The Elephant Keepers' Children (22 page)

During the last twenty-four hours, Tilte and I have come into possession of several items of baffling information concerning our parents, which we have found difficult to digest. This is another.

“If they have,” says Tilte, “it can't have been worth much. The only thing of value our parents own is us.”

The main door of Finøholm
opens into a hall big enough for four large families to inhabit for many years without ever having anything to do with each other. At the door is a man in a blue coat and a powdered wig whose job it is to receive guests warmly and make sure gate-crashers are given short shrift.

Tilte takes Sinbad Al-Blablab by the hand, I curl mine into Polly's great fist, and at once we are past security and have entered the hall.

For the occasion, a cloakroom has been set up attended by servants who take one's coat while perspiring beneath wigs and who all seem to be kicking themselves for not having read the small print when they signed their contracts of employment as woodsmen.

From the entry hall, a stairway wide enough to appear in the film of a Broadway musical leads to the first floor and the banqueting hall, which instead of suits of armor contains marble statues of naked women and men upon which Leonora Ticklepalate pensively dwells. Spread out in front of the statues is a buffet that serves as a reminder that the days when you could feed your guests on three loaves and five fishes, or vice
versa, are long since gone, because this looks like something from a Roman orgy. Moreover, a notice says that all meat is halal. And in front of the buffet stands Svend Sewerman.

Anyone who has never seen Svend Sewerman might conjure up all sorts of interesting images as to the appearance of a man who voluntarily took on the name of Charles de Finø, but I can assure you that all of them would be inappropriate, because Svend Sewerman looks exactly like what he is: a man who runs a large and lucrative business. The only notable thing about him is the hunger that may be detected in his eyes. I have seen it before and it reminds me of something I am at present unable to place, but it must surely be that same hunger that prompted him to change his name and buy a manor house and commission someone to design him a coat of arms. Perhaps it is also the reason he looks so ravenously upon his interlocutor, as though he believes him to be a man who knows the score on everything. Because his interlocutor is none other than Count Rickardt Three Lions, resplendent in a dinner jacket of silver lamé, a cummerbund of rose-red silk around his waist, and a pair of pointed patent leather shoes that are so long and shiny as to consign the dinner jacket and the cummerbund to shadow.

Surrounding these two men of the gentry is a swelling sea of Finø society, among them the island's doctors and its two postmasters, solicitors and the manager of the cooperative supermarket, directors of the boatyards and the brickworks and the fish factory, and the editor in chief of the
Finø Gazette
, and then all the delegations who will be sailing away this evening to the Grand Synod.

It is a colorful sea of evening dresses and dinner jackets, of Svend Sewerman's staff in livery, Polly Pigonia and her congregation in Hindu whites, Sinbad Al-Blablab in his turban, Ingeborg Bluebuttock in her burka, the Buddhists in purple and the three members of the Jewish community in black hats, and in the middle of this great palette I catch sight of Dorada Rasmussen in local costume.

And all of it is a spectacle into which one might immerse oneself and swim around were it not for the fact that we stand before what seems like an insurmountable problem, which is how to secure tickets and access to the
White Lady of Finø
, and this is a question we as yet have found no time to address.

At this moment, I sense something is about to happen to Tilte. To say she now receives divine inspiration directly through the open door would perhaps be to exaggerate matters, and after what has happened to our parents and to Jakob Aquinas, and after Rickardt Three Lions's attempt to secure the leading part in
The Merry Widow
, we are rather wary of addressing the question of where big ideas come from. Nonetheless, I'm willing to say that what I now sense surging through Tilte's organism is at the very least a monumental vision.

“Polly,” says Tilte, “you must back us up.”

Polly has no time to reply. Tilte takes hold of her free hand and the three of us part the waves of Finø society until we are standing in front of Count Rickardt and Svend Sewerman.

Tilte lets go of Polly and extends a hand toward the evening's host, Svend Sewerman, aka Charles de Finø.

“Allow me to present myself, Mr. de Finø. My name is Tilte,” she says. “Tilte de Ahlefeldt-Laurvig Finø. And this is my brother, Count Peter de Ahlefeldt-Laurvig Finø.”

My brain has shut down. As far as I can see, what Tilte is doing now is tantamount to suicide. We are standing before Count Rickardt, an intimate friend, and Svend Sewerman, who may have seen us only once, but less than six months ago, and at that point in time we were sellers of lottery tickets for Finø FC and of rather less than noble birth.

It would therefore be reasonable to assume that in a moment we shall be recognized and sent away into the night without a chance of leaving Finø before the ferry sails on Wednesday, by which time it will all be too late.

And for that reason, what now happens before our eyes most immediately resembles a miracle, not one of Mother's and Father's but a real one as featured in the New Testament and the Vedas and certain passages of the Buddhist canon, which is somewhat shorter on miracles than other religions.

What happens is that Svend Sewerman kisses Tilte's hand.

Of course, part of the reason for this is that Tilte has extended her hand in the first place, as though expecting it to be kissed. And when Tilte extends something in that way, even if it should be a cowpat on a pizza base, people tend to oblige.

“The Ahlefeldt-Laurvigs?” says Charles de Finø.

“
The
Ahlefeldt-Laurvigs,” says Tilte.

I look into Svend Sewerman's eyes and find there a variety of emotions: humility, joy, and awe. But no recognition.
And I begin now to sense the genius of Tilte's plan. Because if only one appeals to the deepest desires inside a person, then common sense will shortcircuit, and the deepest desire inside Svend Sewerman is the desire to mingle with nobility.

How Tilte envisages moving on from here is a question that certainly becomes salient but whose answer is postponed by Count Rickardt Three Lions suddenly coming to life. Since the moment he caught sight of me and Tilte, he has remained stock still in the way of people whose nervous systems have been struck by some debilitating affliction. But now the power of speech returns to him.

“Well, I never diddle!”

My first thought is that he is about to blurt out everything and give us away. But then I trace his gaze and can see that his outburst is aimed at other parties altogether. For in the doorway of the banqueting hall stands Thorkild Thorlacius. And behind him the bishop of Grenå, Anaflabia Borderrud.

How such suspect types managed to get themselves released so promptly is unclear. And neither do we have time to dwell on the issue, because Svend Sewerman now lights up even more.

“And there we have the professor!” he exclaims. “And my dear bishop! Both will be in attendance at the synod. As representatives of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Denmark and the natural sciences, respectively.”

Tilte and I act as one. As I have already told you, we are a family that gels when it matters, we play as a team and know each other's game. What's important is to have an overview
that spans the length and breadth of the pitch, and this is something I possess and that allows me to see that there is only one exit by which we can possibly escape in time.

In time means before Thorkild and Anaflabia catch sight of us. And not only them. Because behind them come Lars and Katinka, and although they may be holding hands and their eyes sparkle from their newfound love, which has progressed significantly since Tilte and I helped them discover each other beneath the acacia tree only a few short hours ago, their vigilance remains unaltered, their eagle eyes scan the hall, and I for one would wager that they are looking for us.

It is a situation that might have gone terribly wrong. But through one innocuous movement, Lama Svend-Holger and Sinbad Al-Blablab demonstrate unique compassion and a sense of occasion by simultaneously blocking further entry into the hall and preventing Katinka, Lars, Thorkild Thorlacius, and Anaflabia from seeing inside.

Tilte and I duck away into the human sea, emerging from beneath the surface only when we have passed through the door.

The room we now enter
is dimly lit and cool, the air inside it thick with the smell of food. From out of the darkness loom the outlines of tables laden with supplies for the buffet, crates of beer and soft drinks, batteries of wine bottles. On an adjoining table, cloth napkins have been placed in neat piles, and on another is a different kind of material altogether. I pick it up and unroll a length. It's not regular fabric but the sort from which Finøholm's curtains are made and that already is draped before one of the room's two windows. It feels like something in between tent canvas and stage curtains.

The curtains that hang before the windows of Finøholm are embellished with gilded flag halyards and golden tassels as big as paintbrushes. But seemingly, the curtainer was unable to finish his work before the evening's revels kicked off, and for that reason he has left a roll of material behind on the table here. One explanation would be that the curtainer is none other than Herman Marauder Lander of Finø Curtains and Drapes, our neighbor and father of Karl, which in itself would be reason enough for the man, alarmed as to whether his house might still be standing, to drop everything and hurry home to see.

I'm aware that we must act quickly and that my presence is required in the role of initiator, because Tilte is still completely immersed in her own inspiration.

I venture to suggest that Cinderella was afforded no better treatment by the small animals in preparation for her encounter with the prince with whom she would live happily ever after than the treatment I now bestow upon Tilte. I make her a turban, and a kind of Roman toga, and I'm able to do so because Mr. Lander of Finø Curtains and Drapes has been kind enough or sufficiently distracted to leave behind his scissors and a large number of safety pins. Then I wind a second turban and cut a long robe for myself, and finally, from the lining material that is like a cross between medical gauze and fishnet, I make a veil for Tilte.

Now we are transformed, and all in less than five minutes. And then the door opens and in front of us stands our host, building contractor and honorable member of the Danish parliament, Charles de Finø.

The situation is prickly, but Tilte is clearly still surfing on the crest of invention.

“We were hoping you would come,” she says.

Svend Sewerman's eyes have yet to adjust to the dim light, but he instantly recognizes Tilte's thin voice.

“Miss Ahlefeldt-Laurvig!”

Then he notices our costumes and some systemic confusion becomes apparent.

“We represent the Advaita Vedanta Society of Anholt,” Tilte explains. “And thereby one of the world's most supreme forms of nondogmatic meditation.”

Advaita Vedanta is, of course, well known on Finø as well as on the mainland, not least on account of the efforts of Ramana Maharshi, whose smiling mug adorns the wall of many a teenager's bedroom in Denmark, and for this reason alone much ought now to be explained. Svend Sewerman relaxes noticeably.

“We wish to speak to you concerning a matter of the utmost importance,” says Tilte. “A rather urgent matter, I'm afraid, and perhaps our most significant reason for being here this evening. However, we must insist on your complete confidence.”

Svend Sewerman nods his head. His eyes are what I would call vacant, a sure sign that he is now being sucked into Tilte's troposphere.

“At home at Anholt Manor,” Tilte continues, “my brother and I, and indeed our parents, too, are highly taken up with a phenomenon with which few in Denmark are as yet familiar. We call it
hidden aristocracy
. The idea is that in all the great noble families, children have been born outside of wedlock, and that these children have the inherent right to bear a title. The families involved have naturally always done their best to conceal this fact with a view to maintaining control of their vast fortunes. We believe the time has come for transparency. To this end we have begun searching for those children and their descendants. And we have discovered that there are two things in particular that characterize such persons of the aristocracy who are unaware of their own standing. First, there
is what we call
inner nobility
, a sense of natural belonging in respect of noble circles. And the second thing is
physiognomical similarity
.”

I cannot profess to having followed Tilte in all that she has said. But I'm in no doubt that she has now ventured beyond the point at which solid ground begins to crumble underfoot.

And yet it immediately becomes clear that I can relax. Svend Sewerman's breathing quickens, his eyes become milky white, and anyone who didn't know better might think he was on the verge of breakdown. But Svend Sewerman was born a navvy and possesses the strength of a carthorse.

“Peter and I have grown up surrounded by hundreds of family portraits,” says Tilte. “And when we set eyes on you, a chill went down our spines. It really is striking how much you, Charles, resemble a true Ahlefeldt-Laurvig Finø.”

Once again, Tilte and I stand before a man who shows how speaking directly to the deepest desires of a person will be sufficient to trigger the complete shutdown of all cognitive systems. Svend Sewerman is at this moment putty in our hands, and the path forward onto the
White Lady of Finø
would seem to be opening out before us.