Brock Clarke - The Happiest People in the World

“Professionally curious,” Locs said. “That’s all.”

“Where is Søren?”

“Well, it’s complicated.”

“Where is my son?”

“Søren has gotten himself in some bad trouble.”

“And so have you.”

“Fair enough,” Locs said, and then she thought, If this old man kills me, then I will never hear Matthew say those stupid words again. Meanwhile, Mr. Korkmaz was looking at Locs, obviously in need of some translation.

“What is fair enough?”

“It’s an expression.” Locs saw Mr. Korkmaz lower his gun a little. Nothing is more fatiguing than not knowing what someone else is talking about. Keep talking, she told herself. “It’s Matthew’s expression,” she said, and she watched the gun lower a little bit more, and then she knew, or thought, that everything was going to be just fine after all. “Matthew is the man in America who hired the cartoonist.”

“The cartoonist remains alive?” Søren’s father said.

“Not if Søren has anything to do with it,” Locs said, and then she watched as Mr. Korkmaz’s mind caught up with her meaning.

“Oh no,” Søren’s father said. He lowered his gun almost all the way to his waist and then quickly raised it again. “How do you know everything of this?”

“I just do,” Locs said, and Mr. Korkmaz took a step forward, his gun raised and pointed at her again. “I was a spy. But then I stopped being one. I came here to tell Søren that he didn’t kill the cartoonist after all. He must have felt such guilt,” Locs said, trying to make her face sympathetic, wondering how one does that, what that looks like, not really knowing, trying anyway. “I just didn’t want him to feel guilty anymore.”

“That terrible man,” Mr. Korkmaz said, and at first Locs thought he was talking about his son. “That awful drawing.” He was quiet for a minute, possibly picturing Jens Baedrup’s cartoon. Then he said, “And what became Søren’s response?”

“He didn’t believe me.”

“Of course. Because you had already lied to him.”

“Well, not me personally,” Locs said, and then she watched Mr. Korkmaz’s hands go fidgety on the gun. “But yes. And so to prove that I was telling the truth, I told him, ‘Jens Baedrup is now calling himself Henry Larsen. He’s a guidance counselor in Broomeville, New York.’ ”

“A guidance counselor?”

“Exactly,” Locs said. “I thought that would be the end of it.”

“The end of it?” Mr. Korkmaz said.

“I tried to stop him,” said Locs. “But your son is. .” And here she tried to find just the right word to counter any correct sense Mr. Korkmaz might have that she was lying.

“. . Quite stubborn,” Mr. Korkmaz said, world-wearily, as though he was all too familiar with his son’s stubbornness. Locs wondered whether Søren had inherited the stubbornness from his father. She could see Mr. Korkmaz wondering that, too. His face went slack and sad. It is a terrible thing to have a son, to worry that you are the source of all his worst qualities, to have to scramble to find other plausible sources. “Søren’s mother died when he was young,” Søren’s father said. “Such a death does very terrible things to a boy, as it did to Søren.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You will tell me where I can locate Broomeville, New York.”

“I’ll do better than that,” Locs said. “I will take you there.”

Mr. Korkmaz seemed to consider this. He studied Locs’s face. How can I trust you? he seemed to be asking. But that, they both knew, was a rhetorical question.

“You don’t know these people,” Locs said. “They’ll eat you alive.”

Mr. Korkmaz thought about that for another moment. Then he did something interesting. He handed his gun to Locs. Once she was holding it, she knew it was a fake. A fake gun! She hadn’t held one of those since she was a child. It almost made her nostalgic. The almost nostalgia made her not mad but amazed. This old man had menaced her with a fake gun! She looked up at him and could tell Mr. Korkmaz was trying not to smile. “Fine,” he said. “You will take me.”

“Great,” Locs said, trying not to smile back. She pointed the gun at him and said, “Bang!” And then they both laughed. And when they were done laughing, Locs said, “Although you might have to float me a loan for the airplane tickets.”

Ronald. Monday night, eleven o’clock. Ronald had a computer at home; he also had Internet access. So why was he in Matty’s office, on Matty’s computer? For no good reason except that he had the vague sense that he might end up causing even more trouble this way.

“Jens Baedrup,” he said and then also typed. Up came the news. It was pretty much as that sack-of-shit guidance counselor had said: Danes, Muslims, cartoons, fires, murder. Supposedly murder. That was the interesting part. Trouble, trouble, thought Ronald. He looked at the pictures of Jens Baedrup. Ronald had seen only the back of the stranger’s head. The stranger had had short dark hair. The Jens Baedrup on the computer also had dark hair, but it was long in the back. In the front, there wasn’t that much of it. His face was round, which was a polite way of saying pretty fat. It looked vaguely familiar. Of course it did. He had just seen the guy yesterday. Except he’d not seen his face. God, this guy looked like a clown, with his fat face and his gruesome beard and his red glasses. His huge, huge smile, too. It looked like he was trying out for the part of the Happiest Person in the World. What a jerk. He was married, too. Who would marry this guy anyway?

Ilsa Baedrup, originally and now currently of Aarhus, that’s who. He found a phone listing for her, no trouble. Trouble, trouble, Ronald thought again. But for whom? Henry, he hoped. And Matty, he also hoped. But who else? Then again, did it matter? Ronald was like most people who get hurt: they think they have immunity for every hurt they cause while seeking full reimbursement for their own original hurt. And by hurt, he wasn’t thinking about his hand. He wasn’t even really thinking about his sister, Sheilah, either. It was just everything. By this point, Ronald thought of life as one large hurt-giving enterprise, and he was just going to keep giving and giving until. .

Ronald looked up the country code for Denmark, then dialed the number. After two rings a woman answered. “Hi, hi,” she mumbled. She’d clearly been asleep.

“Is this Ilsa?” Ronald said, in English obviously.

“Yes,” Isla said in the same language. She’d said the word at normal volume, too. Not like she was in bed with someone and trying not to wake them up. Ronald could picture her: lonely woman, middle of the night, wondering about her long-lost husband.

“I know where your husband is,” he said.

“Is he safe?”

“Yup,” Ronald said. “Just saw him a few hours ago.”

“Oh, thank you,” Ilsa said, sounding like she really meant it. “I’ve been worried about him. I’ve missed him.”

“Really?” Ronald asked, not really caring about the answer, just thinking out loud. “You have?”

Ilsa laughed. “I know,” she said. “That surprises me, too.”

“I’m glad I called, then,” Ronald said. “I just thought you’d like to know that he’s thinking about you, too.” And then it was Ilsa’s turn to say, “Really?” “Yes, really,” Ronald said. “He asked me to call you and tell you so.”

“Why didn’t he call me himself?”

“Safety reasons,” Ronald said.

“He’s still not safe?”

“Anywhere else, maybe not,” Ronald said. “But here, yes. More or less.”

“Where is here?”

“Broomeville, New York,” Ronald said.