Questions should be asked always
Problems will be there anyways
[Questions] by [Dark Captain Light Captain]
I'm preparing for an intrusion to my hermetic schedule, puttering the honey-wood floors in the hallways and the Indian rugs in the main rooms as I prepare the spare bedroom for my guest. I've unpacked the makings for a special Danish cuisine. There is Egyptian red wine to go with the meal, and juleøl for after the wine – a Christmas-time beer that graces the supermarket shelves in late October and stays there until New Years . I set out the candles and illuminate the fact that I've made this space I live in [hygge] in the month since landing in Denmark. While my home is technically in central Copenhagen, it seems more like a secret far-away abode, hidden behind snarled nature, browning and mossy, with only an unassuming trail of stones to guide the way from the metropolitan street to the heavy, wooden entrance of my cozy fortress.
The starlings, their numbers slowly growing smaller as the cold days get shorter, continue to keep me company with their irritating chit-chat about the American who's come home to slice open the past. To what end? they twitter. Persistent, fruitless, asinine. Oh, the opinions they keep are so entertaining. I watch them through my warm kitchen window, their bodies glowing in golden light, their feathers soaked in the fat plops of Scandinavian raindrops and ruffled from the icy Nordic winds. They are beautifully worthless perched in my trees, perhaps even placed there by the hand of irony for my amusement alone. I leave the window and continue to prepare my home – it is my home now, I have to admit it – for my first visitor. Sylvia is coming to babysit me, and I cannot wait to see her.
The machine, of course, is worried that I won't meet my screenplay edit deadlines, because I'm never satisfied with how my love story unfolds in screenplay form. The flurry of emails sent to me – which I delete as fast as they can be sent – spell it out: the Hollywood players wish to begin work on the next phase; they're eager to bring The Miracle in July to a theater near you. The actors are itching to put on their masks, to walk in strangers' shoes. The Panasonic cameras have been rented and are set to be threaded with miles of expensive motion picture film. The movie crew is circling the airport, holding their breath, wanting to earn their wages by interpreting my script, by capturing the epic failure of my heart's desire.
But the biggest pressure comes from the faithful readers. It is the fans who I most dread disappointing, not the machine. All the machine can do is sue me and break my career and my bank accounts. It's the fans who I worry about. They've built me up to where I am, believed in me long after I stopped believing in the magic of my own words. And for months the machine has been promising them a monumental cinematic experience, [a story of hurt], of starry-eyed digital lovers, a large-scale portrayal of what it means to follow your bliss. Already a limited number of advanced tickets have sold out and online bidding wars are raging. I find this out through Sylvia. She keeps track of these things for me, and reports that there is at least one web site contest beckoning for the chance to walk down the red carpet with me on opening night, even though not one frame of the story has been captured yet. The machine reminds me of this several times a week, sometimes several times a day, in these emails which I promptly delete. I even delete Sylvia's emails, after I've read them and noted any information of importance.
I always leave that one email in my box, read, waiting for me to read it when I need to be reminded of my good fortune. It is my reality check. It prefers to be alone there in my inbox.
So, yes. The machine that is my career is nervous, shaking. And so Sylvia has been asked to fly to Denmark and check on me. Silly machine. Sylvia is on my side.
My preparations are finished, and I've gone to the airport to retrieve her. As I wait for her, I find myself standing under the same skylight which hung over Daniel as he waited for me so many years ago. Sylvia knows the image, and she knows exactly where to find me – standing there in that spectral spotlight, not needing to say a word to her. I see her instantly, looking Copenhagen chic in leggings and high boots, a smart, fringed scarf spilling out of her butter-soft burgundy leather trench coat. She is gorgeous.
She runs up to me, laughing, saying, "You nailed it! You fucking nailed it!" The Danes around us look sternly at our boisterous jumping and squealing. Her nose is turned up at them. She clasps my hand and says, "I want to see what you saw. Everything. I'm in love with the chance to see all of this, firsthand." We go down the elevators and take the train to the [Copenhagen Central Station]. It is only a short walk from there to my hiding place, to my home.
"You weren't exaggerating about those fucking birds," says Sylvia. "Or their shit! Impressive, towering mounds that look like ashed ant hills, I think you called them." Yes, that's exactly how I'd put it. Sylvia's mind is like a vise. God, I've missed her. "How does that poo withstand this pounding rain? You weren't kidding about that, either."
"Just wait until tomorrow," I laugh. I laugh! "In Scandinavia you can experience all four seasons in one hour. Like an extreme version of home. And how is my other home?"
We are sitting at my kitchen table, drinking red wine and eating the street vendor's brændte mandler (roasted almonds). Sylvia tattles on about her trip, about Portland, about office gossip. This is what we do: First she'll talk and disarm me, because she knows that I need time to lower my defenses after any new stimuli. And then, suddenly, she'll drop a question on me – the perfect question – one which deflates my barriers and sinks me into compliance, enabling her do what she's set out to do. To do her job.
As she talks and disarms, I look her over, admiring her silky hair and glossy cupid lips, her lovely decolletage and her locket – [The Miracle in July locket]. The locket is part of why she's come; she needs my official approval for it and the merchandising plans surrounding it. And I approve, alright. The locket commandeers my eyes, leading them further into the abyss of her creamy cleavage. Women – and the men who love them – will adore it.
Sylvia has moved on to business matters, discussing the locket, the fan mail, and the screenplay. She seems to be winding down, and it's nearly dinnertime, so I jump to work on the meal as she speaks. The ribbensteg (roasted pork) is almost done. The small white potatoes – impossibly, perfectly round – have begun to boil. I prepare a green salad. I melt butter in a pan over low-medium heat, in preparation for the [caramelized potatoes]. It's a dish that Daniel's mother taught me how to make, once upon a time.
"And in conclusion," Sylvia sighs, blowing her long bangs from her eyes in feigned exasperation, "The film production office is freaking out. Your deadline has come and gone, and they want you to sign off on the script. As is. Or let someone else have a look at it."
And then comes the question, the one which will crumble my walls: "Are you ready to let it go?"
I sprinkle white sugar in the bubbling, melted butter, and pull the boiling potatoes off the blaze. I turn to look at Sylvia, to gauge her opinion about this turn of events. I say nothing as we look at each other in silence.
"Look, I've read it. It is fantastically wonderful. Really. It's good," she says quietly. It's a statement, not a pleading.
"OK, sure. It's good," I say. "But is it good enough?"
I turn back to the stove and stir the sugar with a bamboo spoon. The falling sky has faded into black, and in the window's reflection I can see Sylvia looking at my back, at her nails, and then reaching for the wine bottle to fill our glasses.
"I'll decide whether it's good enough, just before you leave Denmark," I toss over my shoulder. I feel the warmth of her laughter filling the air. She knew I'd say this. "Open the jar of lingonberry jam on the table," I said. "We'll eat it with the potatoes. Are you ready to eat?"
The potatoes are drained from their water bath, and then sauteed in the sugar/butter until coated and browned. I pour them, steaming, into a serving dish. The ribbensteg is placed on a trivet, hot from the oven, and the salad is cold from the fridge. We eat like Danes and we drink like them, too. And we talk about the old times.
I met Sylvia early in my writing career. I had written and posted a lot of work online, and used social networks to share it and connect it back to the writer's persona which has served as the backbone to my career. It's a bitchy, sassy, professional personality I've created, and it's what makes the film producers wary of any change in schedule. They're waiting for the other shoe to drop, not caring to realize the artist behind the mask is another person altogether. Sylvia knows this, and has known me for years. A graduate student when we met, she loved to read my words and send me feedback, and she'd forward my work to anyone she thought would enjoy it. She is instrumental in getting my name in front of my early readers. And as my popularity – and, subsequently, my self-promotion workload – increased, she volunteered to help me so I could concentrate on writing, on creating the machine that tries to control me today. For a long time I couldn't pay her anything, but as soon as I could, I did. And I continue to pay, and pay her well. She's worth every cent.
Sylvia chuckles. "Remember that early interview we gave, the two of us on [Strange Love Live]? How we concocted a dream-story about being on the Oprah Winfrey Show? We talked about how I'd be backstage on my cell, setting up your Next Big Interview, screaming for a Tab and a bowl of red M&Ms, and you'd be on stage with Oprah talking about the book and the movie, and the fucking stage play. And then, years later, when you were on her show for real, chatting with Oprah herself, and for shits and giggles I screamed for a Tab from backstage loud enough for the whole audience to hear? I nearly got myself escorted out!"
"Fucking classic! Manifesting one's destiny is fraught with danger!" I laugh until the tears come.
The winds howl outside, the lights flicker, and Sylvia suddenly turns serious on me. "Tell me where you are in the story now. The story that keeps you here instead of home in Portland, where you belong."
"It's the part where Daniel and I are spending our last day in Copenhagen. I'm looking into the faces of the Danes – [my tribe] – for answers. You know the story," I sigh. I get up to make a pot of herbal tea. There will be more questions from Sylvia.
"I know a version of the story. Only what you've written, only what everyone else knows. But here I am, at the scene of the crime, so to speak. I can feel the electricity of missing elements. You know? I see these people on the street, and I see you with them, and I see you here in this house that you've made a home, and I wonder – no, I know – there is more to the story. Let me be your fingers tonight...?"
Sylvia, sweet Sylvia. How can I say no? "Go get my laptop, then."
Daniel. He continued to be hot and cold towards me. I wondered, then, if his behavior was cultural, or if he was "just not into me" – the way Jake had been. That first night, we slow-boiled and hit several pubs, held hands under the table, rubbed noses, and then went to our hotel to make love. Afterward, I told him the gory details of my lost finger. And then he held me, and I shivered into sleep, on his beating heart.
The next day we seemed to return to square one. Daniel's dour-self returned. We went to breakfast – a great breakfast of unsweetened yogurt with a dollop of jam, a hard-boiled egg, pickled veggies, sausage, and slices of fruits. When the food was delivered, it seemed too good for its price, and Daniel got up to confirm with the server – right then, before he would eat – that there wasn't a mix-up. I laughed at him when he returned, I kicked him under the table with a wink. He just rolled his eyes at me.
After eating, we checked out of the hotel and walked to the Copenhagen Central Station, where we could store our belongings in lockers, freeing ourselves for a day of walking. Later that night – hours later – we'd catch the train at the Central Station, to a bus stop. We'd be on the bus for an hour and a half to [Havnebyen], where we'd board [the boat] that would sail us to the Århus Harbor, to our home. Another hour and a half. But, in the meantime, we had several hours to spend together in Copenhagen.
We walked all over the city, up and down the strøget, peering in shops. Daniel would either crush me to his side, or passively reject my advances. One time – I remember this clearly – we were sitting in a nearly deserted pub next to [Tivoli Gardens]. The front of the establishment was a wall of glass, adjunct to a nearly deserted three-story mall (so very strange that commerce was not bustling on a Monday in Copenhagen) and light was flooding my senses. We ordered beers and sat at a table next to the glass, and watched Daniel's body language express an indifferent hostility. I took his hands in mine, I looked into his face, searching, and I asked: "So, how do you think this is going?" Daniel shrugged. He shrugged! I had to look away to hide my emotions. This had to be a cultural misunderstanding of some sort, I thought. I blinked hard and reminded myself that I was in love with this man online, no matter who he was off. I turned back to look at him, and he had shrunk a little. His eyes had changed from dark to a bright, clear blue. He'd felt my shift, and he leaned toward me as if he wanted to say something, to explain. But I didn't care to hear – the moment had passed. I downed my beer quickly, begged his pardon, and excused myself to use the bathroom, [wanting] to be alone. I needed to be alone.
I made my escape into the bowels of that abandoned mall, ran down the stairs and into the furthest stall. On the way I remember noticing how a funny little glass elevator reached through the center of the mall, and that the music played from hidden speakers was heard only by the sales staff in the few stores which were occupied, and me. I wanted to run up to the elevator and smash its glass with my boot heel. Out of sadness. Out of frustration. Instead I went to my stall and waited to cry, but tears failed me. I didn't cry, and this surprised me. The impulse to feel sorry for myself had dissipated when I ran away from Daniel, from his shrug, from his inability to consistently translate his feelings for me in real life. I stayed down there at least 30 minutes in an [act of defiance], just staring at myself in the warbled mirror, conversing with myself. What am I doing? I should sneak back to my locker, go back to the airport, fly home. I'd be doing him a favor. He doesn't want me. It's all been some crazy lie, some big ego trip to see how far I'd go. A bet, maybe, that he's won. Who is this guy who was pretending to be my stupidly, I'm-so-in-love-with-you boyfriend? Where is the man who'd confessed he wouldn't be able to keep his hands off me?
I walked back up the stairs and there Daniel was, draped like a model on the window seat of the stairwell landing. It was for me, this photo-shoot positioning. It was if to say, "I am your dream lover, remember? Picture-perfect, laid out especially for you." I couldn't help but laugh. I threw back my head and laughed, open-mouthed laughter bouncing in the space between us. He looked so confused! And this made me happy. His confusion made me happy! It was an emotion, at least, and one that I had drawn out of him. It was proof that I had at least a little power to affect him, to influence him. I grabbed his hand – I demanded it! – and we went back into the heart of Copenhagen.
Daniel bought a bag of sweet tea at his favorite shop, we ate cake and drank hot chocolate at [le Glace], and I had my first tiramisu coffee in the [Arnold Busck] bookstore. Daniel lead me to the [Marble Church] and we went inside its reverent walls and stared up into its dome, which sits on twelve columns. The gray marble is porous and gritty. Around the side of the church was a [pølser vogn] – a hot dog wagon. We ate firecracker-red hot dogs, twice the length of their sweet bun. The condiments available are tomato sauce, mayo, pickles, [remoulade], mustard, and dried onions, and they're meant to be generously piled on. Daniel and I each had one, and I had to choke mine down. It was the dried onions that did me in, and I couldn't finish. As we ate, Daniel explained that the position of hot dog man is saved for those who have an impediment that makes finding a job difficult, and that the man (or woman) with the highest seniority gets the cities' hottest locations. Their numbers are dwindling. Another tradition is dying.
Throughout the day I began to see that everywhere, everywhere, there were 7-11s. Clean, well-stocked 7-11s, with their own version of that strange hot-dog. This time it was with a bun enclosing one-half of the meat, which sticks out of the bread like an aroused male animal. These [Danish 7-11s] all have very large, shiny cases of delicious-looking pastries. Not small, square cases with two shelves of sorry, limp pastries, like in America. No, in Denmark there are heaps of danishes, attractively displayed in a counter-long case with a curved glass enclosure. Oh, the familiar sight of something so very American, the 7-11s, with something so very...well, as Danish as a danish, made me stupidly happy. It renewed me each time we turned the corner and I saw yet another large, orange and red number 7 hanging from the side of a 17th Century building. I was pleased to see the infiltration of my country's capitalism into Daniel's.
As we walked the cobblestones the Danes gave us long, blank-faced looks, maintained eye contact that only broke in passing. In America such behavior is rude, where the protocol is to look and smile quickly, then look away. My mind narrated an explanation: We must be striking to look at. Two very tall, dark-haired lovers, hands clasped. We look Scandinavian, perhaps, but still different than the the Danes, with their blond or brown hair. They all look alike, are all dressed within the same fashion arc. Daniel and I are, together, different. His stride was twice that of mine, and he walked fast. We walked inside the courtyard of the [Amalienborg Palace], the Royal Residence, and watched the guardsmen in their unwieldy, tall, furry hats, like toy soldiers marching through the street. Daniel explained how all boys who served were chosen by draft, but his name had not been called. He was lucky, he said. He was lucky to have me, but he sure wasn't acting like it, I thought.
During all of this, Daniel continued to alternately crush me to his side, arms wrapped tight, or to pose moodily just out of my reach. Each time he pulled me to him I thought, I can look past his cold distancing, his squashed emotions, his reluctance to show his feelings for me in real life. This is who he is, how he was raised. It was [the uncomfortable truth], and one that I would have to accept if I wanted to be in this relationship, with this Viking.
It was then time to get back to the Central Station, to get our things, and to take the train to the bus stop. While waiting at the tracks I noticed two birds on a rafter far above us, cuddling. Birds were everywhere, flying and squalling, but these birds were remarkably peaceful and set apart, together, purposefully. Their bodies made a heart-shape between them. Oh, it was beautiful. Their little breasts were even breathing in unison.
"Look," I whispered to Daniel and pointed out the birds. "They make a heart." I smiled at my lover, and my eyes looked into his to find a glint of understanding.
"They're [starlings]. They're junk birds," he retorted.
I dropped my eyes and placed my forehead on his chest. As his heavy arms closed around me, as I nestled into his coat to wait for our train, I let just one tear fall.
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The Miracle in July is the work of author Michelle Anderson.
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