The Elephant Keepers' Children (35 page)

On the street below, a couple of patrol cars pass by with sirens blaring. The noise, and perhaps the first germ of paranoia as regards officers of the law, stuns Thorkild Thorlacius into immediate silence. I become aware of the extent of the police presence at Kongens Nytorv. And now I sense the pride and tension that prevail over Copenhagen on account of the impending conference. It feels as if the whole city is trembling.

At the same time, I sense, or rather hear, something quite different indeed, something that is at once banal and so surprising that to begin with I am unable to comprehend its significance. The calamity of police sirens that bursts into the bridal suite from without, which has compelled Thorkild Thorlacius to pause in his lament, issues simultaneously from the receiver of the telephone in his wife's hand.

The sound dies away and Thorkild returns to the now.

“Then there's the matter of the children,” he says. “The fugitives. We have reason to believe that they are now in Copenhagen. We almost certainly identified them on board the ship. In disguise, of course. It is my considered opinion—as a psychiatrist—that they pose a serious threat to their surroundings.”

Words are uttered at the other end. Words that compel Thorkild Thorlacius to sit down.

“I see,” he says.

He fumbles for paper and pen, which again is no easy matter with your hands cuffed behind your back.

“Why a code?” he asks. “My name is usually more than sufficient. I am known by the public. From television.”

More words are uttered at the other end, and it's plain that they anger Thorkild Thorlacius, because when Albert Winehappy terminates his call, Thorkild attempts to head-butt the receiver.

“Disrespectful,” he splutters. “He told me to put a sock in it. To mind my own business. Even had the audacity to suggest
I find myself another hobby instead of assaulting policemen. He proposed
lap dancing
. Whatever that might be.”

“That's his Jesuit nature,” says Anaflabia Borderrud. “Rumor has it he was a Catholic priest before joining the police.”

“In the corridors of government they call him the Cardinal.”

The voice is Alexander Flounderblood's, and it comes from inside the adjoining room, which is why I haven't been aware of him until now.

“He's come all the way up the ladder,” Alexander goes on. “Now has one of the top jobs in Interpol. Called home to oversee security for the conference.”

His voice is full of awe. One can only conclude that top jobs abroad are a permanent fixture of Alexander Flounderblood's most intimate dreams.

“He went on about a code,” says Thorkild. “A code by which we are to identify ourselves when entering the conference. I have never before needed to identify myself on any official occasion. I shall speak to my dear friend the minister of the interior on the matter.”

I remove the lid from the dish of hot scrambled eggs and small cocktail sausages. The aroma draws Thorkild Thorlacius out of his chair.

This allows me to filch the piece of paper with the access code and stick it in my pocket. And to peer into the adjoining room. Alexander Flounderblood is lying outstretched on the couch, and Vera the Secretary is massaging his scalp.

This is a sight that fills me with immediate and deep-felt joy. It speaks volumes of the transformational power that resides in the relationship between a man and a woman. Less than four hours ago, there had been little cause to doubt Vera when she stated to the police that she did not care for physical contact. And until this moment, I and most others on Finø have been convinced that with the possible exception of Baroness it would be impossible to dig up another living soul who would voluntarily caress Alexander Flounderblood.

Both prejudices have now been put to shame.

This fact elevates me, yet the sudden lift in spirits causes a small measure of my rock-solid composure to crumble. What happens is that I briefly remove my sunglasses so as to send Alexander Flounderblood a wink of congratulation.

Instantly, I realize that I may have been pushing my luck and hasten to whisk the trolley out into the corridor where I return the jacket to Max, shove Ashanti's sunglasses into place on his nose, stick five hundred kroner into his breast pocket, and whisper, “See you at the match.” And then I push the button to summon the lift.

Behind me comes a gargling sound, a rattle of handcuffs, and then a thud as something heavy falls to the floor. From which I deduce that Alexander Flounderblood has attempted to leap to his feet straight from prone position.

“The waiter! The boy! It's him! Peter Finø! The little devil!”

I hear Anaflabia and Thorlacius trying to hold him back.

“Calm down, man!” Thorlacius commands. “We're all under duress. Studies show that in situations such as the present, hallucinations are commonplace …”

The lift arrives and I step inside. Alexander is now in the corridor, and once again one has to admire the meticulousness of the Ministry of Education in selecting their staff, because despite being bound like a hog the man moves with the speed of a bullet. He pins Max to the wall with his chest. Anaflabia and Thorkild Thorlacius are right on his heels.

Max removes Ashanti's sunglasses. Alexander stares at the face in front of him.

“But that's impossible,” he groans.

The doors of the lift close. The last thing I hear is the sound of Max's voice.

“This is assault. I'm calling the police. From the look of things, I'd say they know you already. Though for five hundred kroner I could start to consider putting it all behind me.”

Hans and Tilte and Ashanti and Basker
and I are sitting in the car looking out on Kongens Nytorv. The future seems mixed. In a moment, Hans will start the engine and drive us to the Store Kongensgade Police Station. Four individuals will thereby be prevented from vandalizing religious treasures to the tune of a billion kroner, if I've understood things correctly, and that's the positive aspect. But then comes the search for Mother and Father, and the proceedings against them, the prison sentences they will receive, and long spells in a children's home for me and a youth detention center for Tilte, not to mention a rather bleak outlook, at best a kennel, for Basker.

We've done all we could. We couldn't have done any better.

Between what we've done and what we're about to do comes this brief halftime interlude. The studies Tilte and I have conducted have revealed that all the great mystics have pointed to the halftime interval and said that in it resides the very particular chance to sense that worry is of our own making, and that only one place exists in which one may be relieved of it, and that place is what they call the here and now.

The next moment, the flow of thought has carried you away with it, you're taken by the splendor of Kongens Nytorv, by the red double-decker bus, by all the tourists, the pigeons, and the black van whose registration number begins with the letters TH.

But then the chance comes around once more to haul yourself ashore into the present, into the car, and to look upon your own brother and sister and sense the pleasure of being present in the here and now.

And at that moment, Ashanti begins to sing. She does so quietly, and the listener has no hope of picking out the words, but my assumption is that it's some kind of voodoo song, hopefully not a hymn in praise of Haiti in which that island is portrayed as a baby cooing on the changing table of the Caribbean, but at any rate Ashanti's voice now fills the car like some enchanting liquid.

We try to join in on the chorus. The verses are many and we allow the final note to die away. A lot may be said about us, but we go to the gallows with a song on our lips.

Hans grips the wheel. The future is now.

And then Tilte leans forward.

“We still have an hour left,” she says. “We agreed on two hours.”

None of the rest of us recalls having entered into any agreement. What we recall is Tilte saying “two hours.” But then, the forces of nature may only seldom be resisted.

“There's something I need to do,” Tilte says. “We'll meet back in the apartment on Toldbodgade. In an hour. Then the police can take over.”

This sends the rest of us into a state of slight shock. But once again we manage to haul ourselves ashore and back into the present, where it is said there should be no worries. The first of us to crawl ashore is Hans.

“Ashanti and I,” he says, “will spend that time putting her family in the picture. They've arrived now with the delegation from Haiti.”

One senses the wisdom of the project. Mummy and Daddy from Port-au-Prince have doubtless envisaged marrying their little girl off to a man of good prospects, and then here she comes with a two-meter-tall stargazer as poor as a church mouse.

Tilte is about to open the door. I cough discreetly.

Everyone looks up at me. It's like in the fairy tales: the youngest son's a nobody. No one imagines anything other than that little Peter is going back to Toldbodgade to pass away the time and keep out of the way while Hans chats up the in-laws.

But out of my pocket I now produce the colored band from Rickardt's cigar.

It's a flash of gold, with a red line drawing of a woman in profile. On her head she wears an antique Greek helmet. Underneath are the words:
Pallas Athene. Abakosh
. And a phone number. And an address on Gammel Strand. I take out the sheet of paper from the concealed room at the rectory. I hold it up for the others to see what is written at the bottom in pen:
[email protected]
.

I extend my hand to Tilte.

“Katinka's phone,” I say.

I dial the number from the cigar band and switch on the speaker.

It's hard to say exactly what's going on inside me. But if you play football, I'm sure you recall that there comes a time when you find the guts to go for the goal all by yourself. For my own part, this occurred some time during my first season on the first team. It was one of those magical moments I've told you about. There was a long pass from behind, the midfield had pulled back into defense, there was no one with me, and yet I knew immediately I had to run forward to receive. It wasn't a logical feeling, and there was no time to think about it. The only thing I felt was that the door was opening. I took the ball down like it was a little bird settling on my foot, then passed two defenders who had me marked as though they could swat me like a fly, rounded the keeper, and followed the ball all the way into the back of the net. Not until I was standing there did I truly understand that I had gone through the door. Not the real door, the one that leads out into freedom, but one that takes you into the hall, an anteroom of true emancipation.

This is the kind of moment that now occurs inside the car. I sense that this is a thing I must do on my own.

“Abakosh.”

The voice is a woman's and it spans at least two things: the first is a secret, and the second is a project that entices others to see what the secret might be.

“This is Peter,” I say. “I need to speak to Pallas Athene.”

“Have you got a password, dear?”

I look down at Mother's and Father's note.

“Brahmacharya,”
I say.

Silence. Then the voice appears again.

“I'm very sorry, but Pallas Athene is busy at the moment. How about one of the other goddesses?”

I'm dribbling the ball in the dark. But I feel I'm on the right track.

“It has to be her,” I say. “I've got an appointment.”

Silence again. But I hear her fingers on a keyboard.

“Can you be here in fifteen minutes?”

“I can be there in a jiffy.”

“She's only got twenty minutes, though.”

“Twenty minutes with a goddess,” I say. “That's as good as an eternity with a mere mortal, wouldn't you say?”

That gets me in and deflates her professional demeanor. She giggles.

“I should say,” she says. “Would you like us to send a car?”

“My driver's just parked the Merc here on Kongens Nytorv.”

“Should I open a bottle of bubbly?”

The others in the car are agog. I can see the wonder in their eyes. And I'm sure they see the wonder in mine.

“Of course,” I say. “But I'm strictly nonalcoholic myself. The outdoor season's already under way, and I need to be at my peak in two weeks. And to stay there. I'm a monk at the moment.”

“Looking forward to seeing you,” she says.

We say our goodbyes. I open the car door.

“We're going with you,” says Hans.

I shake my head.

“You're going to talk to your in-laws, Hansel. That should be enough for anyone.”

“But you're only fourteen,” Hans says.

I straighten my shoulders.

“There comes a time,” I say, “when a man must find his own way.”

I've never understood the system
behind Copenhagen street names. Where is the blue courtyard on the square called Blågårds Plads, if that's what
blå gård
means? Where is the king of Kongens Nytorv, the
King's New Square
, which isn't even new? And if
strand
means “beach,” then what's Gammel Strand all about?
Gammel
, as anyone knows, means “old,” and maybe the houses there were old once, but they've certainly been given a face-lift since then, and not only have their faces been lifted, they've also had their insides and all their vital parts replaced, so anyone would think they were built only yesterday and the owners had just been handed the keys.

Those keys are most likely made of gold, for the brass plates next to the doors bear the names of stockbrokers and high-flying lawyers, and the gateways are all equipped with wrought-iron gates and security cameras. Where I now stand there are two closed-circuit television cameras looking at me.