The Library of Shadows

by Mikkel Birkegaard

  Katherina aimed the fire extinguisher at the door and pressed the handle down as far as it would go. A hoarse hiss drowned out the sound of the crackling fire, and white foam spewed out over the wooden door. With an angry sizzle the flames gave way to the foam and the fire on the door was put out before it could gain a foothold inside. The stench of smoke and burnt paint made Katherina cover her mouth and nose with her left arm as she stepped through the smouldering doorway, dragging the fire extinguisher behind her.

  Outside the flames were still licking up the wooden facade beneath the windows, and Katherina immediately began emptying the contents of the extinguisher over the blazing areas. The heat made it impossible to stand close for very long, so several times she had to stop and retreat before she could once again attack the flames. Her arms were shaking from the exertion of holding the heavy canister and her fingers were cramping from their convulsive grip on the handle. At the same time the smoke brought tears to her eyes so that everything appeared distorted and blurry. But she continued her assault on the burning patches, and soon she had put out the right side of the facade.

  The left was not blazing as strongly, but by the time she'd put out half of the flames, the foam in the container was gone. Desperately she pumped the handle a few times, then she flung the empty extinguisher on the pavement, where it landed with a metallic clunk.

  Angry and in despair, she tore off her jacket and started beating it on the remaining flames. With every blow the fire seemed to taunt her by yielding and then flaring up even more violently than before. She whipped her jacket against the shopfront, but each time she put out one flame, two more tongues of fire would appear in its place.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder.

  'Step back,' said a voice, and the hand pulled her away from the flames. A figure moved in front of her, and she heard the welcome sound of yet another fire extinguisher.

  Katherina dropped her jacket on the ground and rubbed her eyes. Behind her a crowd of people had appeared, standing there and watching the scene as if it were a bonfire. The man in front of her gasped from the heat as he fought the last of the flames, but slowly they gave way, and soon the whole facade was a smouldering shell of charred wood. Behind the smoke she saw Jon's silhouette as he beat the floor with his jacket, cursing loudly. She ran inside the shop just as he stamped out the last of the flames. His white shirt had come untucked and was covered with big black patches of soot and sweat.

  'Are you okay?' he asked, without taking his eyes off the carpet as he looked for more sparks.

  'I'm okay,' she said, looking around for Iversen.

  She found him behind the counter, lying on the floor in a foetal position, shivering with cold. Big burns covered his back, and in several places blood had soaked through his shirt and heavy sweater. Katherina knelt down next to him and placed her hand on his arm. Iversen gave a start at her touch, and then moaned loudly.

  'It's me. Katherina,' she said soothingly.

  Iversen turned his head towards her. Little pieces of glass were buried in one side of his face and blood covered the rest. Fortunately his glasses were still intact and had protected his eyes, which now gave her a pleading look.

  'I think I need a doctor,' he said, trying to smile.

  As if on cue, they heard sirens outside.

  'An ambulance is on its way,' said Jon, who was suddenly leaning over them. 'I'll show the medics in,' he added and left the shop.

  Iversen closed his eyes. 'The books,' he said. 'Are they…'

  'They weren't damaged,' said Katherina. 'The ones in the display window burned up, but the rest are okay.'

  The old man smiled, even though the effort seemed to cause him pain. 'You have to take him to Kortmann,' he whispered.

  'Me?' She stared at him intently. Maybe he'd hurt his head. 'Are you sure they'd let me in?'

  'They'll have to,' replied Iversen, opening his eyes for a moment. 'Take Pau with you – they can't turn him away.'

  'Shouldn't we wait until you're up and about again?' asked Katherina.

  'No,' said Iversen firmly. 'It can't happen soon enough. Just look at this mess.'

  'All right.'

  The medics arrived, accompanied by Jon, and one of them put a hand on Katherina's shoulder to pull her away so they could get to Iversen. After giving him a superficial examination, they cautiously lifted the elderly man onto a stretcher and carried him out to the ambulance. Katherina and Jon followed.

  'I'll go with him to the hospital,' Katherina told Jon. 'Will you wait here?'

  He nodded. 'Of course.'

  Katherina got into the ambulance, the doors were slammed shut, and the vehicle took off. Iversen opened his eyes in time to see the smouldering shopfront receding behind them.

  Two hours later Katherina was back in front of Libri di Luca. The windows were covered with sheets of plywood, and the facade and pavement were wet from being hosed down by the fire department.

  At the hospital Iversen had been examined immediately; aside from a number of burns and deep cuts from the glass, his injuries weren't serious. Nevertheless he had been admitted for observation, and considering the state of shock he was in, that was undoubtedly for the best. During the long waiting period, she hadn't been able to get a single coherent sentence out of him.

  Katherina was in a hurry to leave the hospital; it brought back too many memories of the accident she had been in as a child. She took a taxi from the hospital back to the sorry-looking bookshop, which resembled a building marked for demolition that had been closed up and gutted.

  The smell of smoke was still strong outside, and the wall felt warm to her touch. When she opened the front door, the smell was even worse. The fire department had removed a four-metre stretch of carpet from the entrance, exposing the dark floorboards underneath. The display tables had been shoved together, and the books had been removed from them and hastily stacked in the aisles between the shelves.

  Jon was standing at the counter, pouring the contents of a bottle into a bucket. His face was streaked with soot, and he had put on his jacket, even though it was covered with little black holes where the flames had licked at the fabric. He looked like a cartoon character who had been in a shootout. She was glad he had been in the shop during the attack, and even more grateful that he was here now.

  'Vinegar,' he explained, nodding towards the bucket. 'For the smell.' He emptied the bottle and set the bucket on the floor in the middle of the shop. The vinegar stung Katherina's nostrils. She moved away from the bucket and dropped into the armchair behind the counter.

  'How is he?' asked Jon with concern.

  'He's in shock,' said Katherina. 'But otherwise it's not so bad. It could have been much worse. But they're going to keep him in for a couple of days. At least.'

  Jon shook his head.

  'Who would do such a thing?' he asked rhetorically. 'The police suggested it might be some sort of racist attack against the shop, but that seems a bit far-fetched.'

  'The police?' exclaimed Katherina in alarm.

  'Yes, they arrived at the same time as the fire department.'

  Jon told her how the firemen had hosed down the hot spots, boarded up the windows and removed the carpet. In the meantime he had been questioned by the police. They hadn't seemed especially surprised; instead, they asked their questions in a routine manner, but at no time were they interested in what might have been going on in the shop, and he assured Katherina that he wouldn't have told them anything if they had asked. Outside the police had found remnants of the Molotov cocktails that had been used. It was apparently this evidence that had made them conclude it was a small group behind the attack, probably motivated by racism.

  'Of course the police would like to talk to you too, but I didn't know your address or phone number, so you'll have to contact them yourself,' he said.

  Katherina nodded slowly as she stared straight ahead.

  'So what do you think?' asked Jon. 'Who was it?'

  She opened her mouth to
answer but was interrupted by a loud pounding on the boards covering the window of the door. They both turned towards the sound. The door handle was pressed down, and the door swung open.

  Pau came in with a wild look in his eyes. 'What the hell happened here?' he burst out.

  It took some persuading before he calmed down enough for Jon and Katherina to tell him. As they talked Pau paced back and forth on the exposed floorboards, as if he wanted to make up for the years of wear and tear that the floor had escaped by being underneath the carpet. His face grew more and more red with fury as their report progressed, but he didn't interrupt them, and he probably wouldn't have been able to speak anyway because his teeth were pressed together so hard.

  'Those shitheads,' he exclaimed, his voice shaking, when they finished. His eyes full of hate, he shifted his gaze to Katherina and then to Jon.

  'Who?' asked Jon at once.

  The question seemed to take Pau by surprise. His eyes wavered, and he looked back at Katherina.

  'Yes, who exactly do you mean?' asked Katherina.

  'Er, well, that's obvious,' he said, in annoyance. 'You of all people should know.'

  Silence descended on the shop. Katherina kept her eyes stubbornly fixed on Pau's face. She knew very well what he was referring to, but she also knew that he was mistaken. In any case, this was not the proper time or place to start a quarrel. Considering the state he was in, it would do no good to argue with him.

  'Don't you think it's about time you gave me an explanation?'

  Katherina and Pau broke off their staring contest and shifted their attention to Jon. He was leaning on the counter, pressing the palms of his hands into the surface.

  'Frankly, I think I've been extremely patient. I've had Molotov cocktails thrown at me, people have lied to me and mysterious things have been going on in this shop, to say the least – this shop that actually belongs to me. So don't you think it's reasonable that I should know what's going on?'

  Pau was the one who broke the silence. 'Will you, or should I?' he asked, turning to Katherina.

  'Kortmann,' she replied tersely. 'Iversen said we should take him to see Kortmann.'

  'We? Do you think he'll let you in?'

  Katherina shrugged. 'We'll see.'

  'I believe I met this man at the funeral.' said Jon.

  'An older man in a wheelchair?' asked Katherina.

  Jon nodded.

  'Kortmann is the head of the Bibliophile Society,' she went on. 'He has all the answers, and he'll decide what should be done.'

  Katherina had a hard time hiding the sarcasm in her last remark, but Pau didn't seem to notice and clapped his hands in satisfaction.

  'When are we going to see him?'

  'Now,' replied Katherina.

  10

  Jon had driven past Kortmann's house in Hellerup many times without knowing whose it was. The house stood out from the rest because it was enormous and had a big rusty tower reaching up along one wall to the very top of the building. The tower looked like a factory smokestack that had fallen into disrepair. Its presence on a well-maintained four-storey redbrick house in the suburb of Hellerup was so extraordinary that Jon immediately recognized the place.

  A wall three metres high surrounded the property, and solid wrought-iron gates prevented unauthorized visitors from entering.

  Katherina sat in the passenger seat of Jon's car; Pau sat in the back. Neither of them had said a word except when it was necessary to give directions. Jon stopped the car a few metres from the gate. There was an intercom on the driver's side. Jon rolled down his window, stretched out his arm and pressed the button marked with a bell.

  'What should I say?' he asked as they waited for a response.

  'Just say who we are,' replied Katherina. 'He'll know it's important.'

  Jon glanced at his watch. It was one a.m., but there were still lights on in some of the windows on the fourth floor.

  'Yes?' said a dry-sounding voice from the intercom.

  Jon leaned towards the speaker.

  'It's Jon, Jon Campelli.' He paused for a moment, but there was no reaction. 'I'm sorry for coming here so late, but it's important, and we're here to speak to Kortmann.'

  There was still no reaction from the intercom except for a faint rushing sound, and Jon gave Katherina a questioning look. She shrugged. Jon turned back to the speaker. 'Iversen is in hospital,' he ventured. 'Libri di Luca was-'

  'Come in,' said the voice. 'You need to go up through the tower.'

  The gate in front of them began to open, slowly and soundlessly, as if access to the house were being deliberately delayed. Jon drove the car in as soon as there was enough space to pass through and continued along a short asphalt drive up to the house. There was room for four or five cars in front of the building, but at the moment the space was deserted.

  A row of columns dominated the facade of the house, and a wide, illuminated stone stairway led up to a dark wooden door with black hinges and a grille over a little window near the top.

  All three of them got out.

  'It must be over there,' said Pau, pointing along a flagstone path leading to the side of the house. He started walking that way, with Jon and Katherina following him.

  'Have you been here before?' Jon asked.

  'No,' replied Katherina.

  'Me neither,' said Pau, hastening to add, 'But I don't think many of the others have either.'

  The path ended at the huge rusty tower which turned out to contain a wide door lit by a single lamp above the frame. The tower and building were connected at the ground floor and the top storey by enclosed catwalks with the same rusty appearance.

  'The receiver has to stay there,' they suddenly heard.

  Pau pointed to where the sound was coming from, a speaker in the door frame. They looked at each other. Jon frowned, uncomprehending, and was about to object, but Katherina put her hand on his shoulder and nodded.

  'It's okay,' she said. 'I was expecting that. I'll just stay in the car.'

  'Are you sure?' asked Jon.

  'Positive,' she replied. 'The two of you should go on up.'

  Pau had already opened the door. 'Are you coming?'

  Katherina turned round and headed back to the car as Jon joined Pau in the tower. Inside they found themselves in a lift with just enough space for the two of them. On their left a door led to the house, and Jon was just about to grab the handle when the lift started to move. They rose upwards, slowly and almost imperceptibly, as if they were being carried on a rising tide. The lift was not hoisted up on wires but by means of giant gears that raised the platform up at an even tempo. The whirring mechanism made Jon feel as if he were locked inside a huge grandfather clock.

  Pau impatiently tapped his foot against the metal floor and peered up at the ceiling eight metres above them.

  After what seemed to Jon an eternity, they reached the top, and Pau pushed open the door to the catwalk leading into the house. At the end of the passage a door opened to reveal Kortmann in his wheelchair. It almost seemed as if he'd been expecting them because he was fully dressed in a dark suit, a pair of shiny black shoes visible below the hems of his perfectly pressed trousers. The wheelchair was specially built out of brass and significantly higher than normal, which made it easier to have eye contact with the occupant. Yet at the same time it made him look like a boy in a high chair.

  With a restrained nod, Kortmann bid them welcome.

  'Come closer,' he added in a neutral tone that could be taken as both invitation and command. He moved his chair back a bit so they could get past and then directed them down a corridor with subdued lighting and paintings in gold frames on the walls. At the end of the hall they entered a large room with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. In the middle of the room stood a low, round table surrounded by six armchairs, and above it hung a large prism chandelier.

  'Have a seat,' he said, gesturing towards the armchairs.

  They did as he asked while they both looked around, impressed. Pau
gave a low whistle.

  'Quite a place you've got here,' he said. 'It must have cost a fortune.'

  Kortmann ignored him. Grabbing a handle on the side of his wheelchair, he lowered the height of his seat.

  'What happened?' he asked, looking straight at Jon.

  Jon told him about the attack on the bookshop and about Iversen's condition. During the entire account Kortmann kept his eyes fixed on Jon and not once, even when Pau interrupted with a snide remark, did his gaze waver. It was not a suspicious gaze, but a look filled with gravity, concern and attentiveness. When Jon was finished, Kortmann sat in his wheelchair without saying a word, his hands clasped in front of him.

  'Did you see who did it?' he asked at last.

  Jon shook his head. 'No.'

  'But the receiver was there too?'

  'Katherina? Yes, she was there the whole time. In fact, she put out most of the fire.'

  Kortmann turned towards Pau. 'And what about you?'

  'I didn't get there until later,' replied Pau. 'I do have a life besides books, after all.'

  Kortmann looked down at his hands. 'It was only yesterday that I talked to Iversen,' he began. 'We talked about you, Jon. You can be an extremely crucial person for the Society, and considering the latest events, it's more important than ever that we make use of you.' He raised his head to look at Jon. His dark eyes gazed at him sorrowfully.

  'Recently quite a few disturbing things have happened in our circles. Libri di Luca isn't the only antiquarian bookshop that has been subjected to an attack. Last month a bookshop in Valby burned down, and several of our contacts in the city's libraries have been harassed or fired without warning. And then, of course, there's the regrettable matter of your father's death.'

  Jon gave a start and stared enquiringly at the man in the wheelchair.

  'What does Luca's death have to do with the fire?'

  'Your father's death was only the beginning.'

  'Stop just a minute,' said Jon, holding up both hands. 'Luca died of heart failure.'

  'Correct,' Kortmann agreed. 'But there was nothing wrong with his heart.'