Free Coda by Thea Astley

mockery, looked hard at them for the first time in an hour and translated their smiles. ‘And sod you, too,’ he said, moving away.
    â€˜Does that,’ Brain asked, nodding after the denim back, ‘still make you eager to return? Does it?’
    â€˜Of course,’ she said.
    The ferry crossing was delayed because of fog so thick nothing of the outer world was visible, a world choked with the cries of ships’ bells and the mournful breves of sirens. During that rolling trip Nina suddenly clasped hishand saying, ‘I have no wish to be difficult, my dear, but I feel I have reached the end. Terminus. I must get away, get back, as quickly as possible.’ Then she closed her eyes and slept.
    It was late when they had reached Copenhagen. Icy winds blew them momentarily apart as they came out of the station and headed across the square to the hotel. Mrs Waterman chose it because it was rumoured James Joyce had once stayed there. In the foyer a bellhop, determined on a tip, pressed so closely behind her as they waited to register she could hardly move. Baby fingers tangled with hers on the bag handle. She looked down and was surprised by the cold, pert determination of the fuzzless face. Carefully, meticulously, she raised each of the clutching fingers one after another, pressing them away, but as one finger was removed another would return with the persistence of an anemone. ‘Go away, little boy!’ she hissed. ‘Away.’
    The desk clerk raised his eyebrows.
    Once in their room Brain offered the mildest of rebukes. ‘That wasn’t wise, dear.’
    It was a ghastly room stinking of decay—old bodies, old clothing, damp towels. He began listing the mouldering objects.
    â€˜Humid prose.’ Nina added.
    â€˜Whose what? Whathumid prose?’
    â€˜Joyce’s for God’s sake! Perhaps this was the very room.’
    â€˜What very room?’
    â€˜The room where Joyce … oh God, Brain, you’re determined to madden. Nora Barnacle. Perhaps even … Oh never mind. I get the feeling they haven’t touched a thing in here for years. National treasure at second-hand.’
    He could not honestly tell her that she was his. He pulled off his shoes and socks and inspected his bare toes. The central heating was excessive. The window latches were stuck on decades of paint. There was a detumescent protestant stuffiness about the entire Scandinavian peninsula, despite affirmations of liberal sexual manners. Those too were overlaid with Lutheran censure.
    Was he failing with her already?
    There had been no discussion of future strategy. Former partners had been obliterated in unemotional whiteout, the word ‘never’ typed in. He had to force the next question, the salient word.
    â€˜Together? Us? You want to go back together?’
    She wasn’t stupid. She could assess. She crossed to the window and looked down at the sleet-filled landscape and the misty buildings.Below on the sidewalk a group of walkers illuminated by the hotel entrance were skidding as they hurried against increasing snowfall. One of them fell flat on his back. She could interpret the ‘O’ of pain through the double glazing.
    â€˜For the moment, I suppose.’ She turned and looked at him dubiously. ‘There are other ways of partnering besides the bed.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜A business, perhaps. There must be something. Gallery? Craft shop? Cafe? A small but exquisite restaurant?’
    The inner howling at memory of past failed business ventures surged up, escaped in a lewd moan in that dank room. He would have to do something, he supposed, but had not thought beyond the moment of freedom. If it were that.
    She had moved away from the window and was busy brushing her hair, dragging the bristles through shining lengths as slowly as summer. Stroke after stroke.
    Was she serious?

Sleepless on thatlumpy bed in Copenhagen, Brain remembering through the