Beau sits on a concrete bench in bright Tivoli Gardens. He is happy to be resting, but hates conceding that his feet are sore and that he is unlikely to be able to carry on much longer into the sunny night. The rides and amusements of Tivoli remind him vaguely of Coney Island or the Santa Cruz Boardwalk. Tivoli, however, is cleaner and more orderly—the way he would imagine a costume closet organized by a Scandinavian drag queen with obsessive-compulsive disorder.
Beau sighs. It is difficult to reconcile the midnight sun with his body's automatic winding down after weeks of dedicated travel. He has not drank. He has not smoked. He has not passed more than a half smile at the other lone travelers. He wakes at dawn with an itinerary programmed roughly to the hour and then lies down at midnight.
It has been three days since he floated through the windmill fields of the Baltic Sea—looking like acres of opalescent, spiny extra-terrestrial flowers—and emerged into the ports of Copenhagen. The train began in Lisbon and traversed first Spain, France and finally Germany.
He began his exploration of the city immediately, attacking his touristing with the focus one would apply to a final exam in something very serious like architectural engineering or nuclear physics. He has studiously explored the National Museum, obediently nodded through tours of the canal systems, and appropriately admired the graffiti of squatted Christiana.
The sun continues to shine on the dragon boats floating on the dark pond in Tivoli. A few swans dart between the bright tongues of the dragons' mouths. At 11pm, the Danes and other tourists show no indication of giving in for the evening. Teenagers fumble about in the backs of the dragon boats groping one another and giggling excitedly. Couples sit closely, their heads bowed in quiet conversation, feeding one another macarons piece by piece. Families picnic with plastic beer steins, even the toddlers still staggering along the edges of benches and chairs. Beau's mind buzzes with the brightness of the sun, his haziness further instigated by a three-hour time lag.
Beau slides on aviator sunglasses, tucks his hands in his pockets, and starts for the grand brick exit to
Vesterbrogade
. The sky is the washed out color that blue fades to in Polaroid photos from the1970s. Sausage and cut grass blend into a damp smell. Near a trashcan slicked with adverts for a black metal band, a woman bends to light a cigarette. She cups her hands around it and swears, Beau guesses, in her own language as the lighter continues to falter.
After tossing the cigarette and the lighter into the trash in defeat, she begins on the same trajectory as Beau, slipping a white alligator clutch under her arm. She strolls in front of him, a silk turquoise dress dipping down her back in a deep V. Her dark blonde hair is thin but touches the bottoms of her scapula, sweeping back and forth over her spine bones with the motion of her hips. She gathers her hair into a fist and then drags it over her right shoulder. Beau's nostrils flare, his mouth salivating slightly, as the freckles of her back become visible. Her thin calves show a deep, elegant split with each step.
Down the cobblestone drive they both go, until the clicking of her heals stops abruptly. Her right foot tugs forward attempting to dislodge her slim white high heel from between the stones. Myriad unknown words universally recognizable as profanity erupt from her thin lips as Beau passes her. He smiles, puts forward a hand to help her balance as she pulls forward harder with her foot. The pleats of her dress swing just above her bony knees.
"Thank you," she says in heavily accented French.
"You're welcome," he replies awkwardly in even heavier accented French.
Then in Russian, she says, "You're French is very good for a Russian."
Beau replies fluently in Russian, "That's funny because I'm not Russian."
"Ah. OK. English it is." She smiles and Beau starts to wake up a little as a small gap shows in her front two teeth. "I thought you looked French," the woman says, "but your accent sounded like a Russian speaking French."
Beau's cheeks begin to warm. "Do you want a cigarette?" he questions and begins to grope his empty pockets. He hasn't smoked in weeks he knows, but hopefully searches for a gift.
