CHAPTER SIX
Ben’s plans took a severe nose-dive the next day when Tim, watching him pack, commented innocently, “Don’t forget Radulf’s passport.”
Ben huffed. “Yeah. Funny man.”
Tim frowned. “No, seriously, you can’t take him abroad—well, bring him back anyway—unless he has all his injections and stuff, and then has a passport to prove it.”
“Okay, where can I get that done?”
“Ben, it takes about a month to do it.”
“What! Fuck! We’re leaving this morning!”
“Why don’t you leave him here? I guess I could take him.”
Ben looked across at Radulf, and Radulf stared back at him. Ben shook his head. “Nah, he’s kinda part of the team now. Fuck.” He sighed and picked up the phone. “Kate? It’s me…”
By the time he’d said good-bye to Tim, Kate had arrived, paperwork for Radulf in hand. She eyed Ben warily. “You know this is totally unethical, let alone illegal. If that dog gets rabies and you…”
Ben kissed her cheek. “Yeah, he loves you, too. What’re you doing? Are you still working for Nikolas?”
Kate gave him a knowing look. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been working for Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen, but I’m not going there, okay? And, yes, he left me with things to do, and I seem get to large amounts of money arriving in my account every week. Hey ho.” She eyed him for a moment. “Does the name John Redvers mean anything to you?”
Ben frowned. “No. Should it?”
She shrugged. “Just something he left for me to work on. Where is he?”
It was Ben’s turn to shrug. She smiled sympathetically. “Just not here, huh?”
Ben nodded. He really didn’t want his ex-girlfriend to see he was moping for a guy. She suddenly gave him a hug. “I always knew, you know? No harm done. He’s totally irresistible. I do get it.”
Ben frowned again. “He is?” It wasn’t the word he’d have used, especially after last night.
§ § §
So, they had a new car, a new passport, and a ticket for Esbjerg and from there to Svendborg and from there to Aeroeskoebing. He hadn’t even heard of any of these places before but trusted in fate that they’d arrive eventually. He had a cool car, a cool dog—canine, military urban chic, after all—and a burning desire to succeed in what he was trying to do. That he was merely travelling to somewhere where he’d be able to immerse himself in the spirit of Nikolas had occurred to him. If he was, then who was going to stop him? If he couldn’t have body, spirit would have to do.
§ § §
By the time they landed on Aeroe, they were both jaded, sick of driving, sick of ferries, and generally needing a good bed and something to eat they could sit and enjoy without the world moving beneath them.
Ben found just the place. A restaurant in the harbour specialising in smoked fish. He took a table outside. It was very warm, not busy, and he immediately liked the odd, almost Toyland look of the place. Radulf ate fish very happily—he was Danish, after all—and when they were both full, Ben got up to pay. And then he committed himself to his plan; he spoke in his broken, basic Danish. When the owner heard Ben’s accent, he switched naturally to English. Ben shook his head, acted puzzled and replied in Farsi, sorry, he didn’t speak English. The man seemed surprised but switched back to Danish. With some help and going more slowly, they eventually both understood each other. He’d had his first Danish conversation.
He clicked to Radulf to follow him and went to the tourist information and repeated the whole exercise. It was painful. Everyone he met spoke fluent, if accented, English, and was only too happy to practise their impressive language skills on him. Only by constantly denying he spoke English did he force them to revert to Danish, but as his Danish was far worse than he thought, and he’d pretty much wasted the months he’d devoted to it, it was extremely hard to make himself understood or, worse, understand what anyone said back to him. Eventually, though, he’d some written addresses of people who rented out rooms in their houses. He could have stayed in the best hotel, but total immersion meant total immersion. He had to force himself to be in contact with people.
They climbed back into the car and tested out the international satnav maps he’d downloaded. They worked. Radulf now sat in the front seat, probably breaking every law in Denmark; having a fake passport and identity seemed to have gone to his head. They set off to find the first house. It was in the town, a tall house with leaning gables. Ben climbed out, and a youngish woman wiping her hands on a towel and holding back a toddler at her feet answered the door.
“Fru Olsen?” She nodded, and he explained he’d come about the room. She let him in, chatting too fast for him to understand anything. An older child was at the table, colouring, and a baby was in a high chair. He glanced at the room. He mentioned Radulf, and she misunderstood him at first. When he reiterated “dog” she shook her head and pointed to a chair. There was a large cat watching him. He shrugged and thanked her.
When he got back in the car, he realised he’d managed to make himself understood without even noticing it. He grinned, ruffled Radulf’s fur the wrong way and set off for the next address. This one was out of town, along the coast road, and then down a small road that appeared to be running straight into the sea. There was only one house, a long, single-story building with thatch. The garden was large and overgrown but had clearly once been a labour of love, worked and fought for from sand and salt. He took Radulf with him this time and opened the latch to the garden gate, making his way up the path. Before he got to the house, a voice called out, “Hej?”
He replied and discovered an elderly woman to one side of the house, dead-heading some roses. He explained, once more, he’d come to see a room. She immediately switched to almost perfect English, but he replied in Farsi. She considered him for a moment then nodded, and in English confirmed, “Yes, it’s the only way to learn. I did the same for my English. So, from now on, no more English, yes? We are Danish you and me.” She held out her bird-like, frail hand. “I’m Mrs. Jacobsen. Ingrid.”
He smiled shyly and nodded, and from then on he never spoke in English with her but in his halting and dreadful Danish. She spoke slowly and clearly and was willing to repeat things as many times as he needed, but she never once switched to English for ease. She showed him the room. It was down a long corridor and formed the whole end of one wing of the old house. It was very Spartan: a big bed covered in a white comforter; an old chest of drawers naturally bleached and faded by the sun; and old wooden floors, similarly aged. Best of all, though, it had floor-to-ceiling widows with doors which led directly out to the garden and, beyond a small gate, to the beach. He was about fifty feet from a grey-green, surging mass of ocean with empty grey sand stretching either way as far as he could see. He turned to her. She was watching him with curious eyes. He nodded. “Benjamin. Ben. Ben Rider. I’ll take it. Is dog okay?”
“Is it all right for a dog as well?”
He frowned. She repeated it slowly, and he got it. He said it after her, copying her accent. She nodded approvingly. “Yes. The dog is very welcome.”
Ben began to laugh. “You help me Danish?”
She chuckled. “I will help you with your Danish, yes. I have a very big garden.”
She looked at him expectantly. She repeated it slowly, then came closer and gave the lightest of taps to his bicep. “I have a very big garden.”
He got it and nodded.