The Lover From an Icy Sea (46 page)

There were titles and names he recognized from philosophy, theology, history and mythology in this one case alone. Many of the titles contained the “ø” he’d only recently come to love as much as any man could love a letter of the alphabet—and so he guessed they were in Danish. But there were others—many others—and their myriad accents told Kit he was standing in a house whose mistress danced at all the balls of Europe, even if only in her bedroom slippers.

He glanced at another bookcase. Once again, an assortment of accents stood atop proud letters of the names of the greatest writers of belles letters in the canon of Western literature. He even saw a few in Cyrillic, which piqued his polyglot pride.

“
Скажите, вы говорите по-русски?
” he asked with lips that seemed poised to dance at one of her balls if only she’d extend an invitation.

“
Да, конечно! A вы, кажется, тоже?
” she answered—her own lips like toes long stiff and frozen, but now not—now uncurling inside dance slippers at the first whisper of a waltz.

“
А Deneka? Она говорит?
” he asked, but then suddenly realized he was allowing some mental shutter to open on the light of a small conspiracy with—of all people—Daneka’s mother.

“
Отвечу коротко: нет
,” she answered—and they both shared a conspiratorial chuckle.

Daneka was not amused. She of course wanted Kit and her mother to get along. But did they have to hit it off quite so famously and quite so quickly—and, apparently, at her expense? Her mother could speak Russian and flirt with any old sailor who wandered into port—but not with her partner!

“
Are you two quite finished?”

“
Indeed, we are, Daneka. Kit, why don’t you come into the kitchen with me and help put together a little tea party? I was thinking about something … wonderlandish. We could use a Mad Hatter, right Kit? So you, Daneka, are cordially invited.”

Kit looked at Mrs. Sørensen, then at Daneka, then back at Mrs. Sørensen again. Daneka, he observed, was not looking at anyone or anything, but rather at her toes. Meanwhile, she kept her arms crossed tightly across her chest—a bulwark against any other battering rams her mother might now choose to attack with.

“
I’d love some tea,” he said simply as the two of them disappeared into the kitchen.

*  *  *

Daneka walked upstairs to her former bedroom and found it exactly as she’d remembered it. Her mother had changed none of it over the years—a fact for which Daneka was truly grateful. There was security in it: safety against all the possible monsters in the world save one. That one may indeed have struck; but only once—and would never strike again. That was one fairytale whose ending she was only too happy to have read, to have shut the book on for the last time, to have put on a high shelf—and then, to have relegated to ‘forever after.’

She looked at her former collection of books, and her eyes scanned the names of the wordsmiths of her youth: H. C. Andersen—the complete works, of course—in Danish; Astrid Lindgren’s Pippi Långstrump series in Swedish; the Brothers Grimm, E. T. A. Hoffmann and Adelbert von Chamisso in German; Guy de Maupassant, Prosper Mérimée, Saint-Exupéry, and Balzac’s entire Comédie humaine in French; Charles Dickens, Jack London and Mark Twain in English; Chekhov, Turgenev, Gogol—even Pushkin and Lehrmontov … but in Danish.

Unlike her mother—Daneka knew—she herself would never again be asked to dance at a European ball. She’d outgrown the slippers of her youth and had, for better or for worse, chosen to make her home between the Hudson and the East. She’d chosen comfort—the thrum of air conditioners in summer and the bang of central heating in winter. As she sat down on the bed, it came upon her like a thunder-clap out of a perfectly blue sky: she couldn’t remember the title of a single book in her own library in New York.

She sat, head in hands, for the next five minutes. Outside her bedroom window, the sun shone. Inside her head, however, dark clouds went on gathering.

Chapter 57

She heard Kit’s footsteps as he mounted the staircase. She stood up quickly and looked at her face in the mirror for smudges, telltale evidence of any of her private struggle, then dabbed her eyes just before he reached the door. As he entered, she gave him a smile that he immediately recognized as forced. But he appreciated that whatever she was struggling with, whether hers alone, or something with her mother—and so, with a much longer history—was something they could work on together. Later.

“
Tea time, Daneka,” Kit said as he put his arms around her. She allowed herself the luxury of his embrace for several seconds, but then gently pushed him away.

“
Shall we, darling?”

They walked slowly back downstairs and through the living room, at the far end of which, and just out of sight of the front door, was a small dining area looking out into a greenhouse. As it was summertime, the door leading into the greenhouse was open, and its glass roof rolled back. Kit noticed that every available space had been devoted to assorted herbs and flowers, all of which had clearly benefited from the hand of a knowledgeable and loving gardener. He now wondered whether he might also have a willing partner for what he intended at Daneka’s place in Svaneke—or if not a partner, at least an advisor. He walked out into the greenhouse in order to absorb from close up the colors and fragrances of the flowers and herbs. Daneka, however, simply sat down.

Mrs. Sørensen brought a tray in from the kitchen on which she’d laid out three cups and saucers; a plate piled high with what looked to Kit—he remarked as he wandered back in from the greenhouse—like the Danish equivalent of scones; some clotted cream; and an assortment of jams, jellies and marmalades. The ‘leading man’ in this culinary spectacle of many-colored and variously-textured players was a rectangular block of butter of a delicate golden hue. He looked at it, looked at Daneka, then fixed in his mind that this color would forever after be known to his visual memory as “Daneka gold.” He couldn’t, he thought, find a more fitting way to memorialize it and her. But that was Kit—to whom color, light and lichens were everything.

“
Are you also a gardener, Kit?” Mrs. Sørensen asked as she began to set out the plateware.

“
Well, I don’t know that I’d describe myself quite that way, Mrs. Sorensen. I’m really a photographer—that’s what I do for a living. I’m just a dabbler when it comes to gardening,” he said as he helped her distribute cups and saucers.

“
He’s both,
mor
. And he’s very good at both.” Daneka, of course, had no way of knowing whether Kit could even tell the difference between a hosta and a honeybee. But she’d decided that he was her knight in shining armor, and that she was going to sing his praises to whatever receptive ears she could find. Mrs. Sorensen marveled that Daneka should defend her man so vigorously: this was something she couldn’t recall ever having seen in her daughter.

“
Your prince is awfully proper, Daneka. Do you mind if I insist that he call me by my first name?”

“
Not in the least,
mor
.”

“
Then please, Kit. Let’s be done with this ‘Mrs. Sørensen’—or even with this ‘Mrs. Sorensen’—okay?” she said as she set out the tea pot and a pitcher of cream. Kit blushed at her Anglicized rendition of her own name—in clear imitation of his less than valiant effort. She extended her hand a second time. “Just call me Dagmar.” Mercifully, Kit thought, she didn’t also Anglicize the sound of her first name, but gave it the full Danish glottal thrust—something he could comfortably replicate. He put his hand back out.

“
Thank you, Dagmar. And please—just call me ‘Kit'.” They both laughed. Daneka’s eyes found the ceiling as she wondered whether it might put an end to their little jokes.

“
Well. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s eat, drink and be merry—and no longer morbid, okay Daneka?”

“
J
a, mor.
Whatever. But let’s please be more careful in giving proper credit for this so-called ‘morbidity,’ shall we?”

“‘
Morbidity’?” No. I was just trying to be motherly. In the same way you’ve been trying over the last few years to become increasingly daughterly. Daughterly? Kit, can one say ‘daughterly’ in English—even if that doesn’t quite describe my Daneka to a ‘T’?”

The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Daneka. “I’ve been very busy, Mother. My job takes huge chunks of my time.”

“
Yes, I quite understand that, my dear Daneka. ‘Daughterly’ is not always easy to manage. And speaking of ‘daughterly’, how’s Margarette?” Daneka shot a quick glance at Kit. “You know ‘motherly’ is one thing. You can take it or leave it. ‘Grandmotherly,’ however, is something I feel I have a right to for as long as I’m still alive. Do you think I might be allowed to see my granddaughter more than once every couple of years?”

Her glance veered away from Daneka and towards Kit—and she suddenly realized he did’t have a clue. “Kit has never met Margarette?” she asked in a tone of disbelief. Kit’s gape suggested to her that the news was even more incredible. “Does he even know she exists?”

Kit was helpless at this point to intervene on Daneka’s behalf.

“
Åh gud, Daneka! Hvad drejer det her sig om?
”

“
Vi har bare ikke haft lejlighed til at tale om hende endnu, det er alt. Det er faktisk Annemettes fortjeneste, at vi lærte hinanden at kende. Jeg bestilte ham til at fotografere hende
.”

“
Jeg ville ønske, du ville lade være med at bruge det rædsomme navn!
I’m sorry, Kit. This is terribly rude of my daughter and me. I seem to have opened a little Pandora’s box here,” she said, giving ‘Pandora’ a distinctly Danish pronunciation.

Yes, Mother—you have opened one, thanks very much.” Daneka reached over and put her hand on Kit’s arm. “Darling, I’m sorry. I’ve been wanting to tell you—but the moment for that discussion was just never at hand. Thanks to my mother,” she said glaring at Mrs. Sørensen, “it now is.”

“
But why all the mystery?” Kit asked.

“
She’s the project. The reason I went looking for a photographer in the first place.”

“
To take pictures of her? Why don’t you do it yourself? You obviously know how to handle a camera.”

“
I can’t. I’ve tried. She won’t sit for me. I don’t know why. She just won’t.” Kit stared at her, still trying to fathom the irregularity of it all. As if there weren’t already enough unknowns about this woman, here was one more—a mystery child.

“
When can I meet her?”

“
Just as soon as we get back to New York. Promise.”

“
Well. I’m glad that’s settled!” said Mrs. Sørensen. “Perhaps I’ll send along a picture of myself to remind her—but with you, Kit. That way, I’m sure it will actually get to her and not be left under some breakfast table at Tiffany’s. Are we ready for our tea now?” she asked as she picked up the pot and a strainer.

With her eyes focused on something elsewhere in the room, Daneka pushed cup and saucer with a dismissive finger in the direction of her mother. Mrs. Sørenson held the pot poised over Daneka’s cup, then poured tea for Kit and for herself instead and put the pot back down on the table.

“
Du kan selv skænke din forbandede te!
” In almost the same instant, she dropped her scowl and smiled at Kit. “So tell me about this photography, Kit. What do you like to photograph?”

“
Mostly naked women, mother,” Daneka interjected.

“
Young ones, I hope.” She then glared directly at Daneka, who was still staring off into space. “Young, firm-bodied ones, no doubt. And with some cause bigger than themselves. Women who—if they have children—actually spend time with those children, listen to them, take them outdoors to play with other children. Who don’t leave them locked up behind closed doors, and who—.”

Daneka abruptly stood up from the table. “Thank you,
mor
. It has—as it always is—been lively and entertaining. Kit?”

The tension in the room had reached a level that even Kit found intolerable. He was certain he’d like this woman. He wanted to spend more—much more—time with her. But today was clearly not the day. Perhaps again during the week, he thought as he stood up.

“
I’m sorry, Dagmar. I’d hoped we could discuss my plans for Daneka’s garden. Perhaps another day? I’d really like your help.”

“
You’re not, I hope, both her lover and her gardener, Kit!”

“
Mor!
” Then, instead of trading any further insults with her mother, Daneka chose to exit, turned abruptly on her heel and walked out the front door.

Kit leaned down to give Mrs. Sørenson a kiss on the cheek. She leaned her face up and returned the kiss. “I’m sorry about all of this, Kit. It doesn’t usually get this bad—at least not right away. Maybe by the next time we see each other, Daneka and I will have sorted out our differences and will be able to carry on a civilized conversation.”