The Lover From An Icy Sea Page 39

  Mrs. Sørensen hesitated only a second, then raised an instructive pointer finger. “As a darling, he’s daring. As daring, he’ll do. Too bad he’s not Danish—or Winnie the Pooh.” Kit stared at Dagmar. There was clearly much more than a mere physical resemblance between her and Daneka.

  “Brava, mor!”

  “Maybe in exchange, you’ll bring Margarette the next time you—” she paused, looked at Kit and took a deep breath, then looked back at Daneka “—and Kit come back to visit.”

  Daneka lowered her eyes and said nothing.

  “When, Dagmar, will you come to visit us?” Kit barked spontaneously in the warmth of the moment, forgetting what he’d discovered only an hour earlier—and then he suddenly remembered again. “I mean, when will you come to visit Daneka and Margarette?”

  As if she’d actually been present at the earlier rages and even now understood Kit’s internal struggle, Dagmar looked directly first into Daneka’s eyes, then into Kit’s. “I’ll come to visit both of you—and Margarette—just as soon as Daneka invites me.”

  “How about in the fall, mor?” Love becomes me in the fall. That’s what Kit’s always telling me, anyway.”

  Kit’s eyebrows shot up. “I am?”

  “Well, you haven’t been really—not yet. But you will be very shortly. When the first leaves start to turn—that’s when you’ll tell me.” Kit wondered, in addition to everything else, whether she was also clairvoyant. If so, then she must know they were good for at least one more season.

  “Well,” Mrs. Sørensen sighed. “It certainly has been an interesting visit, wouldn’t you say, Kit?” Kit took her hand in his as all three of them stood up from the table.

  “Yes, it has been—that, and much more. I hope we can do it again soon.”

  “So do I, Kit. So do I. If not here, then maybe in New York.”

  They walked to the front door and stepped outside. “Brrrrr!” Mrs. Sørensen said as she pulled her shawl tightly about her. The weather had changed dramatically. The sky was gray, and there was a noticeable dampness in the air. It was just beginning to drizzle—the same kind of weather, Kit considered, that had greeted them upon their arrival. Drab and dreary Denmark. He certainly wouldn’t miss the Danish weather.

  “Goodbye, mor. I’ll call you as soon as we get in. I’m sure you’ll still be up with you’re your Heidegger at that hour.

  “No, I’m actually with Husserl at present—though not willingly. My, but I hate these Austrians! He and Wittgenstein seem to take pleasure in being difficult for the sheer pleasure of being difficult.”

  “Okay. Then with your Husserl.”

  Mrs. Sørensen embraced Daneka one last time before Daneka started off towards the car. She next embraced Kit; slipped something into his pocket.

  “What’s that, a ‘Get Well Soon’ card?” he chuckled.

  “That’s the picture of me that Daneka again forgot. Please—for my sake—make sure it gets to Margarette.”

  “I will. I promise. And I truly, truly hope to see you again soon.”

  “You will, Kit—but whether sooner or later depends on Daneka. We’ll see each other again in either case. I guarantee it. Goodbye for now, Kit. If you were Danish, you could be Hamlet. I’m afraid, instead, you might be Macbeth. Either way, adieu, sweet prince.”

  Chapter 66

  They drove off in silence. Kit pulled up to the dock and dropped Daneka off with the luggage. He then returned their car to the rental agency and paid for it with a credit card that was already beginning to feel like a warrant for his arrest. He joined her just as the Villum Clausen was pulling into harbor, watched the men perform their tasks like the experts they were, watched the passengers disembark. Only five days ago, he thought. It was a lifetime—yet had the ring of a death knell.

  Kit and Daneka boarded and found an empty space on the starboard side of the ferry. She looked out the window; continued to look when the ferry pulled out of its berth; then looked some more—in fact, looked out all the way to Ystad. Kit sometimes looked with her, occasionally glanced across the aisle at a tall, rather attractive girl, early-twenties, with long blond braids and a book. The girl occasionally looked back over the book at Kit when she sensed his eyes were on her. He craned his head once to try to read the title; she instead rotated the book and mouthed the title: Nio Månadar. He smiled by way of thanks. She smiled back by way of … he wasn’t sure.

  When the ferry arrived at Ystad, she got up and started to pull on her knapsack. Whether she was genuinely struggling with it or only wished to show a perfectly pert pair of breasts to best effect, Kit couldn’t be certain. In any case, he felt obligated to lend a hand. He stood up and grabbed the bottom of the knapsack—safer, he thought, then grabbing a strap. He wasn’t sure where his hand and head might end up.

  She got the business with the strap straightened out and turned around to face him. “Tack själv,” she said. He’d heard the first word often enough to know what it meant; the second half, however, was a complete stranger to him. He decided a simple nod would be sufficient.

  “Adjö,” she said to him smiling once again, but now back over her shoulder as pert breasts pushed on towards land. Must be a fun country, Kit mused. The adjö, in the meantime, had sounded much like adieu. This was his first Swedish word and he decided he’d pocket it for future reference. One never knew.

  Kit and Daneka spent the remainder of the trip from Ystad to the Danish mainland in silence—as they did the train ride from there to Copenhagen—arriving at Kastrup mid-morning with more than enough time to get to the airport. Maybe it was this fact—and this fact alone—that finally prompted Daneka to speak.

  “Darling, we’ve got a few minutes to spare. Would you like to see den lille havfrue—the little mermaid? We can leave our stuff in temporary storage here at the train station and walk there easily enough.”

  “I’d love to,” Kit said—happy for the respite from the long silence. He thought maybe she’d lost her voice—or left it behind in Rønne—and was quite relieved to hear it again. They started out towards the harbor; and since Daneka clearly knew the way, Kit was content to let her take the lead.

  “Do you know the story of the little mermaid, darling?”

  “I believe so,” Kit said, “although it’s been a while.” He began to search his memory banks, and she let him search in silence as they continued to walk.

  “I remember that it starts with the description of the Sea King’s castle—pearls in roofs of shell, walls of coral and windows of amber, all in a world of blue—or something to that effect.” He looked up briefly as if seeking a word or maybe just a nod of encouragement, at least of acknowledgement. He got none, but continued anyway.

  “The Sea King—. The Sea King was a widower, I believe, and lived with his mother, who took care not only of him, but also of her six granddaughters—the sea-princesses. The youngest was the prettiest. Unlike the others, she cared for only two things: her marble statue of a handsome young boy and the rose-colored weeping willow she’d planted alongside it. From her grandmother, she learned about ships and towns. That same grandmother promised her she’d be allowed, on her fifteenth birthday—as each of her sisters would be allowed on their own fifteenth birthdays—to swim up to the surface and sit upon a rock, and from there to watch the great ships sail by.

  “Meanwhile, year after year, the youngest had to listen to her sisters’ stories. Year after year, she became more and more eager to reach her own fifteenth birthday—and with it, the opportunity to sit on that rock. ‘Pride must suffer pain’ the old lady said to her when her fifteenth birthday finally arrived and as she was attaching oysters to the little mermaid’s tail. When she then rose up to the surface, she was greeted by the sight of a single, large ship on which people were celebrating. As she looked in through the portholes, she saw singing and dancing. At one point, she also saw a handsome young prince with coal-black eyes and jet-black hair.”

  Daneka looked appreciatively at Kit—her prince
of almost coal-black eyes and jet-black hair—as he continued to narrate the story.

  “At one point, the ship set sail, ran into a terrible storm and broke apart. Everything and everyone went overboard—including the prince. At first, she was happy because she thought she’d now have him all to herself. Then, however, she reflected. Humans, she knew, couldn’t live underwater—and so, she decided to risk life and limb to find him in the wreckage. She dove deep into the sea where she finally spotted him, eyes closed, sinking. She brought him back up to the surface and kept his head aloft until morning, letting the waves take them where- and however the waves would.

  “By morning, they’d come within sight of land. The prince’s eyes were still closed, so the little mermaid took him to shore and laid him out on the beach, then went back into the water to wait and watch. Soon, a number of young girls came to the beach and found him. He eventually opened his eyes and then left with them—ignorant of his real rescuer. The little mermaid, now even sadder than before, swam back down to the sea castle. She told her sisters nothing—and continued to say nothing to anyone as she returned each night over the coming months to the place on the beach where she’d laid the prince out. She found consolation only in her garden and with the marble likeness of another handsome prince.

  “She eventually told one of her sisters … who told another … who knew someone … who knew where the prince kept his castle—and took her to see it. From that time on, she went every night—to see the castle, of course, but also to see the prince, who liked to sit on the beach in the moonlight.

  “She overheard many stories from fishermen about the prince’s benevolence—and she grew fonder of him, and of human beings, by the day. She asked her grandmother, who’d spent a great deal of time up above, and who consequently knew all about humans. The woman explained that mermaids lived much longer than humans, but that when they died, they merely became ocean foam. Humans, she explained, had a body that died and then turned to dust. But they also had a soul, which lived on forever. The little mermaid asked how she might win such a soul. Her grandmother explained that there was only one way to acquire it—and that that was through the never-ending love of one man.

  “She resolved to seek the help of the Sea Witch, who lived in a house made of the bones of shipwrecked humans. In exchange for her voice as payment, the Sea Witch prepared a draught that would replace her tail with legs—and then cut off her tongue.

  “The little mermaid, now and forevermore mute, took the draught and swam to the prince’s palace, crawled up on land and drank it. The pain was so great, she swooned, fainted and remained unconscious until morning. When she awoke, the prince was standing next to her. She was naked—and so, hid herself in her long, thick hair. The prince asked her her name and also where she’d come from—but she couldn’t answer as she had no tongue, and therefore no voice.

  “In the coming weeks and months, he came to love her and would take her everywhere with him—but he loved her only as a child and not as a potential mate. Without that kind of love, of course, she wouldn’t win an immortal soul—and, as the Sea Witch had instructed her, she would die the day after he married another.

  “Finally, it was decided that the prince should visit the daughter of a neighboring king. He traveled over sea with the little mermaid to the king’s castle, where he was greeted by the sounds of trumpets and merry-making. After a week’s celebration, he finally met the king’s daughter. Believing her to be the woman who’d saved him from certain death that one stormy night at sea, he resolved on the spot to marry her.

  “At dawn on the prince’s wedding day—and so the day on which she was to die—the little mermaid stood at the railing of the bridal ship and looked out to sea, where she saw her sisters. In exchange for their hair, the Sea Witch had given them a dagger, which they now instructed the little mermaid to plunge into the prince’s heart. When his warm blood then fell upon her feet—her sisters explained—they’d grow together into a tail, and she’d once again be able to return to the sea as a mermaid.

  “But she loved the prince even more than she loved her own life. She hurled the knife into the sea and jumped in after it—believing she was jumping to a certain death. She was indeed transported, but it didn’t feel anything like death. Instead, she felt that her body was rising higher and higher out of the foam. When she finally asked where she was, the answer she received came from the daughters of the air. They told her that, as a mermaid, she couldn’t win an immortal soul; alternatively, but only as a human, that she would first have to gain the unconditional love of another human. ‘On the power of another hangs your eternal destiny,’ they said. Like mermaids, daughters of the air didn’t possess immortal souls either. They could win one, however, through good deeds. They’d watched her sacrifice for her prince. They’d seen her devotion. And so, they’d allow her to become one of them and to win an immortal soul—but only, like them, after three hundred years.”

  Kit was out of breath. Daneka looked at him with genuine admiration. “You have an extraordinary memory, darling. You remember far more of that fairytale than even I do—and I must’ve read it a hundred times. You also have a talent for story-telling. You could be that, you know—a story-teller. You could still do your photography, but you could first be a teller of stories. It’s a worthy ambition—and a rare talent.”

  Kit blushed. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d paid him a direct compliment, if ever. The heat of his blush was like a warm bath; the wash of it, heavenly. In the meantime, they’d arrived at a four-lane highway and had to cross over by means of a pedestrian walkway into a park. Kit could see the harbor and a wide expanse of water not far from where they now stood. He then saw, just off the seawall, a large rock and a bronze figure sitting on top of it and staring out to sea.

  They walked to the seawall and peered out at the figure of an ageless little mermaid who’d known—Daneka next told him—probably more attacks of vandalism than any other statue in the world—save those, collectively, of Lenin and Stalin. What—Kit wondered—was there about this little mermaid, this bronze water nymph, that could possibly incite vandalism? It simply made no sense to him. Could Daneka explain it?

  She attempted a grim smile as she asked him: “Kit, you know Andersen’s version of the story. But do you know the other version—the NC-17 version?”

  “I didn’t know there was one.”

  “Oh, but indeed. I don’t know that it’s ever been published, but it’s very much alive—and lives in the hearts and nights of many, many women.”

  “Would you tell me that version, Daneka?”

  She looked hard at him. “Are you certain you want to hear it? Because I can assure you that once you do, you’ll never look at this statue again, never hear mention of the fairytale again, never even hear the name of H. C. Andersen again—in quite the same way.”

  Kit looked at Daneka and noticed, as he’d noticed only one other time, how quickly her face could age when it lost its smile and when the laughter went out of her voice. She was looking at him now, and it was as if someone had chiseled years of grief into her eyes. “Yes, darling, tell me that version.”

  Daneka fixed her stare once again upon the bronze statue in front of them.

  “In the NC-17 version of the story, the characters looked very much like Andersen’s characters. The little mermaid was not, however, one of six sisters—she was an only child. The Sea Witch was in fact not a witch at all—at least not in the beginning. She was a simple mermaid married to a simple merman who, while he may’ve thought he was the Sea King, was just a merman—with a simple merman’s foibles. He had, if you will, a tail of clay.

  “One day, he and the mermaid decided to make a baby. That baby is the little mermaid. Already in her infancy and toddler years, she’s unquestionably the most beautiful, the most graceful, the happiest and therefore the most delightful merbaby in the kingdom. Merman and merwife—now mermother—are ecstatic at their good fortune. With each passing year, s
he becomes only more of what she’d been the previous year—until, that is, she approaches mermaidenhood.”

  Daneka paused in her storytelling—which allowed Kit to observe that she’d abruptly shifted tenses from the simple past to the present, and he wondered what significance that might have for this alternative version. He also found the “mer-“ prefix a tad cloying. But his eye told him what his ear could not—namely, that her insistence upon this peculiar prefix had the force of a mantra. That she was not unintentionally using it so much as it was quite intentionally using her. To what end was something he still needed to discover.

  “Do you know, Kit, what happens to mermaids when they enter mermaidenhood? They may have tails instead of legs. They may swim underwater rather than walk on land. But otherwise, they’re very much like humans. They have hormones—just like humans. They throw a teenager’s tantrums—just like humans. And, just like humans, they feel desire.

  “The little mermaid is now no longer feeling little. She wants very much to become a merwoman and to find her own mermate. It’s something her mother—later the Sea Witch—can quite understand. It’s something the would-be Sea King, however, cannot even think about, much less tolerate.

  “As this little mermaid is on her way through mermaidenhood to becoming a merwoman, she begins to slip out every night after dark to swim by the light of the moon. Before long, she finds a merboy with coal-dark eyes and jet-black hair who’s on his own way to mermanhood. They do what mermaids and mermen do—by the reflected light of a moon casting far above the surface of the ocean, but whose beams are magically magnified by the refraction of the water. They also do it deep within their own chosen house of coral—over and over again—until, that is, one night when the Sea King follows her out. She’s been doing it for so long now, she no longer thinks of being cautious and doesn’t once look back to see whether someone might be following her. Consequently, she doesn’t know that on this particular night, she has a stalker—and that that stalker is her father.