The Serbian Dane (13 page)

‘Hi, Ole,’ the waiter said as he placed a fresh glass on Vuk’s table. He was a youngish man with a muscular torso that looked too big for his short legs. A fitness centre body, Vuk thought to himself. It looked strong but wouldn’t be so tough if it came to the crunch. He would never be scared of a bodybuilder.

‘Hi, Mads,’ the man said without stopping. ‘I’ll have a beer and a chaser.’

‘Erna’s inside.’

Vuk sat on, sipping his beer.

‘Don’t you want to move inside? It’s getting cold,’ the waiter said.

‘No, thanks. I’ll just finish this out here,’ Vuk said.

‘Okay.’

He spun out his drink for another quarter of an hour, then decided that he could not sit there any longer. He got up and had just lifted his carrier bag when he saw Lise Carlsen cycling along the street. She parked her bike and locked it. He saw Lise’s eye go to the man’s car, then across the road to the pub, then up to the apartment on the third floor. Vuk turned his head away and called into the gloom of the pub:

‘Can I pay you now?’

‘Certainly,’ the muscleman called back.

He came out.

‘Thirty-eight kroner,’ he said, then caught sight of Lise. He took Vuk’s hundred-kroner note, but his eyes were still on Lise.

‘Just a sec,’ he said and took a couple of steps into the road.

‘Lise,’ he shouted. ‘Lise! Ole’s in here.’

Lise glanced across at them. Vuk turned his face away and regarded her out of the corner of his eye.

‘Okay, Mads. Just tell him I’m home.’

‘Right you are, Lise,’ Mads said and gave Vuk his change.

Vuk ran over this scene in his mind later that evening as he sat in his room watching television. Or rather: the TV merely provided some pleasant background noise. It was tuned to some Danish talk show featuring a whole lot of women, all of them well dressed and extremely talkative. Vuk had given up trying to figure out what they were talking about and had turned down the sound while he worked.

He cut the wooden handles off the skipping-rope and pulled half a yard of thin, pliant steel wire through them instead. He tied a knot in the wire at the top of each handle to secure it and tucked in the loose ends. He wrapped a towel around a pipe in the bathroom, slung the wire round it with a quick flick of the wrist and tugged hard on both handles. The wire gave a little, but the knots on the handles held. Satisfied, he laid the garrotte on the small bedside table.

He watched television for a couple of hours, thinking about Lise and her husband Ole. He pondered how best to make contact with her while whetting the dull side of the scout knife, turning it into a double-edged blade. He used slow, steady efficient strokes; the action was soothing and helped him
to think. The two edges of the knife were now razor-sharp. It was good Solingen steel, which didn’t break easily. He was no longer totally unarmed, and this made him feel a shade easier in his mind. Tomorrow or the next day at the latest, he should receive a postcard from Kravtjov telling him where he could pick up the proper weapons. He knew he didn’t have much time, and he had a suspicion that the weakest link in the chain was not Lise, but Lise’s husband. It was just a hunch, but he had seen from Lise’s face that she was disappointed, upset and a little angry. She had had no desire to join her husband for a quick one after work. On the contrary, she had glared at the pub through narrowed eyes before, to Vuk’s surprise, giving the front wheel of the car a quick, vicious little kick. Then she had unlocked her bike and cycled off again without a backward glance.

L
ise pedalled so hard that, much to her dismay, she broke out in a sweat. Suddenly she felt very foolish. This wasn’t going to solve anything. It would be far better to confront Ole with the fact that she had taken a lover, got herself a boyfriend, was having an affair. Whatever the hell she was supposed to call it, it made her feel warm all over and made her want to be with Per all the time. But she had been so pissed off when she discovered that Ole had gone over to that pub again – the bloody place stank of foul cigars and stale beer. Why couldn’t he drink in a café or a decent bar? She knew that he knew she hated pubs. She couldn’t stand the thought of him sitting there chewing the fat with a load of great oafs, maybe even discussing her with men who talked about ‘the wife’ at home. Because that’s what the sort of men who frequented such establishments did, she was sure. Grassroots culture was greatly overrated. Give her the arts and civilized, well-educated people any day. She loathed community centres, bingo and old-fashioned pubs, with their billiard tables and the reek of male bodies. He knew how it irritated her when he went to that place, just as she knew how it irritated him when she played the radio in the mornings. Why was it that suddenly they couldn’t talk to one another anymore? Why did they go out of their way to hurt one another? Why did love die?

She climbed off her bike when she got to the lakes, took a deep breath and murmured under her breath:

‘Where do we come from? Who are we? Where are we? Where are we going and where do we put the empty bottles?’

Then she burst out laughing at herself. An elderly lady walking a small, podgy black-spotted dog gawped at her. She looked so sour-faced that Lise
couldn’t resist sticking her tongue out at her as she swung her leg over the saddle man-fashion and set off along the path at such a lick that she sent gravel spurting in all directions. Christ, how childish. But she wasn’t used to dealing with the sort of situation in which she now found herself.

She rode home. Ole wasn’t there. He would probably spend the whole evening across the road. Shooting dice or discussing football and politics with dumb hulks who had been dumped, kicked out or were just plain lonely – or all three at once And just when she finally had a free evening. They could have talked. Really talked. She had taken time off from the paper, from Sara and from Per. On purpose, because she didn’t feel she had as much control over her feelings as she would have liked. Although the truth was that Per couldn’t see her that evening anyway. He hadn’t said what he was doing, and it really wasn’t any of her business. But still it bothered her. She ought to make something to eat. She was getting upset again, so now, of course, she was starving. But instead she put on some water for tea and had just poured herself a cup when she heard the front door, and Ole walked into the room, a little red-eyed, but otherwise as composed and distant as always.

‘Hello, love! Where have you been? Have you eaten?’ she said, hating herself, because she could hear how forced it sounded.

‘Hi,’ was all he said, then he stood looking at her until she began to feel rather flurried. She rose and crossed to the sink. Even though there was tea in her cup she got herself a glass of water, just to have something to do with her hands. She felt Ole’s eyes on her, steeled herself and turned round. The bright, airy kitchen suddenly seemed dank and stuffy. As if the darkness outside had seeped through the walls and smothered the electric lights.

‘What’s wrong? Why are you staring at me like that?’ she snapped.

Ole merely eyed her up and down. She felt like one of his wealthy neurotic patients. Or clients, as he insisted on calling them. Over the past twenty years the number of psychologists in Denmark had doubled, so you would have thought they’d all be fighting for their share of the cake, but Ole had never earned as much as he did now. Your average Dane must be really fucked up and have no one to talk to, she thought, her mind wandering because his searching glance was too much to take. She lit a cigarette and said:

‘Ole! What’s the matter?’

‘I wanted to see if it were possible to detect some physical change. But I don’t think it is. Or is it?’

His voice was, in fact, a little slurred. She could hear the beer and schnapps in his vowel sounds.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

She quailed under his gaze, looked away.

‘Oh, you know, the usual story. There’s someone else,’ Ole said.

She felt the back of her neck flushing. The man was a psychologist, for Christ’s sake, he did know a thing or two about the human mind. She pulled herself together, walked over to him and took his hand. It hung limply in hers. He smelled of the pub.

‘Ole, stop it now, okay?’

Ole regarded her with eyes that might have been bleary but were also shrewd: eyes she had loved and which she had thought beautiful. He broke free of her hand and took a step back from her.

‘There might be certain physical clues one could go by,’ he said. ‘An inordinate amount of time spent in the bathroom, for example. Or a new perfume. Rather more frequent changes of underwear. These are the classic signs, but then you’ve always been incredibly fussy about your appearance. Then there are other signs. You blush very easily these days. Most becoming. But a bit odd in a woman of your age. You’re fidgety. And you keep running your fingers through your hair.’

He regarded her with those searching eyes, and she realized, to her horror, that she was blushing and running her fingers through her hair. She swivelled away, turned on the tap, dowsed her cigarette in the stream of water, chucked it in the bin under the sink and filled her glass again.

‘I’ve always done that,’ she said at length.

‘Are you having an affair, Lise?’

She had her back to him. And for that she was thankful. She knew the look on her face would have told him he had guessed right. Why didn’t she just tell him the truth? Why didn’t she dare? Because she had never been in a situation like this before? She didn’t want to have a showdown now. She wanted to be the one to choose the time and the place.

‘I’m just a bit uptight. On edge. This whole Santanda thing is starting to get to me.’

‘Are you, Lise?’

She turned to face him:

‘You of all people ought to know what I’m talking about. Stress. You make a living out of treating people for it. You’re a psychologist. Why the hell can’t you understand?’

This last came out as a shout, but Ole remained impassive.

‘Okay,’ was all he said, and this only served to infuriate and exasperate her.

She took a step towards him, then promptly stepped back again, to where she could once more feel the reassuring edge of the bench in the small of her back.

‘What do you mean, “okay”?’ she said. ‘I’m not one of your patients. So spare me your psychoanalytical “okays”. All that means is: I’m listening, but I don’t give a fuck!’

‘Okay.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Ole. Give me a little time. It’s only two weeks until Sara’s visit, after that we have to talk. Once it’s all over. I’m just rather stressed…’

‘Okay.’

‘Ole, will you stop saying “okay”.’

She took a step towards him again, hesitated for a moment, then said:

‘Look, I’ve got the night off. Why don’t we make ourselves something really nice to eat? Go to bed with a film? Like we used to do. I’m a bit uptight, that’s all.’

Ole looked at her. The expression on his face altered. It was no longer simply probing, she felt. There was contempt there too. He considered her for a moment, then turned on his heel and made to leave.

‘Where are you going?’ she said.

‘Don’t patronize me.
That
I really don’t deserve,’ he said, walking away.

She called after his retreating back:

‘What’s that supposed to mean? I wasn’t…Where are you going?’

He stopped and looked back at her:

‘Into town.’

‘Again? Don’t you want me to make us some dinner? Ole? Or I could come with you. We can eat out. Please stay. We need to talk.’

His eyes searched her face again:

‘I’m not hungry,’ he said and walked out without looking back.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Lise cried as she heard the front door slam and she was left alone in the room. She called Per’s number, let it ring and ring, but he had said he was going to be out.

‘Oh, Per,’ she said to the ringing tone. ‘What am I going to do?’

In the end she made herself an omelette and ate it in front of the television while she watched an old Danish comedy. They had become amazingly popular again. She needed something else to do. Tomorrow she would sit herself down and write an article about this whole phenomenon. About the nostalgic longing which people felt for the secure familiar order of a bygone era. These films spoke of a time when agriculture did not pollute the earth and the roles of the sexes were clearly defined. Watching them, you could forget that the seventies and eighties had ever happened. In them, Denmark was presented as an immutable rustic idyll in which the sun always shone, and tramps broke into song instead of shambling around collecting empties and begging on the street. She tried calling Per again around midnight, but there was still no answer. So she went to bed. Ole did not come home that night.

Early the next morning she settled herself in front of the computer in her bright feminine office in the newspaper building and wrote her article. Her office was lined with books and posters, international magazines and plants. She thought of Ole, then she thought of Per, but she forced herself to be light of word and profound of thought, as Tagesen put it. The end result actually read rather well, so she passed it on to editorial. Then she went into the file on Sara Santanda’s visit. She had furnished it with a password. So no one else could open it. She read through it. Things seemed to be shaping up nicely, and Flakfortet would provide a great backdrop for the television shots. She just hoped the weather would be kind to them. It was cooler today, and grey clouds chased across the sky. It looked like there would be rain later on, even though they had said on the radio that it would clear up. The phone rang. She picked it up, gave her name. A pleasant male voice spoke back.

‘Hi,’ said the voice – Vuk’s voice. ‘My name’s Keld Hansen. I’m a freelance journalist working for a number of Jutland trade journals. I understand you’re involved in organizing the visit by Sara Santanda, the writer?’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t really comment on that,’ she said.

‘Well, that’s what it says in your newspaper,’ the voice said.

‘Well, yes…that’s right,’ said Lise, feeling for a moment rather stupid. She had been spending too much time with Per.

The pleasant voice went on:

‘Look, I’m a fellow reporter, and this means a helluva lot to me. I’m a freelancer, I could really do with a good story. And the journals I work for would very much like to present their own slant on this story. A staffer like yourself can understand that, can’t you?’

She felt a little guilty now.

‘Yes, I do understand that. But we don’t even know for sure if she’s actually coming.’

‘I realize you have to be careful, but if…’

‘Well you’ll have to contact Danish PEN. It’s not really
Politiken
’s…’

‘I understand. But you’re their chair. So could you give me PEN’s address?’

‘It’s actually my own address.’

‘Okay, so what do I do?’

‘You write to me, and I’ll add your name to the list for accreditation. Security surrounding the visit will be pretty tight.’

‘When is she coming?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say, but write today rather than leave it till tomorrow. And I’ll put you on the list.’

‘Thanks. And thanks for being so helpful. It’s good to know that you guys in Copenhagen do actually spare a thought for us poor sods over here.’

‘It’s always nice to be able to help a fellow reporter,’ Lise said and hung up. Might she have said too much? She had certainly more than implied that Sara would be coming, and soon. Well, what possible good did it do to go on being so vague? And he wasn’t the first reporter to call either. At some point they would have to call the Press Corps together, and how were they supposed to do that? Maybe Per had some ideas. He had called her here this morning and said he would pick her up around four. She felt giddy as a schoolgirl. Couldn’t wait to be with him. To make love in the safe house, because there was no way she could take him home, and he had not asked her back to his place.

There was a knock on her door, and Tagesen breezed in with his usual air of bustling efficiency. She quickly pressed ‘F7’, then ‘YES’ and saved the list just as she heard the door swing open.

‘You might wait till I say: “come in”,’ she snapped.

‘I hope you’ve got it well protected,’ Tagesen said.

‘Of course I have. Password and everything. Sara is Simba. The apartment is a “safe house”, no address. And so on. It’s not like I’m just going to spell out exactly what it’s all about, is it? I’ll finish this at home. Then you can see it.’

She told him that another journalist had called. And that they were going to have to come up with some means of calling a press conference in such a way that the reporters would show up without knowing what for. How were they going to do that?

‘Do you see the problem, Tagesen? They know she’s coming, but they don’t know when. I can hardly write: please be here at 1.00 pm for a press conference with Sara Santanda. All any terrorist would have to do then would be to check the Ritzau Bureau daily events list.’

‘No, but they’ll have to be lured into attending,’ Tagesen said, fiddling with a button. An idea suddenly occurred to Lise. Tagesen was famed for his wide network of contacts in the European arts world. She remembered a story on the international pages in that morning’s paper, about the German author, Herbert Scheer. Scheer had received death threats from German neo-Nazis who were demanding his head on a platter because he had spoken out in defence of Turks and other members of the immigrant population.

‘You’re a good friend of Herbert Scheer’s, aren’t you?’ she said.