The Copenhagen Affair

by Amulya Malladi

  “Yes,” Mandy said. “Ravn is friends with the owner. We have to support the local businesses, you know.”

  “Christ, I haven’t waxed in a million years,” Sanya said. “It must be a jungle down there.”

  She wasn’t cracking a joke, but since it would be rude to not think it was a joke, Mandy laughed awkwardly. And she was unshaved? No, Anders Ravn would simply not be interested.

  Mandy was never late for waxes, because of a story that Penny had told her when she had first suggested Brazilian waxing to her many years ago. Penny’s first lover had been a Lothario, an ex-soccer player who liked young girls. He wasn’t that old, just thirty or so, but when Penny had been sixteen, thirty had been practically ancient and experienced. But he had been one of those enlightened men that Penny discovered there weren’t that many of. He was interested in her orgasm. Penny had thought that was how all men were, but as she told Mandy, “Lovers numbers two to ten proved otherwise. They were complete duds.”

  Penny’s first lover had looked at her considerable bush and said, “Babe, I want to eat you, not floss.”

  Penny had immediately gotten a full Brazilian bikini wax and had never gone back; and after hearing that story, neither had Mandy.

  Apparently, no one had told Sanya that down under had to be mowed on a regular basis. How did she keep a man like Harry Kessler? Did she give good head? What did she do?

  Seeing that the conversation was not moving at all and soon they’d start talking about the weather, Mandy took charge.

  “We wanted to tell you about our plans for a weekend party,” Mandy said. “I have talked to Lucky, and it looks like we can make it happen in a couple of weekends when your other American friends are also here.”

  “How wonderful,” Sanya said pleasantly.

  Mandy realized that Sanya wasn’t curious in the least about her weekend party plans.

  “It’s going to be us, of course, and you. Also, we have invited our dear friends Bjarke and Leah. Bjarke is editor-in-chief of the most important financial newspaper in Denmark, Børsen,” Mandy said, trying to impress Sanya.

  Sanya nodded and sipped her latte. She didn’t look impressed.

  The woman was unsocial, Mandy concluded, just like the Danes. Since she had moved to Denmark, Mandy had faced all the unsocial people one could tolerate. It wasn’t that Danes were not friendly . . . actually, they were unfriendly, and rude, and they didn’t like including new people in their circles. They weren’t curious about people and they didn’t try to befriend them. Even after so many years, Mandy had very few Danish friends, and the ones she did have were usually the Danes who were married to foreigners, like herself. The culture shock of people not trying to get to know you had been quite a shift for Mandy, who was warm and friendly, the things Ravn loved about her.

  So Mandy used her natural talents and became the de facto “mother” for all the women who came to Denmark as “love slaves.” These non-Danish women married Danes and ended up in this cold, gray country where the summers were short and sometimes nonexistent, and the people, just like the weather, didn’t welcome you. But her task was usually easy. These women were dying for some company, and when the wife of a wealthy man invited them home and into her life, they were super grateful. Sanya didn’t seem interested. Didn’t she miss human contact? Wasn’t she feeling lonely? She knew no one in Copenhagen, and she wasn’t even trying to get to know Penny and Mandy so that her life would have some companionship outside of Harry, who, Mandy guessed, probably worked all hours of the day like Ravn.

  “The summer house is in Sweden,” Mandy continued. “It’s just two hours away from here. It’s gorgeous there, and if the weather is nice, we can swim in the lake. Of course, we have a heated indoor pool for the long winters. You’ll love it.”

  “I’m sure,” Sanya said, and then, looking around the café, continued, “So is this café called Around the World because you can see out of all the windows?”

  Mandy took a deep breath because Sanya was trying her patience.

  “I think so,” Mandy said. “It’s a Hellerup standard. Everyone goes here at some point or another. The menu is simple and never ever changes.”

  “We don’t have cafés like this in the states,” Sanya said, as if trying to explain her fascination.

  “American cities lack character,” Penny said. “Except New York, but then New York City isn’t really America, is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Mandy said, immediately defensive about her country. “San Francisco, Chicago, Los Angeles . . . Atlanta, New Orleans—America has many flavors.”

  “And they are all drenched in ketchup,” Penny said with a laugh. “All Americans eat everything with ketchup. They have no sense of cuisine.”

  Mandy felt her temperature rise. She was a better cook than Penny could ever dream of being. The bitch.

  “I hear that the world’s best restaurant is in Copenhagen,” Sanya said.

  The women talked about restaurants for a while, and Sanya nodded eagerly.

  Yes, yes, she absolutely wanted to go to Noma. Era Ora? Italian. Kiin Kiin, the only Thai restaurant with a Michelin star. Sounds fascinating. Certainly, she would tell Harry to book a table right away. Apparently Anders Ravn had enough connections that he could make any dinner reservation possible. And everyone wanted to eat at Noma, one of the best restaurants in the world.

  “I thought the food was okay,” Mandy said. “Ravn took me there for our twentieth wedding anniversary, and I don’t think it lived up to the hype.”

  “You Americans just don’t appreciate good food. I thought it was the food of the gods,” Penny said, and then turned to Sanya to get down to business. “Well, Sanya, how is Harry doing? Is he very busy?”

  Sanya looked at Penny vaguely. “I don’t see him much around the apartment, and when he’s there, it’s usually with Lucky. I hope he’s working . . . but who knows? He may have found a mistress or two.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he hasn’t,” Penny said self-consciously. “So how is the due diligence coming along?”

  Mandy kicked Penny under the table. She had just asked, and Penny was giving them away with her persistence.

  “I really can’t say,” Sanya said. “But they have Raymond Otto coming over . . . he’s their accounting guru. I really don’t know much of what is happening.”

  “And once it’s all done, Harry takes over as CEO,” Mandy said with a bright smile. “You must be excited for him to have such a great opportunity.”

  Sanya shrugged.

  “Oh, come on, it’s a big deal. When Ravn took over as the CEO of IT Foundry, we had so many parties to celebrate. I was so proud to be his wife,” Mandy said. “It’s a big accomplishment.”

  “It’s temporary and it’s his accomplishment,” Sanya said absently. “He’s just going to run it for a while. We’re only here for a year.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” Mandy said. “This couple I know, they came here for six months, and that was ten years ago. She’s American and he’s Italian and they’re still here.”

  “That could happen,” Sanya said. “But I wouldn’t be able to stay. I’ll eventually have to get back to work, and I don’t speak Danish, so working here would be difficult.”

  “But why would you want to work?” Mandy asked, confused. “If your husband is a CEO, you don’t have to work, not for financial reasons, at least.”

  Sanya looked baffled.

  “Mandy is a housewife,” Penny said snidely. “She doesn’t understand us career women.”

  “I understand career women just fine,” Mandy snapped back. “I may not have an official job, Penny, but unofficially I’m busier than you.”

  “Oh, come on, Mandy, you’re not busy—busy is not picking out the right décor for Ravn’s boat; it’s keeping a store running and making sure that the designs are . . .” Penny stopped midsentence when Sanya giggled.

  The women looked at her curiously.

  She waved a hand. “I’m sorry,” she
said.

  “I didn’t know what we said was so funny,” Penny said, insulted.

  Sanya shook her head, controlling her amusement. She left shortly thereafter, saying she wasn’t feeling very well. She insisted on walking down Strandvejen instead of calling for a taxi, saying she needed some fresh air.

  “She’s nuts,” Penny said once Sanya left.

  “Forget about her; can you explain to me why you were being so bitchy? You were insulting America and me,” Mandy said, standing up, her wine-colored Bottega Veneta bag in hand.

  “Oh, come on, Mandy, you take things too seriously,” Penny said. “I was just making conversation. But did you hear? Lucky knows as much as Harry does about everything. I think he might be the weaker link. He’s single, probably desperate. I think he might be the one I need to approach.”

  “You don’t have to prostitute yourself, Penny,” Mandy said, aghast.

  Penny laughed. “We’re all whores, babe, it’s just the degrees that vary.”

  That night, when they were in bed, Mandy talked to Ravn about her lunch with Sanya.

  “She suddenly started laughing and then left. Said she wasn’t feeling well,” Mandy said. “Something is wrong with that woman.”

  “Then don’t invite her for lunch again,” Ravn said, not looking up from his laptop.

  “You know I can’t do that, darling,” Mandy said. “She must be lonely—I know how hard it can be.”

  Ravn stopped typing and turned to look at Mandy. “You don’t have to save everyone.”

  Mandy smiled sweetly. “I have to try. And who knows? Maybe I can drill some fashion sense into her. If anyone is in need of a makeover, it certainly is her.”

  Ravn seemed to pause for a moment. “Makeover?”

  Mandy laughed. “Bless your heart, darling, for not even noticing. She dresses like a . . . well, like a delinquent, with just one outfit. Her T-shirts are ratty. H&M. Her jeans . . . I think she has only one pair that she wears all the time. Her hair . . . well . . . where do I start with that?”

  “Not everyone needs to look like a Barbie doll, Mandy,” Ravn said. “Leave her alone. You don’t like her. You don’t have to deal with her.”

  “I don’t dislike her—I just need to get to know her better,” Mandy said.

  He looked like he was going to say something, but then he decided not to. Instead he said, “You’ll do what you think is best,” and went back to his laptop.

  Mandy didn’t like how he asked her to leave Harry’s wife alone. No, she didn’t like it at all. But instead of dwelling on it, she impatiently flitted through pages of a book on her iPad. She had just downloaded a novel touted to be female erotica with a sprinkle of S&M. Mandy would never admit it, and would talk about the Salman Rushdie or Joyce Carol Oates book she had skimmed through and not really read, but she was a closet erotica and romance novel reader. Thank god for her Kindle, because now she was able to indulge without worrying about the cover of the book giving her away.

  Mandy liked reading romance novels because they made her happy with their positive and love-will-conquer stories; and they made her horny. She had noticed that she was extra amorous after reading a sexy novel. And since they had missed having sex the previous Sunday, Mandy felt she needed to fix the situation by getting into the mood and convincing Ravn to get into the mood as well, even though it was in the middle of the week. Fact was that if she was willing, he was always willing. He never put pressure on her, and he never cajoled her . . . not anymore . . . to have sex with him, but if there was that mutual time when they both kissed a little and it could advance into sex, he took the opportunity. But if she said good night immediately after kissing him, he stayed with his work.

  “We haven’t been making love,” Mandy said to him after she read the first paragraph of the novel.

  Ravn looked up from his computer. Mandy was surprised at her boldness. They never really talked about sex. It was something you did. Not something you discussed.

  “We’ve been busy,” he said. “Would you like to make love tonight?”

  Mandy licked her lips. There was just something about him that was distant. She had seen this before and had wondered if he was seeing a woman. But she had shut that line of thought immediately. She didn’t want to know.

  “Yes, please,” Mandy said, and put her iPad away. She always wore sexy lingerie to bed. A woman had to dress like a woman, and she never understood women who didn’t put the same effort into their appearance in bed as they did when they went outside. It was all a performance anyway, wasn’t it?

  She kissed him ardently, usually step one to sex. And then they made love as they always did. He used his fingers to make her ready and then he came inside. She orgasmed quickly and so did he. It was mutually satisfying.

  But the sense of unease refused to leave her. It didn’t help that when he rolled off her, he didn’t say what he always did after they made love. He didn’t say, “I love you, skat.”

  He went to sleep while Mandy lay awake, dreading the next weeks, months, years. Yes, sometimes it had been years when he had been distracted and distant. It was always—yes, Mandy, you have to admit it—it was always another woman. She wanted to wake him up and yell at him. How dare he humiliate her like this? Did he sleep with that other woman before he came to her bed?

  But she knew she wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t ask questions to which she didn’t want to know the answers. It was one thing to suspect your husband of having an affair and quite another thing for him to confirm it. Once he confirmed it, once the cat was out of the bag, you had to do something about it. Mandy liked her life. She loved her life. She would stand this as she had the other times. She would never let him know she knew, and he would return the courtesy and never make her feel like he had a mistress.

  But this time he had forgotten to say, “I love you, skat.” This time could be the time when he actually fell in love with the other woman and left Mandy. She had to tread very, very carefully with Ravn.

  A few years ago, when one of her brothers had come to visit them in Copenhagen, his wife had stood in awe of their house, their cars, and their life. “You’ve really made something of yourself, Mandy,” her sister-in-law said. “I mean, look at you. You’re living the fairy tale. You’re a real-life princess.”

  And real-life princesses took care to not let the tiara fall off their heads.

  Chapter 14

  Can the Blind Lead the Blind?

  Sanya hadn’t seen Harry for nearly a day and a half. The day before, she had come back home tired from lunch with Mandy and Penny at Café Jorden Rundt, where she was certain they were pumping her for information, and she was mildly curious as to why, but overall she really didn’t care one way or the other. She did, however, want to ask Harry how things were progressing with the IT Foundry purchase. There were too many late-night conference calls, Lucky seemed agitated most of the time, and now they were having some more people come over from the California office. But by the time she woke up late the next morning, Harry had already left.

  That night Sanya’s sleep was inundated with confusing dreams that she couldn’t remember but could only feel remnants of, clinging to her subconscious like grains of beach sand, making her stay in bed and under the covers.

  In the afternoon, Ravn sent her a text message: How are you?

  Sanya felt a weight lift, and she sat up on the bed and typed her response. I Went Around the World with your wife and your cousin.

  He called then and asked, “How was lunch?”

  “I didn’t eat anything and neither did they,” she said. “I left because I was being rude by laughing.”

  “I heard. What was so funny?”

  “I’m going to sound terrible saying this. But your wife doesn’t work for a living and your cousin, well . . .”

  “Doesn’t really work for a living, yes, I know,” Ravn said.

  “These two women were discussing who is busier, whose life has more value,” she told him. “And su
ddenly I felt a burst of hysteria because I realized I was like them. I wasn’t busy. I . . . am just as useless. Then I felt worse and I had to leave. I was tired. I came home and slept. You know, I don’t think your wife likes me.”

  “I love my wife, but she measures people by the brand of handbag they carry,” he said.

  “I don’t have a handbag. I have a small wallet,” she said. She looked out of the window as she lay in bed, a bright blue sky over the Copenhagen skyline. “Why do you like me?”

  “I don’t know. But there’s something there,” he said.

  She knew what he meant. Since that first moment in that café on Strandvejen, which seemed like an eternity ago and not just a few weeks, she had known that they had that elusive thing people called chemistry.

  “How did you try to kill yourself?” she asked.

  He was quiet for a long moment. Old Sanya would have broken the silence and said she was sorry for asking the question. New Sanya waited.

  “I indulged in my mother’s arsenal of barbiturates and took a few too many,” Ravn said.

  “But you obviously didn’t die,” she said.

  “It was close. I almost lost kidney function. A friend saved my life,” he said.

  “Sounds intense.”

  “Yes, it was. He’s a biker in one of the biker gangs in Copenhagen. We were in high school together and remained friends even though he chose a very unusual life. His name is Tandhjul, not his given name obviously because Tandhjul means ‘a gear’ in Danish. He knew that I was fragile, and he was keeping an eye on me. He took me to the hospital. He took me to see a therapist every week for the next six months. He made sure I took my pills, worked out, went to school, ate . . . he saved me.”

  “That’s a good friend,” she said. “My friend Alec did some of that for me. I never tried to kill myself.”

  “That’s good,” Ravn said. “That’s very good. You keep it that way.”

  “My therapist told me about triggers. According to him, being criticized by my family, Harry included, which makes me feel small and irrelevant, is a trigger for me; that’s what sends me down the rabbit hole,” Sanya said.