The Elephant Keepers' Children (27 page)

“I've just received an email. From Bodil Fisker, municipal director of GrenÃ¥ Kommune. They've received the professor's appraisal of the situation following our inspection of the rectory and interviews with the children. The verdict would seem to be
severe endogenous depression
. The local authority is backing us completely. Tomorrow, the Ministry of Church Affairs and the parish council will be issuing a joint statement to the effect that Konstantin Finø has been released from all clerical duties and Clara Finø likewise from her services as organist. The statement will not include mention of their psychological habitus. However, we shall let it be known to selected members of the press that expert opinion initially indicates that both are
suffering from severe depression. Bodil has assured us that the social services will remove the children from the home, and that they are to be separated as soon as they are found. We on our side have voiced concern that the girl in particular exerts a bad influence upon her younger brother. He will be placed in the Children's Home at GrenÃ¥, she to begin with in a youth detention center on the island of Læsø. The press will not be informed of their intended whereabouts. This means that regardless of what the parents are up to we shall be able to put a lid on the matter, or at the very least say that whatever crimes have been committed were done by persons no longer in the service of the church and from which we can only distance ourselves. Alexander Flounderblood has provided us with the entire inventory of the children's misdemeanors during the past two years, which in itself cries out for intervention from the authorities, and from which it furthermore transpires that the boy suffers from water on the brain. So, dear friends: an extremely prickly situation would seem to be resolved. To be frank, we are well deserving of champagne!”

At this point
, before continuing my report of events, I must clear myself of any suspicion and explain that bit about water on the brain.

It all takes place two years ago while Mother and Father are away on the second of their three tours leading to their remand in custody and the ecclesiastical court, and at that time Conny and I have known each other since we were little, just like everyone else who goes to Finø Town School. But since that time in the barrel, which was six years earlier, and which in a way was a shock to me, even if I was asking for it myself, since then there has never been any real contact, and I'll be quite frank and say that the way I feel about her, even at a distance, there's no way I would ever be able to gather courage enough to initiate any again.

I don't know if you have friends who are always messing about with their hair, but Conny does that. Let her out of sight for ten minutes and she's changed her hairstyle, and it means that her neck, when you're sitting behind her in class, always shows itself in new and surprising ways.

In this particular situation I am about to relate, Alexander Flounderblood has just begun in the capacity of headmaster
and has taken on a small number of lessons himself so as to gain evidence of our miserable academic state, and at this moment he's giving us a history lesson, sketching out some memorable details of Hannibal's journey across the Alps, when my attention falls on Conny's neck, which today presents itself in hitherto unseen perspective. Her hair has a hint of red, perhaps like the first blush of morning in the chestnut trees when you've been out collecting gulls' eggs and are on your way home to the rectory at four in the morning, if you understand what I mean. Below her hair is an area of fine down that gradually becomes more golden until eventually it wanes away, and from there her skin is white, but deeply so, like mother-of-pearl in the voluminous oyster shells found by the Northern Lighthouse, as though one might almost see through it. With my study this far comes the thought of the aroma that might be found in that place, and what it would feel like if one were to come close enough to touch it, and at that moment Hannibal's journey across the Alps has slipped rather unnoticeably into the background, and suddenly Alexander Flounderblood is standing in front of me exuding military anger of the kind one might easily imagine Hannibal to have plagued his surroundings with.

Flounderblood takes hold of my arm, and one has to give him his due and say that his grip is like a vise.

“Get out and stand in the corridor,” he says, “and remain there until the lesson is over. Afterward, you and I will pay a visit to Boleslaw and have a little chat about your stance on the pursuit of academic knowledge.”

Boleslaw Daddyboy is deputy head of Finø Town School and Alexander has brought him with him from the mainland. Rumor has it that he gave up a promising career in the army in order to purge Finø Town School of unwanted elements. Meeting him is never a pleasant experience, but having to do so in the company of Alexander Flounderblood is a serious turn for the worse.

At this point, something wells inside me. My own view is that it's because of my spiritual training, because at this time Tilte has long since discovered the door and we have embarked upon what in the field of mysticism is referred to as a deeper process. What happens is that I sense myself rise up to the full height of my twelve-year-old frame and look straight into Alexander's eyes, which at this moment look like the mouths of the cannon on the frigate
Jutland
, which lies permanently docked in Ebeltoft harbor and is the destination of Finø Town School's annual trip every year on the first Sunday of September.

“I would gladly,” I then hear myself say, “exchange all academic knowledge in the world but for a glimpse of Conny's neck!”

An indeterminate span of the aforementioned silence of the grave now descends.

And then Alexander Flounderblood picks me up and carries me out of the classroom, thereby demonstrating that he is in possession of more raw muscle than his slim and well-groomed exterior might otherwise suggest, and on our way down the corridor to Boleslaw Daddyboy's office I find solace in their evident need to manage my execution in tandem.

But then Alexander comes to a halt, and he does so because Tilte has blocked his way.

“Alexander,” she says, “I should like to exchange a few words with you in private.”

By now it'll be as apparent to you as it is to me that Tilte could bring a hurtling goods train to a halt if that was what she wanted, so of course Alexander Flounderblood stops in his tracks as though frozen by a death ray from some alien, and then he lets go of me and follows Tilte into the book depository with an empty and rather glazed look in his eyes.

Tilte closes the door behind them, and on the other side they exchange words that would forever be sealed for posterity by their discretion and professional confidentiality had it not been for my accidentally putting my ear to the keyhole and thereby overhearing their brief conversation.

“Alexander,” Tilte says, “I don't know if you realize that my younger brother, Peter, suffers from minor cerebral damage on account of his having water on the brain, the regrettable result of an accident at birth.”

Alexander says he had no idea, and he speaks in the lackluster, rather mechanical way of many men who find themselves in a one-on-one with my sister Tilte.

“That's the first reason,” she continues, “for my now suggesting that you refrain from taking him with you to the office. The second, and more important reason, is that your so doing would serve only to tarnish your own teaching practice, which in every other way is known to spellbind the pupils of this school.”

Alexander makes an attempt at a counterattack, stammering something along the lines of me still polluting the learning environment. But Tilte thwarts his effort even before he reaches midfield.

“Peter will soon undergo surgery,” she says. “A tap will be inserted so that the fluid may be drained each morning before he goes to school.”

This information is apparently sufficient for Alexander to back down. I dart away from the door just before he appears and looks at me with something resembling compassion, and I realize immediately that his encounter here with Tilte has been profound, even if he hasn't been put in her famous coffin. We return to the classroom, and everyone stares at me as if I were a zombie that quite plainly is animate but cannot possibly be alive.

Further into the lesson, I manage to heave my gaze from the floor and venture to cast my eye on Conny. She is enshrouded in a haze of pensive thought.

And the next afternoon, Conny sends Sonja to ask if I want to be her boyfriend.

You need to know
all this in order to understand what happens in the saloon of the
White Lady of Finø
. It should now be clear why Alexander Flounderblood thinks I have water on the brain and that Tilte's deed was indeed heroic. At the same time, it's an example of how karma actually works, because
what started life as a little white lie now returns to slam us in the back of the neck.

Peeping under the counter from our hiding place, we can see Lars and Katinka holding hands underneath the table.

“We accompanied the children from Copenhagen,” says Katinka. “They didn't seem like obvious criminals to me.”

The air freezes around her.

“I've been observing them for two years,” says Alexander Flounderblood presently. “Not to mention their dog, which attempted, not once but on several occasions, to mate with Baroness, my Afghan hound. And not in the manner of any normal dog. This inclined more toward rape.”

Though Lars and Katinka have their backs to Tilte and me, we nonetheless sense their mild surprise.

“I quite agree,” says Thorkild. “In my professional capacity of physician and psychiatrist. One only has to consider the manner in which the boy pretended he was a reptile. I suspect they may even be on board this ship. As representatives of a religious sect.”

Lars and Katinka's surprise increases, Tilte and I both sense it, and their confidence in Alexander and Thorkild seems at once to be waning.

Now Alexander Flounderblood rises.

“Champagne!” he announces. “And as soon as the children are taken into care, I shall personally destroy the hound.”

It's probably meant as a joke, but Lars and Katinka don't appear to get it. Their gaze follows Alexander as he goes off to fetch the champagne.

We give Rickardt a sign. He backs out into the cold store and lets the door close behind him. Tilte and I duck behind the piles of napkins and tablecloths.

A moment passes and Alexander emerges. He has the champagne in his hands. But now his face is the same color as the vacuum-packed sheep's brains.

He walks around the counter and up to the table, where he remains standing.

“There's a carcass in the cold store,” he says.

His voice is loud and firm. The hymn makers would call it sepulchral.

Bullimilla has heard, and now she approaches the table with a look that makes you relieved for Alexander Flounderblood's sake that she hasn't got one of those big meat cleavers in her hand.

“I should hope so, too,” she says. “There's over three tons of the finest organic meat in there.”

“Human meat,” says Alexander.

The rather peculiar silence of before now builds. Tilte and I sense Katinka and Lars thinking that Alexander perhaps might not be the kind of person who ought to be walking around freely. And Bullimilla glares at him as though considering whether human meat in the cold store might not be a good idea for the future, starting with Alexander Flounderblood.

“It may be the woman from the carriage,” says Thorkild all of a sudden. “An elderly woman was sitting beside me. She was at death's door. Professional viewpoint.”

“And then,” Katinka says in a kind voice, “she went into the cold store to lie down and expire?”

“To
sit
down, actually,” says Alexander. “The woman is seated in a wheelchair.”

Katinka rises slowly.

“Let's go and have a look, shall we?” she says.

She nods at Alexander. “You, me, and our hostess.”

At once, Tilte and I pounce to the door of the cold store like a pair of cats. And before the others are even on their feet, we've waved the count and Maria out, wheeled the chair behind the table with all the napkins on it, pulled a tablecloth over the two of them, and ducked back into hiding again.

Alexander, Katinka, and Bullimilla enter the cold store. The door closes behind them. A minute passes. The door opens and they emerge. Now Alexander resembles the meat that's hanging from the hooks and waiting to be made into meals. They return to the table without so much as a glance in our direction.

“It was a mistake,” says Katinka. “Perhaps Mr. Flounderblood was hallucinating.”

The mood for champagne has passed. The bottles and crystal glasses stand untouched and abandoned. The party breaks up. Only Katinka and Lars remain seated.

People have begun to enter the saloon. But Lars and Katinka pay them no heed. It's obvious they're shaken. Lars opens a bottle and pours two glasses of champagne.

“We should have listened to that policeman on the island,” he says. “The one with the dog that looks like a rug. This lot shouldn't have been let out again. Not even the bishop. This is a job for forensic psychiatry, not us.”

“He's a brain specialist,” says Katinka. “The bald one with the killer look in his eyes.”

They sigh.

“We could apply to the fraud squad instead,” says Lars. “It'd be cushy. Cardboard boxes full of documents, instead of these lunatics. People who deceive others are often quite charming. But those who deceive themselves …”

They stare into each other's eyes and raise their glasses.

“The children,” says Lars. “You'd hardly wish they were your own kids, but they're not exactly criminals, are they? In a way, you could say they brought us together. Is the phone tap still not turning anything up?”