At the exact half-way point in this perfectly-calculated but exquisite novel two people dance a tango outside a bar in a Copenhagen square. "Four steps across and a close, his thigh between hers as their eyes met and her lips parted to draw breath. He trapped her arm, but loosely, behind her as they did another volta, looking away from each other in one direction, in the other, and the woman in black clapped her hands once, crying out 'Bravo, compadre!' [...] 'One more,' she said softly; 'such a passionate dance!' 'No,' he said. 'It is the dance of sorrow. The dance of those who are far away and alone.'"
The man, Bernardo Greene, a former teacher, is indeed far away and alone, having fled his native Chile after his family has disappeared and he himself tortured for daring to teach the work of poets who write the truth. Traumatized by literally unspeakable violence, he has come for healing to Copenhagen's famous Rehabilitation Center for Torture Victims, where his doctor tries to break through the wall between him and his emotions. The woman, Michela Ibsen, divorced from an abusive husband, now finds herself once more in a potentially violent relationship, and does not know how to break free. We already know a great deal about Nardo and Michela, and there will be many obstacles to overcome before they can truly help one another. But this unlikely encounter, in a dance from the opposite side of the globe that balances intimacy and solitude, violence and passion, marks a perfect turning-point. Even the setting, in a city square dedicated to the Danish resistance of WW2, is meaningful.
The extremes in this novel are tempered by touches of almost everything in between. Violence, for example, is not confined to those tortures in a Chilean jail (of which we do not hear much but just enough). It is reflected in the strain that threatens to break the doctor's marriage apart when he brings his work home. It is seen in that kind of love-making that uses the bodies of others for what can be taken from them rather than given back. It is seen in the cruel silence of couples that punish each other not by acts committed but by kindnesses withheld. It is seen in the racism of strangers that regard anybody with darker hair or skin as alien, lesser beings.
Love too takes many forms. Most striking, Nardo's vision of two angels in the depths of his ordeal, promising him that he would experience love yet again. Love comes -- the ending of the book slips gently into a transformation so subtle that you hardly notice it until it is a reality -- but it does not come easily. Meanwhile, there are other kinds of love to touch first. The love of the surrounding world: the lakes and paths of the city, people going about their daily lives, the change of the seasons. The caring of friends. The love of husband and wife, striving to find a path through pain. The love of a daughter for a father even when mired in selfishness and rotted away by cancer. The love that, even in bed, finds other forms of expression when the obvious ones fail.
Angels bring messages of hope, but they can also terrify. The greatest miracles in this brilliant and transformative novel occur when love finds a way to harness anger and confront it, facing evil head on, and finding at least some promise of redemption.