Losman didn’t get back to his apartment until shortly after 11:00 a.m. His cell phone was on the dining table. There was a message from Kat, text me when you get home. He typed a response, I’m home, and pushed send. He set the phone down and brewed a pot of coffee, sat at his desk, and opened his document. Do something, his OCD brain told him, get some work done. A bright patch of sunlight poured into his apartment, falling squarely on his computer’s display, scorching his eyes. His tics were out in full force—head jerks, air chuffs, snorts, shoulder rolls—stoked like flames by his anxiety. To distract his mind and get started, he put on soft, low music, Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major. But this old trick didn’t work; the words swam before his eyes. The day was lost.
He checked his phone. No response from Kat.
He stared at his computer screen and scrolled through the draft. Before today, he’d already revised the first 58 pages to his relative satisfaction. There was a murder and a body, and Niels P. had started the investigation that would, eventually, loop back to his pathetic self. All the little telegraphed clues that pointed like flashing neon road signs to the moment when Niels P. began his murderous spree. Drivel. It was all fucking drivel, and the thought of spending more time on it made him want to gag. Drinking his hot coffee, he felt his body warming up, his brain getting clearer, and he decided he’d do something for himself for a change, to hell with this bullshit translation. He would travel to the island of Ærø, like he’d always wanted, and spend a couple days there. Why not? He needed a break.
He copy/pasted the first 58 pages into a second document and sent it to Petersen (cc’ing Andreasson) with an unapologetically brief note: Here’s your sample.
He opened his web browser and began looking for places to stay, finding a quaint cottage in the town of Ærøskøbing that only cost $38 a night, and he booked it, surprised at how easy it was for him to spend money on something that two or three days ago would’ve seemed frivolous, a luxury he couldn’t afford. He opened a new browser and bought round trip train tickets. More expenses. His train departed from Copenhagen Central at 1:30. He’d have to take the bus to Østerport and then the Metro downtown.
Kat arrived as he was jamming three days’ worth of clothes into his backpack, announcing her presence with two efficient raps on the door. He stuffed his Moleskin notebook and a novel—Oryx and Crake—in his pack and set it down in the hallway, took a deep breath, and let her in.
“What the hell, Losman?” she said, brushing past him in a blur of movement. Her familiar scent of lavender perfume trailed her like a gassy cloud. She strode over to his couch and plopped down. “What were you on yesterday?”
Losman closed his door with a soft click. He cleared his throat and jerked his head a few times. “BhMe4.”
“What the hell is that?”
Losman cracked open the acronym like a hardboiled egg and explained it to her. “It’s a pill that returns your babyhood memories to you,” he said.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. Believe it or not, it works.”
“Works? How? By turning you into a babbling idiot?”
Losman sat in his reading chair. He jerked his head and cleared his throat.
“Do you even remember yesterday?”
“Yes and no.”
Kat stared at him, her eyes like laser beams. She wore blue trousers and low-heeled shoes, also blue, with a white blouse. Around her neck she’d wrapped a multi-hued scarf swirled with clots of primary colors, a messy painter’s palette; her thick blond hair fell to her shoulders like strands of corn silk, and two smooth blue opals the size of nickels dangled from her earlobes. She must’ve dashed straight here from work.
Kat noticed his backpack propped against the wall like a giant stuffed bear with four stubby flaps for legs. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“Ærø,” he said. “For a few days.”
“You can’t run from this, Losman.”
“I’m not running from anything, Kat. I just need to get away.”
She glared at him. But Losman didn’t flinch. He wasn’t going to let her make him feel small, not this time.
“Coffee?” he asked. “It’s fresh.”
“No,” she said. “Yes.”
“Which is it?”
“Yes.”
Losman went to the kitchen and poured Kat a mug. As he did so, he gazed through the window down at the rear courtyard. A man and a woman were on the playground with a small boy, a toddler younger than Aksel. The father lifted the boy up and set him carefully on the slide, let him go, and the laughing mother caught him at the bottom. Losman recalled how, only the day before, he’d been a toddler himself. Again. And he cringed at the memory of flopping around unashamedly naked in front of Caroline. He dumped a spoonful of sugar and a dollop of milk into Kat’s coffee, the way she liked it, and returned to the living room. He handed the mug to her, and she set it down on the coffee table.
“Why would you take this drug?” she said.
Losman didn’t answer right away. During the years they were together, they had discussed his Tourette on countless occasions, and he didn’t care to have this conversation with her yet again. He’d always tried to hide his tics and vocalizations from people, but in withholding this part of himself he’d also become a bit of a recluse who struggled to find meaningful or lasting relationships. Or keep the ones he had. Kat had never understood why he didn’t come out of his shell more often, try harder—why he always seemed to ghost people he cared about. What she never understood was how difficult it was for him to feel worthy of another’s friendship or love. How he always feared they’d learn the truth about him and turn away, abandoning him like his friends inevitably did, one by one, when he was in elementary school. Like she had, eventually. That kind of hurt he couldn’t bear, and anyway, hiding his tics was much easier when he was alone.
“I wanted to get to the bottom of my Tourette,” he said.
Kat snorted as if she’d expected something like this. “You and your Tourette,” she said.
He explained at great length what Pelin had told him, taking pains to recall as many details as he could. It was important for him that Kat understood why he’d participated in memory therapy, despite the risks involved. “I did it for Aksel as much as for me. I don’t want him to live with this, Kat. If I can get to the root of my condition through my memories, maybe I can help Aksel too.”
Kat listened in what appeared to be a state of ever-increasing agitation. She set her jaw tight and stared at him. When he was finally done, she said, “Okay, sure. The pill helps you see your earliest memories, I get it. As crazy as that sounds, I get that part. But what I still don’t get is how taking this pill helps you understand your tics? And how in the world is it supposed to help Aksel? He’s only three. He could just be copying you. You ever think of that?”
Losman jerked his head. He knew it would take some work to convince Kat. “Pelin—she’s the woman behind the study—”
“I know who she is,” Kat said. “I talked to her, remember?”
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Well, Pelin’s theory is that buried somewhere in my childhood memories is a clue.”
“A clue to what?”
“An environmental factor that set off a genetic determinant and caused my Tourette.”
Kat laughed. “Those aren’t your words, Losman. They sound like something grown wild in your brain, an invasive species that’s crowding out your own thoughts.”
“What does it matter if they’re my words or not?”
“Listen to you, Mr. Translator.”
“That’s not fair, Kat.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll play along. Let’s say they’re your words, how do you prove such a thing?”
“I don’t know. I never quite understood that part, to be honest, but did you know there’s an actual gene that may cause Tourette? And it can be edited. I mean,” Losman fell silent a moment, letting his head droop. “Maybe someday it can.”
Kat pursed her lips tighter. Losman recognized this maneuver—the tighter the line the greater her irritation. Toward the end of their relationship, he had seen plenty of this pinched-face look, and he always considered it the calm before the storm. “You don’t know?” she said. “You put yourself in danger and you don’t even know how it works?”
“I know how it sounds, Kat. But I’m telling you, the pill worked. I have memories now that I didn’t before.”
“And yesterday you were a baby, Losman. A baby. Do you think that’s normal?”
“That was my mistake. I wasn’t supposed to take the pill again so soon. Or alone.”
Kat picked up her mug and lifted it to her nose, sniffing the coffee as though she were afraid Losman had emptied a vial of the yellow pills into it. She took a perfunctory sip, grimaced, and returned the mug to the coaster on the coffee table. He always made strong, dark coffee, which Kat, who liked it weak, always seemed to forget. “How do you know they’re memories anyway and not some hallucinogenic trip?”
“I’ve wondered that myself. I mean, it’s weird to think you can actually see these old memories—”
“Give me an example of what you saw.”
Losman ran his hand through his hair, chuffing air.
“Out with it, Losman.” Kat glanced at her watch. “I don’t have all day.”
“Fine,” he said. He downed his by now lukewarm coffee, girding himself for what was to come. He cleared his throat and told her how he’d seen his mother and father when they were still young, and even Poobah, the cat who’d died when Losman was six years old. The cat he’d completely forgotten about! He told her his favorite memories, the ones that were most babylike—riding in a pram, his circumcision, even breastfeeding. As he spoke, his voice rose two or three notches, and he realized he was pleading with her. Trying to force her to believe him. When at last he finished, he sank into his seat, breathless.
Kat was silent. She squinted at him, her face transformed; the tight lines were gone, the disapproving edges, replaced by something softer, sadder. As if she felt badly for him for being such a credulous dumbass. He dropped his head into his hands and stared at the floor, anticipating her laughter. Now that he’d retold his memories to someone he’d known for years, someone he loved, even now, he had to admit they sounded asinine. And yet, he’d seen them play out, he’d lived them. Relived them, actually.
After he was done, he blinked convulsively and made a clicking noise with his tongue.
“I guess that explains why you always liked sucking on my nipples,” Kat said. “You must’ve been subconsciously remembering your mother’s tits.”
“Fuck off,” Losman hissed. He went out to his balcony and stood with his hands on the railing, watching the cars zip by on Nordre Frihavnsgade, buttery smooth, midday sunlight flashing on polished chrome, blinding winks of light. A car honked at a jaywalking man. The A1 pulled up to the bus stop and came to a halt, its brakes shrieking. A light breeze caressed Losman’s skin. Kat joined him at the railing. He still hadn’t brought his patio furniture out of his basement storage unit, but at this moment he wished he had.
“I’m sorry, Losman.” Kat rested her hand gently on his shoulder. “That was mean of me. I’m just trying to comprehend all this.”
Losman shrugged free of her hand and went back inside. He stared at his computer. Kat stood next to the couch, watching him.
“Are you going to be all right, Losman?”
“I’ll be fine. I just need to get away from here.”
Kat turned to go.
Losman sat down. “I hate these tics, Kat,” he said, “how they control my life. I’d do anything to make them go away.”
Kat paused at the door. “What if it’s all in your head, Losman?”
“You think I’m making this up, Kat? You of all people? You lived with me for thirteen fucking years!”
“No,” she said. “I don’t mean that your tics are in your head. I mean that you give them too much negative energy. You’re your own worst enemy. They control your life because you let them.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Kat. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“You’re right, I don’t, but that doesn’t make what I’m telling you any less true.”
Losman gave her a dismissive wave. “Go, please.”
Kat said, “I still care about you, you know. I want you to feel better.”
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
Losman redirected his focus to his computer. He knew he was being petulant and unfair, but at this moment he didn’t want to look at Kat, and he certainly didn’t want her to tell him how to live. She had no right, not anymore. Negative energy. Fuck that. One by one he closed the open tabs. In the deliberately slow amount of time it took him to accomplish this task, he sensed her eyeing him, knowing that she expected him to look up, to turn, to say something pleasant. To end on a good note. Like a good boy. Like a good Losman. But today was different, and he had nothing more to say to her. When he heard the soft click of the door closing, he was glad.
But Caroline was another matter. What would she say to him? How would she react? How in the world do you have a normal conversation with a woman after what he’d done? What he deserved was a hard slap to the face.
He hoisted his pack onto his shoulders and locked the door behind him. Then he made the slow, difficult journey up one flight of stairs to Caroline’s place, and after taking a deep, calming breath, he knocked.
No response. He planted his ear against the door, listening for the telltale creak of a wooden floor, the approach of a 105-pound woman in her bare feet. Or, at the very least, a blaring stereo or television set—something, anything, to indicate her presence. But there was only empty silence. He drummed his fist harder.
A moment later, Losman gave up and turned to go; she was not home, or she was avoiding him. He’d been worried about seeing Caroline today, wondering how she’d respond to him, but as he trundled down the stairwell to exit the building—bouncing on the balls of his feet, his big pack throwing him off balance—he realized that not seeing her today was much, much worse. Because it meant that at least three days would pass before he’d have an opportunity to apologize for his behavior, and how would that look to her? Would she think he was avoiding her? Instead of seeing him once again as a responsible adult, one who could own up to his mistakes, would she continue to see him as a blathering toddler obsessed with his own dick? Worse, would his absence solidify that image in her mind? The thought made him recoil in embarrassment.
But what could he do? He had a bus to catch, and a train, and a ferry—all of which were regulated by strict schedules. If he missed just one, he’d be forced to wait for the next, thus screwing up the entire trip, and he’d risk losing even more money. Although he didn’t mind spending a little on himself, he still had to be careful.
Once outside, he turned to the left and the right, hoping to spot Caroline on the sidewalk. Maybe she’d gone to the bakery? Or the gym?
But no such luck. He waited for a cluster of bicyclists to pass before hustling across Nordre Frihavnsgade to the bus stop. Already he could feel the sweat forming a broad, tacky band on his back, from his shoulder to his tailbone, so he shrugged off his pack and propped it on the pavement. He sat next to an old woman wearing a blue paisley dress, who ignored him, her jaw clenched in a stony grimace. He glanced up toward Caroline’s apartment on the third floor, wondering if he’d see her standing at the window, but he did not. When the bus arrived, he scanned the faces of everyone who disembarked. After the old woman boarded, he followed her on and schlepped his backpack to the center of the crowded bus. He shoved his pack under one of the luggage racks and stood for the entire ride to Østerport station. Though it was a short trip, the stop-and-go traffic jostled him back and forth, and by the time he got off he felt sick to his stomach.
At Østerport he plugged his earbuds into his ears and listened to all 11 minutes and 25 seconds of Bob Dylan’s “Desolation Row” while waiting on the platform. With the sun beaming directly on him, he felt swaddled in a suffocating blanket, and was grateful for the cool air the train offered when it finally shuttled him downtown.
Copenhagen Central was teeming with people when Losman arrived. He strolled through the vast concourse with the distracted air of a tourist with time to kill, dodging a passel of Japanese families clumped near the information booth. At one of the many shops in the bustling hall he purchased a bottle of water, a banana, a newspaper, and his favorite Danish pastry, a tebirkes. Losman devoured the fatty hunk of sugar and butter covered in poppy seeds as he watched an aggressive pigeon prance undisturbed in search of food scraps among hundreds of moving human feet, its head bobbing as though it were attached to its neck by a loose spring.
As the train chugged toward Odense, the city of Hans Christian Andersen’s birth, Losman consumed his newspaper, engrossed, high on the rediscovered joy of reading simply for pleasure. He didn’t bother to suppress his tics. Periodically, he’d glance up from Information to stare out the window at the low, rolling hills patterned in wide squares of wheat and corn, and the vast, gorgeous fields of yellow rapeseed illuminated—like a van Gogh painting—by the brilliant circle of sun in the diaphanous sky. How long had it been since he’d ventured this far from Copenhagen? Since he’d luxuriated in the beauty that was the Danish countryside?
In Odense, Losman changed trains and headed south toward Svendborg, where the ferry to Ærøskøbing would depart. It was a 42-minute trip with stops in Årslev, Ringe, and Kværndrup. At Svendborg, the last stop on the island of Funen, Losman filed off the train along with everyone else. In the station, he picked up a glossy tri-fold brochure of things to do on Ærø and made the short walk to the port. There he stood on the pier. In the distance, way out on the Svendborg Sound, he could see the Ærø ferry like a tiny blue dot on the horizon.
The breeze on the pier was refreshing and cool, but the air was thick with the tangy smell of brine and fish. Feeling meditative, Losman closed his eyes and let the warm sunshine bake his skin, and he listened to the water lap against the big stone breakers. There were hundreds of gulls out on the water; he heard them screech and watched them dip and dive and soar. To his left, a long line of idling cars was queued up waiting to board the ferry. To his right, a father and son stood with fishing poles braced in their hands, buckets at their feet. Losman recalled bank-fishing as a boy with his father at his grandparents’ place on the Susquehanna River. The names of the fish they’d caught still dazzled him: walleye, trout, black crappie, bluegill, smallmouth bass, channel catfish, northern pike. He watched the father and son fish, thinking of Aksel and how he’d like to share such an experience with him. The son was a blond, apple-cheeked boy of eight or nine in soccer shorts and a windbreaker, while the father had a thick beard and wore a heavy woolen sweater and white cap. He smoked a pipe, and the burning tobacco made its way into Losman’s nostrils. Losman had always appreciated the scent of a good pipe, and he soaked this in, too.
When the 4:05 ferry finally arrived, he clambered aboard, making his way to the lounge deck. After the boat embarked on its voyage to Ærøskøbing, its massive engines brumming like a great beast raised from a deep slumber, Losman went upstairs to stand outside on the viewing deck.
With the fierce winds of the open water rushing against him, Losman watched Svendborg shrink as the ferry lurched farther into the sound, the orange terracotta tiles of its cityscape gleaming in the sunlight, the pyramid-shaped spire of Vor Frue Kirke piercing the sheer web of blue sky. Under the churn of the rotors, the ferry cleaved through the water, like a zipper. Losman watched the sailboats, miniature white specks a few nautical miles away, skim across the surface as swiftly as bugs.
BhMe4 was a kind of oracle, he thought. But maybe the past, like the future revealed in the oracle, was best left unknown and undisturbed? His journey on the pill had taught him at least one thing: there was no single memory buried deep within his brain that would reveal his innermost truth to him. Memories weren’t like the plot of a crime novel, where a murder is committed and clues are dispersed like a trail of breadcrumbs, leading to the killer. To a neatly wrapped-up story like in I Am Going to Kill You. They didn’t form a discernible pattern at all, in fact. Memories were far more complicated than that.
The ferry set its course between the small islands of Skarø, Drejø, and Hjortø, keeping the larger islands of Funen and Tåsinge within sight, and as it drew closer to its destination, Losman felt a glorious serenity wash over him, as though he’d descended into a dark pit but somehow escaped to tell the tale. And soon he would arrive on the island of Ærø, the one place in Denmark he’d always longed to visit. He snapped photos of the islands as they passed, and he posted the best one on Facebook, regretting it immediately. Why should he announce his movements to the world? What was he trying to prove? That he was living a good life? Just being here on this ferry, with the wind whipping against him, was proof enough that he was alive. He didn’t need others to confirm this for him, but by posting the image he was inviting judgment, disappointment, failure. Why did likes matter? They didn’t. He deleted the post.
Shortly after they’d passed Hjortø, Losman’s cell pinged. He pulled the phone from his pocket and read the message.
hej losman. where are you? you ok?
He squinted at the screen, wondering who was texting him. He responded: Who is this?
it’s me, caroline.
Losman’s eyes widened. How did she get his phone number? He wrote back: I’m on a ferry to Ærø. I stopped by your place, but you weren’t there. I’m so sorry for yesterday!
Her response was instantaneous: how much do you remember?
All of it! I was stuck in there the entire time.
where is *there*?
My head. I’m never going to do that again, Caroline!
that’s good. but i want to hear everything! when are you back?
Thursday.
He expected her to respond right away. When she didn’t, he created a new contact for her and slipped his phone back into his pocket. She must’ve gotten his number from Kat. She wasn’t angry, she was curious, and she wanted to see him again. That she’d actively sought him out made him giddy.
In a fine mood, he jerked his head, cleared his throat, and stood at the railing to watch the ferry approach Ærøskøbing. With its dense cluster of traditional brick houses capped with orange terracotta roofs, the city resembled Svendborg or any Danish town he’d ever visited. As it docked, the big, grumbling engine churned the water into a foamy lather. Gulls swooped, screeching. When the ferry was at rest, Losman grabbed his stuff and disembarked. According to his phone, his Airbnb on Nørregade—listed on the website as a “cozy, charming house with a view of the sea”—was a 12-minute walk. To get there, he headed up Vestergade.
But first he stopped at Netto, the discount grocery store, and filled a bag with provisions that would get him through to Thursday.
Vestergade was like something out of a travel guide: a narrow cobblestone street bordered on either side by low, two-story brick rowhouses painted yellow or orange or ochre. The cobblestones were uneven, and as Losman hiked down the street an elderly woman wearing khaki shorts and a tank top—her tanned, leathery skin furrowed with wrinkles—bicycled slowly past him, bouncing over the ruts. She wore no helmet, and her hair was piled in an elegant chignon, making her look like the type of woman who enjoyed sailing with her husband while listening to classical music and drinking flutes of champagne.
The little yellow cottage Losman had rented was every bit as charming as the website had indicated. No false advertising here. After punching in the code to retrieve his key from the lockbox and letting himself in, he set his pack and Netto bag down in the entrance hall and toured the rooms. It was a cramped house with a galley kitchen and a kind of arthouse décor, with clay pots dangling from hooks over the sink and stove, landscape paintings depicting the same rolling hills he’d sped past on the train, and aromatic sprigs of flowers emerging from a ceramic vase on the thick oaken dining table. The bedrooms were refrigerator cool and smelled of mothballs, as if he were the first guest of the season and the cottage hadn’t been properly aired out. There was a handwritten note next to the vase. “Velkommen til Feriehuset!” it read, followed by a printed list of instructions, dos and don’ts, and suggestions for places to visit while on the island.
Losman opened the French door and stepped onto the small patch of yard to gaze upon the bright, shiny blue water of the Little Belt. Less than seventy-five yards away, a group of shiny white sailboats with lowered sails lay tethered in the harbor, and a dozen or so squawking gulls took flight. The sun was a low, pinkening orb balanced on the edge of the horizon like a bobber; dusk was a glowing, fiery blend of reddish orange, making the harbor and the tiled roofs behind him sparkle. If only he could capture this light, take it home with him, he could relive this moment always. Maybe he could even give it to Caroline as a gift, something for her to paint. She would love it here, he thought.
The setting sun also reminded him of the time, and his hunger. All he’d eaten since breakfast was a tebirkes and a banana. As he was returning to the house, his cell phone pinged. It was Caroline again.
finally heard from Simon Jakobsen, she wrote. he told me Kramer had a daughter named Anna in Aarhus.
Who is Simon Jakobsen?
the carpenter’s son. remember, in Kramer’s apt?
Oh, right. How did he find out Kramer had a daughter in Aarhus?
i don’t know, but I looked her up and called her. that’s why I stopped at your place.
Losman smiled, delighted to have this new method of communication with Caroline. This flurry of text messages seemed to be elevating their friendship to another, uncharted level. He set his phone on the dining table to retrieve his groceries and carried the heavy Netto bag to the kitchen counter. He began putting the items in the fridge: a loaf of rye bread, a log of cheddar cheese, cherry tomatoes, coffee, smoked salmon, a can of mackerel in tomato sauce, OJ, a six pack of a local beer called Ærø Gylden, and Apollinaris water. He popped the can of mackerel and scooped the fish onto a slice of bread.
He sat down and took a cool swig of beer. Is she as crazy as her father? he wrote. Like a lovestruck dork, he stared at the screen until the three little dots appeared to indicate she was responding.
no, she’s very nice. she told me Kramer was cremated. she invited the two of us to help scatter his ashes.
She did? Why?
I told her we were friends with him.
But we weren’t.
we were as much as we could be. we tried.
*You* tried. When?
next saturday. it’s his birthday.
Losman pictured an image of the calendar he’d tacked to the wall above his desk. Was he supposed to have Aksel next weekend? He typed his response,
In Aarhus?
no, Silkeborg. apparently, Kramer grew up there. do you want to come with me? Anna says we can spend the night at her house.
Losman typed madly, Yes, I’d love to. I just need to check with Kat about Aksel.
is it too much trouble?
No trouble at all! Count me in!
Losman hoped that he didn’t sound too eager. He recalled what Kat said to him before the U2 show. I’ll owe you one. Well, now she could pay up.
ok! i’ll let her know we’ll be there.
Great! he replied.
He stared at the screen, but this time she didn’t respond. No matter. He shoved his cell into his pocket and went back inside, thrilled. Silkeborg was a medium-sized city located in what was arguably one of the most beautiful regions in Denmark. It was surrounded by a clutch of lakes, and there was a vast tract of forest south of the city, the largest woodland area in the country. He recalled one hot summer, seven or eight years ago, when he and Kat had rented a cabin overlooking one of these lakes. For an entire week they’d hiked, rowed boats, and made love—once while skinny-dipping under a ghostly full moon; her body had shivered under his hands, and his had shivered under hers. That trip had solidified in Losman’s memory as one of his fondest. Questions peppered him now: What would happen between him and Caroline in Silkeborg?
Could she be interested in him in spite of what he’d done?
Why not? Yes, why not? He would think positive thoughts for a change. She had seen him naked, had literally spoon-fed him like a baby, and yet she didn’t hate him. He would have to be open about his Tourette, would now have to present himself to her figuratively naked. He couldn’t—and wouldn’t—hide that part of himself from her.
Losman devoured his dinner. He emptied his backpack on a bed, more like a cot, in one of the rooms and grabbed Oryx & Crake and his notebook. He got himself another beer and carried everything outside to breathe the salty sea air, to suck it deep into his lungs. Off in the distance came the otherworldly cackle of the gulls. He opened his book and began to read. The combination of cold beer, the still-warm rays of fading sunlight on his face, and his pleasant, post-texting-Caroline-mood made him positively euphoric, and he lost himself in the novel. He loved Atwood’s sentences, the way they flowed inexorably onward, like a river to the sea. Translating her would be a delight. Her turns of phrase, her vivid characters, and her masterful ability to construct a perfectly plausible world out of disparate parts—all inspired Losman’s imagination.
Aksel, Tourette Syndrome, BhMe4, Caroline, Pelin, Kat, his mother and father. Jens. Hell, even Kramer. This small constellation of satellites that orbited him, or maybe it was the other way around? He focused on them. Because if he could find the red thread that linked them all together, he was certain he had a story to tell. But was it a novel? Was it a memoir? And where would he begin?
He pulled his Moleskin notebook from his pocket and clicked his pen. His mind—aided by alcohol—raced with ideas, and he jotted them down before they slipped away, the tip of his pen scratching the surface of the paper. Could he write again? Did he have a story people would read?
Why did that even matter? Whether anyone read it or not, his story was his story.
After freewriting a few pages of notes—half-formed sketches, images, and sentences that ended abruptly, a trail to nowhere in particular but a trail nonetheless—Losman put his pen down and reread what he’d written. Even incomplete as it was, he knew that he’d captured the essence of something, though just what that something was lay beyond his grasp. A swooping gull screeched bloody murder, and he glanced up to find it tracing a low trajectory over the water, its white feathers ablaze in a shimmery halo of light. Losman felt a chill. The sun had vanished below the cottage behind him, and he was now seated in a broad stripe of cool shade.
He went back inside.
In his mind, Losman saw the arc of the story beginning with Caroline and the day she came to tell him about Kramer’s fall. That was a good place to begin, with Kramer’s demise. He didn’t want to end with the scene in Silkeborg, because that would make it seem like a romantic comedy with a happy ending. Happy endings were great in real life, but they were terrible in books. Besides, he didn’t know if there would be a happy ending.
No, it was best to end his story with ambiguity. That was always better. The truth of the matter was that he didn’t know where his story would end any more than anyone knew how any story would end. On that score he was in the dark, like everyone else.
But it was time to begin. To prepare, he cleared his throat and shook his head repeatedly, until spittle flew from his mouth. He stripped off his pants and sat at the dining table in his briefs, pen in hand, notebook open. Finally, he was ready. He turned his head toward the front door of the cottage as if expecting Caroline to materialize there.
Losman was startled
He wrote this line but crossed it off immediately. He would have to change his name, he realized, to hide the bits of memoir from the fiction. And Caroline’s. And Kat’s. And Pelin’s. Everyone would have to have new names, new faces.
He started over.