The Scream of the Butterfly

by Jakob Melander

  Two packets of King’s Blue were already waiting on top of a pile of newspapers on the counter. Lars looked from the cigarettes to the guy in the grubby sweatshirt. It took them both a moment to figure everything out.

  “Ah, you’ve met my brother.” The guy smiled. “People always get us mixed up. Funny when you think about it. It was me who worked here last summer.” He continued talking while Lars gawped at him. “Alexander.”

  Twins. Lars forced himself to shake his head and laugh.

  He unlocked the door, letting Christine enter first. Then he turned on the light in the hallway.

  “Well then, here we are.”

  She flashed him a quick smile and took off her coat. Lars put it on a hanger.

  “Do you want something to drink? I think I have a bottle of wine.”

  “I want you,” she purred, pulling him down to her face to kiss him. She started unbuttoning his shirt. He put his arms around her, letting his hands glide across the smooth fabric of her dress and down over her buttocks.

  “Wait.” He pulled back. “Can we just take it slow?” He attempted a smile.

  “Is everything all right?” She followed him into the living room and looked around. Lars tossed the cigarettes on the coffee table next to a pile of bills.

  “My ex-wife,” he began, sitting down on the sofa. “She’s living with my boss now — my best friend . . . my former best friend.” He reached for the cigarettes.

  Christine sat down beside him and took his hand.

  “I thought you had something with that colleague of yours?”

  “Nothing ever came of it, which is fine — really, it is. We don’t have to talk about it. But Elena, she can be so . . .” He placed a hand on his thigh. “Sometimes I just want to —”

  “Maybe now would be a good time for that glass of wine?”

  When he returned with the bottle and two glasses, she was crouching down in front of the bookcase. Her finger traced the few books, stopping at a dog-eared paperback: the Signet Classics edition of Shakespeare’s final play.

  “The Tempest?”

  Lars froze, the bottle of Ripasso and two glasses left clattering in his hands. It wasn’t the book itself that was the problem, but what the red, crocheted bookmark contained, which was something very private — not to mention illegal.

  He placed the glasses and the bottle on the coffee table.

  “Wine?” He poured for both of them.

  Christine got up and took the few steps across to the sofa. She had brought the book with her. Lars tried hard not to look at it.

  “Cheers,” he said, handing her a glass.

  They clinked glasses. Lars rolled the heavy wine around his mouth. On the other hand, she must already know about his little weakness. She had seen his medical records at Rigshospitalet when he was hospitalized after his encounter with John Koes in the summer, and would have noticed the concentration of amphetamine in his blood.

  Christine set down her glass and picked up the book again, flicking through it. Lars watched, glancing furtively at her thumb running along the pages. Where was it? He hadn’t touched the wrap of speed and the hidden bookmark since the summer, and he was fairly sure that he had returned both items to The Tempest afterward. But now there was nothing there: the book was empty.

  “You’ve made a lot of notes.” She held up the book, showing him a page with faded, almost thirty-year-old pencil notes between the lines and in the margins.

  “I lived with my father in New York for a year in the eighties.” Lars took another sip. “If there’s one thing they drill into your head at high school over there, it’s Shakespeare. We studied The Tempest.”

  “That’s a lot better than Holberg, if you ask me.” Christine continued to leaf through the text, before reading a couple of lines out loud.

  She loved, not the savour of tar nor of pitch,

  Yet a sailor might scratch her where’er she did itch.

  “How did your teacher explain that one?”

  Lars laughed. He remembered how much fun they’d had with Stephano’s drinking song. Their poor teacher, who had just started that year, young and fresh out of college, had struggled to explain the ambiguities of the text.

  “He didn’t have to. Now it might be that we weren’t crazy about Shakespeare, but that side of him we had no problems with at all.”

  “What a shame that it’s not the main theme of the play.” Christine studied her glass. Her eyes were shiny. “As far as sex in Shakespeare is concerned, my favourite has always been Antony and Cleopatra.”

  There was silence. Then an S-train pulled out from the station. The construction site below his window lay deserted; the workers must be taking one of their rare days off. Lars thought about Sanne. What was she doing right now?

  The letter from his lawyer about the sale of the house was still lying on the coffee table. He reached out to turn it over and and hide it inside the pile of papers when Christine snatched it from his hand.

  “You’ve managed to sell your house? Congratulations!”

  Lars glanced at her sideways, then refilled their glasses. Christine drank and carried on reading.

  “You need to sign here.” Her gaze moved up the page to the letterhead and the date. “This was due several days ago. Why haven’t you signed it yet?”

  Lars jerked his head, got up, and started pacing up and down the living room.

  “I’ve been thinking about something you said the other day about Serafine being transgender. You said it’s about identity, not sexuality.”

  Christine dropped the letter into her lap.

  “Yes?”

  “What exactly did you mean?”

  “Serafine has the body of a man.” Lars nodded, and Christine continued: “But inside, she’s a woman. Her entire concept of self is female.”

  “That sounds very confusing.”

  “Then imagine how Serafine must feel.” Christine took a sip from her glass. “Imagine waking up with an erection every morning, for example. It’s quite natural for you as a man. But for a woman? Imagine feeling revulsion at your body, and wanting this thing to disappear. Many transgender people start cutting their genitals as teenagers, even as children, trying to remove their penises or breasts.”

  Lars looked out the window. That first evening in Mogens Winther-Sørensen’s apartment — Serafine had a series of small scars all the way down her forearm.

  “What do you think she wants?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what’s her motive? What’s driving her?”

  “To Denmark?” Christine looked into the distance. “Right now she’s living in the wrong body, and many transgender people want to become their true physical gender. For Serafine that means becoming a woman. At some point, sooner or later, I imagine she’ll want gender reassignment surgery as part of her transition. Here in Denmark, such surgery is performed at Rigshospitalet following a referral from a sexual health clinic.”

  “And abroad?”

  “Thailand, I believe. They’re supposed to be really good.” Christine drank some more wine, then picked up the letter from the lawyer again. “Why haven’t you signed it? After all, you’ll get almost half a million kroner.”

  Lars lit a King’s. The police had already issued a description of Serafine; she would be apprehended if she tried to leave the country.

  “I don’t know.” He blew a smoke ring toward Christine. “Elena and Ulrik have found a holiday cottage. They want to use their share for the down payment.”

  Christine put down her glass and straightened her red spectacles. Her breasts heaved and sank with her breathing.

  “Is it to punish her?”

  “What? No.” He gestured with his hands. The wine sloshed around his glass. “No.”

  “Lars. This is ridiculous, isn’t it?” />
  He didn’t reply, but sucked hard on his cigarette. She took in the whole room with a sweeping movement of her hand.

  “Just take a look at how you live. It looks like you’ve just left home.”

  He turned his back to her.

  “Lars, you’re a grown man of how old? Forty? It’s time to move on. Free yourself from —”

  “I like living like this.” It sounded peevish. Even he could hear it.

  She got up, came over to him, and put her hand on his cheek. He flinched. Who did she think she was?

  “Seriously. The springs on this old sofa almost poke through the covers. You have ladder bookcases, and don’t even get me started on that stereo.” She looked around again. “Where do you eat your meals?”

  He gritted his teeth.

  “How I deal with my ex is really none of your business.” Talking was becoming difficult.

  “It’s time to move on.”

  And then it came: the anger, the red mist. He clenched his fist, but managed to stop just before he shattered the wineglass.

  “I think it’s best that you leave. Now.” His cigarette had gone out. The flame on the lighter trembled as he relit it.

  “Lars.” Christine tilted her head. “Come on. I thought we were going to . . .”

  He couldn’t look at her, not now. He inhaled, turned away, and stared out of the window, forcing the words out between his teeth.

  “I want you to leave. Now.”

  “Lars,” she said again. There was a pleading quality to her voice. He ignored it.

  A silence descended upon the room. He shut his eyes and didn’t open them until she had taken her coat from the rack in the hallway and shut the door behind her.

  34

  A TAXI SWEPT down Stormgade in the direction of Vesterbro. The street lamps glowed orange-yellow against the sandstone facade of the National Museum. It was late, past two in the morning. Kim opened the heavy door to Rio Bravo and walked through the dark restaurant, passing the polished brass counter where the bar stools were screwed to the floor. In 1983, Helge Dohrmann from the far-right Progress Party had sat here, late on a night just like this. Poul Schlüter, the then prime minister, had called him — and their conversation culminated in what later became known as the “Rio Bravo deal.” In those days the bar stools had cowboy saddles. But that was then.

  The minister was sitting on her own in a booth in the corner, cutting into a Rio Bravo steak.

  “Campaigning is hungry work, Kim.” Merethe Winther-Sørensen put down her steak knife and fork. The cutlery clattered against the sizzling platter. “So it’s important to eat properly. What would we do without places like this, where the kitchen stays open till four o’clock in the morning?”

  He didn’t reply, but sat down opposite her.

  “I met with Lars Winkler yesterday.”

  The minister wiped her mouth and summoned the waiter.

  “What did he say?”

  “It wasn’t so much what he said . . .” Kim leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Lars is no fool. He knows that we have access to his email and cell phone.”

  He paused. The waiter arrived to remove the plate and cutlery.

  “I trust you enjoyed your meal?”

  “It was delicious, Frank. As always.”

  “Coffee? Or perhaps a digestif?” The minister looked across at Kim and paused. Then she clicked her tongue.

  “Two orders of pancakes with ice cream and strawberry jam, please. Yes, Kim,” she continued as he was about to protest. “You shouldn’t forget to eat when you work late.”

  Kim let it pass and held back until the waiter disappeared into the kitchen.

  “And it’s about to get worse. I’ve just checked your son’s Wikipedia page.”

  “Go on?” The minister finished her draft lager.

  “Somebody is tweaking it, making changes to the 1999 section.”

  “What?’ Merethe Winther-Sørensen held her glass frozen in the air above the table.

  “Not to worry, I’ve deleted it. And Wikipedia has a function that allows you to see who’s changed or added something to an entry.”

  “And?”

  “He or she is hiding behind several proxy servers abroad.” He stopped when he saw the expression on the minister’s face. “A proxy server is a kind of intermediate station . . . Forget it. It’s something that can disguise your identity on the Internet. It doesn’t mean that we won’t be able to find out who it is, but it’s going to take time.”

  The waiter appeared with their pancakes.

  “Here you are. And with chopped hazelnuts and an extra bowl of jam, just like the minister prefers it.” The waiter put the plates on the table. “Enjoy.”

  “Thank you, Frank.” The minister picked up her knife and fork. “I trust you, Kim. Just put a stop to it. If Lars gets too close, we’ll have to have a word with Ulrik Sommer. Now let’s dig in. I hope you haven’t got any silver fillings left. Rio Bravo’s vanilla ice cream isn’t for people with sensitive teeth.”

  OCTOBER 1999

  HE HASN’T SLEPT a wink. Meriton’s anecdote about the bear hunt has been spiralling through his brain all night. The story is a thinly veiled threat, there can be no doubt about that. But this is Denmark, and he’s the son of a government minister. He tries to laugh it off, and force the faint, nagging fear back in the box.

  It is quiet; Margretheholm is deserted today. Staff have arranged a day out for the residents — a proper tourist trip around Copenhagen by bus to visit various historical sites like the Little Mermaid, the parliament building, the Stock Exchange, and the Liberty Memorial. But not all the residents have joined in. Arbën is waiting for him at the entrance.

  The boy doesn’t come running toward him like he usually does and he doesn’t call out his cheerful Moo-genz. His sullen face just stares at the gravel, and he kicks a beer can.

  “Arbën.” Mogens puts an arm around his shoulder and gives him a squeeze. “How are you?”

  Arbën stuffs his hands in his pockets, and doesn’t reply. He just follows him to the main entrance.

  Mogens stops. “Your uncles . . . Did they get on the bus?”

  The boy nods and peers up at him.

  Relief washes over him. Today, at least, he is free.

  “I’m just running up to the office to fetch the keys. Then I’ll be back, okay? Why don’t you think about what you want to do today in the meantime?”

  Arbën disappears down the corridor. Mogens walks up to the office, which is deserted. He checks the log where his colleagues and the night shift note any incidents. Nothing unusual has happened.

  Mogens pops his head into Søren’s yellow office.

  “I’ll try organizing a game of softball for the kids.”

  Søren is distracted, and stares at his screen without saying anything, bashing the keyboard with his very own two-finger system.

  Arbën isn’t in the sports hall when he gets back. Mogens walks back up the stairs and down the next flight that leads into the corridor where Arbën lives with his sister. The corridor is empty and deserted again. Only silence can be heard from behind the closed doors. He tiptoes past the uncles’ room. It’s ridiculous, really. No one is there. For a moment he lingers outside the door to the children’s room, unable to make up his mind. Then he knocks.

  Afërdita opens.

  “Hi Afërdita. Is Arbën here?” Then he notices the bathrobe and the makeup. “Why are you dressed up like that?” The petite, fifteen-year-old girl looks almost like a grown-up.

  She shrugs and turns away. A cigarette is burning in the ashtray on the table below the window.

  “And you’ve started smoking?” Mogens walks inside. Her heavy perfume is suffocating in the small room. Afërdita turns, leaning against the edge of the table. She raises the cigarette to her lips.


  “Arbën isn’t here.” She exhales through her nose and looks at him under heavy eyelids. “Maybe outside?”

  The whole mood is strange — wrong somehow. He laughs, a small nervous giggle that gets stuck in his throat.

  “Afërdita, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” He might as well get it over and done with. It might be nothing after all. “A few days ago I saw a man leave this room. He put something in his pocket . . .”

  The hand holding the cigarette drops. Afërdita looks down. Then she peels back her dressing gown, revealing her shoulder. She takes a hesitant step forward, reaches up on her toes, and kisses him on the lips. He is far too shocked to react and freezes in the unfamiliar embrace. Her hand fumbles down along his side, finding his hand. She lifts it up and slips it under her bathrobe, pressing it against her breast while she sticks her tongue into his mouth.

  Mogens tears himself away, staggering back to the door. Afërdita raises the cigarette to her lips once more and looks at him with empty eyes.

  He is back outside her door later that afternoon. He can still taste her lips and feel his hand cupped over the quivering breast. He hesitates, confused at the signals from his body. She’s just a child. He doesn’t want to, but his body reacts to her touch. Just the image of her . . . What’s wrong with him?

  It’s time for him to go home — home to Kirsten and Sarah — home to play and cook. But still he lingers.

  He can’t leave. Not yet. He has to stay. Just a little longer.

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 28

  35

  THE COUGHING WOKE him up. The pain seared through his brain. The blood-red light behind his eyelids.

  How much did he smoke yesterday? Lars reached out, rummaging around on the bedside table. He grabbed a crumpled cigarette packet. One left. He’d smoked nineteen then. He opened his eyes, trying to adjust to the light. Flashes of last night returned. The scene with Christine in his living room played out in technicolor in his mind.

  He swung his legs over the bed and sat up. The headache almost floored him. He had finished the whole bottle of wine, including the glass he had poured for her, right after she left. Didn’t they say you couldn’t handle red wine with age? Or had he drunk a second bottle as well? He staggered out into the kitchen. No, thank God.