Frederik Sandwich and the Mayor Who Lost Her Marbles

by Kevin John Scott

  A thin man with a pale face, a clipboard, and a bunch of keys stood before them. “Who are you?” he asked. “Where did you come from?”

  “No one,” said Frederik. “Nowhere.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to go home.”

  The man was wearing brown overalls. Nordmaend Logistics, it said on his breast. He peered down the stairs to see if anyone else was coming. “What were you two doing down there?”

  “We were locked in,” said Calamity.

  Frederik shushed him. “What my friend means is, we were looking in. To something. For someone.”

  The man stared back. “Who?”

  “The mayor.”

  The man’s forehead creased. “Oh. Well, that’s all right then. I suppose. She sent me too. I’m here to take stock. Of the items. Down there.”

  “Us too,” said Frederik. “Taking stock. Exactly.” He tried a smile.

  “But that’s a duplication of effort, surely?”

  “True,” said Frederik, nodding. “But she can’t be too careful, can she?”

  The man looked unimpressed. “Do you know who I am? Apparently not. Anders Andersen. Chartered stock taker, thirty-seven years. Accurate Anders, they call me. I’ve never miscounted in all my career.”

  “I see,” said Frederik. “Well, we certainly can’t compete with that. We should leave you to it.”

  The man nodded, somewhat placated. “Just out of interest, how many did you count?”

  “Hundreds.” Calamity shivered.

  “It’s hard to be exact,” Frederik added. “With so many of them in pieces.”

  Accurate Anders groaned. “I knew there’d be a catch. There’s always a catch. All right, I’d better get started, if we’re going to get those marbles out of here on time.”

  Frederik was edging for the door, but now he stopped abruptly. “Out of here?”

  “Didn’t she tell you? All of them. Every one. We’re shipping them out on midsummer night. While she’s having that big festival in the park. Strange night to do it, if you ask me. But it’s her choice. She ordered the Deluxe Expedited Service—no mess, no trace, no questions.” He shrugged. “The customer is always right. If they’re paying enough.”

  “Where are the marbles going?” Frederik asked. “Where are you taking them?”

  The man chuckled. “Can’t divulge,” he said. “No trace, no questions, like I said. Anyway. Better get on.” And he headed down the stairs with his clipboard.

  Frederik and Calamity limped outside. Evening air flooded Frederik’s chest. A riot of birdsong, a dazzling sunset. They had survived. At the far side of the flat lawn that covered the underground Cisterns was the street and the curving, yellow front of King Frederik’s Castle. The summit of Frederik’s Hill. They were out.

  But out, he realized instantly, wasn’t safety. Out was exposed. Detectives were out here somewhere, hunting for him. Pernille was still in Municipal Hall, cruelly separated from her papa. What could he do? Where could he go? Who would believe he’d been trapped in the dark with those hideous marbles?

  To the left of the castle, down the street, a sign stretched above bushes. Zoo. Rasmus would believe him. But Rasmus was out of his mind. What help would that be?

  Home then. Was it safe? No way to tell, but no other option. He couldn’t stay out all night.

  “Claus,” he said. “This has been fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “Well, no. Not fun. You’re right.” He thought for a moment. “Claus, I need a favor. I need people to know there’s something in the Cisterns. And you know Frederik Dahl Dalby. And his father.”

  “I’ll tell them,” Calamity said. “I’ll tell everyone. There are zombies under the hill. They’ll put it in the newspaper. Everyone should be warned.”

  “No, wait. Not that. The mayor would come for you just like she came for me. And the media know they can’t talk about zombies. It has to be something else. Something that will make them come and look without worrying about the mayor.”

  “Dead bodies,” said Claus.

  “No. That would bring the detectives.”

  “Money?”

  “Perfect! Tell them that. Tell Frederik Dahl Dalby to tell his father there’s a massive pile of money in the Cisterns. They should come quick. Before midsummer. Say it’s an emergency. Say it’s a lottery. First one to find it wins it all.”

  Calamity nodded, slightly confused.

  “And, Claus, thank you for coming to help me. I’m sorry it got so weird.”

  And then Frederik started running toward home.

  By Saturday afternoon, the chill of the Cisterns had at last left his body. He stood in the cramped back room of the Ramasubramanian Superstore, stirring a garbage can full to the brim with cold chococcino. It was backbreaking but soothing work watching the liquid slosh from side to side. Venkatamahesh was ladling it into bottles. Sheets of poorly printed labels lay on a chair. Ramasubramanian Chococcino. Unofficial Festival Souvenir.

  “Seven days,” said Frederik. “I’ve got seven days to reveal the marbles before the mayor gets rid of them forever. Seven days to raise the alarm and save Pernille.”

  “And seven days to save my business,” said Venkatamahesh. “It is my pivotal moment, my toppling point. Unless I sell this chococcino, I will be ruined. We need another refrigerator.”

  He already had three. There were two in the back doorway and one in the tiny bathroom, buzzing loudly, every shelf loaded with bottles, ready for the festival rush, just a week away.

  “I wonder if Claus delivered the message to the Dahl Dalbys?” Frederik peered beyond the apples and oranges, out the store window, across the street, to a hundred more windows, on six floors, and a lighthouse on the top. Pernille was in there somewhere. In Municipal Hall. A little-known office, hidden away. A prisoner.

  “Are there dungeons?” he asked Venkatamahesh. “In Municipal Hall?” He shivered. “Did you see a door marked Department of Unwanted Offspring?”

  “No. That sounds extremely macabre. I was taken to the mayor’s office. Enormous, it was. And orderly. The crest of Frederik’s Hill upon the wall, with the three little birds wearing hats. Put a little more cocoa into that batch. It looks pale.”

  Frederik reached for the can and levered the lid off.

  “Oh no,” said Venkatamahesh.

  “Something wrong?”

  “I think so.”

  “Too much cocoa now?”

  “Too many detectives.”

  Frederik’s head jerked upright. His eye went straight to the window and out to Municipal Hall. And two tall figures, picking their way through the bikes and buses.

  “Quick,” said Frederik. “Out the back. Run.” He whipped around in a circle. “How do we open the door?”

  “We cannot. It is blocked by the refrigerators.”

  Frederik grabbed a battered fridge. Tried to heave it aside. Bottles rattled but it didn’t move. He tried the other. Tried to climb over. “We’re cornered.”

  “Let me do the talking,” said Venkatamahesh.

  “They’ll recognize me,” Frederik yelped. “They’re after me.”

  “You are indistinguishable from any other child.”

  “I’m not. Not to a local. My hair’s the wrong color, and my accent is weird.”

  “You do not have an accent.”

  “I do. To them. I speak two different languages. One at home and this one everywhere else, and I can’t pronounce it right.”

  “Only two? I spoke six as a child—Konkani, Kannada, Gondi with friends, Tamil, Hindi, English too. I agree this is a tricky tongue, but two is peanuts. You had it easy. Here.” The shopkeeper grabbed a large, dirty chef’s hat from a shelf and dropped it over Frederik’s head. He tugged a pair of spectacles from his pocket, and Frederik put them on. Frederi
k couldn’t see anything but blur. He developed an instant headache.

  “Don’t say anything in the wrong accent,” said Venkatamahesh. “Don’t say anything at all. I will cover for you.”

  “But you’ll get in trouble!”

  The door of the store flew open and hit the wall. Bags of potato chips fell from a shelf. The detectives strode in, dipping their heads under the doorframe. One stood on a bag of chips and crumbs exploded across the floor. “Martensen,” he growled. “And this is Mortensen. You remember us, Mr. Submarine, I’m sure.”

  “And what is this?” Mortensen asked, marching into the backroom.

  Frederik ducked behind the garbage can.

  “Contraband?” Mortensen dipped a finger in the liquid, licked it, grimaced. Spotted Frederik’s hat beyond the lip. “Who’s back there?”

  “Chococcino!” Venkatamahesh declared. “Highest quality, lowest price.”

  Martensen poked his head through the doorway. “Unlicensed? Again?”

  “No, no,” said Venkatamahesh. He held a bottle in front of Martensen’s face. “You see? It states explicitly: unofficial souvenir.”

  “Irrelevant,” Martensen said. “You’re under arrest. Hands behind your back.”

  “For making chococcino?” Venkatamahesh spluttered.

  “For spreading renewed malicious rumors to discredit the Borough of Frederik’s Hill.”

  “What rumors?” Frederik gasped.

  The detective swooped to examine Frederik from no more than an inch away.

  Frederik’s spectacles wobbled ominously. The hat started to slip. The detective would see his foreign-looking hair and realize.

  “Malicious rumors,” said the detective, “of zombies.”

  “Zombies?”

  “Brought to the attention of the local newspaper editor, Mr. Dahl Dalby. Today.”

  “Calamity,” Frederik groaned. “What have you said?”

  Mortensen glared at Venkatamahesh. “Is this boy involved in your conspiracy?”

  “No,” Venkatamahesh said. “Don’t listen to the child. He has no involvement.”

  “Let’s go, Mr. Submarine,” said Martensen. “We warned you. Any more mention of zombies and there would be consequences. You’re going back where you came from. Where do you come from, by the way? The Andes, was it?”

  “No!” said Frederik.

  “Shush,” said Venkatamahesh. “I don’t know who you are, child. You are clearly a very local and unremarkable person. Kindly leave my store. I need to lock up.”

  “But—” said Frederik.

  “Be quiet,” ordered Venkatamahesh. “I don’t know who you are, and you have nothing to do with me or any rumors of zombies. Goodbye.” And the door of the Ramamsubramanian Superstore was slamming at Frederik’s back, and he was out in the street, wearing someone else’s hat and spectacles, hiding his suspiciously foreign identity and the despair that welled in his eyes.

  Chapter 16

  Rounded Up

  He hid at home all evening, staring from his bedroom window, panicking. He said nothing to his parents. He didn’t want them implicated. Everyone he knew was getting rounded up. It surely had to be illegal. Wasn’t it kidnapping? Abduction? Wasn’t there something about this in the Geneva Convention?

  The daylight finally faded around eleven, and by four in the morning, the sky behind Municipal Hall was the yellow of dawn. He rubbed at his eyes. Hadn’t slept. Couldn’t sleep.

  He pictured a million impossible rescues. He’d climb to the roof by the fire escape and break in through a skylight. He’d wait till Monday morning and walk in the front door in a turban and spectacles. He’d break the windows and saw through the bars. He’d climb up from the underground railway. He’d hide inside a delivery van and ride right through the gate. He’d write to the queen. He’d write to the Geneva Convention Committee.

  No, no, no.

  Nothing would work.

  He wondered if his friends were sleeping. Or behind one of those windows, staring helplessly back at him.

  He felt powerless. He felt feeble. He felt shorter than every other kid in class. He felt like a stupid, foreign outsider who couldn’t say his own name without being mocked. He felt alone.

  He heard his mother calling goodbye, and watched her hurry away up the street to work. He heard his father whistling and singing as he puttered about the house. He stayed at the window for several more hours, watching the street for detectives. Eventually, he wandered down to the kitchen for lunch.

  “What’s up with you, young Freddy?” Father asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or was it a zombie?” He threw his arms straight out and staggered around the table, moaning.

  “Stop that!” Frederik shouted. “Stop it!”

  “All right,” Father said, immediately worried. “All right. Just joking.” He waited and watched while Frederik settled. “It’s the first day of summer break. Get out and enjoy the sunshine. Find that girl you hang around with.”

  “You know about her?”

  Father chuckled. “I’m not as old and oblivious as I look.”

  “She’s…” Frederik faltered.

  “She’s what?”

  “She’s…gone away.”

  “Oh,” said Father. “That’s too bad.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “Should we go to the movies? You and me?” He patted Frederik on the arm.

  Frederik looked right back at that familiar face, laced with laughter lines. He so wanted to ask for help. “I can’t,” he said. “Not today. There’s something I need to do.”

  “Not homework, I hope. School’s over. Something fun?”

  “Not really. I need to help some people.”

  Father raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Father?”

  “Yes, Son.”

  “You work for the mayor. You’ve worked for the mayor for a long time.”

  “Twelve years,” Father said. “Since your mother and I first came to the country.”

  “Do you…respect her? The mayor?”

  There was a very long pause. Father tried to mask it by munching on toast. “Well,” he said eventually. “The office of mayor is very important.”

  “That’s not what I asked. Do you respect her. Mayor Kristensen. Do you like her? Do you think she’s a good mayor?”

  “Why do you ask?” Father was avoiding the question.

  “Just things that have happened. The earthquake that couldn’t have been an earthquake. And now the zombies that can’t possibly be zombies. And all the stuff in the news that suddenly isn’t in the news anymore. It’s all to do with the mayor, don’t you think? All these secrets?”

  “Frederik,” Father hissed.

  “I just wonder what people would say if they knew—”

  “Don’t!” Father snapped. “You mustn’t! Don’t wonder. Don’t ask. Don’t talk about it.”

  They stared at one another for a long time. Not speaking. Not eating.

  “It isn’t safe,” said Father. “Freddy. Promise me, please. Stay out of all that. It really isn’t safe. Not for kids. Not for anyone.”

  A sudden rattle and thud made them both jump, and Mother’s footsteps were on the stairs. “Yoo-hoo! I’m home. Where are you? Ah! There.” She whirled into the kitchen with a small stack of mail, leafing through the letters, puzzled.

  “Mortimer, love,” she said without looking up, “have you seen an invitation to Her Ladyship’s International Midsummer Festival? You didn’t put it aside?”

  “No, darling,” said Father. “No, I haven’t seen one.”

  “Only,” Mother went on, “the other librarians have all had theirs, you see. And we’re still waiting, aren’t we?” She placed the envelopes on the table and sat down. “It’s invitation only. Only where’s our invitation? You d
idn’t accidentally throw it away?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Dorthe and Gitte and Britte and Mette and Mads got their invitations weeks ago. First-class mail; big, white envelope; crest of Frederik’s Hill on the front. Everyone’s got one. Everyone except Mrs. Slodzik, old Mr. Afaq, and us.”

  “All the foreigners,” said Frederik. And something else began to nag at him. What did the mayor have planned for all the foreigners, while everyone else was at the midsummer festival?

  Mother twitched. “We’re not foreigners. You were born here, Frederik. It’s an international festival, for goodness’ sake.”

  Father’s cell phone buzzed. He picked it up, distracted. “Yes? Mortimer Sandwich.” He closed his eyes. “Yes, I’m home. I’m here with my family.” Opened them again, lips pursed. “Hello? Anyone there?” He set the phone back on the table. “They hung up.”

  “Who was it?” asked Mother.

  “They didn’t say.”

  “Why would they call and ask if you’re home and then hang up?” asked Mother.

  A cold shudder rippled up Frederik’s back. “We should get out of here,” he said. “Let’s go out. Somewhere. Now. Quick.”

  “Why?” asked Mother. “I only just got home. I thought we might do something together, since it’s your first day of break.”

  “Exactly. Let’s get on a bus. And then a train. Let’s go to the beach. A long way away. Right now.”

  Mother tutted and chuckled. “Maybe after I’ve had some lunch.”

  “Then I really have to run,” Frederik said. And he really had to run. Really fast. He ran downstairs. He almost made it to the front door. And then there was a series of thunderous knocks. He stood there, paralyzed. Which way? He didn’t know which way to go. He sprinted down the stairs to Mother and Father’s basement bedroom. He vaulted the bed and dived inside their closet. The back wall was one of the old pipes, running right under their house.

  He listened, fizzing with stress, as Father opened the door and said “Hello?”

  “We’d like to come in,” a deep voice replied. “We have some questions.” Heavy footsteps and creaking floorboards. Frederik darted to the doorway and watched the detectives follow Father up to the kitchen. As soon as they turned out of sight, he crept up to the front door, twisted the latch, and slid outside. There was a car parked in front of the house. It had too many antennae. He looked left and right. Someone was coming. A man. Carrying a camera with an enormous lens. Thomas Dahl Dalby, the newspaper editor.