Copenhagen Noir - Bo Tao Michaelis [75]
“It’s my mother,” Sebastian said, his voice low. “She loves to have the bottom of her feet massaged. If you’ll do that, then I’ll go out and warm the soup.”
“The soup?”
“Yes, I’ve made soup for us.”
Andreas walked over to the feet. The nails were long and thick. A few of the toes were crossed, and the bunion on one foot stuck out like a sharp weapon. How could he have made soup for both of them when he hadn’t invited Andreas over? Sebastian had yet to budge from the doorway. He still wore his sweater and windbreaker.
“They’re horrible,” Andreas said.
“No, they’re just deformed,” Sebastian answered, and went into the kitchen.
They weren’t merely deformed. There was something threatening about them. He craned his neck to see inside the room. The bed took up the entire space. He could barely glimpse the bedstead in the dark. The mother’s face lay hidden somewhere in there. He looked again at her feet. He was alone with them now, and he realized he had begun shaking. His hands and knees. He could simply not do it. But he felt as if he didn’t have a choice. He reached out for the feet, brushed against the thick nails, then quickly pulled his hands away. Took a deep breath. Thought he smelled basil and thyme. That must be the soup.
Outside the window, a cloud slid off the moon and lit up the room. The pale feet seemed almost transparent. Blue-violet veins stood out, thick as earthworms, under her skin. He leaned over the foot of the bed, but still he could see only the white blanket that covered her entire body, hiding all of her limbs except her feet. He looked out at the moon and noticed the building across the street. For the first time he realized how close the two buildings were. Light shone from the upper-floor windows. He recognized the bookshelf in the living room. He could almost read the titles on the books’ spines. They stood in alphabetical order. Usually he cleaned them off with a feather duster—one of those old-fashioned ones, in cheery colors. Someone was walking around over there. He’d forgotten to turn off the lights. Andreas recognized every movement. The T-shirt with the faded printing. The temperature was different over there. The smell. But the body. The body was the same one. It surprised him that that was how it was.
He took a deep breath and turned back to the feet. The skin was thick and waxy. The heels rough and hard. They were cold, the feet. Ice cold. It didn’t help to massage them. He understood that immediately. Yet he put everything he had into it.
THE BOOSTER STATION
BY SEYIT ÖZTÜRK
Valby
Kris stops, and I barge right into him. The winter cold makes my nose hurt. “What the hell are you doing?” I yell, and I think I can taste blood in my mouth, but what do I know? After all, most of my face is numb from the cold.
Kris doesn’t answer. He reaches around, trying to grab something. His big hand rams the middle of my chest, and I’m about to topple backward, but he has a good grip on my coat. With his other hand he points at something down in the ditch ahead.
“What? What are you doing?” I ask, when I’ve regained my balance. “You trying to kill me?” It feels as if his hand has left a crater in my chest.
Kris stands completely still. His arm is still stretched out. I follow his index finger.
At first I can’t see what he’s pointing at. I can see the railroad, the rails that disappear around the curve, the noise barrier, the gray sky … what is it he sees? What is he pointing at?
Then I spot it. Right there. In the ditch, all the way down by the barrier, a naked pale foot is sticking out of some sort of bundle; at the opposite end, right at the barrier, a head is visible. Wet hair blocks off the face, but it’s a head. No doubt about it.
We stand, frozen. He still has hold of my coat, and I’m clutching his arms with both hands. The bundle lies motionless. A strange silence. A wrong silence.
“Is it a dead body?” Kris whispers, and he looks at me.
I shrug, I don’t know. He gives me a shove, wants me to go down and