The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (64 page)

Falck crosses on to the square, where the crowds have flattened the fence that enclosed the palace ruins and have surged in to the site itself. There is room here. Falck breathes easier. People have gathered in groups. They sit about on the ground, eating and drinking, where the cobbles have long since been removed. There is music. Stalls are being set up. A festive market atmosphere arises. A tent camp has already been established, where once was a palace. Cooking odours waft from impro­vised kitchens; people help each other clamber up into the gaping cornices of what remains of the palace walls. A calm has descended here; it is as though daily life has simply carried on, or else a new one has begun. Women sit sewing, boys chase their eternal hoops, girls skip and play tag or hopscotch. The men are few. Most are probably involved in extinguishing the fire. Falck is seized by restlessness. He wishes to be a good example of the civic spirit himself, to engage in saving his city. But the Duke of Augustenborg taps him commandingly on the shoulder and reminds him of his presence. He regrets having taken responsibility for the painting, and is annoyed by the idiotic Duke standing there, indif­ferent to the blaze, resplendent in his crosses and ribbons and stars, clutching his insignia, the Bible and his sabre, which fact seems to Falck to be additionally objectionable, a picture of all that is wrong with the German nobility. He is inclined to leave the Duke to his own devices, to tell him to go to hell. But he has promised Buntzen to look after him, and so he will. His Grace is leaned up against a lamp standard. Falck has dumped his sack on the ground and stands looking over to Gammel Strand, where the hordes press their way forward at a snail's pace.

The Admiralty is still burning, as is at least a third of the district facing the Holmen. The fine white house in which he and Buntzen lived is in flames. He hopes everyone got out in time. He thinks of the two rooms with their unpleasant engravings of torture. And the two natives with their empty eyes. He wonders if anyone might have saved them. Further along the street, towards Kongens Nytorv, he can see tiny figures at work on the rooftops, tacking ship's sails on to them to be soaked by the fire pumps below. It would appear to be effective prevention against the flames and he cannot fathom why the method was not put to use before the blaze spread to the city.

A man addresses him. Sir, is this not the Duke of Augustenborg?

Indeed, yes, he replies without seeing who has spoken.

Ah, my old friend, says the man, who now steps up to the canvas. Promise me you will take good care of this portrait. He is a noble man and a loyal friend.

Falck stiffens when he sees who has spoken to him. The Crown Prince himself, on foot, with five escorts to ensure his safety.

The regent's face lights up; he turns again to Falck. You must be the Assessor Biering.

No, your Royal Highness. My name is Falck. Magister Falck.

Is there anything I can do for you, honourable Assessor? He comes closer, closer than Falck finds comfortable; a tall and graceful man, who, like everyone else, has been gripped by the madness of the fire and there is no knowing what he might do next. Falck withdraws slightly; the Crown Prince hesitates and looks at him enquiringly with watery eyes. Perhaps he is mad like his father, Falck thinks.

Falck stutters a reply without any idea of what he is trying to say, then says: What can
I
do for
you
, your royal highness?

Be brave, Assessor, says the Crown Prince, with a pat on his arm, and then something else that is drowned out by the commotion of collapsing buildings, whinnying horses and shouting.

Falck bows as deeply as he can; the regent swivels on his heels and marches off in the direction of Amager Torv.

Falck stands for some time and wonders if he has comported himself appropriately towards His Royal Highness and whether he ought to have said more and been more accommodating. Perhaps he should have taken the opportunity to attract favourable notice, something that might have stood him in good stead with the Missionskollegium. But now it is too late.

The fire brigade is on its way at long last. Pipes are fed into the canal, the pumps are manned. The feeble jets that reach halfway up the facades fail to convince.

And yet the fire does not seem to have spread further. Mainly it is the districts closest to the Holmen that are afflicted. The fire has consumed itself, he hears someone say. No, the wind has blown it out, another opines. Falck feels an urge to tell them that their conjecture is incorrect and foolish, yet he is still buoyant and elated by the general mood around him. He no longer wishes to see the city burn; this will suffice. And on Monday, in three days' time, he is to appear in person at the Missions ­kollegium to receive his assessment regarding renewed service in the Greenland Mission. Moreover, he must work out an agreement with the Royal Greenland Trade concerning his debt, for fear that he should end up in the gaol. For the first time in years he gives thought to how he might solve his problems. For too long he has allowed matters to remain unat­tended. Mr Friedrich's bundle of documents, annual reports, Kragstedt's statements on his conduct as missionary, will hardly be laudatory. And then the reports from his own hand, whose contents he barely recalls, but which most likely are gibberish with much invoking of trumpets and hymns, and probably a great deal about Rousseau, not exactly a favoured name in Denmark at present. All is there, he thinks, on Friedrich's desk, and he shrinks at the thought of them poring over the documents and assessing his character, perhaps even at that very moment. He realizes the verdict may be quite as destructive to his reputation as the fire is to the houses on the other side of the canal. But he can do something about it, he can put forward arguments, refer to his enmity with Kragstedt, reject the diary as a forgery.

He is torn from his thoughts. All around him people huddle together and point. He sees smoke rising from the Nikolaj Kirke, though it cannot be said whether it comes from the church itself or from buildings in the vicinity. The church is in no danger, someone says. It survived the fire of '28 and will surely survive today: the pumps are better and more numerous now.

It is as if the words themselves trigger what happens next, like some sarcastic retort. Falck sees flames lick the steeple, hardly visible in the blinding sunlight, and yet there is no doubt now that the church is burning. Nikolaj Kirke is the people's church, the Copenhageners' own, not the Navy's like Holmens Kirke, which has escaped the blaze. It is a church the people use, a home from home, a haven of respect and hope in the midst of the misery of the surrounding streets. And now it is aflame. For the first time he senses terror in those around him.

May the Lord have mercy on us! Please, not Sankt Nikolaj!

The flames in the lantern wave near-invisibly, calamitously; they leap to the church roof and crawl up the great spire. Black smoke plumes out and the steeple is engulfed. People stand close and stare silently and incredulously at the ancient Gothic church where many of them have been christened, confirmed and married. Some endeavour to call out to the fire brigade to save their church, but it has enough on its hands trying to rescue the houses along Gammel Strand. And then a pump is dispatched. New water pipes are rigged together, the pump is manned, bucket brigades are organized, and the men who remain on the palace square, Falck being one, run across and join them. The Duke must look after himself, along with his sack of belongings.

It is soon apparent that the church cannot be saved. The steeple is too tall to be reached by the hoses, moreover the stairs inside the tower are blocked by flame. Falck joins a bucket brigade; he is deployed to the entrance of Vingårdsstræde, where he receives slopping leather buckets from the man on his right and passes them to the man on his left. He has no idea what happens to the water at the end of the chain, whether it is hurled directly at the church's structure or is filling a pump. But they are short of buckets, there is a long interval between each, the water in the canal is not reaching the blaze, and the men become increasingly frus­trated at standing there to no avail. We might just as easily piss on it, one of them says. It is indeed a dreadful state of affairs, for water is available in copious amounts only a few paces from where they stand. But no fire pump, no bucket brigade can make use of it in time.

Then comes a deep rumble of collapsing beams, and the shower of sparks that ensues chases Falck and the other men out on to Amager Torv, and from there they watch as the steeple of the Nikolaj Kirke tips over. They hear the onlookers scream by the palace ruin: Jesus Christ! Falck stares in dread. The steeple wobbles and gives way; seeming almost to nod a greeting to the throng that stands and gapes, it sways, then topples lazily onto the houses of Store Kirkestræde. Sparks shoot into the sky as the flaming spire with its contents of burning timber crashes down. They rain upon a large area like some apocalyptic display of pyrotechnics, mirrored in the palace canal. Guttering, mostly of wood, ignites and bursts into flame; the blaze spreads to the roofs, timber frames, window frames; it works its way down through the staircases, floor by floor, until the houses collapse under their own weight. Øster Kvarter burns to the ground in its entirety. The conflagration conquers new territories: it lays the slums to ruin and reaches almost to Kongens Nytorv; there, however, to change its mind, halted by bucket-wielding citizens keeping doused their makeshift barriers of canvas, it halts at Østergade, jumping instead nonchalantly to its left, a westerly turn, nudged along by the wind from the east, now to leap from roof to roof.

A man wails: What are we to think of our Lord now? He allows His house to burn, yet spares the Comedy House!

The city is an anthill prodded by boys with sticks. Streets as yet untouched by fire or smoke are blocked by carriages, many of them in flames, their panic-stricken horses unable to go forward or back. He sees men hacking at one of the beasts with an axe. At the Knippelsbro there is an exodus towards Christianshavn; fire pumps stand abandoned every­where he looks, some of them on fire; carriages and carts lie overturned with broken axles, or else aflame. No one is concerned any longer with putting out the fire, only with saving themselves. Now and then shots ring out. It is rumoured that the rabble has taken up arms and will storm the palace of Amalienborg, that the guard is shooting at random, that the ammunition depot has ignited, that the Swedes are coming to seize the city and slaughter its inhabitants.

Falck returns to the palace square. The Duke is where he left him and he is met by his reproving stare. But his sack of belongings is gone. No matter. There was not a single thing in it that he could not do without. He lifts the canvas by its frame to take it with him out of the city. Then he puts it back. He looks down at himself. He is still in Buntzen's fine suit, now filthy with soot and soaking wet. Nonetheless, it lends him as yet the self-confidence of an elegant gentleman. It is a feeling that instils in him an odd sense of loyalty to the Duke. He must save his portrait! The wind is still in the south-east, the sensible course would seemingly be to cross the Knippelsbro to Christianshavn. But if the wind turns he risks becoming trapped there, along with thousands of homeless undesirables from the slum of the incinerated Øster Kvarter. It seems safer to proceed along the outer boundary of the blaze in the same direction as the wind. Thus, he will arrive at Vesterport or Nørreport and thereby escape into the countryside.

He follows Frederiksholms Kanal, where the crews of the vessels moored there are busy taking down the masts, so as to come under the bridges and out of the city. The wind whistles through the palace ruin, tugging violently at his canvas; he must struggle no matter how he carries it. There are fewer people here; horses released from their carriages canter about or stand nibbling grass at the verges. He sees the carcass of one in the canal, only its back protruding from the water, its fanning mane floating gently on the surface, the animal still in its harness. In several places the water is all but obliterated by documents from the Admiralty. Falck wonders what they might contain and how great a loss they might be now that they have been destroyed by fire and water. He finds it hard to imagine they can be of any real value. There are no bodies in the canal, only the horse, which surprises him. Here it was in his student days that he salvaged corpses for the surgical academy on Norgesgade. Then there was never a shortage of candidates for the scalpel. The fire would appear to have stimulated the survival instinct, breaking the popular habit of expiring.

He comes to Rådhusstræde and goes left around the Rådhus, past the Vajsenhus and the Missionskollegium, where a gentleman in a cassock paces back and forth in front of the church, looking anxiously up and down the street.

Mr Friedrich? Falck enquires, putting down the Duke.

The man glances at him absently. Tell me, when will that carriage be here? he barks angrily.

What carriage? Falck asks.

We need a carriage immediately. Our entire archive, the library, irre­placeable, all will be lost if the fire should reach us here. How dare they leave me in the lurch like this? It's a scandal, malevolence of the highest degree. I shall make certain those responsible will receive their due reward in court. Who are you? He turns his gaze to Falck, his eyes wandering up and down his apparel.

My name is Morten Falck, Magister. We have met. I am at Mr Friedrich's service, if he should require my assistance.

The city is burning to the ground, it is the will of the Lord, Friedrich says. All will be destroyed, all! We are all of us damned. This is our revolution. The fire of the streets of Paris has reached us. But the documents must be saved, the documents are our history, our common memory. Can the Magister find a carriage?

I shall try, he tells him. If you would take care of this painting that is in my keeping.

He leaves the Duke and runs up to Gammel Torv. He relishes having his hands free once more. He is hungry. It will soon be dark. The square is peaceful and calm, almost devoid of people; there are lights in the windows, somewhere someone is playing a piano, the fountain splashes soporifically. Men enter and exit the Rådhus, where a dim light shines from a pair of lamps on the ground floor. The clock in the tower says almost eleven-thirty. He buys some spiced pastries from a woman and stuffs them ravenously into his mouth. A platoon of soldiers marches in the direction of Vimmelskaftet. There are no carriages in sight. He hears the noise of the fire; it sounds as if it is approaching, yet there is hardly any smoke in the air. He feels calm here. Most likely the fire is going out, he thinks to himself.