The Woman from Bratislava (47 page)

‘Oh, different things. He’s a very well-informed man,
Konstantin
, and very charming.’

‘No, tell me, what did you talk about?’

‘About the war being over. About books a little. And about you, of course.’

‘And?’

‘We agreed that you’re a good man, Per, but that you need to be taken in hand, given a bit of polish. That you’re the soul of honesty,
but maybe not all that sophisticated. That you’re actually a clever guy, you just don’t realise it yourself. That you understand a lot of things, but aren’t capable of formulating them. It was so good. For the past month I’ve done nothing but babble baby-talk to Freya, discuss breast-feeding and burping with Pernille and my mum, and sleeping and weight curves with my husband. Which is fine, but it gets a bit boring talking about nothing but baby’s bowel movements.’

Toftlund could not help smiling. He stroked first Freya’s, then Lise’s cheek. He loved touching them both.

‘He was really easy to talk to,’ Lise said and shook her hair, as if the hairband was pinching slightly.

Freya began to whimper. Her dummy had fallen out and her whimpers quickly turned to howls.

‘I think she’s hungry. Running does that to her,’ he said and picked up the dummy. He stood with it in his hand, very close to Lise.

With the baby in her arms, she went up on tiptoe and kissed Toftlund on the lips. Lightly at first, but then he felt her tongue, and her breasts pressing against him. Then she pulled away:

‘You’re just fine, Per. In fact you’re wonderful and we love you, but sometimes you talk the most awful bullshit.’

‘He’s not as simple as he looks. Konstantin, I mean.’

‘Not many people are.’

She hugged the baby to her, pressed against him and kissed him again before saying:

‘I don’t want to hear any more about that case. Now you’re going to go in and have a shower while I feed this little glutton and then you’re going to come to bed with me.’

He looked at her:

‘Is it okay?’

‘Per, you great dope. I’m not sick. I was pregnant, I had the baby. I’m all healed. I’m a woman. I miss my husband. I’m still your wife and I want you. To put it bluntly, I’m horny as hell.’

She cradled the baby in one arm and with her free left hand she cupped his balls and hefted them, making him jump, so surprised was he by her words and her fondling hand, which he had not felt in such a long time.

‘If you’re up to it,’ she said, eyeing him and giving his lips a little peck.

‘Oh, I’m up to it,’ he assured her.

‘Hm, it certainly feels like it. So how about showing me?’

‘Right now?’

‘After she’s fed. She’ll sleep for at least a couple of hours if we’re lucky. I can’t wait to find out how much you’ve missed me.’

‘Oh, I’ve missed you a lot.’

‘Then show me, Per. Show me, my love.’

I FIRST HAD THE IDEA
for Teddy and his pictures back in the winter of 1998–1999, but I would like to thank the former Danish Foreign Minister, Uffe Ellemann-Jensen, who drew my attention to the monument at Narva and, by asking who could have erected it, put me on the trail of this story. Thanks also to the workers with the Danish Refugee Council and the Danish Emergency
Management
Agency in Albania who, in the spring of 1999, gave me some insight into the difficult job they do in that tormented land. Nor would this story have got very far without the clear, simple
introduction
to the Storebælt Bridge security systems provided by the obliging and efficient staff at the Operations Centre at Halskov. My thanks also to everyone else who has assisted me, not least to Jørgen Anton, who helped me more than he may imagine, and to Jan Stage for the story about Hoxha. To Otto Lindhardt for reading the manuscript and offering his advice. To Hans Henrik Schwab for being such an excellent editor. And as always to Ulla for her invaluable help and support. The final responsibility rests, of course, with me and to claim that this novel is not based on actual events would be absurd. It is, nonetheless, a work of fiction in which my freely invented characters inhabit a setting which could be real, but is, in fact, of my own creation.

Leif Davidsen,
Copenhagen, 2001

LEIF DAVIDSEN
is a Danish journalist and the author of a number of bestselling suspense novels. He has worked for many years for Danish radio and television as a foreign correspondant and editor of foreign news, specialising in Russian, East and Central
European
affairs. He is the author of
The Serbian Dane
(Arcadia).

BARBARA J. HAVELAND
was born in Scotland and now lives in Denmark with her Norwegian husband and teenage son. She has translated works by several leading Danish and Norwegian authors including Peter Høeg, Linn Ullmann and Jan Kjærstad.