The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (3 page)

He is a regular guest of these dissections, even after Laust falls ill and must abandon the course. With his botanizing pad and his pencils he sits in the dim light and draws detailed anatomical sketches. The professor praises them and arranges for the room, a damp crypt whose origins are lost in the gloom of the Middle Ages, to be properly lit with modern lamps. He encourages Morten to enrol as an alumnus. Yet admission is restricted by quota, and objections of a finger-wagging, admonitory nature issue from the schoolmaster's house in Lier, and Morten knows that the relative financial ease in which he exists is conditional upon his divinity studies being completed with a minimum of diversion. He has been a matriculated student for two years now, the time in which many complete their studies, but as long as he remains and does not abandon his course, his father's patience with low marks and deferments appears to be almost boundless. He reports to the Procurator Gill on the first weekday of each month, and receives his allowance alongside detailed accounts of his progress at the university.

The printer's house, a solid, four-storey building erected in accor­dance with the most recent regulations, that is to say after the last fire in 1728, and therefore not held together by hazardously inflammable timber frames, is situated at the back of the courtyard. Its main entrance is by Studiestræde, though the family often uses the rear gateway. Morten has never been inside the door of the printer's home. For a poor student and tenant of a modest room diagonally above the gateway, it is not a place into which he may expect to be invited. Schultz's three daughters frequent the courtyard. They skip and sing, and play at Scotch-hoppers and tag. He hears the slap of their soft laced shoes against the cobbles, their giggles and disagreements. They grow up outside his window. At first, they are little girls he hardly notices, high voices and shrill laughter echoing in the cobbled yard. He hears the swish and snap of their skip­ping rope, and sees their dresses unfurl and fall into place, unfurl and fall into place, revealing their feet and legs in brief glimpses, long curls bobbing at their shoulders, their rather round and prominent brows, their clear, deep-set eyes, the harmonious triangles of nose and mouth exuding good humour and light-heartedness. And then they skip no more. They retire into the shade of the sycamore in the middle of the yard, where there is a bench. Here they sit and read, all three in the same book, the eldest of them flanked by the younger, who lean in from either side, legs swinging to and fro. Morten Falck passes them frequently on his way to the lunch room. He senses their eyes as they follow him and he hears their giggles. He has no idea of their names. He never speaks to them and has no reason ever to do so. There is something about girls yet to reach puberty that annoys and repels him, all that smugness and gaiety, the unquestioned assurance that a wonderful life awaits them, the clean white dresses, the soft and prissy shoes, the ribbons in their hair, all that as yet remains bound up and kept inside, the things of which they are ignorant. In a few short years they will be drawn into the stall and impregnated, swell and give birth, amid ejaculations of blood and slime and stifled gasps, into handkerchiefs splashed with anaesthetic alcohol and perfume. The corpses in the faculty cellar are preferable to the maidens Schultz, Morten tells himself with newly acquired cynicism. There, at least, no false hope resides, only honest, uncompromising decomposition.

One of the girls sticks out from the trinity, the eldest. All of a sudden she has shot up and is a full head taller than her sisters. Morten sees that she has become a woman. She must be the same age as the Crown Prince, he calculates. Confirmed and ready to depart the nest, Miss Schultz moves about the yard as awkwardly as a lame foal. She is apportioned little time alone without the mother appearing in the doorway and calling her name.

Abelone!

Obediently she rises from the bench and goes into the house. Morten tries to imagine what duties the mother calls upon her to carry out. To sew her bridal gown, perhaps. Or to learn to keep house, to fold napkins, make table plans and write invitations. Perhaps she is simply to be kept from the eyes of the print workers and other men, among them the young student, and from the thoughts to which such attention might give rise.

Abelone.

If one wishes to protect the virtue of one's daughter, he thinks to himself, one ought properly to keep her name a secret. Now he knows it and it feels as though he has already been under her skirts to peep.

Abelone.

Morten Falck is twenty-eight. He knows a thing or two about love. He has studied the subject on his nightly wanderings in the city, in gateways and backyards, in the narrow alleys of Øster Kvarter, further out by the ramparts, in the no-man's-land between the rampart path and the steep and grassy embankment where the lighting is poor or else wholly absent. He has conducted observations upon the nature of love and its manifes­tations in the dim passageways and nooks and crannies of old, run-down houses. He has with caution pushed open doors and spied with bated breath. He has seen girls the same age as the sisters Schultz draw up their skirts, bend over and, without a word, at most a suppressed moan, receive a gentleman's erect member. His cynicism has been honed by his spying. He has learned that love is mysterious; sometimes it seems even more humiliating than death as presented in the vaults of Norgesgade. The sums he receives from the Procurator Gill have not been sufficiently generous to allow him to partake of amorous activity himself in any gateway or serving-house yard, but with the supplement of his payment for dragging corpses to the autopsy bench he may on occasion permit himself to purchase the services of a common prostitute. Afterwards, he feels disappointment and shame, slight nausea and the desire to do it again. He learns that not only death smells foul. He feels himself dirty, is relieved each time it is done. He thinks to himself that now he has done it he need do it no more. And yet he does it again. His lust accumulates in the fluids of his body and relentlessly they flow towards the same point. He pays a girl a few marks and an arse is placed at his disposal. He plunges into the darkness and warmth, into the living, yielding flesh that parts and comes together, parts and comes together. He sways slightly on the balls of his feet, he stares down upon the flesh that ripples back and forth and slaps against his own, upon frills and pleats, buckles and buttons, a pale neck patiently lowered, hands that clutch a table edge. His lips draw back from his teeth, he rears his head and groans as if in pain, and then the evil has left him and he steps back, neatens himself, nods a farewell and is gone, liberated for some short measure of time. And always it returns, like water in a gravel pit.

One day he is strolling as usual along Vimmelskaftet in the direction of Amagertorv. The stalls are many and close together, the tables display finery, colourful fabrics, cages of live hens ready for the slaughter, staring cockerels, skinned rabbits in heaps, bundles of weasel and fox furs. The sun beats down upon the rooftops, flies swarm. Vimmelskaftet is a suffo­catingly hot bottleneck in which a person can hardly proceed forward or back. And for this same reason he loves to wander here, in the city's trading centre, taking in the sickly stench of meat, human as well as animal. He pushes his way through hordes of ladies with baskets on their arms and women with bobbing crinoline beneath their skirts. Drunken youngsters wave copies of the latest satirical songs and bray out their sample verses. Peasants and fishermen tramp along in bast shoes, drawing their barrows behind them, laden with wares or piles of empty sacks. In this obstruction of traffic the people of the city meet, some by necessity, others for pleasure or the sake of curiosity. A counsellor of the chan­cellery swings his cane, an officer of the military parades his pigeon-blue uniform, an alehouse potman unloads a barrel from a cart and tips it onto his shoulder. Two whores stroll arm in arm, twirling parasols that are faded and frayed, rustling dirty tulle skirts that draw a wet trail of gutter behind them. Fine ladies pinch their noses demonstratively as they pass, but the officer halts and bows gallantly, removing his hat in a sweeping, ironic gesture. The whores laugh and curtsy and say, Good afternoon, Løjtnant Holm, how is he today, and will he not soon be away to fight the Swede?

Morten follows the two women. He desires to see them find customers. They walk up Store Købmagergade, cross over Kultorvet and continue along Rosengården to the rampart at Skidentorv, where they seat themselves on a bench by Hanens Bastion. Morten passes leisurely by and lifts his hat and is ignored completely. I see, he thinks to himself, offended, the ladies are obviously too fine for a student! He returns home in ill humour. The young Miss Schultz is seated under the sycamore. Her sisters are playing hopscotch, their skirts flapping about their legs. He remains standing and watches them, then shifts his gaze towards the young lady beneath the tree. Their eyes meet. He approaches her, removes his hat, presses it to his chest and bows.

Miss Schultz, I am a tenant of your good father.

I know who he is, she says with a smile. He has lodged here for some years. He is a student, I believe?

Theology, he says, and for the first time is happy to put his studies to good use. Under Mr Swane's tutelage.

She smiles. Is that so? I was confirmed by the same gentleman.

The clear, bright voice of a young girl. He has heard it many times before, but now it speaks to him.

What a coincidence, he says. Perhaps he will marry you, too.

She pulls a face. I am not betrothed.

Oh, but I am sure you will be before long, Miss Schultz.

Does he think so? One can never tell. Some never become betrothed. She looks up at him, an inquisitive expression, as though he were already ordained and stood before her to receive her confession. But why should one marry at all? My mother refuses to say.

The question takes him by surprise. He has never before exchanged a word with the young lady, and now they are almost in intimate conver­sation. It is the accepted opinion, he replies uncertainly, that young women such as Miss Schultz find benefit in being married, that they may find purpose in life and avoid idleness. A spinster is no encouraging sight.

But to bear children, she says bleakly. It makes it even more dis­couraging.

To give birth is the privilege of woman, he says, embarrassed, and surmises that her mother must have neglected to instruct her in suitable and unsuitable topics of discourse.

He looks at her. She has grown rather a lot this last year, though remains lean and boyish of build, hardly yet marriageable, he considers, his eyes darting about the girl's budding endowments. The sun is filtered through the leaf of the sycamore, dabbing her dress and her blonde curls. He thinks he smells a hint of perspiration mingled with the aroma of bluing or whatever else is used to wash the dresses of young girls. Then someone calls.

My mother! She jumps to her feet, but remains for a moment. Goodbye.

He bows. She vanishes through the main door, past Madame Schultz, who fixes him in her gaze. The door shuts. He goes up the stair to his room, lies on his side on the bed and picks at the wall with his fingernail.

The thoroughfare that runs between the city's outermost houses and the rampart, popularly known as
voldgaden
, the rampart path, is cobbled only in places. Mostly, it is unmade. In the time of Christian IV cobbles were laid throughout its length in a grand endeavour to improve the sani­tary standard of the city, but these stones have long since been broken up under cover of night and used for other purposes. What remains is a mire of mud, the contents of latrine buckets emptied arbitrarily by the area's inhabitants, and waste products from the brewing of ale and the distilla­tion of aquavit. The area teems with rats and stray dogs, whose behaviour is erratic and aggressive due to the alcohol content of the discarded mash. The regular epidemics of typhoid, pox and plague that have ravaged the city through centuries must in Morten's opinion have their source here in this no-man's-land between the eating establishments, alehouses and inns on the one side and the dark rampart on the other, where people are driven either by desperate lust or desperate need to earn some rigsdalers. The city ought properly to employ a physician to clean up the filth, and this physician might appropriately be himself, Morten Falck. He smiles at the thought. Yet he is compelled to admit that he is fond of the filth and of the opportunities it provides.

He frequents the place with caution and with squinting eyes. The only illumination is from the occasional window on the city side which allows the sound of laughter and song. Fleeting shadows appear from the gloom and vanish again. Thieves, watchmen, cock-bawds, it is impossible to tell. The whores, the cheapest in town, occupy the scattered islands of light. They stand in the doorways and chew tobacco, lifting up their skirts without change of facial expression whenever a pair of breeches passes by. The watchman comes with his mace rested against his shoulder. He exchanges some words with the women, then continues on his way.

Morten conducts observations of human nature. He stands in the shadows, resting in the security of his cynicism and disillusionment. He watches the transactions of suppliers and customers, and the purchased service is often delivered on the spot. There are many men about the town on such an ordinary night, many of them fine gentlemen, as far as he can tell, whose lust cannot be contained within the respectable confines of wedlock. He wonders what lies were told on their leaving home and what replies were uttered in return. Was the lady of the house aware of his intentions, and is he aware of her knowledge? Is there a contract, a mutual understanding? And is the lady happy that such places and persons are found to take care of those aspects of marriage she finds displeasing? Morten smiles to himself. In the dim light ahead he hears there is something afoot. He tiptoes forward, holding his breath. The sounds become clearer, the rustle of damask, the slapping of flesh, a man's voice issuing instructions as to what services he wishes to receive for the monies paid, and in what manner. Slowly his eyes become used to the dark. The girl is of tender age and kneeling. It looks as if she is praying and perhaps she is. The man is standing, leaning back against a tree. He looks as if he is studying the firmament above the rampart or else dictating a letter to his secretary. He wafts his face with his tricorne hat to cool himself in the sticky air of evening. Morten Falck observes it all, not because it arouses him, he tells himself, but because he wishes to learn. Soon you will be dead, he muses, and I shall make fine illustrations of your dismembered bodies.