Felix arrived in Copenhagen on a Thursday carrying one small bag and no apology for the time it had taken him to come.
I met him at the station. He stepped off the train, looked past the signs he couldn’t read and found me by the clock. The sight of him among strangers gave me a moment’s shy pleasure. I knew him in London, where the streets had known us as friends before we knew ourselves as anything else. Here I could take his hand without the city having an earlier version to compare it with.
“Was the journey all right?” I asked.
“Yes. Dad sent a message from my aunt’s place. He wanted me to know he got there without my assistance.”
“Was he offended you asked?”
“He sent a photograph of his ticket. I think that’s an answer.”
We walked to my rented room. I had cleared one…
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