Kerrigan in Copenhagen Read Online Free Page A

memories: how his two-year-old daughter would sit on his lap and point at things for him to name—lamp, table, chair, carpet, repeating the words after him, the delicate features of her fresh-minted face, same blue eyes as her mother’s. He thinks again of Licia, thinks,
Cunt!
and feels the anger as further loss. Gabrielle would be five now, the little one three. He didn’t even know her name. If there really was a little one. If it was his. If it was just another lie.
    He remembers the Rukeyser poem he quoted for his Associate in the bar, and suddenly in his mind he’s jotting the line of a poem—
the cunt giveth and the cunt taketh away
—and in his mind he slashes out the line and reminds himself that he is not a poet.
    When he says nothing more, the Associate turns a page in her Moleskine. “This square was built in 1863 when the old Central Station was opened,” and he welcomes the lilting, soothing feminine music of her voice. “The square is named for Bishop Absalon, who founded Copenhagen in 1167, although evidence now proves the city is actually older than that, from the last half of the year 1000. You can see Absalon’s statue on a rearing horse wielding an ax down on Højbro Plads , just off the Strøget , the Walking Street.”
    â€œA bishop wielding an ax? Interesting. He should ride his horse over to the Town Hall Square and do battle with the evil Burger King.”
    She chuckles, goes on: “The Danish literary critic Georg Brandes spoke at the unveiling of the statue in 1902 and pointed out that the ax was not only a weapon of battle but also a tool of civilization—to chop trees and firewood. Absalon, by the way, is the Hebrew version of the Danish name Axel.”
    â€œHere’s Axelborg Bodega ,” she says, and leads him in. Glad to be delivered of bottled beer, he orders a pint and sits unspeaking, from time to time lifting his glass to his mouth. He does not toast and she respects his silence, which does not fail to escape his attention—he feels her watching him and wishes she would stop, but at the same time thinks ofher question about children and hopes she does not pursue the subject. To make sure she doesn’t, he changes it.
    â€œI hope I can see your pictures sometime,” he says.
    â€œLet’s see,” she says. “If you’re ever hungry and low on funds, they serve an excellent
skipperlabsskovs
here—lobscouse, sailor’s stew, a huge portion of potatoes and boiled beef in a pale gravy made with beer—it’s served with dark rye bread and pickled beets.”
    The place is nearly empty, and Kerrigan slowly relaxes, absently watching a man who sits alone at an adjoining table. The man is about his own age, drinking a bottle of Tuborg
PÃ¥ske Bryg
, Easter Brew, strong beer, 7 to 8 percent, brewed around the Easter season for a few weeks every year. It has been brewed for over a century. The day it hits the streets—known since 1952 as P-Day (Easter Beer Day)—the young people in Copenhagen go on a rampage with it.
    The man glances at them a couple of times—wistfully, Kerrigan thinks.
    â€œWhat does your little book have about Danish beer?” he asks, and her delicate fingers rattle pages.
    â€œIt’s been brewed in Denmark since around 4000 BC —six thousand years ago. They’ve found a preserved body of a Bronze Age girl—the Egtved Girl—in Jutland at a grave site with a pail of beer between her legs. She was in her mid-twenties, and the beer was made from malt wheat, cranberries, pollen, and instead of hops, bog myrtle for a bitter spice, also known as ‘sweet gale.’ ”
    â€œSweet gale. I like that. Beer was known as ‘mead,’ right?”
    â€œWrong. Mead is fermented honey. A kind of wine. Beer is made from grain water, yeast, and seasoning. Hops didn’t reach Denmark until about the year 1000. Until then they used sweet