A TROPICAL BUNGALOW. Somewhere with rocky coves, sun-bleached white churches, palm trees, chattering lizards. Klaudia stands opposite me in a spare room. Dark wooden floors, a high ceiling with a fan spinning round lazily as if the electricity was just turned off. Another power outage. Light splashes through the windows, catching on her tufts of gold hair, like strands of water reeds. She is illuminated, her blue eyes are smarting as if she has been told the secret of the universe, too vast to even comprehend. “It’s just,” she whispers. “It’s just …”

We kiss. “I have something for you,” I tell her. From my pocket, I pull out a banana. She falls to her knees immediately, slowly peeling back its yellow skin, pulling its pink fruit into her mouth. “I love bananas,” she says. “And this one is so sweet and ripe.” “I picked it fresh this morning,” I tell her. “Just for you.” “Delicious,” she says, devouring it. A pearl of a tear rolls down her cheek.

For whatever reason, she is wearing a tan-colored business jacket. A short skirt of a light pink color. Later, I escort her to a seat on the balcony. I push her gently into a seat. I say, “You really need to relax, Miss De la Gardie.” With that, I remove the pink skirt. “Wait,” she says, pressing a finger to my lips. “I also have something for you.” From a nearby cooler, she pulls out a strawberry ice cream. She holds it between her legs, and I begin to taste it. It’s the best ice cream I have ever had, even better than the gourmet flødeis I had in Skagen so long ago, when I watched the North Sea flow into the Kattegat, and the faint smell of smoked fish was in the air everywhere, even in the ice cream, just like the one that was melting now on my tongue.

*

After the strawberry banana exchange, we relaxed by watching television at her home. My daughter was there and so was her mother. Was this Eurolaul? Klaudia was curled up on a couch like a fat and content cat, dreaming of bananas and strawberries. At that moment, there was a knock at the door. In walked the Estonian police in their blue uniforms. Her ex-boyfriend was led in. “It’s time for your daily assessment,” one of the policemen said. Then they handcuffed him to two hooks on the wall and began to draw blood. They scanned him with instruments I had never seen before. He was silent as they went through these procedures.

“Toshiro Makimura,” the police said. “You are under court order to remain still while we collect evidence in your ongoing case.”

Her ex blinked at the police and muttered a few curses under his breath. A yakuza. Why had she fallen for a Japanese yakuza? Klaudia had a good head on her shoulders and a good heart in her breast, but she was continuously drawn to these sinister, underworld characters. “He reminded me of my stepdad,” she once told me. “Well,” I announced, “I think I need to get some fresh air.” I stepped outside the house; the sun was setting in Estonia. There was a lovely orange and purple streak across the horizon. It fell among the EU-mandated recycling bins and new, EU-funded streets. A faded poster of Kaja Kallas was peeling from a cement garage.

At that moment, a silver car roared up. It was a 1970s Lincoln Continental, or some model that looked just like one. The car nearly mowed me down but stopped a few centimeters from my legs. My back was pressed up against the Kallas garage. A Japanese man with his hair dyed orange stuck his head out the window. He said, “Don’t fuck with Japanese,” and then roared into the falling sun. This was my new lot, the dangerous life of sex with a yakuza woman. Inside, Klaudia sat carefree on the sofa, watching Eurolaul. Her yakuza ex was still being probed and bled by the Estonian police. My daughter sat at a table, assembling puzzle pieces. Klaudia stretched and yawned a big cat yawn.