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Authors: Peter Høeg
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sunshine. He's bare-chested and has a big black diver's watch on his left wrist. He's laughing at the photographer, and at that moment, with every tooth and every wrinkle enhanced by his laughter, he is Isaiah's father.
It's late. But it seems to be a time when those of us who keep the machinery of society going give it one last kick before Christmas in order to earn our bonuses-this year it's a frozen duck and a little kiss behind the ear from the director.
So I open the phone book. The Copenhagen district attorney has offices on Jens Kofods Street.
I don't know exactly what I'm going to say to Ravn. Maybe I just need to tell him that I haven't been duped, that I haven't given up. I need to tell him, "You know what, you little fart? I just want you to know I'm keeping an eye on you."
I'm prepared for any sort of reply. Except for the one I get.
"There is no one by that name working here," says a cold woman's voice.
I sit down. There's nothing to do but breathe gently into the receiver to stall for time.
"To whom am I speaking?" she asks.
I almost hang up the phone. But there's something in her voice that makes me stay on the line. There's something parochial about her. Narrow-minded and nosy. I'm suddenly inspired by that nosiness.
"This is Smilla," I whisper, trying to put cotton candy between me and the mouthpiece. "From Smilla's Sauna Parlor. Mr. Ravn had an appointment for a massage that he wanted to change . . ."
"This Ravn, is he short and thin?"
"Like a toothpick, honey."
"Wears big coats?"
"Like huge tents."
I can hear her breathing harder. I'm positive her eyes are shining.
"It's the guy in the fraud division."
Now she's happy. In her own way. I've given her this year's Christmas story to tell her bosom buddies over coffee and pastry the next morning.
"You have simply saved my day," I say. "If you ever need a massage . . ."
She hangs up.
I take my tea over to the window. Denmark is a lovely country. And the police are particularly lovely. And surprising. They accompany the Royal Guard to Amalienborg Palace. They help lost ducklings cross the street. And when a little boy falls off a rooftop, first the uniformed police show up. And then the detectives. And finally the assistant district attorney for special economic crimes sends his representatives. How reassuring.
I pull out the jack. I've talked enough on the phone today. I've had the mechanic rig up something so I can turn off the doorbell, too.
I sit down on the sofa. First come the images from the day. I let them pass. Then come memories from when I was a child, vacillating between slight depression and mild elation; I let them go, too. Then comes peace. That's when I put on a record. Then I sit down and cry. I'm not crying about anything or anyone specific. The life I live I created for myself, and I wouldn't want it any different. I cry because in the universe there is something as beautiful as Kremer playing the Brahms violin concerto.
9
According to a certain scientific theory you can only be sure of the existence of what you yourself have experienced. So there must be very few people who are completely convinced that Godthabs Road exists at five o'clock in the morning. At any rate, the windows are dark and empty, the streets are bare, and bus number 2 is empty except for the driver and me.
There's something special about five o'clock in the morning. It's as if sleep touches bottom. The curve of the REM cycle shifts direction and begins to lift the sleeper up toward the recognition that it cannot go on like this much longer. People are as vulnerable as newborn infants at that hour. That's when the big wild animals hunt, and when the police show up to demand payment of delinquent parking fines.
And that's when I take bus number 2 out to Brønshøj, to Kabbeleje Road at the edge of Utterslev Marsh, to pay a visit to forensic medicine expert Lagermann.
He recognized my voice on the phone before I had time to say my name and
It's late. But it seems to be a time when those of us who keep the machinery of society going give it one last kick before Christmas in order to earn our bonuses-this year it's a frozen duck and a little kiss behind the ear from the director.
So I open the phone book. The Copenhagen district attorney has offices on Jens Kofods Street.
I don't know exactly what I'm going to say to Ravn. Maybe I just need to tell him that I haven't been duped, that I haven't given up. I need to tell him, "You know what, you little fart? I just want you to know I'm keeping an eye on you."
I'm prepared for any sort of reply. Except for the one I get.
"There is no one by that name working here," says a cold woman's voice.
I sit down. There's nothing to do but breathe gently into the receiver to stall for time.
"To whom am I speaking?" she asks.
I almost hang up the phone. But there's something in her voice that makes me stay on the line. There's something parochial about her. Narrow-minded and nosy. I'm suddenly inspired by that nosiness.
"This is Smilla," I whisper, trying to put cotton candy between me and the mouthpiece. "From Smilla's Sauna Parlor. Mr. Ravn had an appointment for a massage that he wanted to change . . ."
"This Ravn, is he short and thin?"
"Like a toothpick, honey."
"Wears big coats?"
"Like huge tents."
I can hear her breathing harder. I'm positive her eyes are shining.
"It's the guy in the fraud division."
Now she's happy. In her own way. I've given her this year's Christmas story to tell her bosom buddies over coffee and pastry the next morning.
"You have simply saved my day," I say. "If you ever need a massage . . ."
She hangs up.
I take my tea over to the window. Denmark is a lovely country. And the police are particularly lovely. And surprising. They accompany the Royal Guard to Amalienborg Palace. They help lost ducklings cross the street. And when a little boy falls off a rooftop, first the uniformed police show up. And then the detectives. And finally the assistant district attorney for special economic crimes sends his representatives. How reassuring.
I pull out the jack. I've talked enough on the phone today. I've had the mechanic rig up something so I can turn off the doorbell, too.
I sit down on the sofa. First come the images from the day. I let them pass. Then come memories from when I was a child, vacillating between slight depression and mild elation; I let them go, too. Then comes peace. That's when I put on a record. Then I sit down and cry. I'm not crying about anything or anyone specific. The life I live I created for myself, and I wouldn't want it any different. I cry because in the universe there is something as beautiful as Kremer playing the Brahms violin concerto.
9
According to a certain scientific theory you can only be sure of the existence of what you yourself have experienced. So there must be very few people who are completely convinced that Godthabs Road exists at five o'clock in the morning. At any rate, the windows are dark and empty, the streets are bare, and bus number 2 is empty except for the driver and me.
There's something special about five o'clock in the morning. It's as if sleep touches bottom. The curve of the REM cycle shifts direction and begins to lift the sleeper up toward the recognition that it cannot go on like this much longer. People are as vulnerable as newborn infants at that hour. That's when the big wild animals hunt, and when the police show up to demand payment of delinquent parking fines.
And that's when I take bus number 2 out to Brønshøj, to Kabbeleje Road at the edge of Utterslev Marsh, to pay a visit to forensic medicine expert Lagermann.
He recognized my voice on the phone before I had time to say my name and
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