Copenhagen Noir

Much later that night, stumbling out of Jagtstuen, a bar on Israels Plads where I’ve been drinking heavily for several hours and playing all the oldies on the jukebox, my first impulse is to wake Kirsten up. I want to kiss her. I want to touch her white, matte skin. Then I tell myself: No, no, don’t do it, don’t you dare do it. I manage to turn around and stagger down the hushed street toward the hotel. A rat scurries under a car. I fish around in my pockets for my cigarettes. It starts to rain, a light drizzle. Suddenly, a car roars up the street at high speed. I’m startled, automatically I step back. Whining brakes as it turns the corner at Turesensgade. The car is red. And slowly, through my foggy head, it dawns on me that it’s Dmitrij’s car. I try to get a grip on myself, to walk straight, I’m swaying from being so drunk. I hold onto a building and edge over to the corner. Back against the wall and carefully turn my head to see what’s going on. What’s going on is that Dmitrij and his dark-skinned helper are lifting something out of the trunk. It looks heavy. My heart skips a beat. Obviously they are in a rush, they act harried and nervous, constantly checking up and down the street. Dmitrij apparently tells his helper to hold the door; he lurches while carrying his heavy load into the hallway. The door slams. But his helper comes out again, they forgot to lock the car. He grabs something from the glove compartment. Holds it up, studies it intently for a moment. Dmitrij half-stifles his cry from an open hallway window: “Maks! Maks!” And then a bunch of Russian I don’t understand.

Maks puts the object in his pocket, and he whistles as he disappears into the building.

Silence. My head is buzzing. The rain is pouring down. I slide to a crouch and feel my stomach turn. Then I throw up and once more splatter myself. It takes me forever to stand up. After I finally find the hotel and my bed, I sleep in my clothes, a heavy, dreamless sleep. And wake up late Thursday morning with a remarkable headache and pain in my stomach. The usual thoughts: Where am I? Who am I?

So his name is Maks, the dark-skinned guy. That’s the first real thought I have after doubting if what I thought happened actually happened, being so wasted, and what did happen? Maksim, that’s what. I know that familial variation of the name from Brooklyn. Maksim. With the gun. I’m sure it was a gun he was staring at. Then I remember everything clearly. I stink of vomit. Oh God, I’d forgotten about that. I get up, take a shower, pick a clean shirt from the closet, find a plastic bag and stuff my dirty clothes inside. On my way out I drop it off at the reception desk to be washed.

After standing in the passageway on Turesensgade for almost two hours (freezing with a rumbling stomach), Dmitrij, Maks, and the suntanned man come outside and get in the red car. A Mazda. They take off and turn right at Nansensgade. I realize this is my chance. After a few minutes, and just as before, a mother with a baby on her arm opens the front door and I duck inside. It’s one o’clock. People are at work, the hallway is quiet. The door is not hard to open. I use my pocketknife. I’m inside.