The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [76]
Nina turned onto Jagtvej just as the lights turned amber. Morning traffic was not yet closely packed in the two-lane part of the road, but behind her, she heard beeping horns and a squeal of brakes. The gray SUV behind her had followed her into the intersection much too late and was stuck untidily crosswise, fender to fender with a similar monster that was now blocking all traffic in the direction of Nørrebro.
Nina couldn’t help feeling a certain unholy glee as she shifted easily into fourth gear and continued unhindered in her small and rather unremarkable vehicle. She hoped those two CO2-offenders had a fun time exchanging insults and phone numbers and moaning about the dents in their ridiculously large fenders. A sort of cosmic justice, she thought—the bigger you get, the more you bump into things.
THE DRIVER OF the Landrover was yelling at Jučas and jabbing an aggressive forefinger at him. Jučas didn’t understand a single word the idiot was saying, nor did he care. He held up both hands disarmingly, and only the acute awareness that there was a police car parked no more than two hundred meters away kept him from punching the guy’s lights out instead. It wasn’t even rage, just frustration. But God, it would have felt good to plant a fist in that self-righteous, arrogant face and feel the cartilage crunch.
He forced himself to smile.
“No damage,” he said, pointing to the Landrover’s intact front. “No damage to you. My car, not so good, but okay. Have nice day.” Milky white shards from the Mitsubishi’s headlights decorated the pavement, but nothing could be done about that now. What he needed was to get away, as quickly as possible, before the boy-bitch managed to disappear again. He ignored the continued protests of the Landrover-man, in English now, got back into the Mitsubishi, reversed, and managed to get free of the other vehicle.
“… driving like an idiot, what do you think the red lights are for, Christmas decorations?”
Jučas just waved, and drove off. Hadn’t she turned right at the next intersection?
“Did you see where she went?” he asked Barbara.
It was some time before she answered.
“No,” she said. Nothing else.
He threw a quick glance at her. She looked oddly distant, as if the whole thing was no longer any of her business. But perhaps the fender-bender had left her a little shocked.
“No harm done,” he said. “It’s just a broken headlight. I can fix it myself, if we can find a garage.”
She didn’t answer. Right now he had no time to coax and cajole and work out what was wrong with her. He signaled a right turn, but of course he had to wait interminably while about a hundred bicycles went past. What the hell was wrong with people in this city? Couldn’t they afford cars? It seemed as if half the population insisted on teetering along on two wheels, endangering the traffic.
Next intersection. He hesitated, causing a chorus of horns behind him. He could see no Fiat. Decided on a left turn, and ended up in a one-way hell full of “enclosed areas” and fucking flower beds that apparently had to be placed in the middle of the street. Reversing aggressively, he tried to get back to the main street, but it was hopeless. Three or four