Don't mind your bluntness as long as it's true
I don't mind your rashness or self-conscious moods
I will not depart from your sight or your thoughts
But please do consider the innocence lost
[Innocence Lost] by [Marte Heggelund]
For Sylvia, I am the American Consul of the Kingdom of Danmark. I do my best to show her the Scandinavia I adore, to explain why I am attracted to this place despite – or because of – my history with the land and its people. I feel bound to extol the virtues of the Danish way of life, why I love it here, why I am drawn to the culture and to the disconnected emotions in the frigid air. The streets, the attitudes, the laws – they're merely parts of the whole picture. Like the black sections that are outlined and numbered in a paint-by-numbers kit, once it's filled in with bright colors, the bones of [the plot] behind the story of my combusted love affair with Daniel and Denmark will be revealed.
Now it's the morning of Sylvia's second day here, and we're leaving my unofficial Consulate early – too early by the look of Sylvia's grogginess. We need to get started on our journey by mid-morning if we're going to pack the day with experiences; weekday business hours are limited in Denmark, at least by American standards. The weekends are even more precarious, commerce-wise; shops shut early on Saturdays, and hardly anything is open on Sundays. So today, a Friday, we feed the mechanical fist holding Copenhagen's [free bikes] hostage a 20 krone deposit to relax its grip. We're off to join the flocks of two-wheeled Danes flying around the city.
First, though, it's business for Sylvia. She wants to get The Miracle in July on the shelves of the [Arnold Busck] bookstore, I'm sure for sentimental reasons more than anything else. She wants to try the tiramisu coffee in the upstairs coffeehouse I've been raving about, and to sit where I sat with Daniel years ago. She is excited about being here with me, and her glee is infectious. We race through the narrow streets with white vapor breaths, up the strøget, to get to the day's first destination.
My usual unfriendly barista at the bookstore, which is where I get coffee with a side of bolstering attitude, isn't here this morning. In her place is an exuberant Asian foreign-exchange student. Sylvia is disappointed; she'd wanted to use her sassy American wit to poke holes in the disdain of young Viking woman I'd described to her. As we get our coffees and sit on the high chairs near the windows, I suggest to Sylvia that perhaps my missing barista isn't really unfriendly – she only seems so because of my slanted views. But Sylvia isn't really listening to me; she's eying the bookshop workers for her target, for her angle. Like an eagle, she can pinpoint her prey from a distance: the one true decision-maker in the nest. I can tell she's spotted him by the creep of her slow, mischievously curled grin. Her target is a thin, sandy-haired cutie wearing a dark blue and black striped wool sweater and a red knit scarf draped around his neck, stepping about in expensive, pointy-toed leather dress shoes.
"Excuse me, Dear Author, I have work to do." Her attractive face melts into a mask of sweet persuasion, and her body saunters, aggressively effeminate, to the unsuspecting book buyer. I can't hear their conversation – they are too far away – but their body language tells me everything.
First Sylvia asks, with playful American charm shooting out of her tits, why The Miracle in July isn't being sold here. She (of course) has a copy of my book with her, and she hands it to the man, who raises an eyebrow at the striking cover. Ah, yes. Everyone loves the starlings on the cover. And have you met the author? Michelle Ray? She's right over there, perusing the lovely view of your Scandinavian city! Sylvia turns and wiggles her fingers at me. I toast her and the book buyer with my white ceramic cup. She begins to wrap things up. It's simply gorgeous here. I'm tempted to uproot my life and move into a tent in the middle of the pedestrian street! Here, let me give you my card. May I have yours? I will email you when your order is ready. Oh yes, you'll hear from me very soon! And now, Sylvia's signature forget-me-not move: a discreet flutter of lashes behind her smart-girl eyeglass frames.
Sylvia floats her way back to me with the book buyer's eyes fixed firmly to her ass. "It went well, I think," she says demurely. I smile at her and her understatement, and tell her to finish her chocolate coffee so I can show her more of my adopted city. "You will soon see all the places I love, and I will show you the places I went with Daniel. I know you're hard for that." I wink at her. She winks back.
I can't wait to lavish her with the details, to show her the Denmark I know. We begin with the strøget, entering shops that signs that say "udsalg" (sale) or "prisfald" (decreased) in the windows. Then we head to [Christiania] – the Freetown – a place that reminds me of the free-spirit nature of our [downtown] in Portland, Oregon. Then we peddle back to the center of Copenhagen to the [Rådhuspladsen] (town square), where we people-watch and eat warm, stuffed sandwiches. Sylvia's comments about the Danes are priceless. They all look alike. Are there any unattractive Danish people? Let's look for the ugly ones. They talk as if their mouths are full of hot mashed potatoes. And why are the women all tanned? It's fucking November for fuck's sake! I laugh and I say "Saadan er Danmark" to her. Such is Denmark.
On Saturday we head out later than planned and head to the 7-11 for pastries. We each have two. We drink our small coffees on the way to the [Ny Carlsberg Glyptoket], where we fritter away the afternoon ogling the Egyptian statues and paintings by Rodin and [Eckersberg]. Night falls, and after a brief dress-up session back at my Consulate, with my starling guards flocking the entrance, we head to the basement bar of [Galathea Inn] for some old-time jazz. We stay there until closing, admiring the curios and artifacts from all over the world that are literally stuffed in the rafters and everywhere else. It reminds us of our chain of McMenamins back home, especially the [St. Johns] pub, only here it is upscale and with more unusual things. We fill ourselves with the house specialty – a Dutch meal (by way of Indonesia) called [rijsttafel] – and we toast my mother and her North Holland bloodline. We drink too much and laugh too much, and fall into a deep, content sleep once we get back home.
On Sylvia's last day in Denmark – on Sunday – we don't bother trying to find an open shop or restaurant. We stay in and ignite a blaze on the wicks of tea lights and in the stone fireplace. We sit on the rug wrapped in blankets, nibbling on [Summerbird chocolates] and sipping schnapps. We don't talk for a long time. It is peaceful to just sit there with my dear friend and comrade in silence, basking in the glow of fire and spirited fumes. But the spell is suddenly broken by the starlings outside. They are fighting in the trees, screeching and fluttering over one another.
"That's IT," yells Sylvia. She jumps up, startling me, and runs upstairs into my bedroom. Jesus, I know they're annoying, but what the hell?
Sylvia comes back with my laptop. It's already open, it's already on, and with one hand she's opened my story – the one I'm writing now, the true one which I'll never write again. She sits on the floor, her back to the fire and to me, the laptop on the small coffee table. "I'm waiting," she says.
"Um, now?"
She turns around to look at me. "I'm leaving Denmark tomorrow. You're half-done with this story, and I need you back at the office. We need you back. Those asshole birds have a point, you know. You're just visiting, but it seems you're settling in a bit too much. You've made this house a home, but it's not your home. Let me help you get closer to where your real home is. Let's do this."
She's been here only three days and already she can speak the fowl's language. I smile, because we are always on a synergistic plane, and because she is right. I pour myself a small pedestal glass of schnapps, and resume my tale. Sylvia sighs and begins to type.
My dismal day with Daniel in Copenhagen had ended. We'd left Central Station's heart-shaped starlings (the "junk birds") behind us, traveling by train and then bus to the boat which would take us to [Århus Harbor]. We reached the dock around 11pm, and it was very cold. The boat was huge, the biggest ship I'd ever been on. It was very bright on board. There were maybe 20 passengers total, and room for 10 times that number. We could sit wherever we pleased. I wanted to sit somewhere apart from the others, so that Daniel could perhaps kiss me or hold me as we floated toward my new home and the city where my new family lived. I wanted outward attention – I craved his kisses – but contrary to Daniel's digital affection for me, he was not one for taking me from behind in a public place. His moods were austere in real life; but I would not let that discredit the words he'd said to me online that caused me to fall in love with him, where he was full of assured vitality.
The moment boat left the dock, Daniel's cell phone beeped. A text message. He looked at it, glanced at me, and looked at it again. I could tell immediately that it upset him, could feel the tempestuous ire rising inside him, and yet he didn't move a muscle. This is it, I thought. This is when I find out that things are not as they appear.
"What-e-poo?" I asked Daniel in a sing-song voice, chuckling softly. I wanted to defuse his anger with playfulness, and he turned on me.
"What the fuck, Shelley? Are you a child?"
"What's wrong?" He was livid. I shrunk from him. "What's happened?"
"I got a text. From someone named Matte," he spat. "She's a fucking bitch."
I sat there, shocked. What to say? I said nothing, I only sat there shivering in waves of [nausea], and I looked away. I pulled my body further away from my lover, and refused to acknowledge him sitting there, breathing like a mercurial dragon. I crawled into myself.
"I'm going outside for a cigarette," he muttered.
I could see Daniel on the deck, through the window, smoking a cigarette. He occasionally glanced at me, expressionless. His phone rang and he answered it, speaking calmly. When the conversation ended, he tossed his lit butt overboard and sat next to me again, bringing the cold with him.
He took my hand, but didn't look at me. He seemed dishonored. From what? Something more than having speared my ego for a cutesy comment. Something much more.
"I talked to Søren, and told him we're almost home. He's been busy working on our film project. He looks forward to meeting you." Daniel fell silent. He lost his words, he struggled to find them. "When we get home I'll explain everything," he said quietly. "I promise." He didn't apologize for snapping at me, for piercing me with misdirected spite. I said nothing. My smile and my nod were empty.
Our boat finally docked. It was after 1am when we got off the bus two blocks from Daniel's apartment – our apartment, my new home. We lived on the third floor of a building full of university students, where we had a main room, a bedroom, a tiny kitchen and a minuscule bathroom. I took my things into the bedroom, and then came out into the main room where Daniel was sitting on the gray, textured couch. I noticed Lily's Red Tree behind him, and how very small he looked under it.
"Come here, Shelley. We can't go to sleep until I tell you why the text message upset me."
I sat down on the couch, keeping some distance between us, but he pulled up closer to me, as if trying to bridge the divide which he'd created. He opened his cell phone and showed me the message. It was a very long text, in Danish, and I saw the phrase "[Jeg elsker dig]". I knew what that meant; Daniel had said it to me many, many times. It means: "I love you".
"Matte is the sister of my last girlfriend. I told you I was bad, I was very bad. And that is true. I slept with my girlfriend's sister, and she had a husband, who told my girlfriend. I was bored with my ex-girlfriend, which is why I strayed. She nearly left me, but I convinced her to stay. I saw how I had devastated her, and for the first time realized I could no longer let my libido hurt those I love. I destroyed her, and so I changed. This happened about a year ago. I changed into a better man – I try so hard to be a good man, a good boyfriend, to repress my badness – and it worked for a few more months between us. But then it was over because she wanted children and I don't. I told you that in [my letter] a long time ago. Remember? I'm so sorry, Shelley."
"Why is Matte a 'fucking bitch', Daniel?"
Daniel's voice became angry again. "She's trying to manipulate me, again, and I won't let her! She is a fucking bitch. I won't ever respond to her, and that's what she wants. I want you to see me delete this text message. I want you to tell me you believe me when I say I'm not that person anymore, that man I used to be who hurts the woman he loves. Please don't think badly of me, baby."
I looked into Daniel's eyes. They were wet. He was crying.
"I believe you try to be good. And I believe in us. But do you? Can you be with me, be strong without me here all the time? I'm afraid you will get bored with me, too."
Daniel wrapped his arms around me, squeezing the love inside me into a knot. "You're all I need. You bring out the best in me, and our challenges are nothing compared to the benefits." He kissed my hand, my cheek, my lips. "Come with me, to our bed. I have to work tomorrow. Will you hold me tonight?"
We went to bed – to our bed – and I held his naked, warm body in my arms until he fell asleep. His cell phone was tucked under his pillow, and it seemed I had just fallen into a worrisome sleep when it vibrated to wake us at 6am. The bus to the school he worked at, just outside of town, was leaving in an hour. He left our bed. I could hear the shower running, I could smell the coffee brewing, I could see the blue glow from the computer screen drifting to me from the main room. I fell asleep again for a few minutes until Daniel came back and sat on the bed next to me. He was stroking my hair and my sleep-webbed eyes caught fleeting serenity, adoration.
"I'm leaving, sweetheart," he said, and leaned down to kiss my lips. He placed a key in my hand. "I'll be back by 3pm." And then he was gone.
I spent that day walking blindly all over the world's smallest big city, trying to decide how I felt about this new turn of events. I carried with me [the map of Århus] that Daniel got for me at the [Tourist Information Office] in Copenhagen, but I don't remember where I went or what I saw. It doesn't matter; I had no destination. While my body moved through the streets my mind was churning and fuming and calculating my options. My buoyant thoughts were at the mercy of my wandering feet. Where is my backbone? Play it by ear, I just got here. He is not what I was expecting! Am I a disappointment? I'm waiting for something to happen... But what? I'm following my bliss, the outcome isn't up to me. I must look beyond the past – my past, Daniel's past – to exist in a love boundless and unencumbered by tangible realities. Give him a chance, you've come so far, [wait it out]. But, to what end? The distance traveled, the sacrifices made, the signs from dreams – they mean nothing if this is a farce, a game. It's not real. This fairy tale can't be real. Be kind; he deserves your love, understanding. Believe in the impossible.
I was angry – at my acceptance of Daniel's subdued affection for me, at Daniel's history of badness, of his demons, of my insecurities. His revelation the night before was a confession of emotional immaturity. Fucking your girlfriend's sister is the quickest way to banishment from the bed – my bed – the most obvious sin of a sexual deviant. And it was so recent. I didn't understand how Daniel's ex-girlfriend could have taken him back after that terrible betrayal, but then again I understood it perfectly well. My memories of similar betrayals hung on the hooks of my discontentment. I was disenchanted, my feelings swirled violently, and I longed to make amends with my lofty expectations. What had happened since I arrived in Denmark, now crowned by the secrets revealed, provoked my rage and tainted my feelings with sadness. The sequence of events that had brought me here seemed like a bad joke. This latest challenge in my relationship with Daniel made me want to run away from him. I remember being tempted to go back to the apartment and leave a note that said only [I'm leaving you], and nothing else; a freezing rebuttal to my lukewarm reception. How close I was to abandoning Daniel that day, to going to the nearest airport and staying there until I could catch a flight home. But I didn't. Why didn't I? Because I believed in the impossible.
When I returned home – nearly two hours after Daniel did – I climbed the three flights of stairs, opened the door, and found him sitting in his desk chair. He stared at me, with eyes black. He was leaning far back, sharp elbows holding his forearms up to make a church with his fingers. He looked peeved, which I admit pleased me. I stood expressionless in the doorway, tempering his laser gaze with my steady eyes turned ice blue. The [incense] I had bought with me to Denmark for him hazed the space between us.
"Where have you been?" his chest rumbled.
I walked into the main room and dropped my purse in seat of the low, black, cracked-leather chair next to the desk where he sat. I unpeeled my coat from my shaking body and let that fall in a heap, too. I was taking my time. I had all of the selfish seconds in the world at my disposal. Fuck him, and his demons.
"Walking your fair city...Getting to know you...Thinking..." I said, each word an articulated wisp.
"You didn't respond to my text. I thought you'd be here when I got home from school." His voice was low-toned and decayed.
"What text?" I had not received a text message from him.
Daniel got up and came over to where I stood and enveloped me with a great energy without touching me. I involuntarily swooned. My heart flickered and my knees threatened to break. I tried to hide it, but it was there, and I resented him for having that affect on me despite my day of stormy wanderings. I attempted to stay rigid as he leaned against me, over me, holding his cell phone, while his long fingers manipulated the small device in his large hands.
"Here. I sent you this text. And you didn't respond. I worried about you when you were not home when I got returned," he said.
I closed my eyes and felt Daniel's warm breath blowing across my ear and cheek, like a sweet-smelling summer breeze, and I then looked down at the cell phone's screen. It said: "I love you".
I'd spent that day in the [trenches], digging a dark moat around my heart and filling it with resentment and clouded dysphoria. But now, suddenly, my heart's chambers were flooding with luminescent joy streaked with beckoning bliss. At a digital expression of love, no less! Daniel had still not uttered the words aloud to me, which is something I wanted him to do so badly. Now he'd finally said it, said "I love you" when the two of us were sharing real space. Yes, it was hidden behind the cloak of technology, but it was a start.
I looked into his eyes, now the color of the thawing arctic, and my face could not help but break into the cracks and folds of renewed hope. I loved Daniel, whoever the hell he was, however damaged and limited by his past and his culture. I turned and collapsed against him – let him hold me tight against his chest – and I pressed my cheek against his heart.
I heard his heart's song: [I am ready to love you]. I hummed along to the beats.
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The Miracle in July is the work of author Michelle Anderson.
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