My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time

by Liz Jensen

  I drew in a breath. ‘I do not speak of my accident,’ she said warningly. ‘For I bear a measure of guilt – excruciating guilt over what happened. But I have to warn you, Charlotte, that you are risking your life working in that place. No good will come of it. And nor I think do you want your pretty face ruined, as mine was.’

  A shudder ran the length of my spine as I eyed her dreadful scar.

  ‘By Fru Krak?’ I whispered, aghast. My mind was in a whizzy: yes, Fru Krak had a whiff of madness about her, to be sure. But the thought of her lungeing at another woman’s cheek with a ragged blade … it beggared belief that she might muster the energy.

  Finally, as if guessing my train of thought, Gudrun Olsen gave a small smile & shook her head. ‘Fru Krak is a lazy, vain fool, & as unpleasant a human specimen as you could wish to meet. But she is not the danger in that house, my dear girl. It is something else entirely that you must fear.’

  ‘What?’ I asked, all a-tremble suddenly, & wrapping my cloak around me more tightly.

  ‘The thing that did this to me,’ said Gudrun Olsen (& she did not need to indicate her mutilation for my eyes were still locked to it, mesmerized), ‘was not of human flesh.’

  It was late afternoon when, soaked through with steam, I left that place, dear reader, a more fearful & anxious young woman, so much so that I fancied, in my agitated state, that the tall balaclava’d man who had so kindly given me directions earlier was now following me in a sinister & invisible fashion, at the periphery of my vision. But he remained elusive, for although I sensed his presence, when I turned my head he was not to be seen. That night Gudrun Olsen’s words crept into my dreams, where in the foul, sunken heart of that labyrinthine home on Rosenvængets Allé I imagined wizardry & toad-spore, & hooded men performing dark deeds that the day would quake to look upon, to feed the avid hunger of a vile machine whose wheels never stopped turning. I awoke shuddering & feverish & clad in a cold, cold sweat.

  Perhaps, dear reader, you might argue that no young woman in her right mind would have gone near that house again after what Gudrun Olsen had said about the mysterious goings-on within it seven years ago. But Professor Krak himself was seemingly dead & gone, & only superstitious fools believe in ghosts, & without its engineer, the demonic machinery Gudrun had spoken of, whose purpose she did not know, was surely of no more harm than any abandoned object left to dilapidate. What did I actually know that was concrete, as opposed to a random jumble of oddities? This is what I had learned: that Professor Krak was an eccentric, reclusive man, prone to passionate outbursts of fury at his wife, & obsessed with the construction of a large machine in the basement. That the more strained his marriage to Fru Krak became, the more time he would spend in his workshop, & the more money his wife would spend on clothes, as though it were part of a silent bargain they had struck, that if she granted him the peace he craved to work on his inventions, then he would fund her wardrobe. That the couple did not sleep or eat meals together, & that Gudrun Olsen would set trays of food & drink outside his workshop door, & clear them away when she found the dishes emptied. That she would show desperate-looking, dark-cloaked men & women in at midnight or the small hours, folk whom she would never see emerge from a basement cellar known as the Oblivion Room, & how these people must be ushered in through a back door, & Fru Krak must not discover their presence. That Professor Krak would send Gudrun Olsen on tortuous errands to buy machinery parts – one kilo of nuts & bolts from this mechanical supplier, another half-kilo, of a different size, from that; a little cog-wheel from a particular ironmonger’s in Frederiksberg, a flexible cord from a specialist indiarubber shop in Amager, a huge, heavy jar of mercury from a one-eyed woman in a brothel in Christianshavn. Once she was obliged to take a carriage all the way to Hellerup, at midnight, & knock on a door where a man handed her a heavy, squeaking, agitated box which she suspected, from the smell, contained live sewer rats. Then on other occasions she had been dispatched to the home of a widow, where she was instructed to elicit the story of her husband’s gory death by arsenic poisoning, & then recuperate the handkerchief into which she had wept.

  ‘You’d get her to cry, & bring him back the handkerchief?’

  ‘That’s right’

  ‘And he never told you why?’

  ‘He never told me anything. But he paid me well.’ Each time he sent her on such errands, Gudrun said, Professor Krak would give her a thick wad of banknotes, & tell her that under no circumstances should she mention his name in association with the item she had bought.

  ‘What happened to him, in your opinion?’ I asked finally.

  ‘I have no idea. One day he was there, the next he had disappeared. But you can be sure that if Professor Krak is indeed dead,’ she finished, ‘Lord bless his soul, then it is thanks to his experimenting with ideas & practices that he should not have meddled with.’

  So that was what I knew. Much and little, all at once – but if there was physical danger to be feared, I had protection at least in the form of the stout Fru Schleswig, who could kill a man with a single blow of her hand, & still any machine with a thunderous kick of her hoof, however out of control it may become: with such a physical force acting as one’s human shield, & taking the brunt of whatever attack might be launched in one’s direction, what need I fear? That was my reasoning, as I went with Fru Schleswig to work the next day, & the next, & furthered my forays into the heart of the building. But there was something else too, that drew me deeper in, despite what I had heard: a rapacious greed to know more about the locked basement room that Professor Krak used as his workshop & the dangerous mechanical device that might still lie, rusting & abandoned, within. And to witness for myself what horrors or what marvels Professor Krak had created illicit access to –

  Yes, marvels. For surely there were marvels. Why else would all those people flock to the house in such a secretive & desperate manner? Why else would I feel so burning an urge to see the contents of the basement workshop that Gudrun called the Oblivion Room for myself? Yes: what drew me, magnetically, to discover more was the same impulse that had sucked others in. Adventure. Danger. And escape. Looking back I realize that even then, I was like an opium eater, drawn to the source of woe, heedless of its ill-effects, & mindful only of the brief ecstatic sweetness it might offer, whose boundaries were only those of my imagination.

  Yes, O dear one: even then, Professor Krak’s demonic invention had exerted its pull.

  The Pastor, whom I met the second week, was a paunchy man in his middle to late years, with clattering false teeth that seemed to roam his mouth like a tribe of nomads in search of land on which to pitch camp.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, my dear,’ he said, eyeing my curves like a greasy old flesh-merchant, & somersaulting the contraption in his mouth. ‘I hear that thanks to the good Fru Krak, you are in the process of reforming. I am glad to hear it. And I know that Christ is too.’ (I was quickly to learn that Christ and Pastor Dahlberg were most loyally twinned, and always agreed with one another, whatever the subject might be.)

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘Fru Krak informs me that she saved you from the streets. That you were a harlot,my dear young woman. But have since sought more appetizing work? Here with us? Praise be to God.’

  But I could see from the Pastor’s greedy porcine eyes that his thoughts were less with the Lord Almighty than with my breasts, & at that moment I envisaged the possible transmogrification of my employment quite clearly.

  ‘Ah yes,’ I said, cottoning on to the self-serving tale Fru Krak must have spun him, about her heroic role in my ‘redemption’. ‘I am so grateful to the good lady, indeed I am. Were it not for the bounty of your noble fiancee, I would be forced, through sheer need, to unbutton the top of my dress thus, & reveal my lacework corset to strangers.’

  The Pastor gasped, went red in the face, & came close to choking on his oral prosthesis.

  ‘And provoke the dirtiest & most shameful lusts,’ I continued, undressin
g further: ‘– & reveal the exquisite bosoms & pert girlish nipples that nestle beneath my intimate underclothing – no! No touching, sir! And at the same time tweak up my petticoats so that they can see the flesh at the top of my leg, where the stocking ends, & …’

  Yes, dear reader, I had him where I wanted him, for by now he was breathing heavily & struggling with the buttons of his tweed knickerbockers, but I told him, steady on, mister, cash first: five kroner. Such a pitch he had worked himself into just with the thought of seeing more, that by the time he had scrabbled for the money in his pocket & revealed the pale & desperate thing that poked from his breeches like a worm struggling for air, it was all over. Which was just as well, for a moment later Fru Krak swept in wearing an outfit of pomegranate pink as depicted on the cover of that week’s edition of the Fine Lady,& I barely had time to cover the incriminating translucency on my skirts with my feather duster before greeting her demurely & receiving my orders concerning the tasks ahead of me & Fru Schleswig, while Pastor Dahlberg scurried from the room muttering something about a sermon on penitence, his face the colour of a peeled beetroot.

  And thus did two sources of income open to me in the space of one week, & I was right glad for it, & pleased with myself indeed. For I knew that the Pastor’s need for repentance would crop up again, it having struck me over the years that many married women, due to their husband’s negligence, have never become acquainted with their own lust, & seeing nothing emerge from the act save more babies, they cry off with complaints of headaches, bunions & women’s trouble, thus catapulting their frustrated menfolk into the laps of mistresses, or girls such as myself. Fru Krak, to look at her, was surely the last woman on earth capable of lifting her petticoats for any other purpose than to piss or shit, so it was clear to me that she would soon tire of the ordeal of servicing the ageing but still eager Dahlberg once she had secured him with the forthcoming nuptials. And had her horoscope not advised her, on the subject of subordinates, to make sure they know their place, but allow them leeway in matters that could help you privately?

  Very well, I thought, my dear Pastor, & his good Lady Muck. But if it’s to be, you shall pay a high price for it. Five kroner is just the beginning.

  Have you ever had the experience, dear reader, of waking every morning obsessed by the same thought? A thought which nags at you all day, & will not relinquish its grip even as you drift into sleep, but worms deeper into your psyche, manifesting itself in the most disturbing dreams? Such was the tenacity of my urge to discover the mystery that lay deep in the bowels of the Krak household. Unearth it I must! And yes, as I have already remarked to you, the frightening but insubstantial facts Gudrun Olsen had imparted to me, accompanied by warnings of doom, had, far from damping my appetite, only whetted it further. But it turned out that there was more to come, unexpectedly, from another quarter. A week after my encounter with Gudrun, I had taken advantage of Fru Krak’s absence at the hairdresser’s to visit the apothecary for some rose water. Herr Bang was behind the counter, & we were soon chatting about some of the changes that were being wrought in the neighbourhood of Østerbro. He told me that his girls were to attend the new school run by Ingrid Jespersen, & that his wife would teach there too, & I in turn told him where Fru Schleswig & I were employed, it being not far from that very school, & at this news his face darkened.

  ‘I know Fru Krak. She’s been a regular customer of mine ever since her husband disappeared. A bad sleeper. I sell her a lot of potions for the nerves, but I have remarked that nothing seems to work. I’m not surprised she’s twitchy, the things that went on there. And do still, if the rumours are to be believed. She has been trying to sell that house for years, but none will buy it, for it is said to be haunted.’

  ‘What “things” went on?’ I asked, a shudder running through me as I recalled Gudrun Olsen’s talk of demonic machinery & sewer rats. But he did not answer me directly.

  ‘I was acquainted with Professor Krak,’ he said. I did not recognize the expression that came over his face, for I had never encountered it before; studying him closely, I remarked he looked uncomfortable, as though remembering something he would rather not.

  ‘And what business had you with him, if I may ask?’

  Herr Bang looked around him, as though to confirm that I was the only customer in the shop, which I was, then took out a stepladder & reached for a jar of liquid from a high shelf, which he proceeded to stir furiously with a small metal whisk. ‘Dark business,’ he said finally, as though that were the end of it. But I would not let him escape.

  ‘But of what nature, pray? You cannot just say “dark business”, sir, & then leave it hanging!’

  He sighed, clearly excruciated, & whisked ever more energetically, so that the liquid began to froth quite alarmingly, & generate little underwater sparks.

  ‘I would not like my wife to hear of this,’ he said. ‘For she prefers me not to dwell on my unhappy past, knowing how much it pains me. But here it is. You see, I was married before, & my first wife caught tuberculosis & died, & so did our young baby, only six months old,’ he said, still mixing vigorously.

  Then he stopped & looked at me, & I saw tears in his eyes. ‘It is a cruel disease.’ We both surveyed the jar for a moment, in which the liquid – a pale green – was still swirling around, the little sparking particles glittering luminously within.

  ‘I am sorry, Herr Bang,’ I said softly. ‘I did not know of this.’

  ‘I was a very unhappy man &, to be honest, all I wanted was oblivion. I had heard on the grapevine that Professor Krak was known to offer … certain discreet services. To which, I will confess, I felt very much drawn at the time, in my distress. I felt so helpless without my wife & son, & would never have believed that only two years later I would meet my present darling wife & have three more children, & be as contented as I am. I thought my life was at an end.’

  ‘What services?’ I asked, picturing an unhappy brothel – until I remembered Gudrun Olsen speculating about séances. ‘Did he put you in touch with the dead?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes,’ he said cryptically. ‘But let me just say that they were not joyful services he offered. They were for the desperate among us, & I was one of their number then. He offered what he called journeys to the Great Beyond.’

  ‘The Great Beyond? What & where is that?’

  ‘I never discovered. Let me just say that I looked into the abyss down in the basement, my dear – but I feared what I saw, & pulled away.’ His face had taken on a different cast, both wistful & full of pain. I knew better than to break the spell of his mournful reverie & so I waited. ‘He was a likeable man, for all his oddness & eccentricity. I got the impression he was on a kind of mission. He spoke of those who used his services as “pioneers”.’ He chuckled. ‘I’ll never forget all those clocks he had everywhere,’ he said, then paused in his whisking process to survey the jar of liquid, which had now turned a much lighter hue. ‘Hundreds of them, all telling a different time, according to what capital city they represented.’

  ‘What clocks?’ I asked sharply, feeling a sudden chill, for I could picture not a single timepiece in the whole house.

  ‘Ah. She’ll have got rid of them then,’ he said, nodding slowly. Then he squinted at the window. ‘Did you see that man in the balaclava peering in just now?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘A balaclava?’ I queried. I looked out, but saw nothing. ‘It seems to be quite popular head-gear this winter,’ I said, remembering my guide on Strandboulevarden, but feeling a strange uneasiness as I did so.

  ‘He seemed keen to come in, then changed his mind,’ mused Herr Bang. ‘He was probably after something embarrassing. They tend to loiter.’

  ‘So tell me, what did Professor Krak offer, exactly?’ I asked, not wanting him to lose the thread. Herr Bang thought for a moment.

  ‘Well, he claimed that an invention of his – a certain machine he had built – could provide a solution whereby one’s body would never be found. Wheth
er it eliminated you or transported you elsewhere I never discovered, & I am not certain he did either. Many chose that route, even though Professor Krak warned that there were risks. But I decided against it, & do not regret delaying my journey to the Great Beyond.’

  Seeming suddenly ill-at-ease, as if he felt he had said too much, Herr Bang stopped whisking, rinsed his implement, screwed the lid tightly back on the jar, mounted his little stepladder & returned it to the shelf, then reached for his waistcoat & pulled out his pocket-watch, which he flicked open & scrutinized. ‘Now, my dear,’ he said with finality & a firm smile. ‘I must close the shop for lunch or my dear wife will worry. The joys of marriage, dear Charlotte. I cannot tell you. I wish the same for you one day, for you deserve a better life than whoring, if you don’t mind my mentioning your trade. But stay away from that place, I implore you, & please, for my wife’s sake, keep this conversation to yourself

  ‘Did he do things with rats?’ I asked, as he began pulling down the shutters & fiddle-faddling with keys. ‘Did you witness wizardry?’

  The fragments of the jigsaw were there, but piece them together coherently I could not. I would get no more clues from Herr Bang, though, that I could see, for he had become furiously & briskly normal, chatting as though steam-powered, about such topics as a new kind of luminescent soap imported from Geneva, the debate on human slavery, & the best temperature for the storage of horse-manure.

  That night, as I lay sleepless next to the deeply snoring Herr Axel Axelsen (a client who took regular advantage of my overnight bargain – sunset to sunrise, with limitless shagging & all extras thrown in gratis), my exhausted but excited mind flitted through what I knew & what I still knew not, what I had guessed & others had surmised or hinted at, until my head was ascuzz with disjointed images & battling thoughts. I suffered this a while, along with Herr Axelsen’s snoring, which conjoined with that of Fru Schleswig in the adjacent room to create a veritable cacophony, until I realized that I would not sleep until I had done something, & that I must do what I always do when in a state of puzzlement: reach for a quill & chart my notions on paper. So I got up, lit a candle, threw on my frayed green silk kimono & sat at my writing desk where, to the sound of rival snores, with pen & ink I created a list, thus: