The Lover From an Icy Sea (53 page)

“
My girl,” she said. “My poor baby girl.”

For Kit, watching the spill of someone else’s pain or grief was not a spectator sport. He stood up and went upstairs to Daneka’s former bedroom. As he walked up the stairs, he heard the sobs begin—as well as the Danish. The only word he recognized—as Daneka repeated it over and over again—was ‘
mor
.’ Kit stepped into Daneka’s former room and sat down on the bed. He wondered what happy stories this bed and these walls could tell—but also, when and where it had all gone wrong. He looked up at her bookcase, at the names and titles along the spines. He recognized all of them, thought how different the contents of this bookcase were from what she had in New York, and how—.

His eyes had wandered to the top shelf where he saw a single video. He stood up and reached for it. The title was in English; the face of the woman on the cover quite familiar. She looked lovely in her black dress, single string of pearls, black hair swept up from a swan’s neck, and foot-long cigarette holder. But then, to Kit, she’d always looked lovely—even without all the accoutrements. He wondered what particular fascination this woman—and this movie—might’ve had for Daneka as a young girl. Maybe he’d still get a chance to ask her; maybe not. But now, he also understood just how deeply her mother could dig. Dagmar Sørensen was a smart woman. But as with all smart people, she could combine intelligence with ruthlessness, and the result—if she wished to launch it—could be a stinger missile to the soul. “
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
” indeed, Kit thought. He would never again be able to hear Audrey Hepburn’s rendition of “
Moon River
” or walk past the building on Fifth Avenue without remembering this relic—this piece of New York and of Americana—in a little girl’s bedroom in a cupcake of a house in a fairytale village on a remote island in the Baltic Sea.

He put it back exactly where he’d found it; pulled out, at random, one of the tomes in a collection of books by the same author, and whose name stood out clearly, embossed in gilt: H. C. Andersen. The text was in Danish—and so, to him, unreadable. The illustrations, however—all by Vilhelm Pedersen and Lorenz Frølich—were unmistakable. He was able to leaf through and see some of the faces and scenes he’d first seen in his own childhood. There was Karen, of “
The Red Shoes
” … the ungainly, gray cygnet of “
The Ugly Ducking
”… Little Tiny in the story of the same title, asleep in her walnut shell … the steadfast tin shoulder … the little match girl … the wild swans. And then he saw her: the little mermaid. With the ubiquitous billboard ads for the Disney-animated version of the story as his only recent point of reference, he’d forgotten how authentically beautiful and sad one little mermaid could look. He could tell from the smudges on the page that a child’s fingers had turned it many times; had held it while touching the cheeks of the mermaid and the eyes just so. He couldn’t look any longer—and so, closed the book and put it back.

He glanced one last time around Danek’a bedroom, then walked out and back down the stairs. At the base, he peeked around the corner and across to the niche where he’d left Daneka and her mother sitting. Mrs. Sørensen had, in the meantime, moved her chair around and placed it next to her daughter’s chair. Daneka’s head now lay in her lap as Mrs. Sørensen stroked her hair.

Kit sat down on the bottom stair and waited. This was not his moment—or his place—to intrude. He’d wait. However long it might take, it didn’t matter. He’d wait. His own timekeeper was now a clock without hands. If Dagmar could somehow bring Daneka back into the light, he’d make time do his bidding—for both of them.

Chapter 65

It wasn’t too long before he began to hear pleasant murmurings from the other side of the room, and he looked up to see the two women embracing. Never had he been happier to see a pair of arms around Daneka—happier even than when those arms had been his own.

As he walked over, Daneka saw him immediately and extended a hand. “Group hug?” she asked with an ironic smile.

“
What the fuck is a ‘group hug?’” Mrs. Sørensen asked, intentionally giving the “r” a strong Danish trill to indicate she really had no idea what they were talking about. Both Kit and Daneka bent double in laughter. In all the years they’d known each other, Daneka had never heard her mother say ‘fuck.’ She was actually surprised her mother even knew the word. Although he’d not been privy to their conversations in Danish, Kit found it almost unimaginable that Dagmar would swear in any language. To hear her pronounce ‘fuck’ as if it were just any old word struck him as amusing beyond words.

“
Did I say something funny?” she asked, looking genuinely surprised.

Rather than answer in words, Daneka threw her arms around Kit’s neck, reclined her head on his shoulder and smiled back at her mother. “Isn’t he a darling?”

Mrs. Sørensen hesitated only a second, then raised an instructive pointer finger. “As a darling, he’s daring. As daring, he’ll do. Too bad he’s not Danish—or Winnie the Pooh.” Kit stared at Dagmar. There was clearly much more than a mere physical resemblance between her and Daneka.

“
Brava, mor!
”

“
Maybe in exchange, you’ll bring Margarette the next time you—” she paused, looked at Kit and took a deep breath, then looked back at Daneka “—and Kit come back to visit.”

Daneka lowered her eyes and said nothing.

“
When, Dagmar, will you come to visit us?” Kit barked spontaneously in the warmth of the moment, forgetting what he’d discovered only an hour earlier—and then he suddenly remembered again. “I mean, when will you come to visit Daneka and Margarette?”

As if she’d actually been present at the earlier rages and even now understood Kit’s internal struggle, Dagmar looked directly first into Daneka’s eyes, then into Kit’s. “I’ll come to visit both of you—and Margarette—just as soon as Daneka invites me.”

“
How about in the fall,
mor?
” Love becomes me in the fall. That’s what Kit’s always telling me, anyway.”

Kit’s eyebrows shot up. “I am?”

“
Well, you haven’t been really—not yet. But you will be very shortly. When the first leaves start to turn—that’s when you’ll tell me.” Kit wondered, in addition to everything else, whether she was also clairvoyant. If so, then she must know they were good for at least one more season.

“
Well,” Mrs. Sørensen sighed. “It certainly has been an interesting visit, wouldn’t you say, Kit?” Kit took her hand in his as all three of them stood up from the table.

“
Yes, it has been—that, and much more. I hope we can do it again soon.”

“
So do I, Kit. So do I. If not here, then maybe in New York.”

They walked to the front door and stepped outside. “Brrrrr!” Mrs. Sørensen said as she pulled her shawl tightly about her. The weather had changed dramatically. The sky was gray, and there was a noticeable dampness in the air. It was just beginning to drizzle—the same kind of weather, Kit considered, that had greeted them upon their arrival. Drab and dreary Denmark. He certainly wouldn’t miss the Danish weather.

“
Goodbye,
mor
. I’ll call you as soon as we get in. I’m sure you’ll still be up with you’re your Heidegger at that hour.

“
No, I’m actually with Husserl at present—though not willingly. My, but I hate these Austrians! He and Wittgenstein seem to take pleasure in being difficult for the sheer pleasure of being difficult.”

“
Okay. Then with your Husserl.”

Mrs. Sørensen embraced Daneka one last time before Daneka started off towards the car. She next embraced Kit; slipped something into his pocket.

“
What’s that, a ‘Get Well Soon’ card?” he chuckled.

“
That’s the picture of me that Daneka again forgot. Please—for my sake—make sure it gets to Margarette.”

“
I will. I promise. And I truly, truly hope to see you again soon.”

“
You will, Kit—but whether sooner or later depends on Daneka. We’ll see each other again in either case. I guarantee it. Goodbye for now, Kit. If you were Danish, you could be Hamlet. I’m afraid, instead, you might be Macbeth. Either way, adieu, sweet prince.”

Chapter 66

They drove off in silence. Kit pulled up to the dock and dropped Daneka off with the luggage. He then returned their car to the rental agency and paid for it with a credit card that was already beginning to feel like a warrant for his arrest. He joined her just as the Villum Clausen was pulling into harbor, watched the men perform their tasks like the experts they were, watched the passengers disembark. Only five days ago, he thought. It was a lifetime—yet had the ring of a death knell.

Kit and Daneka boarded and found an empty space on the starboard side of the ferry. She looked out the window; continued to look when the ferry pulled out of its berth; then looked some more—in fact, looked out all the way to Ystad. Kit sometimes looked with her, occasionally glanced across the aisle at a tall, rather attractive girl, early-twenties, with long blond braids and a book. The girl occasionally looked back over the book at Kit when she sensed his eyes were on her. He craned his head once to try to read the title; she instead rotated the book and mouthed the title: Nio Månadar. He smiled by way of thanks. She smiled back by way of … he wasn’t sure.

When the ferry arrived at Ystad, she got up and started to pull on her knapsack. Whether she was genuinely struggling with it or only wished to show a perfectly pert pair of breasts to best effect, Kit couldn’t be certain. In any case, he felt obligated to lend a hand. He stood up and grabbed the bottom of the knapsack—safer, he thought, then grabbing a strap. He wasn’t sure where his hand and head might end up.

She got the business with the strap straightened out and turned around to face him. “
Tack själv
,” she said. He’d heard the first word often enough to know what it meant; the second half, however, was a complete stranger to him. He decided a simple nod would be sufficient.

“
Adjö
,” she said to him smiling once again, but now back over her shoulder as pert breasts pushed on towards land. Must be a fun country, Kit mused. The
adjö
, in the meantime, had sounded much like adieu. This was his first Swedish word and he decided he’d pocket it for future reference. One never knew.

Kit and Daneka spent the remainder of the trip from Ystad to the Danish mainland in silence—as they did the train ride from there to Copenhagen—arriving at Kastrup mid-morning with more than enough time to get to the airport. Maybe it was this fact—and this fact alone—that finally prompted Daneka to speak.

“
Darling, we’ve got a few minutes to spare. Would you like to see
den lille havfrue
—the little mermaid? We can leave our stuff in temporary storage here at the train station and walk there easily enough.”

“
I’d love to,” Kit said—happy for the respite from the long silence. He thought maybe she’d lost her voice—or left it behind in Rønne—and was quite relieved to hear it again. They started out towards the harbor; and since Daneka clearly knew the way, Kit was content to let her take the lead.

“
Do you know the story of the little mermaid, darling?”

“
I believe so,” Kit said, “although it’s been a while.” He began to search his memory banks, and she let him search in silence as they continued to walk.

“
I remember that it starts with the description of the Sea King’s castle—pearls in roofs of shell, walls of coral and windows of amber, all in a world of blue—or something to that effect.” He looked up briefly as if seeking a word or maybe just a nod of encouragement, at least of acknowledgement. He got none, but continued anyway.

“
The Sea King—. The Sea King was a widower, I believe, and lived with his mother, who took care not only of him, but also of her six granddaughters—the sea-princesses. The youngest was the prettiest. Unlike the others, she cared for only two things: her marble statue of a handsome young boy and the rose-colored weeping willow she’d planted alongside it. From her grandmother, she learned about ships and towns. That same grandmother promised her she’d be allowed, on her fifteenth birthday—as each of her sisters would be allowed on their own fifteenth birthdays—to swim up to the surface and sit upon a rock, and from there to watch the great ships sail by.

“
Meanwhile, year after year, the youngest had to listen to her sisters’ stories. Year after year, she became more and more eager to reach her own fifteenth birthday—and with it, the opportunity to sit on that rock. ‘Pride must suffer pain’ the old lady said to her when her fifteenth birthday finally arrived and as she was attaching oysters to the little mermaid’s tail. When she then rose up to the surface, she was greeted by the sight of a single, large ship on which people were celebrating. As she looked in through the portholes, she saw singing and dancing. At one point, she also saw a handsome young prince with coal-black eyes and jet-black hair.”