The Dinosaur Feather (45 page)

“At dawn, we left together and walked to Enghave Plads. He hugged me and said it had been great to meet me, that he would like to see me again.”

“Johannes wasn’t gay,” Anna protested. Troels looked away.

“We met a few days later. I couldn’t get him out of my head. He invited me to dinner at his apartment; we drank wine. I was totally confused. He sent out such contradictory signals and in the end, I asked him outright. I said I was very attracted to him; I wanted to have sex with him. He said he wasn’t gay. At first, I got angry. I felt he had strung me along. With the wine, the meal, and the ridiculous clothes he was wearing. But then I realized there was more to it. He wasn’t gay, but . . .” Troels hesitated.

“He wanted me to . . . humiliate him. Sexually, but without us touching. I was allowed to hit him and to verbally abuse him, but I must never touch his dick. He got off on being humiliated. He had tried it with women, but it wasn’t really working for him. So that’s what we did that night. I’ve tried something like that before, but never anything that real. I lived in the US for years and I was a part of that scene, going to S&M clubs, I’ve been the dominant one in all my relationships, the aggressor. But with Johannes it was . . . so hot. Because it was new for him. Because I was the first.” He glanced shyly at Anna who was sitting very still, staring at the sperm whale on the wall. The noisy children had gone, and a family of four had arrived. The father lifted up the younger boy.

“I hit him, and . . . no, it doesn’t matter. He masturbated until he climaxed. Obviously I wanted to touch him, but every time I tried, he turned away. He didn’t want me. In the end, I was deeply frustrated. I wanted to have sex with him. I tried, but the magic disappeared. Johannes got upset, went into another room, and told me he was disappointed in me. That it wasn’t what we had agreed. I apologized, but it was no good. He just wanted me to leave. Get out, get out, he whispered. Very quietly, as if I had failed him. So I left. In the days that followed I was beside myself. He was all I could think about. I e-mailed him, but he never replied. On the goth scene I’m known as YourGuy.” Troels peered at Anna. “Most people on the scene have aliases. It’s part of the game. It suited me just fine. Copenhagen is a very small town. And I’ve just come back from abroad and, to be honest, I’m scared shitless of ending up on the front page of the tabloids. ‘Supermodel into S&M’ or something like that. I’m actually quite famous in the US,” he added, “but getting work back here, when I returned last spring, was really tough. But finally I was about to land a huge campaign, a well-paying one, so I preferred going to places where no one cared who I really was. Anyway, Johannes never replied, and I was getting desperate. Then we bumped into each other, accidentally, in a café. He seemed pleased to see me. As though he had forgotten what had gone wrong during our last meeting. He had been busy, that was all. We agreed to meet again, the next day.

“That night I realized the two of you knew each other. He had mentioned you several times that first evening. Anna, my colleague; Anna, the woman I share a study with, without me making the connection. But when we met again, he referred to you as ‘Anna Bella,’ and it clicked that it had to be you. I knew where you lived, and I had meant to get in touch ever since I moved to Copenhagen. Only I was too ashamed. Ashamed I had run away back then. Your parents . . .” Troels shook his head. “I heard from them for years. They had my address in New York, and they wrote faithfully to me every Christmas and on my birthday. Your mom even sent me an advent calendar one year. They urged me to get in touch if ever I came back to Denmark.” He laughed bitterly. “And I never replied. When I moved to Copenhagen, I thought it would be easier to get ahold of Karen first. I missed you the most, but . . . Christ, how you freaked out at me that night.” For a moment, he looked at her with tenderness.

“So much that you were afraid you might beat me up?” Anna asked. She felt her anger rise through her shock. It wiped the smile off Troels’s face.

“I don’t know why you had to humiliate me,” he said. “You were just as bad as my dad that night. You kicked me, Anna. You hit me and you screamed. And group sex was a seriously shitty idea. Whose was it?”

“Yours and Karen,” Anna snapped. “You and Karen got the idea, and . . .” and the words spilled out of her. “You were always trying to shut me out. You became Karen’s best friend just to hurt me. And it was the same that night. I might as well not have been there. And my parents favored you. Poor Troels, he’s such a nice kid, we’ll take good care of lovely, little Troels,” she mimicked. Troels stared at Anna in amazement.

“Anna,” he said softly. “I’ve always loved you more. Karen is my friend, she’s straightforward and uncomplicated. She always was. You had everything I wanted. I worshipped you and I loved your parents. I wanted to live with you, always, be with you always. But there were times I thought you hated me. That night, I thought you hated me. And I couldn’t cope with anymore hatred. I wanted to shut you up, and that’s why I ran. The week before I had knocked out all my dad’s teeth, for fuck’s sake. With a wood plank. He told everyone he had forgotten to wear his seatbelt and had had to brake hard. But it was me. He shut me in the basement and said the most awful things to me, provoked me, baited me, called me queer. Finally, I ripped a shelf off the wall and bashed him across the face with it. I couldn’t take being hated anymore, do you understand? And I was scared of how I might react that night. Really terrified. I’ve thought about it hundreds of times since. How jealous you must have been. You were an only child and always landed on your feet, always, born with a fucking silver spoon in your mouth, and then I come along like the serpent in paradise. By the way, I never understood what your parents saw in me. Since they already had you,” he added. “But . . .” He fell silent.

“You know nothing about me,” Anna said, quietly. Troels stared ahead with a blank expression, as if he hadn’t heard her.

“During that evening I realized Johannes was in love with you. He talked about you all the time. Not directly . . . but he would mention your name, no matter what the conversation was about. I would ask questions, from time to time, as though you interested me and he answered them willingly. Very quickly I knew most of it: you had been dumped by your boyfriend, Thomas, who never visited your young daughter, never sent Christmas presents, and only paid basic child support—even though he was a doctor and you were a student—you struggled with your rage; you felt completely powerless; you were about to get your masters; Cecilie had moved to Copenhagen, and your relationship with her was strained. Johannes never found my questions odd—he was quite keen to talk about you. His eyes lit up. It was bizarre. I was madly in love with him, and he was madly in love with you.” Troels smiled. “Seems to be my curse. You get everything I want.

“That night,” he continued, “I crossed the line. Johannes wanted a repeat of last time. Wanted me to abuse him verbally, humiliate him, and slap him. Mostly on his body, but also across his head. He masturbated while I did it, but flinched whenever I tried to touch him. I could do the same, he said. Get my dick out and have a tug. I didn’t want to. I was delirious, a bit drunk and in love. And I was the stronger; I was in charge. I managed to enter him. I held him down. For fuck’s sake, I only lasted five seconds. I came inside him, and he went berserk. He cried; he screamed and threw me out. On the fetish scene this is a total no-no,” Troels muttered, ashamed. “You go right up to the line, but you never cross it without the other person’s consent. Johannes asked me to stop many times that night, but I didn’t listen.

“The days that followed were terrible. I called him. I e-mailed. He didn’t reply. It took a week before I got ahold of him. He sounded really pissed off with me. I had crossed the line, he said. It was unacceptable. The rules had been crystal clear. We were experimenting with the balance of power, but there was to be no direct sexual contact. I had agreed to that. I had broken our deal. He never wanted to see me again.

“Some weeks passed. I met with Karen, twice. I told her I was in love, but that it wasn’t reciprocated. She consoled me.” Troels smiled. “And we talked about you. I asked her if she thought we might be friends again. You and I. The three of us. Asked her how you were. She became a little subdued. Then she told me the two of you hadn’t kept in touch, either. That really surprised me. But she had met Cecilie, and Cecilie had told her you were alone with your daughter. You had had a rough time, Cecilie said, but she made no effort to conceal she and Jens were enormously relieved Thomas was out of your lives. They never liked him. He was highly intelligent, but shallow. That’s how Cecilie had put it. They worried about you, Karen said, and they helped take care of your daughter, Lily. I would like to meet her someday,” he smiled.

“Karen suggested we get in touch with you, but Cecilie asked us to wait until you had defended your dissertation, so we agreed to meet afterward. Karen was wildly excited about our plan. She was missing us so much, she said. Her joy inspired me. One day, I visited Cecilie and had tea with her. It was a lovely afternoon. I apologized for my years of silence, but Cecilie said it didn’t matter. I told her I had had a hard time and asked her not to mention to you that I had been there. I said I wanted it to be a surprise, but really . . . I was scared you would get angry again. Jealous and angry. That we would end up back where we started. I wanted to establish some ground rules with you. You must never humiliate me again. I can’t take it. In return, I would keep a low profile, as far as your parents were concerned—if that was what you wanted.

“I also went to see Jens. I waited for him outside his office, saw him come out. He had aged, I thought, he looked withered and gray. I followed him home, but I chickened out. So I got in touch with my sister instead. Karen’s joy, Cecilie’s open arms . . . I got carried away and called my sister. She was as cold as ice. “Don’t you ever call me again,” she said. “Don’t ever come near me or my children, or I’ll call the police.” He smiled, embarrassed. “My dad and I fought when he was in the hospital, terminally ill with cancer; I smashed a vase across his head, and he threw a drawer at me. My sister always got so upset when we fought.” His smile started to fade. “At his funeral, six days later, I still had seven stitches in my forehead from the drawer he’d hurled. I don’t know how he got the strength. He was weak and dying. I still have a scar.” Troels turned to Anna and ran his finger along a thin white line.

“It never occurred to my sister to ask if I was all right. She refused to sit next to me at the funeral. She and her family sat on the opposite pew. Afterward, she came up to me and said if I ever contacted her again, she would have me charged with assault. Our dad was eaten up by cancer, but according to her logic, I had killed him with a vase.” For a moment Troels looked exasperated.

“When I called my sister that evening to attempt a reconciliation, it soon became clear she had no intention of forgiving me. When I hung up, I had a small breakdown. I was thinking about Johannes all the time; I was scared of what I had done, scared he might file charges against me, and all the while I just wanted to be with him. Karen suspected nothing. We met a couple of times; we had coffee and Karen chatted away about the great reunion that was to come. Suddenly, I had to see you. It seemed to be the only right thing to do. Perhaps you could speak to Johannes . . . I don’t know what I had imagined. I waited for you—twice. Found your address online and got into your building, hoping you would be there. I deliberately didn’t call you first, because I didn’t want you to turn me away. I was convinced that if only I could speak to you, everything would be all right again. I chickened out both times. One time I panicked. The woman below you came up to check on your daughter. I found out you had gone for a run. She left the door open, and I followed her in. I sat down and pretended to be an old friend. She threw me out. Told me I had to wait outside. She gave me such a hostile and suspicious look, her eyes flashed as if she had seen through me, caught me in the act. That’s when I panicked. I ran down the stairs and suddenly I heard you come back. The door downstairs opened, you were out of breath, I could hear that it was you. You coughed. I hid in the meter box. You and your neighbor looked for me, as if I were a criminal, as if I were a danger to others.” His voice sounded tired. “Just like when we were back at school, right? My dad had to be strict or he wouldn’t be able to control me, he told my teachers. No, of course he didn’t hit me. But he made himself clear, he assured them, he set boundaries. They understood that. They, too, had a job controlling me. Your parents were the only people who didn’t buy the story.

“I curled up inside the meter box, and you walked right past me. When I heard your footsteps above, I got out and ran. I found myself in Vesterbro. In front of Johannes’s building. I looked up at his windows. The light was on, and after a while Johannes appeared—he was on the phone. I stood outside for a while, then I knocked on his door. And when he answered it, I forced my way in. I had called him every day for two weeks, I had sent flowers, I had begged for his forgiveness, and sent him several e-mails. I had heard nothing from him.

“He was very scared when I got inside his apartment. I’m much bigger than he is, that’s what made it so perfect between us. I got aroused. There was something in his eyes; I caught a glimpse of something in his eyes. He wants me to, I thought. He wants to be dominated, controlled, humiliated; at that moment everything became clear. He had tricked me, tricked me good.” Troels’s eyes shone now.

Anna carefully slipped her hand inside her pocket and shivered, as though she was cold.

“I closed the door behind me and unzipped my jeans. It was what he wanted. I felt so sure. He walked backward, just as he was supposed to. I held my dick, I rubbed it, while I ordered him to take off his clothes and told him to suck me off. He was good at acting scared, he got it just right. He resisted. I called him lots of names . . . and suddenly I came. All over my hand and the floor. I buckled, consumed by a deep urge to hug him, to snuggle up. I closed my eyes for a second and when I looked at him again, he was armed. I don’t know where he got it from, but he was holding a knife. His eyes grew black. I said something. I raised my hands. ‘You mustn’t threaten me,’ I said. I wanted him to calm down, but he attacked me. Waved the knife in the air, stabbing at me. I tried to warn him, told him to put down the knife, to stop. His tenderness was gone, as was the fragility, which I loved about him. His voice had changed, too. It was dark and strange. He wouldn’t stop. He came closer to me wielding the knife and ordered me to leave. He screamed in a high-pitched voice, I felt drops of spit on my cheek.” Troels glanced at Anna.