The Library of Shadows

by Mikkel Birkegaard

  The Remer case had to do with corporate raiding of the highest order. The main player, Otto Remer, was accused of bankrupting no fewer than a hundred and fifty companies over a period of years. There was no doubt that what he had done was morally problematical, but it was much less certain whether it was outright illegal. The case had already gone on for three years, and it was a widespread joke among the firm's employees that the amount of information and the complexity had reached critical mass, whereupon the case had taken on a consciousness and life of its own.

  The case files had their very own archives, just as the ever-changing team of lawyers had been given a special Remer office where they could work undisturbed. It was a 'make or break' case, and so far the lawyers who had given it a shot had all broken. A successful resolution of the case would undoubtedly lead to an offer of a partnership in the firm. That was the rumour among the lawyers, at any rate.

  The amount of documents and the complexity of the case were not the only challenges. The man himself, Otto Remer, was also a bit of a trial. Several colleagues had completely given up trying to work with him, since he had no fondness for lawyers nor for supplying documentation of his transactions. He behaved without regard for the gravity of the case and wasn't beyond going off on a ski holiday or a business trip during critical phases of the proceedings.

  The air was still damp and chilly after the rain, and Jon shivered in his thin jacket. Two men in shirtsleeves came out of the building to have a smoke. They lit their cigarettes, which they greedily inhaled, while they shifted from one foot to the other to keep warm.

  A mobile phone rang and Jon instinctively reached for his inner pocket. It wasn't his phone, but he did notice that he had received three calls from the same number during the course of the morning. Without looking at the display, he pressed the familiar combination of numbers that gave him access to his voicemail.

  He listened with growing amazement to the message that had been left for him. It was from a Detective Sergeant Olsen, who in a businesslike tone explained that he was ringing with regard to Jon's father, Luca Campelli. Jon frowned. He was accustomed to receiving calls from the police, but he couldn't fathom what the connection could be with his father.

  Before he managed to return the call, a bailiff came out to find him. The judges had finished deliberating.

  Before a courtroom that was now only half filled, the judges announced what everyone already knew, that there was no real case against Mehmet and that all charges were dropped. Mehmet's friends who were still present cheered, and Mehmet himself took Jon's hand and shook it vigorously.

  'Good job, Lawman,' he said with satisfaction.

  Jon smiled back and nodded towards the elated spectators. 'Do you want a lift back, or are you going out to party with your fan club?'

  'If you're taking the car out anyway, I'll catch a ride with you,' said his client. 'Some of us have work to do.'

  Jon started packing up his papers. Several colleagues and acquaintances came over to congratulate him on the outcome, and Jon good-naturedly had to decline invitations to dinner to celebrate. He didn't feel the euphoria that usually followed a victory. The encounter with the firm's partner had been a little too odd for him to be able to concentrate on celebrating.

  Mehmet seemed to sense his mood. In the car he said, 'Hey, we scored!' and gave Jon a playful shove on the shoulder.

  'I know. I'm sorry,' said Jon with a smile. 'I guess I'm a little tired.'

  Mehmet accepted Jon's explanation and began talking about suing for damages – how much money they should demand for damages to the door of his flat, about compensation for his cut eyebrow and about whether they could demand money for besmirching his reputation in the neighbourhood.

  Jon gave curt replies as he drove towards Nшrrebro. When they arrived at Mehmet's flat, his mobile rang, and Jon switched on the hands-free to take the call. Detective Sergeant Olsen introduced himself and explained why he was ringing. Jon listened to the man's monotone voice and offered brief replies, mostly to acknowledge that he was still there.

  When the conversation was over, he took off the headset and sighed.

  'Yet another fan?' asked Mehmet.

  Jon shook his head. 'I wouldn't say that. My father is dead.'

  3

  Luca was going to be buried in Copenhagen 's Assistens Cemetery, among the great Danish authors, just as he had lived his life among their works.

  Jon arrived at the last minute and was met by an obviously nervous Iversen, who was standing on the gravel path outside the chapel, waiting for him. Jon recognized him at once as his father's long-time assistant at Libri di Luca. They had spoken on the phone several days earlier. It was Iversen who had found Luca in the shop that morning, dead of a heart attack; he had also taken care of all the practical arrangements for the funeral. He had always been the one who got things done, and he handled all tasks willingly.

  When Jon had visited the bookshop as a child, he could always persuade Iversen to read stories to him when Luca either didn't have time or was out on business. During the past fifteen years Iversen's hair had turned whiter, his cheeks were fuller and the lenses of his glasses were thicker, but the same warm smile still welcomed Jon when, with his briefcase under his arm, he hastily approached the waiting man.

  'It was good of you to come, Jon,' said Iversen, giving him a warm handshake.

  'Hello, Iversen. It's been a long time,' said Jon.

  Iversen nodded. 'Yes, you've certainly shot up, my boy,' he said with a laugh. 'The last time we met, you were no taller than Gyldendal's four-volume encyclopaedia.' He let go of Jon's hand and placed his own hand on the younger man's shoulder, as if to demonstrate how tall he had grown. 'But the service is about to start,' he said, giving Jon an apologetic smile. 'We'll have to talk afterwards.' His eyes assumed a solemn expression. 'It's important that we have a chance to talk.'

  'Of course,' said Jon and allowed himself to be ushered into the chapel.

  To his surprise the place was almost full. The pews were occupied by people of all ages, from mothers with whimpering infants to wizened old men who looked as if the ceremony could just as well have been for them. As far as Jon knew, Luca's only contact with the rest of the world, aside from the bookshop, was through an Italian friendship society, but the crowd was a diverse gathering of people who didn't look as if they were of Italian origin.

  A murmur arose as everyone turned to look at the two men walking up the centre aisle to the two vacant seats in the front row. On the floor before the altar was a white-painted coffin surrounded by wreaths that overflowed into the aisle in a river of colour. The wreath that Jon had asked his secretary to send lay on top of the coffin. On the ribbon it said simply 'Jon'.

  After they sat down, Jon leaned towards Iversen. 'Who are all these people?'

  Iversen hesitated for a moment before he answered. 'Friends of Libri di Luca,' he whispered.

  Jon's eyes opened wide. 'Business must be good,' he said in a low voice, looking around. He estimated there to be about a hundred people in the chapel.

  From his childhood he remembered well the regular customers who came to the shop, but it surprised him that there would be so many, and that they would feel obligated to come to the funeral. The customers he remembered best were strange individuals, shabby eccentrics who spent their money on books and catalogues instead of on food and clothes. They could roam about for hours without buying anything, and many times they would come back the next day, or two days later, and once again scour the shelves, as if they were checking to see when the fruit would be ripe and ready for picking.

  A priest entered the chapel and seemed to float in his embroidered surplice over to the pulpit on the other side of the coffin. The scattered whispering in the room died away and the ceremony began. The priest swung the censer towards those who were present and the discreet aroma of incense spread through the chapel. After that the priest's calm voice filled the air with words about sanctuaries, breathing spaces, abo
ut belonging and giving other people experiences, and about the fundamental values in life such as art and literature.

  'Luca was a guarantor for these values,' intoned the priest. 'A man generous with his warmth, knowledge and hospitality.'

  Jon stared straight ahead. Behind him he sensed the congregation's sympathetic nods, barely audible sniffling and the tears that no doubt welled up while his own eyes were dry. He recalled another funeral when things had been different; a funeral when he, as a twelve-year-old boy, had to be led out of the church, and a distant aunt had tried to comfort him in the biting winter cold. Back then it had been his mother they were burying, dead at much too young an age, in everyone's opinion; but it wasn't until the following year that he found out why it happened. Not the existential why, but the raw, unvarnished reason: Marianne, Jon's mother and Luca's Danish wife, had committed suicide by throwing herself out of the sixth-floor window. It was unclear whether it was the cold outside the church or his own despair that had chopped up his sobs into a heart-rending stammer back then, but the experience of not being able to breathe had stayed with him, and he hadn't been to a funeral since.

  At the priest's invitation, the congregation sang a couple of selected hymns before the floor was given to Iversen. Luca's faithful co-worker and friend picked up a stack of books from under his seat and stood up. He stepped over the wreaths on the floor and made his way to the pulpit. There he held the pile of books a couple of centimetres above the surface and dropped them so they landed with an audible thump. That provoked laughter, and the mood lightened after the exalted tone of the hymns.

  Iversen's speech was a cheerful farewell to the man with whom he had spent the last forty years. He peppered his talk with anecdotes from their friendship, and readings from passages of the books he had brought along. Just as when he read stories to Jon as a child, Iversen captured the attention of his audience with a lively reading fromThe Divine Comedy, one of Luca's favourites. Then he continued with excerpts from the great classics, which everyone in the chapel seemed to know by heart. Even though Jon hadn't read these works, he was still moved by Iversen's interpretations and the evocative images blossomed on his internal canvas, precisely as they had when he sat on Iversen's lap in the leather chair in Libri di Luca, listening to stories about cowboys, knights and astronauts. When he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the dust of the antiquarian bookshop and hear the silence, which between the shelves of the shop seemed to resonate like nowhere else.

  When Iversen finished his speech, a few people spontaneously applauded until they remembered where they were and fell silent. The priest once again appeared in the pulpit and insisted on singing one last hymn before they said goodbye. Jon followed the text in his hymnal but didn't participate in the song, unlike Iversen, who droned along unembarrassed at his side. For a moment Jon wondered whether he ought to feel guilty about not taking a greater part in the ceremony, but he shook off the thought by directing his gaze at the ceiling. Undoubtedly some of those present were surprised; they might even think he was arrogant, but that was their problem. They didn't know anything. For his part, it was just a matter of getting through the funeral and escaping into the fresh air.

  When the hymn was over, Jon was one of the first to stand up.

  Outside, those in attendance divided themselves into two groups, and Jon kept close to Iversen, who was the only person he knew. They were quickly joined by several others who praised Iversen for his speech and offered their condolences to Jon. Apparently everyone knew who he was, but at the same time he sensed a certain astonishment from those he greeted, as if they hadn't expected him to show up.

  'You look exactly like him,' a middle-aged man in a wheelchair said bluntly. He introduced himself as William Kortmann, and Jon noticed that the wheelchair he was sitting in was completely black; even the spokes of the wheels were black. 'How strange that he didn't say anything,' Kortmann went on, but abruptly fell silent when he noticed Jon's surprised expression. 'Well, we need to be going,' he said, turning to a dark-clad man who stood alone a couple of metres away. As if by telepathy, the man turned around at once and came walking towards them.

  'But of course we'll be seeing each other,' said the man in the wheelchair. 'I'm very much looking forward to working with a Campelli again.'

  Before Jon had time to reply, Kortmann's wheelchair turned and he was pushed away from the chapel by his attendant.

  'What was that all about?' Jon asked Iversen.

  Iversen made a wry face. 'Er, hmm, he's from the… Reading Group.'

  'But what kind of work did he mean?' Jon insisted.

  'Let's take a walk,' said Iversen, drawing Jon away.

  They left the gravel path and went into the cemetery. The autumn sun hung low in the sky, sending knife-sharp rays through the tree branches and making wavy patterns on the path in front of them. They walked for a while in silence. It was quiet in the older part of the cemetery, where the shrubs were so thick it was impossible to see through them, even though the leaves had begun to fall.

  'Your father loved walking here.'

  Jon nodded. 'I know. I once followed him on one of his walks. I must have been about nine; in any case it was before…' Jon paused and bent down to pick up an acorn from the ground. He turned it over in his fingers before he went on. 'I pretended I was a secret agent and sneaked after him. I tailed him, imagining he was meeting other spies and passing on information.' Jon cleared his throat and tossed away the acorn. 'Maybe I was a bit disappointed. He didn't do anything except walk among the graves. Occasionally he would stop, and a few times he sat down to read from a book he'd brought along, as if he were reading aloud for the dead.'

  'That sounds just like him,' said Iversen with a chuckle. 'Always looking for an audience.'

  'I wouldn't know,' said Jon.

  They had reached the wall bordering Nшrrebrogade, where the ivy grew in abundance, covering the graves along the wall like a green snowfall.

  'You realize you're going to inherit the bookshop, don't you?' said Iversen, keeping his eyes on the path in front of them.

  Jon stopped and glanced at Iversen, who managed to take a couple more steps before he too came to a halt and turned round.

  'There was no will, and as his only relative, you're the sole heir,' said Iversen, fixing his gaze on Jon. There wasn't a trace of bitterness or envy in the old man's eyes; instead, they seemed filled with concern or anxiety.

  'I hadn't given it a thought,' said Jon. 'Was that what Kortmann meant when he said we'd be seeing each other again?'

  Iversen nodded. 'Something like that, yes.'

  Jon looked away. They continued walking.

  'I was sure that Luca had left everything to you,' said Jon.

  'Maybe your father hoped you would find your way back,' he suggested.

  'ThatI would find my way back?' exclaimed Jon. 'As far as I recall, he was the one who didn't want anything to do with me the last time I contacted him.'

  'I think… no, I'mcertain he had a good reason for that.'

  They had reached the end of the wall and exited the cemetery through the gate to Jagtvej, where they turned right towards Runddelen. The traffic was a welcome contrast to the silence of the cemetery.

  'I don't want anything to do with it,' said Jon firmly as they turned down Nшrrebrogade and headed back to the chapel. 'There won't be any problems. I have good legal contacts who can take care of this sort of thing. You've always been the right person to take over the place.'

  Iversen cleared his throat so he could speak over the traffic noise. 'That's terribly nice of you, Jon. But I can't accept.'

  'Of course you can,' said Jon. 'Luca owes it to you, and to me.'

  'Perhaps,' Iversen admitted. 'But the bookshop isn't the whole thing. Your father's estate is more than a room full of old books.'

  'Debts?'

  'No, no, it's nothing like that, I can assure you.'

  'Come on, Iversen. Let's not play a guessing game at the man's funera
l,' said Jon, unable to hide his annoyance.

  Iversen stopped and placed his hand on Jon's shoulder. 'I'm sorry, Jon. But I can't say anything more right now. You see, it's not my decision alone.'

  Jon studied the man facing him. The expression in his eyes was both serious and sympathetic behind the sturdy frames of his steel-rimmed spectacles.

  'That's okay, Iversen. Whatever the two of you have got yourselves mixed up in, it can wait until a more suitable moment. I suppose it's rather bad form to be discussing an inheritance at a funeral, isn't it?'

  Iversen nodded with relief and gave Jon's shoulder an affectionate pat. 'You're right, of course. I just wanted to make sure that you're aware this isn't the end of the matter. Let's meet at the shop in the next few days so we can settle things.'

  They had reached the intersection of Nшrrebrogade and Kapelvej, and Iversen made a move to turn back towards the chapel. Jon stopped and pointed to a bar on the other side of the street.

  'I'm going to have a drink. Want to join me?' he asked. 'Isn't that part of going to a funeral?'

  'No, thanks,' said Iversen. 'We're having a little get-together at the Society. You're welcome to come too, of course.'

  Jon shook his head. 'Thanks anyway. See you later, Iversen.'

  They shook hands, then Jon crossed the street and went inside the Clean Glass pub.

  It was no more than two in the afternoon but the air was thick with smoke and the regular customers had already taken their places. They gave him a brief glance but clearly decided he was of no interest and went back to their beers.

  Jon ordered a draught beer and sat down at a heavy wooden table, marred by beer rings and lit by a hanging copper lamp attached somewhere above the clouds of smoke. At a table opposite him sat a scrawny old man with pale skin, a crooked nose and wispy hair. The jacket he was wearing had patches on the sleeves, and the shirt underneath was wrinkled and far from clean. On the table in front of him stood a bottle of stout.