Copenhagen Noir - Bo Tao Michaelis [74]
Something must have happened, for even though midnight was more than half an hour away, all the cafés and restaurants were closed. The shop windows weren’t lit up as usual, either. Several streetlights had gone out. On a Saturday evening. Even the World Cup never left Blågårds Street deserted.
The square seemed lifeless too. The naked, dark trees surrounding it stood stock-still. Andreas walked over to Apoteket, where the intellectual alcoholics sat in the summer and listened to jazz under the linden trees. There was not a person in sight.
He eyed the ball court, which was lined by a low granite wall. Dark statues sat silent along the edge—he knew each one, but now they were indistinguishable from one another. He’d forgotten that the court was iced over in winter so the kids could skate. Now it seemed almost radiant in the dark. Andreas wanted to feel the ice under his feet. He walked down the stone steps and caught sight of someone out in the middle.
He saw at once who it was.
The rain had made the ice extremely slick, and he almost slipped. He jerked his hands out of his pockets and regained his balance. Idiotic. He headed toward the middle. The court couldn’t have been more than twelve meters wide, but it felt much bigger.
When Andreas reached him, Sebastian smiled his smile. “The story about the sick mother,” he said. “You’ve got something there.”
“The sick mother?”
“Yes, that’s the best one.”
“I haven’t written any story about a sick mother.”
“‘The Elephant’s Tusks.’”
“I thought that was the title of your novel.”
“Why did you think that?”
“I don’t know.”
Andreas looked over at the redbrick buildings at the end of the square. It could be called a ghetto of sorts, and almost all the people living there were immigrants.
“Who got shot?” he asked, and looked again at Sebastian. His teeth were the same color as the ice under their feet. Gleaming white.
“It was deserted when I got here,” Sebastian said. “There’s nobody here at all.”
Andreas looked down at his sneakers. His toes had begun to freeze.
“‘The Elephant’s Tusks’ is a good title, but there are a few things I’d like to discuss with you.”
Andreas nodded. He crossed his arms and slapped his body for warmth. “What about the other stories? I don’t remember the one about the mother.”
“The one about the mother is the best one. No doubt about it, the best.”
Andreas felt his lips stretching into a smile. This was what he’d been waiting for. Why couldn’t he remember the story about the mother, then, and that title? Sebastian took his arm and led him across the ice. Apparently his leather boots were better suited than sneakers for slippery surfaces.
They walked together back toward the bar. The drizzle was letting up. Blågårds Street still looked dark and deserted.
“Did you hear all those sirens too, just awhile ago?” Andreas said.
“No,” Sebastian replied. “It’s been quiet the entire time I’ve been outside.”
At the corner of Baggesens Street, right beside the bicycle shop, at number 10, Sebastian took a key from his pocket and opened the door.
“Are you living here? I live right across the street, number 13.”
“Yes, I know.” Sebastian turned the hallway light on and stepped inside. “Come on.”
“Won’t we wake your mother?”
“No, she’s a heavy sleeper.” He pulled down the zipper of his jacket. Andreas could feel his socks, wet now.
The apartment was on the top floor. The dark hallway smelled old and dusty. It was easier to get their bearings after Sebastian opened the door to the living room, but the smell persisted. It was a strange odor. Andreas took off his shoes. “You don’t have to do that in here,” Sebastian said.
In the living room, a door to another room stood open. The door couldn’t be closed because the end of a bed extended over the doorstep. A pair of feet.