Copenhagen Noir

In the evening I go for a walk in Ørstedsparken. The homosexuals’ park. A young guy comes up to me when I sit down on a bench by the public bathrooms. I politely turn down his offer. Two panting men walk out of the bushes. There is a lot going on here. Men of all ages circulate, stop, eye each other from head to toe, ask for a light, talk for a while, move further inside the park, or use the little houses on the playground behind me. Everything seems very straightforward and efficient. Yellow lights shine over the bridge, giving the lake a dreamlike, foggy look, the wind whips the last leaves off the trees. The night air is cold. I stand up and head toward Israels Plads, the square where the hash dealers hang out. That’s also something new: in the old days you had to go out to Christiania to buy the stuff. The Free Town, which nowadays is also being “normalized.” Everything has to be “cozy,” a terrible idea for a city. A group of nearly grown boys with Mideastern roots shiver under a streetlight, talking and playfully shoving each other. While I smoke a cigarette, several customers approach them and buy whatever they are looking for. Wonder if it’s only hash. The boys aren’t a day over seventeen. A police car drives by and the boys scatter quickly into the dark. I buy a cup of coffee in the 7-Eleven and wait for a half hour on a bench with a good view of the square. Then I recognize the dark, long-haired Russian. It looks like he’s collecting from the boys. But evidently there is a problem, one of the boys raises his voice, wants to discuss something, the longhair starts shouting, threatening, his fist right under the boy’s chin. Everything is quiet. They look at the ground. I decide to follow him. He walks up to Nørreport Station and hails a cab. I hop in a second cab and tell the driver to follow them. I can see him counting money in the backseat. Running his fingers through his hair. We head toward Sydhavnen. Out here the wind whips up. The car stops at an empty lot down by the harbor. I ride farther on and get out behind the cover of a wooden fence. It’s icy cold, below freezing. I breathe white clouds. I check my watch: one-thirty. From here I can see the Russian pacing back and forth, talking loudly on the phone, gesturing. Then they appear out of the dark. Five-seven-nine girls. Young and black. He collects again. One of the girls stays in the background. He calls her over. She backs away. But then she walks over to him anyway, and he keeps her there while the others head back toward the harbor in their thin clothes. I’ve read about these girls, especially the ones from Gambia, in the Danish paper I still get. They are held as prostitutes here, often under threat and against their will. They are promised a life of luxury in cozy little Copenhagen. And end up as slaves. The Russian slaps the girl. Slaps her again. Hisses something or other in her face while clenching her chin. Then he brutally shoves her away; she stumbles and falls, he turns and walks quickly back to the street. I want to help the girl up. But I plod after the Russian. For a long time, through deserted streets. We’re almost up to Enghave Station before he finally flags a taxi.

It doesn’t surprise me that he returns to Turesensgade and Dmitrij. So Lucille has had a boyfriend who not only runs a hash operation but is also a pimp, maybe a sex trafficker. Apparently the longhair does the dirty work. I’m beginning to get an idea of what might have happened; I feel my pulse beating in my temples.

The next morning I meet Kirsten again in the bakery. She looks sweet, a bit puffy in the face from sleep, with clear eyes and an arched red mouth. She holds her daughter’s hand. I ask her if Lucille had a job the last time she saw her. She says that she is in teacher’s college. She looks at me. “Haven’t you found her yet?” I shake my head. “I think I have her phone number, wait just a second.” She pays and hands a pastry to her daughter. And sends Lucille’s number to my phone. “I remember your apartment so well, back when I was a kid,” Kirsten says, and smiles. “That long creepy hallway, the dining room table we built caves under. And Lucille’s mother.” “Isabel,” I say. “Yeah. Isabel.” She grabs her bag. “Call me,” she whispers, and she’s out the door, I watch her lift her daughter up on her bike seat. I’m left with my coffee and my paper and suddenly I feel wide awake.