More than a month passed and I had not seen Bertram since the night of the salon. If I’d still been living in the residence, I could have sobbed about it, chided myself for being so foolish. Several girls could have tried to convince me it wasn’t my fault, that I’d been charmed, deluded, cajoled. They would have gathered in my room to discuss what had gone wrong, what I could or should do next, whether there was anything to be done. But I was not in Copenhagen at a ladies’ residence; I was in a cramped flat above a confectionery with a single man. Knud, too, was missing someone he’d last seen that night – a tall, taut Dutch poet named Ruben, he revealed a few days after the salon. “A man?” I asked.
“A man.” He winked. “I think we can agree they’re as delicious as Soeberg’s baked goods, ye
