Copenhagen Noir

WHEN THE TIME CAME by Lene Kaaberbøl & Agnete Friis Ørestad

“Shit.”

Taghi felt the tires on the junker Opel Flexivan sliding and losing traction in the icy mud. If he drove any closer to the entrance they might get completely stuck on their way out. The marble sinks were heavy as hell, and right now a wet, heavy snow was barreling out of the black evening sky, forming small streams in the newly dug earth in front of the building. The walkway around the building lacked flagstones. Nothing at all, in fact, had been finished. The whole place had been abandoned, left as a gigantic mud puddle, slushy and sloppy, and they were forced to park out on the street.

Taghi backed up, swearing in both Danish and Farsi. It would be backbreaking work lugging all the stuff that far, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He wasn’t going to risk getting bogged down with all that shit out here in the middle of nowhere. No goddamn way.

They hopped out on the street and stood for a moment, hugging themselves in the icy wind. The building looked like every other place out here. Glass and steel. He’d never understood who would want to live in such a place. True, there was a view of some sort of water if you were up high enough, but otherwise… Taghi sneezed and looked around. The other brandnew glass palaces were lit up as if an energy crisis had never existed, but there was no life behind the windows. Maybe nobody wanted to live this way after all, when it came right down to it, and it would for sure be a long time before anyone moved into this particular building. The workers had been sent home several weeks ago. Something to do with a bankruptcy. Taghi didn’t know much about it, but he had been by a few times in the past week to check it out. They could pick up some good stuff here.

At the corner of the enormous glass façade, pipes and cables stuck up out of the ground like strange, lifeless disfigurements. A stack of sheetrock lay to the side, the top sheets presumably ruined by now; the middle ones might be okay but they were a waste of time. They were after the marble sinks in the ten apartments. Three men, three hours work, and a short drive out to Beni’s construction site in Valby. It was exactly what he needed, Beni had said.

The front door stood open a crack.

When they had been by earlier that day it was locked, and Taghi sensed Farshad and Djo Djo exchanging glances when he carefully shouldered the door open and stepped into the bitter cold hallway.

“Let’s go, ladies.”

Taghi’s voice rattled off the unfinished cement walls, and he regretted wearing hard-heeled boots. Every single step rang upward through the stairway, fading into weak echoes that vibrated under the large, clear skylights, the steel beams, and the tiles dusty from all the construction. He fished his flashlight out of his pocket and let it play over the steps.

Had he heard something?

Djo Djo stumbled over a few half-empty paint cans, and Farshad laughed at him, a loud, ringing sound. Djo Djo grumbled and hopped around on one leg, the paint cans clattering around on the dark tiles. Those two babies. Annoyed, Taghi bit his lip and decided the ground-floor apartment to the right was a good place to start. For some reason he had gone totally paranoid. Wanted out of here, quick. He felt a prickling under his skin.

“Shut up, you two. It’s not that goddamn funny anyway.”

Farshad held back another giggle, but at least they didn’t speak until they reached the half-open apartment door, and now there was that sound again. A muffled, drawn-out moaning that rose and fell in the empty pitch-dark surrounding them.

Taghi stiffened. “What the hell is that?”

Djo Djo’s whisper broke, his voice on the edge of failing him. “It’s some kind of totally weird ghost or something.”

The muffled moaning was weaker again. They stood listening until it died out, and now the only sound was Djo Djo’s nervous feet on the dusty tiles.

“We’re out of here, right, Taghi?” Farshad had already stepped back, he was gripping Djo Djo’s arm. “We can always come back tomorrow.”

Taghi didn’t answer, he was gazing at the darkness in the doorway while he considered the situation. The truth was that he felt exactly the same way as Farshad. He wanted to get out. He felt sticky underneath the down jacket Laleh had found for him in Føtex-løsning, the discount grocery. He heard a faint scraping sound and possibly a sigh from inside the apartment. He felt unsure, but he was the oldest, after all, and he had to decide what they should do.

“It’s not a ghost,” he said, in a voice as strong and steady as he could make it.

The others hesitated behind him when he pushed the door open and entered the apartment, the beam from the flashlight bouncing in front of him like a disco ball out of whack. There was an open living room and kitchen, bathed in a pale orange light from the plate-glass window facing the canal. Taghi knew instinctively that this wasn’t where to look. It was too open, no place to hide. An empty space at the opposite end of the living room led into what must be the guest bathroom. If there had been any doors in the apartment they were gone now. Maybe someone else had gotten here before them, Taghi thought. Something dark was moving in there. Rocking back and forth on the floor still covered by clear plastic from the painters. He heard Farshad gasping behind him. He had followed, while Djo Djo hung back at the newly plastered island in the kitchen.

Taghi pointed the beam of light directly at the black shadow, and before the figure even turned its head toward him, he knew he’d been right.

It was a woman.

She sat stooped over the toilet seat. Her skirt hung sloppily around her hips and thin legs. Her arms arched like taut bows over the toilet bowl. Like someone throwing up, Taghi thought. But he knew what the woman was doing. First it was as if she didn’t know they were there, not really, anyway. But when he stepped closer she turned her head, and her eyes, completely naked and black, met his.

They had been so close. So close that she could see the bridge, see the long rows of lights leading to Sweden. After the nightmarish days on the open deck of the ship, after months of overcrowded rooms that smelled of fear, with nervous men who always wanted more money than agreed upon, with uncertainty and despair about her belly that kept growing and growing… after all that, only one thing was left: get over the bridge. When she got there she was supposed to call Jacob, and he would come and take care of everything, the rest of her life, he had promised, with her and the baby… She felt an overwhelming yearning in her gut, almost as fierce as the contractions, and her lips formed the words he had taught her to say, the magic words that would open the gate so she could be with Jacob forever: Jag söker asyl-I seek asylum. But don’t say it before she got to Sweden, he had said. And for God’s sake, she must not be discovered before she was inside Sweden, otherwise the gate to her life with Jacob would close. If she wasn’t sent back-a terrible, horrifying thought-she would end up in some sort of refugee camp, someplace he couldn’t get to her, couldn’t be with her. It would be like prison, he said, and it could be for several years.

That was why Chaltu hadn’t said anything about the jolts of pain shooting through her body. She had tried, tried, but eventually she couldn’t hold it back. The sounds were coming out no matter what, just like the baby. And then it happened, the one terrible thing she couldn’t let happen. Her water broke, came rushing from between her legs and out over the seat beneath her.

The driver stopped the car. This is no good, he said. He cursed about the seat that was wet now, but even worse was how she couldn’t sit upright and keep quiet when the contractions came. They would be stopped, and he wasn’t going to prison because of her, he said.

She screamed and wailed and begged, and they had to drag her out of the car by force. She even tried to run after them, but of course that was hopeless. The driver floored it and a shower of slushy gray snow sprayed up in her face, and then the car was gone.

I will die, Chaltu thought. The baby will kill me and neither of us will ever see Jacob. She slugged her stomach with both hands, punches of helpless rage, and she had to bite her cheek not to say out loud the curse that was on her lips. I must not curse my own child, she thought. God will punish me for that. Holy Virgin, what have I done? But she knew well enough. Her sin was love. Love for Jacob, a love that had no future in Adis Ababa, but maybe in Blekinge, where he had lived since he was seven and was now studying, in Blekinge College and Yrkeshögskolan, to become an agronomist.

She kept walking without knowing where she was going. First she thought she might be able to find the bridge again and cross it on foot, but she quickly lost all sense of direction. What kind of a city was this? There were no people, none at all. It was almost as if the buildings owned the city and the streets, as if they had decided that they didn’t want any dirty living creatures crawling around.

A strange singing tone stopped her. For a moment she wondered if she were hearing angel voices, because she was so close to death. But then a light popped out, an entire snake of light, and she saw that it was a train, even though it zipped through the air above her, on a track supported by concrete pillars. There was water underneath the track, long shiny-black sheets of water reflecting the train light. Why couldn’t it run on the ground? Chaltu wondered. It was as if someone had erected a bridge just to remind her of the one she couldn’t get across.

There were people up there, she noticed. They were being carried through the dead city and they looked warm and cozy and cheerful in the belly of the snake train.

The wet snow was denser now, and the wind drove it against her head so she could no longer feel her face. When she noticed the building still under construction, with the fence knocked down and the empty, dark windows, she realized it might be a place she could stay without being discovered. No one could be living there.

And it was dark and quiet in there too, but there were so many windows. She thought the whole world must be able to see her. And it was almost as bitter cold as outside. There were no blankets, no furniture, nothing soft whatsoever. Some of the inside doors were missing. The wind whistled through the main hallway, and the wet snow slid quietly down the enormous panes of glass.

A violent contraction came-it felt as if God Himself had grabbed her with His giant hand and squeezed until she was close to breaking apart.

“Stop,” she whispered desperately. “Stop.” If only it would hold off again. If the contractions would stop; if the baby would just stay in there and leave her alone-then maybe she could cross the right bridge to the right country instead of dying in the wrong one.

She crouched down on the tile floor beside a toilet bowl because she felt least visible there. But the sounds from inside kept coming, and what good did it do to hide?

Here there is no one, she told herself. The building is empty, it is unfinished. No one can hear you now. But suddenly there was someone. She hadn’t even heard him come in. She just opened her eyes and there he was. Her heart took a long, hovering leap and ended up stuck in her throat.

He was just a silhouette in the dark, a darker outline, and the glare from the flashlight blinded her even more. A moment earlier she had thought she would die either from the cold or from her baby. Now another possibility had shown up.

“Leave me alone,” she said, but of course he didn’t understand her.

The man said something, and she realized he wasn’t the only one there.

“Don’t kill me,” she said.

And he didn’t. To her amazement he took off his coat and put it around her shoulders.

His name was Taghi. She understood that much from his words and gestures, even though they shared almost no common language. And he was trying to help her. This was so strange that she could barely comprehend it. His hands were friendly, his tone of voice reassuring. And he said one word she understood.

“Doctor,” he said in English. “We will get you to a doctor.”

“No,” she answered, the word scaring her. “No doctor.”

“It is okay,” he said, slowly and clearly. “It is a secret doctor. Okay? You understand? Secret doctor okay.”

She couldn’t answer. The next contraction hit her, and she was only vaguely aware that he brought out a cell phone and called the okay secret doctor.

Nina was staring at the vending machine when the telephone rang. For a measly five kroner you could choose between coffee with cream, coffee with sugar, coffee with cream and sugar, bouillon, pungently sweet lemon tea, and cocoa. Unsweetened and uncreamed coffee had once been options, but they had been eliminated sometime in the mid ’90s, if those who had been here even longer than her were to be believed.

It’s Morten, she thought, without taking the phone from her white coat. And he’ll be pissed with me again.

She was tired. She had been on duty since seven that morning, and the Danish Red Cross Center at Furesø, commonly known as the Coalhouse Camp, was every bit as ravaged by December flu as the rest of Copenhagen, with various traumas and symptoms of depression thrown in, plus an epidemic of false croup among the youngest children in Block A.

Despite all that, she could have been home by now. If she had left at four, after the evening nurse delayed by the snowstorm had finally shown up, she could have been sitting right now in their apartment in Østerbro with a cup of real coffee and a few of the slightly deformed Christmas cookies Anton had baked in the SFO, his youth center. Why hadn’t she? Instead of hanging out on a tattered, tobacco-stained sofa in the Block A lounge, listening through the walls to Liljana’s thin cough, her professional ear focused. How obstructed was the child’s respiratory tract? How much strength was there behind each cough? Should she be suctioned again, and when was the last time her temperature had been taken?

The sick-staff excuse was about as worn out as the sofa-Morten wasn’t buying it any longer.

“Damnit, Nina. She’s your mother!” he had hissed the last time she had called home to say she’d be late. He was supposed to be going to some sort of show with the others from his work, and if she wasn’t there it would be the second night in a row that Nina’s mother would be alone with the kids.

The phone began to repeat its cheery little electronic theme. Reluctantly, Nina grabbed it out of her coat’s pocket.

It wasn’t Morten. It was an extremely frantic voice she didn’t recognize until he said his name.

“It’s Taghi. You have to help. There’s a woman, and she’s… she’s about to have a baby.”

Even then it took her some time, for Taghi had been out of the Coalhouse Camp for three years, and there had been so many others since then.

“Take her to the hospital,” she said, even though she knew that wasn’t an option. Not when he was calling her.

“No,” he replied. “She’s from Africa. She won’t go to the hospital. You have to help.”

I’m not a doctor or a midwife. The words were in her mind, but she didn’t speak them. Her exhaustion was already gone. Adrenaline shot into her blood, she was clear-headed and energetic. Morten will have a fit, she thought. But this would be so much easier than trying to explain to him why she couldn’t handle spending another night alone with her own mother after the kids went to sleep.

She set the plastic cup of lukewarm coffee with cream down on the scratched table. “What’s the address?” she asked.

Taghi glanced at his watch. Wasn’t it about time she got here? He was out of his league here, he wanted so badly to hand over this woman and baby and the contractions and birth to someone trained for it. He was a man, damnit. He shouldn’t even be here.

He heard a sharp metallic click, and suddenly the whole apartment was bathed in a piercing white light from the spots set into the ceiling.

The woman crouching on the floor grabbed desperately for his arm. Taghi heard Djo Djo and Farshad swearing softly out in the kitchen area. A second later they stood beside Taghi in the small bathroom, where they both squeezed their way in behind the wall, the only thing shielding them from being in full view from the street outside.

Someone had walked into the hallway, and Taghi immediately assumed it was the police, and thought that the residency permit he’d worked so hard for was about to go up in smoke right now, right here, in front of the entire fucking district of Ørestad. Someone had turned on the building’s electricity and the harshly lit apartment made him feel like a fish in a very small aquarium. The bathroom was the only place to hide. He caught Djo Djo’s eye and held his index finger to his lips, warning him.

The footsteps outside rapped sharply against the tiles. Whoever they were, they weren’t afraid of being heard. They walked past the door and stopped farther down the hallway. There were at least two of them, maybe more.

The dark-skinned foreigner on the floor fidgeted and held both hands over her eyes, as if to protect herself from the whole world. Another contraction was on its way. Her backbone formed a round, taut bow underneath her summer jacket, Taghi noticed; soon she would be moaning again. Soon they would be discovered.

If they nailed him for theft they would send him back to Iran, or at the very least back to the refugee center. To the knotted-up feeling of not knowing where he would be the next day or the rest of his life. The letters from his lawyer, from the state. The stiff white sheets of paper folded perfectly with knifesharp edges. How would he take care of Laleh and Noushin then?

Taghi caught the woman’s eye when the next contraction overtook her and she moved to get back on her knees. As if she was trying to flee from the source of the pain. He stopped her halfway and pulled her head against his chest while shushing her, the way you would shush a young child.

Now the men outside were arguing. It was impossible for him to hear what it was all about, but one of them yelled that the other was an asshole. Then their voices were muffled by the creak of an elevator door, which slid shut and swallowed the rest of the argument.

Quiet.

“Shit.”

Djo Djo was the first to stand up; he slapped the light off in the kitchen area. The snow outside swirled in the cloudy yellow spotlights illuminating the building’s façade. Taghi rose and moved to the window facing the street. Farshad came to stand beside him.

“Why don’t we just get out of here?”

Farshad looked warily over his shoulder at the bathroom door. He was more afraid of the woman than the men, Taghi thought.

Farshad was nineteen and Djo Djo eighteen. Childbirth was obviously not their strong suit.

Taghi’s pulse was pounding in his temples.

“Okay, you called that woman,” said Farshad. “Time to split. Me and him, we’re out of here for sure.” He gave a jerk of his head in the direction of Djo Djo.

“And leave her here alone? Na baba. You’ve got to be kidding.” Taghi nodded fiercely and pointed out to the van.

A metro train whistled past on the tracks above the black canal. No conductor-it was some kind of new technology they had installed when the metro was built. It was all automated. The light from the windows of the empty cars reflected in the water.

He supposed the shadow came first, hurtling past the window, but it was the sound that Taghi reacted to. A hollow, wet thud, like the sound of a very large steak being slapped down on a cutting board.

The man had landed on the stack of wet sheetrock less than a yard from the window and was definitely dead. Taghi didn’t need to go outside to check. He was lying on his belly, with his neck twisted back and to one side, so that they could see his forehead and his eyes. Or rather, eye. The part of his face that was resting against the sheetrock had been crushed so completely that it was just a pulped mess. His one identifiable eye was staring at Taghi, Farshad, and Djo Djo with a strangely irritated expression.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck. What the fuck do they think they’re doing?” Farshad’s voice stumbled, shrill and pitched too high in the dark behind them, and Taghi knew right then that Farshad was a bigger problem than the woman in the bathroom.

Her eyes were wide, but she had stopped talking. He couldn’t even hear her breathe. He felt the shock himself, like a strap tightening around his chest. Despite this he managed to reach out and clap his hand over Farshad’s mouth.

“Khar. Shut up, you big idiot,” he hissed.

Farshad thrashed around like a drowning man under Taghi’s right arm. Now they heard quick steps on the stairs. The front door opened and slid shut with a quiet click. A moment later a pair of headlights swept over the glass façade. The car took off and the sound died behind the thick thermal windows.

Taghi slowly removed his hand from Farshad’s mouth. He wasn’t sure that Farshad was completely calm yet, but at least he wasn’t shrieking like some old woman. In the bathroom the woman had begun to groan again. It sounded like she was calling out for someone. She no longer had the strength to crouch, she was rolling on the floor, trying to curl up as the contractions grew stronger. Her lips formed a fluid and nearly silent stream of words, and her long, slim hands clutched at thin air and then grabbed a corner of his sweat-soaked T-shirt.

“Jacob?”

Taghi rubbed a hand across his eyes. He needed to think.

Djo Djo had stepped right up to the window to get a better look at the corpse.

“What the hell we do now, Taghi? He’s dead. The police will come. They’ll be looking for us and they…” Djo Djo spoke slowly, searching for his words, as if the reality of the situation first struck him as he talked about it. “Maybe they’ll think we did it. Then we’re fucked. They’ll throw us out, they’ll kill us.”

Taghi had been thinking the same thing.

Their fingerprints were all over. Farshad’s gloves dangled from his pants pockets. One in each pocket. Djo Djo hadn’t even brought any. All they had planned on doing was liberating a couple of fucking sinks. That’s not something they nail you for-not seriously, anyway.

The woman had another contraction. They came every few minutes now. She was pulling him down, as if all she really wanted was someone she could drown with. She was crying.

“You have to find something to cover him up with.”

Djo Djo glared silently at Taghi. Then he grabbed Farshad’s shoulder and dragged him toward the door. Farshad stumbled, found his feet again, and trudged off behind Djo Djo, who was as agile as a cat in the dark.

A second later, Taghi saw the two brothers standing outside the window, struggling with the green tarp from the van. The wind grabbed the tarp, making it look like a dark, flapping sail against the multitude of brightly lit windows on the other side of the canal.

The woman on the floor loosened her grip on Taghi a bit, and as he straightened up he noticed a thin figure walking their way, leaning into the wind, hands over her face to shield herself from the big wet flakes.

She had arrived.

Nina zipped her down jacket all the way to her nose before getting out of the car.

Brave new world. The streetlights’ reflections shimmered in the black water of the canals, and the elevated railway looked like something from a sci-fi film. Trees and bushes didn’t belong in this vision of the future, the general impression was that organic life forms were unwelcome here. How in the world did an African woman about to give birth end up here?

Brahge Living, a big sign said, illuminated by a powerful floodlight. 24 exclusive condominiums-for sale NOW! The colorful, optimistic drawing of the finished development formed a sharp contrast to the muddied mess of construction and the toppled wire fence.

Brahge, she thought to herself, hitching up her shoulder bag. He was the man who went broke. One of the most publicized bankruptcies in recent times, because Torsten Brahge had been regarded as one of the best and brightest, having just been awarded some business prize a few weeks earlier. Investor megabucks were in danger of evaporating. She had seen the man’s slightly chubby, Armani-clad figure on the front page and in several self-pitying television interviews, though she couldn’t remember what he had said. Usually she quickly grew tired of hearing wealthy people moan about the financial crisis and the real estate collapse.

A battered-looking van was parked beside the fence, and she caught sight of two young men grappling with a green tarp just outside the building. Life in the desert, she thought, and lifted her arm in a stiff, frozen wave

“Is Taghi here?” she yelled.

Both of them stared at her as if she were some monster that had crawled out of the canal. But one of them nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “Are you the doctor lady?”

“Nurse,” she corrected.

He shrugged his shoulder, whatever. “He’s inside. Ground floor to the right. You’d better hurry.”

She found them in the apartment’s tiny guest bathroom, the woman on her knees in front of Taghi, clinging to him with both hands. The quiet hope Nina had been nourishing that it might be false labor and a touch of hysterics immediately disappeared. The woman’s coat and skirt were soaked with amniotic fluid. If there were any complications, Nina decided, she’s off to a hospital whether she likes it or not.

At that moment the woman’s eyes flew open, and she looked straight at Nina.

“Hi,” Nina said in English, in her most reassuringly professional voice. “My name is Nina, and I’m here to help you. I’m a nurse.”

“Doctor,” the woman gasped. “Secret okay doctor.”

“Just say yes,” Taghi said. “I don’t think she understands much English. Her name is Chaltu.” Taghi didn’t look so hot himself, Nina observed. Anxious, nervous, but that wasn’t so surprising, either. She had a good idea what he was doing here. Or anyway, what he would have been doing had a woman giving birth not gotten in the way.

He tried to stand up, but Chaltu kept clinging to him.

“No go,” she said. “Jacob no go.”

“Sometimes she calls me Jacob,” Taghi said. “Don’t ask me why.”

Nina touched Chaltu’s arm. Her fingers were bloodless and gray, her skin icy cold. She let go of Taghi with one hand and swatted at Nina, who was trying to see how far she had dilated.

“Chaltu,” Nina ventured. “I must look. Look to see if baby is coming.”

“No baby,” Chaltu groaned. “No baby here. In Sweden. Jag söker asyl.” And she pressed her legs together so hard that her thigh muscles quivered.

Jesus, Nina said to herself, and took measure of the woman’s desperation. If it was possible to delay a childbirth by will alone, this would turn into a very long night!

“We have to get her someplace where we can keep warm,” Nina said. “Is that your van?”

Taghi looked toward the window facing the parking lot, and Nina followed his eyes. She saw the two young men outside, pulling a blue nylon rope through the green tarp’s grommets. A violent gust of wind rammed them. One of them slipped in the mud and lost his grip on the tarp. It flew up, flapping like a bird trying to fly away. Underneath lay a dead man.

It took her only a few seconds to recognize him. The Armani suit had had a terrible day, and the man inside a worse one. There was no doubt, however, that it was the head of Brahge Living lying there, very much dead.

The two young men got the tarp under control and tied it down, and the well-dressed corpse disappeared from sight. But it was too late. Nina had seen him. And Taghi knew it.

They stared at each other over Chaltu’s head.

“We didn’t do it,” Taghi said. “The guy just went flying past us and-wham!”

Nina nodded. She also stuck her hand in her pocket and began pressing numbers on her cell phone blindly, not bringing it out. But he noticed. He tore away from Chaltu, who screamed in a burst of fright, and suddenly he had a knife in his hand. The blade was barely two inches long. A pocketknife, Nina thought, no murder weapon, and he didn’t hold it as she imagined a murderer would. It looked more as if he were about to sharpen a stick to roast something over a fire.

All the same. He had a knife.

“Give me your phone,” he said. “Now!”

She thought about what was at stake for him if the police came. Everything he stood to lose. She gave him the phone.

Chaltu looked back and forth between them with eyes that could hold no further terror. Taghi plopped Nina’s Nokia into the toilet. Then he brought out his own cell phone and punched a few numbers. Through the window she watched one of the young men let go of the tarp and put his hand to his ear.

Taghi began to speak, fast and in Farsi. Nina didn’t understand a word. Yet for the first time she felt a jolt of fear.

Fucking morons.

Taghi could barely control his anger. He felt it, warm and throbbing just under his skin. No one had better touch him. No one. Especially not those two idiots standing there fidgeting by the door. Just covering up a body with a green tarp-you would have thought it was a pretty simple job. It wasn’t like he was asking them to perform brain surgery.

They stood there staring at Taghi and the doctor lady and the woman on the floor. Farshad squirmed around like a three-year-old in need of a pee. His eyes moved back and forth uneasily between the doctor lady and him, as if he was trying to figure out what Taghi was thinking. Taghi knew he ought to say something, but he didn’t know what. Plus, he didn’t want to talk to that idiot. Not right now. They had a problem. The African wouldn’t go to the police, of course. The doctor lady, on the other hand…

Would a Danish woman be able to drive away from here and forget everything about the squashed corpse on the sheetrock outside? Could he let her go?

His thoughts were broken by Farshad, who again spoke way too fast and way too loudly. “Shouldn’t we…” He hesitated and flashed another look at the women in the tiny bathroom. “Shouldn’t we kill her, Taghi? Isn’t that what we should do?”

Taghi caught Farshad with a whipping blow across the back of the neck. He didn’t want to talk to him, mostly he wanted to hit him again, harder. Farshad’s astonished expression stopped him, and instead he spoke slowly and clearly.

“No, we are not going to kill her. Ajab olaqi hasti to. You are as stupid as a fucking donkey.” Taghi’s low, tense voice quivered. “Keep your mouth shut while I think.”

Farshad, clearly hurt, stared at him, then he bowed his head.

“Taghi.” The doctor lady’s voice sounded like a gunshot in the tense silence. “You’re all going to have to help me hold her. She won’t do anything.”

Taghi gaped at her. She couldn’t be serious. Did she think they looked like a bunch of nurses? He was about to say something, but he stopped. One glance at the sinewy little figure beside the African woman convinced him that there was no room for discussion at the moment.

The doctor lady had made a pallet for the woman consisting of Taghi’s down coat and Djo Djo’s fleece. On top of that she had laid clean white towels from the shoulder bag she’d brought along.

“Sit so you can support her head, and then shut up. Apparently you’re Jacob at the moment, and it works a lot better if you’re not yelling at your cousin.”

Taghi trudged back into the bathroom, and slid to the floor without another word. He raised the woman’s head and shoulders so she could rest against his thigh. He dared a quick glance at Djo Djo, who was still standing in the kitchen area, his expression an absurd mixture of terror and amusement. A brief, nervous laugh escaped him.

The eyes of the doctor lady gleamed fierily in the dark. “You two can make yourselves useful and see if there’s any hot water in the pipes.”

Djo Djo and Farshad got going too. Taghi heard them swearing beneath their breath at the kitchen sink. There was water, but it was cold. The African woman hunched over and pushed so hard he could see the small veins in her temples standing out in the weak light from the streetlamp. He put a hand on her forehead and sent a quick prayer off to heaven. For her, for the baby, and for the three of them-Djo Djo, Farshad, and himself.

He turned again and looked at the doctor woman. Nina. Her face blazed with a pale, persistent concentration.

“It’s coming,” she said, glancing up at him with something resembling a weak smile.

“I know.”

The African woman opened her eyes and looked directly at him as the next contraction hit. And he thought about what it must be like-to give birth here, among strangers, among men.

Down between the woman’s legs, the doctor lady reached out with both hands and made a quick turning motion, and Taghi heard the wet sound from the baby slipping out onto the white towels.

It was a boy, and he was already screaming.

“Blessed Virgin, Mary full of grace, free me from this pain, Gaeta, Gaeta, Lord have mercy upon me, may all your saints protect me, and I will honor you… honor you…” Chaltu had to pause for a moment because God’s fist squeezed the air out of her, but she continued the litany in her head and time disappeared for her; it was the priests’ mass she heard, she thought she could smell the incense and feel the pressure, not from labor but from the crowd, all trying to catch a glimpse of the procession, the long parade of holy men clad in white costumes trimmed in red and gold. “Hoye, hoye,” the children sang, swaying and clapping their hands, and farther forward she could see the Demera, the holy bonfire waiting to be lit. The Meskel festival had arrived in Addis Ababa, and she was a part of it, swaying in rhythm to it, and she felt uplifted, she felt like she could float above the crowds and see over them instead of standing there among backs and thighs and shoulders and legs.

“Chaltu, push. Go on now, push!”

Hoye, hoye… be joyful, for today the true cross is found, praise God Almighty for today all sins are forgiven… and Jacob’s eyes gleamed at her, his hands supported her so she didn’t stumble despite all the people around her pushing and shoving. In that moment it made no difference that she hardly knew him, that he was only home for a visit, that he wasn’t the one she was supposed to marry. She loved him, loved the open look in his eye, his rounded upper lip, the way his earlobe attached to his neck. Loved him, and wanted to make love to him. It was as if the holy Eleni herself smiled upon them and promised them that their love would be clean and unsinful. Hoye, hoye. Today life will conquer death.

But why did it hurt so badly? She no longer understood this pain, no longer remembered the baby, instead she called for Jacob, again and again, but he faded away from her, as did the priests, the singing and clapping children, and the bonfire, the flames of which were supposed to show her the way to salvation.

God’s hand crushed her, she could neither think nor scream. She could just barely sense that she was surrounded by strangers, and that the arm she was clinging to wasn’t Jacob’s.

“Look, Chaltu. It’s a boy. You have a son.”

They laid a tiny, wet creature, a baby bird, on her stomach. Could it really be hers? She knew she should hold it, but her arms felt cold and heavy as stone.

It took several minutes before she realized that the baby had been born, and that she was still alive. A miracle, it was, and she only slowly began to believe it. For the first time in many days she felt something other than pain and fear. She raised her heavy arm and curled it around the baby-bird child. Breathed in its odor. Began to understand. Hoye, hoye, little one. We are here, both of us. We are alive.

Nina regarded Taghi’s tensed-up face. She sensed that the truce was over. The umbilical cord had been cut and tied off. The placenta lay intact and secure in the plastic basin she’d brought along from the clinic. The little boy whimpered in Chaltu’s arms, pale against her dark skin. And Nina’s reign had ended with the birth. Now they were back to the corpse and everything death brought with it.

Farshad said something or other, his voice catching nervously. Taghi answered him, negatively Nina thought, but she wasn’t sure. How terrifying it was that they could discuss what to do with her without her understanding a word. Taghi had said that they didn’t kill Brahge, and she couldn’t really believe he was a cold-blooded murderer. They aren’t evil, she told herself, and tried not to think how absolutely normal, unevil people could do horrible things if they were pushed far enough.

“Why don’t you just leave?” she said. “You can take Chaltu and the baby with you, and I’ll wait until you’re long gone before I call the police.”

“Yeah, right,” Djo Djo said, and scratched himself quickly and a bit too roughly on the cheek.

Taghi said something sharply, obviously an order. Djo Djo protested, and Farshad started to titter nervously, maybe at what Djo Djo had said. But finally the brothers left the apartment. Nina saw them through the window, lifting the tarpwrapped body and carrying it over to the van.

All of a sudden they were rushing frantically. They pitched the body in the van, threw themselves into the front seats, and roared off. Seconds later Nina could see why. On the other side of the canal, on Ørestads Boulevard, a police car was approaching slowly, its blue lights flashing.

Eggers stopped the patrol car.

“There’s a building with balconies,” he said. “And that van didn’t waste any time driving off.”

Janus shrugged his shoulders. “We’d better check it out,” he said. He had his regular black shoes on, not his winter boots. The radio hadn’t mentioned anything about snow when he left Allerød that morning at a quarter past seven.

Eggers called in the address. “We’re going in,” he told the shift supervisor. “But it looks peaceful enough.”

Janus sighed, opened the car door, and lowered his nice, black, totally inadequate shoes into the muddy slush. “Does anyone even live here?” he asked. The place was all mud, with construction-site trash everywhere, for sale signs in most of the windows.

“At least there’s light,” Eggers growled. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

The street door was open, a bit unusual nowadays. Eggers knocked on the door of one of the ground-floor apartments. After quite a while, a thin dark-haired woman opened the door. She stared at them with an intensity that made Janus uneasy.

“Yes?”

Eggers told her who they were and showed his ID. “We had a report from a passenger on the metro who saw someone fall from a balcony in this area. Have you noticed anything unusual?”

A whimpering came from within the apartment. It sounded like a baby.

“Just a moment,” she said, and closed the door in their faces. Eggers and Janus glanced at each other.

“She looks a little tense,“ Eggers muttered.

Then the door opened again, and this time she held a very small baby in her arms. “Sorry,” she said. “We just got home from the hospital and it’s all a bit new to him.”

The baby made a low murmuring sound, and Janus instinctively smiled. Lord. Such a tiny little human. No wonder his mother wasn’t too pleased about the disturbance. She was looking at the baby, not at them, and even Eggers was thawing out a bit, Janus noticed. There was something to this mother-and-child thing.

“Like I said, we just want to know, have you noticed anything?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It couldn’t have been here.”

“There was a van over here a little bit ago,” Eggers said.

“Yes,” she replied. “It was the plumber. There’s something wrong with the heat, and now we have the baby… we have to get it fixed.”

“Sure, of course. Well. Have a nice evening.”

The woman nodded and closed the door.

“I bet that plumber was after a little undeclared income,” Eggers said.

“Yeah. But it’s not our business right now.”

They walked back to the car. The snow felt even wetter and heavier now. Janus wished he’d at least brought along an extra pair of socks.

Taghi was elated when the police left. It was as if he’d forgotten all about threatening her with a knife a minute ago.

“It was the plumber…” he said, in a strange falsetto mimicing her voice. “Fuck, you were good! They totally swallowed it.”

It took a moment for Nina to answer. “Get out, Taghi,” she said. “Don’t think for one second that I did it for you.”

He came down like a punctured balloon. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I got a little crazy, I think.”

“Just leave. And don’t call me again.” She remembered her cell phone and got him to fish it out of the toilet bowl.

“It doesn’t work anymore,” he said.

“No. But I’m not leaving it for anyone to find.”

All the way across the bridge Chaltu sat with her eyes closed, praying, as if she didn’t dare hope she could make it without divine intervention. Nina let her off at the University Medical Center in Malmø and tried to make it clear to her that she should wait until Nina had left before saying the only three Swedish words she knew. Chaltu nodded.

“Okay, secret doctor,” she said.

Nina looked at her watch. 11:03. With a little luck her mother would already be in bed when she got home.

The snow turned slowly into rain. The gray slush around the building in Ørestaden was melting into the mud. The blood of Torsten Brahge mixed with the rain seeping into the sheetrock, which eventually grew so pulpy that not even Beni in Valby would be able to find a use for it.

SLEIPNER’S ASSIGNMENT by Georg Ursin Frederiksberg

We are in Frederiksberg, which is a district of Copenhagen.

It is a colorful district, with old streets, quiet residential areas, large parks, a castle, a zoo with wild animals that the cautious fear, and theaters offering dramatic productions. As well as nooks and crannies where the law is trod upon and crushed.

One of these nooks is a lunchroom. It is large, low-ceilinged, and grubby, and patronized by a lively but not always amiable clientele. Sleipner sits at one of its many tables. He sits alone. That’s nothing new. For long periods of time, in fact, he sits there every day, mostly by himself. He is thirty-eight years old, stronger than most but not brutal, and has a heavy face with innocuous features. The articles of clothing he is wearing are wrinkled. The shoes are comfortable to put on and take off, but otherwise they are nothing worth mentioning. His hair is of no specific color and can look a bit greasy. He has almost always been a bachelor.

Over the years he has had a number of occupations and has left them, either because they were not independent enough or because he was asked to get out. Now he is a private detective. Because he cannot afford to rent a place of business, he uses his regular table as an office. Those in his crowd know they can find him there. Because there aren’t many in his crowd who have need of a detective, he also provides other similar services.

Most of the time his facial expression remains unchanged. A sleepy mask, seemingly unable to convey either alertness or boredom. Therefore, and perhaps for other reasons, practically no one seeks him out for the pleasure of his company. When someone approaches him and begins a conversation, it is professional in nature. Once in a while a client sits down across from him and begins to present him with a problem, but his only reaction is an acknowledgment of the greeting, should there be one, with a “Hi” and a serious glance. When the problem has been described, he might ask a few questions, then he keeps his mouth shut while thinking. When he has finished thinking, he offers his assistance and sets a price, which includes an advance. For the most part the amounts of money are small. His crowd seldom can afford more. When they have the means, a rare occurrence, usually they don’t have the desire.

Today he has no clients. He has been served the cheapest item the lunchroom offers. It consists of smoked fried pork with boiled potatoes and parsley gravy. In addition to numerous thin slices of dark, heavy Danish rye bread. Not only is it the cheapest meal on the menu, it also is the only one served ad libitum, all you can eat. Sleipner often takes advantage of this by ordering it in the morning and devouring it for hours, such that it fills him up for the entire day. It has been a few hours since he ordered, and he is about finished. He concludes with a glass of draft beer, very cheap and, as his crowd puts it: fortified with water.

Just as he finishes, a client comes along. It is a man he knows, but not well enough to know his real name. Sleipner knows only that he goes by the nickname of Bruiser.

Bruiser claims to have a problem. Sleipner doesn’t ask what it is about. In the initial stage of the meeting he limits himself to gazing around the room. This maneuver is based on bitter experience. He knows that when someone sits at his table, the many people who have noticed his guest and recognize him can say to themselves and others: “I saw with my own two eyes that he hired Sleipner.” Sleipner also knows that those who have such knowledge can contrive to hold the guest responsible for intentions the guest may not have, and to make Sleipner an accomplice.

But no one seems to take an interest in Bruiser’s visit to Sleipner’s table today. At nearly all of the other tables, men and women are sitting and having a good time together. Many of them are either stocky, corpulent, or obese. They are loud and resolute, and each wears clothes exhibiting very little harmony, especially regarding the choice of colors. Their attention seems to be concentrated more on their own distinctiveness than anything else.

Sleipner relaxes and lets Bruiser continue his confidential account. Bruiser speaks without passion, which after a while Sleipner begins to wonder about, since people with problems usually express their worry. Suddenly he realizes that Bruiser isn’t seeking counsel, he is threatening Sleipner. Someone has stolen something from Bruiser, who now is twisting Sleipner’s arm to retrieve whatever has been stolen.

Sleipner shows no sign of how he doesn’t care for this type of stunt. He keeps his cool and tells himself that it would be stupid to resist because Bruiser would likely be quite dissatisfied, which in Bruiser’s case means vengeful and crude. For the time being, Sleipner nods sympathetically at Bruiser, who explains that the stolen goods are securities that he wants back immediately.

Bruiser doesn’t say that Sleipner has no choice but to help. He doesn’t say that Sleipner must do it for free, either. In fact, he says only that he assumes that Sleipner will take care of this matter for him, and that he will be paid to do so. Sleipner is certain both that the payment will be no more than a trifle and that it would cost dearly to refuse the difficult man across the table from him.

Therefore Sleipner says he will do it, and that all he needs to know is the type of securities and who stole them. Bruiser answers that the thief is Pistol, a nickname by which the crowd knows him because he occasionally carries a pistol, and that the securities are mortgage papers of considerable value. Sleipner is handed a list of the mortgages.

Sleipner sees no reason to continue the conversation. Bruiser concurs and walks off. Sleipner sits for a while afterward and takes stock of the situation. Then he stands and walks over to a neighboring table where a broad is drinking cheap champagne mixed with English porter, which is, according to many, a very agreeable mix when grown accustomed to. He has no intention of sweet-talking the broad. He merely asks her if she knows where Pistol is staying nowadays. The broad says that Pistol is moving in with Rattlesnake. She also tells him where Pistol has been living. Sleipner takes the opportunity to milk her for Bruiser’s real name and where he lives. Finally, Sleipner unleashes a small, grateful smile, something he rarely does because he seldom has reason to, and he leaves.

Sleipner walks to the address where the broad claims that Rattlesnake lives. The building is in a rear courtyard. It is four stories high. Rattlesnake’s name is on the intercom’s resident list, fourth floor. Sleipner refrains from pressing the button, because he will get nothing out of announcing his arrival. He lays a heavy hand on the front door’s handle, and it opens practically by itself. Then he takes the stairs up to the fourth floor, he stops and listens. He hears nothing from inside the apartment and considers walking in without talking to anyone. But he doesn’t like that idea, and more than anything he feels relieved when he suddenly hears there is someone at home after all. He recognizes the voices of both Pistol and Rattlesnake. And goes quietly back down the stairs.

He takes a close look at the building’s façade. It is a strange façade, because it is every bit as impressive as those of many of the buildings out on the district’s streets, and it is hard to see why this type of luxury exists in a rear courtyard. But such is Frederiksberg. The façade has cement angels and gargoyles. In addition, a large area is covered with Virginia creeper.

It is little trouble for Sleipner to clamber up such a façade. Since childhood he has climbed all kinds of places, and here it goes very quickly. He reaches the fourth floor unwinded, plants a foot on a gargoyle, puts his arm around an angel, and takes good hold of the creeper. Then he looks in through a window and sees nothing inside except for a packing box and some papers lying on top. It is obvious that Rattlesnake and Pistol are pulling up stakes and moving to a better place.

Sleipner lets go of the angel, pulls a small pair of binoculars out of his pocket, focuses them on the papers, and tells himself that if he’s not mistaken, and he is sure he is not, these papers are the very mortgages that Bruiser talked about.

Then Rattlesnake appears in the doorway to a neighboring room. Sleipner recognizes her immediately. Her nickname doesn’t originate from any resemblance to a snake, but rather because she is every bit as terrifying as one, which makes her easy to pick out. She grabs the papers and disappears with them.

Shortly after, Rattlesnake steps out in the courtyard. Pistol, carrying the documents, trails her. They walk through the courtyard toward the street and disappear without noticing Sleipner hanging on the façade. He is very pleased that they didn’t see him.

When they are out of sight he makes his way down to the ground. He follows them.

The couple pick up their pace out on the street, chatting gaily as they walk to a bus stop and stand facing traffic, therefore not noticing Sleipner’s arrival. He stands at a distance from them, making sure that he is concealed behind a man as big and broad as a heavyweight boxing champion.

Then the bus comes, and Sleipner hurries to get on before the other two. He walks quickly toward the back of the bus, sits down, and holds a hand in front of his face to avoid being recognized. Rattlesnake and Pistol sit in front of him and begin discussing their next move. He overhears that they plan to sell the mortgages to an economic consultant with whom they have an appointment at three o’clock. Rattlesnake says that she needs to shop for something, and that she will be done before three.

The two get off the bus and walk into a department store. Sleipner rides further, then he gets off and, knowing the address, heads straight for the consultant’s office, where he asks the young lady behind the reception desk if the boss is busy. He is not in and will not be back until a little before three, the lady says. Sleipner asks if he may wait; permission is granted. He sits in the reception area and gazes wearily into the air. The lady walks into a kitchenette. She closes the door and bangs some utensils around. Sleipner gets up, treads heavily to the outer door, opens it, and slams it shut. Then he walks as quietly as possible into the boss’s office, shuts the door softly behind him, and inspects it. There are several articles of furniture and quite a bit of printed material. An enormous velvet curtain hangs in front of a window.

Sleipner sits down in a chair and remains quiet. Twenty minutes later he hears voices in the reception area and therefore assumes that the consultant is back. Sleipner stands, hides behind the curtain, and sits on the windowsill.

The consultant comes in. Soon, Rattlesnake and Pistol join him. They say hello to the consultant and ask how he is doing, and the consultant answers that he is doing fine, and he asks them the same question and they give him the same answer. They all look as if they expect to quickly wrap up a profitable transaction.

The consultant reviews the mortgages and says that it’s good work and he would like to buy them, that it can’t be detected that the mortgages are forgeries. The couple says that it’s because Bruiser did the work.

“He’s really good at that sort of thing,” Pistol says.

The three of them agree on a price for the mortgages. Pistol writes on the documents that they are hereby assigned to the consultant.

The consultant wants to give the sellers a check, but they smile coolly and ask for cash, which they receive. The sellers leave. The consultant walks out, leaving the mortgages behind on the desk. The receptionist closes the outer door as she leaves.

Sleipner gets up off the windowsill, sits on the edge of the desk, and counts the mortgages. There are thirty-two. He slips them under his arm and leaves the office.

That same evening Sleipner sits at his regular table. He is very relaxed, as if he isn’t afraid of anything. He passes the time with some Danish beer. Then Bruiser shows up, sits down across from him, and demands to know how it went, even though Sleipner has had only a short time to complete the assignment. Bruiser enjoys doing this-making people toe the mark, giving them an order and asking them the next day if they’re done yet.

Sleipner says that it went well, that he has the mortgages.

“Hand them over,” Bruiser says.

“First I want my money,” Sleipner says.

“Not a chance,” Bruiser says. “First the mortgages, then the money.”

“You get nothing before I have my money,” Sleipner says.

Bruiser pauses a moment and thinks. His counterpart’s resolute attitude has given him a sense that something is abnormal about the situation. That Sleipner has some particular basis for being so stubborn, or he has gone insane, which does not make matters easier. Bruiser, therefore, changes his tactics.

“Okay,” he says. “Here’s your money. Go get the mortgages. Right now.” Bruiser removes a thousand-kroner note from his wallet and waves it around a bit, as if it is fish bait.

“Fine, now all I need is forty-nine thousand more.” Sleipner is completely cool.

“What do you mean, another forty-nine thousand kroner?”

Bruiser looks at his table companion with sorrow and amazement, an expression that he uses occasionally as a warning that abuse and harm may follow. Sleipner recognizes this warning and swiftly deflects the danger.

“I’ll explain it all to you,” he says. “I got the mortgages. I found out they were forgeries, and that you’re the one who made them. If I notify the police about it, you’ll do time. But I won’t say anything to the police if you buy them from me. It’ll cost you fifty thousand kroner. You pay now, I deliver later.”

“Wrong,” Bruiser says. “If you tell the police I did the mortgages, I’ll tell them you stole them. Theft is a crime.”

“You’re the one who’s got it wrong,” Sleipner answers. “Theft, according to the penal code, is a crime involving something of value. If the stolen goods have no value, there’s no crime. Since the mortgages are forgeries they’re invalid, and therefore worthless.”

“It’s like this,” Bruiser says. “The police won’t believe you if you tell them I did the forgeries.”

“They’ll figure it out soon enough. They have fingerprint and handwriting experts.”

The decisive words have now been spoken by Sleipner. Bruiser is silent. He resembles a masculine version of the goddess of revenge as he pulls out forty-nine thousand kroner. He slides them and the previously shown thousand-kroner note over to Sleipner, who slips them into his inside pocket and stands up.

“You’ll bring them to me now,” Bruiser says. His tone is menacing.

“If I’m not delayed or find something better to do,” Sleipner says, and leaves.

Outside, Sleipner makes sure he is not being followed, then walks to a supermarket and goes to customer service to request the return of a full grocery sack that earlier in the day he dropped off for safekeeping. He is given the sack, which contains groceries and mortgages.

Sitting on a park bench, he pulls out the mortgages. Later he walks into a post office and mails a thin envelope with fifty thousand kroner to an address in Jutland.

He walks back to his table, where Bruiser sits with four empty and one half-full whiskey glasses and waits for him.

“There,” Sleipner says, and lays thirty-one mortgages on the table.

Bruiser counts them. “There’s one mortgage missing,” he says. He speaks slowly, almost lifelessly, yet with a threatening undertone, as if he is the quiet before the storm.

“Of course. Naturally, I’ve kept one,” Sleipner says. “Otherwise I’d be walking around scared that you’ll take revenge on me. That won’t happen, now that you understand-I’m telling you now, anyway-that should anything bad happen to me, one of my friends you don’t know and never will know will send the final mortgage to the police, with the message that you forged it. I can send it to the police myself, if I think you’re beginning to act naughty.”

Bruiser can’t believe his ears. Then he thinks it’s too crazy to really be true. Not until later does he realize the battle is lost.

Sleipner and Bruiser never again sit at the same table. It seems as if they both prefer the company of others, should they desire company.

But when Sleipner and Bruiser run into each other-something that cannot always be avoided, being part of the same crowd-Bruiser is always quite friendly, in fact very polite.

And that is worth taking note of. Politeness, you don’t see much of that in their crowd.

DEBT OF HONOR by Klaus Rifbjerg Amager

The wind drove the rain in over the market’s flat roof in gusts, and the sidewalk from Elbagade to Parmagade floated. The streetlights still retained some of their half-blind poverty from during the war, though by now it had been several years since the last Prussian had dragged his boots and himself southward. But maybe it was just his imagination, maybe it was just his inner light, turned down so low that it resembled a pilot light. Maybe that was it, that he, Aage Baldersen, was on pilot light.

He pulled up his coat collar and felt its clammy chill against his neck hair. Despite the blackouts and everything else, there had been more action during what some called the evil years, but what he thought of as the good years. There had been lots to do, and while most felt something was left missing when the police were nabbed on September 19, 1944, and sent to Germany, others-he included-felt a certain relief. Not because he was a German sympathizer, but no one would deny that it had taken a certain amount of pressure off the underworld when the law had been removed in one fell swoop and later replaced by the so-called Vagtværn, the private guard whose effectiveness in relation to the police was on the scale of a teaspoon to an excavation crane.

Someone had thrown a few snipped-up Christmas trees on the bare ground by the depot. Their limbs shook hysterically in the wind gusts and were mirrored in the large puddles formed by the rain. Disgruntled, Aage Baldersen blew out through his nose. Right now there was only mud and slush, but occasionally during the summer a circus slapped its tents up on the lot, and once, having nothing to do that day, he’d been stupid enough to buy a ticket for a show that should have had to pay its audience, that’s how bad it was. One of the clowns was an obese former half of a comedy duo who’d had some success in film. Now he looked like a worn-out punching bag and was just as funny as one.

Parmagade stretched out before him into the horizon. The blocks towered up on both sides of the street, and the vanishing point was anybody’s guess in the drizzly mist. But Baldersen knew very well what was hidden out east; back when the five-room apartment had a porcelain washbasin (women painted on it) and real booze and wasn’t a dump like now, he had bicycled the route many times, past the hospital and along Italiensvej and down to the beach and public baths that had proven to be a convenient meeting place when the bosses decided how the work should be divided. Nobody was going to frisk someone in their birthday suit!

Those days had been great in a lot of ways, and he didn’t even have to close his eyes to picture them. There had been a shortage of everything, but if you could get hold of a product in short supply it could be sold at a high price. Actually, he was very proud that he’d been part of what had to be called a major economy. True, it had developed underground, even though the retailing was done out in the open. But in front of the Lido by the Liberty Memorial and on Suhmsgade, it had naturally been only small stuff: single cigarettes, butter and sugar ration coupons, some 60 percent soap, and bike tubes with no holes. Baldersen’s level was more wholesale, but it made him happy anyway to see all the activity when he occasionally-and mostly for pleasure-inspected the troops.

He blew rainwater out between his lips and stepped into the hallway, where a weak, sour odor met him. The place needed painting, and there wasn’t much varnish left on the steps. While hauling himself slowly upstairs he felt the moisture that had seeped through the soles of his shoes.

Naturally, Aage Baldersen had understood that things wouldn’t be the same after the Liberation, but the first few years went very well. People still lacked everything that made life a bit more fun; the promised boatloads of bananas arrived a lot later than most had expected. But now he’d hit bottom, and while others saw light ahead, he stared into a growing darkness. And that’s really what surprised him the most: he’d lost his zing. It was as if all the fun had gone out of life. Once he’d been cheerful and energetic, now he was mostly surly, if not depressed.

Deep inside he knew what it was about: a lack of excitement. If he wanted he could get work-honest work-but he didn’t seem to have it in him, his slide had been too severe, and when it was all said and done, he had been the one left holding the bag. They bought him out with cash, and he’d been dumb enough to take it (who says no to a truckload of C-notes?), but when the paper money exchange came after the war, he was sunk-there was no way he could explain where all that money came from. He was so depressed that he couldn’t even enjoy the flames when all the bundles ended up in the furnace.

And this is where he’d ended up. Aage Baldersen opened the door to his apartment-room-that you walked directly into because it had no entryway, with the bathroom out in the hall. His shoes had dried enough from the climb up to the fifth floor that they left only small tracks on the floorboards when he walked in, yet he didn’t know what to do with his coat. He stood undecided for a moment, then he unbuttoned it and let it fall to the floor in a wet heap. He was soaked from the knees down.

He sat on one of the two dining room chairs that were the sum total of the apartment’s furniture and turned his eyes to the window facing the courtyard. One good thing the peace had brought: it wasn’t necessary to lower the blinds, the blackouts were over, the view was open. No longer busy with anything else, Baldersen now permitted himself to enjoy the free entertainment from a distance. Being broke prevented him from enjoying the pleasures to which he’d had such ample access in the good old days, but he took a certain dogged pleasure in seeing how people made fools of themselves in the illuminated rooms above and below, arguing, fighting, or hunching listlessly over dining room tables, and the bitches, yes, there were bitches too, and when he discovered that he had a view of two dykes who weren’t ashamed of performing most of the stunts their kind dreamed up, and in full public view, it both aroused and enraged him. A pair of cows like them should have been shipped south with the other perverts, but anyway he wouldn’t want to have missed them.

He grabbed the half-bottle of schnapps he kept on the shelf beside the kitchen sink. Although he had only cold running water, it didn’t really matter, since he still went to the public baths at Helgoland in the summer, and the water did a fine job of cooling off the liquor if it got too warm. He poured schnapps into a coffee cup and sat down at the table. Maybe it wasn’t just the building that smelled sour, maybe it was him. He took a shot of schnapps and directed his sight to the entertainment on the other side of the street. But not much was going on, and should Aage Baldersen be completely honest he would have to admit that it was a poor show; like the circus, it wasn’t worth shelling out money for.

The schnapps warmed him up, and a bit later he fell asleep. Naturally he was unaware of it, but in that crooked position, his elbow on the table and head in his hands and arm hanging, Aage Baldersen looked like a sculpture that could easily be entitled: “Tired Man.” That was what he was, and when a while later someone knocked on the door and he opened his eyes and felt a shudder race through him, he thought: Uhh, I never want to wake up again! But of course he woke up-after all, he was still alive.

The man he let in was about his own age, wet only on the outside of his black, shiny oilskin coat. A military belt bound it in front. Without being invited, he sat down opposite Baldersen on the other dining room chair.

“Hey, Baldy,” he said after a short pause, “how you doin’?”

Aage Baldersen said nothing, but he straightened up in his chair. The weariness that he had felt before was gone, replaced by a disgust as thick as pudding.

“I’ve got nothing,” he said.

“Excuse me,” the man replied, “I didn’t quite hear what you said. What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

The man laughed tersely. “So, that was what I heard.”

The silence lengthened between them, and only the faint reflection from the windows across the street created any sort of movement in the room.

“You know what you owe.” The man leaned forward. “You don’t walk off with that much money without there being certain… debts. Debts of honor, if you want to put it that way.”

“You want a schnapps?”

“No thanks, I don’t drink on the job.”

Aage Baldersen drained the coffee cup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Debts? Debts of honor? What the hell is that supposed to mean? You know goddamn well just like everybody else what happened to that money.”

“Half a million? You’re not going to goddamn sit there and tell me it’s gone?”

Baldersen shrugged. He turned his head and stared out the window. “Fuck you,” he said.

The man in the oilskin coat stood up, light reflected from the gloss. “Everybody trusted you, Baldy, it was a confidential deal. Everybody knew you had it under control.”

“You bought me out.”

“You’ve damn well never been worth half a million. You know that. Sure as hell you do, Baldy.”

Aage Baldersen didn’t even make an attempt at hunkering down. He just sat there.

“What you’ve done, how you’ve fixed it all up, I don’t care. I’ve just been sent to collect.”

“It was my money.”

“Your money? It was our money. Fair and square. You hear?”

The man had stepped behind Baldersen’s chair. A moment later he lifted his arm and hit Baldersen behind the ear with a small sandbag.

“Just a sample,” he said, “there’s more coming real soon. If you don’t start talking.”

Aage Baldersen rocked back and forth on the chair. That damn rain, the damn darkness. In fact, he was soaked.

“Leave me alone. I’m tired,” he said, “tired, tired, tired…”

Soon the man started pounding him. It was almost like a machine. It was as if he didn’t just want to beat Baldersen to the floor, he wanted to beat him into it. Slowly the figure melted and slid down off the chair.

“Night, Baldy, goodnight. And sleep tight,” the man whispered.

After a while the man stuck the sandbag in his pocket, opened the door to the hallway, closed it behind him, and began the long walk down to Parmagade. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the wind still blew, and the figure’s shadow moved uneasily over the walls of the buildings in the streetlights’ glow. There was no traffic, but the steady ding-ding from a small bell announced that a late trolley car was backing into the depot.

WHEN IT’S TOUGH OUT THERE by Gretelise Holm Istedgade

Despite a double gin-and-tonic and two of the small pink pills that she preferred to call “muscle relaxants,” her hands shook when she punched the number. And she held her breath while listening to the amorous voice: “You’ve reached City Sex and Luxury Massage. For telephone sex, press 1. For information about net-sex, press 2. For appointments, press 3. For personal service, press 4—”

She hung up as if she’d been burned, mixed a dry martini, and curled up in the well-preserved, original Arne Jacobsen Egg chair.

She looked out over the sound through the coast road villa’s picture window, waiting for the alcohol to relax and embolden her. Her Philippine au pair gave a friendly smile through the glass, which she was cleaning.

A half hour later Claire Winther felt she was ready. It was the only solution, the only way out of this situation, she told herself.

She punched the number again and pressed 4 for personal service.

“This is Bonnie. What can we do for you?”

“My name is Michelle Jensen, and I’m interested in hearing if there’s a possibility of working for you.”

“There’s a decent possibility if you look really good and know what you’re doing. How old are you, and how long have you been in the business? You specialize in anything?”

“I’m thirty-four but I can easily pass for twenty-six, definitely. I have to admit I don’t have a lot of experience, in fact I’m a beginner. But you know how it is, it’s tough out there right now, you need a little extra cash, so why not… if you have a natural talent?”

“We’ll take a look at you and talk about it. Come in around six if you can, and if you have some porny pictures of yourself, bring them along on CD.”

“I don’t.”

“No problem. We’ll figure it out. In fact, we could use a Danish girl right now, so if you’re okay…”

Claire felt calmer. Bonnie had sounded like a normal, everyday person. How hard could it be?

She chose a dark wig and large sunglasses. The oldest pair of jeans she owned, and a red lace top under the black leather jacket that hadn’t been outside the closet for five years. Given her exclusive wardrobe, this was the cheapest she could look, she decided, and she topped it off with crimson-red gloss lipstick and a shot of a much-too-heavy and sweet perfume, a shopping mistake.

Obviously she couldn’t arrive at the brothel in her Jaguar, so she called a cab and asked the driver to drop her off at the main station. It came to eight hundred kroner.

The November murk lay wet and heavy over the city, so she pushed her sunglasses up on her forehead as she walked down Istedgade, first past the row of hotels next to the station, then past all the porn and sex shops decorated for the Christmas season.

It was fascinating, she had to stop and stare through the shop windows. A Christmas manger scene with the tiny baby Jesus-surrounded by dildos. A blow-up sex doll with a silicone pussy wrapped in a chain of red heart-shaped Christmas lights. Handcuffs, leather whips, half-masks, and chastity belts hung on a plastic Christmas tree with a star on top and icicles covering it.

At the shelter, the Men’s Home, the guests for the night had already begun to gather. Hoarse voices, the clinking of bottles, and tubercular coughs rose from the group of ragged, dirty, homeless figures. Claire decided to cross the street to the other sidewalk.

There was more dignity to the slick black kings of the street, who in two-and three-man groups marked off their territories, while the black females busied themselves braiding hair in salons, the walls covered with wigs and hairpieces of all colors.

The African hair salons were something new, thought Claire, who hadn’t sat foot in Vesterbro since she left as an eight-year-old.

A drunk wearing only an open leather vest on his upper body tumbled out from one of the half-basement tattoo shops and knocked into her. His skin was totally and colorfully illustrated from his bald head to his waist.

More sex shops, more Asian grills, more stores with weird combinations of souvenirs, Christmas decorations, porn underwear and sex toys, more bars, more brothels.

At Skelbækgade, the street prostitutes-the lowest in the pecking order, the most desperate-were already busy. Addicts and Africans, as far as she could tell. Several men walked back and forth, openly sizing them up, while others crept past in their cars.

The nine-to-five shift, they called these early sex customers, when she was a kid.

At the spot on Istedgade where the place begins to look respectable again, she turned right, down a side street.

She stopped when a text message beeped in. It was John, from Rio: All’s well, dear. Brazil is the land of opportunity. Great deals. Looking forward to getting home December 9. Hug and kiss.

She answered at once: Thanks, hon. On the way to new fitness center. Trying to get in shape for Christmas. Take good care of yourself.

The fitness center was to be her alibi. She had a membership card in her pocket.

“Wow! You’ve got class!” Bonnie said, looking almost lovingly at her as she pulled her in through the hallway to the reception area.

Ikea, Claire Winther noted. Cheap, but light and clean and less sleazy than she had expected. A beige corner sofa and a coffee table with porn magazines. A counter with a coffee maker and plastic cups. A flatscreen on the wall, fastened to a swinging arm.

“Here’s where we receive customers, who come in only by appointment. They call or book on the net. As a rule, anyway. If it’s totally dead we’ll take them in off the street. I keep track of the shift schedule and the appointments and do the books, and most of the time I’m sitting right there.”

Bonnie pointed at the chair and desk behind the counter.

A madam, Claire thought.

Bonnie was closer to sixty than fifty. She was overweight in the way alcoholics can be, a bulging stomach and thin arms and legs, her face ruddy and spongy with large pores that looked even larger because of her makeup, and she spoke with a hoarse, nasal voice.

She continued: “Five of us are full-time. Take that back, five of us were full-time. Alette, our Danish girl, died two weeks ago. Sad story. There’s so much bad heroin around right now. Not that Alette was an addict, no no, she only fixed once in a while to feel good, she just got unlucky… You don’t look like…?”

Claire shook her head. “No, I stick with the supermarket drugs you can get in Brugsen,” she answered.

“Good, because drugs-they’ll just take you farther and farther down!” Bonnie put a protective arm around Claire’s shoulder, looked her right in the eye, and almost whispered: “I can’t count how many I’ve seen kick the bucket with their stilettos on…” Then she continued, more businesslike: “Right now we have two Thais and one Romanian, sweet girls, all of them, but the Thais don’t understand Danish. They’re here on tourist visas-three months at a shot. Theresa from Romania has a residency permit here and speaks pidgin Danish. Problem is, more and more of our customers only want Danish girls. It’s all this talk about trafficking that’s scaring them. God’s sake, the foreign girls beg for a job, and now for example we’re saying no to all the African girls, so they’re on the street-painting the town red, as they say.”

Bonnie smiled at her own wittiness and went on: “I take care of the phones and the cheap net sex, where they can jerk off to the sound and video files I send them, along with some live talk, moans and groans. Ten kroner a minute! Doesn’t sound like much but it actually brings in quite a bit. Then we have a webcam so they can buy direct live shows. Most of them want girl sex, that’s a lot more expensive of course, if it’s direct and interactive, but all this about the money, you just let me take care—”

“How much?”

Claire received a warm smile in return: “You-you can hit the jackpot! You’re exclusive, high-class-and you’re Danish!”

Claire kept quiet, Bonnie became eager: “As a guesstimate, a good day, taking eight or ten customers, you’ll go home with five thousand kroner. Times twenty…”

“But the clinic here takes their cut?”

“The clinic takes 60 percent of your overall earnings. That’s the way it is. The money goes to rent, ads, equipment, supplies, transportation, security. Nothing under the table here. I guarantee you won’t get cheated, and there’ll be plenty of work. We’re counting on a lot of Christmas business, and Copenhagen is the only place left in Scandinavia where it’s still legal to buy sex. The Bangkok of the North, ha ha!”

Bonnie showed her the rooms. Three had double beds, a large bathroom with Jacuzzi and whirlpool bath-also for servicing customers-and a dressing room and wardrobe, complete with everything necessary to the trade.

Bonnie measured her by sight and concluded: “C-cup, 38. We have everything you need, but it’s all right if you bring something along.”

A back stairway led from a kitchenette down to a soundproof S &M room in the basement.

The room was dimly lit, and Claire shivered inside as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Rack, gallows, iron-bar cage, tongs, whips, chains, masks, rubber and leather clothes, and various instruments to stick into body orifices.

“Down here you’ll be a queen and dominatrix, I think. You should know that many of our masochists are very important men with exclusive tastes. Have you done it before?”

“No,” Claire said. “But there’s nothing wrong with my imagination.”

“You’ll get some recordings and film to take home with you. We have videos of most of our regular customers. They all have different desires. The most bizarre, right now anyway, is someone who wants needles stuck through his foreskin-can you handle something like that?”

Claire nodded. “If it’s part of the job…”

“Also, you’re an obvious choice for doing high-class escort. Lasse is our driver and bodyguard. When you’re out with a new customer we have a security system. It’s a special cell phone that stays on so Lasse can hear everything. He’s also Teddy Bear’s man.”

“Teddy Bear’s man?”

“Teddy Bear is our owner, he owns the whole building. We pay rent to him, Lasse takes care of that. Teddy Bear’s okay. He comes around once in a while for a session down here in the torture chamber. You’ll meet him. He’s going to be wild about you.”

“I don’t want to be whipped or tortured myself,” Claire said firmly.

“No, of course not. That’s no problem. One of the Thai girls, Cindy, is pretty tough. She takes all the sadists… and Theresa is good with all the seniors, the gross-looking ones, and the handicapped…”

The problem came up back at reception.

“I’m going to get our photographer to take some gorgeous shots of you now, for the website. I’ll show it to you,” Bonnie said, and sat down at the computer.

“I won’t appear on any website. If that’s a condition we’ll have to forget the whole thing,” Claire said.

Bonnie looked serious, thought for a moment, and then said: “They need to, like, know what they’re buying. Couldn’t we show your body without your head?”

“No,” Claire answered.

“Okay, we’ll make an exception and put a different body out. You’re so beautiful, nobody will be disappointed if they even notice they’ve been tricked.”

The website popped up.

Bonnie pointed: “Here’s our Thais, Cindy and Lara. That’s what we call all of them. We bring new ones in about every three months. They don’t show their heads here, either. It’s more because of the authorities. They’re only here on a tourist visa… And here’s Alette. We haven’t taken her off the site yet. Isn’t she sweet?” A tear ran down Bonnie’s cheek and was slowly absorbed by her open pores.

Claire stared at the picture of a skinny young girl with empty eyes, a half-open mouth, and disproportionately large silicone breasts, “playing with herself,” as the text claimed. She was in the process of inserting a black dildo.

“Apparently she didn’t have any family. We were the only ones at her funeral, anyway,” Bonnie sighed. “What would you like to be called?” she then asked.

“I’m Michelle,” Claire answered.

“But do you want to use your real name?”

“Just call me Michelle,” Claire said. “And I’ll give you my cell number, but not my ID number or my address.”

“That’s fair enough,” Bonnie answered, looking as if she was thinking like crazy about the story behind this elegant woman’s decision to debut as a whore.

Bonnie started gathering up DVDs so Claire could study the servicing of customers, and she handed her a sheet of paper filled with writing.

“This is the list of our services and prices. We call it the menu,” she explained.

Claire ran her eyes over the text. Danish, Swedish, French, Greek… female sex, bathtub sex, S &M, escort and out-calls, one girl and two girls. The typical price was thirteen hundred kroner an hour at the brothel, but it was noted that the fees were only guidelines, and that customers could have individual programs made up and prices calculated.

“Actually, we’re in a situation right now where we need someone to replace Alette. When can you start?”

“Tomorrow,” Claire answered. “I need to take a look at all this.” She nodded at the DVDs.

Just as she was leaving, Cindy and Lara walked in with Lasse, a friendly, smiling, solarium-tanned bodybuilder with a ponytail. They had been at a customer’s place on an out-call.

Lasse tossed four thousand kroner on Bonnie’s desk.

“This is Michelle, she’s starting with us tomorrow,” Bonnie said as an introduction.

“Michelle, you’re totally gorgeous!” Lasse said, and groped her breasts appreciatively, winking flirtatiously at her.

The two Thai girls held limp hands out to her and smiled shyly, their eyes on the floor, then they walked into the dressing room together to get ready for the evening customers.

Claire Winther stopped by the fitness center on the way home and spoke loudly and amiably with the receptionist and the man beside her on the treadmill, making sure that she was noticed.

At home, she poured a double gin-and-tonic, which she drank while taking a long and luxurious bubble bath. Just as she had settled in her adjustable bed with her laptop and Bonnie’s DVDs, John’s goodnight text came in: Dear, what do you think about spending Christmas and New Years here in Brazil, I’ve found a wonderful beach hotel and the weather is great?

She answered: Wonderful. Just what I need-to get away from this wet and cold darkness.

I’ll reserve the luxury suite and arrange the trip. Okay with you if we leave around December 20?

That’s great for me. Kiss hug and goodnight.

Then she put the first DVD in to study the whores and their customers in action.

By midnight she knew she could do this. She had a plan. Abandon her body mentally during the act, but leave her brain in charge. Most of it was banal and cliché-ish-as Bonnie had said it would be.

“They want to believe that they’re fantastic, that they have an enormous cock and make you really horny. If you play that role you almost can’t go wrong.”

First and foremost in her mind was to take good care of herself. No sadism, no anal sex, no kissing, no sex without a condom, and no appointments without security. There were alarm buttons at the clinic, and Lasse was on duty with his phone on out-calls.

She could be firm with her demands because of her status as a luxury escort.

A week passed, and the others at the clinic were impressed with the stylish novice.

The customers were also thrilled.

A local politician, a police sergeant, and a real estate tycoon made new appointments with her as soon as they were finished. That was unusual. Most customers slink off, slightly embarrassed after the conclusion of a session, and aren’t heard from again until the urge overcomes them.

She learned quickly how to answer the eternal question: “What makes a sweet, pretty girl like you…”

“Times are tough right now, and it’s a job just like any other,” she would answer.

On the third day, a straightlaced high school teacher already wanted to “save” her.

“You are far too good for this. I’m single and wouldn’t mind having a girlfriend like you,” he said.

When she told the story to the others in the kitchenette, they doubled over with laughter.

The catastrophe came on the seventh day.

A sadist went amok with Cindy down in the S &M room and ran off without paying. Cindy was shaken up from several violent blows to the head, in addition to suffering a hand wound from trying to avoid being knifed.

She sat in the kitchenette with a dish towel wrapped around her wounded hand, crying in anguish.

“She has to go to the emergency room,” Claire said.

“That’s a problem, because she’s here illegally,” replied Bonnie.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna work, but I’ll call Teddy Bear,” Lasse said. He punched the brothel owner’s number, explained the situation to him, and had a long talk, after which he updated the others: “Teddy Bear will under no circumstances have her go to the emergency room. But we can send her home and get a new… You want to go home?” he asked her in English.

Cindy looked at him blurrily, then her head fell on her chest.

“I think she has a concussion,” Claire said. “I have a proposal: I know a doctor at a private hospital who will be discrete about this. Let me take care of it.”

They all agreed, provided no one told Teddy Bear.

“But I have to drive Lara and Theresa out on three outcalls, so you’ll have to take a taxi,” Lasse said.

First Claire had the taxi take them back to her home on Kystvejen. She picked up her Philippine au pair’s residency permit and passport, then they rode to the private hospital.

“My au pair has been hurt. She hit her head and cut her hand…” she explained to the doctor.

“She seems disoriented. We’ll have to do a brain scan and hold her for observation. Her hand isn’t serious, no tendons or vital parts have been cut, but it will have to be stitched,” the doctor said, after a quick examination. Then he looked questioningly at Claire. “It looks like an assault.”

“Yes, she had a fight with another Philippine, a boyfriend, but he was on his way out of the country, leaving today, presumably he’s already flown the coop, and she won’t go to the police… Would you like me to pay a deposit?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Cindy was wheeled away on a trolley while the doctor did her case sheet on his computer, entering various details from the passport.

“Her name is long and it’s hard for us to pronounce,” Claire said. “So she calls herself Cindy. She doesn’t speak Danish and understands only a little English, but we’ve found ways to communicate, so get in touch with me if there are any problems-and let me know when she can be picked up. I’ll stay in touch.”

First name: Cindy, the doctor wrote, and nodded politely at Claire.

She paid a deposit of twenty thousand kroner, putting it on her gold card.

That evening she told Bonnie: “I have some family coming next week. I’ll have to work quite a bit from home, so don’t put me on any shifts.”

The truth was, John was coming home from Brazil the day after tomorrow. She had given a lot of thought to how she would conceal what she was doing. Her excuses would have to be the fitness center and visiting friends. Fortunately, he wasn’t the controlling or suspicious type.

It was Sunday evening, and he would be home Tuesday morning. She debated whether she should surprise him by going out to the airport. No, that would seem peculiar. His car was parked out there, he always drove home alone. She should just stay home and greet him with a warm bath and a nice lunch. That’s how he liked it.

“Monday is okay, but I’ll have to take Tuesday off,” she said to Bonnie.

Bonnie frowned, worried: “Then I’ll have to start calling around to freelancers. It’s tough right now. Christmas rush. But anyway, it’s okay. You have to take care of things at home,” she sighed.

Monday, Claire had three out-calls before Bonnie rang her at six o’clock:

“Okay, listen. Teddy Bear wants a session tonight. He’s coming in at nine, and he’s really looking forward to you after all the good things Lasse has told him. As you know, Teddy Bear is a little bit special. He wants it really hard, for a long time. Bound and gagged. The rack, cage, gallows.”

Claire looked at her watch: “I have appointments until nine, and I have to get something to eat.”

Bonnie: “Perfect. Lara and Theresa can tie him up and gag him, then he can stand there and wait until you appear as the dark mistress of the night, the slavedriver… Also, he likes the big black wigs and lots of black around the eyes. Oh, and by the way: when he blinks with one eye, stop with the pain. That’s the game.”

Claire visited the private hospital with flowers for Cindy and to hear the results of the scan. The news was bad. The scan revealed a hematoma in the brain, and Cindy needed a serious operation.

“We’ll operate tonight and hope for the best, but there is a risk of permanent damage. The hematoma is in an unfortunate location…”

The doctor brought out the scan and pointed and explained. Claire was only halfway listening. Her other half boiled with anger.

Back at the brothel, she put on the entire circuslike garb: stilettos, net hose, leather costume, half-mask, whip, and black wig. Then she slipped on the long gloves.

The long gloves that she had never taken off in the S &M room.

“The deal is, he’ll stay down there until tomorrow, but you can just leave him after he’s had two or three ejaculations. That’s the deal. Then he’ll have another ejaculation early tomorrow before he goes home to his wife, but Lara and Theresa will take care of that…”

Just before ten she walked into the soundproof basement room.

John Winther, nicknamed Teddy Bear, stood buck naked on a small platform that his leg irons were fastened to. His hands were manacled behind him, and the handcuffs were chained to a heavy iron shackle. The lower part of his face was covered by a peculiar leather creation that served as a gag. And loosely around his neck hung the gallows noose.

He could communicate only with his eyes, and Claire read the eager anticipation in them. She let her gaze glide down the length of his body, to where his erection presented itself.

He hadn’t recognized her, she was surprised at that.

She fought off a sudden impulse to flog him as an outlet for her rage, for his penis already stood greedily up on his stomach, and the mere thought of giving him a climax nauseated her.

Instead she first flung off her wig-and then her leather mask. His penis fell and shrunk into itself like a frightened snail, and she read genuine terror in his eyes.

In a moment of weakness she considered removing his gag so he could answer her question: WHY?

But no, she had made up her mind long ago. No explanations and excuses, no more lies. Instead she held a monologue: “You’ve surprised me in two ways, John. One: I’d been expecting you, but not tonight. And two: I didn’t know that you were the pimp. Just thought you were a customer.”

His cheeks moved, and a weak whistling sound escaped from the leather clump in his mouth, while his questioning eyes shone with horror.

“How did I find out? Oh, it was so banal: your secret cell phone with the prepaid card! It was lying in your desk drawer, vibrating, the day I was waiting in your office-when you were late for lunch at King Hans. I read all the text messages about Alette’s death. It was a bit cryptic: A is dead from an OD-that’s how it looks. I understood that. My own mother died of an overdose. Murder or suicide? That’ll never be solved, right? I call it murder, whether the poor woman stuck the needle in herself or not!”

She drooped and went quiet. Tried to recall the image of her mother but could remember only her scream and her frightened eyes.

When her mother entertained customers, Claire had hidden in a cubbyhole behind the clothes hanging in the closet. That evening she’d fallen asleep in the cubbyhole, and when she crawled out the next morning her mother lay cold, dead on the sofa. The needle lay in the ashtray.

Claire was put in an orphanage and later placed with a number of foster homes. She did okay for herself, and had never set foot again in Vesterbro.

John Winther rattled his chains desperately.

She continued: “At first I only thought divorce, but then it hit me: why should I divorce myself from a few billion kroner? A text from ‘the mistress’ gave me the idea. I’ve been waiting for you, waiting for this hour in this room. Before you die, I want you to know that Cindy, the girl you wanted to ship out of the country with a brain hemorrhage, was operated on tonight. She’ll be okay. I’m guessing that the only reason you bought this building was to have easy access to sexual services, and the income from the whores was just a little bonus that in your habitual greed you pocketed. But it’s a lot of money to them, so I plan to pay them back when your estate is settled. Goodbye, John.”

All she had to do was tighten the noose around his neck.

He climaxed as he died.

The next morning, wearing her warm mink, the tall, elegant Claire Winther stood in the airport and waited for her husband. When he didn’t show up on the flight from Rio, she contacted the airline, then the police. She showed them the text message about his arrival and seemed to be on the verge of tears. A few hours later it was discovered that he had arrived the previous day.

At approximately the same time, the police were notified of a brothel customer found dead in Vesterbro. The two incidents weren’t immediately seen as being connected. Claire Winther received a call on her secret cell phone with the prepaid card. The conversation was short, something about her making sure that the bill would be paid.

Then she tossed the cell phone down one sewer drain and the card down another.

Toward evening the police showed up at the coast road villa. There was reason to believe that Claire’s husband was dead, and would she like to sit down.

Claire broke down when she identified the body, and she was offered emergency counseling, to which she said yes, please.

The tabloids all carried essentially the same story the next day: One of Denmark’s unknown billionaires, the Danish-American John Winther, had died in a sex game gone awry at a brothel in Vesterbro. In connection with his death, the police are looking for a small Spanish-speaking woman answering to the name of Michelle. She is possibly from South America. According to the brothel’s other prostitutes, the woman had recently been hired for a trial period and was servicing John Winther in the brothel’s S &M room, where the accident occurred. John Winther, 46, earned his fortune as an international developer. Recently he had bought up and developed sites in Russia and Brazil, where his company was presently involved in new subdivisions. The company owned many properties, both in and outside of Denmark.

The doctor had recommended to Claire that she check into a hotel to avoid the press storm, so she took a suite at D’Angleterre. The chairman of the board for John Winther Development, a prominent business lawyer, briefed her in the suite.

The company was in good shape, it could carry on as if nothing had happened, with one difference-she was now the majority stockholder.

“I’m going to spend the winter at our house in Florida, but I want to be kept informed of anything significant happening with the company, and to participate in all the board meetings,” she said.

The chairman nodded: “Naturally.”

Again she stood in the airport. Had just checked in her luggage, when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and looked into a puffy, yeasty face with pores like craters.

“Bonnie!”

“You won’t forget us, right?”

“Of course not. You know me! But things need to settle down a bit. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

They waved for as long as they could see each other.