Copenhagen Noir

I spend the next few days sniffing around the neighborhood: Vendersgade, Farimagsgade, the other street leading to the lakes. The old hospital the university has taken over, the Botanical Gardens and its hothouses and meticulously laid beds and paths. The weather improves, clear and cold, the light is fantastic around four, five o’clock when the sun sets at the end of Nørrebrogade. I eat at the wine bar on Nansensgade. Tapas and a bottle of intense, full-bodied Bordeaux. Lurch back to the room at midnight, half-drunk. On Tuesday I catch sight of a surprisingly pretty face in the bakery. It turns out to be Lucille’s childhood friend Kirsten. She recognizes me. And I recognize her from her smile and thick, copper-colored hair. She gives me a hug. “How are you? How’s Lucille doing?” she asks. “I was just about to ask you the same question. I’m trying to get hold of her.” “I haven’t seen her for several months. She was living with that guy Dmitrij down on Turesensgade. But I’m sure you know that.” “Dmitrij?” “Yeah. But I think she moved out. He’s Russian. He speaks Russian, anyway. I think.” She remembers their street number. I scratch it down on the bakery receipt. We chat for a while, she says she still lives here in her old neighborhood, I give her a short version of my life in New York, make it sound more glamorous than it is. I say that I’m here to see Lucille. That I’ve come to see her again after all these years. She says that they are still friends. That she had been really happy when Lucille suddenly showed up. And she talks about this Dmitrij: “He seemed to be a little… rough,” she says, “or… it surprised me, Lucille picking that kind of boyfriend. She’s a totally different type.” I don’t know what type Lucille is. I don’t tell her that. Kirsten goes on: “He wasn’t exactly a friendly person, or how should I say it? I was actually a little afraid of him, that sounds crazy, but I was. I only visited them once.” I nod. We walk toward Ørstedsparken, she has to pick her daughter up at daycare. “You look almost the same,” she says, with a sudden tenderness in her voice, “it must be nearly… eighteen years since I last saw you.” We look into each other’s eyes a moment. “You spilled something red on your shirt,” she says, pointing at my chest, “is it wine?” She laughs at me. I follow her with greedy eyes until she turns a corner, and I’m ashamed of the desire rising up in me; her gait is light and feathery, she wears a short jacket that fits snugly across her back. I look down at myself, the large wine stain. My shirt is crookedly buttoned too.

Lucille wrote: I think I’m in danger. Don’t know where to hide. Can’t go to the police. Can you help me? I read her e-mail again. I wrote back immediately after it came. She never answered. I slip on my jacket and walk down to meet Dmitrij on Turesensgade.

A woman with two small children lets herself out, I stick my foot in before the door closes. The hallway has recently been renovated, like most of this city. Everything has changed since I lived in the neighborhood with Isabel: the façades have been repaired, roses and trees planted, buildings in rear courtyards torn down in favor of “common-area environments.” It no longer looks like a city, but more like a residential district; the bars, the butcher, the tobacco shops have disappeared, replaced by stores with organic chocolate and expensive children’s clothing. It’s clean and orderly. But you can still get a tattoo, I see, and even though that shop also has an attractive, exclusive look, it seems they mostly do piercing. Andreev is the name on the door. I knock. And knock again. Just as I turn to walk away the door is flung open. A man in a crewcut, midthirties, stares at me. Narrow, steel-gray eyes, pale skin. “What do you want?” he asks. He nearly spits the words out. “I’d like to talk to Lucille.” “She doesn’t live here anymore.” “Where does she live?” He shrugs his shoulders. “How should I know? She’s gone.” “Gone? Where to? Out of the country?” “Don’t know.” I hear muffled voices in the apartment, chairs scraping. Russian is spoken. I get a glimpse of a long-haired, dark-skinned man, he lights a cigarette. The door slams shut.