The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (62 page)

He confides in Buntzen and shows him the invitation. My clothes are old and ragged, he says. Would you be able to lend me a coat, Monsieur Buntzen, or perhaps tell me where I might rent a suit for small coin?

The engraver steps back and looks him up and down. We seem to be of much the same height and stature, he says. Come with me.

When Falck makes his way through the city that Friday morning he is resplendent in clean and pleasantly smelling clothes, which to anyone's eye would appear new. He has long since discarded his wig, now thread­bare and rotten. Moreover, wigs and all that goes with them have fallen out of fashion. It is the French Revolution in Denmark: off with their wigs! His hair has been cut short and he has retained a suggestion of mutton-chop whiskers, a revolutionary style, according to the engraver, who has found much enjoyment in orchestrating his transformation.
Sehr altmodisch
, distinctly modern, but be careful not to tangle with the police, Mr Falck, for they will suspect you of being a French or Swedish spy. The blue coat is short and fashionable, as simple as it is elegant. He leaves it open in the brash and relaxed style of the day, which is really just a matter of allowing the flamboyant silver buttons of the trouser fly to be visible.

He walks through Øster Kvarter, the worst slum of the city, pursued by a cloud of intensely perfumed fragrance. His appearance is to his liking; he avoids being spattered by the carriage wheels as they plough through the gutter or by the contents of buckets emptied from windows. He edges his way through the prostitutes and privy councillors, soldiers, officers and foul-smelling peasants, freed Negro slaves, and even a chained bear driven along with a pointed stick by an inebriated cripple in carnival garb. He feels uplifted; his suit lends him a sense of control, of power, of being able to steer his life. From the doorways prostitutes whistle at him and he cannot help but feel foolishly proud that they find him worthy of their attention and acknowledgement. He wonders how Miss Schultz, now Madame Støvring, has been treated by the years. Will she be a girl, a woman or a Madame? Will she allow me to kiss her cheek? Will I dare? Will it be appropriate? Has she invited me to show me the person she has become or to exact vengeance upon me?

On Ulfeldts Plads he pauses at the monument of infamy and wipes his brow with Buntzen's handkerchief, studies the fine, now sweat-stained monogram, and puts it back in his pocket. He observes two wild bushmen displayed on the square, a man and a woman, barely clad. For a handsome sum, members of the public may accompany the couple into a wooden shed and, according to the whip-brandishing keeper, who speaks an odd mixture of German and Italian, witness
delicatissime inklinaziones, eine naturwissenshaftlige illustrazione in natura!
Falck tries to summon some form of Christian sympathy for the hapless couple, but finds it hard, for they stand there, giggling and scratching their groins, and are obviously rather well-oiled, as indeed is the man with the whip, so that all he is capable of feeling is abhorrence.

Sir, you will burn in hell! he snarls at the man, receiving a sheepish, sickly grin and an outstretched hand in return.

Ja, mein Herr
. Some copper,
mein Herr, di soldi, per gli poveri barbari, für die hungrigen Barbaren. Lieber Herr, signore. Prego
.

He tosses the man a coin.

The oriels of Lille Kannikestræde and the half-timbered facades lean over the street that lies in half-light, though a brisk easterly wind has swept all cloud from the sky. He finds the house and is admitted. Madame Støvring receives him in a salon that looks like a waiting room, in which all the furniture is placed up against the walls. She beams with joy at the sight of him, takes both his hands and squeezes tightly.

Morten Falck, she says.

Madame Støvring.

Oh, surely there is no need for formality, Magister?

No. Of course not. Abelone.

But I am not Abelone. Do you not recognize me, Morten Falck?

He feels a twinge in his abdomen. Again, he has mistaken two sisters.

Forgive me, he mumbles. Filippa?

Cathrine, she says. I quite understand you have us mixed up. It was all such a long time ago.

She is the youngest sister. The last time he saw her she was a gangling twelve-year-old with spindly arms and wide, innocent eyes. Now she has put on flesh, her cheeks have become full, slanting her eyes ever so slightly; the line of her neck and shoulder is curved and soft, her skin appears fresh and healthy. Her hair is put up, simply yet elegantly, her cosmetics are discreet, barely noticeable, her dress uniformly turquoise in colour, light and relaxed. A summer dress. Her arms are bare and rounded; they look strong. She wears no jewellery. She looks exactly like his recollection of Abelone. He finds it eerie.

How you stare, Morten Falck, she says with a laugh.

You look enchanting, Mrs Støvring. Cathrine.

No,
you
look enchanting, Morten Falck.

Borrowed plumes, I'm afraid. He smoothes a hand down the cloth of his coat.

Did you know that all three of us were rather in love with you back then?

Really? All three? With me?

We drew lots for you, Morten Falck. The truth of the matter is that I won. It was just a game, of course. We were but foolish young girls.

And your sister? he enquires with caution.

Filippa has moved to Elsinore, she says, misunderstanding his inten­tion, perhaps on purpose. She is married and has two children. Can you imagine? She giggles.

No, he says, hardly at all. He has only a very vague recollection of the middle sister, a daisy on the lawn of Kongens Have.

But tell me now, what on earth has happened to you? She steps up to him and peers at his eye, puts her hand to his cheek.

Oh, nothing much. He withdraws slightly. The other one works perfectly well. My sight is impeccable.

Did you clash with the natives?

Not at all. The natives are decent folk. We Europeans could learn much from them.

But are they not heathens?

All the more woeful that we are the more ignorant.

She smiles. For a few seconds nothing is said. She breaks the silence: But how selfish and thoughtless of me! You wish to say hello to Abelone, of course. She drags him along. You must meet my husband, too. Hendrik, she says as they enter the dining room, this is Mr Falck, whom I have been telling you about.

A thickset man with dark, curly hair and a moist pout, his ponderous cheeks penned in by a high, starched collar, turns towards them from the window at which he has been standing. He steps forward a few measured paces and greets his guest formally in a thin and tinny voice. He draws out a chair for his wife; they seat themselves at the table. A double-leaved door opens; tureens and steaming bowls are carried in. A haggard, elderly looking woman then enters; she nods in greeting, lifts the hem of her voluminous dress, which looks as if it weighs more than the body it encloses, and sits down to eat.

Falck stares at the woman.

Cathrine speaks to her in a loud voice. Abelone, won't you say hello to our guest?

The woman looks up from her plate. Her eyes meet Falck's without sign of recognition.

It's Magister Falck, Cathrine all but shouts from her place. Your old friend, the theologian, the one who rented a room from our father. He has come to see you.

Good afternoon, the woman says. An honour.

Falck nods stiffly. He cannot help but stare. It is she, he sees it now. Her decrepit features have already caused his recollection of the young Abelone's to fade. She has died before his eyes.

My sister-in-law has been quite ill, Professor Støvring explains in a low voice. Apoplexy, a stroke. She very nearly succumbed. We are very fortunate to have our dear Abelone with us, are we not, Cathrine? He places a hand on his wife's arm.

Don't you recognize Mr Falck? Abelone's sister persists.

An honour, Abelone repeats. She sounds like a mechanical bird opening its beak to faintly croak.

She is in some pain, Cathrine says regretfully. She must remember to take her medicine or else she becomes terribly unsettled and may even begin to wander in the streets. Apart from that, she is quite restored.

Falck recognizes the catatonic lethargy brought about by opium: the expressionless face, the distant gaze, movements as though made by a puppeteer. She lifts her spoon to her mouth and slurps her soup, then spoons up some more and slurps again.

They speak of events in France. Falck has neglected to keep abreast of developments and the professor is guarded in his comments. The Cabinet and the entire government, indeed the country as a whole, is imbued with paranoia and the fear of revolution, he says. The censor watches over the shoulder of those who write. Whatever a man might think on the matter, he does wise to keep it to himself. And the Magister should be careful not to be caught out in such costume after dark, he adds. He risks being arrested for espionage.

He explains that he has borrowed his suit from a friend and that as soon as he has returned home he will change into his old clothes again. He asks the professor cautiously whether he believes the revolution will spread to the Nordic countries.

Hendrik cannot conceive it will come to that in Denmark, Cathrine interjects. He considers the Danes to lend themselves poorly to revolu­tion. Is that not so, my dear?

A steaming hot roast is brought in. The meat is apportioned on to the plates. Cutlery scrapes against porcelain, to suppressed sounds of chewing and swallowing.

Professor Støvring speaks: The Danish people are too humorously inclined to chop off each other's heads. His sombre tone makes Falck uncertain as to whether he believes this to be a good or a bad thing.

They put down their knives and forks and pause respectfully while Abelone, at the head of the table, presses a large silk scarf to her face and expels some stifled sobs. Her shoulders tremble.

The professor looks across at her with an expression of resignation and lets out a sigh. Give your sister a glass of water, he says.

Cathrine pours her a glass. Abelone drinks. Falck sees the quiver of her jaw. Presently, they continue eating.

The professor mutters something to his wife in German. His tone suggests reproach. Falck is unable to catch what he says.

Their plates are removed; they start on the fish, a fried whole carp. Cathrine smiles at him across the table; they toast, and he endeavours to smile back.

Life is not always easy, says the professor.

Falck glances up at him, unsure whether he has been addressed. No, indeed, he says. So very true, Professor.

These are uncertain times, Støvring says. Who knows what may happen? I recommend, Magister, that you return to Greenland as quickly as possible. It would seem to be the safest place for a European at present.

That is indeed my wish, says Falck.

Over dessert the mood is more buoyant. The professor enquires about Greenland and his experiences there. He tries his best to answer in a way the professor might understand. It seems Støvring has drawn up a list of questions he now follows in turn. After ten questions and answers he wipes his mouth and gets up from the table.

Now, if Mr Falck will excuse me. My day is far from over. I have a lecture to deliver at two o'clock, after which I am to meet with the cabinet secretary. He turns his attention to his wife. I may be late home, dear. Very interesting to meet you, Magister Falck. Perhaps we shall see each other again. All of a sudden he seems enlivened.

Falck rises and shakes Støvring's extended hand. I hope so, my learned Professor.

The Magister must come and see us again, Støvring says, almost heartily. You must tell us more about what you have seen. It is all most fascinating.

He pecks his wife on the cheek, walks the few paces to the door, swivels and bows stiffly before leaving the room. Abelone gets to her feet as though on command; she pushes back her chair, mumbles something incomprehensible and withdraws.

Remember to take your medicine, Cathrine tells her. You know how poorly you are when you forget. I shall look in on you later, my dear.

It's so very sad, says Cathrine once they are alone. But she is alive and that's the important thing.

The image of Miss Schultz chasing ahead of him across a meadow appears in his mind's eye, his forcing her to the ground, her laughter as she turns and pulls up her dress. Is this the sin that led to her illness, the things they did in his room above the printing shop? It is a question to which no answer will ever be revealed to him. He feels the urge to ask someone's forgiveness, Cathrine's perhaps, but knows it would be inappropriate.

As he walks home he hears the fire bells toll. Some members of the fire brigade come running past. He asks, but no one knows where the blaze is. On Amager Torv he can see black smoke billowing into the sky from behind the Holmens Kirke and he crosses over to the palace square to better observe the extinguishing. He is relieved to discover that the fire seems to be on the Holmen, apparently in one of the great storehouses and some good distance from human habitation. Those who stand gath­ered with him believe the cause to be that new and infernal contraption, the steam engine.

The weather is glorious, the city resplendent in sunshine. People stroll, arm in arm, horse-drawn carriages clatter noisily by, fishwives monger, fruit pedlars push along their carts and the city's hordes of unemployed soldiers drift aimlessly about, many of them obliviously drunk.

Falck walks out to Christianshavn, crossing the Knippelsbro to see the square in front of the orphanage again, where Master Eckenberg once held court. When later he returns to the palace square, black smoke is pouring over the roof of the Admiralty, and soldiers and seamen mill at the entry to Gammelholm. A large crowd has gathered on the square to watch the blaze. They say it is the stockpile of pit coal that is alight and makes the smoke so black; it is evident from the suffocating smell. He hears indignant comments about the chief fire officer having left for the country and being uncontactable, and the Admiralty on the Holmen refusing to admit the civilian fire brigade into their restricted area, insisting that the work of extinguishing is a matter for the Navy. How typical of such bigwigs! The tone is animated and sarcastic, the mood bordering on frivolous. What burns is ship timbers and coal, nothing for an ordinary Copenhagener to be concerned about. But what a spectacle it will be when the roof collapses on the main store and the fire is infused with oxygen!