by Peter Høeg
I pull my phone from my pocket. Laban says nothing. I call Thit. I’ve no idea if a mobile signal can pass through eleven metres of concrete.
She answers straight away.
‘Thit! The code. For the Folketing’s security levels.’
‘What do you want that for? Where are you, anyway?’
She rattles off the digits.
‘We’ve got eight ducks. Organic. Only I’ve forgotten what you stuff them with, besides apples and prunes.’
I feel dizzy.
‘TNT,’ I tell her. ‘Besides apples and prunes, we’ll need some TNT.’
‘Is that in the refrigerated section?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And get some detonators while you’re at it.’
‘How do you spell it? Where did you say you were?’
I hang up.
I enter the first combination. The screen says Happy Christmas and welcome to the National Archives Annexe. I enter the second combination. Then the third. Parliamentary Future Commission. A number appears. And a plan of the archives indicating the capsule’s placement.
It’s at the bottom of the final shelf, furthest from the entrance.
We find it immediately, remove it from its place and put it down on the floor. It’s as heavy as a barrel of plutonium.
There’s a combination lock. I wedge the crowbar in at the seam and apply my full weight. The capsule springs open.
At the same moment, the lights go on.
The entrance door opens. I switch off my head lamp.
Laban leaps into action. He points to the shelf from where we’ve taken the capsule. Here, at the archive’s furthest extremity, a couple of shelf metres remain unoccupied. There’s just room enough for me to crawl in.
Normally, Laban would never issue an order. And normally, I wouldn’t obey one.
But Laban is a conductor. In that capacity he possesses an implicit authority otherwise overlooked in what his admirers refer to as his rakishly fanciful demeanour, and which I refer to as his ability to bamboozle the world by underplaying himself to the point where he’s got such a good purchase it’s too late for anyone to get away.
He straightens up and strides convivially towards the open door.
At the same time, a woman enters. By her elegance and self-confidence I recognise her instantly as the chief librarian of the Folketing. Tripping in her wake is a man I realise I know and yet have never met. In a split second, this rather paradoxical state of affairs unravels itself, and it dawns on me that the man is Falck-Hansen, Denmark’s Minister of Foreign Affairs. People you’ve seen that many times on television and in the papers will often leave just such an impression, and induce perplexity and surprise when suddenly one sees them in real life.
He and the woman step aside, and a group of perhaps a dozen men come piling in. The three at the front are Chinese.
I recognise several of the faces, in the same strangely unreal way I recognised Falck-Hansen’s. They belong to members of government, both European and Asian.
I sense their power in the air, even as I cower on my shelf. They’re certainly dressed to look the part, in suits or jacket-and-skirt combos that look like they were specially selected for each of them by Anna Wintour so that they might appear on the cover of American Vogue. And maybe they were.
Moreover, there’s a mood of community about them. I realise without any doubt that they are here for some kind of summit. But who would call a summit the day before Christmas Eve?
They halt in their tracks as they clap eyes on Laban. The librarian is standing right in front of him.
You don’t get to be chief librarian of the Folketing without being able to keep a cool head in the face of even the most extreme circumstances. Her features reveal no emotion, as if she were at a card table, in the midst of a game of high-stakes poker. But even from my hiding place I can sense the questions queuing up in her mind.
The first concerns the matter of what Laban might be doing here. The second is about why he hasn’t switched on the lights now that he is.
Yet these issues remain unarticulated, because Laban immediately takes charge.
‘How marvellous to see you! Delighted, I’m sure!’
I feel a pang of combined annoyance and fascination at the same time. The mere fact of Laban telling anyone he’s glad to see them usually sends them into raptures, as if they’d won the lottery and he’s the one presenting them with the cheque. It’s impossible to explain in rational terms, but it’s got something to do with his version of the Effect.
‘I can reveal that I have been commissioned to compose a festival cantata for the Folketing’s anniversary celebrations.’
He places his hands on the shoulders of the chief librarian and the foreign minister simultaneously, and gently propels them backwards.
‘There’s something you really must hear, my distinguished ladies and gentleman. And the acoustics are so much better out here in the corridor.’
The door shuts behind him.
I’m just about to emerge, only then I freeze. Measured footsteps cause the smallest of vibrations to travel across the floor, and a pair of highly polished leather shoes stops in front of my refuge.
Perhaps it’s the fabric of my clothing that interests him. At any rate, he goes down on one knee, putting a hand on the floor for support. His face appears in front of mine. We stare at each other.
Most of us have heard of Chinese politeness. For the majority of Danes, such behaviour remains merely a hypothesis. But for that hypothesis I am now given performative proof.
For a few seconds he remains motionless. Who wouldn’t? How would anyone interpret the discovery of a woman hiding on a lower shelf of the National Archives Annexe, eleven metres underground on the day before Christmas Eve?
But then he bends forward, the exact number of centimetres required for his nose to nearly touch the floor, thereby completing what would seem to be the impossible physical feat of performing a bow whilst almost lying prone.
I put a finger to my lips. Then fold my hands under my cheek, the universal sign for sleep.
That does the trick. A broad smile of understanding lights up his face. Without a word, we have established international rapport. He knows exactly how it is, after a long day at the Politburo’s Central Committee, to sneak down into the archives and grab a bit of shut-eye on the bottom shelf.
He gets to his feet. I watch his shoes as they move towards the door. As quietly as he can, he closes it behind him.
30
THE LIGHTS GO out. I emerge, switch on my head lamp, and turn my attention back to the capsule. On the other side of the door, voices break out into song. First Laban’s, then others too. I recognise Falck-Hansen’s. Then a couple more Danes, maybe security guards. The husky alto of the Folketing’s chief librarian joins in. And then the first Chinese voices. Italian and Spanish. An English female.
I’ve witnessed it many times before. Laban can make anyone sing: funeral processions, lifetime prisoners, whoever.
The capsule is full of documents. I spread the folders out in a fan on the floor. The papers they contain seem to be drafts, bundles kept together by sheets of paper folded around their middle, variously yellow or green. My guess is they’re Kirsten Klaussen’s own notes, saved for posterity. Calories to feed her posthumous reputation.
The bottom folder is different. More meticulous, held together at the spine by two bulldog clips. On the front it says: Memorandum, Parliamentary Future Commission, 12 September 1974.
It looks like the report Keld Keldsen told me about.
I remove the clips and run my fingers over the pages. They’re written on an electric typewriter, the individual characters stamped one tenth of a millimetre into the paper. I go to the last page.
I read the two signatures:
Andrea Fink and Magrethe Spliid.
Several planes of reality converge.
One is that of the corridor outside, in which people are singing, contrary to all reason. Anothe
r is that of the city and its supermarkets, Father Christmas and roast duck, and half a million weary credit cards.
A third is one autumn forty-six years ago. When the world was younger and more innocent than today. And yet awakening. When a group of talented young people were put together to meet informally, without anyone taking them seriously. Until two people wrote a report.
I roll the report up and put it in my inside pocket. I return the metal canister to its place, and manhandle the steel sheeting back into the doorframe. And then I run.
Back in the underground car park beneath the Thorvaldsens Museum I open the exit gate. Part of me expects a score of plain-clothes police waiting to receive me, but Prins Jørgens Gård is deserted.
I drive the car up the ramp and close the gate behind me. I’m out.
I think about Laban. About how long it’ll take for them to break him. For all his casual attitudes, he possesses a frightening amount of stubbornness. You have to get close to discover it. When you do, it’s something you won’t forget in a hurry.
What I have to do now, what he has bought me the time to do, is to find Thit and Harald and make ourselves scarce. Check into a hotel, or maybe head up north to break into a summer house and read the report before figuring out what to do.
I get into the car again. I ought to turn left along Vindebrogade, but something I can’t explain makes me go right instead, to Christiansborgs Slotsplads. I pull up on the cobbles, get out, and walk up to the security booth under the archway leading to the Rigsdagsgården courtyard. I flash my uni ID.
The Rigsdagsgården is sparsely populated. Governments need Christmas, too. There’s not a police car or taxi in sight, not even that many lights on in the windows. Four or five limos are parked at the kerb, along with some sombre-looking escort vehicles with tinted windows and a couple of motorcycle police.
The entrance door of the Folketing opens. Laban emerges backwards. His hands are raised in the air. At first I think it’s in self-defence.
But I’m wrong. What he’s doing is conducting. After him come the foreign minister, the Chinese visitors, the chief librarian and the rest of the delegation, and behind them several members of the Folketing’s security staff. All are singing.
He brings the movement to a close and everyone applauds. Laban bows, passing the honours on to his choir. They bow in return. Again, I feel a dizziness akin to seasickness.
Laban is about to give everyone a hug by turn. He always hugs the people he performs with. Even the most untouchable of individuals, who would rather commit murder than have anyone approach them physically – people like Herbert von Karajan, Dick Cheney, former KGB head Vladimir Kryuchkov. I’ve seen Laban hug them all.
It happens the same way, always. He tips his head coquettishly to one side and beams imploringly. As if to ask if it’s really all right for him to do what he has always dreamed of doing, which is to embrace them. And, at the same time, to say that as the chivalrous nobleman he is, he would accept their refusal in good spirit.
I’ve yet to see anyone who could turn him down.
And so it is now. One by one, the Chinese step up and are engulfed in his arms, followed by their fellow delegates. Eventually, it’s the turn of the security guards. They’re as stiff as tin soldiers and chuckle with goofy embarrassment, but it’s obvious he’s made their day.
And with that, Laban skips down the steps towards me, as if he’d known all along I’d be there waiting for him.
We walk through the barrier and back to the car. I start the ignition and pull away into the traffic. He leans back in the seat and sighs with satisfaction.
‘Wonderful voices! Such musicality! Marvellous people! Give me three days with them and we’d have something for an audience.’
I grip the wheel. Five minutes ago I was sure I’d seen him for the last time.
‘What are they doing here, Laban? Obviously they came from a meeting. And with that calibre of delegates, we’re talking Cabinet level. Two days before Christmas. It doesn’t make sense.’
He’s still absorbed in the experience of conducting a choir in a subterranean corridor. Only reluctantly does he return to reality. Helpless as a child.
‘You didn’t see any memorandum? A note of any kind?’
He shakes his head.
And then his face lights up.
‘She was carrying a route map. Klara, I mean, the chief librarian. They still had one stop to make. I noticed because at one point she diverted her attention from the song, and I peeked at what she was looking at. It was the last bullet on her list. The old Radiohuset, the broadcasting house on Rosenørns Allé. You remember …’
I remember all too well. Laban’s second and fourth symphonies were premiered in the Radiohuset’s concert hall.
‘What’s there now?’ I ask.
He shakes his head.
‘It’s all rented out in units. Cosmetics companies. Solicitors’ offices. I think the concert hall itself is a storage facility. The Graphic Design School has the rear premises. None of which can explain why a summit would end up there.’
‘Unless,’ I say, ‘it’s a kind of pilgrimage. To the scenes of Laban Svendsen’s greatest triumphs.’
He tosses his head as if to laugh. But deep inside he doesn’t find it funny at all. He thinks a pilgrimage would be very fitting indeed.
31
IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE. Unfortunately.
Some years ago, I tried to clear myself some space in the deathly inertia that presides over Christmas by suggesting a vegetarian dinner.
I was a vegetarian until the twins were born. I couldn’t sink my teeth into a chunk of meat without tasting the slaughter that had gone before.
Needless to say, I was overruled. Laban and the twins are cannibals. They want their tournedos dripping with blood. They want their lamb chops rose-coloured and edged with the thickest slabs of fat, with the bones sticking out at the sides. They want soup bones they can crack open with a mallet and suck the marrow from.
One year I drove to the Lammefjord and picked up two live ducks. I made Laban and the twins watch from the first row while I chopped off the heads of the fowl with a woodsman’s axe and the separated bodies involuntarily waddled around the chopping block before collapsing in a blood-oozing heap.
It had no effect, though Laban did have to withdraw for a moment in order to be sick. Thit and Harald, however, plucked and scalded the ducks and removed the innards, and when it came to evening they each ate a triple portion as if the pleasure were all the greater for their devouring new friends.
Since then I’ve never bothered. And the food is only a small measure of my overall discomfiture.
Another is my mother. Ever since the twins were born I’ve tried to avoid having people over on Christmas Eve. But I’ve never been able to avoid my mother and her entourage.
In the mid-nineties, Andrea Fink and I designed a series of experiments showing that the ideal group consists of no more than five individuals, if any kind of evenly distributed, undistracted togetherness is to be maintained over a length of time.
The results tallied with my own experience. In private contexts I feel ill at ease in any group larger than five. But my mother comes from a large family, and brings a considerable section of it with her every Christmas. We’ve never been fewer than fifteen for dinner, and it’s beyond me how I can be forty-three and still allow my mother to overrule me in such pivotal situations.
This Christmas she’s brought what she calls her most decent cousins, which is to say three women with husbands, and children the age of Thit and Harald.
And of course her own husband, Fabius.
Fabius is a successful, homosexual designer whose age remains unknown to the general public, though it’s perfectly clear that he’s younger than me. My mother married him seven years ago without notice. I took her aside at the wedding, pinned her into a corner and asked: ‘Why, Mother?’
A silence descended upon us. The moment turned deep, yielding such vast
amounts of data that seven years later I still haven’t finished processing it all. Then she said: ‘Do you know what, Susan? God presented us with a dilemma and it goes like this: we all want to have a husband. And we all want not to have a husband. Fabius is the solution to that dilemma.’
I nodded. That far I could follow her.
‘Then there’s the money. Fabius is rolling in it. And he likes to share.’
I nodded again, still following. But then came the bit I’ve yet to fathom: ‘And then there’s love, Susan.’
In defeat and behind enemy lines, one must make do as best one can. I have at least found a way of surviving the caramel potatoes of a Danish Christmas: I boil them in just the right amount of sweetened meat stock, so that at the very moment they reach the desired consistency, the liquid has evaporated and the proteins and glycogens caramelise into a perfect, golden glaze.
This Christmas Eve there’s nineteen of us for dinner.
That requires eight ducks. Laban and the twins have an axiom that goes: One duck is too much for two, but too little for three. What it means is that I’ve had to get the outdoor pizza oven going and ask to borrow the cast-iron wood-burning stove Dorthea and Ingemann have got built into the wall of their utility room.
A single duck is one thing. Two would be manageable. But eight is a different kettle of fish. The table looks like a genocide. The earliest respite I’ll get is when it’s all over and we’ve danced around the Christmas tree, which is another unavoidable horror, and everyone’s unwrapped their new smartphones and iPads – or why not simply shrink-wrapped bundles of crisp, new five-hundred-kroner notes, seeing as how that’s what all of us would really prefer?
Once we’re that far into the evening, I’ll go out into the garden and stand in the darkness with the brightly luminous snow all around me, and breathe in the inexplicable peace that somehow, and despite everything, descends upon the earth on Christmas Eve.
The mood at dinner is tolerable. My mother calls her three cousins decent because they possess at least some of the normality the rest of us spend our lives yearning for. They’ve had the same jobs for years. They’re well liked and respected. They’ve never been divorced, and their children are bright and polite. By means of strategic intelligence and a great many compromises, they have managed to settle into lives that are just about bearable.
