windshield, with her thin chest pressed against the snow-white gas tank. Since she had retooled the suspension, there was hardly any cushion left between her body and the spinning tires, and as soon as a crack or bump in the road made the machine bounce, she had to answer the throw quickly with the strength of her thighs. She forced her mind to concentrate fully to stop the image from coming back. But then there it was again—the diver’s body falling onto the grass, and all the blood that came from his face. And if the bottle in her hand hadn’t been broken, it would have been easier to come up with an excuse. Then maybe she could have said that she had tried to use the least possible amount of violence, that the blow from the bottle had happened to land in an unnecessarily bad place.
But that wasn’t what had happened.
In reality, she had purposely broken off the wine bottle against a stone before she struck its sharp edge with full force against the part of the Swede’s head she knew was fragile and weak.
She could still smell the odor of his crotch, but she couldn’t remember what it had looked like when the glass had carved its groove through his temple.
Her next memory was only noise: the creaks inside his face as she tugged and wriggled the neck of the bottle to get it loose from the Swede’s nasal bone and eye socket.
Then came a few random fragments of having put on her cardigan and boots. It must have been at that point that she first noticed the sound of a sputtering motor approaching up on the road, above the pine forest.
Then she saw herself running on the dark path, and when she had reached the fence, she could remember being surprised that she was still holding the bottle in her hand. She had taken a running start and heaved it as far off into the underbrush as she could, and she’d heard it land in thick bushes. Then, when she’d turned back to continue to the cottage, she had been blinded by headlights. The unfamiliar car had slowed down and stopped on the road outside the sunporch. It was standing there waiting with its high beams on, and in her confusion, she hadn’t been able to think of anything other than protecting her ankh.
She had started running again—this time toward the grove beyond the house where she had hidden her motorcycle. When she reached it, she had wrapped the pale metal of the ankh in her poncho and then pressed the bundle hard, hard underneath herself, against the motorcycle as it shot away through the coal-black night.
T he next clear image was a blue sign that said LUDVIKA 10 . She had stopped there and squatted in a grove of birches to pee. At this point her senses had become clear, and she realized that it had been a mistake to leave the cottage in a panic, without even trying to find the diver’s other secret. But now it was too late to turn around, and no matter what they said, at least she had gotten the ankh.
She slid into her tight leather gear and put on her helmet. She let her glove twist the throttle lever, and was once more on her way.
W hen she’d left the Copenhagen area behind, she followed the directions: exit onto Cordozavej, then a left on Jersie Strandvej, until the radial-mounted brakes stopped the BMW in front of the last row of brick buildings. She pulled off the helmet and massaged her temples to quiet the buzzing sound that filled her head. She had started to hear it at dawn, and during her journey she had thought it was only background noise from the motor. But now it was turned off, and the humming just kept going. It varied in intensity, but nevertheless it was always there, like the whispering voices of your parents before you fall asleep.
She’d had the ankh pressed against her chest inside her leather outfit during the entire journey. Now she pulled down the zipper in order to feel it through the poncho. Although the metal should have been warmed by her body, it was still ice-cold.
Just as they had told her, next to one of the
But that wasn’t what had happened.
In reality, she had purposely broken off the wine bottle against a stone before she struck its sharp edge with full force against the part of the Swede’s head she knew was fragile and weak.
She could still smell the odor of his crotch, but she couldn’t remember what it had looked like when the glass had carved its groove through his temple.
Her next memory was only noise: the creaks inside his face as she tugged and wriggled the neck of the bottle to get it loose from the Swede’s nasal bone and eye socket.
Then came a few random fragments of having put on her cardigan and boots. It must have been at that point that she first noticed the sound of a sputtering motor approaching up on the road, above the pine forest.
Then she saw herself running on the dark path, and when she had reached the fence, she could remember being surprised that she was still holding the bottle in her hand. She had taken a running start and heaved it as far off into the underbrush as she could, and she’d heard it land in thick bushes. Then, when she’d turned back to continue to the cottage, she had been blinded by headlights. The unfamiliar car had slowed down and stopped on the road outside the sunporch. It was standing there waiting with its high beams on, and in her confusion, she hadn’t been able to think of anything other than protecting her ankh.
She had started running again—this time toward the grove beyond the house where she had hidden her motorcycle. When she reached it, she had wrapped the pale metal of the ankh in her poncho and then pressed the bundle hard, hard underneath herself, against the motorcycle as it shot away through the coal-black night.
T he next clear image was a blue sign that said LUDVIKA 10 . She had stopped there and squatted in a grove of birches to pee. At this point her senses had become clear, and she realized that it had been a mistake to leave the cottage in a panic, without even trying to find the diver’s other secret. But now it was too late to turn around, and no matter what they said, at least she had gotten the ankh.
She slid into her tight leather gear and put on her helmet. She let her glove twist the throttle lever, and was once more on her way.
W hen she’d left the Copenhagen area behind, she followed the directions: exit onto Cordozavej, then a left on Jersie Strandvej, until the radial-mounted brakes stopped the BMW in front of the last row of brick buildings. She pulled off the helmet and massaged her temples to quiet the buzzing sound that filled her head. She had started to hear it at dawn, and during her journey she had thought it was only background noise from the motor. But now it was turned off, and the humming just kept going. It varied in intensity, but nevertheless it was always there, like the whispering voices of your parents before you fall asleep.
She’d had the ankh pressed against her chest inside her leather outfit during the entire journey. Now she pulled down the zipper in order to feel it through the poncho. Although the metal should have been warmed by her body, it was still ice-cold.
Just as they had told her, next to one of the
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