Omelets, fluffy as dreams, were placed in front of them with slices of baguette and little cubes of foil-wrapped butter. Sanya hesitated to cut into the beautiful omelet, but Madeline immediately took up her knife and fork and dived in.
“Amazing,” she said, and Sanya had to agree when she followed suit. It was the best omelet she’d ever eaten.
“What happens to a lot of women?” she prodded Madeline.
“This,” she said angling her chin at Sanya. “This thing that has happened to you. You’ve spent your life taking care of others, and you’ve forgotten you exist and forgotten what it means to be just you. Babies do that. Husbands do that. Society does that. The expectations on a woman are ridiculous.”
“I’m a recovering lunatic; it’s going to take a while to be happy and fulfilled,” Sanya said defensively, and shoved omelet into her mouth.
“Oh, please, don’t pull the nervous breakdown card,” Madeline said, but her voice was kind. “What are you doing tonight?”
Sanya raised her eyebrows.
“Come with me to Mojo,” Madeline said. “Actually, after lunch let’s go to the movies. They’re playing film-school movies at the Nordisk Film Institute.”
“I don’t understand Danish,” Sanya said, unsure if she wanted to spend a whole day with Gloria Steinem. And what the hell was a Mojo?
“That’s okay; the student movies won’t be good anyway. We’ll find something else to do,” Madeline said. “Come on, let your hair down.”
“What’s a Mojo?”
“The best blues bar in all of Copenhagen,” Madeline said.
After they finished their omelets, they both ordered espressos, and as they sipped Sanya asked Madeline the question she had been pondering about her lunch companion.
“Have you always been a feminist . . . a free spirit?”
Madeline shook her head. “I met my husband when I was twenty-one. Very young. And I had a child and got my PhD and became a professor at the University of Copenhagen. I started to work and live that hideous bourgeois lifestyle so many of us claim as our own. We had people over for dinner. We went to Majorca for holidays. But then, when I was thirty-five and my son was eleven years old, something happened.”
She paused to take a sip of her espresso.
“I had a breakthrough, though for a while it felt like a breakdown,” Madeline said. “I was invited to a sociology conference in Paris to present a paper I had written about the social impact of the dole in Denmark or some such boring shit. My husband was busy with his book on the maritime history of Norway, so he was traveling to the ass-end of Norway quite a bit. I was alone. Not lonely, mind you. Why don’t we walk and talk? We can go to the Round Tower. Have you been?”
Sanya nodded. “Recently, I did all the tourist stuff with a friend who was visiting.”
They split their bill, fifty-fifty, and walked down Studiestræde toward the Skt. Petri Church. “So, what happened in Paris?” Sanya asked.
Madeline smiled impishly. “I had sex with a man who wasn’t my husband for the first time in my life. And it was amazing.”
“Who was he?” Sanya asked as they pushed past people thronging the pedestrian street by an Italian restaurant. It was getting warm, and Sanya had taken off her trench coat, and it trailed a little on the ground as she threw it over her purse.
“How does it matter? He could’ve been anyone,” Madeline said. “And I have realized that. All my lovers could’ve been anyone, but Flemming, my husband, had to be Flemming.”
“That’s bullshit rationalization,” Sanya said.
“Yes and no.”
“Tell me about the Parisian,” she said, thinking of Ravn and his scar.
“He wasn’t a Parisian,” Madeline said. “He was Scottish. One of those rugged and slightly unruffled types. He was nearly fifty years old then with graying hair, but I thought he was beautiful. He had a full head of hair, while Flemming had lost everything by the time he turned thirty.”
Madeline insisted they buy ice cream on the way to Runde Taarn, the Round Tower. In the seventeenth century, Christian IV had built the structure wide enough to drive his horse carriage up to the top for a killer view of Copenhagen. He had proudly rebuilt the tower after the three-day fire of 1624.
So while they walked on Strøget, enjoying their ice cream, Madeline told Sanya about Wallace, her Scottish lover.
“He was married, of course, with two daughters. He was an editor at one of the big Dublin publishing houses.”
Madeline stopped to throw the last bit of her ice cream cone into a trash can. They were next to the Hermès store, and from the corner of her eye Sanya caught sight of the orange purse that she had seen on Mandy’s arm once. Was that a Birkin?
“I felt like a woman. A fertile, voluptuous, seductive piece of ass. He loved me, too. He couldn’t keep his hands off of me. We were doing it everywhere. Back seats of cars. Restrooms of restaurants. You name it. It was the best and worst affair I ever had.”
Floored by the depth of Madeline’s emotion, Sanya forgot about the Birkin bag.
“What happened?” she asked.
Madeline sighed. “His wife found out, and he chose her. I didn’t see him again, not for a long time, and when I did . . . let’s say I wish I had not seen him again, because I couldn’t recognize my Wallace in this man, because this man was old, bitter, and still unhappy in his marriage, which was devoid of love. I felt grateful for Flemming then. My life was full of love with him, and fun. But that affair was momentous because it opened my eyes to who I could be and how much I could feel.”
Sanya bought tickets for the Round Tower, and they went up the winding path to the top of Copenhagen.
“Was the affair really that grand, or after all these years does it feel grander than it was?” Sanya asked Madeline.
“Oh, that sounds like a practical question,” Madeline said. “Let’s not bother to answer it and take the magic away from our memories of greatness.”
Sanya sent a text message to Harry to tell him that not only was she out for dinner, but she wasn’t sure when she’d be home.
He responded. Where are you? Do you need me to come and pick you up?
Why?
Just checking if you want a ride home.
I don’t know when I’ll be done at this blues bar.
Do you want me to come to this blues bar?
No. Why would I want you to?
If you can’t find your way home or something.
For god’s sake, Harry!
Chapter 28
A Lucky Break
Harry watched Lucky pace the meeting room.
“This thing is blowing up in our faces,” Lucky said.
Otto had gone home and told everyone that IT Foundry was a bad bet but not why—the partners were freaking out, and all Lucky could tell them was that everything was on track.
“From what we know everything is on the up and up,” Lucky said. “We should just buy this and get it settled.”
Harry was distracted. He was standing at a window, looking out at the city. Even though it was a bit nippy (and it was July), the sky was blue and the sun was shining. It was the wind that made it cool. He liked this city, he realized, just like Sanya did. He liked how easy it was to walk around. How easy it was to find a cup of coffee. How he didn’t have to pull out his car when he needed a carton of milk. It was hyggelig, as Danes would say.
“Harry? I’m stressed out of my wits, and you’re all calm and cool,” Lucky said.
“It’s going to be fine,” Harry said.
“Oh, and do you know anything about a Lala shell corporation? This is the shell corporation that Mark Barrett leased those nonexistent properties in Sweden to,” Lucky said.
Harry looked at Lucky for a long moment and then said, “And what is the shell corporation that IT Foundry has, the legal one?”
Lucky browsed through his computer and said, “Cirque Fernando.”
Harry thought about it for a moment and pulled ou
t his cell phone. When he found what he was looking for, he smiled.
“Son of a bitch,” he said. “Do you know about a Degas painting called Miss La La at the Cirque Fernando? It’s now in the collection of the National Gallery in London. Degas painted the acrobat Miss La La hanging on a rope by her teeth at the Cirque Fernando in Montmartre.”
“What on god’s good earth are you talking about?” Lucky asked in exasperation.
Harry held up his hand to hold off Lucky and his inevitable outburst at what he thought was a non sequitur and called Otto. “Why did you start looking into Lala? It has nothing to do with IT Foundry business.”
Otto sounded shifty and instead of answering asked Harry if he knew what time it was in California.
“You sent the files to her, didn’t you?” Harry said exultantly. “And she connected Lala to Cirque Fernando.”
“What?” Otto said.
“Go back to bed, Otto,” Harry said. “We just figured this one out. And you’re right; we won’t be buying IT Foundry.”
Lucky looked at Harry questioningly when Harry hung up on Otto.
“We need a lawyer,” Harry said. “We need to find a way out of this deal.”
“Ravn’s not going to just lie down and let us walk away,” Lucky said.
“He’s not going to have a choice,” Harry said.
“You know I’ll do what you want,” Lucky said. “But tell me this and give it to me straight. Are you backing out of this because you’re worried about Sanya being attracted to Ravn?”
“Sanya is not the type,” Harry said, but he knew that wasn’t true. Old Sanya was not the type; but New Sanya was testing her boundaries and exploring the span of her wings.
“Man, look, she’s a saint, okay? But we have a partners’ meeting in a few hours,” Lucky said. “We don’t know yet what Ravn’s been up to. And why should we doubt it? The biggest bank in Denmark signed off on those loans that Otto said were questionable.”
“We need to look into that as well,” Harry said. “Again. Because now I think I know what happened. I know how Mark Barrett and Ravn helped cook the books at IT Foundry to make them interesting for us to buy.”
“You’re making no sense,” Lucky said impatiently. “And what really gets me is that you’re not upset.”
Harry looked at him in amazement. “What do you mean? I’ve never been more upset.”
“Not about your wife,” Lucky said, “but about this business deal going south. We came to buy a company and run it. Now we’re going home empty-handed.”
“As long as I can keep my wife with me, I’m not empty-handed,” Harry said, and then breathed deeply. “Look, Lucky, there comes a time in a man’s life when he needs to see himself as he really is. And I finally do see myself. I have for too long been the slick consultant who has been playing every which way possible to get ahead in his career, and as I stand as a partner in a really prestigious consultancy, I can’t feel that it has been worth it. Do you think it has been worth it?”
“Of course it has been worth it,” Lucky said. “You live a life most people envy.”
“And Ravn lives a life I would and do envy,” Harry said. “And maybe he’s going to go to prison for it, or at least he’ll be embarrassed in his own high-class society for being a fucking criminal. So tell me, what good did it do him? He got the fancy house, the big car, summer houses and holidays in wherever, and dinner with ambassadors and whatnot, but where has it gotten him?”
“Ravn’s going to prison?” Lucky shook his head. “You are making less and less sense.”
“I don’t want to get divorced, Lucky,” Harry said.
“Couples get divorced all the time,” Lucky said.
Harry sat down on a chair and smiled sadly at Lucky. “People do. But not people like me. I can’t be Harry Kessler without Sanya. She makes me who I am. She’s my family. The only person in the world who gives a shit if I live or die. I wake up at six in the morning every morning and smile because she’s in bed next to me. Even this past year, when a strangely erratic woman has replaced my happy, positive wife, I smile because she’s still there. And this woman, this confusing woman, is full of fire and passion, and I love her even more than I did before. Sanya feels that she’s lucky to have me—but the fact is, I’m fucking fortunate to have her. The irony is that I didn’t find that out until now when she could walk away and I would have no defense, no way to stop her.”
Chapter 29
A Mannish Boy at Mojo
The name for Mojo Blues Bar, Madeline told Sanya, came from the lyrics of old blues songs like “Got My Mojo Working” and “Went to Louisiana to Get My Mojo in Hand.”
“Mojo is also a talisman that is worn to attract a true soul mate or lover,” the man at the ticket counter, who overheard their conversation, told them as Sanya paid for her entrance. Madeline, who knew everyone at Mojo, got in for free.
The bar was smoky, and with muted light it impressively hosted people from eighteen to sixty—different skin colors, different ethnicities—it was the most diverse gathering of people Sanya had seen in Copenhagen, which tended to be white.
“Madeline, hvordan har du det?” a young man about twenty-five rattled off in Danish and lifted Madeline off her feet with a big hug.
“So nice to see you,” Madeline said, and kissed the boy on both cheeks when he set her down. “Sanya, this is Asgar, my son’s best friend.”
In greeting, Asgar tipped his black porkpie hat trimmed with a small black feather and replaced it on his head at a rakish angle. He wore a hippie jazz chic ensemble of distressed gray jeans, a Dolce & Gabbana T-shirt, and a thick gold chain with a cross pendant.
“Nice to meet you,” Asgar said, and shook Sanya’s hand. The kid was cute; Sanya had to give him that. He even had a dimple on his right cheek covered by carefully cultivated stubble.
“Asgar is on the bass. And he’s fabulous,” Madeline told Sanya. “We came just for you,” she told Asgar.
“And you brought a beautiful friend along,” Asgar said to Madeline as he looked at Sanya, who blinked.
Is this kid hitting on me?
Madeline smiled a knowing smile. “We’re going to find a place to sit.”
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, still looking at Sanya.
Thick cigarette smoke wafted between them, and Sanya inhaled without thinking. It wasn’t Rainy Day Woman, but it could be.
“At Mojo we only serve music and drinks, so you can smoke inside,” Asgar said.
Sanya still had some of Chloe’s cigarettes in her handbag, which she hadn’t touched since the dinner at Kiin Kiin. Once Asgar took them to their seats, Sanya pulled out the pack and held a cigarette near her mouth. Asgar lit the cigarette, and she smoked, channeling Lauren Bacall in one of her many black-and-white movies with Bogart. Sanya smiled like she was a sophisticated cougar who had young men fall all over her all the time. This was New Sanya, with a slight sprinkle of Rainy Day Woman.
“You should go, Asgar,” Madeline said. “They’re waving to you. We’ll find our own drinks.”
Asgar grinned and winked at Sanya. “Showtime,” he said, and then was gone.
“You want a drink?” Madeline asked.
Sanya licked her lips and nodded, “Yes, please. What would you like? I’ll get them.”
Sanya hadn’t been drinking hard liquor, not since her Scotch days during the nineties tech boom. But it just felt right to have bourbon on the rocks at Mojo, especially since Madeline was having one, too.
As musicians were tuning their instruments, Sanya took her first sip of the bourbon and let it burn her inside.
“The best thing about live blues is how they improvise as they go, and Asgar improvises like a bad motherfucker. That kid is something else. He dropped out of university, which isn’t a big surprise. He has an IQ of 150 or something outrageous like that, and university is just not challenging enough,” Madeline said. “Sit back and be impressed.”
There was a man playing the har
monica who looked like something out of a thirties movie; there was Asgar on bass, standing by a blond woman in fatigues at the drums; and a man who looked like a Harry Potter–style wizard with frizzed hair was the guitarist. A black man, the lead vocalist, introduced himself as Small Creek Slim and promised to entertain them with a variety of famous blues songs, including those by Nina Simone, B.B. King, Muddy Waters, and more.
As they tuned their instruments, Sanya watched Asgar, and slowly the cacophonous sounds of the instruments being tuned turned into “The Thrill is Gone” by B.B. King, and Sanya leaned back into her chair and started to enjoy herself, and not only because Asgar watched her as he played.
They moved from B.B. King to Albert King’s “Born Under a Bad Sign,” and then they moved to Muddy Water’s famous “Mannish Boy”—and that was when Asgar popped a cigarette in his mouth.
“‘Mannish Boy’ was first recorded in Chicago in May of 1955, and accompanying Muddy Waters was the amazing Jimmy Rogers on guitar, Junior Wells on harmonica, and Fred Below on drums. The song has made it in Hollywood and can be found on the soundtracks of Risky Business, yep, the famous movie where Tom Cruise made his debut as a singer in his underpants,” Small Creek Slim said, and the audience dutifully laughed at the joke.
Sanya smiled at the lyrics as Small Creek Slim sang them—“because it was apt for Asgar, he was a boy who thought he was a man.”
As the song progressed the bass started to become more and more dominant.
“Watch this,” Madeline said with a big smile.
Asgar winked at Sanya and then closed his eyes. His fingers started to play the bass as if . . . yes, as if it were a woman. He caressed the instrument, ran his fingers alongside her, and as he did, the cigarette hung in his mouth, the ash starting to take over what had been paper and nicotine.
The others stopped playing, the singer had stopped singing, and it was just the bass now, just Asgar, and there was pin-drop silence in the bar. The man next to Sanya had his cigarette in his hand, and he watched openmouthed as Asgar played, his eyes closed and the cigarette ash becoming more tenuous and longer by the second.
The Copenhagen Affair Page 20