Other Copenhagens

by Edmund Jorgensen

She indicated the silk scarf on her head and what it covered.

  " … mean that I’m only allowed to play three parts: the bimbo, the slut, or–if I’m lucky–the perfect, unobtainable woman. Honestly, sometimes as I say the lines I’m given I can actually feel myself getting stupider."

  “I get all that,” said Dr. Novak. “But that’s why I don’t get why you’re not just taking the part and shaving your head. I mean, by being so concerned about your own appearance, aren’t you basically playing right along with their whole game? So what’s the problem?”

  Miss Smalls glanced almost askance at Mr. Pope where he still sat with his “my job is done here” attitude–as if he were now the one she wasn’t quite sure about–before squaring her shoulders and leaning in towards Dr. Novak.

  “Madame Rwanda told me that Ryan would leave me if I cut my hair,” she said.

  “Madame Rwanda?”

  “She’s my psychic.”

  Mr. Pope snapped out of his relaxed posture.

  “You have a … psychic?” Dr. Novak said.

  “She’s not mine personally–I mean, a lot of us use her. She’s amazing. She met Chano Pozo when she was just a little girl, right before he died. He’s the one who told her she had the second sight. He even gave her the chicken bone he used to dowse–she still wears it around her neck.”

  “What the …” Dr. Novak began, but Mr. Pope cut him off.

  “And you’re confident in Madame Rwanda’s predictions?”

  “She’s not one of those frauds, you should know that about her. She never claims to predict the future. She has visions, that’s all. The way she explains it there are many different paths that the world can take, and they’re all laid out for her, but dimly, until sometimes one lights up, like the lights on a runway at night–that’s how she describes it. It’s not that different than what you guys do, actually.”

  A bitter laugh from Dr. Novak.

  “But she’s right more than she’s wrong,” said Miss Smalls. “So I’m … worried. And when I saw Arnie at his fundraiser, I asked him who he might talk to about something important–who besides Madame Rwanda–and he gave me your name.”

  “We’ll have to send him a fruit and nut basket,” said Dr. Novak.

  “So you’ve come to us to get a second opinion,” said Mr. Pope. “Very sensible. But I do have a question or two. What were the exact words that Madame Rwanda used? Sometimes these psychic predictions can be a bit open to interpretation–a bit …”

  “Fraudulent?” offered Dr. Novak.

  “… oracular. Do you remember?”

  “I’ll never forget,” said Miss Smalls. “I only asked her if I should take the role–I didn’t even tell her the part about shaving my head. But I could tell from her reaction something was wrong–she threw the tarot three separate times. The last time she even used her own personal deck–I mean the one she keeps to ask her own questions–she never does that. She told me that she’d seen something, but she didn’t understand what it meant, or how it answered my question. She didn’t want to tell me what it was–I had to ask her a couple times–but finally she took my hand and said ‘This is what I saw: your hair is what allows Ryan to love you.’”

  “I see,” said Mr. Pope. “I suppose that doesn’t seem to allow for much interpretation.”

  “I can’t believe I’m a party to this nonsense,” said Dr. Novak.

  “Dr. Novak, please,” said Mr. Pope. “Our clients must reveal sensitive details of their lives in order for us to do our jobs–I must insist that you treat that with respect.”

  “This is bullshit. Look, Miss Smalls, I’m sorry for your troubles, and I’m sympathetic to the situation you find yourself in, career-wise. But let’s call a spade a spade. Psychics aren’t real–they’re BS artists. Snake-oil salesmen who tell gullible people what they want to hear in order to part them from their money. Second of all, even if I were to stipulate that your ‘Madame Rwanda’ actually had some way to see the future–which I don’t–then what we’re basically saying here is that you’re worried your husband only loves you for your hair. Now if that’s what you actually think, then why do you care whether he stays or goes? Because it’s good for your career to stay married to Ryan Bradley?”

  “Dr. Novak!” said Mr. Pope, his face turning red.

  “You think you know all about me,” said Miss Smalls, pointing at the scientist, “and all about Hollywood marriages, and that our lives are shiny and shallow. But you don’t know anything–not about me, or my husband, or our marriage. I love Ryan, and he loves me.”

  “Because of your hair?”

  “Dr. Novak!” said Mr. Pope, standing up, “this has gone far enough. I dislike descending to threats, but I must remind you that I am still CEO of this enterprise, and that as such, I am your direct superior. Now I have nothing but respect for you and your brilliant mind, but if you wish to continue playing with your theories and machines–your very expensive machines, which this company pays for–I must insist that you control your tongue and treat our clients with respect.”

  Dr. Novak waved his hands and turned his face towards the wall.

  “Miss Smalls,” continued Mr. Pope, sitting and adjusting his lapels, “I apologize profoundly for that outburst. To the matter at hand: it’s quite a conundrum you’re faced with, but you have come to the right place. What our chief scientist lacks in common courtesy he makes up for in raw scientific skill, and we will apply all that skill to the dilemma in which you find yourself. We might not have the … flair of a Madame Rwanda, and we might employ different methods, but I can promise you that our results will be no less accurate.”

  “Yes, that we can definitely promise,” said Dr. Novak in a plausibly deniable whisper.

  “It’s not that I think Ryan could actually be so shallow, really,” said Miss Smalls. “It’s just … I want to be sure.”

  “Miss Smalls, we have our positive and negative outcomes–there is no need to explain yourself further. Your marriage is your own business, and we are not here to judge …”

  He turned towards Dr. Novak as he said this.

  “… but rather to educate you on the alternatives you wish to explore.”

  “All right,” said Miss Smalls, though she looked less than entirely convinced. “All right. So what do we do from here?”

  “Pretty simple, really,” said Dr. Novak. “I’ll just look deep into my crystal ball and drink some frog’s blood and throw a chicken bone in the air and spin around three times at midnight–that’s midnight Greenwich Mean Time, of course–and a friendly spirit will appear and tell me whether your husband will leave you if you shave your head.”

  Miss Smalls waved Mr. Pope off before he could answer.

  “You think you’re very clever,” she said, “judging Madame Rwanda like that, but you shouldn’t look down on her just because she’s not a scientist or whatever. There are other ways to think about the world besides all your formulas and equations–maybe if you looked into them you’d lose some of that bitterness. At least Madame Rwanda helps people.”

  Dr. Novak scoffed.

  “And at the very least,” said Miss Smalls, “she knows how to treat a client. She understands that she’s being asked to provide a service, not her own opinions on things. You could learn a thing or two there.”

  Mr. Pope laughed.

  “Well spoken, Miss Smalls!” he said. “Well spoken indeed! Come, Dr. Novak, don’t pout. The lady gives as good as she gets, and you must admit–you had it coming. This kind of spirited exchange is just how strong personalities become friends. Imagine if this were a movie, Miss Smalls–this little dust-up would have been your meet cute. Soon you and Dr. Novak would be as thick as thieves.”

  “I guess,” said Miss Smalls.

  “I feel quite sure,” Mr. Pope said. “But now that we are all friends again, there is another topic we must broach–the vulgar topic of numbers …”

  “I don’t care about that,” said Miss Smalls. “Just bill it as �
��Professional Coaching’ and Ryan won’t raise an eyebrow.”

  “You’re positive? Dr. Novak’s machines are not cheap to run.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “We are always delighted to hear that money is no object. When do you need your answer?”

  “I have until Monday to accept the role.”

  Mr. Pope whistled.

  “Is that impossible?” Miss Smalls asked.

  Mr. Pope looked at Dr. Novak, who, still red and angry, nodded his head.

  “Impossible? No,” said Mr. Pope. Dr. Novak threw up his arms. “But difficult. And–I regret to say–even more expensive.”

  “Then bill it as ‘Expedited Professional Coaching.’”

  “Hold on,” said Dr. Novak. “Look, I’m sorry if I was out of line, all right? Your marriage and psychics and all that are none of my business. But it doesn’t matter how much we bill, or what we bill it as–there’s no way we can get this done by Monday.”

  “Yet another challenge to which you will rise, astounding us all once again,” Mr. Pope said.

  “Goddamn it, I’m not joking–you can’t go promising things we can’t do. Just defining the feature matrix could take until Monday! Then there’s the actual holographing, the automated filtering pass, the human filtering pass, the interpretive pass …”

  As the two men continued to argue, Miss Smalls reached up and, as if it had begun to bother her, undid the knot that held the silk scarf under her chin. She whisked the thin cloth sideways off her head.

  Later, recalling the scene, Dr. Novak would have the impression that the sun had broken through the clouds at that precise moment; that the coffee he had been nursing had finally kicked his nervous system into gear; that the fans of the building’s ancient ventilation system had been inspired at last to exchange the stale air of the conference room for some of the brisk autumnal atmosphere. At the time, however, he was aware of none of these things, being overwhelmed by a series of memories so sensory and varied that he could make no sense of them or their variety. He could hear the crack of bat against ball, and see the parabola intending towards the patch of grassy outfield that was his to guard. There was the patter of rain against the roof of the Braxton family’s Chevrolet, and foggy windows through which he could just see the lonely riverbank where he and Julie Braxton had parked. He could sense the scent of steeping tea spiced for Christmas, and of cement after a rainstorm–and somewhere, beneath even those notes, the smell of his infant nephew’s skin.

  Such was the effect when Janine Smalls tossed her golden hair.

  When he regained awareness of his surroundings, Dr. Novak saw that Mr. Pope–who was wiping his forehead with a pocket square–had not been immune either. It appeared that neither could remember what had happened to their argument, which now seemed trivial in light of what they had just witnessed together.

  “All right,” said Dr. Novak, and his very voice sounded foreign and unimportant to him. “We’ll get you an answer by Monday.”

  Monday

  When Miss Smalls returned on Monday morning the receptionist was prepared. She had been standing by the door since 6 o’clock, just in case, spinning and passing the doorman’s umbrella from hand to hand to discharge some of her nervous energy, and as soon as she saw the car speeding down the access road she sprinted towards the already flooded parking lot, so that when Janine Smalls opened her car door she was greeted by the blue sky and puffy clouds painted on the underside of the umbrella and the receptionist’s sunny smile. Not a single drop of rain even fell on her silk scarf.

  After this promising beginning, however, and another sealed bottle of slightly cool Italian water, Miss Smalls found herself deposited in the same meeting room without even a hint of when Mr. Pope might be expected. Twice in the next ten minutes she considered storming out, but each time she checked the clock on her cell phone–her decision was expected within six hours–and decided to give Mr. Pope another five minutes. Once she thought she heard distant shouting and slamming of doors–or perhaps it had only been thunder.

  When Mr. Pope finally arrived, all directorial authority was gone from his manner–he waited for her permission to enter after knocking, and as he shuffled into the room apology and shame fit him like a new vest and jacket. So Janine went where the scene took her.

  “Our meeting was at 8,” she said.

  “I am so sorry to have made you wait, Miss Smalls …”

  “You didn’t make me do anything. I chose to wait. I hope what you have for me is worth it.”

  Mr. Pope sat down, rubbing his hands together as if trying to scrub off any residue of responsibility.

  “I find myself in the unique situation …” he began. “That is to say, this has never happened here. Which is to say–in fact, there is no good way to say this. We have not been able to provide you with the level of service that you both expect and deserve.”

  “You’re not done?” said Miss Smalls, ice forming on every word. “You know the schedule I’m on. How much longer will it be?”

  “I’m afraid that time isn’t the question here. We’ve had a–that is, there’s been a glitch. A technical glitch. Is what I’m told.”

  “Then how long will it take to fix the glitch?”

  “This particular glitch–I am told–cannot be fixed.”

  “A glitch is only a glitch if you can fix it. Look, I don’t really care about any of this–I just want my answer. I need my answer. I have to call Maurice very, very soon.”

  “All I am able to offer you at this point are my profoundest apologies, my sincerest wishes that we have not inconvenienced you too much, and of course”–these words seemed to stick in his throat–“a full refund.”

  “Inconvenienced me? I was depending on you. This is a one-shot deal, Mr. Pope. Now I’ll call Maurice and have him run interference, and you get back there and tell Dr. Novak to do whatever he has to do, fix whatever glitches he has to fix, and get me my answer. I don’t care how he does it, just get it done.”

  Mr. Pope stood up.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Miss Smalls–there’s nothing more for Dr. Novak to do. If you will excuse me, I have some urgent matters that demand my attention. But if you have phone calls to make you are welcome, of course, to use the conference room for as long as you like–or at least until the electric company cuts service to the building.”

  He left the room over her amazed objections, swaying slightly.

  * * *

  Janine Smalls sat in the parked rental car, watching as fat drops of rain plowed down the windshield. Her phone lay on the passenger seat, silenced and blinking–Maurice was calling again.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” she said out loud. “It’s just a role. It’s just one role. There will be others. But on the other hand–it’s just my hair. A year without hair. Can that really be all he loves? And if it is, do I even”–it took some effort to get the words out–“do I even want to stay married to him?”

  And just like that, it was clear to her, as if illuminated by a flash of lightning. She had been in the wrong movie. This was not Thymelines–she was not choosing between her career and personal fulfillment. This was Red Hearts, and she was Sally, fleeing the truth by any means necessary, too blinded by love to allow herself to ask the question: had her husband only married her for her money? (Or–in Janine’s present and even more ridiculous case–her hair?)

  And considering that angle, was there even a choice? If Ryan’s love was really contingent on her hair, on something physical, something so trivial, then–as hard as the possibility might be to countenance–it wasn’t love at all.

  “Enough,” Janine Smalls said, picking up the phone. She began to dial.

  Tap, tap, tap, sounded something to her left, and the window went dark. Janine Smalls screamed and stepped on the gas without thinking, but also without effect, as she had not yet started the car. Tap, tap, tap: a face, just visible through the streaks of rain.

  “What the hell is wrong with y
ou?” she shouted at Dr. Novak as she rolled the window down. “You scared me half to death.”

  “You can’t take the part.”

  “I am taking the part. I’ve made up my mind–no thanks to you and your technical glitches.”

  “No, you can’t take the part.”

  Miss Smalls took a moment to examine the scientist more carefully. He did not look quite right–which was to say, he looked even less right than the average person standing out in the rain without the apparent sense to get inside. His t-shirt and jeans were soaked through to his skin. His eyes did not seem to be focusing well, and dark crescents cupped them. There was something wild in his gaze.

  “Are you all right, Dr. Novak?”

  “You can’t take the part. I have to tell you something.”

  Something in his manner made her suddenly and uncomfortably aware of how alone they were out in the parking lot.

  “All right,” she said, “why don’t we go inside and you can tell me whatever you want.”

  “I can’t go back in there–he’ll kill me.”

  “No one’s going to kill you.”

  “There are these monks somewhere in the mountains of Tibet–I think it’s Tibet, I saw it on the History Channel, but it was so long ago, and at the time I just thought it was amusing. The monks shave their heads, all but one of them.”

  “Why don’t you get in the car, at least?”

  “They believe that he–the one monk who doesn’t shave his head–is a reincarnation of one of their gods, an unconscious reincarnation–and his hair–his hair is sacred. It’s like the thread holding everything together, and if he shaves it, or even cuts it too much, the universe will end. Just–blink out. So when he gets old and dies, the other monks have to go searching for his next reincarnation and bring him back to the monastery, where they can make sure he leaves his hair alone, because if they don’t find him in time … And since the last guy died they haven’t been able to find his reincarnation–they’ve been searching for almost 30 years. I wonder whether they’ve ever even considered that they should be searching for a woman.”