The Wild Beasts of Wuhan (13 page)

She looked at his painting. “You come here every day?”

“I do.”

“And you paint the same thing?”

“It is never the same. That’s why I find it so beautiful.”

“I was told Jimmy painted scenes like this too.”

“He painted this one, except he couldn’t resist sticking in those ridiculous characters of his.”

“On driftwood?”

“Yeah, the crazy bastard.”

“What do you mean?”

“You would have thought he’d invented the idea of painting on driftwood. He used to scour this beach every morning looking for what the tide had brought in. He used to go nuts if anyone else got there first or was looking when he was. There was more than one fight down there.”

“Do you know what happened to him?”

“Why are you interested?”

“I’m looking for him. It’s business-related.”

“Business? That’s a word I’d never associate with him.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“He left.”

“When?”

“Four or five years ago.”

“Why?”

“His wife, I think. She found it too crowded here.”

“Crowded?” Ava said in disbelief.

“In the summer we get overrun by those fucking German tourists, but most of the time it’s like this. Me, a couple of other painters, and a few guys on the beach throwing sticks for dogs to chase. The wife was a bit of a nut job, used to nag him something awful. Though when you think about all the kids she had to look after, maybe she had a reason.”

“Do you know where they went?”

“No.”

“Do you think anyone you know would know?”

“I don’t know him, but Jimmy had a brother in Hirtshals.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ronny. He owns a fish plant, Sørensen Fiske. It’s right on the main pier in Hirtshals.”

“Is that far from here?”

“Straight west about forty kilometres. Just follow the concrete bunkers.”

“Bunkers?”

“During the Second World War the Germans dotted this entire coastline with them, to defend themselves against an attack that never came. The walls are so thick we can’t rip them down. That’s why some of the fuckers come back here every summer — to relive the old glory days.”

“Thanks for the help,” she said, not particularly wanting to hear a rant about the Second World War; she’d heard them often enough when Chinese spoke about the Japanese. Different continent, different occupiers, same hatred.

( 15 )

She punched Sørensen Fiske into her GPS and up it popped, a half-hour drive if she kept to the speed limit.

Hirtshals was smaller still than Skagen, and she had no trouble wending her way through town to the harbour. There was one large jetty that, according to signs in Danish and English, handled ferry traffic. The others seemed devoted to fishing boats. Ava was surprised to see so many of them in port. Around the outer perimeter of the harbour were a number of what looked like fish plants, and at the far end she saw the sign
sørensen fiske
.

She parked the car at the far end of the harbour lot and started to cover the two hundred or so metres to the plant. She had walked about a hundred metres when the smell first became noticeable. She couldn’t identify it at first, but the closer she got to the plant, the more intense it became. And then she realized what it was: urine.

She gagged and began to breathe through her mouth. Every four or five breaths she would try her nose again, hoping the odour had abated. It just got worse — the raw, overpowering smell of piss. She felt as though she were walking in a cloud of it and the pale overhead sun was causing it to ripple up from the pavement. It reminded her of a street corner, a block from her hotel in Ho Chi Minh City, that served as a toilet for street vendors and drunks. She had to walk past the corner twice a day, and she could smell the urine from at least twenty metres. Ho Chi Minh was child’s play compared to Hirtshals.

She was breathing entirely through her mouth when she got to a wide-open plant door, from which the urine smell was obviously escaping. She looked inside and saw six men labouring. They were picking up grey fish that looked like small five-pound torpedoes. They lifted each one by the tail and then drove the head onto a spike that was attached to a bench. They then cut across the back of the fish’s neck, gripped the skin with pliers, and ripped it off.

All the men were in rubber boots and overalls. None of them of them wore shirts. Their chests were massive, their forearms even bigger. One of them spotted Ava standing in the doorway and yelled something at her in Danish.

She stepped inside, trying not to breathe. “I don’t speak Danish,” she said.

“We already have a Chinaman who buys our fins,” he said in English.

“I don’t want to buy fins.”

“And we have a contract in the U.K. for all the meat.”

“I don’t want the meat.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I’m looking for Ronny Sørensen.”

“He’s in the office,” he said, pointing to a cubicle on the right.

She walked to the door and knocked. She heard something in Danish and assumed it was
Come in
.

A short, fat, bald man looked up at her when she opened the door. “Erik told you, our fins are all sold,” he said.

“Are you Ronny Sørensen?”

“I am.”

“My name is Ava Lee. I’m trying to locate your brother, Jimmy.”

“You mean Jan?”

“Yes, the one and the same.”

“Why?”

“Business.”

“Jan doesn’t do business.”

“Painting business.”

“That’s not business.
This
is business,” he said, motioning to the plant.

Uninvited, Ava sat in a chair across from the desk. “What are those fish anyway?” she asked.

“Sand sharks, dogfish, rock salmon, whatever you want to call them. Every market puts its own name on them.”

“And that stench?”

“Uric acid. It is natural to the fish — nothing to do about it. If you want to process dogfish, you have to learn to cope with it. Me, I don’t notice it anymore. The men, the same, though it’s hard on us when we leave here. The smell gets into your clothes, which is why the men work in as little as they can. Still, my wife swears it gets into your skin. Nothing to do about that either. It puts money in the bank, and in this town we’re about the last fish plant still in full production.”

Ava wondered if her nylon Adidas jacket would absorb the urine smell, and was thankful she hadn’t worn her good clothes.

“Where do the fins go?”

“New York, to a Chinaman, and from there God knows. Probably China. The meat goes to the U.K., to the fish-and-chippers. They don’t have much cod anymore so they use the dogfish. They call it rock salmon. Sounds better, I guess.”

“Yes, it does,” Ava said. “Mr. Sørensen, I was asking about your brother.”

“Haven’t seen him in years.”

“But do you know where he is?”

“Why?” he repeated.

“I have a client who bought several of his paintings. They’re in the market for more but haven’t been able to locate him.”

“Jan’s paintings were never in any great demand.”

“Times change; things get trendy.”

“Jan is trendy?”

“He has a growing following.”

“Son of a bitch! I’m surprised.”

“So, Mr. Sørensen, do you know where I can find him?”

“He’s in the Faeroe Islands.”

She had heard the name but just couldn’t place it. A vision of travelling to some South Pacific atoll surfaced in her head. “Where are the Faeroe Islands?”

“In the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere,” Sørensen said.

“That’s helpful.”

He laughed. “It’s true — the middle of nowhere. They’re about 800 kilometres southeast of Iceland, 650 kilometres north of here, and 800 kilometres northeast of Scotland, in the North Atlantic. The Faeroes are the kind of place you don’t arrive at by accident, unless of course you’re some stupid Viking who got shipwrecked there two thousand years ago.”

“Why did Jan go there?”

“Helga.”

“His wife?”

“The fat cow is from there, never wanted to leave, and she nagged him all the time about going back. He finally gave in to her.”

“How can I contact him?”

“You can write him a letter.”

“Do you have a phone number for him, a house number or a mobile?”

“He doesn’t have a phone.”

“Email?”

“Don’t be stupid. This is my brother we’re talking about, a man who doesn’t have much use for the outside world. He’s living in a fishing village about half an hour from Tórshavn, the capital. It isn’t enough that he wants to live in one of the most isolated countries in the world; when he gets there, he has to isolate himself even more.”

“Do you have an address for him?”

“Yes.”

“Can I get it?”

“I’m not sure he would appreciate that.”

“Mr. Sørensen, all artists like to know their work is appreciated. I’m not trying to sell him a magazine subscription or a mobile phone plan; I want to buy some of his work.”

He searched her face for a lie. Ava tried to smile, but it was difficult to make it natural when she was still breathing through her mouth.

“Okay, I guess it can’t hurt,” he said. He wrote the number on a yellow Post-it pad, tore off the sheet, and passed it to her.

She read, “Jan Sørensen, Tjorn, Faeroe Islands.”

“The village has fewer than a thousand people. You can’t fart without everyone knowing. I write to him, I send him things, and I know the letters always get through because he always replies.”

“He still has a bank account in Skagen,” she said.

“How would you know that?”

“When we were trying to trace him, my client still had that information from their last transaction.”

“The statements come here. I bundle them and send them every six months or so.”

Ava saw a tiny opening. “I may actually go to the Faeroes to see him. Would you like me to deliver his mail for you?”

“No,” he said.

So much for that
, Ava thought. “If I were going to the Faeroes, Mr. Sørensen, what would be the best way to do it?”

“There is a ferry from Hanstholm.”

“And how long a journey is that?”

“Close to two days.”

“Ah, how about flying?”

“You can fly.”

“From?”

“I’m not a travel agent,” he said.

“That’s true,” Ava said, standing up.

“Tell me,” he said, looking up at her. “Those shark fins, what do they do with them?”

“They make soup.”

“I know that, but what kind of soup?”

“What do you mean?”

“I hear that it is a special kind.”

“Well, it’s traditionally served on special occasions: weddings, birthdays, honouring someone.”

“So it’s expensive, huh?”

She wondered what he was selling the fins for — maybe a couple of dollars a kilo. How would he react if he knew that a bowl of shark fin soup with only a few shreds of meat in it could cost anywhere from ten to fifty dollars? “I don’t know. I’m not in the fish business.”

Ava left the plant as quickly as she could, breathing through her nose every ten paces or so to test the air, but this time the odour didn’t abate even when she had reached her car. She climbed inside and the smell came with her. She had no doubt that it had penetrated her hair. It was starting to rain again, a cool, steady drizzle. She rolled down the driver’s-side window and drove away.

It was eleven thirty, still early morning in Toronto, and her travel agent wouldn’t be up yet. She found an Internet café on the outskirts of the town. The place was empty. She went online to search for flights to the Faeroe Islands. There was a direct flight from a place called Billund at two thirty. She checked a map; it looked like a two-hour drive. She couldn’t make it. The only other option was to fly from Aalborg to Copenhagen and catch an evening flight from there.

Ava drove from Hirtshals to Aalborg with the window still down. She was getting wet, but it was preferable to the stench. The flight from Aalborg left at three, and that gave her just over two hours to kill. She checked back in to the Hvide Hus, only too happy to pay the full day’s rate for a chance to shower.

The first thing she did in the room was strip off all her clothes. She found two plastic laundry bags in the closet, packed her clothing and running shoes into one, and then double wrapped it in the second bag.

Then she stepped into the shower and scrubbed and rescrubbed every pore of her body. She washed her hair three times. She stepped out of the shower and towelled herself off, then put on her blue-and-white pinstriped shirt and her cotton Brooks Brothers slacks. She finished off the look with her new cufflinks and her gold crucifix and applied a generous spray of Annick Goutal perfume. The laundry bag sat on the bed. She sniffed. No urine smell. She packed it into her carry-on.

The same woman who had rented her the car that morning was at the booth when Ava took it back. She took the keys, noted the mileage, and passed Ava her credit card slip to sign, all without saying a word.

The flight from Aalborg was supposed to take just less than an hour, but it left late and she had to run to catch the Atlantic Airways flight in Copenhagen. That flight was scheduled to last two and a half hours, and because the fare difference between business class and economy was so large, Ava had booked economy. About ten minutes after takeoff she realized she had made a mistake. For the next two hours the liquor trolley made steady trips up and down the aisle. Passengers were buying doubles of everything. Ava had never seen anything like it.

“This is their last chance,” the man in the seat next to her said. “The islands are dry. Liquor can’t be bought anywhere there, not even in hotels. And Customs is very strict about people bringing in alcohol. So this is their last chance to load up.”

“Thank God it isn’t a longer flight,” Ava said.

“Oh, it could be.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Vagar Airport gets a lot of mist and quite often the plane can’t land. They usually divert us to Reykjavik.”

“Iceland?”

“It isn’t so bad, though the people there are more depressed than ever since the country went bankrupt.”