Copenhagen Noir

It seems as if there is nothing more to do. A few days go by rambling around erratically: another night in Vesterbro, a glimpse of the young prostitutes huddled together again, talking eagerly on a corner, a beer or three at various bars, shawarma and bad fast food, I visit the Russian restaurant in a basement on Israels Plads just one time, in hopes of something happening. I eat a fine bowl of borscht that tastes of more than boiled beets, but otherwise it’s just tables of families with young kids. Daytime I aimlessly follow the stream of light, blond people on the streets, homogenous in contrast to the motley street crowds I’m used to in New York. Suddenly I’m desperately homesick. I want to go home. And I discover I have already buried Lucille, I’ve passed the point of acknowledging that she is dead, that I will never find her. I don’t think anyone will find her. I think the Russians have shut her up for good, because she discovered that they were trafficking girls from Gambia. I think they’ve stowed her away forever. Buried her in a forest or dumped her in the sea, far from the Danish coast. Maybe they even murdered her in another land far away. The earth has swallowed Lucille. She called out to me and I was incapable of answering her. I didn’t grab her hand. I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope. Eliot again, Four Quartets. Wish I could. Wait calmly without hope. Once, at a distance, I see Kirsten bicycling up Vendersgade with Mia in her child’s seat. Another time I think I recognize Lucille in a packed bus at Nørreport Station. But it’s just my imagination. Finally, I call the airline and ask them to reserve a flight on my open ticket. I pack the framed drawing in with the few clothes I brought and put it all in the suitcase. I pay the sleepy man at the hotel reception desk. He hands me a brown package with clean clothes. The vomit clothes. The 28th of December, around ten a.m., I walk down to the metro that runs out to the airport, and I sense how relieved I am to leave this city that, for one reason or another, always ends up huddling in on itself, shutting out the world right in front of my eyes. It snows lightly. There is ice on the roofs. Sleet and salt on the sidewalks. I walk past the flower booths on the square where the vegetable market once stood, red-cheeked women and young girls with stocking caps pulled down over their foreheads. Buy a cup of coffee at Café Dolores, set my suitcase down in the slush, and light a cigarette. Once again, this is how I take leave of Copenhagen. And again I swear to never come back. But it’s not until after checking in, as I sit calmly at the gate, waiting to board, that Kirsten forwards a text message to me.

Hi K. Sorry I haven’t called until now, have a new #;) Living in Ǻrhus with Johan. D threatened me and beat me 2 times when he found out about J. Bastard. So I got out of there. Am totally in love. Do you know anybody who wants to buy a cheap apartment in Turesensgade? Hehe. Â bientôt, L.

L. for Lucille. I swallow several times. The world swims in front of my eyes. And it’s as if everything inside me plunges down, down, down, everything gets swept along, broken. I squeeze my eyes shut and all I see is a chasm, a wild gorge of darkness. I see precisely how I lose my grip, fall, and disappear. I ask out loud: “Why?” Open my eyes. Look out at the gray, snow-laden sky the planes lift off into, land from.

I should be happy. I should be so

happy.

ONE OF THE ROUGH ONES BY JONAS T. BENGTSSON

Northwest

I’d thought these images would be less chilling without the sound. Nothing much happens the first few minutes. The screen flickers. Slack,

they call it. You should always forward a new tape a little bit before you begin recording. Count one, two, three, four…

Then a girl on a bed. Somebody lives here, the walls are a faded yellow. Daylight streams onto her from a window that must be to the left of the camera.

The metal tool in the girl’s hand looks cold. Like something a gynecologist would use. Surgical steel. I fumble for the word. What is it, it’s on the tip of my tongue. She’s lying on her back on an unmade bed, slowly spreading her legs while she smiles at the camera.

I don’t think I know her. It’s not Maria, definitely not. Though I can’t help thinking I’ve seen her before. Maybe on a bus or sometime in town. Maybe I’ve seen her in another film like this one. But she doesn’t have the look of a pro. Her movements are clumsy. It could very well be her first time in front of a camera.