The Elephant Keepers' Children (44 page)

Obviously, with parents such as ours, Tilte and I share a long history of episodes involving neglect. Nonetheless, this ranks right up there alongside the most shocking examples. In fact, the only other incident I am able to recall offhand that even comes close was when Tilte and I had been allowed to go to Århus on our own for the first time and we called home from a phone box on the main pedestrian street. The lady who was going to perform the piercings we had spontaneously decided we wanted said she would need the consent of our parents, and when Father answered the phone he told us he wasn't convinced it was a good idea, but that he would have a word with Mother. On that occasion, Tilte and I very nearly turned ourselves in to Bodil Hippopotamus at the Town Hall in Grenå with a request for the authorities to remove us from our home, but at the last minute Father called back and said it was fine by them. The sense of parental failure that time in Århus was immense, but this is worse. And no one's calling back this time. Climbing into the car, I'd say we were weighed down.

It would be feeble to say
that Filthøj Castle is guarded. The palace of Sleeping Beauty in its heyday would have been an open invitation compared to this. The lake is buzzing with police motorboats, a wire fence has been erected along its length, and the whole area is jumping with dogs, helicopters, and armed police, as well as all those who are more inconspicuously clad. A security point has been set up on the causeway that leads across the lake and into the castle, and there's a Portakabin for the security guards.

“We'll never get in,” says Tilte.

But then I take a folded piece of paper from my pocket.

“These are identification numbers,” I say. “I borrowed them from Anaflabia and Thorkild Thorlacius.”

They all stare at me.

“Petrus,” says Tilte, “I have to say that you've come on no end these past couple of days, though exactly where you're heading is perhaps rather more unclear to me.”

We drive up to the barrier. Tilte quotes our ID numbers.

Documents are studied. And then a voice says, “You don't look like your photos.”

Normally, it would be marvelous to hear such a friendly and familiar voice from back home. But under the present circumstances it's hard to feel pleased at all. The voice belongs to Finn Flatfoot.

The explanation is a simple one. Whenever the Danish police have a major task on hand, the finest officers in the land are summoned together. And who finer to head up the team guarding the main entrance to the Grand Synod than Finn Metro Poltrop and his police dog Titmouse, whose characteristic wheezing, like an electric fan blowing through a doormat, comes through loud and clear to me now.

“We're so fortunate, Finn,” says Tilte, “as to become more beautiful by the day. The photographers can't keep up. No sooner is our picture taken than we look ten years younger.”

She's turned on the charm, which includes a smile they could broadcast in harsh winters to keep the shipping routes free of ice.

But Finn isn't thawing.

“Tilte,” he says. “And Peter and Hans. What are you doing here?”

It's a question that could take a while to answer, and we haven't the time.

And then Rickardt surprisingly enters the field.

“I am Rickardt Three Lions,” he announces. “Owner of this seat and cohost of this conference. These people are my guests!”

This is a side of Count Rickardt never before revealed to any resident of Finø. It is the part of him that was born with
a servant at each finger and peasants to take care of the hard graft.

The hard graft in this instance is to raise the barrier, and Finn Flatfoot is about to, when all of a sudden he pauses.

“But I just let you in,” he says, “with the countess.”

Finn turns a monitor in our direction and indicates a camera above the gate.

“We take pictures in case we need to check.”

The man on the screen certainly has Rickardt's dark mane. But whereas Rickardt is slim to the point of emaciation, this man is more muscular. Moreover, he sports a mustache, a facial accoutrement worn by only a minority of Danes, which to our considerable regret is all too familiar to me and Hans and Tilte. The long, blond hair of the countess at his side is plaited in the way of an Alpine dairy maid.

“Well, I never diddle,” says Count Rickardt. “It's the pastor from Finø! And his wife!”

And then he presents the ultimate proof of him being in complete command of his surroundings.

“It's your parents! They must have forgotten to return my ID card.”

Tilte takes hold of Rickardt and pulls him toward her.

“You mean you've seen Mother and Father?” she says in a quiet voice.

“They came down to the boathouse. To check the tunnel. Surely you know your mother's in charge of the alarm systems?”

We all fall silent. Our difficulties are mounting. Finn Flatfoot won't let us in. And Mother and Father have slipped past him, perhaps even Black Henrik, too.

By her own standards, Tilte was rather subdued on the boat trip to Filthøj. I sense that she is considering the future of Jakob Bordurio. But now she leans forward to the open window of the car.

“Finn,” she says, “wouldn't you say that guarding the main entrance here was a job of utmost responsibility? And that if you fulfil that responsibility satisfactorily, they shall be obliged to honor you with a medal?”

Her voice is sweet as filled chocolates.

“I believe something like that has been mentioned, yes,” says Finn.

“The Order of Merit, for instance,” says Tilte. “That would indeed look splendid on that suit of yours with the large check pattern. The one you wear in church. But do you know what, Finn? If they find out you let Mother and Father in with false IDs, you won't only be saying goodbye to the Order of Merit. Most likely you'll be given the sack or moved to Anholt. Perhaps even to Læsø.”

Silence once more.

“What you can do,” says Tilte, “is to let us in so we can find Mother and Father and get them out again as quickly as possible. Before they're discovered.”

The barrier goes up.

As we drive slowly across the causeway
I turn my head back, and what I see behind us both surprises and concerns me.

It's a taxi. Not in itself an alarming sight, but it's hurtling along as though its passengers have forced the driver to ignore all the rules of the road and put his license on the line. Now it screeches to a halt in front of the barrier and out of it pile Anaflabia Borderrud, Thorkild Thorlacius, Alexander Flounderblood, and Bodil Hippopotamus.

They move in a way that from a distance looks like trance dancing but most probably is an expression of rage, and now they stand pointing in our direction.

By now, Tilte and I are convinced that the basis of all spiritual training lies in the ability of the human heart to empathize and understand the feelings of others. I can easily imagine how the six individuals behind us are feeling—I say six, assuming that Vera and Thorkild's wife, too, are about to emerge from the vehicle—in view of the suffering they have endured during the last twenty-four hours. And I would very much have liked to tell them that one's chances of discovering that the door is opening may be enhanced by training one's inner balance and
neutrality and one's ability to let go of such powerful emotions as those that now compel them to dance about in front of the barrier. But I am out of earshot, and I can see that they are now surrounded by police, and it would seem, moreover, that the officers in question are acting in full accordance with modern security philosophy, which states that it's better to be a conflict solver than to come across as an officer of the law, and as such they are now attempting to talk things down and reach agreement. And yet Anaflabia knocks one of them to the ground with her umbrella, and I see another officer slump to his knees, possibly due to Thorkild Thorlacius having delivered a right hook to his abdomen. And then more widespread scuffling breaks out. The last thing I see before we cross the bridge and enter the courtyard is Alexander Flounderblood breaking loose in a magnificent escape attempt, throwing himself into the lake and proceeding to swim away.

And then we drive through a gateway into the courtyard.

It's always a moving experience
to see the surroundings in which one's closest friends—in this instance Count Rickardt—spent their childhoods and smoked their first joints. And I must say that Filthøj is a proper castle of the kind fit for kings and queens. The courtyard is the size of a football pitch and the buildings as big as handball arenas, though with gilded elements, inscriptions, and ornaments, and the steps into the main house would be wide enough for fifty guests to proceed to the main door with everyone holding hands.

On the steps is another security point, and we're happy and relieved to discover that it's manned by Lars and Katinka of the Police Intelligence Service.

The reason we feel happy is that their presence at this strategic point means that Black Henrik can't possibly have slipped by. For while it may be conceivable for him to have passed Titmouse and Finn Flatfoot without being noticed, it's quite unimaginable that he could ever pull the wool over the eyes of Lars and Katinka. At this moment, Polly and her white ladies are going through in the company of four police officers carrying the coffin of Maria from Maribo, and the way Lars and Katinka study their documents it's plain that nothing is left to chance.

The question now is how we ourselves are going to get in, it being fairly reasonable to assume that Lars and Katinka might feel that things have happened between us in the last twenty-four hours that require explanation.

Tilte and I exchange a glance. What we communicate is that we're now going to come clean and tell it like it is. I run a hand through my hair, moisten my lips, and prepare to smooth the troubled waters with well-chosen words.

Because Tilte and I both have our eyes on the coffin, as though to bid Maria a final farewell, we notice immediately that the lid begins to tremble.

It's obvious the police officers carrying the coffin have noticed it, too, and yet they wisely resolve to ignore the fact, a choice one can well understand, for do we not all of us shrink away when confronted with the inexplicable?

Again, Tilte and I send each other a look.

For a moment, the situation is uncertain. The natural reaction of those such as Tilte and I who are practiced in matters spiritual is to seek to restore one's inner balance, and with this aim in mind I now proceed toward a peaceful bench against the outer wall of the main building.

A woman is seated on the bench. She is wearing what looks like a witch's garb, with the pointed hat pulled down over her eyes. One of the problems with all religions is that women are so poorly situated, so whenever one sees a woman of prominent office, one is invariably pleasantly surprised and will often wish to show one's respect, and this is what I endeavor to do now, regardless of my own personal distress, by bowing deeply.

By this movement, I am accorded a view of the woman's face underneath the brim of her hat, and it transpires that she is Maria from Maribo.

I take her hand and find it to be cold as a cube of ice. Tilte appears beside me and grasps the situation at a single glance.

“Henrik,” she says. “He's put her in one of Rickardt's costumes. And taken her place in the coffin.”

Now it's imperative we win the hearts of Lars and Katinka.

At that moment, the taxi from before pulls up in front of the steps and out pile, once again, Anaflabia, Thorlacius, Vera the Secretary, Thorlacius's wife, Alexander Flounderblood, and Bodil Fisker.

We never learn how they managed to get through the gate. Perhaps some people simply possess such an abundance of
charisma and what is sometimes referred to as nobility of soul that they have no need of identity papers, their mere presence being sufficient to identify them and moreover allow them to proceed—as they do now across the courtyard of the castle—with a natural right to be present in their surroundings.

If this indeed is the correct explanation, it must be added that Lars and Katinka have a different understanding. In their defense, however, it should be recalled that Alexander Flounderblood has been out for a swim in the lake. How he returned to dry land is a matter of uncertainty. All we can say is that he has had no time to clean himself up in any way that might make him seem like the confidence-inspiring individual his appearance otherwise tends to indicate.

Few Danish lakes remain crystal clear all year-round, those of Finø perhaps being the only exception. The average Danish lake has its ups and downs during the course of a year, and in bad periods may look mostly like a natural slurry tank, and the lake of Filthøj Castle is going through just such a period now. Alexander Flounderblood, therefore, resembles something that would frighten his own mother, and when Lars and Katinka catch sight of him and Thorlacius and Anaflabia, they're out of their blocks as though the starter's pistol had just been fired in an Olympic final.

Which leaves me and Tilte and Basker and Hans and Ashanti and Jakob Bordurio and Pallas Athene with a completely open goal leading straight into the heart of the Grand Synod.

The room we now enter
, the same room we have seen on our parents' video file and that has hardly been absent from our thoughts these past twelve hours or however many have passed, is larger and more splendid than we had envisaged. It is a room one could imagine a great many of Leonora Ticklepalate's clients might consider as a potential backdrop to their private coaching sessions. The ceiling is as high as a cathedral's, and the location commands a magnificent view of the evening sky above the Sound.

The exhibition case, too, is larger than we have been able to assess, and the light that shines from it is brighter.