“You know nothing about me,” Anna said, quietly. Troels stared ahead with a blank expression, as if he hadn’t heard her.
“During that evening I realized Johannes was in love with you. He talked about you all the time. Not directly . . . but he would mention your name, no matter what the conversation was about. I would ask questions, from time to time, as though you interested me and he answered them willingly. Very quickly I knew most of it: you had been dumped by your boyfriend, Thomas, who never visited your young daughter, never sent Christmas presents, and only paid basic child support—even though he was a doctor and you were a student—you struggled with your rage; you felt completely powerless; you were about to get your masters; Cecilie had moved to Copenhagen, and your relationship with her was strained. Johannes never found my questions odd—he was quite keen to talk about you. His eyes lit up. It was bizarre. I was madly in love with him, and he was madly in love with you.” Troels smiled. “Seems to be my curse. You get everything I want.
“That night,” he continued, “I crossed the line. Johannes wanted a repeat of last time. Wanted me to abuse him verbally, humiliate him, and slap him. Mostly on his body, but also across his head. He masturbated while I did it, but flinched whenever I tried to touch him. I could do the same, he said. Get my dick out and have a tug. I didn’t want to. I was delirious, a bit drunk and in love. And I was the stronger; I was in charge. I managed to enter him. I held him down. For fuck’s sake, I only lasted five seconds. I came inside him, and he went berserk. He cried; he screamed and threw me out. On the fetish scene this is a total no-no,” Troels muttered, ashamed. “You go right up to the line, but you never cross it without the other person’s consent. Johannes asked me to stop many times that night, but I didn’t listen.
“The days that followed were terrible. I called him. I e-mailed. He didn’t reply. It took a week before I got ahold of him. He sounded really pissed off with me. I had crossed the line, he said. It was unacceptable. The rules had been crystal clear. We were experimenting with the balance of power, but there was to be no direct sexual contact. I had agreed to that. I had broken our deal. He never wanted to see me again.
“Some weeks passed. I met with Karen, twice. I told her I was in love, but that it wasn’t reciprocated. She consoled me.” Troels smiled. “And we talked about you. I asked her if she thought we might be friends again. You and I. The three of us. Asked her how you were. She became a little subdued. Then she told me the two of you hadn’t kept in touch, either. That really surprised me. But she had met Cecilie, and Cecilie had told her you were alone with your daughter. You had had a rough time, Cecilie said, but she made no effort to conceal she and Jens were enormously relieved Thomas was out of your lives. They never liked him. He was highly intelligent, but shallow. That’s how Cecilie had put it. They worried about you, Karen said, and they helped take care of your daughter, Lily. I would like to meet her someday,” he smiled.
“Karen suggested we get in touch with you, but Cecilie asked us to wait until you had defended your dissertation, so we agreed to meet afterward. Karen was wildly excited about our plan. She was missing us so much, she said. Her joy inspired me. One day, I visited Cecilie and had tea with her. It was a lovely afternoon. I apologized for my years of silence, but Cecilie said it didn’t matter. I told her I had had a hard time and asked her not to mention to you that I had been there. I said I wanted it to be a surprise, but really . . . I was scared you would get angry again. Jealous and angry. That we would end up back where we started. I wanted to establish some ground rules with you. You must never humiliate me again. I can’t take it. In return, I would keep a low profile, as far as your parents were concerned—if that was what you wanted.
“I also went to see Jens. I waited for him outside his office, saw him come out. He had aged, I thought, he looked withered and gray. I followed him home, but I chickened out. So I got in touch with my sister instead. Karen’s joy, Cecilie’s open arms . . . I got carried away and called my sister. She was as cold as ice. “Don’t you ever call me again,” she said. “Don’t ever come near me or my children, or I’ll call the police.” He smiled, embarrassed. “My dad and I fought when he was in the hospital, terminally ill with cancer; I smashed a vase across his head, and he threw a drawer at me. My sister always got so upset when we fought.” His smile started to fade. “At his funeral, six days later, I still had seven stitches in my forehead from the drawer he’d hurled. I don’t know how he got the strength. He was weak and dying. I still have a scar.” Troels turned to Anna and ran his finger along a thin white line.