THIS IS THE GLYPTOTEK, or Glyptoteket, the leading antiquities museum in the Nordics. There is a bright atrium here, with indoor palms, sculptures of Roman generals, stone noses missing, statues of Greek goddesses, their legs and arms broken off. There is a gift shop with art deco journals and at the cafe, you can get a delicious chicken salad on a croissant and fresh orange juice. This is where I spend my days admiring Baumann’s painting of Mother Denmark.
It was here that my old school chum Thwaits arrived with his Lebanese wife Carla. Thwaits had gone gray in the years since I’d last seen him. He was wearing sunglasses. Carla had never really spoken to me, though I had known her most of my life. She was always apart, in a different circle. They had twin girls, both of them still infants, but they both looked Japanese. Japanese twins. Maybe it was some recessive gene? Had the ancient Phoenicians been trading with the Okinawans? Maybe Lebanese looked like Japanese as children? They were swaddled for the autumn in fluffy wool coats. But how to get to the second floor? I had forgotten about these things, the logistics of transporting children. I offered to assist. I took one of the twins.
We went up.
At the same time, on the top floor of the Helsinki Central Station my daughter and her professor were waiting for me to arrive. I was supposed to interview the professor. He was reviewing his notes in his office, a warmly lit, comfortable space. My daughter was taking notes. The professor had gray hair, so gray it almost had a purple tinge to it. He looked like Björn Ulvaeus. He was dictating notes to my daughter. She was wearing a woolen sweater and writing as the scientist dictated. I was helping my friend with his children in the Glyptotek.
As we climbed the steps, we began to pass other old schoolmates. Mike Masterson came down with his family entourage. Small girls in white dresses, his wife by his side. And MacDougal was there too. He was also wearing sunglasses. Why was half of the Class of ’98 in the Glyptotek? Were sunglasses the mark of the embittered middle-aged man? “Did you see MacDougal?” I asked Thwaits. “Oh, yeah, I saw him in the lobby,” he said. There was a tiredness in his voice. It’s tiring to be a father, especially when you are getting started in your forties and you have Japanese twins with a Lebanese woman. Thwaits had been carrying one of the girls all this time. When we reached the second floor, I handed the other twin over to Thwaits and Carla said, “Come with me, I want to show you something.” What could it be? Was it the impressionist paintings of Gauguin? He had lived in Copenhagen with his wife Mette Gad.
“Here,” said Carla. She pulled my hand and placed it within her black blouse. She continued walking, her chunky black hair bobbing about. “But we can’t,” I told her. “You’re with Thwaits.” It was awfully tender and soft and smooth underneath that black blouse of hers. I felt myself relax, I felt myself give in to touch. Give in, give in, a voice said. Remember Christmases in Copenhagen? And the sounds of brass bands playing Christmas songs on the Strøget? And Christmas lights dangling? She just kept walking. In Helsinki Central Station, Professor Ulvaeus was still dictating. My daughter was there wondering where her father was. Where was he?
