by Liz Jensen
But just as a sheep will trail crotties stuck to its tail & hindquarters, I trailed something too. At this point I fear I must raise the subject of the human disaster Fru Fanny Schleswig, & how she became embroiled in my tale & remains a part of it, however keen I have been (for reasons you will understand, being – like me – of a refined nature) to jettison her from it altogether. Fru Schleswig had been employed as a cook (or should I say poisoner) in the orphanage in Jutland, & when I fled from that vile & dangerous place she got wind of my escape & swore to follow me, so pathetically attached was she to the young girl whom she had known from babyhood, & watched grow into the lithe & lissom young woman who was to walk into Herr Møller’s bakery that winter morning & unwittingly set all hell in motion. Being of shockingly low intelligence, & barely literate, Fru Schleswig had nevertheless displayed the wiliness of a truffle-hunting pig in tracking me down in Copenhagen within hours of my arrival at the train station, insisting that whatever was my Fate, it would be hers too. To this day I cannot fathom what ugly or pitiable mix of misguided loyalty, sly opportunism & parasitic greed led her to pursue me & claim some kind of kinship. But there she was, grunting on my doorstep, & I could not turn her away.
While Fru Schleswig, who had by now opened her second eye but was not yet capable of what passed, in her terms, for human speech, fought with a bar of coal-tar soap, I descended to the florist’s shop on Holsteinsgade to glean what information I could from my friend Else, with whom I used to perform in my music-hall days, before she tripped on a sausage-skin & broke her heel, & I discovered there were more lucrative activities to be pursued offstage than on it. Now that she was mistress of her own shop, Else was party to all the Østerbro gossip, & could tell me more about Fru Krak, I was sure.
‘Winter-flowering cherry, tra-la-la!’ she sang triumphantly as I entered. The smell of flowers & soil hit me in a soft rush & it was a moment before I saw my pretty friend, hidden as she was behind a thousand sprays of pale pink blossom, as delightful & cheerful as fresh knickers. ‘All the way from the south of France,’ she continued, waving a huge sprig at me. ‘Here, have some.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But profit from it now, for it will be dead by teatime. Blossom don’t travel. I need to flog the lot today, to whatever poor fool will have it’
Else’s screaming orange hair was tied up in a most becoming though eccentric style, sitting on her head like a crouching tiger set to pounce, & pierced through with chopsticks from which several coloured beads & bells hung & jangled. Although the singing days of the Østerbro Coquettes were over, Else had never left them behind her, & seemed always to stand on a tiny stage of her own devising, upon which each of her smallest gestures was a dramatic performance. I watched her with my usual admiration as she busied herself with shears cutting laurel & catkin stalks & turning them into a deft & fiddle-de-dee arrangement. While she worked, I told her of my meeting with Lady Muck, aka Fru Krak, & she in turn told me the three facts about the woman that she had in her possession. Which were firstly that Fru Krak was a consummate bitch (which anyone, I told her, could ascertain from the distance of a furlong), she was a miser (which came as no surprise), & thirdly, that she had very probably murdered her husband, a professor of physics who was now a ghost that walked the streets of Østerbro at night, and had been seen posting letters in the box down by Sortedams Lake. Now the third piece of information did somewhat startle me, but to say that Else is prone to exaggeration is an understatement, so I did not show the level of surprise that you,dear one, might have done on receipt of such alarming news.
‘A ghost?’ I queried. ‘Killed him how?’
‘Well, ain’t that just the mystery,’ she said, now slickly weaving a length of pink ribbon into a basket of bulbs & moss. ‘The poor bugger’s body was never found. Which means she is a widow only in name. She never buried him. Well, you can’t bury thin air, can you?’
‘Curiouser & curiouser! So what happened?’
‘He disappeared from the face of the earth. When Fru Krak was away taking the waters at Silkeborg. Or so she claimed, come alibi time. The Prof didn’t pack no suitcase or take nothing. Odd or what? Wife’s story was, he was suicidal, & must’ve killed himself & then got his corpse to do a vanishing trick.’
‘If indeed he died,’ I mused. ‘An interesting case legally speaking, you might think. Since she is to remarry. If Professor Krak is actually alive enough to be seen posting letters, then does that not make the woman a bigamist?’
‘Only with a bad lawyer on her side,’ laughed Else, whose father was a bad lawyer: having grown up with the sound of angry clients pounding at the door asking for their money back, she knew of what she spoke. ‘She got herself one who’d swear black was white, for the right dosh. And remember, the Professor ain’t been seen alive in donkey’s years. Except as a ghost. They said he was the erratictype: odd ideas, dodgy theories. Anyway, according to this lawyer, after seven years you can remarry, & the previous alliance can be deemed by the courts null & void!
‘And the man she’s to wed? Pastor Dahlberg?’
‘A widower. Interesting to see how long he lasts.’ She lowered her voice & pulled a doomy face, still flicking skilfully at the pink ribbon. ‘My line of work, you can never have enough wreaths laid by. Charge a king’s ransom for them, you can, cos Fru Customer reckons it ain’t proper to haggle, question of respect for Herr Deceased. I had an old bag in here last week –’
‘But how do you know all this about the Kraks?’ I interrupted, keen to steer her back to the matter in hand, for when Else runs off on a tangent, she is never guaranteed to return.
‘From Gudrun Olsen. We play cards together Fridays. She’s Mistress of Ironing at the laundry, fifty girls she’s in charge of. That’s now. Back then, though, she was the Kraks’ housekeeper. Fru K gave her the sack straight after. Smells fishy in itself, I’d say. Go see her: she’ll tell you more than I can, & give you some ironing tips too. What Gudrun can’t teach you about steam ain’t worth know–’
‘But the ghost!’ I interrupted again. ‘Tell me, you’ve seen it?’
She threw up her hands. ‘Blimey, how would I know if I had? I never clocked Professor Krak alive, & don’t know his features. There’s many a man walks in this shop who could easily be dead, to look at him. But he ain’t. He’s just married to the wrong woman. Dead folk walk the streets every day, Charlotte. You know it as well as me, & what’s more, you roger them.’
‘Such a cheery view of the world you take!’
‘I merely got myself two clear eyes. Avoidance of disappointment: a little lesson I learned after my sausage-skin accident. Life’s breakable, Charlotte-pige: crash, bang, wallop! Today’s party is tomorrow’s popped balloon. Just think, I could’ve been a star, if it weren’t for that ruddy scrap of pig’s intestine!’
She gave the bulb-basket a last snip, whirled round, picked up a swathe of catkins, & plonked them in a tin bucket – voilà! At which point the door opened & a handsome red-cravatted man walked in brandishing a cane.
‘Well, mercy me,’ murmured Else. ‘A good client of mine.’
‘Mine likewise,’ I said, recognizing him, & his cane, with which he was wont to demand perverted acts be performed, on payment of an additional fee.
‘Herr Swampe! What a happy surprise!’ we said together, then couldn’t help bursting into amused laughter – laughter which for a glittering moment transformed us back into the Østerbro Coquettes, who would flick up their petticoats & reveal their lacy stocking-tops to the roar of the steaming, thundering crowds that packed the stalls.
The same memory of our heyday was clearly awoken in Herr Swampe too, for he immediately said: ‘O, gorgeous as two sea-shells from the Tropics you are, my dears. The heart fair lights up with joy. I loved that naughty stage-act of yours. Quite something, that was. You drove me wild with that tongue-kissing thing you did. Sometimes I’d get so worked up – ‘
Knowing Herr Swampe was likely to have cash, & quickly catching on to his fantasy, which E
lse & I were very used to provoking in men who saw us together, for we had indeed performed as quasi Sapphics for the titillation of men, we both egged him on most effusively & when he had finished telling us about how much our act had aroused him, I chided him that he was a wicked boy who should be spanked. (You have no idea how many men like to hear this nonsense whispered in their ear whilst in the act, for they are big babies, forever greedy for the simultaneous comfort & punishment of Mother.)
‘But dear Herr Swampe, tell me honest,’ said Else, not losing her business sense. ‘Did you come here to reminisce about the Østerbro Coquettes, or can I tempt you with something floral?’
Ah. Yes of course. He was looking for flowers for his wife’s birthday, he told Else, returning to his quotidian senses with the weary sigh of a provider. But that was perfect, Else said, for she had just the thing for his lucky wife. Blossom, all the way from romantic Toulouse, flown in this very morning by hot-air balloon! (Hot-air balloon?Where does she get these rodomontade ideas? I marvelled.) While winking at me, she flogged Herr Swampe the blooms that would be dead by teatime, & after he’d paid for them through the nose, he murmured in my ear, was I free for a quick spot of how’s-your-father? For if I had the time he had the money, having yesterday bet on the horses & won. And so, knowing him to be a speedy in-and-out sort of customer, I said, ‘Yes, so long as you do not insist I manipulate the cane, sir, for it is too early in the day for all that nonsense, I’ve not yet breakfasted.’ Having obtained this assurance we left together & set about our business with the minimum of undressing & thanks to some well-timed whimpering & moaning on my part, & doubtless some renewed memories of the Østerbro Coquettes on his, the deed was satisfactorily concluded in five minutes flat while Fru Schleswig, quite oblivious, chomped her way through the rundstykkerin the kitchen. Then, with both Herr Swampe & myself feeling in a smilingly generous mood towards his marriage (a frequent side-product of such transactions), I advised him to rush home to his wife with the blossom, so she could catch the full glory of it not to mention the whiff of Toulouse, & then said goodbye to him five kroner richer. After a quick fanny-douche & a splash of rose water I went to investigate how the ancient hag was doing. I found her now working her way through the stale wienerbrød, chewing sideways like a ruminant beast. But I needed her cheerful so said nothing. The repulsive Fru Schleswig said nothing either, but simply continued to munch, gazing blankly at me with her big cow’s eyes, & thus we looked on one another in silence for a long moment, as two prisoners shackled to one another by an invisible & unbreakable leg-clamp, for all eternity.
I had no formal education as a child, & cannot recall exactly where or how I learned the alphabet & its uses, but down in the damp cellar of the orphanage was stored a mass of mouldering tomes (the property having once belonged to a man of letters) where, by the light of a single candle, I devoured all the books I could from morn till night, thus attaining a somewhat eclectic & worm-eaten education including knowledge of a folk tale that frightened the young wits out of me, about a Russian witch called Baba Yaga Bonylegs who lived in a house in the middle of the forest that stood on giant chicken’s legs & could turn at will.
It was of this story & the childhood nightmares it engendered that I was reminded when I clapped eyes on Number Nine Rosenvængets Allé for the first time, for it was a large sombre homestead set back some distance from the road, surrounded by tall conifer trees of an exceedingly dark green that gave it an air of shadow & menace. The garden gate screamed for oil as I opened it, which deepened the sense of childish unease I had been feeling as I approached with the wheezing Fru Schleswig, whom I had forced into a reluctant vow of silence for the occasion. I rang the huge brass bell &, after a long while & much scraping of iron bolts, Fru Krak opened the creaking door. Clad in a leg-of-mutton-sleeved dress of a sickly greenish hue, she acknowledged me with no more than a haughty nod, & then turned her critical attention to Fru Schleswig. Who gives a less than heart-lifting impression at the best of times, weighing a hundred kilograms as she does, but I had furnished her with a white apron rigid with starch, & cajoled her into rolling up her sleeves to reveal the almighty hams of her forearms, each as thick as a pig’s thigh; so if nothing else, she looked strong enough to lift & hurl a barrel & wrest seven sailors to the ground.
‘Your confectionery package from Herr Møller, with his compliments,’ I said quickly, to distract her from the sight of Fru S, & waggled the ribboned & frilled box from the baker’s at her. (And what a good laugh the ancient swine & I had shared when we stopped along the way to peek at the cake inside, for it was adorned with pink marzipan hearts like the mimsy concoction of a lovesick girl.)
‘You can take it to the kitchen,’ the Krakster said coldly, like a creature raised in darkness and drained of blood: her flesh had the look of veal. ‘Follow me, both of you.’ And so we trod behind her sweeping figure into the cavernous interior of the house, crossing first an entrance hall adorned with reindeer & elk heads, & then heading down a gloomy corridor whose plaster-flaking walls gave off an ominous whiff of toad-spore. ‘The Pastor & I are to be married in February,’ she announced over her shoulder. ‘I had thought March, but the Pastor is keen to pursue our nuptials,’ & since she did not speak of it as a joyful prospect, I could not help but glean that she was one of those who prefer the anticipation of marriage to the state itself.
’Your confectionery package!’
When we reached the kitchen, which was hung with desiccated hams, she indicated I should put the package on the table. ‘Which lands me in a difficult position vis-á-vis the cleaning of this place. It will need some intensive work,’ she said, now turning her attention to the wheezing Fru Schleswig with increasing distaste. I handed the old crone (whose finger was now openly exploring the inside of her nostril) a handkerchief, & gave her a glare which told her to behave herself or face the consequences. Casting my eyes around the room, & swiftly assessing the possibilities before me, the financially exciting notion which I had been incubating since I first clapped eyes on Fru Krak in the baker’s shop now hatched, shook itself, spread its little wings, & prepared to fly. For it was suddenly eminently clear to me that one, there would be jewellery, trinkets, decorative objects & even small items of furniture here that might be pilfered & sold to good effect, & two, that Fru Schleswig would be dismissed within an hour here, if left to her own devices. Nothing focuses the intellect like an empty purse.
‘Might I suggest in that case that you employ the two of us?’ I offered sweetly to Fru Krak. ‘Fru Schleswig & I can happily work in tandem, she dealing with the heavier cleaning – I note you have a damp-rot problem, which is right up Fru Schleswig’s street – while I, in turn, can see to the finer side of things such as polishing & dusting. I would not like Fru Schleswig here to break any of your –’ I looked around: curtains dangling dust-laden klunke-bobbles, all manner of passementerie& overstuffed armchairs, plus myriad mirrors reflecting regiments of knick-knacks and gewgaws – ‘your fragile & costly ornaments.’
At which point Fru S fog-horned at me: ‘Wot do u fink I am, a bull in a chyner shoppe or wot?’ Already her vow of silence was broken, as I should have guessed it would be, but I ignored her &, hoping Fru Krak would do the same, pursued my theme: which was that together Fru S & I could get the work done in half the time, so that by New Year the mansion would be as new, & a fitting abode for the Pastor & his lovely wife. Might the good lady be so kind as to show us round, to get the measure of the place?
With some reluctance, & with many warnings about how she would notice immediately if any thieving went on, for she knew the value & location of every item she owned, she led us around the rest of her dismal residence, a labyrinth of decrepit passages & small, unlikely sets of twisting stairs leading to single cells in lonely towers, or to unexpected, spider-infested bedrooms. I was minded of a honeycomb after the bees have been smoked out, & despite having a good inner compass, I had lost track of its configurement within the space of twenty doors, & re
alized I would need to make myself a detailed map with pen & ink, if I was to master the architecture, & turn such knowledge to my profit.
‘As you see, I keep many rooms locked,’ Lady Muck announced, jangling the set of keys that hung at the level of her heavy hips. ‘But that is to change, for Pastor Dahlberg has much in the way of furniture. Nearly every room must be opened, aired & cleaned in preparation for his arrival.’
’Nearlyevery one, madam?’ I queried.
A look of alarm crossed her face, but she suppressed it quickly.
‘There are one or two that remain private,’ she snapped, ‘& will not be of concern to you.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I am sure all houses have them.’ She looked at me sharply: I saw the spasm of anxiety again. ‘All the best houses must, I mean,’ I said soothingly, keen to disguise the sudden sense of excitement I was feeling at having spotted a chink in that icy armour of hers. This seemed to settle her somewhat, for I was getting the measure of her by now, & guessed that she was one to be mollified by the crassest of flatteries. But I will confess to you, dear reader, that the subject of the locked rooms, & the hint of agitation she betrayed at the mention of them, filled me immediately with the most overwhelming curiosity. How could it not? Clearly there was something hidden there that she would prefer to remain a secret. And had I not read Bluebeard, and stories of hidden treasure? I pictured a big coffer stuffed with jewels and banknotes, such as a pirate might bury on a secret island, and mark on a map with an X. A softened bar of wax, I figured, was all it would take to make an imprint of the keys. I was quite lost in my thoughts on this subject when we stopped at the top of a staircase, which Fru Schleswig was still laboriously climbing in our wake. As I have mentioned, I had instructed the elderly hag not to blab a word, & to act entirely mute, but she had already broken this pledge several times by uttering uneducated exclamations of the type: O pittie me poor ole legs! & Blimey, wot it must be lyke ratling round alone in a hows this syze! And Coo, look at the tinklys on that shandyleer! – remarks which Fru Krak had fortunately chosen to ignore.
