“I agree.”
“I arrive late tomorrow night, their time, so I won’t know anything until the next day at the earliest. Have you been to Denmark?”
“No. They make good beer — that is all I know,” Uncle said. “I do not imagine we have any people there, but I will see who is close by.”
“I don’t think I’ll need any people. These are artists and art agents and galleries I’m dealing with.”
“You never know.”
(14)
It reminded her of Vancouver — the Aalborg weather, that is. Cold, damp, lingering. It had been wet when she arrived the night before on the Cimber Sterling flight from Copenhagen, and it was the same in the morning as she rode a taxi back to the airport to get her rental car. The airport had been deserted and the rental booths shuttered when her flight arrived, so she had taxied to the Hotel Hvide Hus, where she spent most of the night wide awake, wondering exactly what she expected to find in Skagen.
The car rental opened at eight and Ava was there ten minutes later. The woman behind the counter was dour, almost grim, her conversation devoid of pleasantries. Ava had booked a BMW but there wasn’t one available; the woman informed her she was getting a Saab. Ava had asked for a GPS system; the woman said she didn’t need one, but Ava argued with her to get it.
The drive did turn out to be simple, almost a straight run on route E45, from Aalborg northeast to the coast and then north past Frederikshavn to Skagen, at the northernmost tip of the Danish peninsula. The countryside — what she could see of it through the mist and rain — was mainly marsh. The villages she passed, their homes and shops pressed tightly against the road, were uniform and neat: rows of brick houses, red tile roofs, and lace curtains hanging in almost every window.
She drove into Skagen at ten thirty, found the downtown area easily enough, and parked her car in a public lot that held only one other vehicle. As she got out she had a feeling of deja vu. She could have been in downtown Banff, minus the Rocky Mountains. Skagen had the same touristy feel, its main street lined with souvenir shops, coffeehouses, boutiques, dainty restaurants, and, in this case, art galleries. She counted four within sight and headed for the nearest one. It was time to jump into the haystack.
A middle-aged blonde woman with a heaving chest was fussing with a group of small paintings. She took a glance at Ava and then turned back to what she was doing. There was no one else in the gallery. Ava stood, staring, waiting. The woman ignored her. Finally Ava said, “Can you help me?”
“The prices are on the works,” the woman said in heavily accented English.
“That’s not the kind of help I’m looking for.”
“Then what can I do?”
“Do you know a painter called Jimmy Sandman?” Ava said to her back.
“We called him Jimmy the Sandman,” she said.
Ava hadn’t expected it to be so easy. Then she noted the past tense. “Excuse me, did you say ‘called’? Has something happened to him?”
The woman finally turned towards Ava, a look of mild surprise on her face when she actually looked at her. Is it because I’m Chinese? Ava thought. Is it the Adidas jacket and pants?
“Yes, he left town.”
“He moved away?”
“Years ago.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“No.”
“Does he have any friends, any relatives in Skagen I could speak with?”
“Jimmy was a strange man. Not many people wanted to talk to him, let alone be friends with him.”
“There must have been someone. Another painter, maybe.”
Ava watched as the woman searched her memory, almost painfully. “He and Jasper drank together sometimes.”
“Jasper who?”
“Kasten.”
“And where would I find Jasper Kasten?”
“At the Skaw.”
“Pardon?”
“ The Skaw.”
“I did hear you. I just don’t what the Skaw is.”
“Come with me,” the woman said, walking towards the door. She opened it and pointed to the left.
“See that hill at the end of street? If you climb it you can look down on the Skaw. Jasper goes there every morning to paint.”
“How will I recognize him?”
“He wears a red anorak.”
The rain had thankfully let up, but the closer Ava got to the hill, the brisker the wind. It was a good ten-minute walk, which she found invigorating. Steps had been built into the side of the hill, which was actually an enormous sand dune. Up she went, leaning into the wind, glad she had worn her running gear. A roaring noise was coming from the other side of the dune, and the closer she got to the top the louder it got. She couldn’t imagine that it was just waves rolling in; the wind wasn’t that strong.
She spotted Jasper Kasten squatting on a camp stool, a canvas on an easel in front of him. His back was to her, his focus on the scene below: a huge expanse of beach. But it wasn’t the beach that seemed to hold his attention, and very quickly she saw why. The sea beyond was being whipped into some kind of frenzy, the water spewing into the air like a geyser. The roar she was hearing came from the same source, but now that she was closer she could hear a distinct screech coming from what seemed to be the centre of the geyser.
The cloud cover had broken, streaks of blue now appearing where there had been only a grey shroud. The clouds were moving quickly, leaving gaps for the sun to peek out, and when it did, it created a pattern of rainbows over the water. Ava was a city girl, most comfortable when she had concrete under her feet, but even she found the seascape breathtaking.
He didn’t hear her coming and she had to move into his line of vision to get his attention. He looked up, annoyed. He had pale blue eyes, thin lips, a pointed chin, and huge jug ears. “Mr. Kasten?” she said.
“Do I know you?” he asked in English, his manner easing.
“No, I was referred to you by one of the women in town.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“I’m looking for someone and they said you might be able to help me.”
“Who?”
“Jimmy the Sandman.”
“Good God, I haven’t heard that name in a while.”
“So you know him?”
“Of course,” he said, looking out at the sea as if he had already lost interest in the conversation. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Ava said.
“That there on the right, that is the Kattegat strait. It flows up from the southeast and the Strait of Denmark. And there on the left, that is the Skagerrak. It comes from the North Sea. They meet here, crashing into each other in some kind of perpetual war, neither of them ever making headway, just smash, smash, smash in futility. Some days are better than others. Today is almost perfect. The wind is strong; the light flickers.”
She looked at his painting. “You come here every day?”
“I do.”
“And you paint the same thing?”
“It is never the same. That’s why I find it so beautiful.”
“I was told Jimmy painted scenes like this too.”
“He painted this one, except he couldn’t resist sticking in those ridiculous characters of his.”
“On driftwood?”
“Yeah, the crazy bastard.”
“What do you mean?”
“You would have thought he’d invented the idea of painting on driftwood. He used to scour this beach every morning looking for what the tide had brought in. He used to go nuts if anyone else got there first or was looking when he was. There was more than one fight down there.”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
“Why are you interested?”
“I’m looking for him. It’s business-related.”
“Business? That’s a word I’d never associate with him.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“He left.”
“When?”
“Four or five years ago.”