birgit, expecting the worst, taking another deep inhale from my cigarette.

"Finally, Matilde! What took you so long?" she says, picking up the phone at once.

"Sorry. I have a bad battery. I had to get it charged."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at Vesterbro... outside Copenhagen Central."

"Did you get my messages?"

"Yes."

"And did you see the video?"

"Yeah. I just don't understand where it comes from. This was a strictly professional convention. Only for tattooists and their... creations. We all had to leave our phones at the entrance. There was a total ban on private photography. All pictures and videos were made by official photographers. And unless you signed an agreement to let them show your face, it would be blurred out. And I didn't sign that."

"Well. Somebody obviously violated the rules."

"Yeah. I'm sorry, Birgit!"

"So am I. Look, I absolutely respect your right to a private life and to your own lifestyle. But there are some unreasonably sensitive parents at the school. And unfortunately some of them have received the e-mails as well."

"Oh no!"

"Oh yes! I've had to convene a school board meeting tonight at seven."

"On a Friday evening?"

"Oh yes. It's that important to people like Peter Christensen, this rather irritating businessman with that teenage daughter, Christine, in the class you just brought back from Jutland. He's on the board, you know."

"Yes. He keeps mentioning that whenever I talk to him."

"Right. He insisted on having the meeting tonight."

"Do you want me to come and defend myself?"

"No. You must stay away. That would only make things worse. I'll defend you. I expect a real conflict here. But I want you to know that I have your back, Matilde!"

"Do you... think they want me... fired, Birgit?"

"Peter Christensen defintely wants you fired. But that will be over my dead body. I'm not going to let this ridiculous, narrow-minded little man make me fire one of my best teachers."

I swallow and feel a tear roll down my cheek.

"That's... good to hear."

I inhale the last smoke from my cigarette and butt it out on the metro stair tiles.

"But I want you to stay in touch tonight. And sober. Please keep your phone open. And if you have battery problems, you should go home and stay there and plug your phone into a power socket."

"I will."

"I'll call you as soon as I know more."

"Thank you!"

"Talk to you later, Matilde. And take care!"

"Yeah. You too. Bye!"

Hanging up, I notice that battery power on the phone is already down to 7 percent. I badly need to get it plugged in.

I walk down the metro stairs and catch the first train on the ring line. When I leave the metro at Nørrebros Runddel, the sky has cleared and the May sun is heating up Copenhagen, slowly making the puddles from the intense rain evaporate. I light a cigarette and use the last power on my phone to order a pizza from the local pizzeria.

Back in my apartment I fall flat on the couch and eat my pizza in front of the tv after dutifully plugging in my phone. I feel this weekend restlessness that has made me go out almost every Friday and Saturday night since Mikkel moved out in January. But I'm not going anywhere tonight as I promised Birgit to stay sober with an open phone.

My sex life has been through a steep improvement for the past three to four months, if not in quality, then in quantity. I've met a lot of guys lately. Either on Tinder or simply by going to some bar or cafe, waiting to see what happens. It turns out that smoking cigarettes and having nice tattoos are excellent ice breakers when it comes to establishing contact with men. The smoke and the ink give you something to talk about for starters.

And don't worry. I've been extremely careful with my contraception. Not only have I used the, as it turns out, not a hundred percent reliable diaphragm (that got me pregnant with Mikkel). On top of that I've insisted on meticulously rolling a condom around every single dick I've had in me since January. You never know what those men could ejaculate into you. Apart from potential babies, I mean.

I guess that approximately 20 different guys have emptied themselves inside me (inside the condoms, that is) this year. Probably around as many as in my entire sex life before that. It's been an intense and... well... varied ride. Almost all have been one night stands. Only two... no, wait... three of the men have been around more than once. And most of them I wouldn't invite back into bed. It's like, Been there, done that.

Anyway... Tonight I'll stay home, waiting for Birgit to call me.

After the pizza and a cigarette I get drowsy and almost doze off in front of a documentary about the US prison system on Swedish television. I manage to grab the remote to switch it off before I let myself drop back on the couch and sleep.

The irritating sound of my phone wakes me up. I look at the clock on the wall. It's a quarter past seven. In the evening, I think, before answering the call from a number I don't recognize.

"Matilde," I answer in a hoarse voice, reaching for my cigarettes.

"Good evening!" an unpleasantly energetic voice says. "This is Jonas Jørgensen. I'm a journalist with Ekstra Bladet. Is this Matilde Jørgensen?"

Funny. We have the same last name, I think, lighting my cigarette.

"Yeah."

"Are you a teacher at Fælledparkens Friskole?"

"Yes, that's me. How can I help you?" I ask and inhale deeply.

"Well... there is this... video... of you... from Amsterdam..."

I exhale while thinking about what to answer. Jonas Jørgensen starts speaking again into my silence.

"We've been contacted by one..."

There is a pause as the journalist consults his notes.

"...Peter Christensen. He is a board member at the school where you work, I believe."

"Yes..."

"And he was kind enough to send us a link to some very interesting video material which was shot last month in Amsterdam."

I'm not saying a word, but I think I'm sucking the smoke from my cigarette intensely and loudly enough for Jonas Jørgensen to understand that I'm still on the line.

"Peter Christensen has told me that he does not want his daughter on a school with a porn model as a teacher..."

"Porn model?! I'm not a porn model."

"Well... thats Peter Christensen's way of describing you. I'm just quoting him. And he referred me to several pornsites where your video seems to be very popular. Do you know Pornhub?"

"Yes... Ehm... I know of it."

"Try pornhub.com on you phone and search for Matilde. You will find yourself as the number one hit. But bottom line here is that this Christensen guy wants you out. And I understand there's a board meeting going on as we speak about the termination of your contract. I imagine you're not at the meeting...? I mean, you answered the phone."

"No, I'm at home. I was sleeping. You woke me up."

"Sleeping? On a Friday night? Jugding from this video you're not the kind of girl who'd spend a Friday night sleeping. Are you? You seem to have a colourful life?"

"What the fuck do you know about my life?"

"Well... I would like to know a lot more. That's why I'm calling you. I wonder if we could sit down and have a chat?"

"Why would I want to talk to you?"

"Look. I'm basically doing you a favour. You get a chance to have your side of the story in tomorrow's paper..."

"Tomorrow's paper? Are you writing about this for tomorrow's paper?"

"Yes. We're a daily, you know. And widely read, I might add. I would hate to have to tell my readers that you declined to comment. And I really don't think that would be the smartest thing to do in your position. The story might become a little one-sided if it's only told by Peter Christensen."

"I see... Can I call you back?"

"Yeah. But don't wait too long. I'm on a deadline here."

"I won't. Bye."

I hang up and consult my phone to find out that the whole video is on Pornhub. And quite popular, it seems.

I realize that I can't call Birgit. She's in that fucking board meeting now and probably has enough on her hands. Instead I place a call to Casper, who, apart from being an extremely skillful tattooist, has a law degree and also has become my friend in the process of expanding this jungle all over my body.

He answers the phone on the sixth ring and is obviously at a place with loud music. He goes to a quieter place and cuts directly to the chase as soon as I've explained the situation.

"We might be able to work with the pornsites and eventually have them take down the video. But right now you need to control the situation. You have to confront the matter and talk to that journalist."

"I do?"

I light a new Marlboro with the butt of the old one while listening to Casper's reasoning.

"Yes. Absolutely. Or would you rather have Peter Christensen label you as a porn model, unopposed, in Denmark's leading tabloid?"

"I guess not..."

"So call him back and arrange a meeting as soon as possible. And be friendly to him."

"That will be difficult. He sounds like a real jerk."

"And he probably is. But that's not the issue here. You need him to paint a positive picture of you as a decent, hard-working schoolteacher who happens to have a couple of tattoos. And the convention in Amsterdam was a gathering for dedicated professionals who presented some of their cutting edge work under tight restrictions on the use of cameras. Somebody broke the rules, tried to blackmail you and is now trying to ruin your life by misrepresenting you as a porn model, which you are obviously not."

"No! Of course I'm no porn model!"

"No, you're not. You know that and I know that. The trouble is that the readers of Ekstra Bladet will think otherwise, unless you talk to this slimy creature of a tabloid journalist and make him write a sympathetic piece about you."

"So I need to be friendly to a slimy creature...?" I ask, inhaling smoke.

"Yes. You have to be extremely forthcoming and friendly. Remember that he already has this framing inside his dirty mind of this tattooed porn model who doubles as a schoolteacher. He will focus on sex. Because he knows that sex sells! So you need to offer him a better story..."

"Like the story of the schoolteacher who became an innocent victim of blackmail?" I suggest, exhaling smoke with a deep sigh.

"Yeah. Sounds good. Try that one. And give him my number if he wants to know about my work. There might be some customers in it for me."

"So you want me to talk to him to attract customers to your business?"

"No. I give you a piece of advice as your friend. But now that the story is going into the paper anyway, we might as well use the opportunity and get some PR for my business. Remember all the hours I put in this for free. You still owe me, Matilde."

I can hear that Casper says the last sentence with a friendly smile and give up arguing. Apart from that I think that it will do me good if the journalist talks to Casper, who is really serious about his work.

I say goodbye to Casper and call Jonas Jørgensen back:

"Hi. It's Matilde. It's okay. We can meet."

"Oh. That's a wise decision. I knew you were a clever girl. Can we come to your place now?"

I don't really fancy the journalist to visit me at home. I inhale smoke while contemplating my options.

"I'd rather if we could meet at a cafe here in the street where I live. Do you know the place at the corner of Jægersborggade and Stefansgade with the tables outside? It's right across the street from the Nørrebro Park."

"We'll find it. We can be there in 20 minutes."

"Give me half an hour. I need to take a quick shower and get ready."

"Great. We want you to look sharp on the photos."

"Photos? I'm not sure I want you to take photos."

"Oh... You want us to print large stills from the Pornhub video? We can do that. They're impressive..."

"Okay," I sigh. "You can take photos."

"Fine. We'll do that. And remember to wear something nice."

"What do you mean?"

"Now... come on... something that shows your body and your tattoos... That's what the story is about. Or we can use the Pornhub pictures. There's a lot of tattoos on them."

"Okay. 30 minutes. Bye!" I finish the uncomfortable conversation and put out my cigarette in the ashtray before running to the bathroom for a quick shower.

I dry myself with my large towel and apply a discreet makeup before pulling back my long hair in a tight bun at the back of my head and add a pair of heavy-framed, non-prescription glasses that I keep in a drawer. In order to present myself as the hard-working schoolteacher, I aim to look a bit like the cliché spinster librarian taken out of a classic, American 1940s movie. I look at my collection of earrings. There really isn't a pair that a 1940s librarian would wear, so I leave them in my earring bowl.

To show my tattoos, as requested, I squeeze into my black halterneck dress and my black high heel sandals. I'm carrying my phone, cigarette case, keys and credit card in my hand as I rush down the stairs 27 minutes after hanging up. My iPhone is at 74 percent right now, which is good, because Birgit needs to be able to reach me.

What started out as a wet spring day has turned into a nice, warm pre-summer evening. And everybody seems to be out on the street, celebrating. I run toward the end of the street where the cafe is. The last 20 months of practice have taught me to move fast in heels.

I find an empty table outside and light a Marlboro while checking my iPhone which is down to 34 percent now. How did that happen? I really need a new battery. I look out for somebody that could be a journalist and a photographer from Ekstra Bladet. Two minutes later they arrive in a Mercedes taxi: A slightly overweight man around my age with a disheveled appearance and a bushy beard and a thin, pale man in his fifties with a large camera bag.

Jonas Jørgensen spots me at once and comes to my table, extending a soft, sweatty hand toward me. I shake it, and he holds it a little too long while he asks me what I'd like to drink.

"Oh... A club soda... no, wait... make that a glass of dry white wine," I reply.

"Will you fix that, Erik? And a large Carlsberg Classic for me!" he directs the photographer who also shakes my hand before entering the cafe to get our drinks.

"You look great, Matilde. It was a good choice to let us make the pictures. Your tattoos are really remarkable."

Some people would have said "Thank you" here. I, however, remain silent. Jonas Jørgensen lights a cigarette, finds a pen and notepad in the pocket of his old Levi's jacket. He starts interrogating me about my job, and I work hard on presenting myself as a caring and serious young teacher. I talk about the subjects I teach and about my pedagogic approach. Jonas Jørgensen, however, stops taking notes when I talk about these things, I notice.

Erik, the photographer, returns with a large beer for his colleague and my glass of wine and starts taking pictures of me during the interview.

"How well do you know Peter Christensen?" the journalist asks.

"I know him as one of the parents in one of the classes I teach."

"Do you think he has anything against you on a personal level?"

"I have no reason to believe that."

"So why do you think he called us and asked us to look into this story?"

"I have no idea. Ask him!" I say with a forced smile and take another deep inhale from my cigarette.

"He says he doesn't want a porn model to teach his daughter."

I exhale, still trying to smile.

"As far as I know his daughter is not taught by any porn model. Not at our school, anyway."

"But Peter Christensen says you're a porn model. And he sent me links to several pornsites where he found this video."

"That doesn't make it a porn video. It's made in a professional tattooists' context where somebody broke the rules and made a video recording without any agreement with the organizers or with the people in this video. I can give you the phone number for my tattooist Casper who asked me to go with him to Amsterdam to show his work to other professionals."

"Yeah. We might call him at some point..."

Jonas Jørgensen doesn't sound really interested in talking to Casper to learn about the background of the convention. Nevertheless I find the number on my phone and show it to him. He dutifully writes it down on his pad. My phone is down to 14 percent now.

"Anyway... Now the video is out there. And it's quite popular. How does it feel to know that thousands of men, and maybe even some women, spread across the globe, are masturbating while watching your video?"