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My reflection joins me at the window, then vanishes behind me when our noses touch glass—the story of my life. Rub noses with someone and whoosh, before you know it they're gone. The street below follows a raw choreography, all mechanical stage moves, bodies striding, standing, shuttling. Where's the soul?
No streets existed in northern Greenland, where Naaja was born. Naaja, the Eskimo.
Naaja dove into Copenhagen's soul, its sky-patched inner courtyards, its sun-worship sidewalk cafes, the tiny streets around Vesterbro we were forever strolling, like two lazy brooms. She tried on ridiculous dowager hats in closet-sized shops and kneeled to pet dogs on leashes. She helped a vegetable shop owner's wife solve Turkish crossword puzzles. Streets have souls, just like people, Naaja said. That was before the x-rays and specialists, before the cancer grew inside her, before her lights went out.
She died a year ago today. I wasn't thinking in terms of celebrating when Navarana, her sister, called this afternoon. I don't know what I was thinking. I dag er det Naaja's fødselsdag, I sang; today is Naaja's birthday. The Danish birthday song.
Stop it, she said. You're drunk again.
Why aren't there death-day songs? I said. Maybe there are. There probably are. Why wouldn't there be?
Don't do this, she said. Not today.
Let's celebrate, Navarana. Let's tell some Naaja stories, or make some up.
Navarana didn't answer.
She's a kivitok now, I said. Roaming the inner ice, scaring the crap out of Greenlander kids. Or maybe she's roaming Vesterbro.
Stop, Navarona said.
She's rounding up all the lost Greenlander souls here she can find. There's plenty of them.
You're the lost soul, she said, and hung up.
After Naaja's funeral, in the church basement, her Greenlander family and friends began singing, their innocent childlike voices raising a brittle Inuit song. Raising, as in levitation. Afterward they kept silent a moment, listening, then they beamed at each other, and I swear the air deepened and hummed between the Greenlanders in their starched white anoraks, the moon-faced angels. After that, it's tough to know what not to believe in. Lost souls? Street cancer?
I back off from the window. Six panes, one big smudge. I punch in Navarona's cellphone number.
I'm not drunk and I'm not lost, I say, but I'm sorry.
You say you're sorry, she says, but are you?
You know what? I say. I think I really am.
I called earlier to tell you I'm in town, she says.
Come on over.
No. Come down to Bella's.
Fifteen minutes?
I'm already there, she says. Here.
I'll be down in five, I say.
Bella's was our favorite bar. Is. My and Naaja's favorite bar.
Navarana sits at the U-shaped bar. Mikael hands me a Classic and a clean glass. Bella's glasses sparkle. He pounds his fist beside my hand and gives me a tight-lipped look. He knows what day it is. Navarana's been talking.
First things first, she says.
She's been drinking, too. She slides her glass over to mine until they touch, a tiny dull clunk.
To Naaja, she says.
She stares at me. Mikæl raises his glass of black currant soda. This is it. This is the official death-day ceremony. For a second I feel as if I'm sliding off the stool, flying backwards, away from them.
To us, I say.
Us, Mikæl says.
I'm flying to Nuuk tomorrow, Navarana says. I'm managing a hotel restaurant for a year, the manager's taking maternity leave. She's my cousin. Our cousin.
Damn, I say. Well, have a good time.
She shakes her head at me. You'll never change, she says.
Should I? I say.
Navarana laughs. Then she stops, and it looks like she's going to cry, but it's just her sad face. An expression.
I almost left without saying goodbye, she says. I didn't care about you until a month ago.
Ærlighed, kærlighed, says Mikæl. Honesty, love.
You haven't seen me for three months, I say.
I didn't trust you when Naaja was alive, she says, because she loved you. That's something between Naaja and me. Now I care about you because she loved you. I figured this out after I knew I was leaving.
That makes sense, I say.
Without Naaja, she says, you're someone else to me, but you're the same.
It's all context, says Mikæl.
Without Naaja, I say, I'm like a guy who just walked around a street corner. How's that sound? Not lost. Just looking around.
No, she says. No more of this talking. You'll always be the man she loved. You'll always have Naaja. Take care of her, and I'll do the same.
Mikæl looks at us. No one says a word. We touch glasses and drink, a silent toast, the best kind. A silent promise.
Mark Kline writes short fiction and articles on music, and translates Danish literature. One of his short stories, published in The Missouri Review, was short-listed for the 2004 Speculative Literature Foundation Award and nominated for a 2004 Pushcart Prize. He lives in Copenhagen.
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