The Deception Dance

by Rita Stradling

  In my solitude, I can hear the song of the train. The silverware tinkles on the table, the window clatters in its tracks and the many gears and clogs grind and clang beneath me.

  Watching the country pass by reminds me of when I was little and I would stand with my nose almost touching my father’s globe and twirl it. The countries just beyond my eyelashes flashed by in a blur of color, but those landmasses farther away warped less, until Antarctica’s edges only danced. The view outside my window is the same, anything close flashes by, but the horizon barely shifts.

  A sandy-haired woman, with a tired smile on her face, bustles up and hands me a menu. She asks me something in German, so I smile and point to the first item, a croissant and coffee.

  “Make that two,” Nicholas says from behind me. Then, he tells her something in German and she strides away.

  “Aren’t you worried about your luggage?” I ask.

  He scoots into the seat across from me. “Italian suit, a bunch of Euros; laptop computer, a bunch of Euros; coffee and croissant with Raven, priceless.”

  “You watch American commercials?”

  “I studied American culture, remember? I might take a year abroad in California, next year. I'm taking this one off.” He reaches up and smoothes down his combed hair; he's already dressed in a suit.

  "How old are you?"

  "Nineteen."

  His clothes make him seem older.

  “So, what are you going to do with your year off?”

  “Pretty much anything my grandfather tells me to.” He chuckles. “I’m at his beck and call.”

  “What will he order you to do?”

  “Family business work,” he says. When I turn and raise my eyebrows, he elaborates, “Security.”

  "What kind of security?"

  He accepts a cup of coffee from the attendant, pauses, then says, “I'm not really allowed to talk about the details.”

  Could he have said anything to pique my interest more? If you want someone to lose interest, say something like, "we secure investments," not, "it's top secret."

  I prevent my full coffee from sloshing over on the vibrating table. “Security? That makes sense, I feel safe around you.”

  He stares into my eyes and says, “You are safe when you’re with me.” Then, as if to soften the intensity of the moment, he asks, “What’s that?” He leans over and, with a finger, caresses my inner arm where my sweater slid up.

  I glance down to see his finger tracing the word that Andras, scrawled on my arm.

  Grabbing for my sweater’s sleeve, I'm about to say, ‘it’s nothing,’ when Nicholas tilts his head to the side and reads the word. “I know this restaurant; it’s in Hogonas, fifteen minutes drive from Leijonskjöld Slot.”

  I yank down my sleeve, “A friend recommended it.” I concentrate on my coffee, because I remember that Nicholas knows Andras. More than knows him, they were hostile to each other. How could I have forgotten that?

  “I’ll take you there, for dinner, if you’d like.”

  That is the all-time worst idea, ever. I hope the grin I point his way offers no hint of the panic I’m feeling. I'm saved from giving a response by the attendant, serving our croissants and asking Nicholas something in German.

  When she leaves, I ask, “Can we miss our connection in Hamburg? I’d rather delay seeing Chauncey and just hang out with you.”

  His gaze veers to the side as he considers. “What if we make our connection, then call to tell them we missed the train? I could show you around Copenhagen; it’s the best city in the world.”

  I give him an eyebrows-raised, conspiratorial look. “What if we’re caught?”

  “We could go disguised, you in my clothes and me in yours.”

  An unladylike cackle escapes me as I imagine him, wearing one of my skirts.

  “Okay, forget the disguises. We could be stealthy; we’ll sneak around the city.”

  Wiping the grin off my face to get in character proves impossible, so I just nod.

  No sneaking is needed when we reach Copenhagen. I call Linnie, but don't want to lie, so I tell her Nicholas and I want to spend the day together and join them at night. We decide the best plan is to stay in Nicholas’s apartment for tonight, and take the ferry to Sweden in the morning.

  He shows me the boats, mooring along the dock; their sails whispering promises of adventure, if I just untie them and hop on. We wander the streets, dance to the beats of a street drummer and watch the beautiful people meander past.

  As the sun sets, I lean against a wall between two windows on an avenue bustling with shoppers, legs exhausted and face muscles in real pain. “I feel like I’ve been dropped in ‘the world of the super models’.”

  “To the Danes and the Swedes, you are the one who’s exotic.”

  I exercise my over-worn smiling muscles, “Me? I’ve never thought of myself as exotic.”

  “I think that is one of the things so appealing about you; you're...” He breaks off his sentence and squints at something down the street. He concentrates and his shoulders stiffen, but he lets the tension drop and shakes his head.

  I follow his gaze but don't see anything or anyone who stands out. “Always on alert?” I ask.

  One corner of his lips hikes up in a half-smile, “Occupational hazard, but Copenhagen is a safe city. Lately, things have just been...” He blinks and gives a minuscule shake of his head. “What time did you say you’d meet your sister?”

  He can’t be serious. That was the worst subject change, ever.

  After examining my expression, he mutters, “I’m too comfortable around you.” Is this an apology? Did he just let something slip? Okay, it’s none of my business, I decide to drop it.

  I glance at my watch, “Thirty-six minutes ago. I’m surprised she hasn’t called. She probably thinks we’re on a date.” I say the last part as a joke, but Nicholas doesn’t laugh. I bite my lip and push off the wall, “Um, let’s go meet them.”

  We elect to stroll, even though walking takes a while longer. Nicholas seems lost in thought and I want to soak in every detail of the city, so I appreciate his silence.

  Copenhagen plays to its own rhythm. Every person, tall building and narrow street resonates with it. The breeze, fresh and salty, gusts to the beat, rippling the sails on the moored boats to the tempo. The outside diners clink their glasses and silverware in a chaotic harmony. The lights from the cars, boats and restaurants dance and shift in a disorderly, yet rhythmical, dance.

  I can see why Nicholas loves this city.

  Nicholas stops at a door, central in a building, bustling with restaurants. He places his finger over his lips and then points to the nearest restaurant, a small Thai take-out place. I lean to have a better look; he shakes his head.

  I mouth, “Okay?”

  When he turns to the door, he smiles. He turns the key and steps inside, gesturing with one fast moving hand. I rush to follow. He slides the door shut and sighs.

  “I thought we abandoned stealth?” I gesture to the door.

  “Well,” he grimaces, “That Thai food place is owned by the nicest man alive, but if I eat any more curry, I’ll get an ulcer. I just can’t say no to him.”

  “I think I’ve found your weakness.”

  “Curry?” He heads up a small, carpeted staircase.

  “No,” I grin, “Killing you with kindness.”

  He stops at a landing and walks to the only door at the end of a short hall. “Uh-oh,” he says, while extracting his keys, “What are you plotting?”

  I rub my hands together and throw back my head with a mischievous chuckle.

  The door is yanked open and Linnie stands in the doorway. “I know that evil cackle. That’s my prodigal, dorky younger sister!” She rushes past Nicholas and ushers me back down the stairs, “I have been waiting for you to eat, and I’m starving!” She turns back to Nicholas, “You keep Chauncey company, we’re going for Thai food takeout.”

  I give him an apologetic shrug and follow her
down the stairs. At the door I call up, “Curry?”

  He yells back, “Red.”

  Linnie herds me into the take-out restaurant. Being in a Thai restaurant in Denmark is a bit disconcerting; as if entering the door has transported us far away.

  After ordering in the international language of menu pointing, we take a seat and Linnie spins to face me. “Chauncey is sorry.”

  I’m so stunned, my jaw slackens. That Linnie had something to say was obvious, but I would have never guessed. Does she actually know?

  “I know her abandoning you in the club was inexcusable, but she feels terrible.”

  She doesn't know.

  I furrow my brow and shake my head. I should tell my sister the whole story; I open my mouth, but she cuts me off.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you exactly what she said. Yesterday, I noticed she was acting weird, not like herself. She was depressed and moping and self-deprecating. So I asked her what the matter was. Chauncey said, ‘last night, when I was out with Raven, I did something I really regret.’”

  “How do you know it wasn’t...?”

  “The tattoo?” She completes my sentence. “Because I asked her. She told me, ‘it’s more than that, I did something awful.’”

  I huff out a breath of air. So she did drug me. I thought maybe, just maybe, it could have been Horse-face, or just a random evil-doer. Or even Mrs. Trandle's "he", even though that's… crazy.

  My shoulders slump so low, Linnie easily slings her arm around them. “I asked Chauncey why she doesn’t just apologize.” She presses her head to my temple. “She said, ‘it’s too late for that. Even if I beg, I can’t take it back.’ And Raven, I know it’s hard to believe, but she started sobbing.” Linnie brushes my hair behind my ear. “What Chauncey did was wrong; she never should have left you. But believe me, she feels awful about leaving, she just can’t admit it to you.”

  Because she did something dreadful, much more than you know.

  Linnie gazes at me, “Do you think you could forgive her?”

  Could I forgive her? Maybe, in a million years. Could I like her? I doubt it. Could I trust her? Never. I sigh, “It sounds as if she regrets what she did, so I can let it go.”

  Linnie smiles, “Oh, Good. And look, our food.”

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. “Oh no!” I clap my hand to my forehead. “I forgot to call dad!”

  Linnie holds out her hand. “You carry up the food, I’ll do damage control.”

  I hand her the pulsating flip-phone and grab the two paper bags on the counter.

  We exit the restaurant and I leave Linnie chatting and gesticulating on the street. The entrance at the bottom of the staircase is propped open with a block of wood. I slip through the opening, laden with fragrant curries. I adjust my grasp, as I walk up the stairs, tucking a bag under each arm. The door at the end of the hall is also ajar and I’m about to slip through, when Chauncey shouts, “...what do you know, anyway?”

  I stop. I shouldn’t listen, but I do. I lean forward and stay silent.

  Nicolas sounds serious when he responds; “I know that no one has ever made a deal that has made him or her happy or even content. I told you, it’ll be better for everyone if...”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about!” She interrupts him; her voice is almost a growl. “I don’t know what you’re doing or who you really are, but I’m not going to...” She cuts off as Linnie enters the hall behind me still chatting to my dad.

  I spin to face Linnie.

  She furrows her brow, asking ‘what are you doing,’ but doesn’t pause her phone conversation.

  I incline my head toward the door to tell her that I’m eavesdropping, with a guilty grimace. When she catches up, she enters first holding the door open.

  Chauncey and Nicholas are on opposite sides of the spacious flat. Nicholas stands behind a bar, in a teak and porcelain kitchen, Chauncey reclines on a cream-colored couch, with horizontal white stripes. Between them, are two bay windows and an oval table; everything is light wood and cream-colored cushions.

  My gaze snaps back to Chauncey; she looks stunning. Linnie might think she’s depressed and brooding, but it has had no effect on Chauncey’s complexion. She would look right on a modeling shoot. I tear my gaze away from her, because I’m actually gaping.

  The apartment has three bedrooms and, that night, I finally get to be alone with Linnie. I run to the bathroom for my bed-time routine, then, rush back, excited to spill everything that I’ve been keeping inside to her.

  Linnie lies snoring, rolled in our blanket, on half of the large bed.

  Oh, well. I’m insisting that only us two share a room in the castle. I settle in next to her and fall asleep.

  Chapter Eight

  Day Seven

  “Oh yes,” Chauncey lowers her shades to peer at the sleek, black Rolls Royce, parking in front of the harbor.

  We took a ferry, I insisted, and are now in Helsingborg, Sweden. Temperature-wise, the day is about what I expect from a summer at home, but freezing, compared with Italy. The wind from the harbor seeps through my thin sweater and I’m ready to be in the controlled climate of the car.

  I’m not immune to the Rolls’ attractions; the car is magnificent. I don’t know anything about cars, but I can appreciate this one. A man, who looks more like a bouncer for a high-class nightclub than a chauffeur, opens the car doors for us. I crawl in back with Linnie. The interior has an elm veneer and cream-colored leather seats. My dad taught me about wood, as useless as the knowledge has been, while making furniture, in his spare time.

  I peer out the window. A small crowd has gathered around the car. No, I’m wrong; they’re all men, gathered around Chauncey. No wonder: she looks like a movie star, standing there. Chauncey programs a tall blond man’s phone number into her phone, before crossing to the passenger seat, where the chauffeur waits.

  The chauffeur alters his aloof expression to give Chauncey a poorly disguised once-over.

  After loading our luggage, the beefy chauffeur accepts some money from Nicholas and heads away from the car. At the curb, the chauffeur hails a taxi… strange. His actions make sense when Nicholas climbs into the driver’s seat and says, over his shoulder, “I thought you ladies would appreciate the room.”

  And we do.

  After driving a few minutes through a small city, we are surrounded by countryside pastures. The fields spread up to each cottage and quaint house, looking as if the whole landscape could have popped out of a postcard. We wind around so many grassy meadows, the fields could be one continuous pasture. I take Linnie’s hand and lean back. We select the houses we would live in, pointing to more than not.

  After less than an hour, Nicholas stops at a gate, connecting a tall hedge that runs along the road for some distance on each side. The hedge is tall and wide enough to be unusual, in this area where all other houses are either surrounded by a small wood fence or nothing at all.

  The hedge and the large wood gate block out any view of the castle from the road. The old fashioned feel of the scene is lost when Nicholas opens a box by his driver-side window and presses his thumb to a key-pad.

  “We will have to scan your prints into the system,” Nicholas calls back.

  I gulp at the prospect; I’m not sure why.

  The gate swings back, giving us a full view of Leijonskjöld Castle. Nicholas was right; the castle is more like a big house, or more like three big houses. The long driveway cuts a straight path through a large green pasture, interrupted by thin trees, and enclosed by a long stone wall. The hedge must have disguised the cobblestone wall, but the stone enclosure continues from both sides of the gate, out to farther than my gaze can see.

  The house was reduced by distance, but as we approach and drive up to the pillar-encircled doorway, I rethink ‘big house.’ Leijonskjöld Castle is more like a large hotel, flanked by two mansions. And, I should have guessed, the whole complex is cream color. Long white pillars stripe the main house’s façade and a roof
slopes down two stories. All three houses are in a style I would call colonial, if we weren’t in Sweden. The flanking mansions are two-story miniatures of the main house.

  Nicholas points to the one on the left, “This house is for you ladies. My Grandfather does not let unmarried women sleep in the main house, to tempt us impressionable boys.”

  Chauncey steps out of the passenger seat, “I think an impressionable boy is headed this way.”

  I don’t know about ‘impressionable’ or ‘boy,’ but someone heads our way. He’s huge: looks a bit like Thor, the thunder god (or how I imagine Thor). He’s as casual as Nicholas is formal, wearing an outfit I wouldn’t be surprised to catch my dad in, when he’s carving wood. He approaches Nicholas, speaking another language, presumably Swedish, and grins. Even with the outfit, being twice Nicolas’ girth, and his plethora of gruff blond facial hair, the man is obviously a relation.

  He stops a few feet from Nicholas, not noticing us, standing by the car. When the man’s Swedish continues streaming, Nicholas laughs, “English, Albert, English,” and holds an arm out toward us.

  Albert glances over, and then makes a face at Nicholas. He puffs out his chest and claps Nicholas on the back, “You bring back women, good boy.” His accent is not-so-slight. He chuckles. "Let me guess ...” he points to Chauncey, "looks," to Linnie, "personality," to me, "and attitude."

  Nicholas says, "We haven't been here five minutes and you've already scared and offended our guests; I think this might be a new record."

  Though I’m far from offended, I huddle near the car with Chauncey and Linnie. We peer at each other, while the men laugh. I don’t think any of us knows what to say to the big, hairy guy.

  “I am sorry,” Albert says. “I was just joking with you ladies.” He holds up his hands, and then stretches one out to Linnie. “I am Albert, one of Nicholas’s older brothers.”

  Linnie gives a tight grin, for once seeming cowed, and shakes Albert’s huge hand. “Linnet, but everyone calls me Linnie,” she murmurs.