“You may return to your hotel today. And you may fly back to Denmark in a couple days. If everything goes well, they should be able to operate on you in Denmark in one month’s time.”
Frederik appears to be chiefly interested in some red and yellow files with tables and diagrams that lie on the desk in front of us.
“That long?” I ask. “But what if it’s cancer?”
“They must ensure that they remove the entire tumor, but also that they do not remove more than is necessary. They can accomplish that best if they wait until the swelling of the brain itself has disappeared.”
“Is it a dangerous operation?” I ask.
He turns calmly to Frederik.
“Will you be so kind as to replace those papers where they were?”
Only now do I see that Frederik has been intently riffling through one of the doctor’s files.
“Frederik! I do hope you’re not reading the doctor’s papers!”
“No, pardon me.” He smiles his disarming smile and returns the folder to the desktop.
“You must really excuse him,” I say.
“Well, yes.” The doctor makes a deprecating wave of his hand. “I know how it is — diminished inhibition of impulses, eh?”
Based on his examination, the doctor evidently thinks I’ve been living with a series of obvious changes in Frederik’s brain for a long time. But have I?
Yes, I suppose he has been different in recent weeks. More self-centered, disorganized, hotheaded. But is he any worse than Helena’s husband, or my other friends’ husbands? I really don’t think so.
The doctor gets to his feet and gives me his hand in parting. He squeezes hard.
“You must be prepared for the corticotropin to make his personality changes gradually less pronounced in the coming weeks. On the other hand, the treatment may induce manic tendencies as a side effect. Which make it critical for you to take away his car keys. He must not drive before the operation.”
“Yes. Thank you,” I say. “I will.” And meanwhile I wonder if Frederik is so intelligent that the pressure from the tumor might not have resulted in the usual symptoms, but merely brought him down to the level of other men.
But how can I ask the doctor, without it sounding as if I have an inflated image of my husband?
4
Copenhagen Airport. I love when the doors glide to the side after customs and we push our baggage carts into the big triangle of other passengers’ friends and families. Danish faces waving flags, flashbulbing reunions, and hugging kids, spouses, and friends they haven’t seen in months.
We look like a normal family too; there’s nothing about us that anyone can see is different. The first person I catch sight of is Laust, even though he’s so short and pale. He’s squeezed in front of the others in the crowd, and his eyes are wide and worried.
His skin seems more transparent than usual, like the rice paper wrapped around a Vietnamese spring roll — poke him with a chopstick and muscle and guts would spill out, blue, red, and grey.
Frederik’s parents smile, unhappy and tired, they push their way through behind Laust. Thorkild is dressed as always in a dark blazer and white shirt. Despite his retirement, he still feels most comfortable in the kind of clothes he needed as president of the Association of Danish Private School Headmasters, and as the leader of a school that was much more conservative than Frederik’s.
Tears run down Vibeke’s cheeks as she clasps me to her and tries to peer deep into my eyes. I quickly rearrange some suitcases on the baggage cart, and while I pretend to be occupied she naturally throws herself upon Niklas.
“It’s so great to see you,” I say.
And for now there’s not much more to be said. In the last two days I’ve spent a fortune calling them from my cell phone and bringing them up to speed on everything — right until the moment we were going to fasten our seat belts on the plane and turn off our phones, and then here in Copenhagen when we could turn them on again. It’s best if we postpone the tête-à-têtes until we’re not surrounded by others’ embraces.
We hug each other silently, and then Laust leads us out to his car in one of the parking garages. Vibeke holds Niklas’s hand and weeps, and with a little burst of speed I pass them and come up beside Laust and Frederik.
Seeing Laust has made Frederik liven up visibly. He tells Laust about the great vacation we’ve had, and after we’ve been walking for a while in the long corridors between the basement parking garages, he says, “If Dad’ll drive the rest of you home, I can borrow Laust’s car and pop by the school to grab some papers I need this weekend.”
Despite everything I’ve told them on the phone, they’re not prepared for this. Thorkild had begun to relax during his son’s upbeat descriptions of being on holiday; now he replies slowly, deliberately. “But Frederik. You’re not supposed to drive.”
“Ahh, that’s just something the doctor said to avoid risking a lawsuit or problems with insurance. Anyone can see that.” He spreads his arms wide. “Look at me! Of course I can drive.”
I put my arm around his waist and give him a reassuring squeeze. “Frederik, I can drive you. Then everyone else can go home. Or we could all drive past the school.”
“You’re not really going to listen to what that fellow said? Then I wouldn’t be able to drive for a month. That’s obviously out of the question.”
Laust shifts his weight uncertainly from one foot to the other before breaking in. “Frederik, there’s something else we need to talk about.”
Frederik is so happy that his smile borders on laughter. Laust continues.
“It may be that it’s a good idea to take a break from work until you have a clean bill of health again.”
“What?”
“It’s just that … if there’s the least chance of the illness affecting the choices you make, then it would probably be for the best.”
“What!”
I release my hold on Frederik’s belly and look around. His shout echoes in the concrete garage, but nobody else is down here.
Laust has a muted, solicitous way of focusing on his friend. “I merely think … if you end up making a couple of wrong decisions … It’s a foolish risk to run.”
“I’m not going to make any wrong decisions!”
“It’s just for safety’s sake. Until we’re one hundred percent certain you’re in top form again.”
Frederik’s voice breaks. “But Laust, you’re not really going to shut me out from the school, are you?”
Laust always looks so small standing next to Frederik, who towers above him by more than a head. “Frederik, you would be the one who would regret it most if you were to misjudge—”
“But I won’t misjudge anything! I won’t!”
Thorkild interposes in his husky voice. “Perhaps you should take a little time to consider—”
“You want to shut me out of the school!” Frederik yells.
His fist strikes Laust’s face, and then he shoves him down onto the asphalt.
“Frederik! Frederik!” we shout.
Without thinking, I throw myself upon the two of them and try to grab Frederik’s arms to pin them behind his back, while he rains blows down upon Laust. I get hold of one arm but he pulls free, I get the same arm again and he bites me on the hand.
I’ve never done this kind of thing before, but two deep breaths and I can focus. With both hands I grab Frederik’s right arm and wrench it behind his back as quick as I can so he can’t bite or hit me. I shove him forward facedown against the concrete floor and sit on top of him, holding him in an armlock. He’s the one who’s sat behind a desk most of his life, while I’m six years his junior and a PE teacher to boot. He screams in pain.