Chartered buses awaited our arrival at the Copenhagen airport. I lagged a half block behind the Riordan party and climbed aboard a different bus. A guide provided capsule descriptions as we drove north through the city to the harbor and Langelinie Pier. Canals were everywhere. Copper spires glistened and gargoyles gazed blindly down from ledges. I have a fondness for gargoyles.
Neoclassical and rococo buildings were punctuated by an occasional modern structure. Bicycles wove in and out of traffic. I glimpsed the turquoise and gold spire of the Church of Our Savior. We passed Amalienborg Palace, the residence of Queen Margrethe II, and, when we neared the harbor, The Little Mermaid, the graceful statue inspired by Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale that speaks always to the young at heart.
Even though several hundred passengers had arrived at once, the scene on the quay was orderly. The Clio was a lovely ship, her dark blue hull and white upper decks gleaming in the sun. As I recalled the information in my cruise packet, the Clio had been in service for only two years. There were ten decks with an added sundeck forward. In a welcome change from behemoth cruise ships, the Clio carried a maximum of 730 passengers. Now her standard fluttered in the breeze and her smiling crew welcomed travelers.
The buses waited to discharge passengers until the previous group had embarked. When our turn came, I joined a line of perhaps fifty inching forward up the gangplank to the entryway on Deck 4. Just inside the ship, each traveler paused to have a photograph taken and was then issued an electronic card to be used each time he or she left or reentered the ship. The card also served as an electronic key to their cabin and for use in charging drinks or shopping on board.
The reception center was on Deck 4, along with the purser’s counter. Amid the cheerful, milling throng, I looked at a color-coded pocket map, conveniently tucked into the blue leather holder for the electronic key, and spotted my cabin, 6012. I climbed blue-carpeted stairs to Deck 6. There was a general air of excitement and the good humor of a treasure hunt as travelers sought their quarters. Luggage was piled in the hallways, awaiting the arrival of passengers.
I clicked into my cabin, looked about appreciatively. I hadn’t sailed for a number of years. I had expected a cramped box. Instead the cabin seemed spacious. A compact bath was to my left as I stepped inside, a double closet to the right. I opened the closet, noted the safe, picked up a laminated sheet which contained security information, the number to call in an emergency, medical facilities available, hours of operation for the purser’s office, and an explanation of the electronic keys, with a note that each key left a record when inserted into a cabin lock. I tossed the sheet back onto the safe and closed the closet door.
Beyond the double bed was a small sofa and coffee table. A desk with a telephone sat opposite the sofa. A sliding glass door opened to a balcony, a picture window to the sea that, with the long mirror on the forward wall, increased the sense of spaciousness. I stepped out on the balcony, admired the two comfortable plastic chairs, and took a deep breath of salt-tanged air. I leaned on the spotless wooden railing and welcomed the soft warmth of the sunshine. Danes too were enjoying the idyllic weather, strolling on the quay, biking, skating. The harbor on a summer Saturday afforded continuing entertainment as the cruise ships arrived and departed.
I paused on the balcony for only a moment. I’ve spent my life doing and seeing, seeking and finding, rarely in repose. I had a ship to explore. Color-coded map in hand, I started one deck down. The main dining room was at the stern of Deck 5. A small bar with easy chairs and sofas offered a cozy corner for preprandial visiting. Animated voices rose as I passed. Then came the shops, clothing both formal and informal, jewelry, and artworks.
Amidship, Diogenes Bar had the heavy masculine charm of a gentleman’s study with mahogany chairs and small tables. Nautical paintings hung between huge windows. I passed a painting of Admiral Nelson’s HMS Victory, which carried him to his great success at Trafalgar and to his death. Forward was the main lounge for after-dinner drinks and coffee and entertainment.
I took a lift to Deck 9 with its public areas for the hale and hearty. A teenager squealed as she jumped into the sparkling pool. A muscular young man lounged in the Jacuzzi and watched her with interest. A foursome had already settled into bridge in the card room. Signs pointed to a fitness center, beauty salon, and spa forward, observation deck and informal dining room aft.
I climbed outdoor steps forward from the pool to Deck 10 and the upper promenade. An athletic teenager loped around the track, long hair streaming in the breeze. Two stout ladies walked briskly. At the bow, curving windows provided a panoramic view of the harbor. Comfortable petit point sofas and chairs sat behind small tables, perfect for tea or evening cocktails. A brightly lit enclave contained a half dozen computers affording Internet access. Aft of the promenade was an extensive library replete with reference works, novels, histories, and travel guides. I checked out the main dining room and spotted the Clio’s five-star restaurants, the James Beard and the Julia Child.
I returned to my cabin and was pleased to find my two cases in the hall. It took only a few minutes to unpack. I had enjoyed my afternoon exploring the ship and I hadn’t spent a minute thinking about the Riordan family. For now, I wasn’t concerned about the Riordans. There was nothing I could do until I officially met them. The Clio sailed at noon tomorrow from Copenhagen en route to Gdańsk. Jimmy’s plan was for me to wander into Diogenes Bar shortly before dinner on Sunday and—huge surprise—old friends would come together. Until then, my time was my own.
I looked forward to this evening. The ship offered an excursion to Tivoli Gardens, the famed amusement park that opened in 1843. I intended to go. I had an instant’s hesitation. Sometimes it is unwise to revisit the scene of a special memory. Sometimes the reality of the present destroys a fragile long-ago moment.
I would take that chance.
I tucked dark glasses and a scarf into the pocket of my loose linen jacket in case my path crossed that of the Riordans. But none of that group was aboard my bus—number 12—and there were such big crowds waiting to enter Tivoli that I was certain, should I see them, I could easily remain unnoticed.
The minute I stood on the walk in front of the ornate arched entrance with Tivoli inscribed in white Roman letters, I was suffused with happiness. Or rather, as I moved forward, purchased my ticket, and entered the park, I was wrapped in emotions from the past. I was eleven years old when my father brought me to Tivoli. The dark clouds of World War II were forming. Certainly he was aware that the world was poised to explode, but I was innocent of knowledge and foreboding. A widower, my father was a wire service bureau chief based in Paris. I last saw him just before the fall of Paris. I never knew where or when he died. But our final separation was still in our future that summer evening when we came to Tivoli.
I remembered lights and flowers and music and happy faces. This evening, a lifetime later, mimes told a story of love and loss on a stage to my left, lights outlined a turreted building to my right, the path sloped forward, inviting me to return. Red and gold flowers bloomed in profusion. There were, of course, tourists everywhere, camera-laden, backpack-saddled, guidebook-encumbered. There were also hundreds of holidaying Danes, families and young people, many with white-gold hair and fjord blue eyes, just as I remembered from long ago.
My goal was the lake, ringed by restaurants. There was even a restaurant aboard a pirate ship. I didn’t recall the huge loop-the-loop roller coaster or a tall tower where riders plummeted down from a platform. I expected they were later additions. But so much was the same. Most of all I remembered the sounds: laughter, the scrape of shoes, cheerful shouts and squeals.
I sat on a bench, watched the streaks of light on dark water, and listened with my heart. Perhaps it was the strains of Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” that created an instant of magic. It was as if my father were sitting beside me on the bench, his hand on my shoulder, leaning forward to listen. I smelled the mustiness of cigarette smoke, felt the warmth of his touch, heard his laughter. I saw him so clearly, short-sleeved white shirt, blue bow tie, and dark trousers. His summer straw hat rested atop his neatly folded suit coat on the bench beside him. My lips curved into a smile.
A little girl pelted past me in hot pursuit of an older brother holding a bobbing balloon out of reach and my father’s presence was gone.
I rose and strolled toward the bandstand, intrigued by hearing the long-ago swing music that lifted the hearts of dancers during World War II. The audience clapped as the piece ended. I felt curiously warmed that Glenn Miller’s music still played on a summer evening almost sixty years after his small plane was lost in the English Channel during the war.
I was tempted to stop and buy an ice cream cone. My father had bought me one. No, I would let that memory remain unchallenged. I was glad I had come. I was wandering back to the entrance, intending a brief stroll on Stroget, the world’s longest pedestrian shopping street, when I saw Kent Riordan and his sister Rosie. They were sitting on a bench near the fountain. Her hand gripped his arm.
I stopped, perhaps fifteen feet away. Kent’s features were a mask of sorrow, eyes downcast, mouth drooping, expression desolate. Rosie gripped his arm as if she were holding tight to keep him safe. Her brows drew down in a straight line. Her lips pressed together.
I passed them, unnoticed in the milling crowd, and stepped behind their bench, my back to them as I gazed toward the roller-coaster, my head tilted slightly so that I could overhear their conversation. I couldn’t see their faces. But, of course, neither could they see mine, should they look.
“…I never knew anything could hurt this much. I love Heather. I’ll always love her, even though—” He stopped, swallowed hard. “If it weren’t for you and Val and Alex, I wouldn’t have come. I wish I hadn’t. I didn’t know I could hate anyone as much as I hate her.” Kent’s bitter words carried the chill of unrelieved fury.
His tone was shocking. For the first time I understood Jimmy’s fear. I wasn’t quite ready to see a death threat to Sophia, but I realized Jimmy was unquestionably right in sensing hostility.
“Hush, Kent.” Rosie’s musical voice was low and soft and filled with compassion. “Sophia’s not worth hating. She’s like a stupid, willful child picking up a piece of pottery, thinking she sees a flaw, and tossing it over her shoulder.”
“Flaw…”
From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed his swift movement as he swung around to face his sister.
“Is that how you see me? Flawed?” His tone was harsh.
“No.” The retort was quick. “That’s not what I meant. Never. Not you. It’s Heather. Sophia’s shrewd, Kent. Somehow she knew Heather—”
I heard his quick indrawn breath. The bench creaked. I turned enough to see him striding away, head down, hands jammed in his pockets, moving fast.
Rosie slowly stood. In the growing twilight, she was young and lovely, her dark red hair bright as a flame in the lamplight. Her face was filled with love and sorrow. Abruptly, her features hardened and she hurried after her brother. So might Alecto, the avenging Fury, have set out to punish a transgressor.
I shivered though the night was balmy. Had Sophia any inkling of the passions she aroused?