Like Kronborg, the Norgaard residence had white walls and pale wooden floors. Unlike Kronborg, it smelled like garlic flatbread when we arrived and set our luggage in rooms bursting with tasseled pillows. Julien’s mother served us supper and mint tea on the terrace.
My memory of that overcharged time is hazy.
At one point, inside, Mr. Norgaard offered us pistols. Julien took his, obviously comfortable with the weapon, but I declined. I felt infinitely more comfortable with a blade, so I chose that instead. With it, I could not only kill but threaten and command.
Henri disappeared during those hours; at least, I know he was there but I can’t remember seeing him once after we finished our meal.
There were many, Mr. Norgaard explained, who would follow me in my cause. He would organize th
