Username, page 5
Majken had told her about the four phases of grief: the shock phase, where she refused to face reality, and everything was chaos. She didn’t remember much from that period. The reaction phase, where what had happened slowly dawned on her. That she had lost Rasmus forever. She clearly remembered that period as the greatest pain she had ever experienced. According to Majken, she was supposed to be in the processing phase now. The last phase, which she called the reorientation phase, was where new interests would replace the loss of Rasmus. She felt she would never reach that phase. How was she supposed to get there?
On the way back to the table, she bumped into Danny. He was standing at the door, lighting a cigarette. They looked at each other without saying anything. She smelled the smoke from his cigarette; mixed with the subdued scent of his aftershave, it seemed pleasant. She didn’t usually like cigarette smoke.
Danny broke the silence. ‘I’ll drive Troels home. Then he can pick up his car tomorrow when he’s sober.’
‘Good idea,’ she muttered.
The conversation halted. She looked at the table where Majken was saying goodbye to Troels. She felt uncomfortable being alone with the mysterious man. He wasn’t handsome like the male models she had occasionally photographed for various fashion catalogues and commercials. They tended to be beautiful but without charm.
Danny took his jacket and threw it over his shoulder. He smiled. She wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. Troels’ uncertain steps reached them and he thumped Danny on the shoulder with a clenched fist.
‘This is rubbish, I can easily drive,’ he said, putting on his jacket with difficulty. Then he gave Majken a clumsy embrace. His breath stank of alcohol. She discreetly withdrew from him.
Majken said goodbye to Danny. She held his hand a little too long as she looked him over flirtatiously. ‘I hope we’ll see each other again,’ she said in a soft voice that did nothing to hide what she meant. The ‘we’ll’ was emphasised.
Kamilla put on her jacket and looked at them. This was how Majken had been in all the years they had known each other. Charming and correct. How her humorous and intelligent friend had apparently never had a man in her life amazed her. She thought about how long it had been since she herself had felt the aphrodisiac of infatuation sweeping her legs out from under her. Jan had been her first great love. They had met at the high school in Horsens. She had often wondered whether he had just been her ticket away from her mother and her sad home, with all the self-blame and doomsday warnings that had become fixed in her brain like a mantra. They weren’t meant for each other. Not even after they’d had Rasmus. Jan hadn’t been ready to have children. She had felt it while she was expecting. And even though Jan loved his son, he couldn’t live up to his responsibilities as a father. He left. And it was too late now. He would never get the chance again.
They stood in front of the restaurant, watching the cars.
‘He did well with a man he doesn’t even know,’ Majken said with a little smile. She put her arm around Kamilla’s shoulder. ‘Do you want to go for a walk? The weather’s so nice.’
She nodded. Fresh air was exactly what she needed.
Mols was visible on the other side of the bay in the clear weather. They walked in silence, looking at the beautiful sailboats anchored in the harbour, where there was room for about six hundred boats and a hundred fishing dinghies. Due to the wet summer, there weren’t as many sailing guests as usual. The owner of one of the boats had used the dry weather as an opportunity to paint the bow. On another, a woman was sweeping the deck. An elderly man, who looked like an old, hardened sailor, was sitting on a bench smoking his pipe, watching life on the boats. The evening sun had begun to colour the sky reddish, and the only sounds were the soothing lapping of the water against the pier and the blackbirds singing in the distance. The air was fragrant with tar and sea water. At the northern end of the marina, the recreational fishermen had their own pier and clubhouse. The shops in the brown wooden houses were closed, reminiscent of Skagen with their characteristic roofs that looked like they had been cut with a pair of serrated tailor scissors. The evening sun was shining on the Sailing Club’s large glass façade facing the dock. They could smell food from the large covered barbecue area between the Bar Grill and the harbour service building, and hear the noise from the playground and the mini golf course. Kamilla had often taken Rasmus down here, where there were so many exciting things to see for a little boy.
Majken continued to walk and smile.
‘You liked him—Danny—didn’t you?’ asked Kamilla. Majken looked at her with happy eyes. ‘He’s the yummiest guy I’ve seen in a long time!’
She smiled at her choice of words, as if men were something to be devoured.
‘Weren’t you also just a little bit attracted to him?’ Majken took her by the arm, nudging her teasingly with her hip as if she wanted to knock her down.
Kamilla shrugged. Yes, it had been a long time since she had met such a sympathetic example of the opposite sex. ‘He was very handsome,’ she replied.
‘Very hand—uh, stop it, Kamilla,’ laughed Majken, letting go of her. ‘I could murder for a man like that.’
She suddenly looked like a teenager in love. Kamilla had never seen her like this before.
11
He took advantage of the chance to head home at a halfway decent time. Roland sensed there wouldn’t be many opportunities for that in the near future. But for now, they couldn’t really move on. An urgent plea for help to identify the child’s body had been issued to the press at day’s end; now they could only hope someone would come forward with information, so they could go from there.
He felt the coolness of the sea and smelled the salt water and seaweed through the open car window on Strandvejen. A Unifeeder cargo ship heavily laden with multicoloured containers was moving slowly on its way to Hamburg. Some yachtsmen used a period of sunshine to get the boats in the water. The traffic flowed well enough, and if he didn’t know better, it could have been a perfectly ordinary afternoon after work. But the picture of the girl in the skip ruined that illusion. He lit a cigarette and waited patiently in the traffic jam, while the coolness of the forest replaced that of the sea as he drove along Oddervej.
His stomach rumbled with hunger. He wondered what Irene had decided to make for dinner. She was on a diet, which meant he was, too, but he would eat anything now. He briefly considered heading to Pizza & Burger for a pizza with a thick layer of mozzarella cheese and a Coca-Cola, but he ate his words. He was already late for dinner. He couldn’t do that to Irene.
The villa in Højbjerg was Irene’s childhood home. It had been built in 1953, and they had bought it when Irene’s parents retired and moved into a small apartment—without a troublesome garden and stairs—in the centre of Aarhus. He had loved the house from the moment he saw it. Last year, they had remortgaged and completely modernised the villa from top to bottom. There had even been enough for a new roof. He spotted the high gable and window of the first floor protruding above the trees when he turned onto the residential road. The driveway and terrace were covered in Italian tiles, flanked by Irene’s terracotta pots filled with blue hydrangeas. They couldn’t have found a better home. It wasn’t far to the forest or Ballehage sea baths, which he used faithfully. He loved the water, summer and winter, and was an active winter bather. It probably wasn’t usual for a southern European, but given he had chosen to be a Viking, why not go with the whole kit and caboodle? He met many people with the same chilly habit on early winter mornings, when snow crystals glistened and the cold bit into your skin. Many were getting on in years. A few of the lads were over ninety, and so Roland had convinced himself weathering the cold shock of crawling into two-degree ice water could prolong your life.
He cursed quietly and braked when he saw his car’s usual spot was occupied. The in-laws’ old 1998 blue Saab was parked defiantly in the shade under the copper beech. They had a habit of spending part of the summer at the campsite near Ørnereden, and they were frequent guests at the old villa when they did. Of course they were here this week, when they probably knew he and Irene were looking after their great-grandchild. But why tonight exactly, when what he needed most was to enjoy a glass of Barolo on the terrace with Irene as they discussed the day’s events. The only good thing about the visit was that it was unlikely low-calorie food was being served.
Reluctantly, he got out the car and took his jacket from the back seat. When he entered the hall, he could smell his father-in-law’s sour cigars overpowering the smell of bacon and garlic. The smell from the cigars always gave him a migraine, despite him smoking cigarettes himself. But you had to forgive a poor father-in-law who didn’t have many other pleasures in his life.
He opened the door to the living room and heard his mother-in-law’s sharp voice penetrate from the kitchen. His father-in-law had made himself at home with the newspaper and cigar in Roland’s favourite chair. He looked up reluctantly when Roland greeted him. Carl Ernst looked like a withered stick. His wife, Dagny, had the ability to suck all the power from the strongest of men. He had often asked himself how two such people had managed to create a daughter like Irene. Both Carl Ernst and Dagny were filled with prejudice. They’d had a very hard time accepting his ‘swarthy’ appearance when he had joined the family, and they saw the fact he had quickly risen through the ranks of the police as his only mitigating factor. They were the polar opposite of Irene, who would take all sorts of homeless creatures home for a bite to eat and some shelter. After working as a secretary for Copenhagen Police, Irene had become a social worker.
Suddenly Dagny filled the doorway to the kitchen. She was a small woman, almost as wide as she was tall. An area of excess fat dangled under her chin. She had put on a few more kilos since last time and now resembled an overweight turkey. If losing weight meant Irene would never look like this woman, he would support her endeavour in every possible way.
‘Good day, Roland. I thought that was you. You’re just in time. The food’s on the table,’ she said with a sweaty face from standing and directing Irene by the hot stove. They were magic words to the gaunt man in Roland’s armchair, who put the cigar down in the ashtray and painstakingly folded the newspaper before sending Roland a well-satisfied laugh. He shuffled past him into the kitchen, where he sat down—again—in Roland’s usual spot.
Irene was standing by the stove with her back to him, seasoning a pot of coq au vin. Her light floral summer dress revealed the round hips she was in the process of fighting. The dark hair, not her natural hair colour, was piled up on her head with a hairpin, but some charming tufts had strayed down onto her perspiring neck. If they hadn’t had guests, he would have hugged her and kissed her on the neck, but he restrained the urge. When she straightened up, he gave her a kiss on the cheek instead and looked into her tired eyes. She rolled them to the ceiling with a resigned expression. Her parents had probably been bothering her for a while. ‘Is Marianna sleeping?’ he whispered. She nodded. He smiled encouragingly at her and opened the planned bottle of Barolo. Not all plans should be ruined. He hoped camping life without a TV had impeded his parents-in-law from following the news, but he wasn’t so lucky.
‘So have you found the killer?’ Dagny cooed as soon as he sat down at the table. Irene passed the salad bowl around.
‘We heard it on the radio as we drove out here. It’s dreadful, a little girl—and raped. What’s with men these days?’ Dagny shook her head affronted, so the fold of skin under her chin dangled.
‘The girl wasn’t raped. But it is dreadful,’ Roland replied. For once, he could agree with his mother-in-law on something.
‘I’m sure it’s one of those immigrant boys in Gellerup who’s making trouble. Wasn’t she found in Brabrand?’ asked Carl Ernst with his mouth full of chicken. Dagny nodded in agreement and looked at Roland as if he thought they had settled the matter for him now. He felt Irene’s hand squeeze his thigh soothingly under the table. He took it as a sign not to get upset and that she was next to him, standing by him.
‘We’re in the process of identifying the murderer. We’ll find him,’ he said, trying to sound convincing. He lifted the glass and toasted his guests. The rest of the dinner passed without drama. After Dagny had helped Irene with the washing up, and while Roland had tried to find something sensible to talk to Carl Ernst about in the living room, they drove back to Ørnereden to their little family tent.
Roland emptied the ashtray of stinking cigar butts, filled the wine glass, and sat down in his Stressless recliner with his feet comfortably placed on the footstool. Irene sat down on the armrest and fumbled the dark hair at the nape of his neck.
‘You’d rather have some peace and quiet on your own, wouldn’t you, my darling?’
She knew his rhythm in a murder case, and knew her parents’ visit had been an unfortunate interruption. He nodded and kissed her hand.
‘It’s late, too. I’m going to go up and look in on Marianna. She has a cold, the poor little mite. And then I’m going to go to bed. We can talk in the morning. Shall I put some music on?’
He nodded again as he sent her a look and a smile filled with gratitude. Shortly afterwards, Luciano Pavarotti’s voice resounded like gentle thunder in the semi-dark room. Roland closed his eyes and let the notes of Nessun dorma fill his head. He tried to let himself be enveloped by the song, carried to his homeland on the scent of orange and lemon groves, but each time he ended up in a foul skip with the girl’s bright eyes staring at him.
He was just about to slip into sleep when the phone rang. It was the police station calling to report they had finally received a missing person’s report of a girl answering to the description in the murder report. The parents were coming in to identify the body at the morgue at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.
12
‘Are you going already?’
Vera tried to ignore the reproach in his voice. ‘You know there’s a meeting tonight, don’t you, Troels? Where have you been? Who drove you home, and where’s your car?’
She stopped in the doorway of the living room and hitched up her shoulder bag. He didn’t look at her. The TV was turned up high on a sports channel, where the commentator screamed and behaved like an idiot every time the ball was near the goal. Apparently he forgot he had a microphone. She hated his sports, too. It was a pain in the neck when he came home from the shop and turned on the box. It was even worse when he came home drunk and she didn’t know where he had been, like now. His indifference meant she’d had to buy her own little used Ford. She could never count on when the car would be home.
‘Well, bye. I won’t be long.’ She slammed the front door to drown out the sound from the TV.
‘Don’t rush on my account,’ he muttered, but only once he had heard the door slam.
During half-time, he got a beer from the fridge. She had put food in front of him under a piece of foil, ready to put in the oven. He couldn’t be bothered to see what it was. It was rarely exciting. ‘Career women don’t have time to cook properly for their useless men,’ he snorted, opening the can of beer so it sprayed onto the kitchen floor. He wiped it up with a dishcloth before sitting down heavily on the couch again. Half-time was the worst. Sitting there, listening to the experts trying to predict what would happen in the second half was so annoying. Why not just start the bloody game? Experts always had to judge everything. Clever war experts even analysed the Iraq War. Or politicians more like, who had been day tourists down there, who thought they had seen everything and could tell everyone at home it was under control. He snorted loudly. They had no idea what soldiers were going through over there. It was so easy to stand on the outside and judge. It was the soldiers who had to stay; ‘fighting for what you love, even dying for it’ took on a completely different meaning for them. Roadside bombs, ambush attacks, suicide bombers. The military uniform they weren’t allowed to change for civilian clothes—not even in the evening. ‘It’s not a summer camp,’ they said. But no one was in doubt about that. He felt sick thinking about the heat and the stench, and the anxiety he wouldn’t admit had been there. Not now he had returned home to safe little Denmark. But he couldn’t hide it at night. His own loud howls at the horrible nightmares that awoke him almost every single night. Luckily Vera had thrown him out the bedroom years ago. But she could probably still hear him.
‘Blah, blah, blah,’ he yelled at the so-called experts, zapping the remote to other channels. Ads, ads, ads—that’s what the bloke from the restaurant did for a living. Persuade people through lies to spend money. Promise them longer and shinier hair—or just hair for that matter. He smiled crookedly. What a joke of a job. And then he was all holy, didn’t drink and had to act like a lifesaver for other people. He could easily have driven home himself—he had done it a thousand times before on much worse benders. Troels toasted the TV screen, clicked further and ended up on a channel with dancers at a nightclub in Miami. He took a big sip from the beer can as he studied the girls’ firm young bodies with their long, black, patent leather boots that reached all the way up to the knees. Like snakes, they wound themselves around the shiny steel poles on the stage as though in a little fire station. One of the girls squatted down in front of a customer and flirted openly and naughtily with him with her tongue. She was beautiful, brown and shapely. Troels felt the throb in his crotch as a pain. Then the dancer straightened up and pushed the excited customer away as she laughed. His grip on the beer became so hard that the metal gave way. He zapped back to the sports channel, where the starting whistle had just been blown for the second half.
