The Dinosaur Feather

parasitologist. She has an office on the ground floor.’
    You could have knocked Anna down with a feather.
    ‘She’s his mother?’
    ‘Yes,’ Tybjerg said. ‘Asger’s mother is Professor Moritzen.’
    ‘Why do you think that?’ she said in disbelief.
    ‘You don’t think Asger would know his own mother?’
    ‘But I know her,’ Anna said, vehemently. ‘She doesn’t have children. She always said she never had children!’
    ‘Then she was lying,’ Dr Tybjerg declared.
    Anna was at a total loss. Hanne had a son with Professor Helland. Anna was only distracted for a second, but Tybjerg managed to retreat so far into the darkness that he vanished. Anna heard the sound of his shoes, heard him mutter something and then the rattling of a cupboard door. She stared into space, stunned.
    ‘I have to go,’ she muttered to herself.

     
    Anna left the Vertebrate Collection and let herself into the museum. Her heart was pounding and she was starting to have second thoughts. Should she have told Søren what she had discovered? Was her plan too dangerous, after all?
    Then she spotted Troels. He was waiting for her in the doorway to the Mammoth Room. He touched the artificial glacier with trepidation and withdrew his hand in wonder. He wasn’t wearing a jacket and had stuffed his woolly hat into his back pocket. His auburn hair fell in skilfully cut locks across his forehead.
    Anna’s breathing quickened as she watched him, her weapon safe in her pocket. When she had managed to calm down, she approached him and gently put her hand on his back. He turned around.
    ‘Hello again, Anna,’ he said. His eyes were flickering.
    ‘Come on, let’s go,’ she said, softly.
    Slowly, without speaking, they drifted through the exhibition. They even stopped in front of some exhibits before ending up in the Sperm Whale Room, where they found a bench. A group of noisy kids shuffled their feet, waiting impatiently for headsets to be passed around. Anna and Troels sat close together.
    Anna said, ‘What have you done?’ and turned to him.
    ‘I didn’t mean to.’
    Anna gasped.
    ‘What happened?’ she whispered.
    ‘I fell in love with him,’ he confessed.
    ‘With Johannes?’ Anna raised her eyebrows and, for a moment, her horror gave way to confusion. ‘But Johannes wasn’t gay . . . he . . .’
    ‘I know,’ Troels replied, quietly. ‘But I was still in love with him.’
    ‘So what happened?’ Anna probed.
    ‘We met at the Red Mask. I went there with a couple of guys I don’t actually know very well. I had never been there before, but I liked the place. I noticed Johannes almost immediately. He was standing at the bar, looking amazing. He wasn’t actually very handsome, was he? But he outshone everyone and made us all laugh. He was surrounded by people. I moved closer and we got talking. I drank some more beer – I had already had too many. We talked for a long time and I struggled to keep up.’ Troels looked embarrassed. ‘He spoke about complex subjects, gestured with his hands, touched my shoulder, stabbed his finger into my chest, ruffled my hair. For a new acquaintance he was very physical and I lapped it up. I’ve been on the gay scene for years,’ he smiled, ‘where, usually, quick physical contact equals sex, and I thought . . . he wore a leather skirt, fishnet tights and army boots. Johannes, however, spoke about everything but sex that night. He talked nineteen to the dozen about the theory of science, which didn’t really interest me. But
he
mesmerised me. He seemed completely indifferent to how other people perceived him, waved his arms about whenever he felt like it. Take me or leave me. That was why he was a magnet, of course. I’ve always admired people like that.
    ‘At dawn, we left together and walked to Enghave Plads. He hugged me and said it had been great to meet me, that he would like to see me again.’
    ‘Johannes wasn’t gay,’ Anna protested. Troels looked away.
    ‘We met a few days later. I couldn’t get him out of myhead. He invited me to dinner at his flat, we drank wine. I was totally confused. He sent out such contradictory signals and in the end, I asked him outright. I said I was very attracted to him, that I wanted to have sex with him. He said he wasn’t gay. At first, I got angry. I felt he had strung me along. With the wine, the meal and the ridiculous clothes he was wearing. But then I realised that there was more to it. He wasn’t gay, but . . .’ Troels