The Elephant Keepers' Children (28 page)

If like Tilte and I you happen to have delved deep into religious mysteries in the course of your studies on the Internet and at the Finø Town Library, you may be aware that a majority of the true greats, and allow me merely to name Jesus, Muhammad, and Buddha, have stated that one has no need to change one's personality at all, and that a person can easily attain the highest levels of insight even when equipped with a temper as fiery as Einar Flogginfellow's.

This is an aspect of mysticism I personally appreciate. For although many members of Finø FC believe that the Pastor's Peter has come a long way with his personality, some pockets of what could be termed rage do still linger, and this is what
now flares up behind the stacks of cloth napkins when I hear that the Police Intelligence Service has tapped our phones.

At this moment, my gaze falls upon Katinka's handbag, a slim, elegant thing of shiny black leather deposited at her feet. Many women would have preferred to hang it over the back of the chair. But Katinka is a detective constable attached to police intelligence, so hers is under the table where it cannot be seen unless one happens to have concealed oneself at floor level, and where she is able to maintain contact with it by means of her foot, thereby to ensure that none of its contents are stolen.

Under normal circumstances it would be rather difficult to get one's hands on that bag. But at this moment I am positioned favorably, less than an arm's length away from it. And Katinka is absorbed by Lars's presence. She has removed her foot from the bag in order to wrap her leg around Lars's under cover of the tablecloth.

So I reach out, open the bag, and investigate its contents with my hand. I find keys, something that could be a notebook or a diary, and in a separate pocket what must be cosmetics, a mirror, a nail file. And then my fingers encounter something cold, a rather pleasant grip surface, only then I feel the hair rise on the nape of my neck, because it is most surely the butt of a pistol. I move on and discover two mobile phones, a hairbrush, and a flat piece of plastic.

Katinka's foot is returning. I go for one of the phones. Admittedly, it's all very Old Testament: a phone for a phone. But the thing is we are no better than we are, and as the great
spiritual figures have pointed out, there's no reason for any of us to change.

Tilte gives a sign to say we can wait no longer. Two romantic police officers can dwell over two bottles of champagne for a very long time indeed, and the saloon is filling up. We pull three black tablecloths over Maria, snatch a handful of canapés that we wrap up in a napkin, wait until Bullimilla is distracted at the other end of the room, and then push the covered wheelchair away through the restaurant.

We are followed by the inquiring gaze of Lars and Katinka, and so penetrating is that gaze that it may even have been capable of revealing Maria underneath her tablecloths. But to Tilte's surprise and mine, Rickardt smooths out the wrinkles.

“I'm going to be singing,” he explains to the officers. “An accompaniment to dinner. This is my little portable stage.”

We're across the room and at the exit when a person steps into the saloon and must give way to our little procession, and that person turns out to be Jakob Aquinas Bordurio Madsen. He says nothing. But to give you a sense of what might be happening inside him at this moment, a crisp clatter of beads is heard as he drops his rosary on the floor.

The last thing I hear as we edge the wheelchair out into the corridor is a loud whisper from Katinka.

“Lars,” she says, “we could try a different profession altogether. Gardening, perhaps.”

We're out and away before I can hear his reply.

When it comes to certain issues
, Tilte and I have been prompted to say to the major world religions that we encounter difficulty providing our support, and one such issue is the question of whether justice exists.

We rush back to Rickardt's cabin, and as we turn the corner of the corridor, his door opens from inside and out come Lama Svend-Holger, Polly Pigonia, and Sinbad Al-Blablab.

Obviously, it should please anyone to see Polly and Sinbad and Svend-Holger ambling together through life, shoulder to shoulder in the manner of best friends, indicating that the good mood Tilte and I established during our drive in Bermuda's hearse prevails and that there is every reason to hope that the personal goodwill we have worked hard to attain still holds. However, the fate of such goodwill is in question, because in a moment they're going to discover us to be little more than body snatchers.

Count Rickardt is stricken by fearful paralysis, and one senses that Tilte has yet to fully recover from her latest chance encounter with Jakob Bordurio. So all responsibility now rests upon my shoulders, and this is where one might come to
doubt the notion of cosmic justice, because we have entered choppy waters and the wind is beginning to howl.

One of the secrets of playing on the wing is to lurk on the edge of offside like a cat reclining in the sun, and then be away after a quick, deep pass almost before the ball has left the grass, and this is exactly what happens now. Before Svend-Holger and Polly and Sinbad close the door behind them and discover our presence, I pull Tilte and Rickardt and Maria back around the corner and tumble through the nearest door.

It's important when relating such ill-starred events as these not to awaken suspicion of wishing merely to entertain, and it is for this reason I have taken every opportunity to refer to the research Tilte and I have conducted in the source texts of high mysticism. Now, such opportunity arises again. The room in which we stand is pitch-dark, and to begin with I can't find the light switch. It is a situation that cannot fail to remind me of the fact that a majority of spiritual heavyweights whose lifetimes have spanned the invention of electric light have said that truly escaping the prison feels like having a personal light switch installed. Whereas before one fumbled around in the dark, one can now turn on the light and have a whale of a time.

I have been frank about the fact that Tilte and I have yet to arrive at that place. Nevertheless, we feel we are on our way, and this is confirmed to us now as I find the switch and turn on the light, because after that everything is suddenly so much clearer in so many different ways.

We are standing in the gynecological clinic, which as I have mentioned was formerly an appurtenance of the harem
belonging to the
White Lady
's previous owner. Before us are two couches of the kind seen in doctors' surgeries. There are stainless-steel tables with sinks, the walls are white tiled, and on the ceiling is a large surgical lamp. In glass-fronted cupboards, shiny instruments are secured with black elastic straps so as to remain in place on the seas, and on a hanger is a white coat.

The count and Tilte are still not quite in the game, and outside the door I hear footsteps approach. A person more certain of heavenly justice would perhaps remain standing and take in the atmosphere, but not I. I pull the white doctor's coat from the hanger, noting with relief that it's one of those that opens at the back. I put Maria in it, throwing her hat into a pedal bin and pushing her hair up under a little white cap that was also on the hanger. Then I snatch a surgical mask from a box and place it over Maria's mouth. The finishing touch is the stethoscope I hang around her neck.

The overall result is not bad at all, though of course you wouldn't be interested in Maria wielding the knife during your scrotal hernia surgery, but at a glance she can pass.

And a glance is in fact just what she receives, because now there's a knock at the door. It opens, and Svend-Holger, Polly, and Sinbad enter.

All three are intelligent individuals with deep personalities. Nonetheless, one can quite understand their surprise. It's clear that none of them have met Count Rickardt Three Lions before, and the sight alone of his silver lamé dinner jacket and cummerbund could prompt anyone to doubt their own soundness of mind and powers of judgment. Moreover, it is clear
that none of them recognizes Tilte and me in our disguises, although it seems equally obvious that they have the strange feeling of having seen us before.

In this precarious situation, it seems only reasonable that they should now address the natural authority among those present.

“Doctor,” says Polly to Maria, “I don't suppose you would know who has the cabin around the corner?”

Now Count Rickardt awakens.

“It's mine,” he says.

Polly and Svend-Holger and Sinbad stare blankly at the count. Questions dance on the tips of their tongues. Polly asks the most obvious one.

“What's the coffin doing there?”

Tilte has been catching her breath on the substitutes' bench, and now she returns to the field.

“On the advice of the ship's doctor, Rickardt here has been playing ragas for the deceased. To provide her with solace in her postmortal state.”

“Doctor,” Polly then says, “we are most grateful for your care, and I should like to take this opportunity to discuss with you the issue of life after death.”

Tilte straightens her shoulders. She opens the door into the corridor.

“The doctor is collecting herself to perform difficult surgery,” she says.

Difficult surgery clears the deck. Sinbad and Sven-Holger turn and leave. Polly, however, is reluctant.

“This, I assure you, is a unique opportunity to continue the dialogue between spirituality and the natural sciences. You are an unprejudiced person, Doctor. By no means uncritical, but driven by an open mind. I sense it so clearly.”

Tilte bundles Polly through the door.

“Later, perhaps,” she says. “The doctor won't be going anywhere. And she's always one for a good chat.”

Tilte, Basker, and I
have collapsed on the heart-shaped harem bed in our cabin. We've agreed that we're too tired to manhandle Maria back into place tonight and that Rickardt will sing for her in the clinic instead. We've said good night to Rickardt and polished off the canapés, and to say we're tired is hardly the word, because the truth is we're near fatally exhausted and ready for the last rites.

But thought persists. That's the problem. All research, mine and Tilte's included, reveals that the great mystics have pointed out that we are each of us thought factories whose machinery never idles, and in all the noise you can never hear whether silence might contain even the bare beginnings of an answer to weightier questions such as why we are here in the world and why we must leave it again, and why someone is now knocking on our door.

The door opens and in walks Count Rickardt Three Lions with his archlute.

“I don't like it on my own,” he says. “It's as though she's watching me. A message came in from my inner advisory level and told me I should sleep with you.”

Basker is lying flat out between Tilte and me. We would never dream of having animals in our bed, but Basker's not an animal, he's a sort of person, and now we shove him aside to make room for the count.

“I was doing my best,” Rickardt says. “A potpourri of Milarepa, Byzantine highlights from Mount Athos, and Ramana Maharshi's odes to Arunachala, but she just wasn't swinging.”

At that moment, Rickardt notices the newspaper clipping with the photo of the circular exhibition case and Ashanti and the two bodyguards.

“That's where I'm to sing,” he says. “In the old chapel of the castle. The acoustics are magnificent.”

Tilte and I don't sit up. But we do fall very silent indeed.

“It's one of Filthøj's most stylish rooms,” Rickardt says. “A most beautiful setting for the Grand Synod.”

A moment passes during which we are mute. Tilte is the first to regain the power of speech.

“Rickardt,” she says, “what's under the floor in that room?”

“Historical casemates,” says Rickardt. “And the ancient sewers, later rebuilt as vaults. Very atmospheric. The earl of Bluffwell is buried there. He was on a visit to Denmark sometime in the eighteenth century when he died of alcohol poisoning. It's a magnificent space. We used to dry our pot down there when I was a boy. Not to mention playing doctor with the little sons and daughters of the kitchen staff. The chambers are well ventilated, the humidity keeps stable, and the temperature's actually rather pleasant.”

“Rickardt,” says Tilte, “did you tell Mother about these vaults?”

“I showed her them. They were looking for a safe place to put all the treasures in case of burglary or fire. So I said to her, we've got just the place you need. And the openings are there in the floor already, where there used to be stairs. I even told her how they could do it. Your mother was very impressed by how clever I could be. It reminded me of when I was a boy and my own mother used to say, ‘Rickardt, it won't be easy for you to find a place in the world big enough for that brain of yours.' ”

“When did you actually show the vaults to Mother?” I ask.

“We were over there together. On three occasions. Such a pleasure it was, too, to travel with your mother. A very attractive woman, if you don't mind my saying. If I hadn't chosen you two first, there's no telling what might have happened. Then again, perhaps it needn't be a hindrance at all. Just imagine, mother and daughter and two sons in one go. What a kinky little harem that would be! Just the ticket for a ravenous sexuality such as mine. And ships do encourage that sort of thing, don't they?”

“Rickardt,” says Tilte. “Is there a way out of the vaults?”

Rickardt lowers his voice and winks.

“Don't tell anyone now, will you, my little fancies. Officially, there's no way out. But we discovered the tunnel when we were children. It leads due east. A secret passage, if you like. Actually just an old sewer, bricked up but with a concealed door. Probably dating back to the Dano-Swedish Wars. We used it when our parents kept us in and we wanted to go dancing at Vedbæk Marina. It comes out at the shore, you see, inside the
castle's boathouse, right on the Sound. We kept a little rubber dinghy there with a great big outboard motor, and glad rags in waterproof bags. We'd be through the tunnel in no time on our skateboards, with lamps on our heads like miners. It slopes away, you see. But all this is strictly confidential, of course. It leads straight to the underground security box now. Not that I suppose it would matter if anyone got that far. It's all reinforced steel and armored concrete. The box, that is. Burglarproof. Fireproof. The works. And two tons in weight. They had to winch it in from the courtyard with a crane.”