Copenhagen Noir - Bo Tao Michaelis [24]
“And here,” she said, and reached between his arms and put her finger on a spot between Warsaw and Vienna, “is where my family lives.”
“What’s the name of the city?”
“Krosno.”
“Are your parents alive?”
“No.”
They sat for a while without speaking, squatting in front of the glowing world.
Friday 12:32 p.m. Skelbækgade, Driveway into Den Hvide Kødby, 1717 Copenhagen V
It was sprinkling, and Marek was sick and tired of it all. He had asked around at massage clinics, questioned Thai masseurs, tattooists, pushers, stood on street corners, in back rooms, gambling joints, checked with Pakistani taxi drivers, no one has seen anything, he had bounced around among the street whores, he had found a Polish girl with her head between her legs and a rubber hose tight around her arm in a basement stairway on Colbjørnsensgade, it’s not her, he’d put his nose to the ground, bribed a med student who opened the drawers for him at the morgue under the National Hospital, it isn’t her either, to hell with it all, he thought, why shouldn’t she be allowed to disappear, crawl in a hole, die someplace warm, he was freezing and Ludmilla was hungry and hysterical, he gave her a shawarma and some candy, no, he didn’t want her brown envelope. No, he didn’t know what would happen to her. Shut up. He grabbed her by the chin, hard, shut your goddamn mouth, and then it didn’t matter anymore, he had a bad taste in his mouth and he himself had caused it, he bought a pack of mints. Finally, the wind whipping his coat, a Nigerian whore on Skelbækgade reacted when he showed her Adina’s picture, seen this girl? She wore a T-shirt, Ivory Love with sweeping gold letters, long nails with screaming pink polish. He had to dish out a hundred euros.
“I saw her yesterday. She was standing at this bridge by the station. What’s its name … Dybbølsbro. Looked like she was going to jump. Didn’t do it, but she looked desperate. Stood there with a big bag and no coat on. And it was raining!”
“What time?”
“In the afternoon. Around two-thirty. Maybe three. Then she was picked up by this guy. Don’t know his name, but he is real wicked. A bastard. Uses his hand. Always takes his wedding ring and Rolex off. Don’t wanna pay.”
She scrounged around in her bag, found her cell phone, pecked on it, her nails clicking on the case. She held the display out to him and he saw the rear end of a car: XZ 98754. It looked like an Audi 4.
Friday 12:51 p.m. Abel Cathrines Gade 5, Fifth Floor, 1654 Copenhagen V
Henry stood in the kitchen holding a bag of fresh bread under his arm. His windbreaker was wet and smelled of rain. They had slept in bed with their clothes on, she had dreamed about High Noon, and in the dream she had been Grace Kelly wearing a bonnet and a laced-up, lace-trimmed dress and all the time that song, Do not forsake me … But then she woke up and felt his erection against her back. She lay still and fell asleep again, they had slept way too long. He stood up and smiled at her, and then something snapped inside her. She couldn’t take it, the big friendly face, the same slightly baffled expression as when he came inside her every Friday afternoon, leaving a pathetic little blob of semen in the condom. The punctual little postman with the gray sideburns and the kind eyes—she had the urge to scratch them out and rip that cheap dream apart. She lunged at him, punching him, tugging and pulling at his big square body, she was furious, hammered at his arms and chest.
“What do you want from me? You want me to be your cheap little whore the rest of your life? Is that what you want?” she screamed. “You want me to be your little hole?”
“No. Adina—”
“And all that shit about Australia … and Gary Cooper … and … and … it’s all just a bunch of lies and bullshit!”
She screamed and shouted. But then he grabbed her. Grabbed hard. His arms closed tight around her, clenched her. A brutal look came over his face, a coldness she hadn’t seen before. She was surprised at how strong he was; she pulled and pushed and scratched and bit. He hummed, Adina, Adina,