Copenhagen
by Katrine Marie Guldager, transl. by P.K. Brask
Toronto: BookThug, 2009, ISBN 97818797388433 (Leonhardt and Hoier literary agency, 2004), 82 pp., $20 paper.

Copenhagen, by Katrine Marie Guldager, translated from the Danish by P.K. Brask, consists of an interconnecting mesh of stories set in the "Copenhagen" of the title, which may or may not resemble the actual city, though a map of Copenhagen provides the cover design for the book. The focus is at once precise and scattered, select details suggesting the arbitrary nature of symbols in a chaotic world in which one thing can easily mean something else: a boy who is feeling unwell in a train station loses a tooth after falling down the stairs ("Norreport," 14) and later finds it again in another story ("Stengrade," 52), two women in the train station both wear red scarves, making them appear congenial, then turn out to be one woman smiling at herself in a mirror. Two dissatisfied characters from unrelated stories listen to angry Rolling Stones music.

Themes of love and betrayal, conscience and compromise surface in various forms. Related themes of guilt and remorse and how to make restitution emerge in more emotionally subtle and/or complicated moments, such as when Heinrich in "Break In" is forced to bathe his elderly mother when home care is unavailable, or when Birgitte in "Flowers" debates how to approach her embittered sister in hospital.

The cinematic quality of the storytelling allows for sudden shifts in setting and for ironic juxtapositions that make for marvellous dramatic tension and surprise. For instance, in "Break In," the setting shifts between Heinrich's mother's apartment and the seedy bar next door, with the bartender, Lizzy, later becoming active in the story's plot, and then re-entering, much changed, in the story "The Marble." Although the narrative sometimes "tells" rather than "shows" the action, as in the account of Heinrich suffering a concussion ("then he gets knocked on the head and loses consciousness," 21), there is much in the rendering of psychological layers and poetic touches that make the stories memorable. Consider the following account of Heinrich's disbelieving shock at seeing his mother sitting on the chair in the next room after thieves have beaten him up and deserted the apartment building:

     When he enters his mother's room, he sees his mother sitting upright, staring into the air. There's deep red gash in her scalp. Her curly hair is glued to the wound, but still she looks strangely at peace. (24)

Although Heinrich recognizes that his mother is dead, he tries to talk himself into believing that she may still be alive until he notices that her "jaw is missing." The shift in attitude reflects the twists in his heart and the analogy "his thoughts [felt] like whipped egg whites" is strikingly fresh.

Dramatic irony is well handled. In "Kissable Lips," Boris, who has been led into a relationship, feels guilty for his unfaithfulness, but the reader knows that his wife is planning to divorce him when the children get older. Boris, who is also torn by conscience to visit his brother in prison, is seen as a victim. At the climax of the story, Boris stays home sick from work and in an impulsive act, which can be interpreted as empathy for his wife, dresses up in her clothes, only to be discovered by the children:

     Boris lies under the bed and can only see their shoes, sneakers with long dirty laces. He tries to breathe as silently as possible, but he breathes in so much dust that his nose tickles. The boys hear him suppressing a sneeze. Surprised, they look at each other and go over to the bed and lift up the cover.
     The sight that confronts them is repulsive. Boris lies there looking up at them with his big kissable mouth.
     "Sorry," says one of the boys.
     "We'll leave," says the other. (73-74)

Boris is a figure of almost laughable pathos. The storytelling is smooth and economical, with the dialogue convincing as much for what it says as for what it leaves out.

"Collision" is another psychologically revealing story. A drug addict with "missing front teeth," "dark, unwashed hair" and "floating eyes" wavers into the intersection and is struck by a car driven by Birgitte. Although Birgitte checks on the slightly injured woman, she leaves the scene before the police arrive, then feels obliged to visit the woman in the hospital. Birgitte's negligence, followed by her compulsion to make restitution, form a significant behavioural pattern. At the hospital:

The woman who was hit was still asleep when the driver of the green car drove into the parking lot. For some reason or other she left her key in the ignition. Then she walked to the information desk to ask where she could find the woman who was hit. (40)

A range of emotions is dramatized before our eyes in a kind of divine comedy. At times I found the writing thin and mechanical and akin to film-script writing, while at other times I was strangely touched by its poetry. Translations are always difficult, since what is said in one language can never be interpreted verbatim and all attempts are doomed to some loss in resonance of association. Nevertheless, each of these stories contains a unique and riveting kernel, and the sum of interconnections between lives and stories is truly uncanny.

Gillian Harding-Russell lives, reviews, edits, teaches and writes in Regina. Her latest collection of poetry is I forgot to tell you (Thistledown Press, 2007).

Buy this book at McNally-Robinson Booksellers.

Back to Reviews Index