Breath and Bones

by Susann Cokal

  “That’s what they call themselves,” said Grubbe, still irritable. “They are from America”—as if that settled the matter.

  “Are they importers, too?”

  The kettle boiled; Frøken Grubbe lifted it off the stove and poured it over the tea leaves in the Flora Danica pot. “In a manner of speaking. They import people. They convert good Scandinavians to their religion and then take them to a desert that they say is God’s chosen land.”

  “Slavers?” Famke asked in fascinated horror.

  “No one knows,” Frøken Grubbe admitted, warming to her subject as the tea steeped. Her upper lip looked darker as it dampened with steam. “But they are said to marry many women and to make them participate in secret rituals.”

  Famke thought of those bushy, moustacheless beards and shivered. “What do they want with Herr Skatkammer?”

  “They want,” came the ominous answer, “to convert him. They believe that as a Catholic among Lutherans, he is vulnerable. If they succeed, they will convince him to finance passage for their converts, to let them sail on his ships and to give them money—more than a decade’s wages for you and me, most likely. They think nothing of asking, and he might think nothing of giving it.”

  Famke felt a twinge of resentment that brought her into communion with Frøken Grubbe; it was almost as if the Saints were stealing from the two of them.

  “They’re a strange bunch,” Frøken Grubbe continued, fishing out the tea strainer. “They pray to God’s wife, though everyone with a right mind knows He is a bachelor.” She sighed, as if suddenly weary. Then she picked up the tray of steaming tea and sweetly fragrant pastries. “I will bring this upstairs,” she said with a sharp look at Famke. “I think it’s best if you stay out of Herr Skatkammer’s sight.”

  Famke was grateful to have found a protector in the spare and unlikely form of Frøken Grubbe. She avoided Skatkammer as best she could; and even when he asked for her by name, the housekeeper would send another maid in her place or do the errand herself.

  Eventually Famke realized that Frøken Grubbe’s cooperation could point in only one direction. She loves him, Famke thought, and was astonished. She felt as if she’d received a revelation: At the advanced age of nearly forty, and suffering a lack of personal charms, a woman could fall in love. That this particular woman was besotted with an even less attractive and more aged employer, and hoped he would come to love her as well—Famke thought it very sad indeed.

  What was more, the housekeeper’s unhappy story made Famke realize her days in the mansion could well be numbered as the hairs on her head. Even the kindest of women—and Frøken Grubbe certainly was not that—would not harbor the object of a beloved’s lust for long. Indeed, her reproofs of Famke’s mistakes were becoming sharper and sharper, and once or twice Famke found that after the other servants had eaten there was no meat for her own dinner. She made herself adopt the meek manners of the convent and tried to please Frøken Grubbe whenever possible. This was not a job a girl should throw away, especially not a girl who’d lost her virtue.

  Famke’s virtue remained unmourned, nearly unremembered except for the two mementos of the man who had taken the last shreds of that ephemeral purity from her: the silver tinderbox and the sketch he had made of her in Dragør nearly a year before. She would not tack it to this wall, but when she had a moment and a candle and her bedmate was sleeping, Famke liked to unroll the delicate cylinder of it and spread it on her own bed. She still thought it was Albert’s finest work. There was always some new detail to be noticed: a wrinkle in the ribbons of the cap so carelessly shoved back from her head, a bend in the curls that escaped from her braids, a spark of sunlight in her eyes. And finally, as a special treat, Famke might turn the paper over and read the words written there—words she had not discovered until she unpinned the sketch from Fru Strand’s wall and rolled it up to come to Skatkammer’s. Albert must have written them just before he left:

  To my sweet, lovely Famke, who rescued her face and my fate from the fire—

  Had we but world enough and time, this parting, darling, would be no crime.

  Best regards from a rushing heart,

  A. C.

  They were beautiful words, words that—she thought—made it plain he did not wish to leave her. It was only the uncertainty of his own future that kept him from begging her to be his permanently. Had she but means, she might have gone to him and said that none of the rest mattered . . .

  These thoughts never failed to make her weep, until, romantically, she doused the candle with her tears.

  Kapitel 9

  Behold, my house is a house of order, saith the Lord God, and not a house of confusion.

  PEARL OF GREAT PRICE 132:8

  Alone, depressed, and bored, Famke’s mind needed some occupation, and the strangest of the strange attractions in Herr Skatkammer’s household were the men who called themselves Saints. They were not Skatkammer’s only visitors, but they were the most fascinating; they came to the house regularly, and when a visit was expected, Famke found herself choosing to perform certain duties that lay in their path. She brushed the animal heads in the hallway or polished the sabers on the front stairs, allowing Frøken Grubbe to chase her away only after she got a good look. Men who married more than one woman at a time . . .

  “Polygamy,” she said, trying out her dictionary English in the privacy of the servants’ outhouse. “Fidelity. Darling.”

  What if Albert had been able to marry both Famke and another girl? Would a half share in Albert have been enough?

  He had been gone for more than two months. At night, when her bed-mate, Vida, fell asleep, Famke recalled his amphibious eyes and touched herself Down There. The cottager holds a paintbrush. . . She rolled a pebble of her own flesh and felt something pleasant, but not the shimmering feeling, the wanting feeling, she got with Albert. In time even that pleasure disappeared; but she was interested in no other kind. Vida was chubby and smelled like Herr Skatkammer’s cat, and she was not Albert. Famke had to take some other action.

  With April and the British Royal Academy show well in the past, Famke took advantage of her first Thursday halfday and trudged into Copenhagen. Albert had promised to tell her how Nimue fared, and her faith in that promise had only grown in the absence of other hopes.

  Fru Strand’s rooming house looked more dilapidated than ever, now that Famke had Herr Skatkammer’s villa to compare it to. The landlady still had not replaced the windows Albert had removed, and she probably never would, Famke thought as she rapped at Fru Strand’s door. There must be plenty of sailors who were willing to take that room; when in port, they lived in the darkness and slept in the daytime, so the boards would be no hardship for them.

  When the door opened, Famke was surprised to see not Strand but a hunched-over man of early middle age. He was in his shirtsleeves, a napkin glistening with fish scales around his neck; when he saw her, he whisked it off, revealing an equally discolored shirtfront, then wiped his mouth and tossed the napkin into the shadows beyond the door. With lips still shiny, he smiled and tried to straighten, but he was unable to do so fully.

  Famke hesitated, but she remembered the boarded-up windows above; she was in the right place. “Nå. . . I came to see Fru Strand.”

  “She is gone,” he said, and made a courtly little bow. “I am Ole Rasmussen, her nephew and the new proprietor. You are a friend?”

  “I lived here once,” Famke said. “Just a month ago. With my husband.” She felt it was only polite to ask, “Where has Fru Strand gone?”

  “To the other side,” he said delicately; then, when Famke still looked blank, “She is dead.”

  Famke received this news with a shock that surprised even herself.

  “She fell into the canal,” Rasmussen said helpfully. “She was—er—”

  “She was drunk,” Famke said.

  “Nej, sadly, she was set upon by thieves. They were never found, but they took even her gold tooth.”

  There wa
s no predicting what might happen—accidents, footpads—oh, Albert!

  Famke swallowed. “I have come to ask about a letter,” she said, willing her voice to steady itself. “My husband was to have written me here. His name is Albert Castle, and mine is Famke—or Ursula.” She didn’t know which name Albert might use in writing her, or whether he’d try giving her a last name.

  Ole Rasmussen opened his door wider, and for the first time Famke saw into the landlord’s lair. It was the dirtiest place she had ever seen—broken-down furniture and newspapers, indeed papers of every sort, everywhere, and a thick pall of dust choking the air itself. Fru Strand had left a filthy mess for her nephew; but then, judging by his shirt, filth appeared to be a family trait.

  Rasmussen gestured at the moldering papers that had burst from a pigeonholed desk like stuffing from a sofa. “There may be something,” he said. “Fanden, I think there is. I remember your name, and your husband’s, from one of my aunt’s record books—she kept several, in various places—and perhaps your name was on a letter as well. But I must sort through all of that again before I can say for certain.”

  Famke’s heart leapt. “I could help you,” she said.

  “Puhha.” Rasmussen blew out, and she smelled the herring on his breath. “I don’t have time to look for a letter today. There’s a window to fix upstairs first, and I have the glass waiting.”

  It seemed terribly cruel that Famke should be kept from Albert’s letter—if there was such a letter—by a violence that Albert himself had done to the building. She wondered if Rasmussen might have been more inclined to help if she hadn’t introduced herself as a married woman.

  “I could look for myself,” she offered. “And I could sort the papers for you. I am employed as a housekeeper . . . just until my husband returns.”

  But her employment was no guarantee to Herr Rasmussen, who looked distressed at the thought of a strange woman excavating the desk before he had his chance. There could be money in those heaps . . . He blinked at her with palpable suspicion.

  “Or I can come back,” she said, mustering her dignity. “Perhaps in two weeks?” It would be at least that long before she had another half day.

  “Maybe.” He coughed into his already grimy sleeve, then sighed and extricated a handkerchief that had worked its way up to his elbow. He blew his nose. “Or you can leave me your address and the money for postage, and if there is something for you I will send it on.” He tucked the crumpled handkerchief back into his cuff, clearly aware of having offered her a great favor.

  Famke realized that whether she accepted this offer or not, she would have to tip the man a Krone for his goodwill. She might as well add the few Øre needed for a local-delivery stamp; though she disliked giving money away, that would be the fastest means of getting Albert’s letter, when it was found. She wrote out her new address and handed it to Ole Rasmussen with the coins. Still, she resolved that she would keep visiting until Rasmussen told her for certain whether a letter for her might lie somewhere in Fru Strand’s pigeonholes.

  “Thank you so much,” she said as she turned away, preparing herself for the long walk back with neither more nor less hope than had accompanied her into town.

  Famke tried not to think about a letter. She tried not to run for Skatkammer’s post when, at the strokes of ten and three, it arrived each day. She set herself other tasks—memorizing lists of English words as she dusted the collections, practicing the gestures of the Three Graces as she made Herr Skatkammer’s bed. She learned the solemn Saints’ names, Erastus Mortensen and Heber Goodhouse, and found out as much as she could about them. Though they still had brown hairs among the gray, they both looked old to Famke, perhaps even older than Frøken Grubbe, though not so old as Herr Skatkammer. They earned her gratitude for using none of the pomade she had to wash out of the antimacassars when other visitors left; they smelled only of the plain soap she was used to and liked. They wore round spectacles and always had a book in hand—En Sandheds Röst, En Røst fra Landet Zion, Mormons Bog.

  Ah, Mormons. Famke had heard of Mormons before; in Dragør there was a man who’d come to proselytize—maybe one of these very two—and she had heard that right by the town well he had preached crazy miracles and said the Garden of Eden was in a place called Missouri. The good Lutherans of the village had chased him away with pitchforks, and for weeks afterward they warned their women that when a Mormon came to town, it was to steal Danish girls and lock them inside a hidden temple. They also reported that the patriarchs married their own daughters. Everyone knew that the Mormon symbol was the beehive, which they claimed signified hard work and sweet rewards, but which others knew meant a tower of pain and poison to outsiders. These two looked harmless enough, but now Famke saw them through the misty veil of legend. They were both wicked and alluring.

  She began to listen behind the office door when they were there, and even hung out the windows to get a last look as they left. She learned that Mortensen’s father had been Danish, a good friend of Herr Skatkammer in the days when both were Lutheran. This long-dead friendship explained why Herr Skatkammer indulged the frequent visits—this, and perhaps the same kind of fascinated curiosity that drew Famke to them. Otherwise she could not explain his hospitality, for Herr Skatkammer had to listen to endless pleas for money.

  “We have engaged a ship to transport us from England,” Mortensen said one day in his near-perfect Danish. “The Olivia will leave Liverpool in a fortnight. We have over three hundred converts eager to reach Zion, and nearly half of them lack the funds for the journey.”

  Goodhouse, whose mother had been a Dane from Jutland, added, “We also need a ship to bring them to England. And once they have arrived in Zion, we would like to establish them in the silk-growing industry—we shall need mulberry trees and worm eggs, spindles and wheels . . .”

  Herr Skatkammer merely grunted. He must have pulled the bell that rang for servants, because Frøken Grubbe turned up immediately. She glared at Famke as she opened the office door.

  “More cakes,” said Herr Skatkammer.

  The three men peered past Frøken Grubbe and saw Famke. “Have Ursula bring them,” Herr Skatkammer added.

  So Mortensen and Goodhouse learned Famke’s name, too. From that day on, the slightly younger one, Goodhouse, took to greeting her as they passed. “Goddag, Ursula.”

  “Goddag,” she replied, stealing a last look as the housekeeper whisked her away. Americans spoke through their noses.

  On another visit, Goodhouse managed to get her into a corner. She thought with momentary dread of her virtue but was relieved when he merely whispered, “Can you read, Ursula?”

  “Yes,” she whispered back, eagerly and in English, “and I read your tongue, too. Do you wish to give me a book?”

  So, when Frøken Grubbe wasn’t looking, Famke accepted the same tracts the Saints had brought for Herr Skatkammer: A Voice of Truth, A Voice from the Land of Zion, The Book of Mormon.

  She was glad to get them. Now she could read of these fantastic people who married many women; in a household that refused to gossip, these books would tell her about the world. Even better, she would learn how to make English sentences. The dictionary was thick going, and she still considered it of utmost importance to become fluent.

  You never can know the future, she reminded herself. Any day there might be a letter. She must remember that great work, The Revenge of Nimue, whose success would surely make Albert think of her . . .

  Famke’s roommate noticed the tracts (disappointingly dry, Famke had discovered, but useful for the English) and reported them to Frøken Grubbe.

  “You’d better take care,” the housekeeper warned as she broke the pamphlets in her hands and consigned them to the kitchen stove. “Do not be foolish. I told you what happens to their women.”

  Famke replied with confidence, “I am not that kind of woman,” even as she reminded herself: This parting, darling, would be no crime.

  .2.

  PEARL OF
GREAT PRICE

  Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man, seeking goodly pearls: Who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had, and bought it.

  MATTHEW 13:45, 46

  And in that day, seven women shall take hold of one man, saying: We will eat our own bread, and wear our own apparel; only let us be called by thy name to take away our reproach.

  BOOK OF MORMON, 2 NEPHI 14:1

  Chapter 10

  Ye Saints who dwell on Europe’s shore,

  Prepare yourselves with many more

  To leave behind your native land,

  For sure God’s judgments are at hand.

  “THE HANDCART SONG”

  New worlds for old,” Famke whispered. It was a phrase she had read in one of Herr Skatkammer’s English newspapers, and she’d remembered it because it reminded her of Albert: building, upon the ruins, a new and perfect world. “Nye Verdener for gamle.”

  A dark wind swallowed her words; but they did not sound so good in Danish anyway. She had never known such a wind: It seemed to come from some deep part of the sky, well away from any known world; for it was an effortless wind that carried none of the heat that propelled the ship forward. Rather, it buffeted the steam engines, forcing them to chug and labor for every inch they won from the constantly shifting waves.

  Beneath that blast and under an arc of star-pricked, moon-tinted blue, the earth had become a flat plane of deep black; when she stood at the rear of the steerage deck and looked backward, she was the only figure in the landscape. Out of its braids, her hair made a tunnel over the water; and overhead, against the dark canvas of the sky, that wind hurled the white engine smoke straight back, like an arm reaching toward its home port. Nonetheless, Famke, with plain pink hands clenched around a ship’s iron railing, was being carried forward, to America.

  America: where Albert had gone in search of new mythologies, colorful new mysteries for his art. Mountains, goldmines, deserts. Savages. It was a printed fact.