The Elephant Keepers' Children (23 page)

So imagine my dismay when a voice from the dimmest part of the room says, “Would that be on account of his protruding ears?”

We turn and see a woman seated at the back of the room. Her hair is yellow as corn and piled up like a haystack with a perm. Her arms are like the sides of beef on the buffet
table, and at her feet is a bottle of cold beer. Tilte and I both know straightaway who she is: Svend Sewerman's wife, Bullimilla Madsen, whom we recall having seen drive past once in a horse-drawn carriage with Svend and of whom we have heard tell that she is a sandwich maid by profession and that she refused to change her surname to de Finø. And we know, too, that this is a woman more generous by nature than her husband, because the day after Tilte and I had been sent packing from Finøholm without having sold a single lottery ticket, our brother Hans made his own attempt and was greeted at the door by Bullimilla, and she bought the whole lot.

So our overall impression is of a human being whose personality comprises many qualities.

Charles de Finø clearly feels that presentation is now called for.

“Tilte and Peter Ahlefeldt-Laurvig,” he announces. “In the ceremonial robes of the Supreme Veranda.”

Bullimilla takes a swig of her beer.

“Looks more like our curtains, if you ask me, Svend.”

This is an astute comment that passes Svend Sewerman by. Svend has more important matters on his agenda.

“How do we proceed?” he asks. “As to this possible—or likely—kinship?”

“Genealogy,” says Tilte. “We shall be needing your family tree. And then we must go to Copenhagen, to the State Archives. Unfortunately, the ferry doesn't leave until Wednesday, so we shall have to wait.”

“The
White Lady
sails tonight,” says Svend Sewerman. “We'll provide you with a cabin. And that tree you'll be needing.”

His head disappears into a drawer. Bullimilla pensively pours the last half of her beer down her throat and plucks a new bottle from the crate.

“How fitting that you should belong to nobility, Svend,” she says. “Coming from that fine family of yours. Four generations of toilet cleaners in Finø Town. And before them a haze of shepherds and half-wits wandering about on the heath.”

Her tone is not without warmth, though it is mostly weary. I find myself wondering if she lives with an elephant keeper.

“Tonight,” she says, only partly to herself, “I have seen more nutters than in all the years I managed the canteen at Kolding Town Hall. And the night's still young.”

As so often before, Tilte elects to proceed along the direct path.

“Mrs. Madsen,” she says, “what would you say if it should turn out that you were a countess?”

“I'd pay money not to be,” says Bullimilla, “if it meant not having to be lumbered with nutters like the ones here tonight.”

Svend Sewerman hands us a memory stick and a book bound in golden leather, presumably his family tree and suchlike. Time is short and we must be off.

“I don't suppose there'd be any chance of getting those curtains back from the supreme whatever it was?”

The question comes from Bullimilla.

“Most certainly,” says Tilte. “And when they return they will have been blessed and sprinkled with holy water by leading religious figures.”

Svend Sewerman holds the door and we dive back into the human sea. The last thing we hear is Bullimilla's voice.

“Nutters, Svend. Like all your other friends. And these were only children.”

We pass through the crowd
once more, but this time our passage is smoother for our being hidden behind Svend Sewerman. We catch glimpses of Thorkild Thorlacius and Anaflabia, and of Lars and Katinka, but remain unnoticed by them all, and the only unpleasant surprise along the way is that I happen to eyeball Alexander Flounderblood, whose presence I hasten to explain away by him being the ministerial envoy and thereby a natural member of Finø's intelligentsia, and by that time we have reached the door at the other end, and thereby our finishing line. There, however, we come to a halt.

Our standstill is down to Tilte, who has stopped dead in front of a person whose skin is slightly too olive colored to be ghostly white but nevertheless is palid in the extreme. In his right hand, the person in question holds a rosary, but at the sight of Tilte all prayer is arrested.

“Allow me,” says Svend, “to present my wife's nephew and my own very dear friend, Jakob Aquinas Bordurio Madsen. Jakob is reading theology in Copenhagen and has set his sights on becoming a Catholic priest. He will be sailing with
us to the capital tonight. Jakob, may I present Tilte and Peter Ahlefeldt-Laurvig of the Supreme Placenta at Anholt.”

Tilte slowly draws her veil aside. Jakob has, of course, recognized her despite the disguise, so the old adage that love is blind is not true, because love clearly is sighted. But now at least she is able to look him directly in the eye.

She indicates our costumes.

“In case you should be wondering about this, Jakob,” she says, “I can tell you that I have received a calling.”

And with that we are out the door. It closes behind us.

We emerge onto a lofty terrace
, beneath which lies a rose garden. At the bottom of the garden, three carriages are waiting. All three make our own from Blågårds Plads look like a farmer's cart, and each is drawn by six horses of the Finø Full Blood race that make the fiery steeds of Blågårds Plads look like something the vet has agreed to put down.

“Passengers will be driven to the ship,” Svend explains. “To the accompaniment of fireworks. In ten minutes. You're in the first carriage.”

He bows and kisses Tilte's hand, presses his own into mine, and pats Basker on the head, as though Basker, too, were an Ahlefeldt-Laurvig, and then we stride off through the roses.

When finally we are on our own, I succumb to the feeling of offense that has weighed heavily upon my heart for the last five minutes.

“Tilte,” I say, “all the great world religions have much to say in recommendation of truth. What is anyone supposed to think about the whopper you just told Svend Sewerman?”

I can sense Tilte begin to writhe inside, a sure sign that she is far from content.

“There's a story in the Buddhists' Pali Canon in which Buddha kills fifty pirates so as to prevent them from committing murder. As long as your intentions are sound, you can cut yourself some considerable slack.”

“But you're not Buddha,” I say. “And Svend Sewerman isn't a pirate. He's going to be very disappointed.”

Tilte stops. She has an answer brewing. It is no easy answer, because what she happens to be facing is a classic problem of theology, which concerns how hard you can twist someone's arm while claiming to serve some higher purpose.

But her answer fails to transpire. A familiar figure opens the door of the carriage for us.

“Noble friends!” says Count Rickardt. “Three minutes until departure. Fifteen until she sails!”

I would say
that the carriage ride down to the
White Lady of Finø
to the accompaniment of ten minutes of uninterrupted Japanese fireworks is something Tilte and Basker and I under normal circumstances would allow ourselves to enjoy. Unfortunately, we encounter some minor difficulties, and the first of these now stands before us in the shape of Count Rickardt Three Lions.

“My word, how scrumptious you look!” says the count. “Oriental and Nordic all at once.”

“You, too,” says Tilte. “Supremely withdrawn and yet ready to pounce like a simple flasher.”

Rickardt smiles with joy.

“We've adjoining cabins,” he says.

Tilte and I brace against the door.

“You mean you're coming, too?” Tilte's voice quivers slightly with the hope that we misheard as the fireworks started.

“I'm even one of the hosts,” Rickardt replies. “Filthøj Castle is my childhood home and a real treat! We run an organic farm there. On the full moon, the air is thick with elementals.”

Neither Tilte nor I have the energy to ask what elementals are. It's all we can do to get over the shock.

It's not that we aren't fond of Rickardt. As already mentioned, we consider him to be a member of the family, though we have long since conceded that he is the kind of family member one must accept will always be a menace to public order and security.

“Besides, it's a conference about religious experience,” says the count. “My own turf!”

There is nothing we can do but heave a sigh of relief that he seems not to be taking his archlute with him.

The horses are impatient. We step into our carriage.

And here we find another point for our agenda.

Seated in the corner is an elderly lady with her hat pulled firmly down to the rim of her dark glasses, asleep and with her mouth wide open. None of which presents us with the slightest
problem. But seated next to her is Thorkild Thorlacius, next to him his wife, and next to her Anaflabia Borderrud.

I conceal Basker immediately underneath my curtain. Tilte and I are masked, but Basker is undraped.

We take our seats. The count helps another person inside, that person being Vera the Secretary, after which he sits down himself. The driver cracks the whip, and the horses lunge forward, not quite in the same way as they would have done had my brother Hans been at the reins, but then not like a team of snails either.

The count beams.

“One final word, people,” he says. “To all you merry sailors: let's jolly well go for it!”

Twitches begin to animate the faces of Thorkild and the bishop, and what they indicate is that of all the suffering they have endured during the last twelve hours, their encounter with Rickardt Three Lions may top the lot.

I concede that neither I nor Tilte is able to concentrate fully on the fireworks, for we must now contend with the double risk, firstly of Count Rickardt opening his big mouth and inadvertently giving the game away, and secondly of Thorkild or Anaflabia recognizing us.

And now I sense the professor's gaze fall upon my turban and then on Tilte's veil.

“Have we not met before?” he asks.

“We're from the Vedantist Sangha on the island of Anholt,” I reply. “Perhaps you've been there?”

Thorkild shakes his head. His eyes have narrowed.

“Are you not accompanied by an adult?” he asks ponderingly.

I nod toward the sleeping lady in the corner.

“Only the abbess,” I say.

Irrestistible forces now mobilize inside the minds of Thorkild and Anaflabia all the shrewdness, the powers of deduction, and the psychological insight needed to become a bishop and a world-famous neural scientist. And it is abundantly clear that in a very short time Tilte and I are going to have to run for our lives.

But at this strategic moment, the old lady lays her head comfortably on Thorkild's shoulder.

I would say that my personal view of miracles is the same as of people's tales of how brilliant they are at football: I want to see the ball in the net first. On the other hand, though, I can only admit that the jolt of the carriage at just that moment is sufficient for the old lady's head, and her hat and dark glasses with it, to loll and then come to rest on Thorkild Thorlacius's shoulder. And the fact that this occurs at all can only give rise to the feeling that the door must be open and that on the outside something lush is being done for Tilte and Basker and me.

But if anyone should think that we now merely lean back in our seats and savor this helping hand offered by Providence, if that's the right word for it, then they would be wrong indeed. And even if we actually feel like leaning back in our seats, we're given no opportunity to do so, because as the old lady's head lolls over and comes to rest, her hat is pushed up and reveals her to be none other than Maria from Maribo.

More naïve souls than Tilte and I would perhaps be inclined to believe that all doubt as to the existence of miracles must surely now be dispelled, because Maria has risen from her casket and put on her hat and dark glasses and climbed into the carriage to take her seat, all of it ten days into the process initiated by death. But Tilte and I are buying none of it. Both of us sense Rickardt's immediate alarm, and it tells us that in one way or another he is behind Maria suddenly being among us again.

A man of Thorkild Thorlacius's scientific standing ought by rights to be able to tell that something is not quite as it should be with Maria's appearance. But he is so embroiled in his suspicion as to our persons that his eagle eye is temporarily blinded. And now he places his hand on Maria's arm.

“Madam,” he says, “are you familiar with these young people?”

And then he pulls it back sharply.

“Jesus Christ!”

The bishop gives a start, accustomed to her presence deterring invective. But one understands the professor only too well. Maria has been immersed in dry ice. And yet he gathers himself remarkably quickly, and on that count one senses his Finnish
sisu
and professional overview.

“Madam,” he says to Maria, “if you would permit me? A medical appraisal. You are suffering from hypothermia.”

Now the situation that for such a brief moment appeared to brighten is once again becoming critical and requires prompt intervention.

“It's her training,” I say. “Her meditative training. She fully absorbs herself when under transport. Body temperature plummets, and breathing all but ceases.”

Thorkild turns to face me, and at the same moment Basker stirs beneath my ceremonial robes. I sense all eyes switch immediately from Maria to my midriff.

“Tummy rolls,” I say. “Exercise of the deep stomach muscles. A technique of yoga.”

At this point, another of those events occurs that to be frank feel like a friendly pat on the behind from the hand of Our Lord. The carriage comes to a standstill and a livery-clad serf opens the door and invites us to board ship.