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 Norrebrogade. 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 Orstedsparken, 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:
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 facades 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.
In the evening I go for a walk in Orstedsparken. 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 Norreport 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.
Across from the building on Turesensgade is a large courtyard passageway-it’s possible to stand hidden in there and still see the second-floor apartment’s windows. I can also keep an eye on the front door. I brace myself for a long lookout. I end up standing there four hours. My legs and lower back are sore. I give up. Nothing happens. I do see Dmitrij drive up in a red car together with a tall, well-tanned man. I also see the longhair run down the stairs and return a few minutes later. With cigarettes. Just a trip to the kiosk. That’s it. I don’t know what I imagined would happen. I call Lucille’s number several times, but there doesn’t seem to be any connection. I send a text, ask her to call. I get no answer. I wander up to Funch’s Wine Bar on Farimagsgade for a sandwich with beer and aquavit. Roast pork and round sausage. The red cabbage melts in my mouth, the pickles are crunchy. It must be over fifteen years since I’ve had a Danish lunch. And whether it is the taste exploding in my mouth, or how I’m haunted by the thought of Kirsten’s red lips, I suddenly start crying. I bawl my eyes out. Over the time that has gone by, the years in Brooklyn, Isabel now dead, Lucille disappeared-Lucille, the closest I ever came to having my own child. All the missed opportunities, everything I’ve run away from. But also this strange pleasure at coming back to Copenhagen, where I was born. I’m sentimental. I blow my nose and order another aquavit. Then my phone rings. Frantically I snatch it out of my pocket, thinking it’s Lucille. But no, it’s Kirsten. She hears me sniffling. “Have you picked up a cold since this morning?” My voice is hoarse: “No, no.” Silence. “What is it? You’re not sitting there crying, are you?” Pause. “No.” “Did you get hold of Lucille?” “Unfortunately no.” “Honestly, is something wrong? I mean, is she… do you think she’s disappeared, seriously, or what?” “I don’t know,” I say, and that is the truth. Kirsten says she will call later, which thoroughly pleases me.
I go to the police in the afternoon, but Lucille has not been reported as missing. They’re visibly annoyed by my request. They’re on coffee break, it looks like. The policeman sighs loudly and stirs his coffee. “And what makes you
