The Scream of the Butterfly (9 page)

21

IT WAS GETTING
dark as Lars drove across the Fredensbro bridge. A narrow strip of yellow daylight still fell across the Panum Institute. The blue-black water of Sortedamssøen reflected the neon light from the Irma advertisement down by Dronning Louises Bridge. Christine had sounded pleased to hear from him, but her delight had cooled noticeably when he had explained the reason for his call.

He turned down Blegdamsvej, passed Amor Park, and pulled into the parking lot. Rigshospitalet towered over him, perforated by hundreds of parallel rectangles: yellow lights from the wards, offices, and corridors glowed in the dark.

Christine was sitting with a cup of coffee in the hospital reception area next to the 7-Eleven kiosk, checking her iPhone.

“Hi Lars.” She got up. “You won't get out of giving me a hug.” She reached up and hugged him. Her embrace was longer than strictly necessary and her warm lips brushed his earlobe. Her eyes were shining when she released him. Or were they simply reflecting the fluorescent lights?

Lars took off his jacket and sat down. It really was hot in here.

“I hope it's okay to disturb you at work?”

“My shift doesn't start for another thirty minutes. So, what's this about?”

“Our prime witness escaped from the Sandholm Centre. She was last seen in central Copenhagen this afternoon, but since then . . . nothing, not a peep. But that wasn't what I wanted to ask about. You see, she's not a woman.”

“What do you mean?” Christine tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, but she never stopped looking at him.

“She's a transsexual. A man who thinks he's a woman. As a doctor —”

Christine interrupted him.

“Not a transsexual — transgender.”

“Same thing, isn't it?”

“Far from it. It's a question about gender identity, not sexuality. A transgender person can be homo-, hetero-, or bisexual. The whole spectrum, so to speak.”

“But I thought —”

Christine dragged a finger down his hand.

“There is no such thing as a specific transgender object of desire . . .” She trailed off, but continued to hold his gaze for a long time. A red flush spread across her cheeks, down her neck. “Come with me.”

“In here.”

Christine shoved him inside the room, then slipped in behind him. She pushed a cleaning trolley in front of the door, wedging it under the door handle.

“A cleaning cupboard?” Lars pulled off his jacket.

“Shh.” Christine fumbled with his belt.

A solitary beam of light from the corridor crept in under the door. The narrow room was filled with shadows. Lars could make out the contours of several other cleaning trolleys, and metal shelves with linen and cleaning agents. The only sounds were their frantic breaths and the throbbing of blood in his temples.

Christine tore off his belt and kissed him with burning lips. Her hands were already inside his pants.

Lars kissed her back. Teeth grated against teeth. His fingers wandered across her white coat, and then gave up. There were too many buttons. He turned her around and pulled her coat and dress over her hips while she wiggled out of her panties.

He parted her buttocks, and guided his penis inside her. He let himself be engulfed by the warmth and wetness. She gasped, thrusting back against his hips while her fingers grabbed sheets and towels. The metal shelving swayed and creaked. The rhythm was awkward at first, but then they found it. He could make out Christine's white butt in the darkness, rotating around his hard, deep thrusts.

“Come!” she moaned, turning her face toward his. Lars reached up inside her coat, seeking the heavy roundness of her breasts. He leaned forward and kissed the corner of her mouth. They were both sweating. The shelving squeaked again. Something fell down, hitting the floor before rolling away noisily.

He stopped and listened. Christine reached back with one hand and pulled him toward her. They could hear footsteps in the corridor, but this time neither of them tried to hold back. There was a tension in his groin, then his balls contracted and let go. He had to bite down on her coat so that he didn't cry out loud.

She pressed against him, everything quivering. They gasped for air as they kissed, tasting each other's lips and tongues.

“Ouch.” Christine drew in her leg and whispered. “My back.”

“Sorry.” He withdrew and pulled up his pants. Christine turned around, fumbling for her panties while she straightened herself out. There were beads of sweat on her forehead.

Lars squinted against the sharp, white light when she opened the door. His eyes began to water. Blurred shadows were coming down the corridor, materializing into the form of a nurse followed by two figures.

“You'll be given an enema before the colonoscopy.”

The figures drifted across the veil of tears in his pupils before they came into focus. Finally, he was able to see clearly again.

Sanne and Martin were walking behind the nurse. Sanne had already spotted them and came to a halt, but Martin had yet to notice that anything was amiss and kept following the nurse. His fingers were clutching a folder with information from the hospital. He looked pale.

Christine looked up. Her eyes were shining and her neck and cheeks were flushed.

“Isn't that your colleague?”

Lars nodded, trying to adjust his shirt. He ran a hand through his hair. Sanne stared at him and Christine with a strangely dead expression in her eyes. She flinched. Then she looked away.

“Martin.”

Martin turned around. His gaze flitted from Sanne to Lars, ignoring Christine. His face reddened.

“What are you doing here?” Lars nodded at Martin, and took a step forward.

Sanne waved her hand.

“Martin . . . He has to — we . . .” Then her hand came to rest on her chest, and she ran past them after the nurse.

Christine tried to catch his eye. “I thought you were both working that case.”

Lars looked after Sanne and nodded.

“Well, that'll be fun.” Christine gave him a quick squeeze, then glanced at her watch. “Jesus. My shift starts now. Call me soon?”

Then she was gone.

He stopped to put on his jacket by the swinging door that led onto Blegdamsvej. A taxi drove around the fountain, before pulling up to drop off a young man. Lars took out his phone. He had twelve messages on his voicemail. The first two were from the Danish Broadcasting Company and BT. He deleted every single one without listening to them. The 3A bus drove past him on Blegdamsvej.

He stood still for a moment holding his phone, looking at the list of outgoing calls. His thumb hovered over Christine's number. Then he shook his head, pulled up his collar, and left.

OCTOBER 1999

MOGENS PARKS OUTSIDE
the fence and walks toward the open, wrought-iron gate to the Margretheholm Centre. The sun is shining, but the temperature has started to drop. He pulls his cardigan tighter around him.

“Moo-genz, Moo-genz!” Arbën comes running toward him, waving the photograph of Sarah. “Sa-rah, Sa-rah!” It has become their ritual.

Mogens shifts his bag to his other hand and ruffles Arbën's hair. Someone has organized a softball tournament on the lawn in front of the centre. The children have been split into teams, and the game is well under way. Folding tables with fruit juice and bread rolls have been set up along the playing field.

“Play, Moo-genz. Play!” Arbën sprints onto the lawn, turning to see if he follows. Mogens laughs. Søren is standing by one of the tables, busy pouring fruit juice.

“Is it okay if I join in?”

“Of course it is. Arbën, why don't you add Mogens to your team?” Søren signals with his hands, and Arbën nods.

The next hours disappear in a confusion of sweat and laughter. It's been a long time since Mogens had this much fun.

It is nearly time for lunch; Mogens and Arbën are standing by one of the tables drinking juice and watching the others play.

“You look happy.”

Mogens turns around. Arne is standing there, smiling. “Just wanted to see how you were getting on, son.” His father has never grown used to his name.

“This is Arbën. Arbën, this is my father, Arne.”

“Ar-ne.” Arbën pronounces it with equal stress on both syllables and shakes his hand. Arne laughs.

At that moment, a fat man in a track suit appears by the main entrance and shields his eyes with his hand. He peers at them and summons Arbën.

Arbën looks up.

“Later, Moo-genz?”

“Yeah, off you go. I'll see you later.”

Arbën waves and sprints across the lawn.

“Looks like you've made a friend.” Arne folds his hands behind his back. They start to walk across the grass.

“He came up here with his sister and two uncles. They don't know what happened to their parents.”

“How awful. But how about you? You look like you're thriving.”

“You have no idea how happy I am. I'm never going back to politics.” He pauses. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to —”

“Relax, son,” Arne continues, pulling him alongside the building. “In fact, I'm here to tell you that I think it's great — your decision, I mean. When I was younger, I too had plans.” Arne looks toward the trees; his gaze grows distant. “Your mother is a very strong-willed woman. She always gets her own way. You were born, and she became leader of the party.” Arne shrugs his shoulders. Suddenly he looks tired and old.

“Is something wrong?” Mogens stops.

“Moo-genz.” Arbën comes darting out from behind the centre toward them.

“Nothing, my boy. I'm proud of you. Come.” He gestures for Arbën to join them. “Am I allowed to take photographs here?”

“Oh, Dad.” Mogens shakes his head. Then he runs onto the grass, picks up a tennis ball, and throws it to Arbën. The boy goes to catch it, but loses his balance and collapses, giggling, on the grass.

“Tomorrow?” Arbën looks up at him. They are warm and sweaty as they walk through the centre. The tournament has lasted most of the day.

“Of course. And tomorrow I'll win.” They turn a corner and walk down the stairs to the corridor where Arbën lives with his sister. On the last step the boy stops; his tiny body frozen. The doors to the rooms are closed all the way down the corridor, which is odd — they're usually left open. The corridor should be bustling with residents on their way to the kitchen or the bathroom opposite the room where the siblings live. Children should be playing.

But now it is deserted. There are shoes on the mats of nearly every door, meaning the residents are inside.

“Why are all the doors shut?”

Arbën winces at the question. Then he starts running down the corridor. He turns just before he reaches his room and waves.

“Is everything all right?” Mogens calls out after him. He wants Arbën to stop, but the boy continues and shakes his head.

The sound of a door opening behind him causes him to stop. A man mumbles something. Arbën replies in English, but Mogens is too far away to be able to hear what is said.

He turns around and walks softly down the stairs. The door to Arbën and Afërdita's room is closed. The large door at the end of the building is open, and the silhouette of a broad man with a meaty backside fills the frame. The man sticks something in his pocket and turns briefly, staring at Mogens. Then he is gone, closing the door behind him.

“She's asleep now.” Mogens rubs his face as he comes down the stairs. Outside, the wind shakes the conifers. The waves pound Hornbæk beach. A gale is blowing tonight.

Kirsten puts the last few items in the dishwasher, but doesn't reply. It is their standard evening ritual. They gave up pretending to be a family after Sarah's bedtime a long time ago. He doesn't know why he even bothers these days. And yet, he starts talking to her back.

“Something strange happened today when I walked Arbën back to his room.”

She wrings out the dishcloth over the sink, and doesn't answer. Now that he's started, it feels weird to stop, so he carries on. He talks about the deserted corridor; Arbën hurrying away; and the man coming out of the children's room, leaving through the door at the end of the building. “It looked like he was slipping something in his pocket,” he says in closing.

“And?” She doesn't look at him.

“Well, what do you think he was doing?”

“Perhaps they're dealing drugs? How would I know?”

His efforts are futile. She has shut down. He gets up, goes to the bathroom. When he comes back, Kirsten is pouring water into the French press. Her shoulders are tense under the thin, white shirt. His hands long to massage her aching muscles until they are soft and pliable. Instead, he flops down in the chair.

Kirsten puts the lid on the coffee pot and turns around.

“I spoke to Peter today.” She looks at him.

Mogens closes his eyes. Here it comes, everything he has been dreading. He doesn't want to hear it. Her footsteps across the bleached floorboards, the sound of a chair being pulled out. She puts the French press on the table and sits down next to him. Her breath is very close, a faint quiver against his skin. It hurts deep inside his chest.

“I've decided to find another lawyer for the company.” Her hand settles on top of his, soft and warm. “Did you hear what I said? That I'm going to stop seeing him?”

He opens his eyes.
What did she just say?

“Why?”

“I had my doubts when you said you were going to quit politics. But these last few weeks . . . You're a totally different person. Sarah can feel it too.” She squeezes his hand. Then she takes the coffee cups and fills them. “I've decided that you and I — our family — deserve a second chance.”

Everything bubbles up inside him. Kirsten's face starts to swirl before he realizes it is because of the tears welling up in his eyes.

Then she sits in his lap. His hands climb up her back and soon they are everywhere on her skin, ripping open her bra hooks. They writhe naked on the floor in front of the fireplace, their skin glowing in the warmth of its flames. And everything is hands and lips and heavy breathing.