Free The Woman from Bratislava by Leif Davidsen Page A

my tooth and my head, in order of severity.
    I hung around for ages, but my suitcase never appeared. A smiling woman informed me, after pressing a lot of buttons on a computer keyboard, that it looked as though it was now somewhere over the Atlantic, on its way to Los Angeles. Apparently a small mistake had been made at Vienna Airport. Why do airport staff always regard the disappearance of a suitcase as a small mistake. It’s a bloody big deal for the person whose suitcase it happens to be. And for the unsuspecting passenger on the flight to the States who was even now looking forward to soaking up the Californian sunshine in his new beachwear, which unfortunately happened to be in Copenhagen. As long as there were no drugs or other substances in my suitcase it would be sent on to me. If I could just sign here please? Certainly, anything just so long as I can go home.
    Janne was not waiting in the arrivals hall, where more fortunate travellers were being greeted with kisses and flowers. I gathered up my aching bones, picked up my light holdall and went out to grab a taxi. Spring had temporarily deserted Copenhagen, as if scared off by its northerly latitude. Sleet was pelting down and thetaxi driver was playing some song by Gustav Winckler. I did not see how things could get any worse.
    But they could. The flat was quiet and in darkness. A couple of days’ worth of newspapers and mail lay on the mat, and when I switched on a light and walked into the kitchen I found a miniature jungle of the tenderest pot plants ranged in and around the sink. The light on the answering machine blinked brightly as I poured myself a whisky and proceeded to listen to my own disgruntled tones. 

4
    I HEARD THE KEY in the lock and, out of habit, made to get up, but could not. I lay flat on my back, stuck there as firmly as if someone had nailed me to the mattress. The thought of how much it would hurt were I to attempt the slightest movement was quite unbearable. I lay still, listening to Janne’s familiar footsteps coming down our long hallway. The kids had obviously been dropped off at school already. Gingerly I turned my head to check the digital display on the alarm clock: half-past eight. I had slept longer than I usually did. I had gone to bed feeling very sorry for myself. But the sleeping pill I had taken had done the trick. I took stock of myself as I listened to Janne’s feet drawing closer: aching back, aching tooth, but at least I had managed to sleep off my headache. Then Janne was standing in the bedroom doorway. She stared at me, guilty-eyed. Served her right.
    She was a good-looking woman, my Janne. Tall and slim, her medium-length hair becomingly coiffed. She had small, blue eyes which suited her rather narrow face and high, clear forehead. I had always loved her little ears. The first time I kissed her it was on the small stretch of bare skin between her ear and her throat. She had been wearing her hair up, all set to have fun at the Institute Christmas party and it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to twirl her round while we were dancing and brush that lovely, opalescent skin with my lips. It was a good move. I happened to have found one of her more secret erogenous zones. Or it had found me. That little patch of skin had been asking to be kissed. Now she stood there, keys in hand, looking at me.
    ‘How come you’re home so soon? And what are you doing in bed?’ she asked.
    ‘Hi, Janne. Gosh, I’m glad to see you too.’
    ‘How come you’re home so soon? For heaven’s sake, man, get up!’
    It was awful to have to lie there looking up at her. Suddenly she seemed so tall and overbearing. It was an odd angle from which to view one’s wife.
    ‘I can’t get up,’ I said.
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
    ‘I’ve done my back in. I can’t flaming well get up. Could you give me a hand?’
    Janne must have seen from the look on my face that I was not joking. I tried to sit up, but the pain that shot