The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (5 page)

One evening he proceeds shivering along Vestergade in the direction of the rampart. In this district of the city live many ale brewers and distillers of aquavit, and every other stairway contains a drinking estab­lishment whose enticing yellow light beams into the snow. He goes inside at one place where the window is illuminated, driven by an acute need for human company. There is music and some singing, men play cards, a fire roars in a tiled stove, tobacco smoke gathers below the ceiling joists. The atmosphere appears relaxed. At a table a boy is seated alone. He sits down opposite him and orders a mug of ale. He meets the youngster's gaze, but neither says a word in greeting. He looks foreign. A Gypsy, Morten guesses. Perhaps a Jew.

Morten receives his ale. He sips.

Is it cold? the boy asks in the dialect of Sjælland.

Yes, the night is cold. Bitterly cold.

The boy stares at him wearily. His eyes droop towards his mouth. His Adam's apple ascends and descends. Morten wishes he could move to another table. He hears himself say: Will you join me in a mug?

Aye, says the boy quickly. I shan't say no to that. He winks to the host and shouts out his order. On this here gentleman's bill, he adds, and points demonstratively. Morten nods to affirm, but avoids looking up at the man. He regrets having come here. He has no idea why he should enter into conversation with this young scoundrel. Then a man rises and embarks upon a long ballad, and he leans back and listens to the song, a saccharine tale of unrequited love.

When it is over the boy says: A student, eh?

He nods, but refrains from turning to face him. He feels he is being scrutinized.

Priest, says the boy.

Morten turns. How can you tell?

The boy grins sheepishly and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It's a skill I have. An art.

An art? says Morten. What more can you say of me?

I can tell the pastor's fortune, says the boy. But it'll cost him copper.

Ah, a vagrant trickster, Morten thinks to himself, who earns his bread from the credulity of others. How much does this fortune telling cost?

That depends on the prophecy. The boy smiles with cunning. A long life and good luck in matters of love and with wealth to boot is dearer than haemorrhage, the workhouse and imminent death. It stands to reason.

Morten gestures for their two mugs to be filled. He asks the host if he serves food. Herring, says the host. All right, two portions of herring. The boy casts himself over the meal. His mouth full of boiled cabbage and the rich, salted fish, he divulges to Morten that he travels with a troupe of acrobats and tells fortunes for his living. The Lord has given me the gift to look folk firmly in the eye and to read them as if they were a book, even though I can't read and can only scratch my mark.

And you can read me? Morten enquires.

Hm-m, says the boy between two mouthfuls, and nods. I can see right the way in and out the other side. Easy, it is.

And what can you see?

The same as all the others, the boy replies jauntily. The pastor's nothing special, if that's what he thinks. But if he wishes to have his fortune told, it'll cost him three marks. It's the usual price in winter, otherwise I take five.

First I shall test you to see if you are worth your money. Can you tell if both my parents live?

The boy studies his food, as though Morten's secrets lay hidden there. He fills his mouth again. They live. And your sister, too, is in good health. But some brothers departed this life a long time since, God rest their souls.

So far, so good, says Morten. He feels his mouth to be dry. Can you see what my sister is doing?

Oh, she's playing the two-headed beast with her pastor. The boy breaks into a peal of laughter.

Morten feels himself grow pale. Kirstine? he says.

I don't know her name. But I can see a white dress and black vest­ments. I hear church bells, a dreadful clamour, not for me at all. Priest weds priest, a dainty sight, indeed! And the bridal gown is white on the outside, but inside it's black and stained with filth. He spits out these latter words as though with malice.

His hair drops into his eyes, black and greasy. A dribble of spit glis­tens in the upwardly curled corner of his pretty mouth, and in the spit a crumb of bread has settled. The breadcrumb moves as he speaks. Morten reaches out and removes it with the tip of his index finger. Their eyes meet, and then he asks:

Is she happy?

The boy smiles. I think she's in good humour. She laughs, at least, but even skulls seem to laugh when the flesh is picked from them, so what would I know? I'm a seer. I look through people, not within them. I'm no soothsayer. People around her are happy. I can tell by looking at them. They've got what they want, but I don't know about her. Her face is like water when you piss in it. The weather's nice, the sun's shining on the church, white, white, shining on the dress, white, white. I can't wait for summer, can you, Pastor, when the lark twitters and a person can go wherever he wants? Then I'll be able to travel again with my people and sleep in the woods.

What about me? says Morten. Can you see my future?

I can see a whole lot of strange people dancing in the fells. Not Christian folk, though. They don't look like Christian folk. Black and dirty they are, but they're your friends and you're dancing with them. And I can see fire.

Fire?

Flames and balls of fire. The pastor's a man who likes to play with fire. But the fire doesn't touch him. He comes out of the fire without so much as an eyebrow singed.

The boy has finished eating. He has drunk three mugs of ale. Now his chin drops to his chest. He begins to snore, shoulders drooped, his body slides back against the wall. Morten sits a while and studies him. Then he tosses some marks onto the table and walks home. It has begun to snow.

He does all that is expected of him. He goes to the lectures; he pores over his Latin and Greek and Hebrew, and reads his works of theology. He teaches his boys at the Vajsenhus. He courteously acknowledges Miss Schultz when encountering her in the courtyard. She looks at him as though she were waiting, as if she has prepared something to say to him if they should meet, but he does not take the time to converse with her. The printer clearly imagines that Morten is pining away with unrequited love for his daughter. He pats him sympathetically on the back and says, My dear theologicus, give it time, give it time, for all things come to he who waits. Morten nods and does his best to look like a valiant suitor. The truth is, it is merely a role he takes upon himself. He thinks only infrequently of the young mistress, although he knows he ought to devote himself to her rather more, that it would be the natural thing to do. But the young mistress is so pure and untainted. It is hard to imagine that there is anything else beneath her skirts and underskirts than more skirts and underskirts, and much that is pleasant to the smell.

He realizes he has an unopened letter from his sister. How long has it been in his drawer? He can hardly remember when he received it. Perhaps a few weeks before. Since then, his mother has written and told him of his sister's plans, of the happy news. The ceremony will already have taken place. He knew it even when he sat before the boy in the drinking house. He prises open the seal without tearing the envelope. A long letter, several pages, with writing on both sides.
My dearest brother Morten, by the time this letter reaches you
. It sounds like a suicide note, a thing one might write with the noose hanging ready from the hook in the ceiling. It
is
a farewell, and the noose is around her neck. The priests stand ready, one at her side, the other at the altar, and the church bells chime. He puts the letter aside without reading to the end.

A week later. The same day of the week. The same snow, though somewhat milder. The boy sits in the same drinking house as before. He seems unsurprised when Morten sits down opposite him at the table.

Evening, sir.

Good evening, my child.

The boy flashes a wry smile.

Does he come to have his fortune told again?

No, not for that. Morten purchases two mugs of ale and shoves one of them across the table. He looks more awake today. He has an odd twitch about his eye. What is it? Sarcasm? A muscular spasm? And that mouth! It is the mouth he has returned for. It is a riddle, a question unanswered. And Morten does not consider himself to be a person who leaves any question unanswered.

Thanks, says the boy, and raises his mug to drink.

You remember me?

You're my benefactor. You gave me money.

That's right.

But it was a lot. You've got more owed.

Well, we'll see about that. As I said, I haven't come to have my fortune told.

I can show you something you've never seen, says the boy.

And what might that be? Morten stares at him intently.

The gentleman will be
sehr vergnügt und überrascht
, says the boy, switching seamlessly into German.

I have seen many things, says Morten. It would take rather a lot to make me
vergnügt
, and even more for me to be
überrascht
.

The boy laughs. He does not force the matter. He sits with his trump card, whatever it might be, and is in no hurry to present it.

All right, what is it? Morten asks.

It is what I earn my way by in the winter. There are many gentlemen such as yourself, Pastor.

I'm not one of your gentlemen. My needs are quite normal.

The smile is unchanged, confident.

Then show me, says Morten.

Five marks, says the boy.

Out of the question. Shame on you! Three.

For you, three, says the boy. He rises, pulls down his breeches and looks at Morten with a cheeky grin on his face.

Should I not have seen such a little cock before? It's hardly worth a skilling.

Silence descends at the counter. Eyes are upon them. The fiddler stops tuning his instrument.

The boy draws up his shirt and his face opens wide in a grin.

Morten jumps to his feet and staggers backwards. His eyes dart up and down as he stares at the figure before him.

My dear girl! he blurts.

Coins rain down on them and the hermaphrodite receives the jubilations of the drinking-house customers with a courteous bow and a chivalrous sweep of his arm. Morten hurries outside, leaving his mug and his plate, fleeing over the encrusted puddles of the gutter with his coat-tails flapping. Laughter erupts in his wake.

The printing press clatters and rumbles below the floor; the compositors slam the lead in the cases and exchange banter. He awakes with all his clothes on, though only one shoe. The rattle of harnesses, clopping hooves and carriage wheels in the street. The bells of Vor Frue Kirke sound every half hour. There is a knock at the door. He gets up and rubs his face. Outside stands the printer's maid with a note in her hand. He sits down to read it, then crumples it up.

Some days pass. He hides himself from Miss Schultz, sneaks away to his lectures, sneaks home again. And then he is back in the drinking house. The host accords him a nod of recognition and brings him a mug of ale.

A portion of herring, sir?

No, thank you. Not tonight.

He looks around, but cannot see the boy. He has decided to call him
the boy
, though it is perhaps the girl he desires. Or a third gender, if such a thing makes sense. Perhaps it is merely the biological inadmissibility that interests him so. He has the feeling that what happens tonight, the choices he makes, will decide the rest of his life.

He feels a cold draught from the door behind him, senses the change of mood at the other tables, and knows what it means. The boy appears in his field of vision and sits down opposite him.

Peace of God, he says.

Morten nods. The boy smiles. He snaps his fingers to the host, who comes with ale. Morten stares at him. He can see the girl embedded in his features. But it is the boy who speaks.

My benefactor. You have a fine and noble heart, I can see that. You don't need to be ashamed.

I am not ashamed. I merely wonder what sort you are.

Come with me to the ramparts, says the boy, and I'll show you. The cost's ten marks. When the gentleman's done with me, he'll have peace in his soul. He'll be a good citizen then, and court his girl as duty commands.

The grassy banks are scantly illuminated with light from the windows facing the rampart path. A watchman blocks their way. Morten gives him a few skillings and they are permitted to pass. The boy leads him to a shed. He taps a signal on the door. A bolt is drawn aside and they enter. In a small room a wife sits knitting in the dim glow of a candle. She does not raise her head to look. They go on to the back room into which is crammed a bed and a stove and nothing else.

Does he want light? says the boy.

Yes, he replies. Much light. His pulse throbs in his head. His mouth is dry. Nothing shall be unknown, he tells himself.
Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains!

An oil lamp is lit. The boy undresses. He lies down on the bed and looks up at Morten. There is something knowledgeable in his eyes for which he does not care, and the person they know about is him, Morten Falck, the schoolmaster's son. He stares at the naked body. It is at once a grotesque and titillating sight. He expels an unexpected moan and tries to disguise it with a cough. A hand unbuttons his fly and his member springs forth. The girl laughs in acknowledgement. She strokes it gently, but remains lying on her back.

If he wants to lie with me it costs five marks extra, she says.

My needs are quite normal, says Morten, and expels another moan.

She giggles. So I see, sir. Normal indeed. Her voice is utterly changed. It is the voice of a young girl.

She raises herself up onto her elbow and kisses the underside of his member. Her tongue darts forward, a glimpse of red. It twirls around the head, then retracts between her teeth. Morten sees that she, or the boy, is erect. He bends forward and touches the hard, boyish cock. It feels completely normal. He investigates the scrotum. Both testicles are present and of ordinary size. As far as he can see, there is no sign of female geni­tals beneath, and the sexual urge is fully that of the male, he notes. His hand jerks the penis, the girl releases him and falls back on the bed. He kneels down beside her and takes it in his mouth, drawing back the fore­skin from the head, tongue rotating as he presses the knob against the roof of his mouth, nodding slowly, as though he were pondering the matter. At the same time, his right hand reaches up and fondles the girl's breast. She arches upwards. A warm liquid fills his mouth. He swallows. The girl flops back down on the bed and rolls onto her side with a stifled moan.